Trust on the Ultimate field

As I had previously recounted, the lowlight of my trip to Mixed Sectionals in September wasn't that we lost all of our games. It was a great day of Ultimate, but for the very end. In a tie game at the end of a long day, I tried to do too much. I was focused down field because I lost trust that my other handlers could move the disc. I stopped picking my spots and played a desperate brand of Ultimate that ended up costing us the game when my hucks went to no one. I mention this moment, because recently trust has caught my attention again.

My league team seems to have abandoned trust of each other. We aren't making dump throws. Handlers aren't waiting to set up their dump cuts, they are just charging in and putting themselves in a poor position. Markers aren't letting downfield defenders do their work, instead they are overplaying fakes which allows easy break throws. Throwers aren't moving the disc, they are looking for the big strike. We can attribute a variety of causes to these behaviors, but I think it boils down mainly to trust.

I've identified the issue, but I don't know how to remedy the problem. How do we get trust back? It's simple to say do the right thing, but how do we get to a point of believing it? How many players have to believe?

I sometimes wonder if I have a tendency to over-think, but in Ultimate that's usually not my problem. Something must be done. I've turned to the written word as my first attempt and thought I would share it here.

Dear Team,

I’m going to trot out a sports quote out for you.

“It’s not whether you win or lose, it’s how you play the game.”

I’ve seen you at your best. I know the sort of high-flying, hard-charging, crisp-throwing Ultimate players that you can be. I know that together we can play a beautiful game of Ultimate. We’ve spent the last few years battling it out with very talented teams and often we’ve come out on the losing end. There were days when I wished for more depth on our sidelines, but I’ve always been proud of our efforts. I’ve seen nearly every one of you fighting tooth and nail to get open on a cut, to make a D, to put yourself to the test against some of the area’s finest players. I have always been pleased to be a part of Team and it’s with that in mind that I write this note and ask this of you.

Can we be the beautiful Team next week and beyond?

The Team I know and love gets down on the pull. We play hard defense. We trust our mark, our throwers, and our dump. We make easy throws when we can and we find ways to make plays when we need to. Can we be that team? I think we can. How? I think the first step is in our approach to the game. We need to look at the players we are facing and see them as REAL threats, because they are. Then we need to shut them down. We do that individually and we do that as part of a team. It takes both pieces in that equation for us to succeed- individually and as part of a team.

Maybe you’re thinking, “We’ve won almost all of our games, right?” We have, but I need us to be better. I want to be a part of something special. I think that something special is an Ultimate team that’s playing to its potential, an Ultimate team that is BETTER than its individual players. That’s what I want. Can you help me get there?

Thanks and glug,
Dave

Honestly, I thought you were a liar

I must have some verbal tick that annoys those who listen. I suspect it's the way I finish sentences with an inflection that indicates that I have more to say. I shouldn't complain, but I sit on my glass recliner in my glass apartment and prepare my stones for throwing.

I thought we'd passed this point, DC people. It seemed we'd moved on to a more truthful age. A truthful age where statements no longer needed to be held up by the word "honestly". Honestly is creeping back in to the vernacular or it's creeping back under my skin. If a speaker tends to lie, then perhaps the use of honestly is appropriate. It must act as a signal that while other statments are lies, this one is truth. It's a beacon, but how can I be sure that even the use of honestly is not a lie? I cannot.

My preference would be for speakers to make honest statements and leave the honestlies at home buried in the back of the closet. I'll agree to believe it, if speakers would just agree to let me try.

It all works out

The following anecdotes are connected, but I cannot prove it. That sounds far more compelling than it is. There aren't many moments when I wish I had a car, but Saturday I had one of those moments. Arriving by Metro at a Virginia high school, I discovered that I was actually supposed to be playing Ultimate at a Maryland middle school. Without a car, I had no hope of switching states to make even part of the game. I was stranded without Ultimate. Also, I forgot my public transit reading material. All of this, to quote some surfer dude, bummed me out.

In order to make up for missed Ultimate, I began to search for a suitable running replacement on Sunday morning. I found one, not too far away, but decided that the price and the early schedule did not suit me well, so I went about my normal schedule. As I awaited Sunday scrimmage with Habit, a sign went up on the wall behind me. It was a sign for a 5k. It was a sign for a 5k that started in 20 minutes. This late advertisement was perfect for me, but did suggest some level of disorganization.

Scrimmage time and race time supposedly coincided. I stood around waiting for players for the scrimmage and then decided that I could run a 5k and probably be ready for scrimmage when warm-ups concluded. My guess turned out to be a little off, but I went to enter the race. I expected a $5 race and was instead told that the entry fee was $25. Whoa, I said with a $10 bill in my hand. I don't need to race that much I thought as I backed up from the table. With a look to the left and right, the official decided that $10 were better than $0 and I was entered in the race. I was then asked if I'd be in the under 15, 15-21, or 21 and above category. I looked at the choices on the page and asked, "Do you want my age?"

"No, your time," was the reply

I'm no slouch when it comes to a 5k, but if anybody showed up on this Sunday morning to run under 15 minutes, they should really consider a return to division one college athletics. I picked the middle category and began to wonder what I was getting in to. I was getting in to laps on the track. That was ok, at least it was until they said that we'd be running 14 laps. I did some calculating in my head. I admit it wasn't sophisticated, but 5k is 5000 meters. It's an actual distance not a cute name for a run. The 14 laps on a track would each be 400 meters long. That would yield 5600 meters. This was no 5k. Still ok, but a little annoying since the track was probably marked with a 5k starting mark, it being a track and all.

We lined up on the starting line. No one was interested in lane 1, so I took it figuring that I wouldn't be too far off the lead. I tried to determine if passing slower runners should occur on the inside or the outside, but the race "official" could only tell me to use good running etiquette. That was really no help at all.

We heard go and we ran. For the first 400-800 meters, I led and tried to control my pace to be right at 6 minutes per mile. I heard footsteps and wondered how long they would be present. Soon they died off as I held my pace. It was almost right at 6 minutes at the mile. I was responsibly counting my laps which turned out to be fortunate when the "official" asked me what lap I was on. I focused harder on not losing track of my laps after that. I kept clicking through at slightly under 6 minutes per mile pace and as I felt comfortable began to speed up a bit. Round and round and round I went. I kicked it in as best I could the last two laps, ran 20:15, shook a couple of hands, and then walked away to be present at Ultimate practice. It was strangely disconnected and satisfying.

As I was leaving, someone called out to me, "Come get your prize." They seemed unsure about something, so I assumed it was a joke, but no, there was a prize. Someday soon, I'll bowl for free. The spoils. The spoils.

Cars are hard and I am soft

As the temperature hovers around perfect while the sun shines just enough to warm skin, the bike lanes fill up like lemonade glasses. Biking in the city has been an ongoing challenge. It's a push and pull of safety, expediency, mob mentality, and fear. My principles are tested and reformed daily. I've nearly settled on a few to guide me, but even those tend to favor the familiar routes. I've started to realize the places where it's better if I turn right on red so I can cross lanes to make a left in the next block. Illegal? After 7 AM it is, but if I don't jump the light I get angry drivers bearing down on me. I've started to realize where I can time the lights and keep my momentum and where I might as well just follow behind a car because it's not going to change my ability to get to my destination any faster. With fuller bike lanes, the laws of traffic and sharing space within the bike lane become more challenging, but the laws of the road are still important to keep close to the gear shift.

Yesterday as I was skirting around a line of cars on the right who were stopped at a stoplight that would soon turn green, I rediscovered a little something about cars. They are hard. There was no bike lane, so I was riding in the space between car and curb. Should I have been there? It's where I'd be if traffic was moving, so I think yes. I passed two cars as the light was turning green. The third car, the one in front at the light, chose that moment to turn right just as I pulled up next to it. I felt it happening and managed to turn right as well. My turn wasn't sharp enough and my arm slapped against the side mirror. As I was pushed farther to my right, the side mirror made a satisfying BOING back into place. I circled quickly on to the sidewalk in shock. I hadn't fallen and I had nothing more than a racing heart and a light scratch on my arm.

I took some deep breaths as the driver and I apologized to one another. I don't think it was either person's fault. She should have had her turn signal on and I should have been more careful shooting that gap. Ok, but rattled, I did what the old adage says to and got back on my horse. I was a little jumpy, but pretty alert. I rode to work, out to dinner, home, and I'm headed out again today.

I'm taking my chances and I'm hoping that all my collisions are as mild because cars are huge and can crush me and the not-so-gentle reminder of that was a bit harrowing. Back to the streets...

My beard is not velcro
What I want to describe is not a highlight in the typical sense. I had my share of highlights in the zero win and four loss day at mixed sectionals. It was nice to get a layout D, a point block (although the ricochet was caught), to knock away a hammer, and to stymie some cuts and win at least one battle in the air. On offense it was nice to get off hucks, both flick and backhand that flew almost as I’d intended. I was particularly pleased with 2 of my 4 hammers that were pinpoint accurate, one on a quick strike at the endzone (although it was dropped) and one that flew 40 yards and opened up the zone a bit. At this tournament with a group of CUA alums, students, and a couple of friends, I had as many touches as ever before. I can’t recall a time where I’ve handled so much in a tournament. I only remember one disc on offense that hit my hand that I didn’t catch. That was on a layout bid for an up-the-line cut. I pulled a fair amount and those weren’t too bad either, but with all the touches, I also had my share of lowlights. I threw ill-advised hucks, two that really sting in the final point of a close loss in the final game. I wasted a hammer when another throw would have been more responsible in that game too. I got whipped on a couple deep cuts and I bit too hard on some fakes. I got jumped over and on and I came up short, really almost embarrassingly short, on a few bids.

The highs far outweighed the lows, and as promised I wasn’t measuring success in wins. I was proud of the team’s improvement and I’m optimistic for the college team’s future.

All that said and I still haven’t described the feeling, the events that were neither highlight nor lowlight. It may not even have been noticeable to the sidelines. It tended to come later in the day, when my hydration was waning and my muscles were tiring. I was cramping slightly, but not enough to call for an injury sub or stop the game. It happened when I made sudden bursts or changes of direction. I’d go for a disc, often on defense, but sometimes on offense. It wouldn’t always be a layout bid, but it did usually involve falling to the ground. Earlier in the day, I might have recovered and stayed on my feet, but now I found myself hitting the grass with my calf muscles in spasm. They’d stop their spasms as I hit the ground and I’d feel the pull of the game. It was still moving even if I shouldn’t have been. I had to get up, preferably quickly, but I was slowed by the remnants of cramp and the full day of play behind me. I couldn’t spring up like I wanted to, but I needed to keep playing. I’d rise up in a way that felt slow, at least slow in comparison to what I wanted it. I wanted to be a jack-in-the-box and instead I was a rusty hinge. As I used my arms to push myself up, I had to pry my face off the ground, my beard scraping against the grass. It happened more than once. I can recall at least four occurrences. My beard and the grass acted like Velcro in every way but the satisfying sound. I’d stagger up and move on as quickly as I could. I always felt a little dazed and a little grateful. It was pleasing that I hadn’t had to stay on the ground writhing in pain.

Neither high nor low, and yet my slow rise back up felt like a tribute to the game of Ultimate. The game continued on without me for those few long seconds that I struggled. As soon as I could return to the action after spending valuable seconds on the ground, I did. It was a triumph, regardless of the result. It hurt, but I was happy that I could still be part of it.

The gamble
The revolver was a controller held in hand
The hammer cocked when the Xbox orb glowed green
The spinning cylinder replaced by scrolling films
The genre Like: Martin Chuzzlewit an open chamber
Click.
The genre Independent a loaded round
Click. click. click.
Moon starring Sam Rockwell the bullet
Play, the trigger
BANG.
Entertainment/death?
Netflix Roulette

Ditching 50 and goodbye Hard Rock Cafe

Inspired by the idea of having less stuff, I decided that I needed to get rid of fifty things. Even before I was planning to move, I was already starting on this quest. Now that I've nearly moved, I realize that getting rid of fifty things is easy, but when I started it was quite difficult. I need to get rid of about 50 more since I still have too much stuff, but I did shake the following:

1. Nikon Cookpix 4800 manual and bag
2. Nikon battery charger
3. Garmin Forerunner 101
4. Ultimate 101 DVD
5. Quidditch World Cup (Gamecube)
6. drumsticks
7. chrome towel bar
8. short sleeve dress shirt
9. pair used Asics
10 pair dress shoes
11. laundry bag
12. Gel Fusion bicycle seat cover
13. Aiwa headphones
14. miniature frog figurine
15. Portageuse/English Dictionary
16. Page Proofs- The Ten Roads to Riches
17-22. metal hangers
23. black pleather vest
24. purple pleather pants
25. The Jerk with the Cell Phone
26. The Woods
27. Micromessaging
28. The Science of Self-Realization
29. Box of magazines (including 3 SI Swimsuit issues, 2 Runner's World, 1 Ultimate News, 1 Cosmopolitan, 1 Vogue, 1 Psychology Today, 3 Mental Floss, 8 Bitch, 1 Washingtonian)
30. Graduation calling cards (high school)
31. A Man, A Can, A Plan
32. Heart-shaped ash tray
33. ying-yang watch
34. 43things.com
35. Bad Habit Hoodie
36. vest
37. bed risers
38. Spam bag
39. AARP bag
40. I run, therefore I am T-shirt
41-50+. Hard Rock Cafe T-shirts

After years of collecting Hard Rock Cafe T-shirts, I finally decided the cost was too great and the closet space was too valuable. I didn't get rid of all of these, but parted with the vast majority for $12 in a garage sale. The final tally included the following Hard Rock locations:

Salt Lake City
Memphis
Cleveland
Indianapolis
Boston
Aspen
New York City
St. Louis
Houston
Nashville
Phoenix
Maui
Honolulu
New Orleans
Los Angeles
Las Vegas
Baltimore
Denver
Toronto
Myrtle Beach
Austin
San Francisco
Atlanta
Newport Beach
Washington DC
Niagra Falls (Canada)
Niagra Falls (US)
London*

*Did not visit Hard Rock Cafe London. This was a gift. I never wore it or took the tag off out of principle.

Bad ideas that sounded good

I'm in the process of moving. The year went by too quickly, and the Fab 4 are going their separate ways. I'm the only one in the house even managing to stay in town. The rest are headed to be part of the fifty. There are bigger posts related to the relationship between my disappointment and my awe that my roommates are moving on or to discuss the finer points of the challenges that didn't come from living together but came from staying together. There's also a post about cats in there somewhere, but I'm focused on just one issue of moving right now. Due to some timing issues, I'm rocking two rents this month and one of the benefits I thought I'd reap was being able to move one shoe at a time all month long. It was a good idea at first. The one shoe bit was an exaggeration, but for the first week or so I moved a few boxes at my convenience. It was working well. The big stuff went over to the new place on a truck, I moved a few boxes. It was nice. Then, and maybe others saw this coming, but somehow I didn't, my stuff was in two places. Whatever I needed was wherever I wasn't. And the stuff keeps coming. I have accumulated so much stuff in my lifetime that it's becoming unreasonable. I even got rid of fifty things unrelated to moving (another post to come) and still the stuff seems to be climbing out of the closet just to haunt me.

It's almost over now. There's some kitchen items and a few scraps to go and then I'll be fully moved in to the new place. It's true that the lack of a timeline has meant more freedom, but it's also meant a slow paced move. I'm learning that can be tough.

The Jersey Shore

When I say, "Wild", you say "Wood". WILD (WOOD) WILD (WOOD). When I say, "Ultimate", you say, "just tell the story already."

Ultimate- The beach tournament at Wildwood, New Jersey has become the Ultimate event of the summer. There were 440 teams registered, even with some overlap in divisions, that's an astounding number of people on the beach playing frisbee. Mostly the crowd that was once Red Delicious, Donk-a-phant Dance Party, and Stillerman's Beach Blokes became Assume the Wurst, an insult and German-inspired team with grand plans to wear lederhosen and drink from steins. As usual the costumes got left for last and we were a hodge-podge of suspenders and awkward shorts. The steins were cylindrical and aluminum and had American writing them. Outlawed in state forests along with their cousins Stoli and Jose, the steins stayed relatively quiet. The lederhosen that SM and JM wore, those were loud. I sported suspenders modified by Clare with a flowered strip of cloth. My pants were borrowed sport shorts and unaccustomed to the pull that accompanies a good suspender.

I am ahead of myself. I should first describe the accommodations. Alan again let us live in the 8-person tent that has suited the team so well. This year we had a few invited guests and so 8 became 10. Anyone who has spent time in a tent will recognize that putting more people in a tent than the name implies usually doesn't work that well. Even when the tent has two rooms and seems incredibly expansive, a tent has its limits. Assume the Wurst and friends were prepared to test those limits. With 5 on a side, and not a hint of a breeze, we settled on top our sheets and bags and tried to find sleep. Sleep was elusive. It was hot as a euphemism and we were packed in like a similie. I didn't really expect a visit from the sandman, but eventually I turned out to be one of the lucky ones. Some claimed they only received a post card.

Morning came hotly. The mercury at 6:05 was already starting to rise with the glowing orb in the east. The games, the Ultimate games that we'd come for, came later, closer to the heat of the day, and on the soft warm sand just 400 meters from the sea and a whole lot closer to the cotton candy and go-karts of the boardwalk. Assume the Wurst had trophy hopes, but faced a dominant opponent early. Dispatched of quickly, Wurst moved on and notched a victory. As a team we seemed more impatient and less willing to do the methodical work that helped us win last year. The upside was that the highlights seemed more prevalent. We battled it out with a talented DC team, but after staying even early, we fell way behind. The sun beat on. We jumped in the ocean between games and tried to keep water in our systems. We closed out Saturday with a cross-over game victory. The wind seemed to make our throws a little shaky, but we were having fun. Saturday night we gave up on the campground and headed to a motel and a diner. The team spirit was in full force as JM offered up some of his fries with a side of fries.

We lingered on Sunday morning. With a full night of sleep, and a later start, there was time for that sort of thing. I got a prescription filled. We went to the grocery store in waves. Eventually morning turned to later morning and lingering turned to rushing. We showed up for our game late only to be outdone by our opponents who showed up later. We jumped out to a 4-0 lead and then were outdone by younger speedy legs. We took our loss on a day that didn't seem as hot, but would soon turn on us too. In what became our final game, we rolled to a 17-7 victory in the hot, hot sand. At times, the sand was almost unbearable. We were all digging in our feet at every stoppage. On one play, I caught the score and kept on running until I got to the shade of the boardwalk for some relief. It was painful in that burning arches sort of way.

We then went over to watch the finals and reflect on some of our own great plays. HG was a force. In one game, after a rare mistake, my defender turned to me and said, "I think she'd been perfect up until that moment." I had to agree and I enjoy playing with her. I like the way she moves the disc down the field and the way she grinds it out on defense. MB was his usual flying-high self. Two plays in particular stand out. MB called out to me as he was headed up the line. Prone to accepting suggestions, I jammed a throw into the back corner of the endzone. His defender was on him, but he layed-out high and pulled down a big score. There were other great dives, but the other play that stands out was his greatest. He jumped out of the endzone and flipped it back in bounds. JM dove for it and on his way down, speared the disc, not from underneath, but from above, and pulled it in for the score. It was sweet. JM saved a number of discs with that same sort of well-timed grab. It was fun to watch. AH found his dominant sand legs and made the sort of noise that he makes on grass fields regularly with big skies, big D, and general bigness. Alan pulled out a few big hops and big throws of his own and I do enjoy sharing the field with him. The doc pulled out some silky throws as usual and SM kept us focused on our goals.

My personal highlights, some of which are documented on the Youtube included a callahan, a game-ending layout grab for a score with accompanying cramps at the end of day 1, a handblock backed up at the endzone, and some fancy help from my alternating hands. Three times my hands were there to try to help each other out. The first time as I was headed out the back of the endzone, I reached up with my right hand and then changed my mind in mid-air and went with my left to get a little more reach. I was out of bounds, but closer. Later, I reached up with my left hand to catch a disc and as the disc was d'ed off my hand, my right reached up and grabbed it for the score. The final scene of the highlight film and my best play came on a disc from Alan. He threw an outside-in flick that sliced more than expected. I tracked it, reached up with my right hand as I was jumping and then grabbed it with my left hand before falling to the ground. All in all, it was another pleasing, thrilling, wonderful trip to the beach in New Jersey. That's the situation.

Nike and Tracktown, USA

The day started slowly, but with made-to-order omelets so I'm not complaining. It's hard to move a family of four out of a hotel, particularly when one of the four seems to absolutely love hotels. She thinks hotels are the vacation destination. We had other ideas. I give my sister credit because kids might slow her down a bit, but they definitely don't stop her. We drove a short way to Beaverton to locate the Nike World Headquarters. I'd heard good things about HQ, but I was unprepared for the Nike Campus. I like Nike ads and some of their products, but never before had I wanted to work there. After visiting the campus, I want to work there. They had soccer fields and tracks. We heard about weight rooms and every building seemed to house a small museum of famous sports figures. The campus was beautiful and like college except the yards were better trimmed and the dorms were noticeably absent. College for adults with an adult-sized rec center. We saw a lunch break soccer game going. This was the day before a holiday weekend too. Wow.

We left Nike drooling and set our sites on Eugene. We got distracted by an outlet mall. Then it was traveling with my family. There's something about an outlet mall that speaks to us. Judging by the crowds, we must not be alone. Much much later, we finally arrived in Eugene, Oregon also known as Tracktown, USA.

Tracktown USA lived up to its billing. We ate dinner at Tracktown Pizza where the pizza was good and the decorations were track-related. It was like we'd entered an alternate universe and track had replaced football as the town's chosen sport. This was the alternate universe Applebee's. After dinner we went to the famous Hayward Field at the University of Oregon. The gates were wide open and the end of a high school meet was in progress. We got sunsets and rainbows and a preview of the cheering crowds. We wandered around the whole stadium, a stadium dedicated to track, and even got a few moments on the track itself. It was something else.

On my birthday, I got to run with Kevin on Pre's trail. The trail, which wasn't that easy to find, was built for Steve Prefontaine and is a wonderful soft surface through a rolling park. It takes the runner in loops, but seems so separated from the world. The trail was shared by many runners and walkers, but the trees and turns allowed for a certain solitude. The afternoon was for the Pre Classic. This track meet is now part of the Diamond League series and attracts some big names. It also attracted a sold-out crowd of over 12,000. Incredible! To have 12,000 people pumped up about track and field, cheering on the jumpers with claps and standing on the last lap of distance races was just awesome. I'd purchased my tickets late, but I still had good seats on the first turn with a fine view of the finish line. I wouldn't be able to call any photo finishes, but it was a good view. We saw 20 people break the 4:00 minute mark during the International Mile (1600m) and Bowerman's mile. It was almost unbelievable. The steeplechase was a thrill and so was the 5000. It was amazing to see Matt Tegankamp, a former challenger, grown up, ripped and chugging to a 13:25 finish. The crowd was cheering the last lap of the 5000 like crazy. They really appreciated distance events. It was great.

I finished the evening with another tiring run on Pre's Trail with my sister. Then we had dinner with a 400m Duck runner and his mother at Papa's Soul Food and ice cream at Prince Puckler's. Both were delicious and both had more people talking track.

I didn't have time to dream of track that night because I had to catch an early train back to Portland. When I arrived in Portland a sense of familiarity washed over me. Well, it did once I figured out where I was and how to take the light rail to the airport. With a little time on my hands, I stopped in to a fine little cafe serving Stumptown coffee. It was my first Northwest coffee. It was a good cup, but I'm no expert. I felt at home drinking my coffee, reading about traffic, and waiting for the light rail. Then I glanced at my hulking backpack, headed out for 12 hours of traveling and caught dozens of fireworks shows at a time as my plane cruised through Pittsburgh and on in to Baltimore.

Thanks, America. That was a good trip.

Jeff's Portland

When I sent Jeff a message on Facebook, I gave him options. I hadn't seen the guy in a few years. We basically grew up together, he was almost like a little brother for a while, but the frequency of our interactions had been on a steady decline since middle school, so I didn't know exactly how much was fair to ask. The options I gave Jeff were multiple choice a) meet up for drinks (it being Portland and all), b) meet up for dinner, c)allow me to couch surf, d) all of the above, e) none of the above. I wouldn't have been offended if Jeff had chosen option e, but I turned out to be very lucky that he went with d) all of the above. Jeff picked me up at the train station and then whisked me off on a Portland adventure. As Jeff is a resident of downtown Portland, the couch/floor lodgings were perfect for me. Better than the comfy carpet was the excellent hospitality. The "triad" of favorite places we toured on the first night included Bailey's Taproom for a fine selection of microbrews and a little boggle, a Mexican restaurant hole-in-the wall that shared a bathroom with an adult establishment, and a nice smokey bar without the smoke called Tug Boat. Jeff introduced me to some of his friends and I felt immediately like a bona-fide Portlander.

The next day I ran the very pretty waterfront, did a little laundry, and headed for the only Portland destination on my list, Powell's bookstore. Powell's was chock full of books. It was city blocks of books. They had satellite locations. The rooms were color coded and on a sunny day I was quickly overloaded. I didn't last long in Powell's but I vowed to return.

Dusting myself off after being overwhelmed by books, I borrowed Jeff's cruiser bike and headed to Hawthorne Street. Hawthorne had a similar reputation to Seattle's Fremont. I wandered a bit and stumbled upon the Waffle Window. The Waffle Window granted my waffle wishes and also served up a stellar mint green tea lemonade. The lemonade was great, but the hippies didn't have what I was looking for otherwise. I biked on from there to Forest Park and took in one of the U.S. of A's largest urban wilderness parks. I'm not sure what that means exactly, but it meant a nice bike trail through the woods for me, so I took it. On the way back, I made a stop at the infamous carts for some BBQ Fusion (which tasted a lot like regular BBQ).

We went to play some pick-up Ultimate that evening, but due to poor planning Jeff and I rarely ended up on the same team. From there we went to dinner at Montage. Montage was a pretty special place. It was under a bridge and had some mixture of Bayou, rustic, modern, under-the-highway vibe going that I couldn't really place. The food was tasty and the leftovers were artsy in some pretty impressive foil creation containers. After dinner, we went to OMSI (Oregon Museum of Science and Industry) for beer and Einstein. There's something pretty cool about taking a few swigs while wandering around a museum. Whether spotting a member of the band Everclear having that same experience adds to the coolness is still up for debate. Speaking of the 90's, we rocked out to some fine ones on the drive home. I'm fearful that the 90's are the new oldies. Don't tell the guy from Everclear if you see him at a museum.

The next day in Portland, the rains came. I'd started to wonder if every day in the Pacific Northwest was perfect. Even the rain didn't really call for an umbrella. I was starting to like this town. I set to wandering again and found VooDoo Donuts where "The magic is in the hole." I had a delicious Portland Cream, wandered through the Pearl Street District and didn't buy expensive goods, and ate lunch at the counter of the Byways Cafe. My malt was a disappointment, but I soon found myself meandering through Powell's in the way it was meant to be meandered. It was bookstore heaven. If I hadn't already purchased two books and if I hadn't had to carry my purchases, I might have flipped out and purchased a library full of books right there. I managed to limit myself to one book, on sale, and already on my list. I added a few to my "to-read" list and salivated quietly.

That night we met my sister, brother-in-law and nieces in Tigard for bratwurst at Gustav's and Jeff left me for my next adventure in Nike and Tracktown, USA.

Independent Seattle

My plane arrived late to Seattle. I had missed my chance to take public transportation to my hotel, but I was too tired to worry about it. I took a cab to the Moore. What it lacked in class it made up in interesting carpet, but I wouldn't find that out until the next day when I used the stairs. My room had a view, if a bay off in the distance and the buildings that once made up the factory district can be considered such. I slipped quickly into a Northwestern slumber. I woke up early, strapped my camera and some snacks into my hip pack and ventured into Seattle. I only had a few places in mind to visit and I knew I'd get to them eventually. For now, I was just walking. I walked along with morning traffic for a while before noticing a park. I walked up hill through the park and then just kept going up. After about an hour of walking without direction, I seemed to hit the crest of the hill in the Queen Anne neighborhood. As I walked by a joint called The 5 Spot, I saw their sign, "It's all down hill from here." It seemed like a fine place for breakfast, so I ate there and enjoyed chorizo in my omelet. The waiter seemed troubled when I didn't order coffee, but he soldiered on.

Breakfast had been a fine destination, but I still had little direction. After wandering through more of the Queen Anne area, I spotted the Space Needle down the hill. I'd already decided that I didn't need to go up in the Space Needle, but I did want to go by it and visit the nearby EMP. The Experience Music Project (and Jimi Hendrix museum) captured my attention when I heard about its opening in 2000. It obviously wasn't the highest of my priorities, but I did intend to make a stop. I pointed my walking shoes toward the needle and descended. I arrived at EMP, next to the Needle, just in time for the doors to open. I bought a ticket and got to experiencing music. The Hendrix exhibit lacked the volume of Graceland, though I suppose Hendrix may have lacked the impact of Presley, but it still provided a lot of interesting guitars, garb, and facts that I'd previously been unaware of. Hendrix was the face, but the music experience was this museum's calling card. I got to bang on drums. I got to play the guitar with lights pointing me to the correct fingering. I even got to play a few riffs of famous rock songs on the keyboard. This was all very cool, but it did make me want someone to turn to to say, "Hey, check this out!" or to watch them (preferably a them with actual musical talent) rock out as well. Still, I experienced it and then I headed off for a lesson in the growth of grunge.

The EMP is connected to the Science Fiction Museum. I'd never heard of the Science Fiction museum, but I decided to check it out. The nerd in me wasn't that impressed. The museum lacked something. Or maybe I was just annoyed that a little girl pushed me out of the way so that she could continue her adoring commentary of an ET doll.

From science and music, I made my way to fish and markets. I stopped in for some tasty schwarma before tackling Pike Place Market. The market was everything that I expected it to be. Maybe I watched The Real World: Seattle too closely. I looked around. I took a few pictures. I tried to figure out if I could catch some fish and then I walked on.

I made my way up to the Pioneer square area where I discovered a really nice bookstore. The Elliott Bay Book Company was welcoming and I spent an hour browsing and picked up two books on sale. I took my books to a nearby park where I read and rested and considered my dinner options. I decided to return to the bookstore and hear Mishna Wolffe read from her book I'm Down. The book is about having a father who acts like he is black. It's a memoir and Mishna was quite white. During the question and answer portion of the reading someone asked about where her father was and what he thought of the book. Mishna pointed to the corner of the room and said, "He's over there and I think he's proud of me." There was an electricity in the air as the whole room shifted their attention. The African American woman in the corner was quick to point out that she was not the woman in the stories that we'd heard.

I found a Mexican restaurant for dinner and enjoyed enchiladas by Seattle sunset. I returned to the Moore about 13.5 hours after I'd left that morning and headed to bed satisfied with my walking tour of Seattle.

The next day my wandering style proved less fruitful. I'd picked out the Fremont area as my goal. I went for a run hoping I might stumble on the area, but lost my way. I checked out of the hotel, referred to my map, and again pointed toward Fremont. With my big blue backpack weighing me down, I ignored the buses and continued my trek toward Fremont. It was to be a land of hippies. I was compelled to visit. I walked through several neighborhoods and up and around a rolling hill. After an hour or more of walking, I finally arrived in Fremont. Nervous about the train I had to catch, I only had time to glimpse a commercialized Fremont, grab a bite from Whole Foods, and catch the bus back into town.

Amtrak was my ride to Portland. It was a 3.5 hour train ride through some good-looking and green Northwestern countryside. More on Portland with Jeff- coming soon.

Vacation as a series of opportunities to eat and other adventures in four or so parts

It wasn't the defining moment of the trip or even really the defining moment of the first of four parts, but it seems telling. Margo and Tom had already been married for some twelve hours. I found myself in the mother of the bride's kitchen the day after the wedding. I wasn't in the wedding party. The bride and groom had already left for a pre-honeymoon nap. We'd said our goodbyes. I was waiting around to catch a plane of my own. Attendants came and went. One had just left for the train station. One was upstairs packing. Fine china and good silver from brunch were stacked in and around the sink.

On the corner of the counter, under a dessert plate and a long knife, in a box opened just slightly, rested a quarter of the wedding cake. The wedding cake was really really tasty. As I removed the plate and the knife from the box top, I momentarily worried that I might be scooping up what should be saved for anniversary one. Preposterous, I soothed myself, that piece is long ago wrapped and protected elsewhere.

I cut myself a slice of deliciousness. Rather than dirty more plates and utensils, I decided to stuff cake directly into my mouth while standing over the sink. Yes, Margo's mom could appear in the kitchen at any moment. Yes, my mom is cringing as she reads this, but sometimes the right thing to do gets overtaken by really good cake and efficiency.

Part 1: Midwest Wedding
There was a time when I could count the number of plane trips I'd taken in my life. These days I have trouble counting the number of plane trips I've taken in a year. Much of the airplane travel ritual has become standard, but the flight to St. Louis was special. It wasn't Southwest airlines with their new found touchy-feeliness, although the lack of a checked bag fee never hurts, that made this leg of the trip a winner. No, the winningness was all due to Kim. It had been a long time since we'd been on a trip. Motherhood has kept her busy. We talked the whole flight, only pausing to consider that our life vests were under our seats and to take thoughtful conversational pauses.

Monika and J picked us up at the airport and our triumphant return (for 75% of us) to the Midwest was fully under way. The eating highlight, other than the previously mentioned cake, would prove to be the City Coffee House & Creperie in Clayton, Missouri. The menu had more delectable-sounding crepes than most teams had goals in the World Cup. It was so good that we ate there twice. If I lived near the place, I'm not sure I'd go anywhere else. I'd probably end up working there and swiping table scrap crepes from the tables I bussed. That dream was put on the back burner though, because I had a wedding to attend.

Margo and Tom were getting married. Up to that point I had three distinct memories of M & T as a couple. The first was when M and I were talking and she told me she was dating Tom. "Hmm," I thought. "I remember him from FARC." FARC, my college dorm, holds a vast power over its past residents. Few can even speak the name without a twinkle in their eye. The second memory came in a blink some months later when M was asking me what I thought of Tom. After fumbling about for a while, I finally settled on, "It's been more than 8 years since I saw him. If he makes you happy, I'm happy." The third memory was of an M & T visit to DC. Tom had Margo in stitches. It's true that she laughs a fair amount, but she certainly seemed happy.

Now, I have more memories to fondly add to the catalog. Their smiles as they surveyed the church at their wedding were enormous and wide. Tom has a naturally big smile, but neither of their faces seemed able to contain the joy they felt. It was contagious. By the time it caught up with me, I was ready to dance. My table of many former FARCers joined forces with some of the attendants to carve up a little corner of the dance floor. With flashes of college mixed in with a more grown up confidence, we danced. Sometimes it was a reckless tango with Hava, other times it was a slow motion tennis match with Kim. We interpreted individually or as a group, sang along, and let the joy spill from our dancing shoes. Jen and Dan cut the rug gracefully while Monika and J started out reluctantly before catching fire. We missed some of those FARCers who weren't able to dance with us. I sometimes found myself looking around for Matt as he's always been an inspiration to this particular breed of dancing, especially in that company. Our energy was easily matched by the bride's family. It was party and I was digging it.

Before the party could wrap up, a few of us slipped away to a fading beach party in the middle of a street, a limbo contest that didn't end, and a short visit to the bride and groom's house. They were absent, but we ate Doritos in their living room in their honor. It was a joyful start to an excellent vacation.

Part II: Independent Seattle- coming soon

Strasburg on the tele

He's three starts in and approaching the fourth, so Strasburg has been well covered, especially in this area. Speaking with the authority of someone who has lived here for this Nationals section of history, Strasburg, rookie starting pitcher, is a bigger story than baseball coming to town. My gauge of his impact: I have heard conversations about him on the streets and in the lunch lines. People in this town don't usually talk about baseball. They talk football. Sometimes they'll talk basketball. They might talk hockey for the short time the Capitals are in the playsoffs, but they don't talk baseball. The baseball park is just another joint that serves overpriced drinks. Strasburg has changed that. His name seems to appear in almost every newspaper chat. I bet he was in the advice columnist's wedding chat. The poster probably wanted Strasburg to be a bridesmaid. Another indication of his impact: My household has watched portions of two of his three starts. I think I last intentionally watched baseball on TV when I lived in Ohio. I can tell, everybody can tell, that he's special. He had fourteen strikeouts in his first outing. He was cool. The crowd was nuts. They were cheering every pitch. Most games half the crowd is in danger of being whacked in the skull with a foul ball. Now, they're awake. They expect to win. This town expects them to win. I'm amazed that one player can do that, but it's been neat to witness, if not directly yet, then in the outer rings of Strasburg's splashdown.

Reflections on water gun warfare

The route my dad's bike buddies take is almost a complete tour of my childhood. There's the first school I attended. There is the path where I wanted to see what frost bite felt like if my alibi holds or where I scared myself into thinking the neighbors house was haunted. There's the park with the penguin. The slide that smelled like urine is sealed off, but somehow the urine smell remains, at least in my nasal cavity. There's the tumbleweed blowing by the joint where Showbiz pizza once rocked the birthday circuit and now only Sears and the softer side of empty live. There's where John resided with his Raleigh dirt bike long before he became Johnny. It had been a year and a half since I'd been to KC. The old sites still conjured up memories and the cleaning adventure down memory lane added to the misty water colors, but more than ever KC no longer felt much like my town. It wasn't entirely clear when I had the pleasure of the company of some good college friends who I see far too often on Facebook and not nearly enough in real life. Nor was it obvious as I ran the old high school training runs with my sister and then again on my own.

My long absence was clearest to me while on the road. It took my mental map longer than the GPS to figure out where I was headed. I struggled to recall the names of roads I once traveled often. Were there always this many trucks here? Most disconnecting of all was my re-entry into the greater metropolitan area after a visit to rural MO. As the outlines of familiarity, the places that would have once signaled the approach of home and the satisfying finish of a trip, started to appear on the horizon, my mind whirred and clicked. It searched to connect home and formerly familiar sites. Instead of connecting to KC, I flashed to Maryland and Virginia. I thought of the return trips from many Ultimate tournaments and a few driving vacations in the east. The satisfying finish couldn't slide into place. Instead, I allowed the GPS to take me on in to a place that was once so clearly defined as home.

We'd gone canoeing. It's a more patient past time than I've allowed myself time for lately. The trip was with the canoe club I grew up with. Some of the long time members that I remember as a kid have passed on, but a few remain. I was surprised to find out that one would be celebrating eighty this year. He couldn't have aged all these years while I did. I'm sure he thought the same of me. That wasn't the only time warp. With my sister on the trip, a few moments felt like they did so long ago. Having Bruce there made me look around fully expecting to see the others from our age group- Molly, Emily, Sarah. They weren't there, though their families were. Their parents spoke of grandkids, my friends' kids. Weren't we still ten or no more than fifteen? My own young niece was on her first canoe trip, while her little sister had her first camping experience. I'd brought C and finally introduced her to Spam after five years of promises. So they and my cousin and her boyfriend in the Navy reminded me that, no, we weren't still ten, and yet when the water guns came out, maybe we weren't so far from then.

The water guns have changed. The pace of war has changed. When I was a boy, I say while I stroke my beard, using a water gun on a canoe trip was more about stealth. It took a sneak attack with a hand held gun to cause a rain-drop like disturbance. It was moist annoyance and the danger of a vicious counter-attack paddle splash was always a very real concern. The evolution is clear as super soakers replaced handhelds adding volume and distance, and now in this day and age, which probably arrived seven or so years ago, the water cannon emerges as the weapon of choice. The water cannon takes two hands to fire. It takes a big drink to load and a big push to spray. The stream is hose-like. The shooting distance is sizable, too far for most paddle retaliation. The catch is that the reloading time is obscene. It's one long shot and done. I imagine that a good army of canoeists must have the discipline of the Brits in the eighteenth century. Build the line, fire the musket, and then take on the opponents fire during reloading. The only hope is a second wave of cover. We did not have that discipline. Water gun warfare has taken a giant step back in speed to acquire more power. It's mutually assured wetness.

There's bubble in your eye, sucka
Nostalgiaville, USA- In the process of cleaning out my folks' basement, I have discovered many interesting items. I'm a little dismayed by my attitude toward the baseball cards for instance. I have a box full of them. Most are housed in plastic sleeves and organized by team. I'm no longer interested in them, but clearly I spent a big chunk of 1988-1990 buying, trading, and organizing them. It seems callous to toss them. Initially I pulled out the Royals and the Cardinals cards, along with a few pitchers that I followed- Dwight Gooden, Oral Hershesier, Roger Clemens, but then I realized that I didn't really want to keep those collections either. It's time to part ways with a box full of cards. I'm struggling with the trashing (whatever form it may take) of something that at one time was so valuable in time and money. It's hitting me a little hard.

The next item to hit me hard is one that I've been searching for. Earlier this month, I ran a brisk 10k in 36:58. I was pretty proud of it. Since I've only run a few 10k races in my life I figured this one had to be approaching my PR, or personal record. I asked my parents to take a look to see if they could locate results from the only 10k race I remembered from high school. They had no luck finding the results. I asked a friend if he had the results and he figured he lost the results in a move. I was starting to think that I should just call it. Maybe I ran 36:30 in high school. I could go after 36:30.

Welllll, it looks like I didn't give high school me enough credit. I found the results. In '95, I ran 35:40. In '97, I ran 34:43. I need to shave about 22 seconds PER mile off of my time. Um. I'm afraid that means that I have a lot more lifting and running to do. I really thought the 10k time was the most reachable. The course is very flat and of my events, that one probably comes closest.

For comparison sake, let's look at some figures. Most recent mile: 4.41. Best: 4.18. Difference of 23 seconds, over 1 mile. Most recent 5k: 17.11. Best: 15:46. Difference of 1 minute 25 seconds over 3.1 miles or 27 seconds per mile. Looks like this is all pretty close, but the 10k seems most reachable.

It's time to get to work, or at least it's time to get back to cleaning up the basement.

What a compliment

I think my shin cramped today. That was after the calves, the right quad, the hamstrings, and various cramp-like feelings all up and down my legs. I didn't even know shins could cramp.

I'd like to be able to tell you what it is about Ultimate. Playing for a day beats me up. The beatings tend to get worse the farther away I get from my birthday. The disappointment can be brutal at times. I ended one game today watching a floating disc bounce off my hands. I ended another throwing a break throw right to the defense. Those images tend to stick in my head, but I'm trying to have a short memory. At least I'm trying to replace the bad with good. I'm trying to remember the string where my in cut seemed covered and so I went deep. My deep cut was covered by two people, but Alan threw it anyway. It had a little bend and I read it well, curled around just right, and caught it in stride and with my outstretched hand. I'm thinking of the up the line dump cut I made. I turned and fired a nice flat throw over MBs head that he was able to track down.

Even as I fight my age, my throws have improved. I'm a bit worried that I'm trigger happy of late, but the throws are better than they used to be. Each of those plays provided a high, as did tossing a score to MD, or seeing SM make a perfectly timed cut, or watching YB get a few big D's. There's something special in about every game, something to appreciate and enjoy. The one-offs are one thing, spending a day playing Ultimate with a team is another. There's something about fighting fatigue or about the volume of throws and catches, about the struggle against body, concentration, momentum. I've written about it many times in this space and I spend a great deal of energy and thought on Ultimate. I often run out of things to say about it, but I keep coming back for all those reasons and in a voltron-esque way, more than the sum of those reasons.

As I was standing on the sidelines, exchanging some banter with ES, a teammate on Team Schaefer for some five or so years now, she said a wonderful thing. She said that she appreciated my passion. She liked the way I played and my skill level, but she called the best part, passion.

I find a great deal of joy in chasing the disc and getting lost in the game. It hasn't always been smooth or easy or even fun, but more often than not, I have a "strong or extravagant fondness, enthusiasm, or desire" for Ultimate.

Cheers to another spring tournament.

The three branches of Sunday

Only the judicial branch was not well represented in my Sunday plans. Decisions were made, judgments were passed, and the day reigned supreme, but it was the executive branch, I watched eight episodes of season four The West Wing while recovering, and the legislative branch, I ran a 10k on Capitol Hill, that were the highlights.

I didn’t want to miss a race so close to home. ML and I tried to form a team named “Declarations of Swiftness”, but we ended up declaring our speed only to one another. Fortunately, that was quite enjoyable. I did the wrong things in preparation for the race. I played Ultimate on Saturday. I stayed up and on my feet and even had a few drinks Saturday night. Yet, at the sound of my alarm on Sunday morning, I was ready to go. To me this either highlights the fortunes of genetics or highlights the importance of the more general decisions that get made in life rather than the ones immediately preceding an athletic endeavor.

I endeavored to run reasonably fast. As usual, I hadn’t really trained for the specific race I was about to enter. I thought I’d go out a little slower than my general goal, say 6:15 in the first mile and try to build from there. Those with exceptional recall may remember that a similar plan was enacted for the 10k I ran in December. The story line is remarkably similar. I got distracted in my warm-up catching up with ML, but was still fairly ready when race time rolled around. At first, ML and I stood toward the front of the thousands, but as the minutes came ever closer to start time, I decided that I wanted to be nearly at the starting line. I moved up and chose a spot about three rows deep. At “GO”, the masses bolted. I was immediately stuck behind two young girls, but soon found a space on the outside and made a move. I’d guess about fifty runners stretched out ahead of me. I ran down the center line of the road and watched as the pack began to spread. At the first real waggle around a park, I could still see the leaders moving at lickety-split speed. I was up on my toes and making comfortable, but fast strides. Strategy was again out the window and I crossed the mile at 5:55.

Right on cue, C appeared on the street to cheer me on. In a moment of frivolity, I crossed over to give her a high-five. It was nice to have the support. I returned to the pack and continued to pick away at the runners in front of me. Meanwhile, the sun continued to pick away the clouds. It had started as a cool morning, perfect running weather, but as we neared RFK, the sun sent telegrams from summertime and the wind picked up too. It was lonely, hot, and windy as we rounded the stadium. I made note of it and then focused again on the runner in front of me. I spent a lot of time focused on the next runner. I remember very little of the scenery, even less than usual. My focus was quite pleasing. My thirst, less so.

Back up the slightest hill on the out and back section, I crossed the two mile in 11:50. My pace had not changed. I grabbed at the early water stop with some greed, told C to look for M and went back to my business of chasing backs. I don’t know what happened to mile three or really four. I know I crossed mile four at 23:35 and was pleased that I’d sped up just slightly. I did wonder for a moment if I could hold my pace, but mostly I kept looking ahead. As the pack in front of me broke apart little by little and more runners had separation from each other, I kept passing one at a time. As we neared the downhill of Capitol Hill, I tried hard to encourage one runner to join me in my chase. He wasn’t the only runner I encouraged to try to combine forces, but he was the only one that responded. He stuck with me for several hundred meters as we closed in on another runner. With only a few more meters to go before we closed the gap though, I seemed to lose my new partner. I moved past another and another as we made our way down the hill. I watched the leaders rip by as they made their way through the last turnaround. Third place followed soon after. With a slight estimate, I figured that I was currently running in about fifteenth place. Just before the turn, I picked off the woman who was in second place. By the time I reached the up portion of Capitol Hill, I had the leading woman in my sights. My motivation remained steady and I put a target on her back. I was still closing the gap at about three-quarters of the way up the hill when I couldn’t close any more. I lost a few steps in that last quarter of the hill and a bit more at the crest. It wasn’t a lot, but it was noticeable. I was still moving well, but my legs no longer seemed to be moving at quite the same pace.

At the six mile mark, I was able to recover a little and I began to close the gap a bit. I raced past photographers and I heard the click of their shutters. As soon as I went by I heard more clicks. I hadn’t been passed for miles and I really didn’t want to be passed now. I tried to surge. When I finally turned the corner and could see the finish line, I gave a pretty good kick, but I knew that I was really only fighting to hold off challengers behind me. I could not challenge the woman in front of me.

It was a good race. I ran nine seconds faster than I did in December. My time was 36:58. I placed fourteenth overall and fifth in my age group. I’m pleased.

The return of the psoas

There are few muscles in my body more sinister than the psoas. Some two years ago while trying to play Ultimate on a mid-level club team I managed to aggravate my psoas. I don't know how it happened, but I ended up sitting out most of the season and bouncing around between doctors and therapists who barely managed to help me deal with the slight pain and the decreased use of some much needed body parts for the game of Ultimate. I'm talking about my groin, my back, and my stomach muscles. Pretty important stuff when trying to run, cut, and throw. My life went into a bit of a tailspin at that point. I recognize that aggravation of a major muscle isn't exactly a big deal when so many people are dealing with real problems, but I was inconsolable. It was ugly.

I came to terms with less Ultimate. I spent time weightlifting. I made amends and got a hold of the inconsolable parts and finally talked some sense into them. I'd worked it out. I got to play some Ultimate and I put my energy into other areas. It was good, even great. Then consistent weightlifting started to translate into Ultimate success. Ultimate success sent me out looking for more Ultimate.

Recently, I chose a low-level, low-commitment club team to be my new playground. I figured that I could recruit my friends to be on the team, not worry so much about the game and the score, and have a good time. Parts of me struggled with this decision. There's still a piece of me that yearns to be the best and battle it out with the best, but frankly, I was scared to of the time and effort that might take and I was scared of my psoas. I admitted it, but a voice in my head (and a few voices not in my head) kept egging me on to try to do more. I was content with my decision, until Saturday. On Saturday, the team I'd chosen canceled the low-commitment practice for the rest of the month.

I wanted to play Ultimate. That was the point. So, I made up my mind to put out a feeler at the mid-level again. My psoas didn't like that. I didn't even get to the practice. I just decided to go. That sent my psoas into a frenzy. Just like last time, the pain started in my groin. Then it anchors itself firmly in my right abdomen and teases my back muscles. It doesn't hurt exactly, but it spells trouble. I skipped the mid-level stuff and began trying to do damage control.

Even if I need to slow back down with Ultimate, I will not crash this time. I am more than a game with a disc and I will prove it everyday if I have to.

When the past meets the present

The alumni game is a junior this year. It has found its stride. This by far is the best alumni game we've had. We pulled John from Chicago. We pulled Kevin from 1999. We pulled three of the most prominent women from CUA's Ultimate past (as known to me). There were 30 some-odd people wandering the sidelines and a number of fans. The women's team got a chance to show their stuff and then we went to 5:2 mixed format for the game.

This game had some chatter going into it. The alumni were convinced that this would be their year. Having graduated eight players just one year ago, it was hard to disagree. They lost a couple key individuals to conflicts, but the alumni still looked strong. My loyalties, as they always are, were torn. I tried hard to cheer for Ultimate, but did find myself slightly on the side of the current team as the game was winding down. Maybe a little bit at the beginning too when I offered up a few scouting tips. I found myself on the other side when I picked up a Karpo lame-duck hammer for a score and then tossed a break-side backhand to Arin for another to tie the game before exiting. Alan has recapped the scoring reasonably well. I'll recap a few moments.

What always gets me about the alumni game are the memories and the new battles. One of the great new battles was Rachel vs. Jess. Rachel was playing really well. I'd forgotten how effective she could be, especially against other women. Jess was rotating through a full team of women, so didn't have the chance to battle back. That gave R more opportunities for my flashbacks like when Dirty tossed her the disc and they moved it up the field. Another great battle was Paul and Arin. Arin has the height and great instincts, but Paul can jump to the clouds and he's no slouch in the play-making department. In the nostalgic category, Tim was working the zone, Karpo found a few patented dives, and Alan pulled out some big hucks. It was so neat to see so many familiar faces making familiar plays. So many styles of play remain unchanged. Ranjo still brings a smile to my face. Dan is still tough to chase. John finds his spots. One of the major post college success stories has to be Sam. She has gone from XC runner working the field to Ultimate player. She poached the lanes well, played hard, and just knows what's what. It's pretty awesome. I get to see her weekly, but to see her in the context where I first saw her play, it made me appreciate what she is doing even more.

The game was close, and Stills who graduated at semester switching sides gave the current team too many fast weapons for the tiring alum to handle, but I'd like to believe that the real lessons for the current team are the following: 1. Playing together makes you better. The alums struggled early and late because they didn't have the familiarity to know where their teammates would be or who to turn to, and 2. It doesn't take long to get out of shape. Even the alums a year out of college were remarking about how much faster the game seemed to be and how they weren't used to running. Both of those lessons should be applied to the current team as they head to next year.

For me, what I take away more than anything else, is what I've always taken away. Ultimate people are good people. I'm so lucky that the CUA gang has let me hang around and grow with the team. I look forward to many games to come.

May day quick hits

*There will likely be a bigger mushier post about Ultimate after the alumni game tomorrow, but for now, I just have to say that although Team Schaefer got crushed today, I dropped a really dumb pass and threw a couple away, for one moment I jumped like I haven't jumped in years and skyed a guy. It. felt. awesome. I also had some passes that had my roommate M working hard, but she did the dirty work to pull them in. That was pretty cool too.

*I took a one-day-only business trip yesterday. I don't know that I've ever flown somewhere and then come back all in one day. It was a morning meeting and I think I was there mostly as a show of support. It felt surreal and I've been tired pretty much since then. It's part of some new responsibilities which have me excited about my job, but it's going to be a challenge.

*I had something else important to say, but it's gone.

The list in my head

There's a checklist that I go through mentally almost every day. Did I eat? Did I exercise? Did I take a moment to recharge? Using a variation of the international "check please" symbol, I either place my check mark in the sky or I address the list item. Did I eat? Did I exercise? Did I take a moment to recharge? are my three main questions. The catch is about 153 other questions seem to sneak onto the list every day.

It sometimes feels as though my main job is beating back those questions so that I can affirm my main three. Some days I beat the others back well and some days not so much. The other catch (man, it stinks that there are two catches) is that it seems to me that my main questions have become trickier. I used to answer, "Did I eat?" with "Yeah, straight from a can." Now, I want to answer that I ate in a healthy way. I had my veggies, my protein, my omega-3s, and on and on. I used to answer "Did I exercise?" with "Yeah. I ran." Now, I want to answer that I warmed up, ran and/or lifted, used the foam-roller, and stretched. "Did I take a moment to recharge?" has grown trickier as well. It's not the answer that has changed as much as the moments that are in competition with the recharging moment. I can sometimes steal a moment in the exercise or in the eating or cooking. I can sometimes steal a moment at work or on my commute. The tricky part is my mind. It often chooses to run through the daily list instead of taking a moment. Sometimes when I mean to take a moment I end up on the Internet trying to get a little kick from a new status update or a new email. It occasionally works, but it's often a hollow victory, not a real moment to recharge.

There are times when other items make the main list. Writing still makes a cameo appearance. Thinking about playing the banjo tries to throw its hat in the ring. Ultimate and the associated planning still takes a starring role. The list is life and it keeps going.

College Sectionals

There were two main story lines at Sectionals for Habit. I tried my best to be part of both. In the open division, we were back at St. Mary's with Bad Habit. I still had some bad memories lingering from last year. Entering the outskirts of town, I could still taste a bit of the disappointment of wasted potential, as eight graduates had managed to not practice together much and it showed throughout the tournament. I wiped away that taste. This was a new year with new expectations. The men were seeded 11th out of 19 teams. I'd heard murmurs that we would upset the apple cart with this team, but although we are a young team, I was realistic because we'd run into some of the same problems. Practice time together has been mostly a luxury. I saw our seed as appropriate, maybe even high. I wanted us to build on the experience though and come back stronger in the future.

On the other side, were the women. Some time, not long, ago I realized that we were just a few women short from having enough for a line. I started to think that maybe we could take a team to Sectionals. I pushed a little in February to try to send a team to a tournament, but it didn't fly. A few weeks ago, with the enthusiasm of Paco and the return of Fruit Loop, the team took shape. In three weeks we saw recruits come and for the time being go. By the end the women had just enough to field a team, eight on Saturday and seven on Sunday. They had no expectations, and having never played a game, were seeded 12th of 14 teams. We had to laugh at that.

I was bouncing back and forth between games trying to see as much as I could and be there for the key moments. I missed a lot, but I saw a lot. Bad Habit (the men) split their games on Saturday, losing to the teams seeded above and handling the teams seeded below. Good Habit (the women) dropped two games to strong contenders and then crushed a B team in the cross-over game. The first victory was nearly a shutout and I was surprised to see that the tiers of teams were so varied.

I was proud of the individuals, but it seemed like Bad Habit couldn't quite gel or couldn't hold it for long when they did. I don't know how to teach that or what it would take, but I suspect it's practice. Good Habit on the other hand seemed to be coming together. Perhaps it was expectations, or perhaps it was the fact that the women only had each other and no subs by Sunday.

There was no one on either of the teams that I wasn't proud of. Everyone was a great reminder of why I like to be a part of this sport. The effort and the highlights of individuals working together were something special. The frustration came when someone tried to do too much or when we realized that we'd let too much potential slip away. It's okay to want more, but demanding it as Sectionals slides through our fingers seems counter-productive. It needs to be demanded months ago.

The men finished 12th, the women 10th. Their weekends were nearly parallel, small squads, flashes of talent, fading a bit at the end. One slight difference: Expectations. The other slight difference: The attitude that came with those expectations.

I don't know if it was seeing freshman score, or make calls, or make good cuts that made me happiest. It might have been the great catches by the women and their aggressive defense that pleased me most, but it was only by a hair. It only outshone the battles and the rest of the game and the men's fight against Maryland slightly. I hated wanting to be in two places at once, but it was super to be a part of both experiences. Choices loom in the future, but for now, Sectionals met and perhaps even exceeded my expectations. Can we carry that momentum forward? And am I the guy to help?

Neglect and vacations

If not for the posts I just snuck into March and early April about vacation, it had been nearly a month since I've posted to the old blog. I tried some new things on vacation this round. It was a more relaxing brand of vacation and it included Internet access. I knocked out two books and while I intended to do some "writing", all I really came up with were the posts below. Rather than just take notes, I wrote my posts on the road. I found it interesting to reread because I could sense the feeling of the day better than with the notes, but as I slightly edited my work I realized that I missed recreating the vacation days in my head. I suppose a different kind of vacation calls for a different kind of record.

I have Sectionals tales to tell now after just a few days after getting back to the US of A and holiday pictures which appear to be particularly grainy to edit and post to other places, so perhaps more is to come. This record of life goes on, round and round, and for the moment, in a groove.

One last day
I was done last night, ready to go home, but today was grrreat. After seeing the Fry Guy off, C and I were finally able to rent bikes. It barely happened again though as we failed to get the tandem they promised us and then we were the last two bikes they sent out. Phew.

It started off a little scary, but after some time we were able to translate the claims of bike-friendly and wind our way up the hill to the '92 Olympic Stadium and then back down to take bike paths that were weaving all over the city. We stopped by the port for some tapas and outdoor seating and paid for it, but the weather was nearly perfect and the tapas weren't bad either. I could have done without the little fried fish, but C ate them up. We biked on for most of the afternoon, passing some great views and some new sights. Biking really turned out to be a great way to see lots of Barcelona in a blur. We stopped when we needed to stop and covered the city nicely. There are a few spots that we didn't get to- Tibidabo looms on the hill for next time, but we rocked the Ramblas and were shocked by the sheer number of people out on a Monday. It must be spring break somewhere.

We decided to stay close to our boutique hostel for dinner. Google maps directed us to an 11th century castle. We thought it might be too expensive, but decided to splurge. We arrived at 8:15 before the kitchen even opened. We decided to wait and we were rewarded. I had amazing grilled vegetables and then Iberian ham with some foie gras on top. This dinner usurped the French cuisine of the other night. It was that good and it was finished with nougat ice cream with whiskey. I don't know my Spanish or my Catalonian, but it was magnificent.

Tomorrow is the long ride home.

Things not going as planned

Train canceled. Rerouted, waited for a bus while our train came, had the real French cafe experience while we waited for another train. Took the train to a college town that was not our planned destination. Fry Guy and the Hamburgler had to eat so they went to McDonald's. I went looking for a hostel and it was full, so was much of the town. We finally found a 2-star joint and took it. Hamburgler found it creepy. She went back to the train station to get Internet while Fry guy and I went to find me some grub. I found a good restaurant that served three courses. Fry guy left me to go get Hamburgler from our designated meeting spot. I waited forever at dinner. Fry guy didn't return after the Chevre Chaud and well into my cassoulet. Hamburgler was nowhere to be seen. I was a little freaked. I was then told that she'd had some run-ins with locals, fell down, broke down in a hotel lobby, and just ran into Fry guy as they were circling our hotel. I wasn't loving it, but I downed my three scoops of awesome ice cream and went back to the crap hotel. Bam. A zillion hours later we made it to Barcelona.

Fry guy and I went to Guell Park- totally Gaudi. Then we all went to an apartment joint by Gaudi. It was pretty cool and had a neat looking roof-top terrace that rain prevented us from visiting. We walked to Rita's for some good food. Thanks guide-book. I finally found some vegetables after surviving the day on bread and lunch meat. We rambled down the Ramblas and returned to the hostel where our room is next to the common area and it's loud. Go earplugs. Maybe next time we should camp. I'm ready to go home.

Vendredi, the bulls
No fondue.

Today was largely about sampling and relaxation. I suppose my run was not so relaxing, but after that I read extensively about Julia Child's life in France. That lady was a character. It was bright and sunny out and I rotated through reading locations from the roof deck, to the bedroom, to the library, to the dining room and back again. This went on most of the day.

It was our last day in France and we started to grab at all things French. For late breakfast, we sampled items from the patisserie. The Nutella on a sugary hole-less doughnut-like substance was pretty solid. As we walked to the bull fight, I nabbed my first crepe of the trip, Nutella again. We decided to dine in after the bull fight and whipped up steaks, pasta, frozen veggies, and bread and olives. We topped it off with leftover chocolate tart and venietta(?).

Enough about the food, what about the bull fight? I have mixed emotions on the bull fight. It wasn't quite as exciting as I remember. I was about eight at the time, so perhaps my memory has grown fuzzy. There was a lot of showy posturing and downtime. I suppose it's also possible that my tastes have changed a bit in the last 23 years. There was a certain elegance to go along with the bloodshed. Although, I did find it strange how much running from the bulls seemed standard. Perhaps we needed a reminder of the speed and power of the bull. We were pretty high up and the fighters made a dangerous sport look mostly easy.

We saw a matador make his debut in the hometown Arles arena. It was interesting to contrast his style with the far more popular fighter who followed. The hometown boy had trouble finishing off his bulls and elicited some whistles of disapproval while El Juli's strikes were deadly and brought out the white handkerchief waves of the fans. (We found out later this was a plea to give the fighter the bull's ear due to his fine performance.) The blood was at times gushing and hard to watch. One fighter who enjoyed taunting the bulls, miscalculated and nearly got gored which gave the crowd a fright. Another missed his mark and seemed to trip. There were moments of excitement and tension for both fans of the matador and fans of the bulls. I think it was clear that people respected the bulls and yet I had moments where I was repulsed by the display. Those moments passed when I thought about my forthcoming steak dinner.

We closed out the night with the instant slideshows of the digital age and a final toasting of French wine and beer. Tomorrow brings the last of bread for breakfast and a day of travel and separation. We'll make our return to Barcelona (or so we thought).

Birthday plans and beyond
We flip-flopped our plans at the last minute and purchased tickets for a train as it pulled away from the station. Eventually we made it to Marseilles, where we again did not rent bikes. C tried to leave the rest of us behind on public transit, but we found our way to reunion at the port. We tried to go to Chateau d'If (famous thanks to the Count of Monte Cristo), but it was closed due to weather. We assumed wind as it was a bright sunny day. Marseilles was a happening place, but we headed by the island of If and went right on to the island of Frioul (I think). We hiked a bit, had some great looks at If and Marseille. I couldn't believe how far it stretched along the coast. It turned into a good day. To keep the string going we headed out for dinner and quickly found that no one was willing to seat us. We gave up and headed to the street vendor's steak haiche and fries sandwiches. They were surprisingly delicious. We'd planned ahead and had a delicious tart for dessert.

We woke up early to return to Avignon and rent bikes. My patisserie self control was now shot, so I had maxi coco for breakfast part deux and just finished off a sachristine before recording these events. We took the bus to Avignon, showed up to rent bikes within the given time to do so, and still the bike shop was closed. ARG. We ended up renting city bikes from a kiosk called VeloPop. It's like smart bikes in DC or other card-based bike rentals. The bikes are tanks, but they got us out and around in Avignon. We cruised the Rhone and later crossed the bridge to ride on an island in the middle of the river. It was a gorgeous day and time well spent. We then separated for shopping adventures. I found a great store, but couldn't quite bring myself to spend 80 euros on a rustic French clock. I saw some tie-dye yarn and a shirt for the sandwich- it said, "My other shirt with awesome graphics is in the laundry."

Tonight, fondue?

Day Mardi

We bounced up before eight and noticed immediately that sunny France was not looking so sunny. The bike riding plans were put on hold. This was the Europe of my childhood and I wasn't going to let a little rain stop me. I left for a run immediately after breakfast and returned in the rain. Then came the thunderstorm. Maybe it was good we weren't riding, but I was still bummed. Arles is not big and we were reaching its activity/shopping/tourist attraction/Roman ruin capacity. We had lunch at a cafe. I chose the plat du jour which was fish. It was a risk, but I needed to take one. The fish was supposedly sweet. It wasn't candy fish, but it wasn't fishy-fish either. I'd write about the kind of fish, but I could neither understand the waiter nor read it on the chalked-in blackboard menu. Fish it is! I survived.

After some false starts, C and I made our way to Avignon by train. It turns out Avignon was a temporary Vatican City some time ago. The cool thing about Avignon was its wall. There's something about a town inside a wall. It seems important. Avignon was pleasant enough, pretty even, in its views of the Rhone river and the famous bridge that no longer spans the gap, Saint Benezet's Bridge. I took lots of pictures and am extremely pleased with my camera. Avignon tested my lens though, as much of the scenery was pretty far away and I needed a little more zoom, or a telephoto lens. I was prepared for my limitations though, so for now I'll return to the arty pictures and when that doesn't work I'll use one of the filters like fish-eye.

I stepped up my French game a bit today, in a sense. C burnt out at the train station and I could tell she'd had it. We couldn't figure out if the train was headed back to Arles or not and we weren't really in the mood to go to the wrong place. Finally after bouncing around between signs, I went up and asked the ticket agent if he spoke English. I asked in French. He responded in English, "very badly". We got through it and on to the right train. Later I snuck off to do a little shopping excursion. I knew what I wanted and said "I want" in French, but then had to resort to pointing. I had no idea what the clerk was asking me when she wondered if it was a gift. The French pretty much fell apart there and her English came through. She was extremely polite and switched back to French to complete our transaction. I mostly stood around bewildered.

Tonight, BC arrives by train (we hope). More adventures tomorrow.

Day lundi

Another lazy day for us. We meandered around town and passed by the ampitheater, the St. Triomphe church and Hotel de Ville. We ate couscous for lunch and meandered some more. We traveled through industrial Arles to try to find a bike rental shop, but came up empty. We ended up tossing the disc in a field nearby. On the way back through town, we shopped hungrily at the monoprix (Arles' answer to WalMart) and made dinner at home. Arles is the sausage capital of France and we added some sausage to pasta for dinner. It tasted great and we're turning in early to try to discover morning in Arles tomorrow.

Another day in Arles
We lost some time to daylight savings and some more time to a desperate need to sleep. By lunch time, we were ready for breakfast. C went out to get bread, jam, and Nutella to go with our tea. We spent the day meandering about town, past the arena where we'd later see the bullfight and through the forum/square/thing. We again had trouble finding a restaurant who wanted to serve us food on our schedule. We finally settled outside a cafe and proceeded to order every salade on the menu as we conversed away the afternoon. It was very French and relaxing, but for our English tongues. We went to the grocery store to gather dinner on our own terms and ended up with bags and cans of food, including steak in some very strange packaging, frozen legume mixtures, and a can of lentils. I designed that dinner, merci beaucoup.

I went for a run along the Rhone and felt great. I was bounding off rocks and hurdling gates as I ran past the sheep and the water treatment plant before turning around at the goats. The goats were loud and I was actually a little frightened of them. I was running on my toes as I think I'm gearing up to go barefoot. It may be a placebo effect, but I swear it engages the big muscles and makes me feel faster.

It took three of us and lots of effort to get the grill going on our rooftop terrace for dinner. I can't even blame the brie, wine, or darkness as a distraction. It was simply poor fire skill at work. We finally got things cooking and turned out a fine meal. Bed has come quickly, but then it would since I hadn't left it that long ago.

Vacation
The first few days of the trip were spent in full travel mode. I took those jet-lag pills, but I'm either too tired to notice them working or they didn't work. There was a trans-Atlantic flight to London. I actually did some sleeping since the entertainment system was on the fritz. In Heathrow, we hit up the yotel (probably pronounced like hotel, but I preferred the pronunciation that more closely mirrored the high pitched singing in the Alps). The yotel was the comforts of a cruise ship on dry land bathed in purple light. We were packed in like a can of those smelly fishes. As far as hotels connected to an airport go, the yotel is definitely the best (and only) one I've ever stayed in. From London, we flew to Barcelona. I have no idea what happened in Barcelona except that I vaguely recall some dinner, a hostel, a walk, and some attempts at Spanish that went nowhere. There was an Amazing Race-style event that C and I attempted at her urging. Somehow my train got walloped by her bus. I have to wonder if it was rigged.

To add to the international intrigue, my pocket was very nearly picked on the public transit system. Fortunately, I felt the shady fellow trying and failing to scratch my passport out of my pocket. It was pretty awkward and unnerving, but a good wake-up call.

Then came a new day with a lost lens cap and a train ride from Barcelona to Arles, France. I think the train ride in Norway spoiled me. There were some nice moments where green rolling hills dotted with country houses and towns were part of the vast landscape in front of the snow-capped Pyrenees, but there were also a fair number of industrial buildings with graffiti on their backsides. I mostly took to reading "The Yellow Jersey". The cover calls it the greatest cycling novel ever written. I'm afraid if that's true that I'm finished reading cycling novels.

That night, we lounged around our home for the week long enough to turn a leisurely dinner into a rush to get back to the train station to meet another reveler/traveler/our conversational sherpa. I ended up alone in the restaurant waiting for l'addition (the check) and alternately trying out half-remembered French phrases on my self and straining to hear the couple speaking at the nearest table. I may have napped too long today because as the clock rolled past bedtime, I got my second wind.

Shamrockin'

Thanks to public transportation, I was early to the St. Patrick's Day 8k. The city was relatively quiet and grey thanks to possible rain and the lost hour of daylight savings time. I considered a number of warm-up options, but finally settled on walking the course in reverse for a while and then starting my run in that direction before turning around to warm-up on the last mile to focus my finish. It was a perfect temperature for running, a bit cold for standing around, but just warm enough for the single layer during the race. I wasn't very nervous. I had a few flashes of pre-race jitters and I had to slow my warm-up down, but for the most part I was calm like Pennsylvania Avenue on this Sunday morning.

The race had a team element, like the 10k in December. Many participants from that group returned and we added in some new legs. We'd gone from Team Shiver to Shiver Me Shamrocks, ShiMeSham for short. People seemed genuinely excited to be together. I had trouble focusing on both racing and socializing, but I managed. MB helped me coax the team into a warm-up. I had us go through a similar route including the little out and back down 10th street that extended the finish just a bit. It was a strategic warm-up, but we didn't communicate it well enough and so still left a few people surprised.

The starting line was packed with green-clad runners. We stood and chatted as we waited for "Go". I again had trouble focusing on the race and the chatter, but found something soothing about being around so many familiar smiles. We were a ways back in the pack again, but it felt right, like we should stay with the team rather than forcing them out of their comfort zone or splitting apart.

Go. We went, slowly at first, weaving our way through green human traffic. There were four of us together who had similar goals. AS was the wild card, younger and faster than the rest of us, but he fell in with us for the early part of the race. MB, PJ, and I all had designs of running 5:50 miles and holding that over 8k. PJ moved first and we dodged and weaved trying to follow. He seemed to be moving fast and I worried that my pacing was poor or I wasn't having a good day. I had to let him go a little bit and found that I wasn't moving as well as I'd thought. I had a first mile split of 5:57. I was in a little hole, but I figured it was as much the slow start as anything. After we climbed the hill near Columbus Circle and turned back, the four of us began to bunch. MB and I traded the lead a few times while still passing people at a good clip. The advantage of starting back is that passing people goes on for long stretches. We chewed through another 9 minutes that I barely noticed or remembered. I didn't see a two mile marker or much else. Only the sounds of a few clapping hands and the light thunder of hundreds of shuffling feet remain in my memory. AS silently made a move. He looked silky smooth and was made smoother by my awareness of MB's labored breathing. I looked over at MB and offered up an encouraging word as I strode after AS. I crossed the 5k mark at 17:56 (18:03 by the officials). I tried to do calculations in my head, but had to settle for a general awareness that I was nearly on schedule and maybe a bit ahead. I was still near AS; MB and PJ weren't far behind. As we approached the four mile mark, AS began to pull away. I offered up some encouragement and lost a few steps, grabbed a drink and lost a few more. AS was out of reach with less than a mile to go.

In the territory I'd warmed up in, I looked at the 23:04 on my watch and called on the couple of mile-repeat workouts I had done. I knew I needed to run as I'd finished those, preferably in the low 5:40s and definitely under 6 minutes. I made my move, which after looking at some time charts, seems to mean I didn't slow down. We made the turn on 10th and I looked back to see MB gaining. After being unable to hang with him in the 10k, I really wanted to edge him out in the 8k. He propelled me forward. My other goal was trying to track down all the green. I wanted to beat everyone in that hue. I may not have succeeded, but I came very close. I chased a guy in a Clark jersey, but I couldn't quite catch him and finished in 28:41.

I pause from the narrative for a moment to try to determine how that could be. My original goal had been 29:30, just a few seconds per mile faster than my 10k time. My adjusted goal had become 29 to 29:10, about 10 seconds per mile faster. Here I was at nearly 13 seconds faster per mile. I believe there were a number of contributing factors, both the workouts of mile repeats and the presence of AS as well as the team, the temperature, and general success with my new eating plan and the use of an energy gel before the race to fight off hunger. Based on various race time calculators from the 10k, I should have run about 29 minutes*. I like to think it was more than just a good day.

Back in the race, MB came in ten seconds later and PJ soon after. We cheered on the others and returned to our chatting. I was pleased with the race and the results. We thought that third place as a team was a possibility after our fourth place finish in December. The decision to stay for the awards was made and it turned out to be a good one. Not only did we win prizes in the raffle, but we also picked up three age division awards; I snagged second (Update: Now third, apparently they lost somebody) in the 30-34 category (after removing the four who were in the top ten, so really I was sixth). That meant a gift certificate and a new green shirt! The winning wasn't over though, as they announced the team victor and that team was Shiver Me Shamrocks. Jubilation ensued. Our top four (including at least one of the other gender, our captain SM) averaged 30:06. The second place team averaged 30:45. We were in very good shape and quite pleased. We gladly accepted the trophy and vowed to take to the streets again.

*I've never used a calculator like this for anything but curiosity, but based on my times for various events last year the thing matches up well. Only that mile really throws it off. This 8k is a little off too. Maybe good things are coming.

What's green and awesome?

When I was talking about moving in to a new home with new roommates there were people that said I was silly. It was time to go from one roommate to none they implied. It was time to strike out on my own and find my own way. I admire and support independence, yet, I resisted. At the time, I thought it was a general resistance to change, but now I've come to believe that I understood something about me that I couldn't verbalize.

That something: Pickle jokes.

What's green and goes slam, slam, slam, slam?
A four-door pickle.

Not pickle jokes specifically, but the joy that comes from having someone there to laugh at pickle jokes. So much of day to day life ends up being about separation. Everybody has their own screen to watch their own shows or do their own work. In this big city, we pass by people without greeting because the greetings become too numerous or an invitation to unwanted attention. Even in a full world, community can be as hard to come by as parking.

Roommates are community. They'll sing commercial jingles on request. They'll make up religions or talk in the slow drawl of an unfamiliar America. They do this because time and triumph has accumulated. At first, it may have been a shared support of a team on Amazing Race or a book review. Then came the snow that wouldn't stop and then the Winter Olympics and Apolo Ohno-related screaming. It was trying new things in the kitchen- beef wellington, chopping the frickin' garlic, or the infamous melk turt through a straw. The victories would not win wars, the setbacks did not crush souls, and always their paths crossed unloading the dishwasher, watching TV, or calling it a night. Chatter turned to conversation; conversation turned to silliness; silliness turned serious; serious turned to reality. Television. And regular old reality. Still they were there. Floating in the brine of a three story town house, co-existing at unusual angles with too many futons.

What is green and awesome? Pickles. Roommates.

Some days happiness is so simple

My plan worked perfectly. If I announced to people that a group would be out throwing the disc, then people were bound to show up and throw, right? I didn't actually know for sure, but I was hoping and it worked today. It was a little chilly. The wind was blowing, sometimes even gusting, but people were throwing. I didn't need to be there. For a moment I wondered if I was even welcome. Throwing becomes a lot like practice when coach shows up. It's a bit like the boss ruining happy hour. I tried to blend in and stay quiet.

The numbers dwindled. Then there were four of us. Two pairs throwing as the light broke through the clouds for a bit and shone down on the lawn to be. At first, I just threw with my partner. She's been playing Ultimate for a semester, is fast, has good defensive instincts or at least a great reaction time and really seems into the game. She was throwing up wind and struggling some. I couldn't just sit quietly by any more. I started to to try to offer some tips that might help her throw, particularly in the wind. She took them and adjusted almost immediately. The results were startling. Within half an hour, we'd easily added ten yards to her forehand and backhand. Her throws looked smoother, flatter, and like an Ultimate player's. The evolution was so fast and made me so proud. We worked a little on her footwork and she was absorbing tips like a sponge. I tried not to get too giddy, but the reason that I keep showing up washed over me as the sun ducked back behind the clouds. Helping somebody get better at something is an awesome feeling. I don't know that I could have such an immediate impact on others, but I wonder if I need to find time for more individual attention for everyone. It might be worth it. Today, it was worth it many times over.