It just takes a little
There is a tightness in my stomach. It's not nerves or a premonition or a hernia. What it lacks in narrative qualities it makes up in ongoing pain and annoyance. The abdomen is a vastly underrated piece of the machinery of being mobile. I know it should, but my pain has not stopped me from playing Ultimate, a less-than-stellar brand of the stuff, but Ultimate still. Today the off brand was particularly frustrating, as the pain in my abs was supplemented by the very poor decision to eat pre-game pie.
Take it from me, pre-game pie equals error. Pregame pie will, how do you say, gum the works. It's a recipe for the gastrointestinal fireworks. Not, as Napoleon would claim, flippin' sweet. So between the muscles that surround my stomach and the stuff going on inside I was not exactly fit to rock. I was probably more fit to be a rock.
Dropped passes, poor throws, a handblock by my defender... my play was a reflection of my mid-section. Except for three points where it wasn't. The highlight of those three was when my defender asked, "do you stop running?" At least for a moment, my torso went back to being carried around and around by my legs.
That's better than post-game pie.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
I'm trying
In about fifth grade, I tried out for the Bob's IGA baseball team. Bob's IGA was a grocer, now defunct, and strikes me as an excellent little leauge team sponsor. I don't know whether Bob was, I didn't make that team. I never had much of a bat, or much of an arm. My fielding was decent, but not spectacular, and certainly not enough to make up for my difficiencies in two other pretty important baseball skills.
My freshman year of high school, I tried out for the freshman basketball team. Baseball had been out of the picture for a while, and basketball was my new sporting interest. I was a five-foot something scrapper. My shot was ok at best and it was matched by my passing and dribbling abilities. I could run and I could out-rebound a lot of other five-foot somethings. I might have had a chance. Only in my preparation for basketball I had discovered running. Running, it turned out, I could do well. After a single day of gymrat-like drills, I realized something about basketball. It wasn't running. So I scrapped plans to be a high school basketball player.
That was my last tryout for a long time. Running tends to take all-comers. Ultimate in most communities tends to do the same, and if it doesn't, there seems to be a self-sorting process. Not in this town. The Ultimate community in DC is large enough to support at least two men's Open club teams, and might have room for a third. So, after nearly 14 years without a tryout (job interviews don't count), I found myself out on the field trying to prove something to the people doing the picking.
It's been a complicated thing trying out for an Ultimate team. It's complicated by my body and its nonverbal complaining. It's also complicated by the sheer dependence on other people. There are certain skills that can make an Ultimate player shine, but to really have a great day, it takes great teammates. Teammates, who in this case are also trying out. Add to the mix, the wind, the lack of a weekend-ending goal, and this try out somehow seems more involved than my other two. It could be that it's more involved because, I've been playing this sport for 6 years and for once in a tryout my positive attributes seem to outweigh the negative. Maybe there's more at stake too.
The most interesting part of the process for me is trying to find the line between those that are going to get cut and those that aren't. It seems so fine. Talk about complicated, the best players may not get chosen, based on a team concept. Sometimes the best outright don't fit with the other puzzle pieces. In that sense, I'm glad I'm not the one doing the picking. This isn't gym class, but I'm never quite sure what it is. Fun, hopefully.
In about fifth grade, I tried out for the Bob's IGA baseball team. Bob's IGA was a grocer, now defunct, and strikes me as an excellent little leauge team sponsor. I don't know whether Bob was, I didn't make that team. I never had much of a bat, or much of an arm. My fielding was decent, but not spectacular, and certainly not enough to make up for my difficiencies in two other pretty important baseball skills.
My freshman year of high school, I tried out for the freshman basketball team. Baseball had been out of the picture for a while, and basketball was my new sporting interest. I was a five-foot something scrapper. My shot was ok at best and it was matched by my passing and dribbling abilities. I could run and I could out-rebound a lot of other five-foot somethings. I might have had a chance. Only in my preparation for basketball I had discovered running. Running, it turned out, I could do well. After a single day of gymrat-like drills, I realized something about basketball. It wasn't running. So I scrapped plans to be a high school basketball player.
That was my last tryout for a long time. Running tends to take all-comers. Ultimate in most communities tends to do the same, and if it doesn't, there seems to be a self-sorting process. Not in this town. The Ultimate community in DC is large enough to support at least two men's Open club teams, and might have room for a third. So, after nearly 14 years without a tryout (job interviews don't count), I found myself out on the field trying to prove something to the people doing the picking.
It's been a complicated thing trying out for an Ultimate team. It's complicated by my body and its nonverbal complaining. It's also complicated by the sheer dependence on other people. There are certain skills that can make an Ultimate player shine, but to really have a great day, it takes great teammates. Teammates, who in this case are also trying out. Add to the mix, the wind, the lack of a weekend-ending goal, and this try out somehow seems more involved than my other two. It could be that it's more involved because, I've been playing this sport for 6 years and for once in a tryout my positive attributes seem to outweigh the negative. Maybe there's more at stake too.
The most interesting part of the process for me is trying to find the line between those that are going to get cut and those that aren't. It seems so fine. Talk about complicated, the best players may not get chosen, based on a team concept. Sometimes the best outright don't fit with the other puzzle pieces. In that sense, I'm glad I'm not the one doing the picking. This isn't gym class, but I'm never quite sure what it is. Fun, hopefully.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Sunday, May 13, 2007
This game wouldn't be fun if we were perfect
There are moments when discs stick to hands like crazy glue is somehow involved, days where the sun shines brighter than an HDTV, and times when words fall into this box like they were wild horses released from a pen. Then there are moments, days, and times when the very opposite occurs.
Yesterday, in my first game of the day after my first cut, I had a moment when the disc hit my hand and glanced off, floating away in a sea of surprise and disappointment. It was a harbinger. The day was not filled with those moments, but we were never quite able to right the ship. And we sank.
The day was overcast. Rain has threatened us for nearly a week. It hasn't made good on those threats, perhaps realizing it is too drunk to fight, or maybe hoping that the threats will be enough to keep us in line. With the threat still lingering somewhere between cloud and sky..... Soaked. Shirt, shorts, face dripping with water. The weather had risen to the challenge and fulfilled the threats in a storm of nature's tears. With drops of rain rolling down my bike helmet and into my beard, I could not help but sing.
Rain. Rainbows. Lemons. Lemonade.
Times. Times just like these. When the wild horses can't be found and the pen isn't even mightier than the sod. Not that grass can't cut deep. They don't call 'em blades for nothing.
There are moments when discs stick to hands like crazy glue is somehow involved, days where the sun shines brighter than an HDTV, and times when words fall into this box like they were wild horses released from a pen. Then there are moments, days, and times when the very opposite occurs.
Yesterday, in my first game of the day after my first cut, I had a moment when the disc hit my hand and glanced off, floating away in a sea of surprise and disappointment. It was a harbinger. The day was not filled with those moments, but we were never quite able to right the ship. And we sank.
The day was overcast. Rain has threatened us for nearly a week. It hasn't made good on those threats, perhaps realizing it is too drunk to fight, or maybe hoping that the threats will be enough to keep us in line. With the threat still lingering somewhere between cloud and sky..... Soaked. Shirt, shorts, face dripping with water. The weather had risen to the challenge and fulfilled the threats in a storm of nature's tears. With drops of rain rolling down my bike helmet and into my beard, I could not help but sing.
Rain. Rainbows. Lemons. Lemonade.
Times. Times just like these. When the wild horses can't be found and the pen isn't even mightier than the sod. Not that grass can't cut deep. They don't call 'em blades for nothing.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
The life of a bean
Tonight I want the life that the L.L. Bean catalog promises me. I want to be in a place with my Adirondack chair in one of its three adjustable positions, perhaps all three as I mirror the sun sinking behind the lake. As darkness drips over the scene, I'd pull on my hunter green anorak, snuggling comfortably up near the light of a rechargeable lantern to finish a chapter in my Tom Robbins book. There'd be no mosquitos in my night. The only pest would be the one inside of me wondering how I'd gone so long without crocs hugging my feet. Yawning, but knowing that the night was too young for sleep, I'd switch on my LED boules balls and play the game that European campers preferred 20 years ago. Only, I'd do it in the dark. With the moonlit-colored jack just centimeters away, I'd emerge victorious, chuckle audibly with my mates, and then retire to my hammock, pulling a fleece blanket tightly around me and nursing my beef jerky. During my slumber I'd dream of another day frolicking near the dock under the warm summer sun. When the only cloud in the sky failed to shade me, I'd pull on my British-khaki-colored trekking hat, adjust the neck strap, and return to the frolick already in progress.
Tonight I want the life that the L.L. Bean catalog promises me. I want to be in a place with my Adirondack chair in one of its three adjustable positions, perhaps all three as I mirror the sun sinking behind the lake. As darkness drips over the scene, I'd pull on my hunter green anorak, snuggling comfortably up near the light of a rechargeable lantern to finish a chapter in my Tom Robbins book. There'd be no mosquitos in my night. The only pest would be the one inside of me wondering how I'd gone so long without crocs hugging my feet. Yawning, but knowing that the night was too young for sleep, I'd switch on my LED boules balls and play the game that European campers preferred 20 years ago. Only, I'd do it in the dark. With the moonlit-colored jack just centimeters away, I'd emerge victorious, chuckle audibly with my mates, and then retire to my hammock, pulling a fleece blanket tightly around me and nursing my beef jerky. During my slumber I'd dream of another day frolicking near the dock under the warm summer sun. When the only cloud in the sky failed to shade me, I'd pull on my British-khaki-colored trekking hat, adjust the neck strap, and return to the frolick already in progress.
Monday, April 30, 2007
The re-Hash
The world is a smaller kinkier place and it has been since last Thursday. I went on my first Hash run on that day. This group, like others, was said to be "a drinking club with a running problem." Having a bit of a running problem myself, I figured a hash run might be a kick.
I arrived to find a wide variety of people in a wide variety of shapes and colors milling about, some already drinking beer. The pink skirt, the green on green matching shorts and shirt, the billowing black bucket hat stand out in my memory. Some had the look and shape of typical runners, others had the look and shape of typical drinkers. Most were somewhere in between, and a few even had on really tight pants.
At some point during the milling I noticed a chalked "6:54 Hares off" on the sidewalk. The hash had already begun. Four runners, called hares, were out setting the course. They left small piles of orange flour to mark the trail and where the road split the hares left a chalk circle, called a check, to send those of us in the pack to scurry in all directions to search for the right path.
Meanwhile, the millers organized to introduce the vistors, those that had hashed with other clubs, and the virgins, those that had never hashed before. Introducing myself and giving the club-appropriate nod to the recruiter who had brought me to my hash I announced before the crowd, "I'm JustDave and Bound-to-Succeed made me cum." Experienced hashers have descriptive names. These names tend to be on the vulgar side, as does much of the "official" hash conversation. Throughout the night I would meet "Sticky Throt*le", "Cum Dumpl*ng" and "Dildo Bag*ins". There was a pack full of like-named hashers.
As the pack took off after the hares by following the flour and chalk on the streets, I felt the world shrink. We bounded over sidewalk and street, 50 or more people racing around like recess had just begun. Loosely, we had direction and purpose, something like beer, running, and company or maybe it was tracking the hares. The objective was not as clearly defined as the course we were trying to discover.
There was a fascinating "leader and lemming" mentality in action. Some leaders were clearly not trusted by experienced hashers. The checks tended to produce a moment or even a minute of standing around and waiting for the right trail to be discovered. Sounds of "bad trail" or some signal of the right trail could be heard before the stampede would start up again. Personally, I struggled some with cutting corners on the trail when the opportunity presented itself. Was I cheating myself? fellow hashers? the hashing deities? None of the above, it seemed. And the crowd of runners poured on, sometimes bunching together and other times stretching out in a dynamic band not entirely related to speed.
"BEER NEAR" may have been one of the most excited hasher calls of the day. Eventually everyone found the van that carried the beer and settled in for a gossip or a drink or both. A few could be heard re-hashing the current hash. Others were doing a bit of pre-hashing. Next week, apparently is Cinco de moustache; an event I was encouraged to attend based on my current facial hair situation.
After everyone had gathered again, and the hares had set out to set the second half of the trail, the group pounded away from the van in the coming darkness. Within 200 meters, we stumbled upon my first BC- back check. The whole pack then set about retracing our steps. The new trail soon plunged us into the woods where running became more of an exercise in not stumbling or getting poked by branches than a fluid movement with the legs. Eventually we emerged from the woods and continued on to the finish.
The second half of the hash seemed to have fewer checks and the pack began to unspindle into a long line of runners, much to the disappointment of my hash buddy. We bounded through places I'd never have found on my own, and wound through alleys that I didn't even know existed. The world seemed like ours, 50 or so runners out taking over the night. We pressed on until the sounds of "Beer Near" echoed through the air again.
I thought that beer and running wouldn't mix, but beer has never tasted so good. It was a bit like magic Gatorade, only with fewer electrolytes and more hops. I downed some beer as well as some delicious cookies and waited for "the circle."
The circle was a delightful place, filled with singing, revelery, and pornagraphic references. I'd describe it more thoroughly, but the song lyrics escape me, the revelery may have been beer-induced, and the pornagraphic references are probably best left untold.
The cops did stop by, but apparently they understand the world in all of its shrinked kink.
The world is a smaller kinkier place and it has been since last Thursday. I went on my first Hash run on that day. This group, like others, was said to be "a drinking club with a running problem." Having a bit of a running problem myself, I figured a hash run might be a kick.
I arrived to find a wide variety of people in a wide variety of shapes and colors milling about, some already drinking beer. The pink skirt, the green on green matching shorts and shirt, the billowing black bucket hat stand out in my memory. Some had the look and shape of typical runners, others had the look and shape of typical drinkers. Most were somewhere in between, and a few even had on really tight pants.
At some point during the milling I noticed a chalked "6:54 Hares off" on the sidewalk. The hash had already begun. Four runners, called hares, were out setting the course. They left small piles of orange flour to mark the trail and where the road split the hares left a chalk circle, called a check, to send those of us in the pack to scurry in all directions to search for the right path.
Meanwhile, the millers organized to introduce the vistors, those that had hashed with other clubs, and the virgins, those that had never hashed before. Introducing myself and giving the club-appropriate nod to the recruiter who had brought me to my hash I announced before the crowd, "I'm JustDave and Bound-to-Succeed made me cum." Experienced hashers have descriptive names. These names tend to be on the vulgar side, as does much of the "official" hash conversation. Throughout the night I would meet "Sticky Throt*le", "Cum Dumpl*ng" and "Dildo Bag*ins". There was a pack full of like-named hashers.
As the pack took off after the hares by following the flour and chalk on the streets, I felt the world shrink. We bounded over sidewalk and street, 50 or more people racing around like recess had just begun. Loosely, we had direction and purpose, something like beer, running, and company or maybe it was tracking the hares. The objective was not as clearly defined as the course we were trying to discover.
There was a fascinating "leader and lemming" mentality in action. Some leaders were clearly not trusted by experienced hashers. The checks tended to produce a moment or even a minute of standing around and waiting for the right trail to be discovered. Sounds of "bad trail" or some signal of the right trail could be heard before the stampede would start up again. Personally, I struggled some with cutting corners on the trail when the opportunity presented itself. Was I cheating myself? fellow hashers? the hashing deities? None of the above, it seemed. And the crowd of runners poured on, sometimes bunching together and other times stretching out in a dynamic band not entirely related to speed.
"BEER NEAR" may have been one of the most excited hasher calls of the day. Eventually everyone found the van that carried the beer and settled in for a gossip or a drink or both. A few could be heard re-hashing the current hash. Others were doing a bit of pre-hashing. Next week, apparently is Cinco de moustache; an event I was encouraged to attend based on my current facial hair situation.
After everyone had gathered again, and the hares had set out to set the second half of the trail, the group pounded away from the van in the coming darkness. Within 200 meters, we stumbled upon my first BC- back check. The whole pack then set about retracing our steps. The new trail soon plunged us into the woods where running became more of an exercise in not stumbling or getting poked by branches than a fluid movement with the legs. Eventually we emerged from the woods and continued on to the finish.
The second half of the hash seemed to have fewer checks and the pack began to unspindle into a long line of runners, much to the disappointment of my hash buddy. We bounded through places I'd never have found on my own, and wound through alleys that I didn't even know existed. The world seemed like ours, 50 or so runners out taking over the night. We pressed on until the sounds of "Beer Near" echoed through the air again.
I thought that beer and running wouldn't mix, but beer has never tasted so good. It was a bit like magic Gatorade, only with fewer electrolytes and more hops. I downed some beer as well as some delicious cookies and waited for "the circle."
The circle was a delightful place, filled with singing, revelery, and pornagraphic references. I'd describe it more thoroughly, but the song lyrics escape me, the revelery may have been beer-induced, and the pornagraphic references are probably best left untold.
The cops did stop by, but apparently they understand the world in all of its shrinked kink.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Talking to my TV
Every so often a commercial comes along that makes me say, "Spot on."
Hanes new commercial starring one Jennifer Love Hewitt is that commercial. Admittedly, I don't buy a lot of bras, but the attitude, the casting, the lines seem perfect.
Every so often a commercial comes along that makes me say, "Spot on."
Hanes new commercial starring one Jennifer Love Hewitt is that commercial. Admittedly, I don't buy a lot of bras, but the attitude, the casting, the lines seem perfect.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Kids say the darnedest things
or I am bringing sexy back
I was passed by a 5-year old kid and his mom pushing a stroller today on the way home from the grocery store. He said something quietly to her. She turned around and said, "Did you hear what my son said?"
I had not. She asked him to repeat it.
"You look like Justin Timberlake."
or I am bringing sexy back
I was passed by a 5-year old kid and his mom pushing a stroller today on the way home from the grocery store. He said something quietly to her. She turned around and said, "Did you hear what my son said?"
I had not. She asked him to repeat it.
"You look like Justin Timberlake."
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
In a rare moment I am going to not only admit that I work, but also admit that I care
Today, I learned about pivot tables in Excel. I was aware of the pivot table's existence, having seen a few in the wild, but it had never ocurred to me that I could create one. I didn't think that kind of power was granted to just anyone.
This may open up a whole other dimension to my spreadsheet experience. This must be how movie-goers felt when Smell-o-vision was introduced. This is like a whole new flavor of Excel. Although, I still have to figure out how to really use it. So right now it's still pretty much vanilla Excel with chocolate chip potential.
Today, I learned about pivot tables in Excel. I was aware of the pivot table's existence, having seen a few in the wild, but it had never ocurred to me that I could create one. I didn't think that kind of power was granted to just anyone.
This may open up a whole other dimension to my spreadsheet experience. This must be how movie-goers felt when Smell-o-vision was introduced. This is like a whole new flavor of Excel. Although, I still have to figure out how to really use it. So right now it's still pretty much vanilla Excel with chocolate chip potential.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
A greatest negated
I was not having the kind of Ultimate game that I prefer to have yesterday. I'd been more unbalanced than usual. I like to consider myself a pretty steady performer. I'd taken some early shots at the end zone with questionable throws and had some luck. That luck turned sour and I threw away some discs that I'd like to have back. I dropped a disc and I just felt a little out of whack. I had some good moments too, just eluding my defenders for a score and just missing on some defensive efforts. As the game wore on and both teams battled in and out of the lead, I found myself cutting break-side toward the endzone. My teammate, dipped down and threw a backhand around her defender that floated up into the air and toward the front cone and on its way out of bounds. With one of the best players in the local league on my heels, I jumped up after the disc. He bumped me as we went up, but with my body in the way he couldn't get to the disc. I latched on to it with my right hand and then as gravity pulled us down, I flicked my wrist and sent the disc flying over my left shoulder before we landed on the ground in a heap. I rolled over to see my teammate diving into the endzone to catch my desperate throw. A GREATEST! I barely reacted. It seemed right and lucky. Sometimes when a game is moving so quickly and I'm asking my body to be special, I don't get the opportunity to appreciate what is going on like I do when I watch someone else. I really don't know if it was disbelief or something else, but I didn't get to ponder it long. My defender questioned whether I had jumped from in bounds when I made this greatest attempt. Unfortunately, there was no way either of us could see where I had left the ground. Everyone else on the field was fairly far away from the play and no one had a very good perspective. We discussed it briefly and unfortunately decided that the best course of action was the do-over. One of my teammates told me that in my heart I should always remember this greatest, that I was in and it should have counted.
I want to.
I also want to remember the do-over. With the disc back in to the original thrower and a new defender on me, I made another cut for a throw. This was a force-side throw, but it floated as well. I reached for it with my right hand extended and missed. My defender flung his arm windmill-style to swat the disc down, but also came up empty. Spinning around the disc floated down at about shoulder level and I plucked it from the air. I made a couple looks up field and then threw an inside-out flick past my defender to a cutter for the score. For those that believe that the disc never lies, chalk that up as a victory. For those that think that's a lot of hooey, we still got the score.
It's the little moments that make this game so special. The ups and downs of competition, of pushing to the limits, of believing that if I just run hard enough or stretch far enough I will be rewarded-- by a disc that floats to just the right spot or sticks to an outstretched hand. It's impossible. It's beautiful.
I was not having the kind of Ultimate game that I prefer to have yesterday. I'd been more unbalanced than usual. I like to consider myself a pretty steady performer. I'd taken some early shots at the end zone with questionable throws and had some luck. That luck turned sour and I threw away some discs that I'd like to have back. I dropped a disc and I just felt a little out of whack. I had some good moments too, just eluding my defenders for a score and just missing on some defensive efforts. As the game wore on and both teams battled in and out of the lead, I found myself cutting break-side toward the endzone. My teammate, dipped down and threw a backhand around her defender that floated up into the air and toward the front cone and on its way out of bounds. With one of the best players in the local league on my heels, I jumped up after the disc. He bumped me as we went up, but with my body in the way he couldn't get to the disc. I latched on to it with my right hand and then as gravity pulled us down, I flicked my wrist and sent the disc flying over my left shoulder before we landed on the ground in a heap. I rolled over to see my teammate diving into the endzone to catch my desperate throw. A GREATEST! I barely reacted. It seemed right and lucky. Sometimes when a game is moving so quickly and I'm asking my body to be special, I don't get the opportunity to appreciate what is going on like I do when I watch someone else. I really don't know if it was disbelief or something else, but I didn't get to ponder it long. My defender questioned whether I had jumped from in bounds when I made this greatest attempt. Unfortunately, there was no way either of us could see where I had left the ground. Everyone else on the field was fairly far away from the play and no one had a very good perspective. We discussed it briefly and unfortunately decided that the best course of action was the do-over. One of my teammates told me that in my heart I should always remember this greatest, that I was in and it should have counted.
I want to.
I also want to remember the do-over. With the disc back in to the original thrower and a new defender on me, I made another cut for a throw. This was a force-side throw, but it floated as well. I reached for it with my right hand extended and missed. My defender flung his arm windmill-style to swat the disc down, but also came up empty. Spinning around the disc floated down at about shoulder level and I plucked it from the air. I made a couple looks up field and then threw an inside-out flick past my defender to a cutter for the score. For those that believe that the disc never lies, chalk that up as a victory. For those that think that's a lot of hooey, we still got the score.
It's the little moments that make this game so special. The ups and downs of competition, of pushing to the limits, of believing that if I just run hard enough or stretch far enough I will be rewarded-- by a disc that floats to just the right spot or sticks to an outstretched hand. It's impossible. It's beautiful.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
My shoes should be on VH1
And not in that washed up, they had a career, but now they don't Behind the Music sort of way. No, sir. My shoes should be on Best Week Ever. Last week at this time, my shoes were hanging out in the Grand Canyon. This Tuesday evening, in all of their red-rock-stained glory they took to the track to help a friend meet a lifelong goal of running a sub-five minute mile. I don't know about my shoes, but I wasn't exactly sure this would be an easy task for anyone involved. We set out to come as close to five minutes as possible. My shoes were in charge of pacing, since they had some experience in this endeavor. The first lap was 76 seconds, one second too slow. It took some convincing, but my shoes and I very carefully resisted the urge to panic about starting off a little slower than expected. My shoes carried us through the second lap at 2 minutes and 31 seconds, exactly on pace for a five minute mile if it hadn't been for that start. Knowing that the third lap can often be tricky, the shoes found some fortitude. The third lap is where a lot of shoes start to ask really poignant questions, most of those questions starting with "What the ???" So the shoes surged to fight off these questions, and together we rolled through the third lap at 3 minutes and 45 seconds, perfectly positioned to run a 5 minute mile. The final lap, with the imaginary bell ringing through my laces brought at the best lap of the day. Cruising in that painful way that only shoes on the track know how to do, my shoes moved to the outside and encouraged my friend's shoes up next to me. Coming out of the last turn our shoes mirrored one another. Pulling and gutting, our shoes charged for the finish line that just wouldn't get there fast enough, finally crossing in 4 minutes and 57 seconds.
Somebody buy those shoes an odor-eater, they're having the best week ever.
And not in that washed up, they had a career, but now they don't Behind the Music sort of way. No, sir. My shoes should be on Best Week Ever. Last week at this time, my shoes were hanging out in the Grand Canyon. This Tuesday evening, in all of their red-rock-stained glory they took to the track to help a friend meet a lifelong goal of running a sub-five minute mile. I don't know about my shoes, but I wasn't exactly sure this would be an easy task for anyone involved. We set out to come as close to five minutes as possible. My shoes were in charge of pacing, since they had some experience in this endeavor. The first lap was 76 seconds, one second too slow. It took some convincing, but my shoes and I very carefully resisted the urge to panic about starting off a little slower than expected. My shoes carried us through the second lap at 2 minutes and 31 seconds, exactly on pace for a five minute mile if it hadn't been for that start. Knowing that the third lap can often be tricky, the shoes found some fortitude. The third lap is where a lot of shoes start to ask really poignant questions, most of those questions starting with "What the ???" So the shoes surged to fight off these questions, and together we rolled through the third lap at 3 minutes and 45 seconds, perfectly positioned to run a 5 minute mile. The final lap, with the imaginary bell ringing through my laces brought at the best lap of the day. Cruising in that painful way that only shoes on the track know how to do, my shoes moved to the outside and encouraged my friend's shoes up next to me. Coming out of the last turn our shoes mirrored one another. Pulling and gutting, our shoes charged for the finish line that just wouldn't get there fast enough, finally crossing in 4 minutes and 57 seconds.
Somebody buy those shoes an odor-eater, they're having the best week ever.
Monday, April 09, 2007
Even big beards are tiny in the Grand Canyon
I had the look of a man on a backpacking trip, so long as the look includes cheap white plastic cat's eye sunglasses with fake rhinestones, a thick curly brown beard surrounded by week-old stubble, and a sweat-stained full-brimmed safari hat. I had that look, but the look was secondary to the attitude. The attitude is in the freeze-dried Teriyaki chicken and rice, in four liters of water, in full length toothbrushes and deodorant left behind. The attitude is in one short-sleeve shirt for three days, a sleeping bag that takes up 3/4 of that previously enormous blue backpack. The attitude is in 38 pounds, a walking stick, and the silent pleas to my knees and in the rankle of my ankles.
We'd descend a vertical mile while traversing six. We plunged into the canyon I'd always planned to save for later, but the company proved to be too much to pass up. I was a member of the death group, males in my age group tend to die in the Grand Canyon with greater frequency than others, but fortunately I had my family looking out for me. We made our way down the South Kaibab trail, only once passing through New Zealand, and only ten times passing through the scorch of a desert spring day. At 30 degrees shy of summer temperatures, my parched lips wondered how the summer crowd handled the intensity. At the bottom, just down the creek from Phantom Ranch, there was a campground with real toilets, lots of running water, and picnic tables. Phantom ranch had a small shop and a pay phone. The bottom of the Grand Canyon, where less than 1% of all Canyon visitors go, is really quite cushy. Cushy if you stay on the main trails and don't veer into the 47 degree Colorado river or into the vastness elsewhere. In our bid to reduce cushiness where we'd landed, we slept in our tents next to the creek, and only lit our tiny stoves when we needed to boil our bags of dinner or fire up our oatmeal.
Our trip up proved much easier, as it taxed heart and lungs rather than pounded down on my poor legs. Every bite of food transferred the weight on my back to my stomach- the poetry of "the weight of my decisions" dissipated into the calories for me to burn up, up, and up. We split the trip back to the rim into two sections of 4.5 miles each. The first half took us to the Indian Garden, where there was a campground, cushy, but not like Phantom Ranch. This walk may have been the most pleasent of all of our days, as the morning crowd was thinner. The trails we chose, even with 99% of the visitors hanging out near the rims, were surprisingly crowded. Moments of solitude were best caught between breaths and breaths were best caught in the narrow sections where the sun wasn't shining and the mules had not recently found relief. Or maybe it was the following morning, when the rim was just a few hours away, the bag was just a few pounds lighter, and the trenches carved by those same mules made for steps that resembled starting blocks, allowing hikers to propel up the hill when they found the right rhythmn. With a bounce in my step, and most of 2 liters emptied from the bladder on my back into the bladder in my middle, I began a final surge through the rim crowds. I passed hikers that wouldn't leave the relative comforts of the canyon wall. I passed families with their flip-flop shod children bounding down the trail and I thought about the nearly 15 miles behind me. Was I emerging from the big hole a different person? There was a sense of purpose in my step and a sense of accomplishment. I could feel the admiring stares of the underdressed as I lugged my now lighter backpack up the final yards. Putting the enormous pit behind me, I began focusing on the only pit that would be my reward- the pit toilet. With a final high five from the boy scouts that tormented my elders, I made it to the bathroom and to the top of the canyon. I felt more triumph than I'd anticipated and more pride when my family joined me. There was a twinkle inside matched only by my rhinestones. Immediately, I began to wonder what was next and what look I would need to cultivate to cross that off my list.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Go to bed
-October road has mastered the close-up are they? or aren't they? "falling in love" shot. Tonight's episode featured at least 4 instances. The punky perky pizza delivery girl look pretty much sealed my fate- I will continue to watch this show. It's a little booky, sometimes to the point of forcing literary references, but it feels like the show has its heart in the right place... maybe too much heart.
-Put this on the list of calls that I'd prefer not to receive from the cops, "Sir, we found your pants...and your wallet on campus. Call me back at 555-555-5555."
- I've been thinking about cutting my toothbrush down, but I'm hoping I can handle the weight of a full-length brush.
-October road has mastered the close-up are they? or aren't they? "falling in love" shot. Tonight's episode featured at least 4 instances. The punky perky pizza delivery girl look pretty much sealed my fate- I will continue to watch this show. It's a little booky, sometimes to the point of forcing literary references, but it feels like the show has its heart in the right place... maybe too much heart.
-Put this on the list of calls that I'd prefer not to receive from the cops, "Sir, we found your pants...and your wallet on campus. Call me back at 555-555-5555."
- I've been thinking about cutting my toothbrush down, but I'm hoping I can handle the weight of a full-length brush.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Advice columnist domino in age-awareness explosion
Dear Amy,
I'm 30-years old, never married....
This was how one young man began his letter to an advice columnist. I may have read the rest of the column, but this is the only line I remember. My brain immediately began racing- how many 30-year old men or nearly 30-year old men did I know that had never been married? Bazillions! was my first reaction. Granted, I live in a transient land where men and women come and go, which was suggested by the word transient, rather than stay and grow roots, but has the world gone mad?
As I arrived home, plopped my keys on the Star Trek-insignia-shaped table, and pilfered my mail, I noticed a "Save The Date" card. This wasn't one of those fancy-schmancy wedding cards. No, no, this was the announcement of an impending high school reunion. In theory, I have always wanted to attend my high school reunion out of "curiosity." In practice, I now realize that attendance is much more daunting than I previously anticipated. Why? myspace.com, that's why. Without the Internet, I may have been able to prod and pluck a few pesky memories from my mind about high school, but with visual aids strange feelings of both inadequacy and superiority have come flooding back. For some strange reason, I am unable to look at my high school classmates and not make some sort of comparison- my god man, you call that a beard? LET ME SHOW YOU A BEARD. Or on the flip side, how is it possible that in ten years you have only gained hotness? Isn't there a law of physics that prevents that sort of continual hotness upswing?*
Beard and hotness issues aside, perhaps the most daunting piece of all is acknowledging that 10 years have passed since I left high school. Somehow, I feel the need to account for those 10 years. I suppose 4 of them can pretty well be summed up in the 300 pages of blog postsings here. It's mundane and vague, but life has those moments. Then I can fire up the juicer and squeeze out a mention of college, ski lift operations, and the never-ending drum that beats a tune on a plastic disc. That covers another 5 years. I must have a missing year, wait, no, most of that was spent with a plastic disc. I guess that covers a big chunk of it. Throw in some travel, a little heartbreak, some really great friends, the on-going but lackadaisical search for meaning in running, novels, and life and we're getting pretty close. Not so bad.
Perhaps though, the tough part isn't acknowledging what has transpired in the last 10 years, but in what hasn't. So tough, that I can't bring myself to do it right now.
*Not all of my comparisons are quite so superficial, but give me a break, all the girls have private profiles and it's easier to compare looks than actually dig up memories and try to compare those with all the valuable information in a myspace quote.
Dear Amy,
I'm 30-years old, never married....
This was how one young man began his letter to an advice columnist. I may have read the rest of the column, but this is the only line I remember. My brain immediately began racing- how many 30-year old men or nearly 30-year old men did I know that had never been married? Bazillions! was my first reaction. Granted, I live in a transient land where men and women come and go, which was suggested by the word transient, rather than stay and grow roots, but has the world gone mad?
As I arrived home, plopped my keys on the Star Trek-insignia-shaped table, and pilfered my mail, I noticed a "Save The Date" card. This wasn't one of those fancy-schmancy wedding cards. No, no, this was the announcement of an impending high school reunion. In theory, I have always wanted to attend my high school reunion out of "curiosity." In practice, I now realize that attendance is much more daunting than I previously anticipated. Why? myspace.com, that's why. Without the Internet, I may have been able to prod and pluck a few pesky memories from my mind about high school, but with visual aids strange feelings of both inadequacy and superiority have come flooding back. For some strange reason, I am unable to look at my high school classmates and not make some sort of comparison- my god man, you call that a beard? LET ME SHOW YOU A BEARD. Or on the flip side, how is it possible that in ten years you have only gained hotness? Isn't there a law of physics that prevents that sort of continual hotness upswing?*
Beard and hotness issues aside, perhaps the most daunting piece of all is acknowledging that 10 years have passed since I left high school. Somehow, I feel the need to account for those 10 years. I suppose 4 of them can pretty well be summed up in the 300 pages of blog postsings here. It's mundane and vague, but life has those moments. Then I can fire up the juicer and squeeze out a mention of college, ski lift operations, and the never-ending drum that beats a tune on a plastic disc. That covers another 5 years. I must have a missing year, wait, no, most of that was spent with a plastic disc. I guess that covers a big chunk of it. Throw in some travel, a little heartbreak, some really great friends, the on-going but lackadaisical search for meaning in running, novels, and life and we're getting pretty close. Not so bad.
Perhaps though, the tough part isn't acknowledging what has transpired in the last 10 years, but in what hasn't. So tough, that I can't bring myself to do it right now.
*Not all of my comparisons are quite so superficial, but give me a break, all the girls have private profiles and it's easier to compare looks than actually dig up memories and try to compare those with all the valuable information in a myspace quote.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
The world is not black and white.
I know because I am constantly reminded of the gray.
In fifth grade, for somebody, I learned about opportunity cost. I'm quite sure there was a hypothetical example. This example allowed that I could either buy a walkman or a baseball glove, but not both. I had to weigh my options and consider how I was going to spend my money. If I picked the walkman, the baseball glove was the cost. If I picked the glove, no radio. I remember being intrigued by this concept. Learning economics at such an age seemed kind of cool and grown-up. Decision-making, big words, walkmans, and gloves- for someone who had just entered the double digits, this was pretty revolutionary stuff.
I had no idea that opportunity cost would be the governing principle of my existence. If I had, I think I would have been a little more reluctant to choose a hypothetical tape deck with headphones.
I know because I am constantly reminded of the gray.
In fifth grade, for somebody, I learned about opportunity cost. I'm quite sure there was a hypothetical example. This example allowed that I could either buy a walkman or a baseball glove, but not both. I had to weigh my options and consider how I was going to spend my money. If I picked the walkman, the baseball glove was the cost. If I picked the glove, no radio. I remember being intrigued by this concept. Learning economics at such an age seemed kind of cool and grown-up. Decision-making, big words, walkmans, and gloves- for someone who had just entered the double digits, this was pretty revolutionary stuff.
I had no idea that opportunity cost would be the governing principle of my existence. If I had, I think I would have been a little more reluctant to choose a hypothetical tape deck with headphones.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Exercise the darkness inside
Sometimes, when it's cold and a bunch of hot bodies gather to sweat and pant and stuff in Gold's Gym, the windows fog up. If the panters, and sweaters, and stuffers create enough of the exercise fog to cover the windows, then when I walk by I see only shadows bouncing up and down to some unheard rhythmn.
It's a little like a glimpse into an alternate universe. An alternate universe where the opaque people only bounce up and down and never seem to get anywhere at all.
They have ponytails in the alternate universe, so it can't be all bad.
Sometimes, when it's cold and a bunch of hot bodies gather to sweat and pant and stuff in Gold's Gym, the windows fog up. If the panters, and sweaters, and stuffers create enough of the exercise fog to cover the windows, then when I walk by I see only shadows bouncing up and down to some unheard rhythmn.
It's a little like a glimpse into an alternate universe. An alternate universe where the opaque people only bounce up and down and never seem to get anywhere at all.
They have ponytails in the alternate universe, so it can't be all bad.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Sunday, March 04, 2007
From high to low
It's curious that highs and lows very rarely average out. Last Saturday, I was on Ultimate Cloud 9. Today, a storm has blown through and the wind carried my Ultimate-related joy away with it. Wind makes Ultimate a curious game; a lot less beautiful and a lot more blooper-ful. Add in my own recent battles with sickness and that's some sense of how far down I've tumbled from 9.
If I may be so bold as to compare Ultimate to knitting, which thanks to the Internets I find myself doing more often than I thought possible, I'm starting to wonder if I have too many projects going at once. I think I'm getting a little tangled up in what other people want and I am struggling to remember what I want. It's easy to pick up the needles, and it seems that the knitting is fairly straight forward once you've got the knack, but the trick I think is to actually choose the right yarn and turn that yarn into something useful or beautiful or at least accomplished. I've been knitting mittens with the same basic yarn for about four years now. Recently I have found myself with a whole lot of new yarn and ideas for all kinds of projects. I can't knit them all even if I knit furiously for the next 6 months, so sometime soon I need to pick a yarn and a project and knit something I can be proud of. It's ok if that's not mittens; it's ok if it is.
I don't know if it matters, but I'm also starting to worry that I'm about to pass my knitting prime.
It's curious that highs and lows very rarely average out. Last Saturday, I was on Ultimate Cloud 9. Today, a storm has blown through and the wind carried my Ultimate-related joy away with it. Wind makes Ultimate a curious game; a lot less beautiful and a lot more blooper-ful. Add in my own recent battles with sickness and that's some sense of how far down I've tumbled from 9.
If I may be so bold as to compare Ultimate to knitting, which thanks to the Internets I find myself doing more often than I thought possible, I'm starting to wonder if I have too many projects going at once. I think I'm getting a little tangled up in what other people want and I am struggling to remember what I want. It's easy to pick up the needles, and it seems that the knitting is fairly straight forward once you've got the knack, but the trick I think is to actually choose the right yarn and turn that yarn into something useful or beautiful or at least accomplished. I've been knitting mittens with the same basic yarn for about four years now. Recently I have found myself with a whole lot of new yarn and ideas for all kinds of projects. I can't knit them all even if I knit furiously for the next 6 months, so sometime soon I need to pick a yarn and a project and knit something I can be proud of. It's ok if that's not mittens; it's ok if it is.
I don't know if it matters, but I'm also starting to worry that I'm about to pass my knitting prime.
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