My public restroom wall
Thinking about bathroom graffiti from the days of yore led me to the conclusion that poopers just don't pontificate like they used to. As a kid, I remember being fascinated by the words scrawled in truck stops and school stalls. These days I see stall-colored blobs of paint in a few places, but mostly it seems people just aren't trying. At first I thought it might be a result of an increased vigilance in anti-graffiti measures. Further reflection has led me to believe that there are now too many competing outlets for the brain dumps of old. We now have the Internet. THIS is the bathroom stall of our generation. If you miss the brevity and vulgarity, the Internet does have record, but it's just not the same without the fear that Big Dave might show up for some sweet lovin' at 11:50 TONITE!

Transportation questions
1.Is it just me or does it seem like trains create a different seat partner dynamic than airplanes? In airplanes it's like, "well, I'm stuck with you and we might plummet from the sky and die together so maybe we should talk." In trains it seems to be more, "I could up and leave at any time and/or we could be robbed by men on horseback, so let's not talk."

2.On both of my trips traveling south on Amtrak I have found myself next to women crying. Do
a)they know something I don't?
b)I make women traveling south cry?
c)I generally make women cry, but only notice it when traveling south?
d)I need to stop wearing my Eau de Onions cologne?

Why Doc, why?

Back in 1996, Doc Martens were all the rage. All the cool kids were wearing them. Not surprisingly, I was not.

Somewhere around 1998, I got a pair. I needed brown shoes and I liked the way they looked. I don't know if the cool kids were still wearing them then.

In 2004, I don't know what the cool kids are wearing, but it's not easy to find the Doc at the stores I've been visiting. I've been searching for a while as my shoes continue to disintegrate after five or six years of use. Today, I gave up. I know they're online, but I'm an old fashioned kind of guy who likes to try his shoes on before he buys them. Today I abandonded my search in favor of some new-fangled laceless shoe with gel in the heels. If we're lucky, the shoes will dance. If not, call the Doctor.

Promotional Material to follow
NPR fans and/or Mizzou grad Renny Mackay fans should tune into NPR tomorrow for his story on a marine from Wyoming who died in Iraq. That's all I know, but I'll bet a dollar that if Renny is reporting it'll be solid.

The "put that in your cornucopia and smoke it" post
I'm feeling extra thankful at the moment.

I'm thankful for my family. They came out here and put up with my pre-marathon madness and I couldn't have done it without them. And I'm thankful for the rest of my family because they're the kind of people you want in your corner when things get tough. I'm thankful for the DC area Mizzou kids and all the cool people (and bands) they keep introducing me to. I'm thankful for my Thursday night crowd because in the Thanksgiving of life they are the sweet potatoes. I'm thankful for my lunch buddy because she makes a mean sandwich and good conversation. I'm thankful for likeable coworkers and new work friends who share the day-to-day existence and still manage to be fun. I'm thankful for a roommate that puts up with all the gibberish that spills out of my brain and then makes me laugh. I'm thankful for 30 year-olds trapped in 20-something bodies because even if they move too often, they've got great hats, great quotes and great hearts. I'm thankful for my faraway friends that inspire me through their blogs, through their encouraging phone calls, and through their travels. I'm thankful for their moms who offer me wisdom for free. I'm thankful for old friends who hang in and hang on despite the distance and the growing gap of life between us. I'm thankful for November buddies who are too kind and too fabulous for anything less than fifty thousand words. I'm thankful for marathon runners and marathon spectators, because without them I wouldn't be the man I am today. I'm thankful for you because you're crazy enough to read what I spew into this space. Thanks.

There are certain smiles more powerful than Congress.

You've got to be kidding me

1. The "ERS" is burnt out at the local BORDERS. That means my neighborhood is BORD with books, music, and movies.

2. If it's good enough for Maryland's prisoners, it's good enough for me. My new dentist also works in the prison system.

3. What the BLEEP do we know?! is one of those movies that had I gone alone I would've been thinking, "Man, I wish I had someone to talk to." Since I went with someone, I couldn't think of much to say.

4. I watched Ultimate for 5 hours today and I resisted the urge to pop pills and play.

5. Thursday was a dotopian anniversary, so I threw a party in my head, but nobody came.

Sometimes people know just what to say
I was feeling pretty glum today. I haven't exercised in a while because of my knee. Work is piling up on my desk. I was thinking that I might just crawl into bed and try to sleep it all away. Then in my email inbox I found the very words I needed to hear.

It could have been my life, or at least my week, writing. The message was empty and the subject line said:

Are you just going to let me kick your ass like this?

Well, no. As a matter fact, I'm not.

(italics added)

Of teeny-tiny puppies* and video game violence
There is a violent video game that has everybody talking, even NPR. Nearly every day since its release, I have gone to bed to the sound of gunfire. The game is Halo 2. The gunfire is my warm woolen blanket.

Last night, I watched a few rounds of Reuben, Aaron, Brian, and Sheng play online together in real time. They communicated via headsets. After watching them lose a few rounds to the likes of, well everybody, I called it a night. As I was going to my room a chorus of good nights came from the TV speakers. In the wild interactive world of Halo 2, there are certain screens where everyone is in the "room" together. It was oddly comforting to have people across the city and from across the country wishing me good night. I hope from that point they went on to kill, kill, kill.

***In an aside, I think a great team name or individual name in Halo 2 would be teeny tiny puppies. That way the screen would say,"Aaron killed by teeny tiny puppies," or "teeny tiny puppies sniped by Brian," or "teeny tiny puppies beats down Reuben". I think you see where I'm going with this. "Your mom" would also work well, but I bet some one already thought of that. I would also like to suggest Vegetables, glass dolls, underwear and Satin.

v. v. bad
I saw Bridget Jone's Diary 2 tonight. I'm sure it has a full name, but I don't care. It was bad. At one point, nearing the end thankfully, I actually said out loud, "Is this going to end?" It finally did.

This movie is crap. I'm actually considering life-long celibacy because of it. Now, I'm not a Renee Zellweger fan anyway, but the filmmakers did their very best to show her looking horrible. They went out of their way to show every bit where she gained weight. It wasn't the weight that bothered me, it was the crap story, the crap acting and the crap musical selections. Mark Darcy could not possibly love this woman. Sleazy Hugh Grant's character could not possibly desire this woman, not because she was physically unattractive, but because she was so unbelievably pathetic, clumsy, and downright foolish. UGH! Rumor has it that Hugh Grant and Renee won't be acting for a while after this film because they need to take a break, possibly retire. I think they should rethink that decision. They need to get out there and get another job right away, before this film has too much time to settle on their resumes.

It's CRAP!

The voice of an angel and a band from the heavens
I think by now we have established that Hem is my favorite band.
Tonight I got to see them in concert. I cannot explain why that was important. It may have been a $12 pledge of my support. It may have been curiosity about the people that make music that move me. It may have been a reason to get out on a Friday night, or a chance to surround myself with other Hem fans. It may have been something entirely different.

At first it was odd, and not just because women I'd never met were talking to me,(for the second week in a row, what's the deal?). It was odd to see the faces and the imperfections of a group I imagined as perfect. I didn't know an angel could have tiny lips that jutted to the side when she sang. I didn't know the guitar player would wear orthopedic shoes on his giant-sized feet. I didn't know the bass player would be so sleepy, or that the pianist would be so hairy, or even what a pedal steel was. It took me a little time to adjust. It took me time to adjust to the mood as well. The energy of the concert, of the crowd, of the band was mellow. Even the "upbeat song" made me feel regret and loss in its hopefulness. I had to adjust to loving every song Hem played. I had to adjust to the incredible aspect of a band, not a band, but a BAND. Hem creates this sound where the piano, the glockenspiel, the bass, the guitar, the mandolin, the pedal steel and their voices become this one sound. The sound of sun rising. The sound of clouds passing by a mountain peak. The sound of life and all the hopes, dreams, and disappointments that make it all worthwhile. People didn't sing the words at this venue, even though they knew them all by heart. They didn't sing, because people came to hear Sally Ellyson. People came to hear the angel and her heavenly band.

I muse. You muse. We all muse for museums
Not as catchy as the original, is it?

The joy of rejection
I think you reach a certain age where rejection doesn't faze you. That age is 437, give or take.

My competitive spirit is not dead
It just hibernates more often.

Irony? What irony?
My background is in advertising. My television doesn't get reception and I'm proud that I miss all those commercials, not to mention those commercials masquerading as shows. Then something like a PBS special on advertising comes along and all of a sudden I want TV.
Can you hear my mind blowing?

WWVGOWH?
My personal barometer on whether or not a young star has staying power:
Would Wilmer Valderrama go out with her?


I've got to stop reading junk when I'm on the exercise bikes at work.

Advertising to myself
With no TV reception and no cable, I am not bombarded by visual messages encouraging me to change the way I act, look, think, feel, smell, or clean my shower. Sure, I get pop-ups and I see ads in the paper, but without music, without movement, and most of all without repetition, I can ignore those ads much more easily.

In the absence of such bombardment, I have taken to advertising to myself. It isn't as flashy, it isn't as loud, but I think it may be more effective and it certainly costs less. I take one sheet of paper, one marker (sometimes two), one piece of tape, and one bedroom door. I write my goal on the piece of paper with the marker, attach the goal to the door with the tape. Everyday I pass by the door multiple times. The goal starts to seep in. I barely notice it on my way to work or the bathroom, but it's always there. Seeping.

After a while, I think, "hmm. I'll buy what I'm selling."

Into the Dave Mingling Hall of Fame
The Dave Mingling Hall of Fame is relatively empty, which is why last night can make an immediate entry without deliberation by the Minglers Association. I was at a party, on the way to get a Fresca (the key ingredient in a Louisiana Sangria, so key in fact that after one LA Sangria I switched exclusively to the distinctive sparkling refresher with a light citrus taste) when I was stopped by pink skirt and number 58. At least that's what we had called them when we were sitting across the room. Pink skirt, Pam it turned out, started discussing marathons with me (she'd been tipped off). Number 58, whose name escapes me, chimed in with the finer points of spectating. At some point Anna joined the conversation and Jadwin, Missouri and the Current River made a conversational appearance. Through two Frescas and perhaps as much as twenty minutes we chatted; well they chatted and I got a word in edgewise now and again.

That never happens.

Unrelated Question of the day
Can passive agressive be violent?

Today I like:
-Autumn in the Mid-Atlantic
-Irish Breakfast tea
-sharing "pain"
-best friends
-bicycles
-goals
-photos of me
-travel plans
-showers
-stocking caps
-the t-shirt to sweater switch
-plot twists
-Jeff on "Coupling"

Who wants to go skiing/snowboarding in Utah this winter?

I meant with me.

I have scabs in places I didn’t know could bleed
or There’s more to this story than I’ll ever be able to tell
We’re past the half-marathon. We’re past the free GOO sticking to my shoes. We’re past the point where I believe Matt is going to reel me in. We’re past the point where this is just a Sunday stroll. We’re into the second half of the longest run of my life. The 26 miles for 26 years run. That one. The family and cheering section is going to be around mile 16 and it can’t come soon enough. I want a Powergel refill. I want a familiar face. I want. I want. It’s all about me and has been for more than two hours...

The leisurely stroll is gone. My pace has quickened to something in the 8:30 to 8:45 per mile range as I start to make up bigger chunks of that slow start. I’m settling for smaller holes when I dart between people. I’m bumping elbows first and apologizing after. My manners and my good sense have left me, but the throng of people urges me on. I hear “Go Dave.” I hear “Go Pumpkin Dave!” I hear “Go Pumpkin Man.” Gone are the thoughts of I’ll be your pumpkin man, (wink, wink). Now we’re running. Somewhere near 16, after I pass a flaming liberal (no, I’m serious, he was in costume- there were flames), I locate Matt’s parents and they point at my family. I turn and look and hold up my hand with my one remaining gel. My sister holds a Harvest Bar in one hand and the food that isn’t, the PowerGel, the most amazing stuff, in the other. I dart toward her and snatch away the gel. “Thanks, I love you,” I shout. (Those three little words will make several more appearances, usually directed at strangers or whole groups of strangers, further supporting a theory I have that long distance running and drunkenness are similar).

I plod on and soon reach Hain’s Point. Hain’s point is not very spectator friendly. A few kayakers with whistles cheer us on, but for only the second time that day the atmosphere is more run and less parade. The atmosphere is also more wind. I had anticipated both of these developments on Hain’s point. I had trained on the point so I’d be ready. Hain’s point was to be my bitch. In fact I believe the conversation in my head went a lot like this-
“This is my territory. Bring it Hain’s Point, you’re my bitch.” (Hey, EXCUSE me, I’m drunk on running here.)

I’m through 17 and making my way toward mile 18 taking full advantage of the point, when my knee seizes up. I break stride in agony. My face contorts and I slump to the side of the course. I walk for far longer than I’d like, my eyes surely telling the saddest story I’ve ever known. This could be it, I think. Hain’s point got me again. I’m walking along, assessing the pain and the 8 or so miles to go. Maybe Matt will catch me after all. I reach down and tighten the IT band compression wrap I’ve been wearing above my knee. I cinch it tight and take a deep breath before I try to break into a run. The first few steps go ok and the next thing I know I’m cruising again. I pass the medical tent and look at the downed runner being tended. I find a couple and tuck in behind them, desperately trying to feed off their pain. I stay relatively close until I have to move over to let an ambulance through. Even without the couple I’m still moving at an ok pace and the knee seems to be performing up to par. I pass the 20 mile mark. I’m down to a 10k. I can do a 10k I think both conciously and unconciously. I climb a hill and hit the highway bridge rearing to go. I’m on what feels like the longest bridge of my life. The sun feels brutal, but I’m passing people with ease. Later, I’ll find out that I was in the midst of an 8:05 mile, my fastest of the day. The crowd and the other runners were eating it up too; they seemed to be cheering extra hard. I was starting to sense the end, but a hill slowed my pace back into the 9 minutes per mile range.

As we dipped into Crystal City and passed the Pentagon, I unknowingly found the wall. Feeling desperate I told a woman in a green Cystic Fibrosis T-shirt that she was my best friend. My best friend left me 45 seconds later when my knee seized again. I walked for what seemed like ages. Several specators almost begged, “Come on Dave. You’re almost there.”

At that moment I hated my shirt. Whose stupid idea was it to put my name on it? I knew I was almost there, they could get out here and run if it was so easy. “Thanks,” I gasped. I couldn’t take it for long though and started to run again. I wound down and around until I could see the Pentagon again. I left the Pentagon behind, but found another spot for my knee to violently seize up. I walked along a bridge as people passed me by. I didn’t care anymore. Even if I walked this would all be over soon anyway. I had less than 2 miles to go. At least they’d let me finish before closing the course. I walked along for what felt like quite a while, before finding the energy to run again. I don’t know what spurred me, maybe it was the 25 mile marker, maybe it was my watch glaring around the 3 hour and 50 minute mark, but something got me going again and this time there would be no stopping. Once I got to the 25 mile marker, I’d spent 22 minutes covering the last 2 miles and I had about 10 minutes to get to the finish to meet my goal. Only none of that was clear to me then. I just knew that the end was close and it was time to go. So I went. I was a blur or it was a blur. Blurs were definitely present.
I don’t know how long I went before my knee started crying out again. I grimaced. I groaned. I begged my knee. “I promise if you get me through this, I’ll give you massages. I’ll take you to the doctor. Whatever you want!” The knee seemed to consider the proposition, or at least it didn’t seize up on me again. Perhaps it was distracted by the cramp starting to creep into the opposite quadricep. I recognized cheering. When I looked up, there was my mom, but I had no energy to see anyone else or the giant sign they held that said RUN DMA. I just pounded on. My knee screamed in a painful duet with my now attention-starved quad.
The chant in my head, the prayer to my knee and my quad, the desperate plea to my body soon became the harsh words on my lips, “COME ON!”

“COME ON!”
“COME ON!”
Every breath and every step,
“COME ON!”
“COME ON!”

My head was down. My face tight with exhaustion.
“COME ON!”
“COME ON!”
I passed runner after runner and had the vague feeling that they either thought I was talking to them or they thought I was mad. I really didn’t care.
“COME ON!”
“COME ON!”

I charged up the final hill, I’m told in a sprint. I passed a few more,but watched as one young shirtless fellow exploded forward the last 25 meters.

“COME on...”

I crossed the finish line. intact. ecstatic. exhausted.

See

And they're off
I was running. This basically solitary sport was suddenly a show for thousands of cheering fans and I was surrounded on all sides by runners. The Hulk was to my left and I could see a pirate not too far in front. Halloween had not gone unnoticed by the marathon runners. Many still sported jerseys or shirts with their names. I went for a dave-o-lantern look in my orange shirt with eyes, nose, and mouth drawn in, the teeth in the shape of my name. Next to me, Matt was a ghost in his white shirt. Not 400 meters after the start we found our fans cheering. We waved, pumped our fists and cheered back, the task before us still entirely unreal. As Matt said, "It's hard to be nervous when you know you won't hurt for 10 miles."
We puttered along, content to follow the crowd and not work too hard finding gaps to shoot through. There was a lot of run left and it was far too early in the day to be in a hurry. We cruised along, up and down hills on this traditionally flat course. Some loudly noted the elevation changes were new this year. This early in the race and at our pace, it hardly seemed to matter. We passed cheering section after cheering section and unconciously fed off their energy. Tracking our time on my watch, I noted that we were off to a slow start. Still, after 3 miles there was a lot of day left. Ever so slightly we started to move. We started to squeeze between people and seek out space for ourselves. We didn't lose contact very often, pointing out incredible views of Georgetown, or the absolutely ridiculous shimmer of a thousand runners in front of us bounding along up a hill. The sheer volume of people was astounding and at no time could I see more than a tenth. I've never bumped elbows with so many runners. I've never thanked so many spectators. For 7 more miles, we cruised on, pushing our pace slightly, but fully aware that pushing too hard now could spell disaster later. We passed the Lincoln Memorial and a bunch of other stuff that I didn't notice. We nearly slipped on banana peels. We let Powergel ooze into our mouths, but even the caffeinated magic of an energy gel seemed dull compared to the buzz that the monstrous crowd created. The stretches where they weren't were almost eerily quiet, even with the shuffle of hundreds of feet.

At mile 10, we again crossed paths with our wonderful and loyal fans. They cheered and we smiled. It was so nice to see them on this very lovely Sunday morning. Even at 10 miles this was still just a Sunday run with 17,000 of our closest friends. Things were going remarkably well.

Within minutes of that fan sighting, I felt the first twinges in my knee. I turned to Matt and re-iterated our pact. "My knee is starting to go. If I have to stop, you keep going." He echoed me with a remark about his side stitch. I don't have the best sense of time regarding that day, but it couldn't have been more than a minute before our run together was finished. I don't remember the moment of separation, only that he was gone. At that time I still held hopes that he would catch me later. Now, I was on my own in the midst of thousands. The screams from my knee seemed to disappear at the next water stop. I reeled off several more miles under the 4 hour marathon pace, cutting into that initial deficit I'd created.

Heading up the hill around the U.S. Capitol, the back of my shirt was recognized for the first time. Running past two men, "Shock" and "Awe" emblazoned on the backs of their shirts, I charged up the hill (I suppose only marathoners can call such a gait a charge). As I passed, Shock and Awe called out, "You'll get there faster if you run SCREAMING!" The very quote from the back of my shirt caused the three of us in unison to break into screams. For effect, I also threw up my hands and surged up the hill, until someone kindly mentioned, "You'll need that energy later." I crossed the halfway point after 2 hours and 1 minute. My morning had just begun.

There's more? yep... It's only fair you suffer almost as much as I did.

4 hours 47 seconds
I don't know where to begin. I'll give you my chip finish time, in case you somehow think like I thought that marathons can be measured with stopwatches (or a little chip tied to your shoelace as the case may be).

I could start back in April when I signed up for the Marine Corps Marathon. Or I could start back in high school when the shirt "Running is my life-the rest is just details" meant what it said. I won't.

This very space has already told of months of training runs and injuries, of 20 miles and no miles and daily struggles in between. I won't cover that again. I'll start last Monday, the day negativity was all but outlawed in my head.

Negativity may have been banished, but a swirl of bacteria or viruses or black magic entered me and re-ignited a cough and possibly a rash. It was a slight cough at first, but grew quickly as I sat in my cubicle of germs. By Thursday, the pained knee that had lingered two and a half weeks was a distant memory when compared with the assault my immune system was undertaking. I hacked and coughed and blew phlegm to places I'd rather not mention. I went home from work sick. I stayed home Friday too. I don't stay home from work because I'm sick but maybe twice a year, and oh what a time for this twice to land. Saturday, I was hardly better. The afternoon rolled around, my family was off entertaining themselves because I was the host with the least. I camped out on the floor willing sickness to leave while drinking a gallon of water. These were not ideal conditions for running a marathon in 13 hours. I said my old mantra, "I feel good. I feel great. I feel wonderful." I repeated it over and over again until I felt something in my sinuses. It was as if a damn was breaking and water could flow freely again. My eyes lit up. This was it. The corner was turned. Positive thinking triumphed. I was going to be ok to race.

Move ahead 13 or hours or so. Move past the sputtering sleep and the morning vomit. Move past the jam-packed Metro ride and the near bowel catastrophe and go straight to the starting line. The mass started to move as the crowd cheered. The running had begun some 4,000 people in front of me. It would be five minutes before I ran myself, before I even crossed the starting line, but I was moving. I had begun my very own parade of pain in front of an enormous crowd.

More to come...