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.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, August 04, 2008
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.
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.
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