Longing

As the heat of summer slides between the hairs on my chin, I long to chase plastic. There are certain charms to the discussions of home maintenance, wedding planning, and the best way to grill a burger, but I'm distracted by thoughts of flying discs. I wasn't helped at all by the free streaming college nationals on the Internet. I watched the collegiate greats ripping long hucks in front of a mountain back drop. I watched great players diving and leaping and I longed to shed this lameness and join them or at least join their older brothers and sisters in a sloppy game of pick up.

I've done better with my disappointment this time around, but this weekend my resolve is slipping. I feel betrayed by my body. My mind lunges for discs unthrown. I throw fakes to shake defenders who aren't there. I hold conversations when I'd rather be running up and down a field panting, thirsting, and chasing after the disc that's brought me so much joy.  I made it through a very good college Ultimate season, primarily focused on the improvement of others, but now left on my own I feel empty without it. I want to run free, sweat free, and celebrate my freedom pushing a working body to exhaustion in pursuit of a silly little disc.

Sometimes I question how this can matter so much; I search for suitable alternatives. I've found a few, enjoyed other moments and other games. I've put my focus elsewhere, but today in the full force of the DC humidity, I grow weary of this state of affairs and long to break free.

I ramble in my frustration, trying to shake it. I turn up the music. I let the words spill out and I breathe deeply.

Life's lessons, I suppose. I'm taking my sweet time learning this one.

17 months of rest leaves me feeling fresh

I woke up nervous. It was nice to have that feeling back. It's been too long since I raced. My body still knew what to do. I joined Sam and Matt on a warm-up to the start of the MBT 5k. I went to the bathroom early and often. We had too much time to warm-up or not enough desire to get a full warm-up going. Either way, it seemed the only thing warming up was the sunshine.

I had plans. Plans are important. I never follow my plans, but that doesn't make them less important. I planned to run 6:15 miles. That would have netted a 19:25. That's just a touch faster than my slowest 5k I believe. After 17 months, it seemed like conservative was the way to go.

The leisurely morning finally turned into a race. It was a typical small road race where people are shy about toeing the starting line. We ended up in the pole position. We got out faster than 6:15. I couldn't tell how fast, but I used my plans  to slow myself down. I found myself in about 10th place and struggling with pace. Was I out too fast or was this too slow? I felt like I was in the way. I tucked in behind a woman for a bit and then she pulled away. On we ran. I felt good, like I was holding something back. I had no pain. All systems were go.

We made the first turn and I caught two guys on the downhill. I was tucked in behind them, but on this out and back course where runners were supposed to stay to the left, we found runners and walkers had gone right. I surged past the two and began waving frantically, even arguing for a moment on the run. That got me going.

I thought I saw the halfway mark and I was at 9:17. My plans were out the window, but I felt ok with pace. I just hoped I could hold it. I picked off a few more folks. At the second turn I passed another and found myself in fifth. The woman from earlier and one guy were within striking distance. Second place was off in the distance and first was long gone. I struggled a bit and checked my watch. It read 14 and change. I didn't really do a pace calculation, but I told myself, "Give me 4 more minutes. That's all."  I passed Matt and Sam heading the other way and Matt pointed out the guy in third. His message crystallized my goal. I accelerated slightly. I passed the man in third and set my sights on the lead woman. She was running well.  I cheered her as I went by, hoping she'd accept my support and knowing that she might come back on me at the end.

I held her off with a final push around the corner and up the hill. I hit 18:28, a 5:57 pace. I hope this pushes me back into the game. I feel a little tightness tonight, but for the most part I feel good. I'm happy to be back racing and perhaps happy to be back writing about it too.

Isn't there an REM song like this?

Ears submerged in water, the sound of splashing dulled, legs kicking, eyes focused on ceiling tiles, I felt a calm that has been elusive in recent weeks. On my back, slicing through the water, I was in an active recovery. The real difference from the laps I would crawl before and after was my ability to breathe. With the gasping and thrashing gone, swimming laps in the neighborhood pool became a meditation.

I've been swimming more times this year than I go most summers. With running and Ultimate not available the way I'd really like and the idea of a triathlon never quite sticking, it seemed like a good time to head to the pool. I've been fortunate to have a teacher on a few of my swims. Jim imparts the wisdom of his high school swimming days as best he can remember. His explanations of form taught me more about swimming in 30 minutes than I've learned in 20 years.

After a dip or two into the water, I purchased goggles and they have also changed swimming for me. If I was prone to hyperbole, I'd say they opened up an underwater world. If not a world, they've at least allowed me to see when I'm submerged which means I don't have to hold my head above water to look out. I haven't mastered all of this, but not bobbing my head out there increases efficiency considerably.

I swim with urgency. Like I'm being chased by sharks. This is ok for a length or two, but since I'm still working on breathing techniques and since I'm trying to get in a workout, this often leads to large sips of pool water and hacking coughs that echo off water and wall.

On Wednesday, I watched other swimmers and they move their arms more slowly, rhythmically, like a runner who understands pace rather than a child trying not to drown. I often compare my swimming experiences to running experiences. I'm fascinated by the breakdown, that point where physically and mentally I can no longer keep my form. It comes quickly in swimming, but it's so soft compared to running. The thrash is similar, in running it's harder on the legs than the arms, but the overall wobble is familiar. Yet, the swimming collapse would be so much stiller, so much quieter. I don't see legs buckling and balance teetering. I just see sinking.

After my swim, I ran home. It's less than half a mile, but my legs felt shaky. My body didn't quite know how to react. I couldn't go much faster, but I sensed I could go on much farther. It felt wonderfully terrible. It felt affirming. It felt like accomplishment.

What does REM have to say about that?

Crazy, Stupid, Chemistry

John has asked what I liked so much about Crazy, Stupid, Love and it's forcing me to consider my off-the-cuff year-end reflection a little more closely. Was it a "slow movie" with one good scene? First, I'll admit that I don't judge all movies equally, but my tastes often overlap with John's. So where did we depart on this one?

Was it expectations? It was advertised in line as a sort of offbeat romantic comedy and it delivered what I was looking for on that front with some laughs and the promise of happy enough endings.

I'll admit that it wasn't amazing on the comedy front and I do think the one scene John referred to was the big moment of the film, but what got me was something else. In my highly unscientific movie rating scale I usually rate two factors higher than the rest. Those factors:
1. Character connection or chemistry and
2. believability- that the rules of the created universe are followed.

Crazy, Stupid, Love succeeds on both of those fronts. In a romantic comedy, two is always very much a part of one, and I thought every relationship (every major one anyway) was well connected and believable. The connections didn't blow me away like Lost in Translation, but the solid performances by all the actors and the connections they created kept me entertained until that scene which caught me off guard.

Happy New Year! Books 2011

1. Captain Freedom
2. Going Long
3. Once a runner
4. Just Revenge
5. I Capture the Castle
6. The Guernsey Literacy and Potato Peel Society
7. Going in Circles
8. The Science of Single: One woman's grand experiment in modern dating, creating chemistry, and finding love
9. Mantle and the end of America's childhood
10. The Year of the Flood
11. Plainsong
12. Three cups of tea
13. Yugo: The rise and fall of the worst car in history
14. Better Off
15. Corelli's Mandolin
16. Diary of a Bad Year
17. The Dip
18. What now?
19. The Lacuna
20. The Hunger Games
21. Catching Fire
22. Mockingjay
23. A Little Bit Married
24. The Help
25. Tao of Pooh
26 . Made to Stick
27. Animal, Vegetable, Miracle
28. Devil in the White  City
29. A visit to the goon squad
30. The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake
31. The Upside of Irrationality
32. Lance Armstrong's War
33. Superfreakanomics
*Sex on the Moon* (audiobook)
34. Divine Justice
35. I'm Down
36. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
37. The Runner's Rule Book

I was blown away by The Hunger Games trilogy (especially the first two books). Plainsong is a sleeper hit. If you have to pick one book about running, I think Going Long would edge out Once a runner.

Happy New Year! 2011 Movies

1. The Diving Bell and the Butterfly
2. The King's Speech
3. Toy Story 3
4. Easy A
5. The Winning Season
6. Rear Window
7. Scott Pilgrim vs. The World (I slept through part)
8. The Social Network
9. 100 Girls
10. Cedar Rapids
11. The Good The Bad The Weird
12. Never Let Me Go
13. Youth in Revolt
14. Monster
15. Tangled
16. 61*
17. The Road
18. It's Kind of a Funny Story
19. Source Code
20. The Dilemma
21. Rough Riders
22. Morning Glory
23. Changeling
24. How do you know
25. Black Swan
26. Somewhere
27. Super 8
28. The Green Hornet
29. Bad Teacher
30. Midnight in Paris
31. The Fighter
32. The last kiss
33. Paper Heart
34. Roman Holiday
35. Crazy, Stupid, Love
36. Duck Soup
37. ExTerminators
38. Blue Crush 2
39. Casino Jack
40. The Princess and the Warrior
41. Hall Pass
42. happythankyoumoreplease
43. Reservoir Dogs (re-watch)
44. 127 Hours
45. Red Cliff
46. Adjustment Bureau
47. You Again
48. Last night
49. Everything Must Go
50. The Flying Scotsman
51. Get Low
52. Something Borrowed
53. Waiting for Superman
54. Inside Man
55. The King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters
56. Scream 4
57. Bridesmaids
58. Thor
59. I love you too
60. The Help
61. Horrible Bosses
62. Rise of the Planet of the Apes
63. The Descendants
64. Chipwrecked- Alvin and the Chipmunks
65. Once (re-watched)

I think I re-watched several others as well the week I was sick, but I didn't track those. I usually only track the new-to-me ones. If you were going to watch three movies from my list, I'd suggest happythankyoumoreplease, 127 Hours, and Crazy, Stupid, Love. If you want to avoid three movies, I'd suggest Chipwrecked, The Good The Bad The Weird, and Scott Pilgrim vs. The World.

Somewhere between college and retirement

This week has been a kick. Time and its abundance are often on my mind. I seem to oscillate from feeling like a college kid to feeling like a retired guy. Last night was just like college, as I flitted from dinner with college students to  a friends' home at 10 o'clock just to hang out and chat before he left town. I continued that theme with a visit to a coffee shop where I wrote bad poetry and overstayed in a comfy chair. That feeling of a definite end (semester? graduation?) looms and it adds a richness to the daily experience. I also have a sense that I need to get work done (homework?), but that no one is really watching and won't know for quite a while if I'm successful.

On the other part of the wave is the retirement, or what I imagine retirement might be like. I've already discussed the visit to the Supreme Court, but there's a meandering to my outings. I have to run errands, but I get distracted. Yesterday, on my way to the Library of Congress I found a classic suitcase that someone had tossed out. I picked it up, walked home, dropped it off, and then headed to the Library of Congress. Yes, I am now picking up other people's discarded items. Not only that, but I have grand plans to turn it into a suitcase of memories. It could be a rather involved art project and I immediately put it off until later. Once at the Library of Congress, I wandered about, soaking up exhibits that I usually couldn't or wouldn't spend so long enjoying. I've cooked. I've cleaned (although not enough). Today, since the weather was nice, I decided to rake leaves. That's right, yard work. I'm fairly certain that teenage me swore off yard work forever.  Next up, traveling.

Supremely interesting

Washington DC- After walking East Capitol Street on an unseasonably warm November morning, I arrived at the line to the halls of justice, the highest court in the land, the Supreme Court. Attending an oral argument was my goal, but it took some time for me to get the courage to talk to one of the police officers and discover that I needed a ticket to wait in line. The ticket was numbered 87, but I had the impression that lines were known to stretch far longer and that I would manage to get in to meet my goal on this Monday morning.

My interest in the Supreme Court was governmental tourism. History gets made, policy gets interpreted a few blocks from my home and most days I don't even remember to wave as I ride by. With time on my side this week, I could go hear an oral argument. I had no idea what I was getting in to. The Internet was informative, but didn't really give me much context. Fortunately, a gentleman in line provided several of us the story that we needed. The case was First American Financial vs. Edwards. According to the helpful line lawyer the case was about legal standing. On the surface it was a case of a woman upset that the insurance she had purchased related to her real estate purchase had been through a company that received funding/a cut/a kickback from the real estate company that recommended the insurance. Although she seemed to have no complaint about the insurance or even the price, this "kickback" was the basis of the case and the justices were particularly focused on injury "in fact" versus injury "in law". I'm not a lawyer and can't pretend to be one, but without this context I think I would have been completely dumbfounded by the proceedings.

Getting into the court required a series of checks along with the shedding of most carried personal belongings. There was a mixture of fascination and confusion as we entered the courtroom. Large columns and red velvet curtains provided the back drop for the nine justices. I immediately recognized Justice Thomas and was soon able to determine the identities of Chief Justice Roberts, Justice Sotomayor, and Justice Ginsburg. If pressed I would have been able to pick out Justice Scalia as well, but beyond that I was drawing blanks.

During the first argument I was enthralled by body language. Thomas looked like he wanted to be anywhere else on this Monday morning. I guess even the Supreme Court is a job. Breyer (I'd discover later) tended to lean back in his chair staring upward deep in thought. A light placed far above him seemed to shine down on his balding head and glow. That sounds disrespectful, but once the justices questions started coming, it was awe-inspiring. They were clearly brilliant individuals. Their questions were often in plain language, but insightful and referential. They made the crowd laugh in several instances; Scalia in particular toward the end as the counsel had said something like "There are two sides to this issue" and Justice Scalia had said "Yours and theirs."

After the first argument, I thought for sure the court would side with Edwards, but they probed the opposing counsel with equal interest and skepticism. I've never wanted to be a lawyer, and watching the lawyers sway and dodge and try to answer the justices questions didn't change my mind, but I have to admit to being extremely impressed, sometimes even awed at the proceedings. I just found a new respect for the judicial branch of government.

A piece of work

I made a P.A.C.T. with myself. I'll fill parts of my days with Productivity, Activity (of the physical sort), Creativity, and Thanks (giving). I woke up early and did yoga. C put me to work at her place of employment. I took a test and now I'll give thanks in acrostic form. Check and check. That will just leave the driving and the finding out whether my audio book selection was a winner.

Thanks for the time which suddenly seems so prevalent
How about that peace that comes from morning yoga?
All I want is to enjoy the quiet a little longer
Now I'm ready to enjoy lunch
Kind of hoping for BBQ
Sweet tea, too.

A regular pot o' emotion

This year is really an odd one. We've been through the part where I have stopped exercising and started working late, but we haven't yet been through the part where I have one work day left in 2011. I chose this particular renewal vacation schedule so as I left for Thanksgiving I could tell my coworkers, "See you in 2012."

In September and October, I thought this day would never come. In the last two weeks, I realized the day was almost here. For most of last week, my giddiness grew with each passing day. I'd wake up early and stressed, but go to work singing. The songs would wear off by 10, but I'd always find a moment or six that reminded me that my work for the year was almost done. I worked later hours, but it didn't matter with respite coming.

Today was not like the other days. It dragged a bit. Every project that seemed done suddenly came back to need just a little more. Other projects started to unfold before me. I couldn't think them through. My thoughts clicked and whirred, but the gears didn't seem to be turning. I struggled.

Then some other gears began to turn. These weren't the work-maker gears. These were the doubting gears. Will work realize that I am the peter principle personified? What if my dad is right and they discover in my absence that I wasn't really that useful any way? What am I going to do with all this time? Can I even fill an evening without Ultimate? What if I'm bored? Or worse, what if I want to go back to work?

I'll have a few days to think through those questions, but just one more day to practice my "craft" in '11. It's just so cool to say. If I wasn't so nervous, I'd never tire of it.

Trying to take the hippo from the hypocrite

I'm aware that what I'm about to write borders on hypocritical, but like a non-resident alien, I don't really have anywhere to go with this. I'm worried about the written word. This concern has been expressed before, probably quite loudly in a few newsrooms, but it comes to my fingertips from an unexpected source.

I was buying greeting cards last night. On the surface, this seems to show a traditionalist's support of the postal service, Hallmark, and words. Upon closer examination, we find that I was wholly unable to resist the charms of the musical cards. Even with the 150% mark-up in price and my usually conservative wallet, the music could not be stopped. Dear Mr. Mclean, the music did not die, they just made it really small and hid it in the grocery store aisle inside birthday greetings. Love, Dave.

I'm certain there were suitable cards for dads, bros, nieces and nephews, but again and again I was drawn to the cards that could make the recipient sing and dance. This makes some sense when buying for my nieces. They will sing and dance with a musical card. They will open and shut that card until the music does visit good old Don or the paper wears away to shreds, but my brother-in-law? He might chuckle, but he won't keep that card around until it wears thin. He'll toss it. Logically, I know it, and yet, as I said, I couldn't resist. The musical cards spoke to me (some quite literally) and they made me smile fondly and think of my family. The regular cards failed to capture that same spirit. I didn't regret my decision until I was home. The music was too strong and had moved me too far from the 99 cent rack. Now, I wonder if I also helped to kill the radio star. What's next? Bookstores?

Oh yeah... Speaking of that, author Ann Patchet just opened a book store in her town because she didn't want to live in a town without a bookstore after the last independent one closed. I'm impressed on a number of levels, but most impressed by the idea that Ms. Patchet is successful enough to say bookstores and words mean so much to me, I'm not letting them go down without a fight. That's a fight I might like to join.

Ads of the 80s

I don't think I remember the famous Apple commercial from the 1984 Superbowl game itself. I know the commercial, but I think it was one of those things that got discussed for many years and then it came to the forefront for me while studying advertising in school. It was a breakthrough commercial and it resurfaced in conversation again recently when Steve Jobs passed. At some point along this sine wave of life, I'd made the assumption that everyone my age knew that commercial. That assumption seems to get harder to make in the world of the Internet, but I think every book in college referenced it once. (You'll see why 1984, won't be like The Golden Ass. I kid.)

I forgot not everybody had so many books about advertising, so I was surprised to learn that C hadn't seen it. I made her watch it, but I don't think it changed her much. Not too long after my run-in with memories of the 1984 commercial, I visited Wendy's. Up on the signs it said, "Where's the beef?" I pointed in amusement, but the college guys I was with didn't even smile. Then it hit me. I was 6 when that older woman and her two friends were squawking, "Where's the beef?" They were 10 years from being born. I know my teachers discussed the Wendy's commercial in college, but that one was a cultural tsunami. I saw it for sure. Probably during Dukes of Hazzard. Everybody got inquisitive about meat. My memory isn't much, but I'm almost certain I remember my own grandmother asking, "Where's the beef?" and laughing. Now, today, out of the deep recesses of my mind I recalled another commercial from the 1980s. It was a Folgers coffee commercial that involved secretly switching regular coffee with Folgers crystals. I wasn't drinking coffee or even thinking about coffee, so I'm really not sure what stirred memory. Caught up in this wave of 1980s advertising, I have to wonder what will shake out next and also what I'd do for a Klondike bar.

Couple's costume- It must be serious

Despite C's complaints about Halloween, the party in our midst meant that she agreed to dress up. The perfectionist and the procrastinator may make costumes more challenging, but a simple concept done right can overcome those obstacles. After batting a few ideas around, we'd settled on a costume. What it lacked in timeliness, it made up in simplicity.

We decided to be the 2010 youtube sensation Double Rainbow. With more than 31 million views, we knew that a few people wouldn't get it, but for the most part we'd be covered. We started to realize how well covered when we were shopping for shirts with rainbows on them and found mostly double rainbow shirts. Not wanting to be a quadruple rainbow, we kept our search going and eventually settled on homemade fabric pen rainbows. C also found a sweatband set to really round out the look. Nothing like a balding man in a rainbow headband to make the crowd say "It's so beautiful."

I can't be certain that "it's so beautiful" was an exact quote, but we did manage to snag an Honorable Mention at the party. The crowd had already cheered for Google maps (best overall edging out Axl Rose), the gnarwal (most creative), and the nurse (most risque), so they didn't have much left for our double rainbow, but we know in their heart of hearts they had to be thinking, "What does it mean?"

A bit of pride, a bit of jealousy

My friends ran a 50-miler last weekend. Read Paul's recap here. I'm awed by that accomplishment. I don't know that 50 miles of running is something I ever need to do, but I don't like that I missed out on this running adventure.

I didn't just miss out either; my running right now is in another universe. They ran for 7 hours, I ran for 7 minutes. Other than Wildwood and bike commutes, I haven't really done any exercising since July. I would complain about my 7 minutes since it felt far from right, but I won't. Instead, I'll tell you about reaching for my shoes. Sometime in August, I took my running shoes out of the hallway and stored them high up in the closet. My black dress shoes that don't get out much go up in the closet. Today, even in the rain and the hint of a cold, I reached up into the closet and pulled down my dormant running shoes. They looked white and clean. They were firm and crisp, almost like new. As I gingerly brought them down, I had to push away high school cross country practices and recreational 5ks. I couldn't call up those memories today. Today I just had to put one foot in front of the other.

Today was another step on a long journey.

New TV is shiny

Internet, I have to admit something. The new TV season is making me giggly inside. I can't stop watching new shows. There's hope and promise that comes with the season. It's like going back to school with a fresh slate. Freshmen year is over. We're sophomores now, so we kick butt.

I know that I sometimes rail against television and the negative effects it has on my life, but for now I'm mildly enthralled. That's a step up from slightly jazzed, but down from medium pumped.

In a few words, maybe even a sentence or three, let me give you my rundown on the latest shows (and some of the not-so-latest).

The New Girl: The promos were everywhere and I was sick of them, but it's Zooey Deschanel. Claims have been made that hipsters could watch her eat spaghetti and be pleased. After watching an episode, I'll give it a C. Zooey managed to pull off a few adorable moments, but there's something just off about the show. I'll probably watch another. The Douchebag jar was a nice flourish.

The Hart of Dixie: Wow. This show is a giant cliche, written poorly, acted poorly, and really predictable. Rachel Bilson is amazingly unbelievable as a wanna-be heart surgeon. Eight minutes in, C asked me how much longer we were going to give the show. I answered slowly, six to eight.... weeks. She laughed at me, but I might be serious. It's so bad, it's fun. Plus there's Bilson and banjos.

Free Agents: It's now been on in my house twice and I didn't like it either time. I'm just not interested.

Up All Night: Will Arnett should stop trying to be the lead in shows. The end.

Ringer: It's great to see SMG back, but not so great that we need to see her on screen with herself. That didn't last long, but I think the show is moving too fast for its own good. The idea of suspense is starting to build, but episode two made me start to lose interest. Grade: B-

Whitney: I watched a tiny bit of Whitney, died a little inside, and considered writing a show for Will Arnett. No thanks.

The Office: I'm still clinging to some hope. The Nard Dog pulled it together as boss and the writer's reminded us that even without Michael Scott Dunder Mifflin is a big ol' family. Wait and see mode on.

Community: They are hyper-aware of their awareness and it's getting to me a bit. The song about their awareness was pretty funny and so was the Britta/Chang symbiosis, but they might be pushing Jeff Winger to places I don't want to follow. I'm hoping they return to form soon.

Modern Family: I keep missing the first 8 minutes of Modern Family, so I'm giving them a pass for now.

Parks and Rec: This is a warning to myself. I hated this show when it first came out. I hated it so much that I swore it off forever. Well, after some badgering, forever ended and I decided to give it a chance. It was kind of funny, then Ron Swanson enacted an elaborate high-speed escape plan from work. He ended up in the woods with a giant beard. That, my friends, was a turning point. I'm cruising on through the season with this show. I may even find time to catch up on the episodes I missed.

TV. You've got my number. Please keep it away from the Internet. Oh, crap.

(Added late: Oh, I forgot Suburgatory. It's got a "Mean Girls" flavor. It seems promising.)

Barefoot and in the kitchen

Nearly half a can of tomato sauce meets my approximation of half a cup of brown sugar. Then, I heat it. As the sugar turns to liquid and the brown and reds start to become brownish red, I reflect on the culinary arts as practiced by an amateur.

I'm mostly following a recipe from the Clarks, a fine family that I've met twice before. It's a recipe from a cookbook celebrating a time and place I never was- Windy Hill. The co-mingling of personal effects that comes from co-habitation sometimes leads to this brand of exploration. Memories and associations cross-pollinate and become meatloaf. As a kid, I loved meatloaf. My mom made it better than anybody. Other meatloafs tried to compete, but slathered in Heinz, mom's meatloaf was blue ribbon grade A gold star delicious. Mix that reminiscence for meatloaf with C's nostalgia for Windy Hill, add some Worcestershire sauce and BAM, now we're cooking.

It's not always meatloaf, of course. These explorations can take all sorts of funny twists and turns. Sometimes it's an affinity for Britney Spears that didn't seem quite so strong before. Is it mine? Is it yours? Is it stronger than yesterday?

Can we even share an affinity for a pop star? It would seem so. Now my meatloaf is nearly done. Will it taste like I remember? Or does that require my mother's touch? Will it taste like Windy Hill or is that a Clark secret ingredient that didn't get transcribed?

The mystery is in the meatloaf. The lunch ladies know what I'm talking about.

Three (or so) things to write about

Missing the DC earthquake by being in California and other tales from last week's trip

The 100th storm of the century or why the hurricane doesn't seem to scare people

Facebook is ubiquitous or the I just had a baby text and status update

Riding in the moonlight

First I'll tell you about the good. As darkness settled on the district, some hundred and change bike riders stood near the coolest bike store I've found- BicycleSpace. Some were decked out in their finest, those were the sponsoring dandies and quaintrelles, while others were in light or bright colors. A trumpet played us out and we rolled out into the coming darkness with tail lights blinking. With my neon orange shirt flapping in the wind, I joined in this evening parade of bicycles. We nearly took over the streets as we made our way to Truckeroo. Truckeroo was a gathering of food trucks and a musical act. A new idea in DC summer nightlife and one that I support. We wound through the streets waving and ringing bells as we traveled. As we dipped down around RFK stadium, I looked back over my shoulder to see the mass of cyclists, white lights blinking against the dark sky. There was a powerful connected feeling in our celebration of cycles- the moon and the two-wheeled variety.

When we arrived near Truckeroo, we darted up an empty parking garage winding up, up, and up, until we reached the top with an overlook at Nationals stadium and Truckeroo. We could see the trucks lining the outside of the venue and the people were lined up and packed in the center. It was like a human whoopie pie. Or what I imagine a whoopie pie to be, since like many of the food items, the whoopie pie was sold out.

The not so good: The ride itself was full of fun, but cruising through intersections and asking drivers to wait patiently with a wave struck me as presumptuous and worse. I continue to battle with my place on the roads and this group-think takes over the world seemed like a step in the wrong direction. How can I complain about cars crowding me during the day if at night I and my lightly-dressed cohorts act as though the roads are ours? When I think of sharing the roads I think of simultaneous co-existence, not an agreement where bikes take over the roads at night and cars take them on during the day.

The interesting: This ride gave me bike and clothing envy. I don't know that I need to be a dandy on a fixie, but I'm tempted. I feel like this month I've started to explore a world where competition is not the focus. I seem to be stumbling on social clubs and considering ideas that are about creating and sharing instead of competing. We'll see where that takes me.

The not-so-good morning

"Is this what you want to do?" she asked me. "Yes" wasn't an answer I was prepared to give. That seemed ok before, but yesterday my hesitation weighed heavily on my innards. Is it really hesitation if it's lasted 8 years? I played it off poorly, "That's the question of my life."

We circled advertising, but her memories of the world were everything I didn't want. She claimed it was great training and recalled her experience fondly, but I was mired in her description of the long hours, the high pressured accounts, and a lack of disagreement when the word soulless came to my lips. I think that window has closed. What door has it opened?

I mentioned teaching. The fall back option that I've never even tripped toward. She murmured and there it sat. We moved on to other topics, but "is this what you want to do?" sticks with me like gum to the bus seat.

It was fine not knowing what to do two years out of college. Fine to stay for the benefits five years in. It was mostly fine last week. It lets me do what I want to do, I'd say. With injury and summer lurking, I'm left to wonder. It's ten years out, now. It's not as cute as it once was. Time wasn't supposed to change things, me, this way. It's ok not to know what to do, but it might be about time to start thinking about a plan. Retirement calls after all.

Being earnest

Last night I attended a performance of "The importance of being earnest". I knew the playwright Wilde was known for being witty, but little else. The wit was delivered and it came with a side of gender-bending. The men in the play were played by women and the women were played by men. At times this was equal parts amusing and off-putting. Some of the women made charming men and some of the men made fine women. Others had less success with the transformation. I don't know how intentional this casting may have been.

The actress playing Jack seemed to take on a caricature of manhood in her movements. It was as if she was constantly fighting the urge to grab her crotch and spit. Algernon was more convincing, her softer features seemed to lend him the appropriate air for a man of leisure. Cecily was a handsome women, oddly tall, but feminine nonetheless. Gwendolyn was a sight, feminine mostly in wardrobe and as a reflection of Cecily, but otherwise rather masculine. Lady Bracknell was a giant man/woman with a booming voice and matching hat. Yet, after the initial shock, he/she was somehow she was very convincing as a woman of that age and temperament.

I don't attend many plays, but the H Street Playhouse was an intimate venue. From the third row I felt as though I could look right in the eyes of an actor. This as much as anything kept me engaged.

Overall, the play was average. I chuckled sometimes at the wit and sometimes at the squeals of men or the forced masculinity of the women. I enjoyed the evening, but despite a few great lines from Wilde and the curiosity of equal acting rights I couldn't quite recommend this performance.

Thanks, body

Somehow, some way, my body answered my pleas, at least for the weekend. It might have been the sand or it might have been a miracle. I'd gone to Wildwood expecting only to play a few token points, but I managed to stay in the rotation in every game.

Although this was the seventh consecutive year I've been to the tournament, this year was full of changes. As we packed up to hit the road, the most glaring difference was in who wasn't coming. Alan and Megan were missing. It's been five years since that happened. The second difference was that there had been no last minute scramble to the thrift store to supplement a silly outfit. Instead, we donned crisp white jerseys. Tracie designed a hideous zombie hand holding an engagement ring. We were "Death Do Us Part" lovingly shortened to D-Dup. We were a celebration of beach, Ultimate, fun, and the upcoming nuptials of Jim and Tracie. And the undead.

Matts, Sam and I piled into Sam's swanky van with the automatic everything and hit the road. We stopped mere blocks away for some semi-fancy grub at Smith Commons. Later we worked our way into the traffic. There's always traffic. It should be on that list with death and taxes. Ben Franklin probably left it out because he had a side job with the Wildwood chamber of commerce. FACT. Or something resembling fact.

We arrived at the Bolero sometime well after Arin and Alan would usually be a few drinks past thirsty and howling at the moon. This year, that duo was not around; so we found a zillion Ultimate players hanging on every balcony of our hotel instead. I wondered what exactly we'd gotten ourselves into, but our suite turned out to have thicker walls than I'd imagined. Eight on Friday and nine on Sunday called the suite home. (Suite home).

Saturday morning, we found more changes afoot. The beach and boardwalk remained, but we were entered in the 2-2 beer division. It'd been years since I'd been in the beer division and I'd been clamoring for a try at 2-2 for almost as long. We faced off well against our opponents. We often led, but rarely by much. Tracie's friend Em was a sweet handler and lots of fun to play with.

Speaking of fun to play with, I had managed to convince Amanda to join us. We last played Ultimate together in Lawrence, Kansas in 2002. Nine years had passed and Amanda was awesomer than I remembered. I don't even think that's a word, but it doesn't matter. It felt pretty special to be able to take the field/sand with her again. I never would have guessed that our friendship would survive this long, but man, look at it sailing.

Kyle helped us with some sweet cheers and we turned to musical numbers that replaced "love" and "marriage" with "brains". Going to the chapel and we're gonna get BRAINS" or "brains and marriage, brains and marriage"

Despite our musical stylings, we won all 4 games on Saturday, but we lost Jim. He went down hard and broke his collar bone. Tracie put up a disc to him, he went after it, ran out of field, saw the wooden walkway to the ocean, dove over the walkway, and then came the writhing and the "I broke my fiancee" shout. A doctor, a nurse, and a fiancee all converged on Jim, but we still needed the EMTs.

Amanda lent us some help from Bawlmer and we closed out the day with victories. Natalie helped us focus on beer league with a bottle of tasty liquid, but most of us couldn't get our minds off the score. Nat just shook her head and went off to find someone with a more understanding palate. Later in the evening, a group of us meandered off boardwalk and finally discovered a splendid Italian restaurant. We savored it, conversation, wine, dessert, waitresses who told personal stories. The food and company were standing equal to the Ultimate.

Sunday, we were looking for help again, but soon decided to go with what we had. Stills was back in the mix and he was rested. The previous day, he'd had a nice layout from a floater from Jim, but on Sunday he had more giddy-up. His throws were crisper and we were looking good. Up 7-3, we hadn't turned the disc over, until I tested out a hammer. We got a little sloppy after that. Hopefully, I made up for it with a layout D. It was my only one this year. We looked great and cruised to victory.

Our semi-final battle would not be so easy. We were challenged at every spot. We made a few mistakes, one of them perhaps being in score-keeping. Down by 2, with the sounds of the closing horn in the air, we had to find a way to go full field for 2 points to tie. We hadn't scored a 2 all weekend. We hadn't even taken that many shots. The team we were playing was a bit taller, and had some really good players, but without the 2 we were bound to lose. Somehow they let me slide back to the end zone to catch a dump. I saw Matt B. working his way toward the endzone. I knew a flat throw would be dicey, so I put the disc outside in and hoped Matt would out read his man. The throw worked out perfectly. Matt dove for it as it was bending toward the back line and the defender didn't seem to have a chance.

We had a shot on universe point, but came up short. With no finals match-up, we ended up on the boardwalk as a team, eating pizza, and fried goods (Boardwalk Treats!), and in the go-karts. That felt like quite a prize.

That prize was nearly outdone by my three best of seven victories in the game of trees. Wildwood weekend is such a great weekend.

A month without Ultimate

I went to practice today. I didn't play. I tried to be supportive, helpful, and useful. I even wrote those three words on my hand to remind myself of my goals. In some degree, I think I managed to be that. What I didn't count on, but probably should have was how much I'd want to get out there and play.

Watching the disc fly through the air, sets my muscles to twitching. I want to run and jump and pluck discs out of the air. I went after a few because I couldn't help myself. Unfortunately, those plucks only served to remind me that I'm not yet healed and I may have a ways to go.

I've spent the month fairly well. Exercise has slipped a bit, but my reading has increased considerably and I've spent some time on other pursuits- biking, canoeing, even a bit of banjo picking. What I want though, is a return to Ultimate. I've got a week before Wildwood about 6 weeks before Sectionals. I'll probably go easy on the beach, but I need some good healing to happen in the next 6 weeks.

Please body, let me play.

Dear driver,

I'm sorry about our exchange today. I think we both said some things in a tone we didn't mean. The words were ok, like when I said, "Please go ahead, you don't have a stop sign," except without the "Please", oh, or the "go ahead." Or when you said, "Your hand was out, like you were turning." You were correct, I was signaling a left turn, but I didn't want to make it directly in front of your moving vehicle.

I think we were both trying to respectfully share the road and avoid collision. For this, I am grateful. I thought about you as I rode away and I'm thinking about you now. I thought about the venom in our words and wondered if I should turn around and say, "We were right. We were both right."

I hope you'll accept this letter instead and not run me over next time either.

Hugs and kisses,
Dave

Philadelphia quicksand or How I learned to watch the clock and stop worrying about the place

It doesn't get better. It only gets worse. -Matt


We arrived just before 10 PM, Bull, Murray, Matt, and I, taking Philly and a bit of silly, in the dark of night. Our directions weren't clear, and yet, when we stopped and got of of the car we found ourselves just outside of the campsite. At that point, it was more city park, more make-out spot, more odd place to be after dark than anything else. Just on the other side of the building where the indomitable Rocky climbed the steps in triumph, we set up Paul's house-sized tent by headlamp. We went to bed in one of only three tents on the site and woke to a growing tent city.

The race started at 10 AM. Our relay team of 5 had shrunk to 4, with me nursing an injury. I'd hoped that rest, acupuncture, doctor, stretching, miracles might lead to recovery, but as I tested myself soon after sunrise, I knew it was not to be. I readied my support.

As we talked to other runners in various iterations of the 20in24 event, we realized that flexibility abounded. Some runners were running 24 hours. Some part of relays running 4 laps each of the 8.4 mile course, some part of relays running only 1 lap each. We had 10 laps, 84 miles, but we could divide those laps any way we wanted. Recognizing that I wanted to do more than support and that the challenge of 10 laps by 3 individuals would be a big one, I offered to walk a lap. Maybe I could run a bit if things went well. Regardless, I could provide Paul and Matt a rest before they embarked on clearing 20 or 30 miles for the day and I could contribute more to the team than just support. It felt right and I hoped it would work.

As we circled museum drive looking for parking, Paul and Matt hatched a plan and negotiated who would run 4 laps and who would be left with only 3. Then it was 10 AM.

Paul kicked off the running portion of the adventure for the team known as Fast Fraction Five. I started my watch. Marie, Matt and I then made our way back to the tent and the shade, glorious shade, to wait for our team to be announced over the loudspeaker. We conversed and snacked and laid the groundwork for an enjoyable Saturday cycle. When Paul reached two miles from the finish of the loop, a PA announcer would interrupt the blaring music to let us know. At least that was the intent. With about 50 minutes gone by, I began to expect the announcement that didn't come. We soon headed back to the start line, just in case. As we arrived, so did Paul. We'd botched the first hand off, but only by a few moments as Paul came in right around 61 minutes. Matt bounded into action and left for lap 2.

Paul got a drink and his first wet towel and we returned to the tent and shade. Paul gave us an economics lesson while we waited for Matt. Team names like Gingerbread men, Dirty Birds 1 (and 2), B'more Charmers were read over the loudspeaker. Concepts like debt and deficit and Nutella were discussed. The latter less for economical reasons and more for snack reasons. Matt arrived early, but the announcers were on it. So, the team waited together for his arrival at the chute as he cruised in having looped in about 55 or 56 minutes.

Exact times seemed too much for me to track, but I busied myself with paying close attention to pace and making sure we were ready when the runner on the course came in. Although race day comfort is a personal thing, I also found myself trying as much as I could to be involved in the off-the-course comfort of the team. If all went well, I wouldn't walk until nearly 6 PM, so my day would be largely spent in support of FFF. I wanted to embrace that and being in the company of friends. At the early stages, it was easy. Marie was off and clicking through her first lap. Paul and Matt discussed their first loops and I tended to snacking, listening, and writing the early portions of this retelling. About 68 minutes later, off went Paul for his second lap.

We'd just passed the 3 hour mark and were sending out Paul for the fourth leg. The race was off to a good start. Marie toyed with idea of napping and brushed off compliments of her speed. We waited longer than expected for Paul. I thought I'd accounted for some delay, but I was nervous that we'd again missed the announcement on the loudspeaker. My nervousness was slightly misplaced, as Paul had some runner's trouble on his second loop. He still came in at 64 minutes, but he was a little pale and quite a bit rattled. We got him cooled off inside for a bit and calmed down a few notches while Matt made his second loop. The body was ok and there was time to rest.

The PA announcements came in spurts, interrupting the likes of Beyonce or Phil Collins in turn. Got the runs, On your left, Blank Romans, Molasses were all making their way through the course. We began to hear about the ultra-marathoners over the PA as well. A subdued celebration with light applause echoed for the scratch on the surface for those brave souls taking on the course on their own, lap after lap after lap.

Matt was back in 58 minutes. He handed off the yellow and sweat-covered wristband of joy to Marie for her second and final lap. Most relay teams were now in or nearing the first round of their runners. Our brave team was taking on their second lap already. The vibe in the camp was upbeat. People were happy to be done with a loop, proud of their accomplishment, and only tired in little ways. FFF still had a big day ahead, but Paul's swagger had started to return, and Matt looked well. If I looked closely though, I could see they both had a hollower look of fatigue that other campers would soon know. I knew and they knew they could go on, but we also knew they had a lot still to ask of their bodies.

While Marie was out, Matt hatched a revision to the plan. Paul readily agreed. We'd push me to leg 9, so that way Matt would be fresher if he was needed in all or in part for leg 10. I didn't mind, another 70 minutes of waiting to walk didn't change my day much at all. So it would be.

Marie came through in about 76 minutes, pushing us near the 6 hour and 22 minute mark for the day. The three who were acting as five, held us in fifth through 6 laps in the 10 lap division, as Paul took out again. After Marie cooled off and settled a bit, her first question was about Paul. Moments before Marie had finished her leg, and several minutes after he'd wearily declared the next loop would be a slow one, the color and confidence had returned to his face. Paul would knock out his third leg just fine. We could sense it.

He did while Marie basked in being done for the day. Matt knocked out a fine last leg of his own while I started to develop a few jitters. I had a two hour walk ahead of me. I knew I could walk 8.4 miles and I was fairly certain I could do it without much pain, but could I do it "fast" and more than that did I want to? The questions swirled in my head and the snack food rolled a bit in my stomach.

As I stood waiting for the hand off, I eyed young fast runners jealously. I told Paul that I was shooting for 2 hours to give him some sense of when to expect me. Matt came in, wished me well, and handed me the sweat covered wrist band. I stuffed it in my pocket feeling more disgust than joy and waddled off. As the perspiration of the sweat band seeped through my pocket, I turned the corner around the art museum, and picked off two others, one resting ultra-marathoner and another walker like me. As I searched for my identity as a walker, I was fortunate not to be passed by anyone until nearly 3/4 of a mile. Soon after the runners came by, but it didn't hurt to be passed. This was my pace and passing happened. It just did.

If we believe the mile markers, and I'm told we didn't, my first mile was in 14:30. At times, I glanced at the scenery. At times, I focused on my breathing and tried to manage or improve my nagging injuries. I found times where I was lost in the speed of my breathing and my walking, times where the world melted away just like it does when I run. I tried not to look at my watch much, knowing that I'd be out on the course for a good long time. I thought I'd found a groove and skipped right through mile two, but it wasn't true. Mile two came in another slow 14 minutes. The relative speed of the miles would get better, though.

I passed walking runners and runners passed me. Some exchanged positive words and others slipped by silently. I lost and found focus. I grabbed water or Gatorade when I passed by the relief stands. My steps weren't the steps of a runner, but my time and place were still measured by getting to the next mile. This sense of purpose, this fight for focus, these are reasons I run and the reasons that walking on this day were ok. I had time to consider my pain points and I had time to try to make adjustments to correct that pain. I had time to see some scenery. As I made the turn nearing halfway, the sun and the hills worked together to cast shadows on the bridges and the river, but not on the cemetery on the hill. The cemetery was bathed in evening light with shadowed bridges below. None of my teammates saw the cemetery at all, even though the course passed right by it. I didn't see it all, sometimes lost in my own thoughts, and never allowing myself to lollygag, even if my walk slowed.

The team Nice View From Behind passed me by and I gave a cheer. Then I began to notice others in our division go by. I struggled to keep some within striking distance for our last runner, but the difference between walk and run was vast. Four miles became five and the time to go seemed almost pleasant and manageable. Aided by a salty pretzel, I passed and was passed and passed and was passed again by one of the ultra-marathoners. Being in a battle, I on my 8 mile walk and he on his 100 mile run, seemed strange, almost wrong, and yet still a little motivating.

As we neared mile 6, I was passed by a division competitor who then slowed to a walk. I passed him, but soon he passed me again. He didn't last long though and by mile 7, my walk was once again closing in on him. They'd radioed in that my finish was coming, probably still 26 minutes away, but still coming and I knew that FFF would be waiting.

I wanted to close the gap on my competition, but I had no other walking gear. I kept my man in site for some time. Then as the signs on the road read 1/2 a mile to go, my eyes started to water. Desperately, I wanted to gallop. I wanted to close out the race with a wicked kick. I wanted to support my team with speed. I wanted to do what I do well. I wanted to run, not walk. I wanted to test my guts and my mettle against those other runners around me. I wanted to prove that I was runner, to hear my lungs heave and my heart beat and to feel that exhausted satisfaction of the finish line. I wiped my eyes and steadied my walk. I was a walker today. Paul would close the gap. Despite what my head and my heart and my lungs told me, my side, my groin, my back had been telling me for weeks not to run. I'd gone 8 miles not running. There was no reason not to go .4 miles more as a walker.

In about 1 hour and 53 minutes, I'd covered the course and handed the now nearly dry wristband of joy to Paul for FFF's final leg. Darkness was moments away and the full moon was rising.

The team had packed the tent in my absence. My legs did have more soreness than I expected. I wobbled just a touch as we packed up a little more and waited to celebrate with Paul.

He came in 11 hours and 25 minutes after we'd begun. He'd had to walk a bit in the last leg, but still finished strong. He grabbed more cold wet towels and we celebrated with rest and dance moves. Marie, Matt, Paul and I relished our collective success, our very different days, and our shared joy. We relished it as we snacked and talked our way, sometimes delirious way, home.

Maybe the body and the legs didn't get better as the day wore on, but it did get better. There's a reward in trying and a reward in finishing and there's a reward in doing it together. Thanks, team.



*Matt did clarify that he only meant in the context of getting more tired in a long distance race and not in general.

Canoe come out and play?

My hands pulled dry bags from the van and I plopped the rubbery pillow-like masses on the driveway. My younger sister walked by carrying a sleeping bag into the garage. I saw her out of the corner of my eye and I felt the urge to check the answering machine for messages from our friends. I turned my eyes up the street and saw my nieces, two growing girls with a third on the way.

The answering machine is ten years gone, our friends have moved up and out of town; like my sister, they are married and have children of their own. The family van is long gone, replaced by my parent's Sportsmobile for rolling in retirement.

Canoeing with my family makes me feel like a kid. I'm getting better at hoisting the canoes on cars and tying knots to hold them down, but that's still the purview of my dad. It's not something I do much more than yearly. Sometimes that seems like a problem, but like most of my problems, that all seems to flow downstream when we finally get to the campground near the river. Water gun warfare returned in force this year as even more big and small children joined the manufactured fracas.

My niece Madeline, now 4, had stocked up on small-person-friendly artillery and threatened a watery downfall for her Uncle Dave. As we headed out again this year on the Niangua river with a smaller group of about 20, water came down from the sky. The rain slowed the first volley as raincoats and ponchos were donned. The rain lasted longer than predicted, but it was a soft cool rain in the July summer and I found it refreshing.

With Clare working and my uncle unable to join us on the river, I had the unique pleasure of paddling the old Grumman with my aunt. We knocked off two days and 14.4 miles with relative ease. The water was down from last year, and the few rapids left seemed all but harmless. My aunt's been canoeing longer than I have and her experience in the bow was noticeable. She'd know to draw before I needed to ask and we'd glide past fallen branches and protruding rocks. She did brace more than expected, but that seemed to provide her some comfort. We mostly stayed out of trouble when we weren't causing it.

Aunt Julie and I launched a number of in-boat attacks on small children and her grown children and their significant others. In some of these we came out wetter than planned. When not being drenched by a spray of water, I couldn't help but smile to see my cousins both running their boats calmly on the Niangua. When did we all have time to age? It must have been between canoe trips, because I found myself asking the same question at the campsite, between s'mores.

The tents have mostly been replaced by Sportsmobiles and some of the tents that did remain had blowing fans plugged in to electrical outlets. This is not the roughing it, the conservation, that I remember. Comfort has come to outweigh those other values. It's hard to get too upset about those choices though, especially when family, community, and enjoying the outdoors on and off the river remain.

Reason for optimism

I just leaned against the handlebars of my bike at a traffic light. The pain that's taken flight since Saturday, the pain that's sent me in a downward spiral of 2007, the pain that's not even that bad except that it prevents me from going to play Ultimate, is in a different spot.

There's no guarantee that this means I'm ok. There's no way for me to know if I can work this pain out and get back to playing after a week of vacation. The only thing I know is that for a moment, I have hope. I'm going to try and work this out. I'm going to hope that I can get back to playing. I'm going to eschew pain and emerge victorious.

Tough day for psoas, decent day for Ultimate

I didn't take time to work out much this past week and I may be paying the price. As my team, Casual Encounters, warmed up yesterday for our one day tournament in Catonsville, I could feel my psoas start to act out. I'd warmed up extra and I thought I was managing it, but yesterday it struck back early. When caught nursing my side with a pained look on my face, I confessed that I may not be quite as ready to play as usual. I could feel pain in my groin. Last time groin pain led to an inability to change direction. It's tough to compete in Ultimate without being able to change direction.

I worked on it on the sidelines as the first game started. I decided it was ok to play and got in a few points. For some reason, and I don't think it was my psoas, our offensive cutters were in the way of one another, me included. It was chaos and fairly frustrating. We still seemed to be hanging around in the game, but we never really challenged the other team. I think I managed to catch a deep score and float a score to Fox, but I don't remember much else beyond the cutting turmoil. My psoas didn't get worse.

Our second game was against the one seed and likely the sectional favorite- Grey. They are athletic and have good throws. I was told I would be mostly sitting in hopes that we could mount a stronger attack in the third game. We were getting beat soundly, but we were fighting hard. The offense started to clean up a bit and everyone was competing. I did manage to get in a few points and make some things happen. I took one cut deep and got a floaty huck from Bruce Wayne. My defender made up the ground on me and a help defender caught up as well. As the three of us ran to position ourselves for the slicing disc to come down, I'm told that my defender uncoiled and began to leap after the disc, but instead he slammed into his teammate. I took a few steps away from the pile and pulled down the score. I played some solid defense against a guy who was running all over the field. He didn't get the disc, but my teammates took delight in telling me that his approach was what it felt like covering me. I just said something to the effect of, "That's exhausting."

My play of the day that wasn't quite, happened late in this game on an in cut across the field. With my defender's hand almost on mine and some contact, I snagged a disc across my body and high with a step in bounds before being slammed to the ground. I popped up, to the surprise of my defender who thought he got the D, came back in bounds, pivoted and got fouled, had a zero stall count when I saw Gersh going deep. From the sideline I put up a beauty of a huck that went about 55 yards just out of bounds and with a slight outside in that managed to come back in bounds and just glanced off Gersh's outstretched hand. It's one of my best throws in recent memory.

I believe that was one of only two of my turnovers. The other was a short flick that floated a bit high on me and bounced off Heather's hand. I played less, but I still hope this is a start of a new trend.

The third game was another that we seemed in, but just weren't. Our defensive lines aren't scoring. We're just trading unforced (and sometimes forced) errors. I remember one point where it took us three chances to get into the end zone. We started to see some better handler movement in the third game. I had a decent offensive performance. I got one huck off the brick. My defender was in front of me and there was no help back, so I just took off. The offense seemed to be flowing better and there were a few points that we just marched right up the field. The only problem was that Hyperbole did the same to us. I did get at least one other deep grab. I was wide open and the disc was trailing away. I tracked it down in the back corner of the end zone and left the field fired up saying, "Come on! We can do what we want!" I really think that team is beatable, but we've got more to work on before we get there.

The fourth game was against a tired Dirty People team. Zone defenses were exchanged, but we eventually seemed to wear them down to get a win! By the end it felt like we were running them ragged. It was nice to get a win. That's only my second with the team. I'm looking forward to more. Hope my psoas agrees.

From home

"Work is what you do, not where you go." Isn't that how the argument for teleworking goes? I'm hesitant to mix my office life with my home life. I go by different names at home and at the office. What if I don't recognize myself?

This week as the offices on my floor were swapped like trading cards, although I'm fairly certain nobody snagged two offices for a McGwire rookie card, I ended up at the desk in my living room doing work.

I pushed back the piles of home, the various notebooks and paperweights that frame my iMac, and I created space to function. Work felt more like art in that moment. I needed surface area to think. The trappings of work, the various grants and manuals filled the recently cleared section of wood, and spilled out into the room. I worked in relative quiet and calm. I worked with focus and purpose.

For a while.

I checked email. I wandered to the fridge. I listened to the songs on iTunes that have been silent since '08. The distractions of home were more complete. Even the Internet at home offered escape unlike the Internet at the office. The guilt free breaks were real and left me ready to return to the projects at hand in full force.

Without the distraction of getting to the office or getting home, I found that I was driven. This was a blessing and a curse yesterday. It meant that I didn't want to stop, I wanted to finish. Only practice could shake me from the work I was doing. My desire to complete was only usurped by a desire to compete, or at least the desire to show up to my previous commitment.

It may have been the new environment that helped propel me. A little off balance, I became more alert and more productive. The jolt may have been short-lived as the pull of the weekend started to wear on me today. I'm off balance in other ways too. My bladder is full from all the water I'm drinking, but my desire to exercise has been minimal. It's as if pitched from my routine, I'd rather gather moss than roll stones.

The moral of this story seems to be about the ebb and flow of productivity and distraction, about the advantages of both the habitual rhythms of life and the kick of falling off that rolling sine wave.

Catch the windy spirit and they'll badger you to return

I like to start a vacation with a wedding. There's nothing like lifelong commitment to make a man appreciate a week off from work. This wasn't just any wedding either. This was one of those love stories for the ages. This was an engagement documented heavily on youtube and celebrated for all time or at least a week.

Excuse me, I'll take a break from the wedding to get the cynical fly out of my love stew.

I was in Chicago with C. We were crashing with friends S and A in their new and beautiful home on the Chicago river. The weather wasn't very cooperative and they were entertaining other friends that weekend as well. It rained. There was ping-pong, some bird-feeding, a scrumptious little brunch, and a lot of scrawled notes and missed connections. If it hadn't been a year or two since we'd seen this crowd, I could have sworn that we'd seen them last week and would see them again in a month. Time would play fast and loose like that all week. We bounced in and out of old friends lives. Heck we'd cleared three FARCers before we even got to the wedding.

Speaking of the wedding, I'm back and ready to appreciate the event fully. In case you're counting, and I was, I think this puts me at 25 weddings attended since high school. I'm a fan of weddings and as we approached the interesting venue Salvage One and saw the groomsmen in the street I got excited. (I actually got excited when I put on my tie, but come on, how vain is that?)

Not to worry, the groomsmen weren't playing in traffic. It was a photo shoot. Salvage One is an architectural salvage store. A more accomplished writer with a better memory could describe the venue better, but the foosball table with wooden players was in the back, the giant chandeliers with film strip piping were near the makeshift bar, and the pews were for sale. The wedding itself was a quick event, as my sophomore year roommate wed his high school girlfriend in this the later round of their love. They'd worked hard to get to this point and they knocked out some nice vows, kissed, and sent us upstairs to eat and party.

The reception was gorgeous. The event planner now wife and the art director now husband had their personality seeping throughout and their personalities clearly have class. At least until you view the photo booth pictures. Their DJ was dancing to her own beats. It made me consider a new career while I danced along. The bride and grooms' friends had moves. As we age, I think more people are realizing that they can dance. I went for quantity, because if you can't out-move them, out-move them, if you know what I'm saying. You don't? Well, man the groom's grandma had dance moves like you would not believe. It's a good thing somebody pulled her to the bar before she started planking.

Five FARCers down and Chicago's in the rear view mirror. Madison, WI, we're coming for you. First, we stopped for dinner in a town that seemed to be a series of streets plopped down on a field. We'd visit C's Wisconsin study abroad pals and find her sport, cornhole. And on to Madison.

Madison was so quiet because that very day the Wisconsin college Ultimate team lost in the National finals. C assured me that wasn't the case. Maybe school was out. Maybe the protesters at the state capitol were tired. Maybe no one could believe that we were staying in a hotel. Don't worry, it was only for one night. Madison was sixth street for us. We seemed lost without a tour guide. Even when we enlisted the help of another FARCer, Jenn, over drinks, we just couldn't seem to find our footing as we rambled on B-cycles not unlike the Capital Bikeshare in DC, away from the lake and onto the trail that looked not unlike MKT. Madison to us may have been a collection of places we'd already been.

It may have been the siren call of Fond du Lac that had us distracted. M, K, and their children left the DC area about a year ago and now finally we got to see them again. Their children were bundles of energy. They probably had half the energy in Fond du Lac. I believe M called it a suburb without a big city. I'm pretty sure it had a Wal-Mart. We spent two quiet, other than the sometimes screaming kids, days in Fond du Lac and it reminded me why I love those cats. Bouncing through the playgrounds and chatting at the kitchen table I could have been 18 or 80 and I think I'd still like being around M and K. Those kids are pretty awesome too. They wanted to be tossed, turned, twirled as much as energy would allow. I tried walking lunges and squats, but their turn as dumbbells only seemed to tire me out and leave them wanting more. We even got in a little disc throwing from 5 feet apart. Fond du lac should definitely be closer.

It is closer to Milwaukee and our next stop on the trip. I slept while C drove. This was a vacation pattern that seemed to work heavily in my favor. Another pattern heavily in my favor, was that C let me pick a lot of our activities. We toured the Pabst mansion (that Pabst, of Pabst brewing, did you know he had a mansion? And some seriously interesting germanic tastes? Whoa. Also, servants quarters. Get some.) We had lunch at the Milwaukee market in the historic third ward where the advertising museum has been closed for several years, but the building is for sale in case you're interested. We then made our way to N and J's home for another bout of guest rooming. N and J were excellent hosts and let us bask in the glory of Clifford the Big Red Dog and Elmo. There daughter E may have factored heavily in those television choices.

When Clifford and Elmo were off, we spent our daylight at the Milwaukee art museum, the Lakefront brewery tour, and hanging out in the yard as N checked her veggies. We spent an evening at a gallery viewing too. I can't remember what Alice Cooper said about Milwaukee in Wayne's World, but I can almost guarantee he was right. And then the vacation got real. How do I know? The hosts got a baby sitter to go out on Friday night. I don't know what the going rate for baby sitters is, but I know that N and J got their money's worth. Or I got their money's worth. Or somebody got some money's worth. Look over there- bratwurst. Yum.

10 FARCers in all. Only 217 Facebook friends to go.

Driftwood

Vacation ended on Saturday, saving airline bucks, but also allowing me to play Ultimate on Sunday. I woke up at 5:30 AM, grabbed a zipcar and drove. Seat dancing was in full swing to keep me awake and driving. Traffic was really light, but it was raining, I was heading to the beach on the day most folks head home and it was really early.

The team seemed happy to see me. It was a changed team from Bell Crack. With about 15 people missing from the final roster, the team was just a third of its previous size. There was plenty of playing time to go around. I felt great. While everyone was dragging around their tired legs, my legs had been touring, floating through the sky, and now were fresh and ready to play.

I made a few mistakes early, even though I'd planned to protect the disc. I had an immediate drop as the dewy disc slid through my hands. I tossed away two dump throws, one because the handler wasn't in position yet and one because he wasn't headed where I expected. I tossed away two other throws that I really want back in that first game as well. I was excited and zipped them in. One was better than the other, but both were inside and overzealous.

We couldn't find a way to win, so the team went 3-4 on the weekend, but I was mostly proud of the way we were playing and it was nice to start to get a feel for what people like to do. I'm excited to keep that process going.

I had a few highlights that I'm proud of. I positioned myself on a floaty huck and came down with a grab. I had some help D's where I got to sky some ladies. My two best plays came in our last game though. I caught a huck and called time out. We set up an iso play to Karpo, but I couldn't find space I was happy with, so Andy, my current favorite handler wheeled around behind me for the dump. I flipped something a little too close to a push-pass to him and then headed up line on that force side. He sent me to the edge of the end zone, but I was able to plant my foot in bounds and make the grab before I stepped out.

The other play was also in the end zone. The vertical stack was a mess. The cutters weren't getting open, or when we did, we were still five yards out of the end zone. The handlers worked it and sometimes got it to a cutter, who flipped it back to them. It was the end of a hot day, so this seems like it went on for minutes. I made a force side cut from the back of the stack and had a little bit of daylight. My defender was close and pretty speedy. Bruce Wayne fired the disc at me. The defender was well positioned to make a play, but I was able to reach forward and grab the disc for the score. It was nice to get one of those. I feel like I'm on the end of that sort of thing a lot. Maybe it's more noticeable from the other end.

More Ultimate tales to come. I'm pretty pleased with how the season is going so far. Winning hasn't been the thing for a while now. I'd like to win, but it's fun to play, make new friends, and build something together. Meanwhile, the psoas seems to be holding out. I'm working out and massaging it quite regularly. It's been manageable and I hope it will stay that way.

For the non-sports fans, I may have a vacation recap rattling around in my head somewhere. Maybe I'll be able to squeeze it out.

Five fingers, five toes

I finally ran in my Vibram five finger shoes. I've been walking in them a few times a week for a while. I work out in them, but I hadn't been on a run. They work my ankle support muscles and my calves, even on a walk. For the run, I was tentative at first. I found a park near Chicago. The ground was soft, a little muddy even. I warmed up properly. I trotted through the grass. I delicately placed my feet. I avoided tree roots and watched for drunkard's glass. I gingerly stepped over asphalt and sidewalk and tried to stay on the path. The single track wound around the way. I chased it and got more comfortable with the run. I sped up. My strides didn't lengthen, they had to quicken. My heels grazed the ground. My ankle creaked, but on I sped over grass and mud. Stepping lightly again over asphalt and concrete. Pace quickening. Choppy stops. Up the muddy hill I ran. All my toes engaged. I felt balanced even in the slippery conditions. I wrapped it up in 20 minutes. My calves and hamstrings both felt used. My shoes were wet with mud and sweat.

Man, do they stink now.

Bell Crack

I’ve been to about 10 Ultimate tournaments in the past year, but other than Wildwood on the beach, I don’t know when I last traveled and stayed over night at a tournament I played. It felt odd at first to be at Bell Crack in PA. There were new faces and new names to learn. The setting felt familiar and yet I felt somehow out of place. It wasn’t one or two new names and faces either. It was more like 20. I’d picked up a few names at try-outs, but for the most part I am still learning.

On Saturday, we played like a team of strangers. There were a few moments where the team worked together, but a lot of moments where we looked lost and confused. Our results would reflect our struggle. We lost all three games and none were particularly close. Each contained pretty significant lapses where we fell behind. In two games, we were beaten by a star and a reasonable supporting cast. Individually we matched up pretty well, but overall we were failing. There is much room to grow.

The cup of our zone forced a floaty throwaway in one game that led to an easy Callahan. I was in the right place to make that score. The sidelines enjoyed it immensely. I handled a bit and was frustrated by two throwaways one to a popper in the cup that just seemed to be about confusion over the open space and one through the cup that was all about letting a backhand sail too high to a cross field handler. My favorite point on Saturday was also my most exhausting. One of my new teammates also played on a Rec league team I captained some time ago. I know he likes to huck. He knows I like to run. It works out well, sometimes. His first put in the zone was perfect, except that a speedy deep defender had more speed than we realized. By the time I knew that the defender was coming, I couldn’t adjust and we were back on defense. The second put was down the line, shorter, maybe 20-30 yards, but it didn’t come in bounds. It hovered a few feet out. I toed the line, laid out and tried to tap it over my shoulder on a greatest attempt. It wasn’t my greatest greatest attempt, I admit. Finally, we connected on a deep shot almost like the first one. This time the deep defender didn’t get there in time. I was fortunate that between at least one of these points, my opponent chose not to do much running because I was breathing heavily and trying to recover.

I think my experience with Andy from Rec league was helpful, because it allowed others to see me as a deep threat. I had a fair amount of success on the in-cuts as well and I felt like I was able to play some pretty good D, although I think my mark was lacking somewhat. Karpo called me “grease” for any offensive line, which was a nice compliment. I had a few more throwaways, maybe 6 in all, and I was D’d once on an in cut. That’s far too many turnovers, but I’m a little rusty. I feel like I’m not moving as well with the disc as I used to and I also thought that defenders were more likely to take away the lane. I need to work on exploiting that with break looks or dump movement. I did get off one huck that I was pretty pleased with, but it floated just a little too long and got knocked down.

On Day 2, I feel like my highs were higher and my lows were lower. I bid multiple times on Sunday on defense. On one I connected, but the disc spun up into the air and my receiver came down with it. Vowing to catch the next one, I all but had my hand around it and yet somehow the receiver still came up with it. I’ll have to work out those kinks.

My hamstrings were really sore all weekend, but especially on Sunday. My concern over my recurring psoas injury was also increasing. I had a sweet grab early on a disc trailing away from me. I grabbed the trailing edge and then turned and threw (a really shaky throw) for the score. I called a foul, but I’m not sure it was much of a foul. The defender laid out in front of me and hit my hand just a bit. I think I was startled as much as anything.

In the same point that my D failed, my offense left me too. Chasing down a floaty huck, I jumped too early once, recovered, and as I jumped a second time a woman from the other team flashed past. I took my eye off the disc and it bounced off my hands.

Obviously, I still have some work to do to get back up to game speed. I did catch our only game winner though. After a turn, I sprinted toward the end zone figuring Andy would put it. He hadn’t reached the disc, so I took off sprinting for the in cut, caught his eye, and changed direction. He floated a bender into space. I jumped up and grabbed it. It felt good to get a victory.

Two other cool moments: I spotted a college teammate and a former Schaefer teammate on the fields. It was a nice treat to see them both. More Ultimate to come.

Other things cooking (more Ultimate)

I've got about six things that I've been meaning to post. Let me give the short version here and see if I can find my way back.

1. Vibram Five Fingers- I bought a pair after serious (for me) shopping. I haven't run in them yet, but so far I'm pleased. I like the theory of minimalist running.

2. Paul's Boston success- I followed along on a combination of Twitter, Facebook, and alerts from the race itself. It was this weird collective but lonely experience. It reminded me of the Internet.

3. Conference for Habit- The men had an up and down tournament, but beat Navy twice, once in a wild nail biter where a 9-2 lead became a 9-8 lead, became a 12-8 lead, became a 15-13 victory. That was the third place game. It turned out 4 of the 6 teams went on to Regionals, but at the time we thought it was only going to be three. It was the first D-III Conference after the reorganization. I'm giving it mixed reviews with Regionals coming up this weekend.

4. Regionals for the women- I didn't get to watch, but they held seed in a tiny five team region with only one bid to Nationals. Injury and absence proved difficult, but I think lessons were learned.

5. Elections and awards for Habit. It was a wacky fun night, but the Andrew Stillerman freshman of the year award went to Rich and the newly created Tada Gan Irracht award went to Ben who would also be named captain. There were senior cakes, hilarious underclassmen awards, and good fun as well.

6. Some combination of regionals, trying out for a team, and what I feel about next year. I still want the job as Ultimate coach, but I'm wondering if I'm the right fit. More discussion and reflection (at least in real life) on that to come. Leaning toward a mid-level mixed team, but haven't fully committed.

More later. Maybe.

All Time again

I wanted to detail my thoughts around the all-time list a little more.

Alan was a force. His place seems relatively assured on this list for some time. He was a force on the field with HUGE throws to seemingly any point and he willed the team as far as he could take them. He made everyone better and was undoubtedly the reason that some people stuck around when times were lean. As you know, he's appeared many times on this blog and I'm biased because he's my good friend, but I don't think anyone could disagree with his spot on this list.

Jared was a grad student and already a club level player when he joined us. He was mainly a tournament player, but he had a solid all around game and a great mind for strategy. He is definitely deserving of a spot on the list.

The third handler position is a tough choice:

Scrapper- I never saw him play in college, but I met him soon after. He was a club level player or soon would be and his throws were improving to match his athleticism. From what I'm told he really helped the team in his years there and was often the offense. It's hard to tell where he belongs on this list, but it's hard to imagine leaving him off.

John T. - He was a reluctant leader, but he and his three pals were the ones who decided that they should cut ties with wafc and really start trying to play in the series and compete regularly with other schools. Not the most athletic of players, he was a gifted thrower and a trusted handler. His play and the way he elevated the team and made them compete makes him deserving of a place on this list.

Pete came from high school having played for several years. He had been a cutter, but we immediately made him a handler because he could throw. He was out of his comfort zone, but he held his own in a supporting role and we counted on him to do that. It never quite felt like we let Pete get comfortable, but the team was always better with him there. If I had to make a cut, he would probably be the one right now even though I'd hate to see his effort on defense go.

Many of our cutters have had some trouble throwing.

Arin was a playmaker. I'm not sure how he feels about Ultimate and he's probably the most incomplete player on this list, but if you needed something to happen, Arin made it happen through size, force, and will. It was awesome.

Lemon is a playmaker in his own way. He doesn't have the size of Arin, but he's got brains and speed. He's been slowed by injuries, but he plays as much as his body allows and maybe a little more. He's been the heart of the team for two years now and his hands have improved and he knows how to pick his spots. He needs to be able to throw better, but he definitely deserves a spot on the list.

Paul is only a sophomore, already a captain and an awesome athlete. He can huck it a mile, jump as high, and has speed to go with that. He's on this list and he's another who will remain for a long time. We're going to squeeze out some more leadership from him and help him raise the games of those around him, but he's an incredible individual player.

The 4th cutter grouping is hotly contested and would be a tough decision.
Karpo had speed and hands. He was Lemon before there was a Lemon. He couldn't do much throwing, but he chased them down regularly. His efforts on D were all out and he kept coming at you. He was the perfect complement to John and that class.

Stills was a scoring machine. He found ways to get open. His lefty flicks were a little scary, but he worked hard to get better and he was a great teammate when he wanted to be. His ability to find a whole in the zone was uncanny.

Jimmy is a dark horse in my mind, but he had excellent hands and could pick his spots, especially in zone. He did it with less speed, but a good field sense. His hard throws in college just about drove me mad though.

Alumni game number 4

I wanted to get this on my blog and in my record of memory. The alumni game was a success. I spent a lot of time taking pictures and flitting among old friends. Following is my post-game note and write up.

"Thanks again for making the 4th annual alumni game a success! Thanks especially to Mark K for his generous support of the BBQ. Thanks to Tini for hosting. And thanks to all those who helped to organize teams, cook brats, direct traffic, cheer, and wait patiently to play.

In a break from tradition, we played three round robin games with a mixture of alums, students and guests sharing the field and the teams. We saw some great highlights in those games which ended with each team 1 and 1. One particular stand out for me was the Brian Heller huck to a sliding, diving Law School Pat. Other great moments included Tim Crowley diving around the field, Jimmy DeMartini directing traffic, Lemon hucking, and Sean Dorsy holstering a biscuit. Turned out he was actually saving up for a chicken wing for the score later. That's more like the Dorsy we know.

Even with a BBQ looming, almost everyone wanted to keep playing so we undertook the traditional alums vs. current team game. Planning a shortened game to 9, the game picked up where we've left off in previous years. The alums started out moving the disc well and working well together. Some wondered if the warm-up games had been in the alums favor, but later they'd claim the games had tired them out. The alums took half 5-4 and it looked like this might be the year they'd break out of their slump. Sam was unstoppable underneath and Jim McMahon was diving all over the place to get some sweet D's, but he couldn't find anyone on the other end of his hucks.

The current team struck back quickly and re-established a lead. With a nod toward strategy, the alums pulled out a zone in the second half. It created a few turns, but the momentum had shifted. Frodo ran the offense and really had the alums talking on the sidelines. Jen tracked down some hucks. Then with some snappy disc movement and some forced hucks, the current team ran their record to 4-0 by taking the game 9-7.

At the BBQ the conversation shifted to an all-time all-Catholic team. It was a lively, friendly, and fun discussion and I'll hope you take it that way. Remember that the crowd skews younger with '02 or '03 being the earliest class represented. The rules of the All-Catholic team were spotty, but everyone did agree that only play at Catholic, not later development should be counted. With that in mind, the proposed all-time all-Catholic team looked like this.

The three handlers would be Alan J, Jared A, and either Pete W, John T, or Scrapper Woods.
The four cutters would be: Arin H, Andy "Lemon" , Paul G, and either Mike "Karpo" , or Andrew "Stills" . (Added: There was also some lobbying for Jimmy D and his good hands as a cutter.)

The important lesson in this for young players out there is that if you want to be considered for the all-time team, you should use your last name to create a nickname.

All in good fun! Thanks again to everyone. This is a fantastic tradition and I really appreciate your support!"

I found the all-time CUA team discussion to be particularly interesting, since I have/had seen the most players in action out of anybody. What I found really difficult was to compare the players who really never played together. It's so hard to tell if a player who carried the team in one year would have had that same effect in other years. How much did teammates have an effect? Even that question has two meanings. In some cases teammates surely made each other better, but in another context it also meant that a stand-out in one year might have been part of the crowd in another.

I think others had their own problems with this discussion too. Freshmen from four years ago had seniors that they looked up to and in some cases had seen evolve in the DC Ultimate scene. Karpo was initially named as one of the starting handlers until several others jumped in to say that in college he was barely allowed to throw.

I'm sure there are others who go back into the late '90s and early '00s and the early formation of the team that should be considered, but no one was at the game to champion them. There's been a pretty big shift in the game over those years and a shift on the support and interest of the university, so who knows?

It's a fun discussion.

Three point five thoughts from a full weekend

Last weekend I patrolled the sidelines of Steakfest '11. For a while I tried to update scores by smartphone, but eventually lost interest. The guys ended up in 14th place. They were troubled by only having 9 players and eventually losing their star to a hamstring pull in game 2 on Sunday. They had a 2-6 record, but one key victory in a crossover game to make it to the championship bracket. They beat Cornell-B and Ursinis and lost to Georgetown, Columbia (x2), TCNJ, and American. They narrowly missed upsetting Georgetown in the windy opening game. They had two shots on universe point and one of those bounced off Lemon's outstretched hands (See how close they came here .) The girls ended up in 2nd place, going 5-2 with both of their losses coming to TCNJ. John G. was patrolling their sidelines and got good reviews. The girls dominated a few games notching victories of 15-0 and 15-1 and from the bits I saw are really starting to play some Ultimate.

There is much I could comment on, including how proud of everybody I am, but there are a few moments that I'm going to record for posterity.

The first is about Ben. Ben is a transfer and he's our secret weapon. He's started to catch everything, he cuts well, and he just keeps getting better. He's got a little hitch in his throw and he doesn't commit to the dump the way I think he should (shocking, I know), but he's really helping out the team. After making another fine grab, Ben is five yards out of the endzone. The count gets to nine. Ben just decides to get rid of the disc. Somehow his flick comes out vertical. It's a blade. The blade strikes a defender in the noggin, bounces or rolls over the defender's head and is caught by a diving Cocco. It was pure wackiness.

The second is about spiking the disc. In the championship game, down something like 12-4 and feeling frustrated, Super Jess makes a deep cut. Knockout throws a nice flick down the line, Jess jumps up and grabs it. Score. She comes down and spikes it hard on the ground. It's a celebration, but there's some angst in there. The game is observed, so I think that's held off some of the ugliness, but there's still a clear distaste forming between these two teams. Next point, the girl from TCNJ makes a grab and spikes the disc in clear retaliation. For a second everyone stops. It's shock or confusion or some combination of the two. A little chatter starts and then what's been observed is reflected by the observer. TCNJ girl was not in the endzone. Turnover. The sidelines guffaw. It's inconsequential as far as the outcome of the game, but not a moment I want to soon forget.

My final note on Manheim, PA is to say that other than the RV in Dallas, I've never stayed closer to a field. We walked out of the hotel and onto the fields. We could see the fields from our room. I don't expect that luxury regularly, but how sweet it can be.

Now, I want to play. I want my shins to stop hurting. Let's go.

Inheriting a car for a month

Giving up my car several years ago was a triumph of public transportation and good sense. I've made the most of it for many years. I've biked, grabbed rides from gracious friends, taken the Metro, participated in car-sharing, and perhaps stayed a little closer to home. Last month after C went down with a broken leg, her car suddenly became very available. I couldn't resist its lure. As the temperatures hovered just above freezing and the Ultimate practices hovered just before bed time, I borrowed the car on a regular basis. At 8 o'clock at night and beyond, the car was a treat to warmly whisk me to practice and home again.

Unfortunately, it wasn't all evening back street driving. Clare also asked me to drive her a few places. Those adventures didn't go as well. The hour was usually day time and the traffic was thicker than I like my milkshakes. I don't have a great sense of direction anyway, but having a passenger who would rather be driving only made my misdirection seem more severe. All my reasons for choosing to be mostly car-less came rushing back. I think what Sartre really meant was, Hell is other people- in cars. In this city there are just too many cars vying for too little space. Then they want to park too.

It has been a great relief to return to my bike. Yes, I often feel that I'm going to be crushed under the weight of a giant unfeeling steel and plexiglass box on wheels, but at least I'm going to go out with a sense of freedom and control.

Part II
Although Clare has reclaimed her car, this experience has made me realize that in the world of car-less, I no longer fully count. I'm not pure. I do have more access than before. I live in a household with a car. At some point in my life, I think this blurring of the line would have bothered me greatly. Now, I acknowledge it, but I'm going to go about my business. Also, I think I'll go for a bike ride.

A tale of a mattress written in exactly five minutes
At first there was nothing, but a sleeping bag. Then came a mattress out of a garage. I look back on that time and I wonder, "how was that ok?" It was.

Next came a mattress, just the mattress, flopped on the floor. I was happy there. The mattress was firm. I was low to the ground. The danger of falling was minimized. Time passed and my need to stay low was overtaken by a need to grow up. Pressure mounted. I caved. My mattress was joined by box springs.

My firm Serta Ferndale Supreme mattress and a fine box spring made their way together through the years. Until, one day, my mattress and my box spring no longer fit my life. I needed a new mattress. I found one. It was firm. It would fit.

It arrived damp. Phone calls were made. Angry action threatened. Curses sent under my breath. Nothing took effect. Finally, a call to my credit card company stopped payment on the damp mattress. Still it sat in my room, propped up on the window, unmoving. For months. I had to get another mattress. I chose quickly. I felt pressured to right my wrongs, pressured to find a satisfying sleep.

A mattress trade later and I had just enough comfort to survive. This is not an easy tale to tell. I tried to call Serta to see if they had a replacement for the Ferndale Supreme, but they needed more information. My frustration continued.

Finally, they came and took my damp mattress away. It's only been 5 months.

That story took an extra 22 seconds. The end.