Running for Forrest

There’s a saying in the South: You haven’t finished a five-miler until you’ve run one honoring the founder of the Klu Klux Klan.

As a lifelong Northerner, I’d like to think the race commemorated a daring raid led by Nathaniel Bedford Forrest against the Union supply depot of Old Johnsonville in 1864. Despite his subsequent career with that odious group, Forrest remains a Tennessee folk hero. 

Sometimes, we must revise history to find our views and hobbies. More importantly, I kept my
But the rustic route of the Forrest’s Johnsonville Charge quickly wiped its affiliations from my mind.

Besides, I was too cold to care. 

I arrived to a cadre of men mostly outfitted for hunting in a blizzard. Others huddled around a fire until the sun emerged. When the cloud banks snared it again, we were quickly reminded that the mercury shrunk to 15 degrees just a few hours earlier.

All in all, the locals put on a good, number-free race (the organizer told me he doesn’t like race numbers flopping around while he runs).

Moreover, the locals put on the best cold-race spread at the finish line, with a choice of beef show or chili. Without a banana or energy bar in sight, the stew more than satisfied an empty stomach.

With gas prices in a freefall, the 90-minute drive to New Johnsonsville (the Old version lies somewhere beneath Kentucky Lake) was not a deal-breaker.

Finally, I get to absorb some Tennessee countryside, mountains and meandering highways. Small-town Tennessee barely seemed to be holding on here; empty storefronts dominated once-picturesque town centers.

This is a place where Obama/Biden signs get used exclusively for target practice. Two churches hosted turkey shoots along the route, and in places, animal bloodstains grew as prevalent as road stripes.

Skipping the interstate on the way home, I plowed ahead through towns where the leaves still hung tenaciously to the trees, where the Harpeth River fit snugly against the mountain wall chiseled back to fit U.S. 70. I'm glad gas prices gave the casual drive back to America.

Deep sigh

Cliff Lee made it two Cy Youngs in a row for the Indians. I don't expect he'll be dealt mid-season, but you never know what Trader Mark will pull.


On other fronts, the Internet is an emptier place this morning .....

Bye Bye Browns, Hello Happiness

I'm done with the Browns, and have no reservations about tossing them on the Dawg pile.

Really, I never recovered from the gut-punch of Nov. 6, 1995. Who could imagine the Browns without Cleveland? It was inconceivable after so much heartache. When they returned we expected gawky white quarterback Tim Couch to lead as gawky white quarterback Bernie Kosar had done a decade earlier. He wasn't; neither was Kelly Holcomb, Jeff Garcia, or now Derek Anderson.

So have I chucked the whole Cleveland sports machine? Hardly. I attended Indians games at old Municipal Stadium with less than 1,000 people in the crowd, and watched them come within outs of a World Series title. They'll get there before the Browns will.

But with football's revenue sharing, the Browns just look lost and incompetent. Owner Randy Lerner cares more about his soccer franchise than the Browns, and Where For Art Thou Romeo seems to have no control of this collection of primadonnas (Lewis and Cribbs exempted).

Luckily, there's a well-run football machine in my backyard. After watching the Browns repay loyalty with lost season after lost season, I have no ill feelings about cheering for the Titans. This isn't just a 9-0 thing; since I lived here, I am repeatedly drawn to their games. Watching the Browns give up 30 and 40 points a game has become pure torture.

So I have irreconcilable differences with the Browns and their unflappable incompetence. Realistically, every ball that bounced the right way in 2007 has fallen short in 2008.

I wish them luck, and if they should ever shuck off their losing ways and find their way to a Lombardi Trophy, I'll be happy for my father.

If either of us is still living then.

Shards of a Weekend

Beyond a moment of clarity not fit for the Internets, I have no great thread to stitch the past three days together.

As punishment for my transgressions, I sat through a viewing of Armageddon, the film which officially stole Worst Film Ever away from Plan 9 From Outer Space. A drinking game based on the number of gloom and doom comments from Steve Buscemi or the non-sequitir shots of Liv Tyler looking forlorn could destroy livers in a single viewing. I wonder when the 10th anniversary edition is due ....

However, Sunday's movie (Role Models) was the funniest thing I've seen all year.

Back Under Black, Please - No one would call AC/DC a photogenic band, but the Young brothers have not aged well. Check out the latest Rolling Stone cover – if Malcolm’s hair thinned out, he could pass for Gollum. Angus’ mildly creepy schoolboy outfit has now turned outright spooky. At least this gang has gone without plastic surgery, but a little pancake might have helped.

Poor Vanderbilt – that’s a major oxymoron, I know. But with the team just one win from qualifying for a Bowl game, they’ve been struggling for that sixth win for more than a month.

At Home in Nashville - I needed a tea and scone fix in the early evening, and Portland Brew beckoned. Behind the counter stood Brian Ritchey, a singer-songwriter who turns out albums of great songs. We chatted about his latest projects and the two albums he’s cutting. Nashville has that vibe – you catch someone onstage, then again at their day job.

I know my barista again, so I can’t call Columbus “home” anymore. Home is moving target. That’s a tough conclusion, but an inevitable one.

My Streak is Preserved

I've never met or been close a winning presidential candidate
I covered a Bill Bradley press event in 1999, and an Edwards rally at Ohio State in 2004. I shook hands with Bradley.

Then Al Gore trounced him in the early primaries.

He lost twice and ruined his career by shacking up with a documentary filmmaker while his wife dies from cancer.

Three days before the 2000 election, I shook hands with John McCain and threw a few softballs about veterans at him. For the few minutes we shared the same air, he was very nice man who used the old politician trick of immediately repeating your name back to you. Unfortunately, he and Lindsay Graham (then Congressman, now Senator from South Carolina) were at that Whitehall VFW to push Pat Tiberi's candidacy for the U.S. House. Pat won easily, somewhat aided by an appearance by the party's aisle-crossing. pork-hating diva.

You know the rest of McCain's story.

When it comes to politician fortunes, I'm a regular Typhoid Mary. Rarely did our political endorsements serve as anything but a kiss of death. We didn't endorse one county commissioner until 2006, when a Democratic tidal wave swept him out of office. In some council and school board races, we managed to whiff on every candidate we endorsed.

Now that I'm out of that racket, I don't know how the touch will work.

However, I'll do my best to score a handshake from both Mitt Romney and Sarah Palin sometime before January 2012.

Roll On, 4:30 Sunsets

Another year passes along, yet the worst day among its 365 remains the same.

Daylight savings ends, and while some study says its good for your heart, I say the sun setting at 4:30 sticks a shiv into a my mental health.

It’s so bad that despite running a 10K with a top personal time, taking a glorious Sunday morning bike ride and helping my friends move, I can’t break depression’s blockade.

My brain recognizes the arrival of the year’s worst day, and nothing can break that spell. It’s made sadder by this article. Sure, they died a while ago, and I can’t remember what I might have been doing aside from refining resumes and working through the Bob’s beer tour in late January 2007, when Columbusites were eager about Greg Oden's long future at OSU.

But when googling your name turns up an obituary, notice must be taken. I got to feel a little sorry for these Melvilles.

Maybe they were run off the road by a cyborg from the future, relentlessly pursuing anyone named William Melville to prevent the resistance leader from being born. Probably not – they look like a good family of Scots, no more special than the Melvilles on this side of the Pond.


While at best distant relatives, we do have this pattern in common - you might recall my tartan tie and scarf.

Because I'm weary and depression is rattling the gates, I've decided to undertake a constructive diversion – the Tennessee State Parks Running Tour.

In eighteen months, I've seen remarkably little of Tennessee –Nashville, its vicinity, downtown Chattanooga and four days in a Manchester field.

Some of these parks lie 400 miles from my front door, so when viewed miles driven versus miles ran, it probably won’t look like a good bargain.I need a journey.

If and when I leave Tennessee, I won’t be accused of running down my time here with blinders on. Try as I might to convince fellow runners to join me, I expect to go solo on this one.

I'll still enjoy every footfall.