Movies 2008
Netflix entered my life in force this year...

1. Enchanted
2. D.E.B.S
3. The Thomas Crown Affair (1968)
4. Chariots of Fire
5. Berkley in the Sixties
6. North by Northwest
7. Casa de los Babys
8. The Spirit of the Marathon
9. Secretary
10. 27 dresses
11. Atonement
12. Definitely, Maybe
13. LA Haine
14. I think I love my wife
15. Brokeback Mountain
16. The Pursuit of Happyness
17. The Ten
18. Charlie Bartlett
19. The Simpsons Movie
20. Persopolis
21. The Prestige
22. The Darjeeling Limited
23. Dan in Real Life
24. Becoming Jane
25. Alvin and the Chipmunks
26. The Hours
27. American Flyers
28. Roger Dodger
29. I'm a Cyborg, but that's ok
30. Smart People
31. Swing Time
32. Southland Tales
33. Lars and the Real Girl
34. Iron Man
35. Raging Bull
36. No Blood for Oil
37. P.S. I love you
38. Forgetting Sarah Marshall
39. Into the Wild
40. Music Within
41. Sex & The City
42. The Hustler
43. The Holiday
44. The Greatest Game Ever Played
45. American Teen
46. The Other Boleyn Girl
47. Better Off Dead
48. Saint Ralph
49. Cash Back
50. Pistol: Birth of a Legend
51. August Rush
52. 4 months, 3 weeks, 2 days
53. 21
54. Without Limits
55. Son of Rambow
56. Prefontaine (review)
57. The Duchess
58. Burn After Reading
59. School for Scoundrels
60. Body of Lies
61. Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day
62. Against the Ropes
63. Good Luck Chuck
64. Be Kind, Rewind
65. Rachel Getting Married
66. The Aviator
67. The Departed
68. Tenacious D and the Pick of Destiny
69. Slumdog Millionaire
70. Charlie Wilson's War
71. Seven Pounds
72. Hancock
73. Harold and Maude
74. Opportunity Knocks (review)

I would say Atonement and Lars and The Real Girl were my favorite movies this year. I'm a Cyborg, but that's ok was memorable for sure. Spirit of the Marathon gets a special mention because it was part of and helped recall a great experience.

The Midas remote control

You've seen Click and read up on your Greek mythology, but if you'll indulge me for just one moment, I'll tell you about the time my remote control was pure gold. Literally. Except, not literally at all.

Last night, I found myself stumbling around the digital air waves. (What are these now? They aren't air waves, are they? Where do we stumble when we're flipping channels; why it's not even a flip anymore, maybe a blip...) In a New York minute, I can never remember if those are fast or slow, but I want the fast ones here, I went from having nothing to watch and very little meaning in my Monday evening to having three sporting events that I cared passionately about. When I say passionately here, I mean the sort of passion that one might feel for his third favorite pair of pants- that's the passion I'm talking about. First, I found Georgetown upsetting Connecticut in some Big East basketball. I don't know when I became a Georgetown fan exactly, but I think it happened. It might be because they are good and nearby, some sort of beacon of awesome or something. Between channel blipping, I found that G-town was able to hold off Connecticut for the victory. Yay! recently adopted team. Then, through the telepathy of ESPN and the rippling facebook status updates, I found that Missouri was battling the vastly inferior except when they weren't which was like all night Northwestern team. Missouri escaped with a victory. All right. That actually concluded after the Washington Wizards went on their first winning streak of the season. These 2 recent victories bring their record to 6-23. Needless to say, that's been fun to cheer for.

All of this through the magic of my remote control. And I want to get rid of cable...

Live a life of a modern person with a classy watch
There is much to say and someone else is probably saying it.

I'd had a low level Christmas buzz going since about December 9, so I figured that I wouldn't have the energy to really take that up many notches. Why, I'd even won the door/cubicle decorating contest edging out 8 others for the high honor. I was right about my energy, but had a good Christmas anyway. I enjoyed a planned and a surprise visit with some FARCers early on and then really dug into the family stuff. My niece didn't think much of the magnificent beard. She seemed to be avoiding most men and it took her all week to warm up to me. She did get around to petting my beard and saying "woof," which is exactly the hollow sort of victory that it sounds. With hair in my mouth, and the reaction of my niece, I was having some beard doubts until I stumbled onto a site celebrating facial hair as "nature's bib" and then discovered the magic of Beard Science. Never fear, beard fans, my facial hair resolve is renewed.

The weather, like my beard, was up to some other good tricks this vacation. I went for a run in 6 degree weather. There were beard-cicles, frozen mustache pops, and for a moment or two I thought my eyes might freeze. Days later, I was running in shorts and a t-shirt at some 60 degrees warmer. To prove the weather was crazy, the Midwest threw in snow, a thunderstorm, and both sleet and rain for good measure.

I'm back home now with the vague sense that something important needs to be done. I'll have to save any life-altering decisions until after the soup.

A Sunday status race

David is wishing for more time between social life and alarm.
David is cold.
David is preparing for an abbreviated warm-up.
David is waiting for the 2-letter command.
David is going.
David is going out slowly.
David is in the top 40.
David is letting the leaders go.
David is feeling ok.
David is moving up slowly.
David is feeling neither good nor bad.
David is without his watch.
David is racing without enthusiasm.
David is focused forward.
David is still seeing the leaders.
David is in the top 20.
David is done with more than a mile.
David is joined by blue hat.
David is moving up with blue hat.
David is lost in his stride.
David is feeling ok.
David is passing.
David is being passed by blue hat.
David is still looking up.
David is in the top 15.
David is done with 3 miles.
David is not interested in losing to a girl in pink.
David is sorry for being sexist.
David is not so sorry that he slows down.
David is closing on another group.
David is not losing the blue hat.
David is not gaining much on pink.
David is a fan of front door fans.
David is in a new group.
David is exchanging places with blue hat.
David is joined by blue hat as we give chase.
David is less than a mile from the finish.
David is making his move.
David is regretting making his move.
David is slowing down.
David is being passed by blue hat.
David is being passed by a big guy.
David is struggling.
David is removing his gloves.
David is considering chucking them.
David is passing a big guy.
David is being passed by a big guy.
David is no longer interested in this pursuit.
David is done.
David is recognizing his surroundings.
David is not done.
David is kicking.
David is passing a big guy.
David is closing on the end.
David is 29:43 for 8k.
David is pained, tired, pleased, frustrated, and out of breath.
David is eighth.
David is an age group champion.
David is being greeted by the runner-up.
David is enjoying the company of his competition.

David is not sure this is the most enjoyable way to communicate.
David is glad he tried.
David is crediting Daimon for the inspiration.

Miracle in transit

Friday night a cosmic event occurred and I was there to witness it. Traveling from a party sometime around 2 AM, I prepared for the long Metro ride home. Across town, out late, I knew I was destined to log some serious waiting minutes, complete with long platform-hugging times for my train and my transfer. Instead, with the full moon looming thirty percent larger, I descended the escalator to find my train arriving. At my transfer, my wait time was less than a minute. I was at home and in bed before Santa could even make a pass at mom. Also, it wasn't Christmas, but I was getting into the spirits, just like my favorite North Pole rapper- E double G Nawg.

Hittin' the egg nog

Yesterday I began constructing my entry into the office door-decorating contest. My vision includes a window lit by twinkling lights, potentially with the shadows of Dickensian carolers outside. The piece-de-Christmas, though, will be a small tape recorder stuck to the door and a sign that says "Press play for carols."

On the tiny tape of the tape player will be the recorded voices of carol singers. The hitch in my plan is that I have not come across any singers. I considered some Internet stealing, but wanted something closer to the genuine experience. At least it needed to be as genuine as tiny tape can be. Two of my coworkers politely declined my entreaties to form an a capella trio. Alone and buzzing from the energy of an idea, I decided to take matters into my own larynx. I hesitated, considering that I might sound better with bathroom acoustics or muzzled, but decided to press on by pressing record. Standing in my office, reading song lyrics from my computer, I belted out an off key, "Sleigh bells ring, are you listening?"

As I was finishing up my fourth mangled carol, I could sense some energy in the air, a cheeriness, a feeling that curled the ends of my mouth skyward, and made me fight off a chuckle. It wasn't from me; I've mangled many a song before. It was something else, not Christmas spirit exactly, more like two coworkers laughing at me.

The ups and downs of XC
I can't tell how much of my running is mental. Somewhere, yesterday morning the usual jitters disappeared for reasons that I can't explain. It made me a little nervous, but not in the right way. To add to the mental/emotional roller coaster I stumbled into a negative cloud thanks to the Internet. I may not know how much running is mental, but I knew I didn't want to race under a dark cloud. I spent my few spare moments seeking out something positive to counteract the cloud. I turned to music to cheer me up. Even though I knew I was doing it, it seemed to work.

I set out without nerve or cloud, with friends on the starting line, through the woods. Learning from Tuesday's two-mile, I held back. Working into single file as we ran on a path beneath and between leaveless trees down toward an unfrozen creek and lake, I worked my way into about fifth place. Openings appeared where I could have moved to fourth or third or up further, but I was reigning myself in, trying not to move too soon. Single file continued for quite some time. I worried about rocks and tree roots twisting my ankles. I grew momentarily annoyed when an s-curve in the trail slowed our pace, but still I held back. As we crossed a path above the lake that may have been a reservoir, space opened up around us. I moved onto the heels of the leaders, but didn't pass. I was waiting for at least the 3k mark, the halfway point. We took the turn, but I was not ready to move immediately. A little further down the trail, I saw my opening. I can't remember what the opening was. It may have been the slightly wider trail, or it may have been just a half-step of pace, or it may just have been that I was looking to open things up a little more. Whatever it was, I moved to the front. I don't like races to come down to wild sprints at the end. To win, I like to have a lead. I tried all the tricks I could think of as we moved back through where we'd come. I crested hills hard and made turns strong, hoping that those behind me would lose sight of me for a moment and be demoralized with the ground they'd suddenly lost.

The sounds in my ears were breath and footsteps, but most of the noise came from inside. The personal battle was waging as I crossed the three mile mark. Soon after, I mentally lamented the 6k race, wishing that I'd already broken the proverbial tape in a 5k. At the previously annoying, s-curve, I slalomed through with jerky hips and powerful steps. I bounded onto bridges and hoped for the finish to appear. It did not. The battle wasn't over and the trail turned upward. I don't recall bounding down so far in the beginning, but here I was climbing up. Hills at the end of races, seem to be a club hallmark and yet I'm usually unprepared. I pressed up the hill, but most of the pressing seemed to be taking place against my chest. My heart and lungs were burning as I fought on. I didn't want to look back, but I sensed my competitors gaining. Halfway up the hill, I thought to myself, if I can clear this hill, I can win. I cleared the hill, and found more hill. With another push of painful steps, I crested that next part of the hill and saw the finish line. Finally. I may have sprinted, but there wasn't much left in the tank. Chest heaving, I crossed the line and waited just a few seconds before being followed into the chute. Victory tasted of cold air.

My new shoes now sit on my bedroom floor undefeated. They are the only shoes I've ever owned that have held that honor. They are considering retirement, but more than likely they will be back to better that (probably inaccurate) 6k time of 26:27.

There's a whole other world out there. They call it morning.

For much of the past three months, I've been waking up early twice a week to make some Ultimate. It's been tiring at times, but it's also been very rewarding. Playing and thinking Ultimate before work is confusing to my system, but freeing in many ways. It frees my evenings. It frees that part of my soul that likes to see the sun rise on a crisp fall morning. It frees my alarm from the snooze button. There have been a number of good practices and some not so good practices along the way. I may be biased by the passage of time, or the recent break in the action, but one of the best practices of all took place on Tuesday.

With only a slight chill in the air, we took to the track to run two miles. There were no moans, only a small group of Ultimate players willing, if not ready, to run. I started out too fast, but wound my way around to a time of 10:56. Fortunately the others ignored my efforts. They all run pretty well, some even much better than I expected. It was exhilarating to put down those miles before many went for coffee. Then, to add caramel flavoring to the day, we chased the disc around in a silly game of boot that brought out tired smiles. Running and disc chasing are great ways to start the day.

Another step toward grownupsville

On the outskirts of adulthood, that residential district filled with chamois shirts and flower print blouses, there's a small town where if you want something done, you do it yourself. As I was unconsciously sifting through my memory banks, I came to the realization that there are certain tastes and smells that I associate with the holidays. One of those tastes done to near perfection by women in my family is the taste of sweet potatoes. I've had the recipe for ages, but I've never had the will or the gumption to take on my memory. This year, with Thanksgiving looming and no alternative sweet potatoes in sight, I decided to take action.

Twice I made the sweet potatoes, once misunderstanding the directions "peeled and cooked" and once coming up short in the magic sauce department, and twice I lived to smile about it. They may have lacked the texture and the look of the family tradition, but at least in part they packed the flavor. With a mixture of pride and sadness, I brought the sweet potatoes to two different Thanksgiving day meals.

"There's no better than best."

I think I'm about to rant. I don't know if I can control my words very well as I recount this event. I apologize. I'm hoping that by getting it out in this space, I can get this off my mind.

Ultimate is a self-officiated sport whose rules state that we put fair play above winning. I am paraphrasing. As the game gets more competitive and the stakes get higher, this becomes increasingly difficult. For years, I have clung to these tenets of our game because I believe that the people who play Ultimate can take on this challenge and do at least as good a job as a referee. At the highest levels of the game, observers have been introduced. They act as self-officiation help. In the event that players can't agree, the observer can make his/her impartial ruling. I've resisted this as well. Today, a call was made in a game that had no observers; it deeply weakened my anti-observer bias.

The play: A huck that went directly up the line was caught in the end zone barely in-bounds or just out-of-bounds. One player, probably 25 to 30 yards away from the catch called the receiver out of bounds. An argument ensued. Now, not only do Ultimate players get to argue about the call, but we argue about who had the best perspective. This individual on the other team, was not only not particularly close to the play, but he was not on the sideline, meaning that his call would have been extremely difficult since he had neither the angle nor the proximity to make a good call. When the thrower argued that his perspective down the line was better, since he could at least see the two cones that make up the front and back of the end zone, the caller responded, "There's no better than best." While the sentiment was and is a fantastic and hilarious defense of the "best" perspective, it was also ridiculous.

Both teams dug in their heels, but eventually a re-do ensued. I think it ended badly for the (full disclosure) team I'm partial to, but I hope that the boy with the "best" perspective thinks about his calls in the future.

Preposterous.

Bring on the observers. Cue my head bowing dejectedly.

Update: I've realized that I have focused a lot of energy and frustration on this moment and all of it does not belong there. I think what I really need to take out of today, is that odd winds will blow, strange calls will be made, and I have to keep my head and help the team keep their heads on straight. There are plenty of excuses, but we've got to find ways to seize and keep momentum at the crucial moments.

A whole new world

We practiced in the gym today. It felt a little like PE class, but mostly it felt like another world. It was like playing basketball without some gravity or playing baseball with a softball. It was playing Ultimate without wind. The disc just seemed to cut through the air better, and it usually does pretty well.

Then to really throw a wrench in things we ran some seven versus zero. It may seem lopsided, but it just might have worked. One of many, many challenging things to try to teach Ultimate players is the way the traditional vertical stack offense should look. The flow drills, the scrimmages, the diagrams, and the discussions haven't quite seemed to get us there. Time will tell if seven versus zero did the trick, but I thought I saw some light bulbs coming on. Here's hoping.

Another great drill we ran to get throwers thinking about where they were throwing was a come-to drill with a requirement to catch the disc with the outside hand. After almost three full months of an ongoing mantra of catching with two hands, we switched it up. The drill did a number of important things- it took people out of their comfort zone, it forced concentration, and best of all it looked good. I don't know how much being indoors contributed to the feeling, but I was glowing with pride at the amount of success we had with the drill. I keep thinking about September when everything was being dropped, two hands or not. We've come a long way.

There's one last tournament this semester and I hope we've started on an upward trajectory.

The antithesis of the last post?
I threw the disc so much on Tuesday that my arm hurts. I thought I could throw, but on a lined field with a slight wind at me, I found out that it takes a ton of work for me to throw 35 yards (insert air quotes here) accurately (close air quotes) and repeatedly, especially with my backhand. All of a sudden, I want to be able to throw. Maybe it stems from the realization that I felt old last weekend. I felt like the college and high school kids were exploding on their first step and I felt tired when they continued to run in all kinds of directions. So maybe I know that I need to round out my game.

While my game grows more spherical, let me point to some personal moments of enjoyment from the last weekend. I felt like I had a relatively quiet few games. I couldn't find my groove and I did have a sense of being out of place. I made some bad throws and some less than stellar decisions. I did get a big D early on the mark that I managed to catch off my deflection and toss in for a score. Finally, somewhere late in the day, I did manage to settle in and do a bit of damage. I got up to grab an errant disc, called a timeout and then faced some serious stomach butterflies before throwing an easy score. Both were caught on tape, and I'm disappointed to say that it felt like I jumped a lot higher than it looks on film. Maybe some things aren't worth seeing again and again. Another moment caught on film that was much bigger in my head was a little flip pass that then led to a winning score. I caught the disc and looked up field, desperately I wanted to throw deep for a score, but saw no one to throw to. A struggle roiled inside of me, until my teammate ran by, I flipped it to him and he threw a nice flick for the win. On film, this took about a second, in my head the struggle lasted much longer. One in-game moment not caught on film that I'm particularly proud of was a dump pass. I had committed to my dump. The stall count was getting high and my handler wasn't open. As stall 8 rang out, I gave a good fake that sent the defender racing after nothing, at 9 I tossed the disc to my now wide open handler to keep it moving.

I still find it easier to discuss my on field adventures than my off field ones, but I will mention the half-time speech in the final fifth place game. After trading points for the first half and being up 7-5, I nicely demanded that we not let the other team back in the game. I brandished the new universal symbol for finish them off (a closed fist rubbing out an open palm) and then watched in awe as we went up 12-5. We finally closed the game at 13-7, but it was a good run and not a bad day. The room for improvement remains more like a convention center, which is good because it keeps me busy.

Tough like jerky: A lesson in perspective

For the first time in a long time, I tried to run home from work. I had my backpack on, which is always a bit discouraging, but I didn't let that stop me. It was a little cold, but I didn't let that stop me. I was cruising up the hill, dodging the foot traffic for about four miles. Then I got tired and I got cold. I fought with myself for a little while, but responded to the siren song when a bus rolled by. I hopped on and found a seat.

Lost in slightly dejected thought, a woman called out to me. I turned my head and gave her a confused look. If I knew her, I had no idea where we could have met. My brain was clicking away, when she called again. "I saw you way back there. You ran far."

"I wore out," I replied as a slight smile crept into my words.

"You did good," she said. "That's a long way."

"It is," I said. I meant, "Thank you."

The sticker

I'm days late, I know.

As my finger hovered over the screen near the box for Obama/Biden, I felt a tingle, a surge, the full electric charge of history pulsing through my body. The red "X" silenced the sensation. By the time I passed through the door of the elementary school turned polling place I was over it. Yes, I'm excited to have a leader that I might actually feel like following, but no matter where I voted, I'm from Missouri. I'm waiting for Obama to Show Me.

College and lunches: the staple of my travels

It starts with lunch. At the far end of the Detroit terminal I found Gourmet PB&J. With so many choices in peanut butter complements, I went with the classic- grape jelly, wheat bread. It was decent, limited by the vat taste of too much PB and too much J in large containers. It was a bit overpriced, as the sandwich ran almost $4. It wasn't the answer, but I liked the idea and I don't really know the question.

Detroit was a layover; I had other places to be. Flying in over suburbs and farmland, descending, but still too high above to make out much detail, I pictured the various paths my own life could take and considered the pieces of some of those lives that I already had. My navel-gazing was interrupted by a field with a farewell message to Favre. I saw no such signs for me.

In Madison, I stumbled on to the home of the Badgers almost as soon as I'd left my lake view hotel room. Caught up in my own travel cliche, I wandered around campus. The architecture reminded me of my alma mater. The students reminded me of myself, only younger, and with redder sweatshirts. I was already enjoying the fall colors mixed with academia when I found a small game of Ultimate on a grassy area. I smiled as I considered graduate school before walking on into town. The university campus and the downtown "State street" area merge almost seamlessly. Searching for dinner and the sights, I walked from campus to capitol and then turned around and walked back. Joined by coworkers, my journey took me a block from where I started at State Street Brats. The college crowd was absent on a Tuesday, but jovial nights of drinking and jawing clung to the neon signs and bench seating. We ordered at the bar- brats and beer. It was "flip night" and after correctly calling "heads", I enjoyed a local brew from New Glarus. During the week I'd work my way down from dark to lighter, perhaps easing myself out of Madison through the prism of beer.

The beer and brats were delicious, but my growing crush on Madison solidified when even a cold drizzle couldn't stop me from my morning run. The crew teams were out on the lake and I could spy on them through the trees off the path I'd discovered. I passed a few runners and bikers in the rain, but nothing like I would find the next afternoon in the sunshine. With the sun out, the isthmus sprouted athleticism like dandelions. Runners and bikers filled all manner of path, not so crowded that it was uncomfortable, just enough to be engaging. As if the city were trying to reel me in, I found myself running by the practice field of the Badger marching band. Forget iPods, nothing rocks a run like a full marching band tooting and drumming away.
It's funny how well things go, when things are going well. As I ate my macaroni and Wisconsin cheese with a side of bologna and sipped my Spotted Cow, I tried to picture myself in the lofts of downtown Madison, Wisconsin.

Did I mention my hotel rented cross-country skis?

Graceful victory

It's been a long time since I've been on the winning end of a blowout. It was a pleasant 15-4 league game victory. It probably would have been less satisfying if I hadn't played an hour of Ultimate prior. It was nice to feel in synch, nice to get a D on command, nice to get help from the sidelines, and nice to be playing on a Fall day. Yet, the nicest things of all took place off the field in a hug, in a car bomb, and in a Mongolian BBQ. I play the game for a lot of reasons, but today community came out on top, in a blowout. Glug, glug, glug.

Tarheel country

Big Ed's at the City Market was not exactly my intended lunch time destination. I got off a plane and set off with my daypack full, running shoes poking out of the water bottle carriers. I wore my green safari/fatigue/sport coat and my red cap. The sun south of here was hotter than I expected. The bus ride longer. Then, I didn't factor in the extra loop through the airport. Public transit isn't the answer other places. I arrived downtown, wandered to the city market, and stumbled onto Big Ed's. Corn bread, country ham, food was the way to get acclimated.

I had the afternoon to myself. Completely. No one but me knew where I was. Even I didn't know where I was going. I was carless, bikeless, and now not so keen on the bus. I walked. I walked through historic Oakwood where the porches of my dreams framed house after house. I longed for sweet tea and quiet company, but only kept the latter. I wandered on the outskirts of a cemetery, past the dead of Raleigh, on my way back to the capitol. I had loose plan, but I didn't know the scale of my map or when I'd left it. My watch had broken and so I told time in foot pains and hunger pangs. I toured the history museum, closed according to the information booth lady, where I found a 1920s pharmacy sans soda jerk and the North Carolina Sports Hall of Fame sans Air Jordan. Still thirsty, still curious, I walked on to an avenue speckled with bars not ready to open. Not knowing quite how I would get to my hotel for the night, I continued to walk. On foot, I found my bus route into town and stopped at LocoPop. It was all I could expect from a shop just outside the campus of NC State. Part ice cream shop that served only popsicles and part art gallery that catered only to elementary art school classes, I chewed through a mango-papaya pop and rested.

Renewed by the popsicle, I carried on through campus, but no longer felt quite so at home as I have in years past. As I neared the highway, I began to except that my nomadic, public transit fueled dreams were coming to a close. Stumbling on a pay phone in between the dilapidated Pizza America and the crusty car repair joint, I called for a cab. It took some leafing through an attached phone book, but I was pleased to note that the entire world had not passed me by. After my quiet afternoon as a big city adventurer, I had to wonder if in fact I was actually gaining.

Ultimate dominates headlines

There are few things that I've been thinking about more than Ultimate lately, so if I do manage to get something up in this space, it's probably going to be Ultimate-related. I will give out a fine anecdote that includes Sir Mix-a-lot (reference) before I return to the subject at hand.

I was in line for dinner last night and the side dish was red beans and rice. My mind was churning, but I couldn't quite come up with my thoughts. I turned to my friend and said, "I'm trying to think of that Sir Mix-a-lot lyric." I trailed off, hummed a few bars to myself, "something red beans and rice din't miss her." The girl in line in front of me turned around and exclaimed, "I was thinking the same thing." I ordered a plate full, but they missed her.

Back to Ultimate- I should try to use this space to work out the challenges of teaching new players and experienced players the game at the same time. Or I should write about my feelings of inferiority when it comes to verbalizing my thoughts on the game in a practice or huddle session. Instead, I'm going the selfish route and focusing on last weekend's personal highlights. There weren't a lot. The team was out-numbered and comparatively inexperienced and as a result we struggled. I quietly went about my business and didn't see a lot of action. I handled more than I usually do and while I didn't find this as stressful as I expected it to be, it really confirmed my preference to cut. I'm ok with running around more and touching the disc less. On defense, I played ok, but I often found my layout attempts to be a tad late and a tad short. I was talked out of my first highlight when I let a player with worse perspective determine that I was out of bounds on a scoring catch. At this point, almost a week later, I'm not sure if I slid in, caught the disc, and then clipped the line or if I slid in, clipped the line, and caught the disc. Still, I'm frustrated by this mainly because I know the exact moment when he won his case. He said something like, "I mean, you can have it if you want." and shrugged his shoulders. I didn't want his pity point. I wanted it outright. The team would get one, and only one, later against one of the best teams I've ever faced, but mine was gone and at least in part because of my struggle to think clearly in a conflict.

My two favorite moments of the day were 1. on a outside in backhand that curled just into the path of my teammate for a wicked layout score. and 2. hollering at the rookie to keep him cutting back and forth and back and forth, until he finally ended up with his first score.

Sunday, we played one of the local Masters teams and it appeared we had finally met our match. Still, they jumped out to an early lead. We came back, but neither team was playing that well. Mistakes were being made all over the place. They had one guy who seemed to think I wasn't there and he threw it within a step of me on at least two occasions. I grabbed those. I had a nice battle going with one of their other players. On one point he was covering me and had a bead on the disc on my in cut. He knocked it away and it fluttered in the air. Crawling on the ground, I lunged for it, stretched out my arm through the grass, and smiled gratefully as the disc landed in my hand. Later, on that point or one soon after, I was covering my man and I had a bead on his in cut. Jazzed from the earlier play or tired of running, or still feeling the Wildwood vibes of my plaid skirt, I launched myself into the air and caught a layout D. Impressive, except for the fact that the offender was probably 10 feet away. The other good moment in the game was in a zone. The handlers swung the disc, got it to the rookie on the sideline, I raced over to get a short pass and then turned and sent a flat backhand down the line for-ev-er. Our team speedster tracked it down with a ridiculous layout grab in the back corner of the endzone. Sweet. None of this was enough for us to notch a win on the weekend.

Still, losing Ultimate is better than no Ultimate. Lots better.

Proud of the Internet

Social networking is swell, online journals are neat, maps, movies, and tv at my fingertips is magical, but the site that makes me proud to know the Internet is The Huddle. It's Ultimate-related and it poses questions to some of the games big names and minds. Those minds then answer the question and the knowledge just drips off the page. It's amazing and exactly the sort of collaboration that makes everybody better. Their most recent installment is on the UPA Board of Directors election. If I could find a presidential election site that did this well, maybe I'd feel better about that vote too.

I'm awed and so appreciative of this gift.

The strangeness of September

It's a little scary to re-enter the blog world. I dipped my little toe in the other day and it doesn't appear that I lost any skin. I thought I'd try again before September ended. This month didn't go the way I thought it would, though, I don't really think much about how a month will go. I don't usually have the energy to live in chunks that large. I entered the month with a renewed interest in writing and finding some voice and then like a storm front blowing through, that interest was gone. It was usurped by Ultimate. In spare moments, I think about trying to revive that interest. The word play suits me, but I think I better understand the scores of folks who make a hobby out of intending to write.

At the end of August and the beginning of September, I accepted a volunteer coaching position. It's similar to the position that I've had over the last few years helping out at a local university, but this year the captains and I have formalized it and are trying to take the steps to move the team forward. We've come up with a curriculum that takes us roughly through November and we've run practices with more intent and planning. It's exciting, but I'm discovering that I'm more a creature of habit than I realized. Changes to the schedule or personnel have thrown me for a loop. Disappointing dips in attendance have boiled my blood in ways I'm not proud to admit. It's a learning experience and it's hard work. I'm trying to master a number of fears and challenges at once. It's a constant juggling act and it seems like someone keeps adding items to juggle. It has taken years to even get to a point where I'm ready to think about juggling. There's so much that I could talk about right here, that I think I'll wait and see if I can't use some of October to draw together my coaching experiences and my desire for word play.

In other strange September doings, I injured my knee last week. I stayed off it as best I could all week (which did nothing to improve a recent mood prone to sour spells) and then bought a knee brace. I strapped on the knee brace Saturday before playing Ultimate in a tournament. The knee brace cut the back of my knee, but otherwise seemed effective. After 5 games of Ultimate, some without the knee brace, my knee now feels better. I'm trying to convince myself that my dreams of Ultimate curing all my ills has finally come to pass. There are some personal Ultimate anecdotes from the weekend that also need a home here, but those too will have to wait.

Here are some lyrics to say it better while I prepare for October.

Don't mind me, it's just September....
....so afraid that what you'll find is all you deserve...

Perhaps September has reluctantly agreed to serve as an outline for future blog posts.

Go Pre

If you've waited 11 years wondering which 1997 Steve Prefontaine movie you should watch, I recommend Prefontaine over Without Limits. The latter focuses more on skirt-chasing, but the former is chock full of the Olympics, his fight with ATU, and some great running scenes. Both close out the same. I wasn't born when Pre was running, but it must have been amazing.

Life without car

I'd like to pretend that I never want or need a car, ever. I can't. Usually, I fill the need with a Zipcar or a gracious friend, but sometimes even that doesn't make sense. So, when both my bikes were crippled by rear flat tires it took me a full week to find the energy to get to a bike shop. Finally, on Friday with tires and tubes draped over my shoulder like a Project Runway design gone sour, I ran to the nearest bike shop. It was satisfying, but a 10-minute car trip was instead a bit of sweaty pavement-pounding ordeal. It's one of the few times that I've truly missed my car. I feel guilty that I have let that trip become an ordeal. Even as I'm proud of the end result, I'm disappointed at the laziness that rests somewhere inside.

Lazy or not, as I balked at the cost of two new tires and two new tubes, I felt pretty good that I haven't been to a car repair shop in quite some time. Something tells me that fan belts, oil filters, and other mechanic-speak would bring me balking to my knees.

Another Olympic moment I enjoyed

It may be the time difference or the rough performance that high expectations have brought on USA Track & Field, but I haven't found a lot to be excited about this week. The Bolt was amazing and although at least one official has called him disrespectful, I think I lack the proper thrill only because he was favored. I admire what he has done and think his speed is beautiful, but he hasn't captured my imagination. So my notable moment is once again off the field of play. This moment was a reaction shot of the now former World Record holder in the 200 meter race, Michael Johnson.

As Usain Bolt again ran a dominant and impressive race, we were treated to a shot of Johnson during the replay. I could see the disappointment he felt from losing his World Record, but he still jumped up and down in excitement and disbelief at what he was witnessing. It was so very human and genuine.

I think it says bad things for my Olympic hopes when my favorite moments are reactions.

My favorite Olympic moment*
I almost hate to admit it because I'm so sick of everyone talking about him, but this moment was too much. I was sitting on the third base side somewhat watching a Nationals game when I glanced down at my watch. "Michael Phelps races in three minutes," I announced. Some thirty seconds later and 400 feet away up in the bar out in centerfield, a small crowd erupted with more energy than we'd seen all game from anyone. I could see TVs in the bar, but my prescription glasses aren't strong enough to see what was on them, yet I knew. People around us murmured wondering what was happening in centerfield."Michael Phelps won gold," I said quietly with a smile. A few minutes later a man with a radio confirmed it. Michael Phelps by 1/100th of a second.

I haven't seen the race yet and although I've heard and read that it was amazing, I'm not sure the visual will surpass my curious communal experience.

*I have not watched any track and field yet and that stuff is pretty near and dear to my heart.

Once, twice, five times with needles

Some time ago, I stumbled upon some free acupuncture in my neighborhood. The place doing the poking is a fascinating sort of place that offers all kinds of classes that I'm fearful to use. Yet, somehow the acupuncture, even when the "free" was gone, stuck (pun intended). I like my acupuncturist. He seems so genuine and eager that it's almost uncomfortable. Yet, even when d my face sometimes hurts with the awkward pauses in our conversation, it seems like he listens to me 1.6 million times better than my doctor. Maybe that's why I find myself going back. Last week I made my fifth trip to see him. Each one has felt slightly different. There's always the initial prick that comes from being stuck by a needle; it's less painful than a shot, but not unnoticeable. Then after a few quiet moments, something almost otherworldly seems to happen. Let me recount those experiences.

1. The psoas darkens. Then it gets lighter, as in less weight. Totally trippy.

2. A stress ball of a psoas flattens out. Odd.

3. A flattened ball dissapates. Then I feel the magic of acupuncture pressing the connecting parts, searching for something to relax. When the pushing doesn't work, the magic starts pulling. Also trippy.

4. 17 needles later and I feel a little better. This time was different. Before I even got poked by the needle, I thought I felt it. Maybe it was the number of needles or maybe I was externally more sensitive.

5. This time the needles are applied directly to a new area of pain in addition to other places in line. Like a magic scrubber, something seems to clean all the muscles around the pain, but the pain does not go away. So, needles are added again to further pinpoint the pain area. The pain leaves, but returns some hours later. Trippy and unfortunate.

Next time, I don't know what to expect.

Summer at Mordor?
I'm starting to be concerned about the Olympics. Between revoked visas and the Sally Jenkins' column regarding questionable air quality and corporate sponsorships, I worry. One of the favorites in the men's marathon has already dropped out. Supposedly, events over an hour scheduled on days when air quality is bad will be rescheduled. It almost makes the days of drug scandals seem like the good old days. The Olympics haven't even started. Maybe I should worry less about the Olympics and more about China (or the world?) in general.

Burning butterflies
There’s a fire in my calves. It’s like a vertical rope burn that almost overshadows the memory of Friday’s butterflies in my stomach.

I was nervous. Nervous like a ninth-grader. As part of the local running series, I had decided to run in a 2-mile race on the track. My legs were still sore from last weekend. Running all week had done nothing for my confidence. I knew that I could run two miles, but as I munched lunch I reflected on the speed I wanted to attain, 5:20 per mile, and the unfamiliarity with the distance. It had been a regular race in high school, but not a popular recreational event over the last 11 years.

I tried to recall some of my past success at Friday night track meets to calm my nerves, but that did not work. It took two pre-race steps to quiet the jitters. The first was a comforting warm-up with MB who helped take my mind off the race and the second was some striders. The striders made me realize that my dead legs still had life.

The race was large for a track and the pace diverse. This was an 11:30-and-under heat, and the leaders planned to run 9:30. I made my way into the second row at the start and waited for “Go.” It took almost a full 75-second lap before I’d jostled into inside position. The 8-laps-at-80-seconds-each plan I envisioned had already begun to unravel and I’d only just started. Racing is never the same as planning.

Post-race reflection has me running at around 15th place as I came through the half-mile mark in 2:30. For a moment, I had visions of a roaring to a 10 flat 2-mile. Even in high school races of 10 minutes or better were sweet achievements. This wasn’t high school and I haven’t trained for such an effort. So my legs slowed me unconsciously. I settled in to a comfortable pace that brought me through the mile at 5:15. I still had room to slow and meet my goal. Most of the middle laps don’t seem to be a part of my experience, although I do recall one memory quite clearly. It’s the stuff of movies. I was cruising on a straightaway and only the track was visible. Everything else was a blur. The world was quiet, I didn’t hear my steps or panting, I just sensed the exact distance I had remaining and an assured feeling that I had enough inside to get through it. The quiet blur left me when one runner made a move to pass. I don’t remember seeing him, I just sensed that he was coming. I sped up in response. We still had the better part of 3 laps to go and I was able to hold him off at this stage. On the back stretch, I passed two runners and believed that I might be able to leave the runner on my heels entangled in their pace, but as we came off the turn, I found that he was still around.

If my 2 mile is going well, I am able to pick up the pace with 2 laps to go. I’ve always felt that I need to string out my finishing kick more than many of my competitors. The change was subtle and driven by the runner giving chase. I didn’t have the power or the confidence to shake him and he continued to push as I tried to keep him at bay. He was still on my heels as we entered the bell lap. The bell cries out inspiration for every distance track runner. It comes down to this. I pushed through the back stretch desperately hoping my competitor would break before the final stretch, but I still sensed him as we entered the turn. As we came off the turn and faded across the track during the last 100 meters, I gritted my teeth, pumped my arms, and flashed through many races that ended with competitors kicking their way right past me. I always draw on those experiences as I try to avoid another one. I only know what I’m told about the stretch because my muscles were contorted and heaving, but I’m told that neither of us gave an inch. We pushed one another all the way to the finish. I crossed in 10:28 and thanked eighth place for a wonderful race. It wouldn’t have been the same without him.

I can’t fully articulate why it matters or why this burning and butterflies are worth so much, but I’d say that putting it on the line makes me feel alive.

Beaches aren't relaxing

My annual beach weekend is set back from the sea a good 100 meters. It involves a lot of flopping in the sand and chasing after plastic with my friends. This year it involved half-donkey, half-elephant, half-plaid, dancing machines. It's no wonder some people don't invite us to their beaches. Wildwood, New Jersey is not some people and they keep having us back. Some 300 teams, easily 1,000 Ultimate players, once again took to the sand and coated themselves in it.

Getting to Wildwood has never been easy, it looks closer than it is and traffic is always thick. This year my car found out that it is closer than it is. Or at least we found out that navigating is important. It was a hard lesson to learn, one we started to consider some hour or more after we'd missed our turn. The lesson was reinforced by one generous cop who decided that we looked pathetic or awesome or just not troublesome enough to ticket for speeding at 1 AM.

I found 3.5 hours of sleep were savory and delicious in the tent mansion, but longed for more. All that was soon forgotten as time stood still for the plastic chasing. Beach Ultimate, as long-time readers know, is wonderful for the sheer amount of diving that goes on. Look in most any direction and someone is bound to be flying through the air. This year was particularly special as it became a reunion of sorts. First, I was reunited with the disc, as I haven't played since about May. I was a little nervous, but nerves were calmed early as I cut up field and watched A fire a disc toward the back corner of the end zone. I couldn't believe how far out in front of me it looked, but it seemed almost reachable. I gave chase and silently begged for the disc to stay up in the air just a little longer. With a burst and a layout, I reached out my arm and felt plastic before crashing into the sand for a score. That was the last of the nervousness.

I was also reunited with teammates and friends. It was a joy to spend a weekend in the company of those good people and to make some new teammates and friends. Back to the action: One general highlight was the return of my Frisbee (man)crush on Alan. I felt so comfortable on the field with him. There were so many moments where I just felt like he understood where I was headed or went exactly where I needed him to go. Even when he skyed me late in the day on Sunday, it was only because he knew I couldn't find the floating disc due to my (otherwise awesome) team hat. I can't even think of a specific throw or catch that he made to make me say this, I just remember multiple times locking eyes and then going to get a disc or releasing one to him. I could probably gush some more, but it would likely only get more awkward, so I'll spare us all. I also really enjoyed being on the field with MB who has such a great sense of the game and his body in the air. I can't count the number of times that he managed to fake out his mark and drop a sweet pass right in front of me. We had a great give and go and he gobbled up almost everything I could throw. He even tracked down the longest one-pointer I could possibly throw capping it off with a wicked grab. The team as a whole really had some nice flow. I can't remember playing at a Wildwood event where we seemed so in sync. Almost every time I looked up, I saw someone in plaid making a sweet cut. I bet MD faked out so many defenders with cuts to my flick that their knees got tired and locked up. It was so awesome to see her and all the plaid working well together. I wish that I could outline all the highlights of the weekend for all my teammates, but I focus and remember mostly what happened to me and what stands out from there. (And even then my memory is short.)

I've already recounted my first layout. We went 3-1 on the first day, knocking off a ridiculously athletic Colorado team at universe point and then dropping one to a team that I believe we should have defeated. Our early games were pretty easy, although the first one turned out to be closer than it should have been. I had a manic-depressive game in our loss and I've already tried to block it from my memory. The wind had shifted and we struggled in it. We came into Sunday and I've already forgotten most of what happened. If I recall we came out fired up against a good tie-dye team in a battle of the patterns. We were clinging to a lead and then fell at universe point. The 4th next-point-wins situation of our weekend. We split them evenly. We then played a team that didn't see me. It was like I had on my invisibility cloak. I didn't though, it was the same red plaid skirt and modified women's darker red blazer with green trim. I had at least three catches on their first throw up the field, which led to a couple very easy 10-foot throws for scores. My favorite moment of the game though was on an up field pass. The cutter had broken behind me and the throw went up. I gave chase, launched my body into the air, stuck at my left hand and snagged it. I don't get to catch my layout D's very often. That felt pretty sweet. I almost matched it later in the game as I got my finger tips on a nearly perfect outside-in throw that unfortunately landed in the receivers' hands. We kept the points coming and managed to keep our lead steady in a game. As the rain and thunder came it felt like a nice way to end the day.

Only it wasn't. The storm passed and play was allowed to resume. Most teams had left and my body and my mind were halfway back to DC. Despite a quiet protest from yours truly, we returned to our field to wait for an opponent. None showed up, so I took to cleaning the trash that my beloved community had left behind. I was joined by MB and MD and I'm proud to say that we cleaned the sidelines of something like 10 fields. Ultimate players need to learn to pick up after themselves. As time wore on, I began to relax in the knowledge that a hot shower and rest were in my near future.

Only they weren't. Sam had brokered a deal which would allow us to have a rematch with the tie-dye team we'd lost to earlier with a trophy going to the victors. I was audibly annoyed about the mind shift this would require. It took a stern talking to from MD, but once the game began I was all in it and mostly happy to be a part of it. Tie-dye was not taking us lightly this time and the winds from the passing storm lingered. Our throwers struggled, but we fought on. Tie-dye took it to us with some very nice throws and plays. One guy in particular managed to fake me out of my shorts (I'd changed from the skirt) at least twice for scoring catches. Somewhere though, I managed to save a little face as I was on him again and managed to keep my shorts on and knock a disc down that would have been a score. My last memory from the game was a bid on a throw that I've since found out wasn't to me. It's a fitting way to leave the beach; with something more to grasp. MB whipped a pass down the line. I believed I was the intended target and launched myself into the air. I think I was as high as I've ever been horizontally. It was my only chance to make a play and I gave it all I had. The disc flew by and I thudded to the ground, probably swallowing just a little more sand. Tie-dye went on to win. The plaid Donk-a-phant Dance Party headed home, a little richer and a little sandier from the experience.

Picking up where I left off

Sometime after 9 AM on Friday morning, with a large chunk of day ahead, D and I made our way to Dam Four. We had nearly six uninterrupted hours of waiting until we’d return to the trail. We found a bit of shade and tried to get some sleep. I believe that we both had intentions to sleep, but our 21st century bodies couldn’t find peace with nature. D attempted to sleep in the grass, giving himself over to all sorts of bugs. I tried to sleep in a parking space and found that complaints about my bed’s concrete mattress are in fact exaggerated. I believe I managed two twenty-minute naps before the sun rose up and swiped our shade. D didn’t do much better in the grass. With the heat bearing down on us, we decided to seek out another shady spot nearby. We moved the car and lapped up a few moments of air conditioning, before idling and returning to the hot day already in progress. The shade was thicker in this spot and so were the mosquitoes. I don’t remember the minutes thankfully, but time passed in a lazy way. I swam briefly in the strong current of the Potomac. The cold water was a great relief that no tale of polluted water could dampen. For lunch, or whatever meal one eats when he has been up since Thursday morning, we couldn’t find a knife and so instead used carrots and folded up slices of bread to spread the Nutella. Time passed slowly, but eventually our crowd gathered. P and A slogged their way to us. There was a sense of satisfaction and grit behind the sweat and weariness.

D and I eagerly took our turn. We’d waited all day to get going again. We had about 12 miles to go for this leg and we planned to alternate every 4 miles. Feeling like I had to slice through the air with a machete, I began the section that took us past Dam 4 and a few steps closer to the finish. Weighed down by perspiration, D and I were able to converse during the first section of our leg. We switched off without incident. D took to running and I watched as the heat and the many more miles he’d already put in took their toll. To entertain him, I gladly recounted my high school running career in the sort of detail that few people would enjoy. Hopefully, it kept his mind off his labor. Through too many tales of my past glory or from the easy spin of biking, I nearly leapt from the bike for my next 4 miles. I took off at a brisk clip and then spotted some geese on the trail. They waddled on ahead and I decided to give chase. I was gaining on them quickly, but they seemed unperturbed. As I got closer, they began to waddle more quickly and move slightly to the right to allow me to pass. I was surprised that they were not taking flight, but they waddled on. I increased my speed to pass them and they increased their waddle. As I reached the leader, I glanced over to see a goose waddling fiercely at my pace and looking at me in a way that seemed threatening. I’ve seen the Hitchcock movie The Birds and I wasn’t looking for trouble. I accelerated some more.

I don’t know how fast I was moving at this point, but as the temperature dripped down from the mid-90s, I was cruising. Running on 40 minutes of sleep, past glory, and a fear of geese, I whooped and hollered and had myself a hootenanny in the woods for at least another quarter of a mile. Then came the pain. For every peppy step I’d had over the last 15 minutes, I now felt the weight of foolishness bearing down upon me. It was hot. I was tired. The cherry on top of my miserable sundae was that I’d been ridiculous and careless with my energy. I desperately wanted to ask D to spell me just for a moment, but I couldn’t. So I slowed down. Waaay down. I couldn’t ask D for a rest because he wasn’t fresh and he hadn’t just foolishly chased geese. As I plodded along, he recounted his days as a college activist. I listened as best I could as the thickness of the air closed in around me. I was glad to be outdoors and in nature, but my vision no longer extended much past the slow rise and fall of alternating knees. I was folding up into myself and I still couldn’t escape. Slowly, painfully, we made our way to the exchange point. I greeted M with a very wet hug as M and P took over for us. Another leg was behind us, another leg was ongoing.

Next stop: Dinner. Using a borrowed cell phone, I made a call to one of D’s friends in New York by mistake on the way to dinner. She was very polite. Then I sent a text message to the correct B who was part of another batch of reinforcements. Thank goodness for reinforcements. Dinner was high on a hill in Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia. Darkness was approaching, but the team recounted our first 21-plus hours of enjoyment over food and drink. I wasn’t scheduled to run until 6 AM the next morning and so I elected to have a thick stout beer with my meal. Due to ongoing logistical challenges, one last batch of reinforcements, and the ever-changing Tom’s Run event, I found out that my time on the trail could actually be done. I sipped my stout with a smile, but then the smile left. I wasn’t ready to be done. I hadn’t properly said goodbye. My pleasure at completing my contribution turned to disappointment at not contributing enough. With a few more nods to the organizational wizardry, I managed to become part of a post-dinner 3-person, 2-bike, group heading out for an 8 or so mile leg. I was there strictly as additional support, but at least I’d get to properly wrap up the athletic portion of my experience.

Riding in the dark quietly behind my teammates, with a headlamp helping to illuminate the path, I listened to the periphery of a conversation and reflected on my time on this trail. I rode slowly as B and LMB alternated two mile sections. In one frightening moment, LMB looked over his shoulder and tumbled off the trail. Fortunately, his fall was only a few feet and he was able to pull himself up and continue on, but not for long. I can no longer recall which bikes’ tire went flat or who was on it, but the leak was immediate. We pulled slightly off the trail and began to examine the situation and our resources. We struggled to find a patch kit as we fumbled in the dark with the tire. Someone surely brought a spare tube, but it wasn’t on the bike. Patching a tire often involves letting glue dry before applying the patch. As we let the glue dry, we found that our string of bad luck wasn’t over. We found this out in the form of rain drops. B stood over the tire trying to block the rain from preventing the glue from drying. We got the tire patched up and pumped up and headed on our way. Within 50 feet, the tire was flat again. It was still drizzling and laughter was our only recourse. I agreed to walk the bike in while the other two pressed on. We arranged for a pick-up at the next section which would require cars back-tracking. As my teammates took a few steps forward, I realized that I had no desire to be out on the trail alone at 11 PM at night. I think scared would be a fine descriptor, but I didn’t allow myself to process that much; I just placed one hand on the seat and one hand on the handlebars and took to running with the flat-tired bike at my side. About two miles later, after a few self-handoffs, all three of us arrived at the pick-up point. The rain had stopped, although some thunder remained. We were jittery. This was the first real hiccup in the plans for many of us. Various attempts to pump up tires and redistribute loads were made as we dodged other teams in pick-up trucks and made preparations to continue on. LMB decided that he’d had enough and the only sensible course of action was for a tired me to join B for the next 4 miles. I nervously agreed that it could be done. B and I had a very nice chat as we alternated a few more miles to the end of the leg.

The end of the leg was the end of my athletic participation and my good-bye had been far more appropriate and eventful than I had bargained. The experience starts to become fuzzy at this point. It was sometime about 2 AM on Friday night. Since Thursday night, I’d slept for perhaps an hour and run something like 18 miles, 2 of them pushing a bike. I was pretty tired and didn’t argue when MB helped me clear out the back seat for some rest.

The next thing I remember is waking up and noticing that all the stuff was piled in the front seat. The car had moved further down the trail, all the way to Riley’s lock, and I’d been out cold the whole time. It wasn't quite daylight yet, but it’s approaching. Oh my, those 2 hours of sleep felt amazing. We cheered some more and daylight came. Our goal was approaching and still Saturday morning spread out before us like an enormous picnic blanket. As D and I made our way to the finish line to wait for our teammates we made two startling realizations. D made the first one- he had picked up a buddy, a little f***er of a tick, clinging to his hamstring. I made the second one, with a good 4 hours before the race was to finish we were a mere 15 minutes from my home. After some internal and external debate we decided that a shower and an Internet search for tick removal were in order. The shower didn't fulfill me the way I'd hoped; maybe I needed other things more, sleep for instance, but the tick removal was a success. D and I achieved new levels of friendship as I slowly plucked the little guy from his leg and stuck him in a baggie for safe-keeping.

Then in a quiet sort of way, similar to how this had all begun, we waited for it to be over. We all gathered together, excited for the finish. Other teams lurked around, but they had the same tired, quiet, heat-worn look that we did. And then, before we knew it, J and J finished it up. Some 200 miles and nearly 36 hours from when we began it was over. They made a few speeches and we nodded our agreement. We ate a few sandwiches and cookies. We took a few photos. We had some beer. Then a month later, after some pizza together and some pool together, I wrote about Tom's Run the way I remembered it. Yet, for all that stuff- speeches, sandwiches, cookies, photos, beer, pool, pizza, writings, nothing could really capture the experience.

It was ridiculous and I loved it.

A fitness event?

We pulled up to a creek blocking the hard-packed red dirt road somewhere in the hills of Maryland. It was nearing 2:30 AM. P was riding shotgun. We'd met at a gathering a week or so prior and I'd been part of high volume email traffic, but other than the last hour we'd spent getting to know one another, we were strangers. I was driving a borrowed car, a low riding silver grey Honda civic. I got my driver's license in a stick shift, but I don't drive much these days. The steep hills of Cumberland provided an early test, and the dirt hills a fine re-test.

Stopped at the creek, I let P get out and examine the the flowing water before us. He seemed to be the group leader; he was organized and seemed very together. He called me over to the creek for a second opinion. I got out of the car and by the light of headlights saw two parallel mounds three or more inches under water that seemed to form a trail leading from one bank to the other. Downstream, just off the left mound, a two to three foot drop led to more creek. I eyed the creek and eyed the low-riding civic.

"We might make it across those trails," I announced motioning with stiff hands in parallel tracks, "but I'm pretty nervous."

P agreed and informed me of alternate route which would require backtracking and additional time. We had at least an hour and a half before we would exchange places with our biking and running teammates. Our decision would cost us potential sleep, but would keep the borrowed car from becoming a part of the ecosystem.

We got back in the car and I looked at the embankment on each side of us. There wasn't room to turn around. We'd descended a hill to reach the creek and now we'd have to back out. I glanced over my shoulder and realized that on top of the darkness of night, my view was also obstructed by the bike we were carrying on the rear rack. I stuck my head out of the window and looked up into the darkness.

"P, I need you to roll down your window and let me know if I get too close to that side."

Up and up and up we went in reverse, P helping me maintain my position on the road. After about 150 meters, I had to stop and take a break. Another 50 meters after that and P directed me into a spot to turn around. As we wheeled away, I exclaimed, "Nice to meet you, P! "

If I ignore the many games of pool, the tussle with a bike rack, a few organizational hiccups, and the drive to Cumberland Maryland, this story began some two hours earlier in the parking lot of a Holiday Inn. There were five of us, organizing gear and bikes in the two cars. A train rolled by, but otherwise it was quiet, the way one might expect on a Thursday night in northern Maryland. At about 12:15, we found our way to the starting line of Tom's Run. There was no fanfare, just Roger, the organizer and a participant, waiting to send off the various teams. We snapped a few photos and began a 200-mile journey. MB was running the first leg and D was biking along in support. Teams could start at any time after midnight on this night. The goal was to finish by 11 AM on Saturday morning.

While MB and D were sloshing through the darkness armed with bikelights and headlamps, P., A. and I were trying to make our way to the end of the first leg to do a little cheering. It was a little shaky at first. I unintentionally led A. into a game of chicken with an oncoming truck as we circled the Holiday Inn looking for gas. Some quick reverse work and the patience of a Ford owner got us back on track. We climbed through the neighborhoods until we found some friendly, possibly high, folks who guffawed and then pointed us in the right direction.

We waited in the darkness while the mosquitos enjoyed the buffet of our skin. We exchanged hellos with another team and soon saw the white light of arriving runners. It turned out it wasn't our team, but we clapped anyway. A few hearty claps in a dark and tree-filled place. We seemed small and I had a moment of impatience. MB and D arrived in good spirits with a thin layer of mud caked on their legs. We cheered for them for a moment and exchanged a few words about our early challenges. Then off they went. As they ran and biked off into the darkness, I heard D say "And then in my junior year..."

It would be almost 5 AM, before I hit the trail with P. I'd opted only to rest my eyes because after the thrill of the epic reverse had worn off, I was checking the trail for signs of light. Instead I heard frogs and bugs, and then the caravan of SUVs. They chuckled at our tiny car and then departed after their team had moved through. Finally, my teammates A and D arrived. They were right on schedule, but I was itching to get going. P ran first while I biked along next to him. He was chugging through the early morning hours and put down 13 miles at beautiful and brisk pace. We barely spoke as the sun came up and we cut through the morning fog. The trail all looked the same in a quiet, green, curving, flat way. We switched and I carried out the same pace for another 6 miles with P riding at my side. There was still morning fog and temperatures had not risen either. The wildlife seemed to be mostly in our heads as P was frightened by a lynx that turned out to be wildflowers and I swore I'd seen a kangaroo that was probably a deer.

Some time later, after a water stop and a little cheering for a weary MB and D, we made our first team stop. MB was tired like I've never seen him before. The usual spring in his steps had been reduced to something nearing a drag. He and D had put in a lot of miles over the last 8 or so hours and breakfast was badly needed. The veterans of this event had planned a perfect stop at a small-town diner. Delicious waffles and the first wave of reinforcements were welcome treats.

My next assignment as laid out by agreement and the binders full of maps, instruction, and fun, found in each car was to get the reinforcements, M, to her first leg, and then to pick up D so we could spend the day waiting for our legs together that afternoon.

I knew going in that waiting was going to be a large part of the experience and so I tried to incorporate that into my plan. The first daylight waiting with M was perfect. We rocked the binder fun pages until she spotted our team on the trail. I went galloping after them and then we made a successful transition.

Tune in next time for dam napping, goose chasing, and possibly the exciting conclusion...

Looks like I remember it

American Teen seems to be a suitable substitute for a high school reunion*. High school seems the same, only now with more text messages.

Here are three fun memories that seeing this movie dredged up:

-the thanks, but no thanks college rejection letter

-the obsession with finding a date, particularly to dances (before I actually liked to dance).

-the incredibly unhelpful things that parents can say when they are trying to be helpful

Here are three interesting scenarios that seeing this movie brought to my attention:

-I really don't know what else parents could have said.

-Wow. High schoolers are filled with optimism that this theater audience did not share.

-I wonder how my life would be different if I'd felt pressure to choose a school based on a sports scholarship.

*I haven't made it to a reunion yet, so that's not an informed statement.

Fun Fact #763

The cleanliness of my bathroom is inversely proportionate to the (relative) length of my hair.

This axiom sounds more telling than it probably is.

Stranger than Fiction!
I was sleep-walking to the Metro today, so what I'm about to spill into this space could be made up, but I don't think it is. Stumbling along, minding my own business, I had just thought to myself, "I really don't desire to go to work today."

The end.

No. I kid. I had just thought that I didn't want to go to work and that I was barely awake, when out of the sky came a bird. This bird attacked from the rear flank and slammed into my upper arm and backpack before flying away. Stunned by this event, I looked around and saw the bird flapping away. I walked on and the bird turned as if to make another attack. As he flew by, I ripped my bag from my back and tossed it aside. The bird was not near enough for another strike, but still too close for comfort. Two kind gentlemen asked, "What happened?" as I looked around with a mixture of fear and anger.

"The bird attacked me," I replied. They laughed. I grabbed my bag and rushed off saying only, "There's a story for you."

Later, I tried to formulate a headline for my story. It went something like this: Bird attacks man with banana. Banana not that good anyway.

MAGIC-al
I'm a little bit excited for the NBA Finals. Not a lot excited, but a little bit. I'm excited because for the first time in a long time, a lot of the sportswriters seem to be talking about the same thing and it's not scandalous. They're talking about the battles of the past. They're talking about the history of the sport. They're talking about Bird and Magic and games that happened 21 years ago. Part of what makes (made?) pro sports so cool when I was a kid was the history and the continuity. There were fewer teams and fewer stars. The stars weren't so overexposed and if they happened to be greedy bastards it wasn't on the nightly news. They were grown men, playing a game, and generally they stayed with the same team for most of their careers. Teams like Boston and L.A. had the potential to be dynasties. I'm not sure I knew what that meant, but I knew it meant greatness.

Yes. Yes. I know this is an over-simplified analysis, but it's the analysis through the eyes of an idealistic 9-year old. Just a boy who wanted to grow up and play. Because playing was the best thing he knew to do. Now, I see a lit bit of that idealism in the columns and the sports-world chatter of excitement for this coming series. ESPN is replaying Game 6 of the 1987 Finals right now. The men in that game are not particularly muscular-looking. They look like they could have been pulled off the playgrounds. They were the pros. It's no wonder boys thought they could achieve that ideal. The fans are decked out in purple and gold. The shiny jackets are out in force. I don't know how those went out of style. I'm told, however, that they are out of style. If they replay this summer's series on on ESPN in 2030, I bet we'll see a lot Kobe jerseys. Will we wonder if we'd gone from wanting to be superstars to just wanting to dress like them? Maybe not. Maybe this series is going to bring back some of the magic to the NBA. Maybe it can be relevant again as a game instead of a business. It's stirring up a lot of history, which brings some excitement for the fans with a memory. What does it do for the new fans, I can only wonder. The teams lack some continuity, but that might be overlooked if we end up with a great series.

I worry that too many columns and too many blogs will slice and dice and analyze this series to death. I'm tempted to limit my sports reading to once daily with breakfast like the old days. I can't recall if I was taking the paper with the '87 Finals, but I'm certain I poured over the sports sections when Jordan was dispatching my hero Magic and the Lakers. I put up posters, full size behind the door and wore a purple Lakers hat, but the changing of the guard had come and it took me another 10 years to realize it. Here I am trying to appreciate the sports heroes of today. They don't seem to have the reach and the power that they did back then (if one ignores advertising dollars), but maybe the change is less about them and more about me. One change is certain: Go Celtics.

Monday is funday

My primary "flippin'-the-bird" finger has been swollen for two months. I finally made it to the doctor two weeks ago to see if maybe there was some breakage. My doctor referred me to the X-ray people, so now, two weeks later, I have found out that while I may be permanently disfigured, the guy who pulled my finger pulled it all back in place quite nicely. The referral doctor reminded me a bit of Kirk Douglas, in one of my all-time favorite movies Tough Guys, but he told me I was basically fine, so that's good news. Or may be it was Burt Lancaster. Either way, that's the closest I've come to liking a doctor in ages. I'm not sure we really developed a rapport, but then I forgot to tell him that he reminded me of a movie from the '80s. Maybe next time.

In non hand gesture news, I found out that garbage disposals have reset buttons. While this made my landlord look particularly handy, it made me feel just a bit on the dumb side. It also seems like maybe the landlord could have saved a trip here and just said, "have you pressed the reset button?"

I think reset buttons should go be placed on just about everything that can break. Car battery dead? Hit the reset button. City-wide power outage? reset button. Broken hopes and dreams? Reach under your foot and hit the little red button.

Now get out there and give it another go.

Up and at 'em
I could find very little enthusiasm for a 5k this morning. By the time I rolled out of bed and headed to the race, I knew that my warm-up would be cut short. Poor planning meant that I had no idea. What I thought would be an 8:00 AM start time was actually a 7:50 start time. I joined the crowd at the line when the starter announced, "1 minute until race time." I snuck through a few extra bodies and went off with the gun. I was awake and knew I had to move up on the tight course before I got boxed in. I moved a little too well as the out of this course was mostly on a slight downhill. I knew I was pressing, but I felt completely out of whack and so I figured I might as well press on. At the halfway point, I was out of touch with the group in front of me and running at 8:25. I knew that it would take a miracle to keep that pace. At 2 miles I was at 11:07 and the morning was starting to weigh heavier than early summer humid air. I chugged along, pretending that I might found the wherewithal to make a move forward. Eventually, I was passed by a few more people and I considered a full-blown collapse. I fought to the finish without being passed again, but I was out in no man's land. I finished in 17th in a time of 17:56 with a few dry heaves.

Some days are better than others...

Fire up my gold watch

I had an anniversary today. I was the only one who dressed for the occasion. Some time ago, I made it my mission to stay with the company for five years. Today, I made it. I feel proud. I'm proud of what I've done and that I've carved out a little life for myself that now includes an office, more responsibility, and more other things that aren't unimportant. Somewhere along the line I realized that I like to be part of an organization that is helping people. I've learned a thing or two as well, and lost some of my optimism, probably not unimportant either. So today, sporting a yellow tie with blue spots, I took a moment to celebrate my little achievement. Like my diplomas, my spots were a symbol of the bundle of experiences that need to be built upon. This anniversary, like my 10-year high school reunion (that I did not attend), reminds me that while I'm proud of what I've done, it's what I have not done that scares me the most.

A spectacular failure with urban highlights
Today was bike to work day. Due to certain circumstances, not only did my bike remain in the dark corners of the basement, but I actually ended up on the roads driving a car home from work today. I think this marks the second time in five years that I have driven home from work and it could not have come on a more inappropriate day. While my behavior mostly makes me want to pull down a bike helmet and hide my eyes in shame, and while the traffic did make me consider leaving the comforts of my hybrid-for-the-evening to take a lead pipe to someone's shins, I did have two noteworthy urban moments.

First, after a nervous search for a zipcar, I got to experience my first ever car hand-off. I wandered around wondering where the zipcar could be. As I turned down the alley, I saw it pull in. A woman exited, we waved, and I entered. It was car-sharing at it's finest.

Later, as I searched for more than 10 minutes for a parking space (nothing for the urban vets, but not pleasing to me) I finally found a place to park illegally near where I wanted to park legally. As soon as I had shimmied into the spot, a car across the street vacated a legal spot. Magically the road cleared, I pulled out of my illegal spot, made a U-turn, and parallel parked on the other side of the street. That was pretty satisfying.

Update: Conflict resolution skills

I had a situation today in which I wanted to lash out and respond negatively to "a call". With Sunday's behavior on my mind, I instead chose to think about the situation from a different perspective. I eventually realized that there was room for my misinterpretation and a calm discussion with the caller led to that same conclusion. Perhaps the lesson about conflict resolution is not one that can be learned in the heat of the moment, but one that gets applied slowly and thoughtfully like a teriyaki marinade.

Ultimate. Ultimate. Ultimate.
I'm only going to make three observations about playing Ultimate yesterday, even though I could probably make more. Then I'm going to try to apply those three observations to bigger questions. Watch me now! (work, work!)

Observation the first: On a backhand fake, I stepped on the marker's foot and then he hit my hand as I slipped to the ground and called "foul." He reacted negatively and I announced, "You hit my hand." He replied, "You stepped on my foot." I lost my cool a little bit and said, "FINE. Then I fouled you." We sort of brushed our negative exchange aside and restarted the game.

Life Lesson/question: Does Ultimate really help teach conflict resolution skills? I suppose ignoring the conflict is a way to resolve conflict, but I'd like it better if I reacted with less emotion in the moment and we actually resolved something.

Observation the second: I had a pretty satisfying day yesterday and I attribute a large part of that to the personalities on my team and on at least one of the opposing teams. It really felt like we were pulling for one another, working together, and enjoying the day, the sport, and our opportunities.

Life lesson/question: Do the people that we share the field (pick a field, any field) make so much difference? Is there anyway to seek those people out or is it mostly time and luck?

Observation the third: Recently I have found a new (to me, I think? ) space to throw to on the field. It seems that everyone starts to shift to one side of the field and if just one receiver goes against the grain, I've had a lane to put the disc out to space that they can track down. When I think about this throw, it doesn't quite make sense. I don't think it should be that open or easy.

Life lesson/question: If the lane opens and you've got the throw, you might as well put it, right?

This is not the post I want to write

-There's a hole in my blue shorts. It is not along the seam, it's a very clean cut, and I can only assume that it is some form of sabotage. I don't know what my left thigh did to offend, but I don't want to be there when it retaliates.

-The cool(?) thing about running in a group is that it is glaringly obvious when I don't have much spring in my step. There was some glaring obviousness today.

-Barbara Kingsolver kind of rocks. I'm reading Prodigal Summer. I just finished a chapter that made me jittery about goat farming.

-I'm after something. I don't know what it is. I hope I have the right shoes to give chase.

One big happy family- Complete with the yelling and cursing
My role in the Ultimate of CUA has changed in the last two years as their confidence, their knowledge, and their needs have outstripped my ability to play-coach. Mostly, I've become a well-respected cheerleader with editor duties. I'm generally at peace with this transition as I think it meets the needs of the involved parties.

Yesterday, my connections to the team led to a special opportunity as I got a glimpse of how I fit into a bigger picture. I shared a field with an inaugural member, a few of the past stand-outs, characters, and captains of CUA Ultimate history, including the captain that originally welcomed me into the fold on a cold day more than five years ago. We faced off against the current team in their final tune-up before Division III Nationals. The phrase Division III Nationals tells the reader almost all they need to know about how far this team has come.

The Alums-plus team started well. I don't know if the current team expected us to roll over and play dead or if good fortune found us early, but for a group that had never all played together, we seemed surprisingly in synch. Perhaps, there are a few tricks to be learned after graduation. I think a few people were surprised at how serious the game was taken, as they remembered a lower-key version of this same sport played on the law school lawn, but for the most part the players that arrived to play had continued to play competitively at some level and they knew what we were up against.

We were up against a team that runs a structured offense and can become charmingly patient with the disc if the mood strikes them. It certainly made my heart pound a few times as I chased handlers around through dumps and swings, but it also made my heart sing to see such Ultimate being played. My favorite point, if I can brush off my bruised vanity for a moment, was a point when the traditional handlers were out of the game and the current team still found a way to score. They worked the disc in stops and starts, up the lines and through the dumps, taking only what old tired legs would give them and only what they knew they could manage, until their rising star could find a step (or three to five) and leave this poor guy diving at his heels as they took the half at 9-6.

The Alums-plus made a run after the half to pull to 10-9, but never seemed to sustain momentum again as our deep game was mostly stagnant, our defense started losing too many battles, and the intensity started to favor youth. These words convey a weight unrelated to the game, but one I can't separate from it. In the moment, the sun shone brightly and I thoroughly enjoyed my personal battles and the fight of my teammates, some more out of shape than others. It was a pleasure to be able to cheer both teams, and to have moments that saw 'Tini take flight and even with the sting of loss looming to try to will Frodo to do the same. To be a part of that growth, even in some small way, for a team to know how far they've come and still know that they have UP to go, to have watched so many of these players grow and to watch their games evolve and improve is a very special thing. The weight doesn't come from this game or this loss then, and it doesn't come from that evolution directly. Instead it comes from my own feeling of trying to cling to a torch that I don't want to give up, even if it was a torch that was never mine to pass. It comes from being a step slower, and from fighting my body in a battle that I won't win. The weight comes from having to acknowledge that battle at all.

Freed from the cell
The decisions we make do not always play out in such obvious ways. I had packed the phone number of some friends and planned to call them to make arrangements to meet. I'm still cell phone free, an aberration now, living a lifestyle that doesn't quite mesh with many I know. The world has changed since my embargo began, people no longer make advanced plans, they do it on the fly. I try to play along, but don't always succeed. I had the phone number and I was with a friend. When I asked him to borrow his phone, he thought for a moment before telling me that he had forgotten it. He seemed truly sorry, but as he was trying to take responsibility for this, a sentence escaped from my lips. I could not allow him to worry because he did not have his phone for my use. That would not be right and without hesitation I said:

This is the life I've chosen.

We found a pay phone. They still exist. And I'm still happy with my choices.

Constructive criticism from the universe
The pope came to town and I let him pass. I didn't understand all of the hullabaloo. He's just a man, I thought to myself. Why are people snapping a zillion pictures and lining the streets. Ridiculous. What kind of person does that?

I do.

My popes are less famous and less influential, but they compelled me to pull my camera out, line the streets, and hang on their every word. I like it when the universe acts quickly to teach me a lesson. The pope had hardly left town when I found myself in Boston, seven hours from home, hanging out on the streets to cheer on Deena Kastor and a host of other women trying to qualify for the Olympics. My camera was clicking as I scurried around trying to catch another glimpse as the marathoners paraded by.

Later in the day, I was in a room with three elite runners and I hung on their every word as they talked of their craft and their sacrifices and triumphs in that realm. It was moving and inspiring, made all the more so by a very appreciative audience. To be in the company of runners in a kind of conversation with these dedicated and accomplished females struck me as particularly special. It's one thing to listen to someone near the top of her field reflect on experiences, but it's a something entirely different when some part deep inside aspired or aspires to some level of greatness in that field too. It feels a bit like staring at a treasure map and seemed to be a rare treat.

Somehow, by mid-week, I found myself staring at another treasure map, listening to another someone near the top of her field surrounded by an appreciative audience. This audience was not filled with runners, instead they were the bookish Washington DC fans of the popular author Jhumpa Lahiri. As she delivered lyrical answers to banal questions, I again felt the thrill of being near greatness with that added boost of being in a crowd of admirers.

Bits and pieces

*What's the point of getting married if you're not going to dance about it afterwards?

*My return to tournament level Ultimate was hesitant. Then, I dislocated a finger. A man in a beer garden pulled on it (twice) really hard. After a few minutes of wanting to faint and/or vomit, I returned with a lot more vigor, a lot less hesitancy, and a swollen finger.

*During one series of about three points, I played dominant Ultimate. I got a help D, I was wide open on a couple of in cuts. I came in on an underthrown disc and ripped it away from a defender and then threw a score. I slid in to catch a low disc, my skirt rose up around my hips exposing less than I could but more than I should which elicited a curious sideline noise, that wasn't really a cheer; I adjusted myself instead of throwing to an open cutter, dumped it off and went on to score. I left the game with our team leading by two points believing the tide had turned.

*We lost the game. I was shaken. I didn't really recover that well, although thankfully the team did. I played with very little confidence in the next game including one horrible offensive series in which I didn't make a dump cut at all. I just stood there dancing. I hadn't gotten married, just skyed repeatedly. Ouch.

*My psoas has bothered me all week.

*I saw a movie called I'm a cyborg, but that's ok. It was a love story, Korean, and odd. My favorite bit was a metaphor for life. It was an elastic band tied around the waist. At the end of life, the band became so taut and then finally snapped back, pulling the person away and out of the picture.

*I had a hunch John would be back. I just didn't think it would be so soon.

*I'm going to dance right now in honor of some happy couple.

How low can you go?
The façade was more gutted department store than anything else. Through the dirtied glass doors of another forgotten strip mall, we could see a few burning bulbs hung outside a wooden ticket booth. Our angle of approach had been too severe to notice the out-of-place, ridiculously huge chandelier and the accompanying unimpressive sign for the "D'light Skate N Palace." As we waited for the rink to get rolling, I wondered if our experience would share the tired, almost creepy feel of the entrance.

I should not have been concerned, the entrance may have been rickety, but the palace inside was cared for, not new by any stretch of the imagination, but skate-ready. We got our skates from a shrinking old man with a twinkle in his eye. The skates had seen better days. My size 10s were the beat-up brown and gray of rink skates the world over. The laces had begun to unravel and tightening them around my ankles was an exercise in futility.

We were on the floor early, as less than 20 people had arrived. A thumping R and B beat made rhythmic skating sense to me, as I made left turns and searched for some comfort on wheels. The beat of the music was natural, though the songs were unfamiliar. This was advantageous, as it meant that very little skating nostalgia could creep into my mind. My wheels were turning to a current balance, not trying to withdraw some forgotten memory of how to skate.

The floor was filling up as the music thumped on. There were a few skaters who by now were really moving. Shaking and gliding to the beat sometimes in twos and threes, they zipped by on the outside with a dancer's grace. I had moments where I felt that glide, but these skaters seemed to live at ease. One couple was linked tightly. He twisted wheeling along backwards, forwards, and backwards again, almost without a thought. She shimmied to the beat, the natural wrinkles of her rust orange shirt chasing her stone-washed denim-clad hips as they rolled on together. Those two were attractive people, but that same grace was found in two aging men who had a groove of their own. Intimidated, but slightly enamored, I decided to try skating backwards.

Awkwardly, I had the movement down. Slowly, mostly gracelessly, I pushed with my left foot and rolled out of sight. I turned a corner at a slug's pace, but I must have looked fast because a full-bodied woman ran into my chest. I started to stumble backwards, and then crashed to the floor landing hard on my left buttocks. I was more surprised than hurt and with a helping hand, I was back up and facing forward. That would be my last attempt at skating backwards as the crowd grew larger and swifter.

We'd skated for over an hour and now the skaters began to swirl around us. We, the caucasian few, mostly an untalented skating bunch, had become obstacles to dodge and weave through. Even at my fastest, I felt like I was just able to keep up with the edges of the crowd. It was reckless to be swept up in their movement. At moments I tried, but the moments weren't comfortable. I felt the wheels shake and my ankles burn. I felt the earlier fall and considered that same bruise on my wrist or my face. And I slowed. I took a turn linked to another, but while the boy who remembered sitting out during the "couple's skate" was pleased, the skater that I had become was concerned about being in a crash for two. The masses now rolled by at a surprising rate. This was a whole other world of gliding and grace that I could barely visit. As the speedier skaters whipped around the outside, I began to recognize that the whole world I could barely visit was also a world I could barely leave. I searched for gaps in the crowd, like Frogger on wheels wondering how I would slip through the crowd and off the rink. Finally, after two extra laps around, I was able to shoot a gap and make my way back to comfortable shoes.

The universe is a funny place
Saturday, I was rummaging through my red bag. It's a bag I don't use that often, but it fits cleats, a disc, and a change of clothes quite nicely. It has a front pocket which doesn't close and isn't very large and mostly I find useless. This weekend I started putting my wallet there. Probably not that wise, but a wallet fit nicely. At some point Saturday I went looking for my wallet. It was elsewhere, but I felt something at the bottom of the pocket. Something metallic and plastic and key-like. I lost my keys two months ago. I had accepted their "gone-ness." I dreamed of keys. Keys appeared. Sweet.