The strangeness of September
It's a little scary to re-enter the blog world. I dipped my little toe in the other day and it doesn't appear that I lost any skin. I thought I'd try again before September ended. This month didn't go the way I thought it would, though, I don't really think much about how a month will go. I don't usually have the energy to live in chunks that large. I entered the month with a renewed interest in writing and finding some voice and then like a storm front blowing through, that interest was gone. It was usurped by Ultimate. In spare moments, I think about trying to revive that interest. The word play suits me, but I think I better understand the scores of folks who make a hobby out of intending to write.
At the end of August and the beginning of September, I accepted a volunteer coaching position. It's similar to the position that I've had over the last few years helping out at a local university, but this year the captains and I have formalized it and are trying to take the steps to move the team forward. We've come up with a curriculum that takes us roughly through November and we've run practices with more intent and planning. It's exciting, but I'm discovering that I'm more a creature of habit than I realized. Changes to the schedule or personnel have thrown me for a loop. Disappointing dips in attendance have boiled my blood in ways I'm not proud to admit. It's a learning experience and it's hard work. I'm trying to master a number of fears and challenges at once. It's a constant juggling act and it seems like someone keeps adding items to juggle. It has taken years to even get to a point where I'm ready to think about juggling. There's so much that I could talk about right here, that I think I'll wait and see if I can't use some of October to draw together my coaching experiences and my desire for word play.
In other strange September doings, I injured my knee last week. I stayed off it as best I could all week (which did nothing to improve a recent mood prone to sour spells) and then bought a knee brace. I strapped on the knee brace Saturday before playing Ultimate in a tournament. The knee brace cut the back of my knee, but otherwise seemed effective. After 5 games of Ultimate, some without the knee brace, my knee now feels better. I'm trying to convince myself that my dreams of Ultimate curing all my ills has finally come to pass. There are some personal Ultimate anecdotes from the weekend that also need a home here, but those too will have to wait.
Here are some lyrics to say it better while I prepare for October.
Don't mind me, it's just September....
....so afraid that what you'll find is all you deserve...
Perhaps September has reluctantly agreed to serve as an outline for future blog posts.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Go Pre
If you've waited 11 years wondering which 1997 Steve Prefontaine movie you should watch, I recommend Prefontaine over Without Limits. The latter focuses more on skirt-chasing, but the former is chock full of the Olympics, his fight with ATU, and some great running scenes. Both close out the same. I wasn't born when Pre was running, but it must have been amazing.
If you've waited 11 years wondering which 1997 Steve Prefontaine movie you should watch, I recommend Prefontaine over Without Limits. The latter focuses more on skirt-chasing, but the former is chock full of the Olympics, his fight with ATU, and some great running scenes. Both close out the same. I wasn't born when Pre was running, but it must have been amazing.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Life without car
I'd like to pretend that I never want or need a car, ever. I can't. Usually, I fill the need with a Zipcar or a gracious friend, but sometimes even that doesn't make sense. So, when both my bikes were crippled by rear flat tires it took me a full week to find the energy to get to a bike shop. Finally, on Friday with tires and tubes draped over my shoulder like a Project Runway design gone sour, I ran to the nearest bike shop. It was satisfying, but a 10-minute car trip was instead a bit of sweaty pavement-pounding ordeal. It's one of the few times that I've truly missed my car. I feel guilty that I have let that trip become an ordeal. Even as I'm proud of the end result, I'm disappointed at the laziness that rests somewhere inside.
Lazy or not, as I balked at the cost of two new tires and two new tubes, I felt pretty good that I haven't been to a car repair shop in quite some time. Something tells me that fan belts, oil filters, and other mechanic-speak would bring me balking to my knees.
I'd like to pretend that I never want or need a car, ever. I can't. Usually, I fill the need with a Zipcar or a gracious friend, but sometimes even that doesn't make sense. So, when both my bikes were crippled by rear flat tires it took me a full week to find the energy to get to a bike shop. Finally, on Friday with tires and tubes draped over my shoulder like a Project Runway design gone sour, I ran to the nearest bike shop. It was satisfying, but a 10-minute car trip was instead a bit of sweaty pavement-pounding ordeal. It's one of the few times that I've truly missed my car. I feel guilty that I have let that trip become an ordeal. Even as I'm proud of the end result, I'm disappointed at the laziness that rests somewhere inside.
Lazy or not, as I balked at the cost of two new tires and two new tubes, I felt pretty good that I haven't been to a car repair shop in quite some time. Something tells me that fan belts, oil filters, and other mechanic-speak would bring me balking to my knees.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Another Olympic moment I enjoyed
It may be the time difference or the rough performance that high expectations have brought on USA Track & Field, but I haven't found a lot to be excited about this week. The Bolt was amazing and although at least one official has called him disrespectful, I think I lack the proper thrill only because he was favored. I admire what he has done and think his speed is beautiful, but he hasn't captured my imagination. So my notable moment is once again off the field of play. This moment was a reaction shot of the now former World Record holder in the 200 meter race, Michael Johnson.
As Usain Bolt again ran a dominant and impressive race, we were treated to a shot of Johnson during the replay. I could see the disappointment he felt from losing his World Record, but he still jumped up and down in excitement and disbelief at what he was witnessing. It was so very human and genuine.
I think it says bad things for my Olympic hopes when my favorite moments are reactions.
It may be the time difference or the rough performance that high expectations have brought on USA Track & Field, but I haven't found a lot to be excited about this week. The Bolt was amazing and although at least one official has called him disrespectful, I think I lack the proper thrill only because he was favored. I admire what he has done and think his speed is beautiful, but he hasn't captured my imagination. So my notable moment is once again off the field of play. This moment was a reaction shot of the now former World Record holder in the 200 meter race, Michael Johnson.
As Usain Bolt again ran a dominant and impressive race, we were treated to a shot of Johnson during the replay. I could see the disappointment he felt from losing his World Record, but he still jumped up and down in excitement and disbelief at what he was witnessing. It was so very human and genuine.
I think it says bad things for my Olympic hopes when my favorite moments are reactions.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
My favorite Olympic moment*
I almost hate to admit it because I'm so sick of everyone talking about him, but this moment was too much. I was sitting on the third base side somewhat watching a Nationals game when I glanced down at my watch. "Michael Phelps races in three minutes," I announced. Some thirty seconds later and 400 feet away up in the bar out in centerfield, a small crowd erupted with more energy than we'd seen all game from anyone. I could see TVs in the bar, but my prescription glasses aren't strong enough to see what was on them, yet I knew. People around us murmured wondering what was happening in centerfield."Michael Phelps won gold," I said quietly with a smile. A few minutes later a man with a radio confirmed it. Michael Phelps by 1/100th of a second.
I haven't seen the race yet and although I've heard and read that it was amazing, I'm not sure the visual will surpass my curious communal experience.
*I have not watched any track and field yet and that stuff is pretty near and dear to my heart.
I almost hate to admit it because I'm so sick of everyone talking about him, but this moment was too much. I was sitting on the third base side somewhat watching a Nationals game when I glanced down at my watch. "Michael Phelps races in three minutes," I announced. Some thirty seconds later and 400 feet away up in the bar out in centerfield, a small crowd erupted with more energy than we'd seen all game from anyone. I could see TVs in the bar, but my prescription glasses aren't strong enough to see what was on them, yet I knew. People around us murmured wondering what was happening in centerfield."Michael Phelps won gold," I said quietly with a smile. A few minutes later a man with a radio confirmed it. Michael Phelps by 1/100th of a second.
I haven't seen the race yet and although I've heard and read that it was amazing, I'm not sure the visual will surpass my curious communal experience.
*I have not watched any track and field yet and that stuff is pretty near and dear to my heart.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Once, twice, five times with needles
Some time ago, I stumbled upon some free acupuncture in my neighborhood. The place doing the poking is a fascinating sort of place that offers all kinds of classes that I'm fearful to use. Yet, somehow the acupuncture, even when the "free" was gone, stuck (pun intended). I like my acupuncturist. He seems so genuine and eager that it's almost uncomfortable. Yet, even when d my face sometimes hurts with the awkward pauses in our conversation, it seems like he listens to me 1.6 million times better than my doctor. Maybe that's why I find myself going back. Last week I made my fifth trip to see him. Each one has felt slightly different. There's always the initial prick that comes from being stuck by a needle; it's less painful than a shot, but not unnoticeable. Then after a few quiet moments, something almost otherworldly seems to happen. Let me recount those experiences.
1. The psoas darkens. Then it gets lighter, as in less weight. Totally trippy.
2. A stress ball of a psoas flattens out. Odd.
3. A flattened ball dissapates. Then I feel the magic of acupuncture pressing the connecting parts, searching for something to relax. When the pushing doesn't work, the magic starts pulling. Also trippy.
4. 17 needles later and I feel a little better. This time was different. Before I even got poked by the needle, I thought I felt it. Maybe it was the number of needles or maybe I was externally more sensitive.
5. This time the needles are applied directly to a new area of pain in addition to other places in line. Like a magic scrubber, something seems to clean all the muscles around the pain, but the pain does not go away. So, needles are added again to further pinpoint the pain area. The pain leaves, but returns some hours later. Trippy and unfortunate.
Next time, I don't know what to expect.
Some time ago, I stumbled upon some free acupuncture in my neighborhood. The place doing the poking is a fascinating sort of place that offers all kinds of classes that I'm fearful to use. Yet, somehow the acupuncture, even when the "free" was gone, stuck (pun intended). I like my acupuncturist. He seems so genuine and eager that it's almost uncomfortable. Yet, even when d my face sometimes hurts with the awkward pauses in our conversation, it seems like he listens to me 1.6 million times better than my doctor. Maybe that's why I find myself going back. Last week I made my fifth trip to see him. Each one has felt slightly different. There's always the initial prick that comes from being stuck by a needle; it's less painful than a shot, but not unnoticeable. Then after a few quiet moments, something almost otherworldly seems to happen. Let me recount those experiences.
1. The psoas darkens. Then it gets lighter, as in less weight. Totally trippy.
2. A stress ball of a psoas flattens out. Odd.
3. A flattened ball dissapates. Then I feel the magic of acupuncture pressing the connecting parts, searching for something to relax. When the pushing doesn't work, the magic starts pulling. Also trippy.
4. 17 needles later and I feel a little better. This time was different. Before I even got poked by the needle, I thought I felt it. Maybe it was the number of needles or maybe I was externally more sensitive.
5. This time the needles are applied directly to a new area of pain in addition to other places in line. Like a magic scrubber, something seems to clean all the muscles around the pain, but the pain does not go away. So, needles are added again to further pinpoint the pain area. The pain leaves, but returns some hours later. Trippy and unfortunate.
Next time, I don't know what to expect.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Summer at Mordor?
I'm starting to be concerned about the Olympics. Between revoked visas and the Sally Jenkins' column regarding questionable air quality and corporate sponsorships, I worry. One of the favorites in the men's marathon has already dropped out. Supposedly, events over an hour scheduled on days when air quality is bad will be rescheduled. It almost makes the days of drug scandals seem like the good old days. The Olympics haven't even started. Maybe I should worry less about the Olympics and more about China (or the world?) in general.
I'm starting to be concerned about the Olympics. Between revoked visas and the Sally Jenkins' column regarding questionable air quality and corporate sponsorships, I worry. One of the favorites in the men's marathon has already dropped out. Supposedly, events over an hour scheduled on days when air quality is bad will be rescheduled. It almost makes the days of drug scandals seem like the good old days. The Olympics haven't even started. Maybe I should worry less about the Olympics and more about China (or the world?) in general.
Monday, August 04, 2008
Burning butterflies
There’s a fire in my calves. It’s like a vertical rope burn that almost overshadows the memory of Friday’s butterflies in my stomach.
I was nervous. Nervous like a ninth-grader. As part of the local running series, I had decided to run in a 2-mile race on the track. My legs were still sore from last weekend. Running all week had done nothing for my confidence. I knew that I could run two miles, but as I munched lunch I reflected on the speed I wanted to attain, 5:20 per mile, and the unfamiliarity with the distance. It had been a regular race in high school, but not a popular recreational event over the last 11 years.
I tried to recall some of my past success at Friday night track meets to calm my nerves, but that did not work. It took two pre-race steps to quiet the jitters. The first was a comforting warm-up with MB who helped take my mind off the race and the second was some striders. The striders made me realize that my dead legs still had life.
The race was large for a track and the pace diverse. This was an 11:30-and-under heat, and the leaders planned to run 9:30. I made my way into the second row at the start and waited for “Go.” It took almost a full 75-second lap before I’d jostled into inside position. The 8-laps-at-80-seconds-each plan I envisioned had already begun to unravel and I’d only just started. Racing is never the same as planning.
Post-race reflection has me running at around 15th place as I came through the half-mile mark in 2:30. For a moment, I had visions of a roaring to a 10 flat 2-mile. Even in high school races of 10 minutes or better were sweet achievements. This wasn’t high school and I haven’t trained for such an effort. So my legs slowed me unconsciously. I settled in to a comfortable pace that brought me through the mile at 5:15. I still had room to slow and meet my goal. Most of the middle laps don’t seem to be a part of my experience, although I do recall one memory quite clearly. It’s the stuff of movies. I was cruising on a straightaway and only the track was visible. Everything else was a blur. The world was quiet, I didn’t hear my steps or panting, I just sensed the exact distance I had remaining and an assured feeling that I had enough inside to get through it. The quiet blur left me when one runner made a move to pass. I don’t remember seeing him, I just sensed that he was coming. I sped up in response. We still had the better part of 3 laps to go and I was able to hold him off at this stage. On the back stretch, I passed two runners and believed that I might be able to leave the runner on my heels entangled in their pace, but as we came off the turn, I found that he was still around.
If my 2 mile is going well, I am able to pick up the pace with 2 laps to go. I’ve always felt that I need to string out my finishing kick more than many of my competitors. The change was subtle and driven by the runner giving chase. I didn’t have the power or the confidence to shake him and he continued to push as I tried to keep him at bay. He was still on my heels as we entered the bell lap. The bell cries out inspiration for every distance track runner. It comes down to this. I pushed through the back stretch desperately hoping my competitor would break before the final stretch, but I still sensed him as we entered the turn. As we came off the turn and faded across the track during the last 100 meters, I gritted my teeth, pumped my arms, and flashed through many races that ended with competitors kicking their way right past me. I always draw on those experiences as I try to avoid another one. I only know what I’m told about the stretch because my muscles were contorted and heaving, but I’m told that neither of us gave an inch. We pushed one another all the way to the finish. I crossed in 10:28 and thanked eighth place for a wonderful race. It wouldn’t have been the same without him.
I can’t fully articulate why it matters or why this burning and butterflies are worth so much, but I’d say that putting it on the line makes me feel alive.
There’s a fire in my calves. It’s like a vertical rope burn that almost overshadows the memory of Friday’s butterflies in my stomach.
I was nervous. Nervous like a ninth-grader. As part of the local running series, I had decided to run in a 2-mile race on the track. My legs were still sore from last weekend. Running all week had done nothing for my confidence. I knew that I could run two miles, but as I munched lunch I reflected on the speed I wanted to attain, 5:20 per mile, and the unfamiliarity with the distance. It had been a regular race in high school, but not a popular recreational event over the last 11 years.
I tried to recall some of my past success at Friday night track meets to calm my nerves, but that did not work. It took two pre-race steps to quiet the jitters. The first was a comforting warm-up with MB who helped take my mind off the race and the second was some striders. The striders made me realize that my dead legs still had life.
The race was large for a track and the pace diverse. This was an 11:30-and-under heat, and the leaders planned to run 9:30. I made my way into the second row at the start and waited for “Go.” It took almost a full 75-second lap before I’d jostled into inside position. The 8-laps-at-80-seconds-each plan I envisioned had already begun to unravel and I’d only just started. Racing is never the same as planning.
Post-race reflection has me running at around 15th place as I came through the half-mile mark in 2:30. For a moment, I had visions of a roaring to a 10 flat 2-mile. Even in high school races of 10 minutes or better were sweet achievements. This wasn’t high school and I haven’t trained for such an effort. So my legs slowed me unconsciously. I settled in to a comfortable pace that brought me through the mile at 5:15. I still had room to slow and meet my goal. Most of the middle laps don’t seem to be a part of my experience, although I do recall one memory quite clearly. It’s the stuff of movies. I was cruising on a straightaway and only the track was visible. Everything else was a blur. The world was quiet, I didn’t hear my steps or panting, I just sensed the exact distance I had remaining and an assured feeling that I had enough inside to get through it. The quiet blur left me when one runner made a move to pass. I don’t remember seeing him, I just sensed that he was coming. I sped up in response. We still had the better part of 3 laps to go and I was able to hold him off at this stage. On the back stretch, I passed two runners and believed that I might be able to leave the runner on my heels entangled in their pace, but as we came off the turn, I found that he was still around.
If my 2 mile is going well, I am able to pick up the pace with 2 laps to go. I’ve always felt that I need to string out my finishing kick more than many of my competitors. The change was subtle and driven by the runner giving chase. I didn’t have the power or the confidence to shake him and he continued to push as I tried to keep him at bay. He was still on my heels as we entered the bell lap. The bell cries out inspiration for every distance track runner. It comes down to this. I pushed through the back stretch desperately hoping my competitor would break before the final stretch, but I still sensed him as we entered the turn. As we came off the turn and faded across the track during the last 100 meters, I gritted my teeth, pumped my arms, and flashed through many races that ended with competitors kicking their way right past me. I always draw on those experiences as I try to avoid another one. I only know what I’m told about the stretch because my muscles were contorted and heaving, but I’m told that neither of us gave an inch. We pushed one another all the way to the finish. I crossed in 10:28 and thanked eighth place for a wonderful race. It wouldn’t have been the same without him.
I can’t fully articulate why it matters or why this burning and butterflies are worth so much, but I’d say that putting it on the line makes me feel alive.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Beaches aren't relaxing
My annual beach weekend is set back from the sea a good 100 meters. It involves a lot of flopping in the sand and chasing after plastic with my friends. This year it involved half-donkey, half-elephant, half-plaid, dancing machines. It's no wonder some people don't invite us to their beaches. Wildwood, New Jersey is not some people and they keep having us back. Some 300 teams, easily 1,000 Ultimate players, once again took to the sand and coated themselves in it.
Getting to Wildwood has never been easy, it looks closer than it is and traffic is always thick. This year my car found out that it is closer than it is. Or at least we found out that navigating is important. It was a hard lesson to learn, one we started to consider some hour or more after we'd missed our turn. The lesson was reinforced by one generous cop who decided that we looked pathetic or awesome or just not troublesome enough to ticket for speeding at 1 AM.
I found 3.5 hours of sleep were savory and delicious in the tent mansion, but longed for more. All that was soon forgotten as time stood still for the plastic chasing. Beach Ultimate, as long-time readers know, is wonderful for the sheer amount of diving that goes on. Look in most any direction and someone is bound to be flying through the air. This year was particularly special as it became a reunion of sorts. First, I was reunited with the disc, as I haven't played since about May. I was a little nervous, but nerves were calmed early as I cut up field and watched A fire a disc toward the back corner of the end zone. I couldn't believe how far out in front of me it looked, but it seemed almost reachable. I gave chase and silently begged for the disc to stay up in the air just a little longer. With a burst and a layout, I reached out my arm and felt plastic before crashing into the sand for a score. That was the last of the nervousness.
I was also reunited with teammates and friends. It was a joy to spend a weekend in the company of those good people and to make some new teammates and friends. Back to the action: One general highlight was the return of my Frisbee (man)crush on Alan. I felt so comfortable on the field with him. There were so many moments where I just felt like he understood where I was headed or went exactly where I needed him to go. Even when he skyed me late in the day on Sunday, it was only because he knew I couldn't find the floating disc due to my (otherwise awesome) team hat. I can't even think of a specific throw or catch that he made to make me say this, I just remember multiple times locking eyes and then going to get a disc or releasing one to him. I could probably gush some more, but it would likely only get more awkward, so I'll spare us all. I also really enjoyed being on the field with MB who has such a great sense of the game and his body in the air. I can't count the number of times that he managed to fake out his mark and drop a sweet pass right in front of me. We had a great give and go and he gobbled up almost everything I could throw. He even tracked down the longest one-pointer I could possibly throw capping it off with a wicked grab. The team as a whole really had some nice flow. I can't remember playing at a Wildwood event where we seemed so in sync. Almost every time I looked up, I saw someone in plaid making a sweet cut. I bet MD faked out so many defenders with cuts to my flick that their knees got tired and locked up. It was so awesome to see her and all the plaid working well together. I wish that I could outline all the highlights of the weekend for all my teammates, but I focus and remember mostly what happened to me and what stands out from there. (And even then my memory is short.)
I've already recounted my first layout. We went 3-1 on the first day, knocking off a ridiculously athletic Colorado team at universe point and then dropping one to a team that I believe we should have defeated. Our early games were pretty easy, although the first one turned out to be closer than it should have been. I had a manic-depressive game in our loss and I've already tried to block it from my memory. The wind had shifted and we struggled in it. We came into Sunday and I've already forgotten most of what happened. If I recall we came out fired up against a good tie-dye team in a battle of the patterns. We were clinging to a lead and then fell at universe point. The 4th next-point-wins situation of our weekend. We split them evenly. We then played a team that didn't see me. It was like I had on my invisibility cloak. I didn't though, it was the same red plaid skirt and modified women's darker red blazer with green trim. I had at least three catches on their first throw up the field, which led to a couple very easy 10-foot throws for scores. My favorite moment of the game though was on an up field pass. The cutter had broken behind me and the throw went up. I gave chase, launched my body into the air, stuck at my left hand and snagged it. I don't get to catch my layout D's very often. That felt pretty sweet. I almost matched it later in the game as I got my finger tips on a nearly perfect outside-in throw that unfortunately landed in the receivers' hands. We kept the points coming and managed to keep our lead steady in a game. As the rain and thunder came it felt like a nice way to end the day.
Only it wasn't. The storm passed and play was allowed to resume. Most teams had left and my body and my mind were halfway back to DC. Despite a quiet protest from yours truly, we returned to our field to wait for an opponent. None showed up, so I took to cleaning the trash that my beloved community had left behind. I was joined by MB and MD and I'm proud to say that we cleaned the sidelines of something like 10 fields. Ultimate players need to learn to pick up after themselves. As time wore on, I began to relax in the knowledge that a hot shower and rest were in my near future.
Only they weren't. Sam had brokered a deal which would allow us to have a rematch with the tie-dye team we'd lost to earlier with a trophy going to the victors. I was audibly annoyed about the mind shift this would require. It took a stern talking to from MD, but once the game began I was all in it and mostly happy to be a part of it. Tie-dye was not taking us lightly this time and the winds from the passing storm lingered. Our throwers struggled, but we fought on. Tie-dye took it to us with some very nice throws and plays. One guy in particular managed to fake me out of my shorts (I'd changed from the skirt) at least twice for scoring catches. Somewhere though, I managed to save a little face as I was on him again and managed to keep my shorts on and knock a disc down that would have been a score. My last memory from the game was a bid on a throw that I've since found out wasn't to me. It's a fitting way to leave the beach; with something more to grasp. MB whipped a pass down the line. I believed I was the intended target and launched myself into the air. I think I was as high as I've ever been horizontally. It was my only chance to make a play and I gave it all I had. The disc flew by and I thudded to the ground, probably swallowing just a little more sand. Tie-dye went on to win. The plaid Donk-a-phant Dance Party headed home, a little richer and a little sandier from the experience.
My annual beach weekend is set back from the sea a good 100 meters. It involves a lot of flopping in the sand and chasing after plastic with my friends. This year it involved half-donkey, half-elephant, half-plaid, dancing machines. It's no wonder some people don't invite us to their beaches. Wildwood, New Jersey is not some people and they keep having us back. Some 300 teams, easily 1,000 Ultimate players, once again took to the sand and coated themselves in it.
Getting to Wildwood has never been easy, it looks closer than it is and traffic is always thick. This year my car found out that it is closer than it is. Or at least we found out that navigating is important. It was a hard lesson to learn, one we started to consider some hour or more after we'd missed our turn. The lesson was reinforced by one generous cop who decided that we looked pathetic or awesome or just not troublesome enough to ticket for speeding at 1 AM.
I found 3.5 hours of sleep were savory and delicious in the tent mansion, but longed for more. All that was soon forgotten as time stood still for the plastic chasing. Beach Ultimate, as long-time readers know, is wonderful for the sheer amount of diving that goes on. Look in most any direction and someone is bound to be flying through the air. This year was particularly special as it became a reunion of sorts. First, I was reunited with the disc, as I haven't played since about May. I was a little nervous, but nerves were calmed early as I cut up field and watched A fire a disc toward the back corner of the end zone. I couldn't believe how far out in front of me it looked, but it seemed almost reachable. I gave chase and silently begged for the disc to stay up in the air just a little longer. With a burst and a layout, I reached out my arm and felt plastic before crashing into the sand for a score. That was the last of the nervousness.
I was also reunited with teammates and friends. It was a joy to spend a weekend in the company of those good people and to make some new teammates and friends. Back to the action: One general highlight was the return of my Frisbee (man)crush on Alan. I felt so comfortable on the field with him. There were so many moments where I just felt like he understood where I was headed or went exactly where I needed him to go. Even when he skyed me late in the day on Sunday, it was only because he knew I couldn't find the floating disc due to my (otherwise awesome) team hat. I can't even think of a specific throw or catch that he made to make me say this, I just remember multiple times locking eyes and then going to get a disc or releasing one to him. I could probably gush some more, but it would likely only get more awkward, so I'll spare us all. I also really enjoyed being on the field with MB who has such a great sense of the game and his body in the air. I can't count the number of times that he managed to fake out his mark and drop a sweet pass right in front of me. We had a great give and go and he gobbled up almost everything I could throw. He even tracked down the longest one-pointer I could possibly throw capping it off with a wicked grab. The team as a whole really had some nice flow. I can't remember playing at a Wildwood event where we seemed so in sync. Almost every time I looked up, I saw someone in plaid making a sweet cut. I bet MD faked out so many defenders with cuts to my flick that their knees got tired and locked up. It was so awesome to see her and all the plaid working well together. I wish that I could outline all the highlights of the weekend for all my teammates, but I focus and remember mostly what happened to me and what stands out from there. (And even then my memory is short.)
I've already recounted my first layout. We went 3-1 on the first day, knocking off a ridiculously athletic Colorado team at universe point and then dropping one to a team that I believe we should have defeated. Our early games were pretty easy, although the first one turned out to be closer than it should have been. I had a manic-depressive game in our loss and I've already tried to block it from my memory. The wind had shifted and we struggled in it. We came into Sunday and I've already forgotten most of what happened. If I recall we came out fired up against a good tie-dye team in a battle of the patterns. We were clinging to a lead and then fell at universe point. The 4th next-point-wins situation of our weekend. We split them evenly. We then played a team that didn't see me. It was like I had on my invisibility cloak. I didn't though, it was the same red plaid skirt and modified women's darker red blazer with green trim. I had at least three catches on their first throw up the field, which led to a couple very easy 10-foot throws for scores. My favorite moment of the game though was on an up field pass. The cutter had broken behind me and the throw went up. I gave chase, launched my body into the air, stuck at my left hand and snagged it. I don't get to catch my layout D's very often. That felt pretty sweet. I almost matched it later in the game as I got my finger tips on a nearly perfect outside-in throw that unfortunately landed in the receivers' hands. We kept the points coming and managed to keep our lead steady in a game. As the rain and thunder came it felt like a nice way to end the day.
Only it wasn't. The storm passed and play was allowed to resume. Most teams had left and my body and my mind were halfway back to DC. Despite a quiet protest from yours truly, we returned to our field to wait for an opponent. None showed up, so I took to cleaning the trash that my beloved community had left behind. I was joined by MB and MD and I'm proud to say that we cleaned the sidelines of something like 10 fields. Ultimate players need to learn to pick up after themselves. As time wore on, I began to relax in the knowledge that a hot shower and rest were in my near future.
Only they weren't. Sam had brokered a deal which would allow us to have a rematch with the tie-dye team we'd lost to earlier with a trophy going to the victors. I was audibly annoyed about the mind shift this would require. It took a stern talking to from MD, but once the game began I was all in it and mostly happy to be a part of it. Tie-dye was not taking us lightly this time and the winds from the passing storm lingered. Our throwers struggled, but we fought on. Tie-dye took it to us with some very nice throws and plays. One guy in particular managed to fake me out of my shorts (I'd changed from the skirt) at least twice for scoring catches. Somewhere though, I managed to save a little face as I was on him again and managed to keep my shorts on and knock a disc down that would have been a score. My last memory from the game was a bid on a throw that I've since found out wasn't to me. It's a fitting way to leave the beach; with something more to grasp. MB whipped a pass down the line. I believed I was the intended target and launched myself into the air. I think I was as high as I've ever been horizontally. It was my only chance to make a play and I gave it all I had. The disc flew by and I thudded to the ground, probably swallowing just a little more sand. Tie-dye went on to win. The plaid Donk-a-phant Dance Party headed home, a little richer and a little sandier from the experience.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Picking up where I left off
Sometime after 9 AM on Friday morning, with a large chunk of day ahead, D and I made our way to Dam Four. We had nearly six uninterrupted hours of waiting until we’d return to the trail. We found a bit of shade and tried to get some sleep. I believe that we both had intentions to sleep, but our 21st century bodies couldn’t find peace with nature. D attempted to sleep in the grass, giving himself over to all sorts of bugs. I tried to sleep in a parking space and found that complaints about my bed’s concrete mattress are in fact exaggerated. I believe I managed two twenty-minute naps before the sun rose up and swiped our shade. D didn’t do much better in the grass. With the heat bearing down on us, we decided to seek out another shady spot nearby. We moved the car and lapped up a few moments of air conditioning, before idling and returning to the hot day already in progress. The shade was thicker in this spot and so were the mosquitoes. I don’t remember the minutes thankfully, but time passed in a lazy way. I swam briefly in the strong current of the Potomac. The cold water was a great relief that no tale of polluted water could dampen. For lunch, or whatever meal one eats when he has been up since Thursday morning, we couldn’t find a knife and so instead used carrots and folded up slices of bread to spread the Nutella. Time passed slowly, but eventually our crowd gathered. P and A slogged their way to us. There was a sense of satisfaction and grit behind the sweat and weariness.
D and I eagerly took our turn. We’d waited all day to get going again. We had about 12 miles to go for this leg and we planned to alternate every 4 miles. Feeling like I had to slice through the air with a machete, I began the section that took us past Dam 4 and a few steps closer to the finish. Weighed down by perspiration, D and I were able to converse during the first section of our leg. We switched off without incident. D took to running and I watched as the heat and the many more miles he’d already put in took their toll. To entertain him, I gladly recounted my high school running career in the sort of detail that few people would enjoy. Hopefully, it kept his mind off his labor. Through too many tales of my past glory or from the easy spin of biking, I nearly leapt from the bike for my next 4 miles. I took off at a brisk clip and then spotted some geese on the trail. They waddled on ahead and I decided to give chase. I was gaining on them quickly, but they seemed unperturbed. As I got closer, they began to waddle more quickly and move slightly to the right to allow me to pass. I was surprised that they were not taking flight, but they waddled on. I increased my speed to pass them and they increased their waddle. As I reached the leader, I glanced over to see a goose waddling fiercely at my pace and looking at me in a way that seemed threatening. I’ve seen the Hitchcock movie The Birds and I wasn’t looking for trouble. I accelerated some more.
I don’t know how fast I was moving at this point, but as the temperature dripped down from the mid-90s, I was cruising. Running on 40 minutes of sleep, past glory, and a fear of geese, I whooped and hollered and had myself a hootenanny in the woods for at least another quarter of a mile. Then came the pain. For every peppy step I’d had over the last 15 minutes, I now felt the weight of foolishness bearing down upon me. It was hot. I was tired. The cherry on top of my miserable sundae was that I’d been ridiculous and careless with my energy. I desperately wanted to ask D to spell me just for a moment, but I couldn’t. So I slowed down. Waaay down. I couldn’t ask D for a rest because he wasn’t fresh and he hadn’t just foolishly chased geese. As I plodded along, he recounted his days as a college activist. I listened as best I could as the thickness of the air closed in around me. I was glad to be outdoors and in nature, but my vision no longer extended much past the slow rise and fall of alternating knees. I was folding up into myself and I still couldn’t escape. Slowly, painfully, we made our way to the exchange point. I greeted M with a very wet hug as M and P took over for us. Another leg was behind us, another leg was ongoing.
Next stop: Dinner. Using a borrowed cell phone, I made a call to one of D’s friends in New York by mistake on the way to dinner. She was very polite. Then I sent a text message to the correct B who was part of another batch of reinforcements. Thank goodness for reinforcements. Dinner was high on a hill in Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia. Darkness was approaching, but the team recounted our first 21-plus hours of enjoyment over food and drink. I wasn’t scheduled to run until 6 AM the next morning and so I elected to have a thick stout beer with my meal. Due to ongoing logistical challenges, one last batch of reinforcements, and the ever-changing Tom’s Run event, I found out that my time on the trail could actually be done. I sipped my stout with a smile, but then the smile left. I wasn’t ready to be done. I hadn’t properly said goodbye. My pleasure at completing my contribution turned to disappointment at not contributing enough. With a few more nods to the organizational wizardry, I managed to become part of a post-dinner 3-person, 2-bike, group heading out for an 8 or so mile leg. I was there strictly as additional support, but at least I’d get to properly wrap up the athletic portion of my experience.
Riding in the dark quietly behind my teammates, with a headlamp helping to illuminate the path, I listened to the periphery of a conversation and reflected on my time on this trail. I rode slowly as B and LMB alternated two mile sections. In one frightening moment, LMB looked over his shoulder and tumbled off the trail. Fortunately, his fall was only a few feet and he was able to pull himself up and continue on, but not for long. I can no longer recall which bikes’ tire went flat or who was on it, but the leak was immediate. We pulled slightly off the trail and began to examine the situation and our resources. We struggled to find a patch kit as we fumbled in the dark with the tire. Someone surely brought a spare tube, but it wasn’t on the bike. Patching a tire often involves letting glue dry before applying the patch. As we let the glue dry, we found that our string of bad luck wasn’t over. We found this out in the form of rain drops. B stood over the tire trying to block the rain from preventing the glue from drying. We got the tire patched up and pumped up and headed on our way. Within 50 feet, the tire was flat again. It was still drizzling and laughter was our only recourse. I agreed to walk the bike in while the other two pressed on. We arranged for a pick-up at the next section which would require cars back-tracking. As my teammates took a few steps forward, I realized that I had no desire to be out on the trail alone at 11 PM at night. I think scared would be a fine descriptor, but I didn’t allow myself to process that much; I just placed one hand on the seat and one hand on the handlebars and took to running with the flat-tired bike at my side. About two miles later, after a few self-handoffs, all three of us arrived at the pick-up point. The rain had stopped, although some thunder remained. We were jittery. This was the first real hiccup in the plans for many of us. Various attempts to pump up tires and redistribute loads were made as we dodged other teams in pick-up trucks and made preparations to continue on. LMB decided that he’d had enough and the only sensible course of action was for a tired me to join B for the next 4 miles. I nervously agreed that it could be done. B and I had a very nice chat as we alternated a few more miles to the end of the leg.
The end of the leg was the end of my athletic participation and my good-bye had been far more appropriate and eventful than I had bargained. The experience starts to become fuzzy at this point. It was sometime about 2 AM on Friday night. Since Thursday night, I’d slept for perhaps an hour and run something like 18 miles, 2 of them pushing a bike. I was pretty tired and didn’t argue when MB helped me clear out the back seat for some rest.
The next thing I remember is waking up and noticing that all the stuff was piled in the front seat. The car had moved further down the trail, all the way to Riley’s lock, and I’d been out cold the whole time. It wasn't quite daylight yet, but it’s approaching. Oh my, those 2 hours of sleep felt amazing. We cheered some more and daylight came. Our goal was approaching and still Saturday morning spread out before us like an enormous picnic blanket. As D and I made our way to the finish line to wait for our teammates we made two startling realizations. D made the first one- he had picked up a buddy, a little f***er of a tick, clinging to his hamstring. I made the second one, with a good 4 hours before the race was to finish we were a mere 15 minutes from my home. After some internal and external debate we decided that a shower and an Internet search for tick removal were in order. The shower didn't fulfill me the way I'd hoped; maybe I needed other things more, sleep for instance, but the tick removal was a success. D and I achieved new levels of friendship as I slowly plucked the little guy from his leg and stuck him in a baggie for safe-keeping.
Then in a quiet sort of way, similar to how this had all begun, we waited for it to be over. We all gathered together, excited for the finish. Other teams lurked around, but they had the same tired, quiet, heat-worn look that we did. And then, before we knew it, J and J finished it up. Some 200 miles and nearly 36 hours from when we began it was over. They made a few speeches and we nodded our agreement. We ate a few sandwiches and cookies. We took a few photos. We had some beer. Then a month later, after some pizza together and some pool together, I wrote about Tom's Run the way I remembered it. Yet, for all that stuff- speeches, sandwiches, cookies, photos, beer, pool, pizza, writings, nothing could really capture the experience.
It was ridiculous and I loved it.
Sometime after 9 AM on Friday morning, with a large chunk of day ahead, D and I made our way to Dam Four. We had nearly six uninterrupted hours of waiting until we’d return to the trail. We found a bit of shade and tried to get some sleep. I believe that we both had intentions to sleep, but our 21st century bodies couldn’t find peace with nature. D attempted to sleep in the grass, giving himself over to all sorts of bugs. I tried to sleep in a parking space and found that complaints about my bed’s concrete mattress are in fact exaggerated. I believe I managed two twenty-minute naps before the sun rose up and swiped our shade. D didn’t do much better in the grass. With the heat bearing down on us, we decided to seek out another shady spot nearby. We moved the car and lapped up a few moments of air conditioning, before idling and returning to the hot day already in progress. The shade was thicker in this spot and so were the mosquitoes. I don’t remember the minutes thankfully, but time passed in a lazy way. I swam briefly in the strong current of the Potomac. The cold water was a great relief that no tale of polluted water could dampen. For lunch, or whatever meal one eats when he has been up since Thursday morning, we couldn’t find a knife and so instead used carrots and folded up slices of bread to spread the Nutella. Time passed slowly, but eventually our crowd gathered. P and A slogged their way to us. There was a sense of satisfaction and grit behind the sweat and weariness.
D and I eagerly took our turn. We’d waited all day to get going again. We had about 12 miles to go for this leg and we planned to alternate every 4 miles. Feeling like I had to slice through the air with a machete, I began the section that took us past Dam 4 and a few steps closer to the finish. Weighed down by perspiration, D and I were able to converse during the first section of our leg. We switched off without incident. D took to running and I watched as the heat and the many more miles he’d already put in took their toll. To entertain him, I gladly recounted my high school running career in the sort of detail that few people would enjoy. Hopefully, it kept his mind off his labor. Through too many tales of my past glory or from the easy spin of biking, I nearly leapt from the bike for my next 4 miles. I took off at a brisk clip and then spotted some geese on the trail. They waddled on ahead and I decided to give chase. I was gaining on them quickly, but they seemed unperturbed. As I got closer, they began to waddle more quickly and move slightly to the right to allow me to pass. I was surprised that they were not taking flight, but they waddled on. I increased my speed to pass them and they increased their waddle. As I reached the leader, I glanced over to see a goose waddling fiercely at my pace and looking at me in a way that seemed threatening. I’ve seen the Hitchcock movie The Birds and I wasn’t looking for trouble. I accelerated some more.
I don’t know how fast I was moving at this point, but as the temperature dripped down from the mid-90s, I was cruising. Running on 40 minutes of sleep, past glory, and a fear of geese, I whooped and hollered and had myself a hootenanny in the woods for at least another quarter of a mile. Then came the pain. For every peppy step I’d had over the last 15 minutes, I now felt the weight of foolishness bearing down upon me. It was hot. I was tired. The cherry on top of my miserable sundae was that I’d been ridiculous and careless with my energy. I desperately wanted to ask D to spell me just for a moment, but I couldn’t. So I slowed down. Waaay down. I couldn’t ask D for a rest because he wasn’t fresh and he hadn’t just foolishly chased geese. As I plodded along, he recounted his days as a college activist. I listened as best I could as the thickness of the air closed in around me. I was glad to be outdoors and in nature, but my vision no longer extended much past the slow rise and fall of alternating knees. I was folding up into myself and I still couldn’t escape. Slowly, painfully, we made our way to the exchange point. I greeted M with a very wet hug as M and P took over for us. Another leg was behind us, another leg was ongoing.
Next stop: Dinner. Using a borrowed cell phone, I made a call to one of D’s friends in New York by mistake on the way to dinner. She was very polite. Then I sent a text message to the correct B who was part of another batch of reinforcements. Thank goodness for reinforcements. Dinner was high on a hill in Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia. Darkness was approaching, but the team recounted our first 21-plus hours of enjoyment over food and drink. I wasn’t scheduled to run until 6 AM the next morning and so I elected to have a thick stout beer with my meal. Due to ongoing logistical challenges, one last batch of reinforcements, and the ever-changing Tom’s Run event, I found out that my time on the trail could actually be done. I sipped my stout with a smile, but then the smile left. I wasn’t ready to be done. I hadn’t properly said goodbye. My pleasure at completing my contribution turned to disappointment at not contributing enough. With a few more nods to the organizational wizardry, I managed to become part of a post-dinner 3-person, 2-bike, group heading out for an 8 or so mile leg. I was there strictly as additional support, but at least I’d get to properly wrap up the athletic portion of my experience.
Riding in the dark quietly behind my teammates, with a headlamp helping to illuminate the path, I listened to the periphery of a conversation and reflected on my time on this trail. I rode slowly as B and LMB alternated two mile sections. In one frightening moment, LMB looked over his shoulder and tumbled off the trail. Fortunately, his fall was only a few feet and he was able to pull himself up and continue on, but not for long. I can no longer recall which bikes’ tire went flat or who was on it, but the leak was immediate. We pulled slightly off the trail and began to examine the situation and our resources. We struggled to find a patch kit as we fumbled in the dark with the tire. Someone surely brought a spare tube, but it wasn’t on the bike. Patching a tire often involves letting glue dry before applying the patch. As we let the glue dry, we found that our string of bad luck wasn’t over. We found this out in the form of rain drops. B stood over the tire trying to block the rain from preventing the glue from drying. We got the tire patched up and pumped up and headed on our way. Within 50 feet, the tire was flat again. It was still drizzling and laughter was our only recourse. I agreed to walk the bike in while the other two pressed on. We arranged for a pick-up at the next section which would require cars back-tracking. As my teammates took a few steps forward, I realized that I had no desire to be out on the trail alone at 11 PM at night. I think scared would be a fine descriptor, but I didn’t allow myself to process that much; I just placed one hand on the seat and one hand on the handlebars and took to running with the flat-tired bike at my side. About two miles later, after a few self-handoffs, all three of us arrived at the pick-up point. The rain had stopped, although some thunder remained. We were jittery. This was the first real hiccup in the plans for many of us. Various attempts to pump up tires and redistribute loads were made as we dodged other teams in pick-up trucks and made preparations to continue on. LMB decided that he’d had enough and the only sensible course of action was for a tired me to join B for the next 4 miles. I nervously agreed that it could be done. B and I had a very nice chat as we alternated a few more miles to the end of the leg.
The end of the leg was the end of my athletic participation and my good-bye had been far more appropriate and eventful than I had bargained. The experience starts to become fuzzy at this point. It was sometime about 2 AM on Friday night. Since Thursday night, I’d slept for perhaps an hour and run something like 18 miles, 2 of them pushing a bike. I was pretty tired and didn’t argue when MB helped me clear out the back seat for some rest.
The next thing I remember is waking up and noticing that all the stuff was piled in the front seat. The car had moved further down the trail, all the way to Riley’s lock, and I’d been out cold the whole time. It wasn't quite daylight yet, but it’s approaching. Oh my, those 2 hours of sleep felt amazing. We cheered some more and daylight came. Our goal was approaching and still Saturday morning spread out before us like an enormous picnic blanket. As D and I made our way to the finish line to wait for our teammates we made two startling realizations. D made the first one- he had picked up a buddy, a little f***er of a tick, clinging to his hamstring. I made the second one, with a good 4 hours before the race was to finish we were a mere 15 minutes from my home. After some internal and external debate we decided that a shower and an Internet search for tick removal were in order. The shower didn't fulfill me the way I'd hoped; maybe I needed other things more, sleep for instance, but the tick removal was a success. D and I achieved new levels of friendship as I slowly plucked the little guy from his leg and stuck him in a baggie for safe-keeping.
Then in a quiet sort of way, similar to how this had all begun, we waited for it to be over. We all gathered together, excited for the finish. Other teams lurked around, but they had the same tired, quiet, heat-worn look that we did. And then, before we knew it, J and J finished it up. Some 200 miles and nearly 36 hours from when we began it was over. They made a few speeches and we nodded our agreement. We ate a few sandwiches and cookies. We took a few photos. We had some beer. Then a month later, after some pizza together and some pool together, I wrote about Tom's Run the way I remembered it. Yet, for all that stuff- speeches, sandwiches, cookies, photos, beer, pool, pizza, writings, nothing could really capture the experience.
It was ridiculous and I loved it.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
A fitness event?
We pulled up to a creek blocking the hard-packed red dirt road somewhere in the hills of Maryland. It was nearing 2:30 AM. P was riding shotgun. We'd met at a gathering a week or so prior and I'd been part of high volume email traffic, but other than the last hour we'd spent getting to know one another, we were strangers. I was driving a borrowed car, a low riding silver grey Honda civic. I got my driver's license in a stick shift, but I don't drive much these days. The steep hills of Cumberland provided an early test, and the dirt hills a fine re-test.
Stopped at the creek, I let P get out and examine the the flowing water before us. He seemed to be the group leader; he was organized and seemed very together. He called me over to the creek for a second opinion. I got out of the car and by the light of headlights saw two parallel mounds three or more inches under water that seemed to form a trail leading from one bank to the other. Downstream, just off the left mound, a two to three foot drop led to more creek. I eyed the creek and eyed the low-riding civic.
"We might make it across those trails," I announced motioning with stiff hands in parallel tracks, "but I'm pretty nervous."
P agreed and informed me of alternate route which would require backtracking and additional time. We had at least an hour and a half before we would exchange places with our biking and running teammates. Our decision would cost us potential sleep, but would keep the borrowed car from becoming a part of the ecosystem.
We got back in the car and I looked at the embankment on each side of us. There wasn't room to turn around. We'd descended a hill to reach the creek and now we'd have to back out. I glanced over my shoulder and realized that on top of the darkness of night, my view was also obstructed by the bike we were carrying on the rear rack. I stuck my head out of the window and looked up into the darkness.
"P, I need you to roll down your window and let me know if I get too close to that side."
Up and up and up we went in reverse, P helping me maintain my position on the road. After about 150 meters, I had to stop and take a break. Another 50 meters after that and P directed me into a spot to turn around. As we wheeled away, I exclaimed, "Nice to meet you, P! "
If I ignore the many games of pool, the tussle with a bike rack, a few organizational hiccups, and the drive to Cumberland Maryland, this story began some two hours earlier in the parking lot of a Holiday Inn. There were five of us, organizing gear and bikes in the two cars. A train rolled by, but otherwise it was quiet, the way one might expect on a Thursday night in northern Maryland. At about 12:15, we found our way to the starting line of Tom's Run. There was no fanfare, just Roger, the organizer and a participant, waiting to send off the various teams. We snapped a few photos and began a 200-mile journey. MB was running the first leg and D was biking along in support. Teams could start at any time after midnight on this night. The goal was to finish by 11 AM on Saturday morning.
While MB and D were sloshing through the darkness armed with bikelights and headlamps, P., A. and I were trying to make our way to the end of the first leg to do a little cheering. It was a little shaky at first. I unintentionally led A. into a game of chicken with an oncoming truck as we circled the Holiday Inn looking for gas. Some quick reverse work and the patience of a Ford owner got us back on track. We climbed through the neighborhoods until we found some friendly, possibly high, folks who guffawed and then pointed us in the right direction.
We waited in the darkness while the mosquitos enjoyed the buffet of our skin. We exchanged hellos with another team and soon saw the white light of arriving runners. It turned out it wasn't our team, but we clapped anyway. A few hearty claps in a dark and tree-filled place. We seemed small and I had a moment of impatience. MB and D arrived in good spirits with a thin layer of mud caked on their legs. We cheered for them for a moment and exchanged a few words about our early challenges. Then off they went. As they ran and biked off into the darkness, I heard D say "And then in my junior year..."
It would be almost 5 AM, before I hit the trail with P. I'd opted only to rest my eyes because after the thrill of the epic reverse had worn off, I was checking the trail for signs of light. Instead I heard frogs and bugs, and then the caravan of SUVs. They chuckled at our tiny car and then departed after their team had moved through. Finally, my teammates A and D arrived. They were right on schedule, but I was itching to get going. P ran first while I biked along next to him. He was chugging through the early morning hours and put down 13 miles at beautiful and brisk pace. We barely spoke as the sun came up and we cut through the morning fog. The trail all looked the same in a quiet, green, curving, flat way. We switched and I carried out the same pace for another 6 miles with P riding at my side. There was still morning fog and temperatures had not risen either. The wildlife seemed to be mostly in our heads as P was frightened by a lynx that turned out to be wildflowers and I swore I'd seen a kangaroo that was probably a deer.
Some time later, after a water stop and a little cheering for a weary MB and D, we made our first team stop. MB was tired like I've never seen him before. The usual spring in his steps had been reduced to something nearing a drag. He and D had put in a lot of miles over the last 8 or so hours and breakfast was badly needed. The veterans of this event had planned a perfect stop at a small-town diner. Delicious waffles and the first wave of reinforcements were welcome treats.
My next assignment as laid out by agreement and the binders full of maps, instruction, and fun, found in each car was to get the reinforcements, M, to her first leg, and then to pick up D so we could spend the day waiting for our legs together that afternoon.
I knew going in that waiting was going to be a large part of the experience and so I tried to incorporate that into my plan. The first daylight waiting with M was perfect. We rocked the binder fun pages until she spotted our team on the trail. I went galloping after them and then we made a successful transition.
Tune in next time for dam napping, goose chasing, and possibly the exciting conclusion...
We pulled up to a creek blocking the hard-packed red dirt road somewhere in the hills of Maryland. It was nearing 2:30 AM. P was riding shotgun. We'd met at a gathering a week or so prior and I'd been part of high volume email traffic, but other than the last hour we'd spent getting to know one another, we were strangers. I was driving a borrowed car, a low riding silver grey Honda civic. I got my driver's license in a stick shift, but I don't drive much these days. The steep hills of Cumberland provided an early test, and the dirt hills a fine re-test.
Stopped at the creek, I let P get out and examine the the flowing water before us. He seemed to be the group leader; he was organized and seemed very together. He called me over to the creek for a second opinion. I got out of the car and by the light of headlights saw two parallel mounds three or more inches under water that seemed to form a trail leading from one bank to the other. Downstream, just off the left mound, a two to three foot drop led to more creek. I eyed the creek and eyed the low-riding civic.
"We might make it across those trails," I announced motioning with stiff hands in parallel tracks, "but I'm pretty nervous."
P agreed and informed me of alternate route which would require backtracking and additional time. We had at least an hour and a half before we would exchange places with our biking and running teammates. Our decision would cost us potential sleep, but would keep the borrowed car from becoming a part of the ecosystem.
We got back in the car and I looked at the embankment on each side of us. There wasn't room to turn around. We'd descended a hill to reach the creek and now we'd have to back out. I glanced over my shoulder and realized that on top of the darkness of night, my view was also obstructed by the bike we were carrying on the rear rack. I stuck my head out of the window and looked up into the darkness.
"P, I need you to roll down your window and let me know if I get too close to that side."
Up and up and up we went in reverse, P helping me maintain my position on the road. After about 150 meters, I had to stop and take a break. Another 50 meters after that and P directed me into a spot to turn around. As we wheeled away, I exclaimed, "Nice to meet you, P! "
If I ignore the many games of pool, the tussle with a bike rack, a few organizational hiccups, and the drive to Cumberland Maryland, this story began some two hours earlier in the parking lot of a Holiday Inn. There were five of us, organizing gear and bikes in the two cars. A train rolled by, but otherwise it was quiet, the way one might expect on a Thursday night in northern Maryland. At about 12:15, we found our way to the starting line of Tom's Run. There was no fanfare, just Roger, the organizer and a participant, waiting to send off the various teams. We snapped a few photos and began a 200-mile journey. MB was running the first leg and D was biking along in support. Teams could start at any time after midnight on this night. The goal was to finish by 11 AM on Saturday morning.
While MB and D were sloshing through the darkness armed with bikelights and headlamps, P., A. and I were trying to make our way to the end of the first leg to do a little cheering. It was a little shaky at first. I unintentionally led A. into a game of chicken with an oncoming truck as we circled the Holiday Inn looking for gas. Some quick reverse work and the patience of a Ford owner got us back on track. We climbed through the neighborhoods until we found some friendly, possibly high, folks who guffawed and then pointed us in the right direction.
We waited in the darkness while the mosquitos enjoyed the buffet of our skin. We exchanged hellos with another team and soon saw the white light of arriving runners. It turned out it wasn't our team, but we clapped anyway. A few hearty claps in a dark and tree-filled place. We seemed small and I had a moment of impatience. MB and D arrived in good spirits with a thin layer of mud caked on their legs. We cheered for them for a moment and exchanged a few words about our early challenges. Then off they went. As they ran and biked off into the darkness, I heard D say "And then in my junior year..."
It would be almost 5 AM, before I hit the trail with P. I'd opted only to rest my eyes because after the thrill of the epic reverse had worn off, I was checking the trail for signs of light. Instead I heard frogs and bugs, and then the caravan of SUVs. They chuckled at our tiny car and then departed after their team had moved through. Finally, my teammates A and D arrived. They were right on schedule, but I was itching to get going. P ran first while I biked along next to him. He was chugging through the early morning hours and put down 13 miles at beautiful and brisk pace. We barely spoke as the sun came up and we cut through the morning fog. The trail all looked the same in a quiet, green, curving, flat way. We switched and I carried out the same pace for another 6 miles with P riding at my side. There was still morning fog and temperatures had not risen either. The wildlife seemed to be mostly in our heads as P was frightened by a lynx that turned out to be wildflowers and I swore I'd seen a kangaroo that was probably a deer.
Some time later, after a water stop and a little cheering for a weary MB and D, we made our first team stop. MB was tired like I've never seen him before. The usual spring in his steps had been reduced to something nearing a drag. He and D had put in a lot of miles over the last 8 or so hours and breakfast was badly needed. The veterans of this event had planned a perfect stop at a small-town diner. Delicious waffles and the first wave of reinforcements were welcome treats.
My next assignment as laid out by agreement and the binders full of maps, instruction, and fun, found in each car was to get the reinforcements, M, to her first leg, and then to pick up D so we could spend the day waiting for our legs together that afternoon.
I knew going in that waiting was going to be a large part of the experience and so I tried to incorporate that into my plan. The first daylight waiting with M was perfect. We rocked the binder fun pages until she spotted our team on the trail. I went galloping after them and then we made a successful transition.
Tune in next time for dam napping, goose chasing, and possibly the exciting conclusion...
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Looks like I remember it
American Teen seems to be a suitable substitute for a high school reunion*. High school seems the same, only now with more text messages.
Here are three fun memories that seeing this movie dredged up:
-the thanks, but no thanks college rejection letter
-the obsession with finding a date, particularly to dances (before I actually liked to dance).
-the incredibly unhelpful things that parents can say when they are trying to be helpful
Here are three interesting scenarios that seeing this movie brought to my attention:
-I really don't know what else parents could have said.
-Wow. High schoolers are filled with optimism that this theater audience did not share.
-I wonder how my life would be different if I'd felt pressure to choose a school based on a sports scholarship.
*I haven't made it to a reunion yet, so that's not an informed statement.
American Teen seems to be a suitable substitute for a high school reunion*. High school seems the same, only now with more text messages.
Here are three fun memories that seeing this movie dredged up:
-the thanks, but no thanks college rejection letter
-the obsession with finding a date, particularly to dances (before I actually liked to dance).
-the incredibly unhelpful things that parents can say when they are trying to be helpful
Here are three interesting scenarios that seeing this movie brought to my attention:
-I really don't know what else parents could have said.
-Wow. High schoolers are filled with optimism that this theater audience did not share.
-I wonder how my life would be different if I'd felt pressure to choose a school based on a sports scholarship.
*I haven't made it to a reunion yet, so that's not an informed statement.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Monday, June 09, 2008
Stranger than Fiction!
I was sleep-walking to the Metro today, so what I'm about to spill into this space could be made up, but I don't think it is. Stumbling along, minding my own business, I had just thought to myself, "I really don't desire to go to work today."
The end.
No. I kid. I had just thought that I didn't want to go to work and that I was barely awake, when out of the sky came a bird. This bird attacked from the rear flank and slammed into my upper arm and backpack before flying away. Stunned by this event, I looked around and saw the bird flapping away. I walked on and the bird turned as if to make another attack. As he flew by, I ripped my bag from my back and tossed it aside. The bird was not near enough for another strike, but still too close for comfort. Two kind gentlemen asked, "What happened?" as I looked around with a mixture of fear and anger.
"The bird attacked me," I replied. They laughed. I grabbed my bag and rushed off saying only, "There's a story for you."
Later, I tried to formulate a headline for my story. It went something like this: Bird attacks man with banana. Banana not that good anyway.
I was sleep-walking to the Metro today, so what I'm about to spill into this space could be made up, but I don't think it is. Stumbling along, minding my own business, I had just thought to myself, "I really don't desire to go to work today."
The end.
No. I kid. I had just thought that I didn't want to go to work and that I was barely awake, when out of the sky came a bird. This bird attacked from the rear flank and slammed into my upper arm and backpack before flying away. Stunned by this event, I looked around and saw the bird flapping away. I walked on and the bird turned as if to make another attack. As he flew by, I ripped my bag from my back and tossed it aside. The bird was not near enough for another strike, but still too close for comfort. Two kind gentlemen asked, "What happened?" as I looked around with a mixture of fear and anger.
"The bird attacked me," I replied. They laughed. I grabbed my bag and rushed off saying only, "There's a story for you."
Later, I tried to formulate a headline for my story. It went something like this: Bird attacks man with banana. Banana not that good anyway.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
MAGIC-al
I'm a little bit excited for the NBA Finals. Not a lot excited, but a little bit. I'm excited because for the first time in a long time, a lot of the sportswriters seem to be talking about the same thing and it's not scandalous. They're talking about the battles of the past. They're talking about the history of the sport. They're talking about Bird and Magic and games that happened 21 years ago. Part of what makes (made?) pro sports so cool when I was a kid was the history and the continuity. There were fewer teams and fewer stars. The stars weren't so overexposed and if they happened to be greedy bastards it wasn't on the nightly news. They were grown men, playing a game, and generally they stayed with the same team for most of their careers. Teams like Boston and L.A. had the potential to be dynasties. I'm not sure I knew what that meant, but I knew it meant greatness.
Yes. Yes. I know this is an over-simplified analysis, but it's the analysis through the eyes of an idealistic 9-year old. Just a boy who wanted to grow up and play. Because playing was the best thing he knew to do. Now, I see a lit bit of that idealism in the columns and the sports-world chatter of excitement for this coming series. ESPN is replaying Game 6 of the 1987 Finals right now. The men in that game are not particularly muscular-looking. They look like they could have been pulled off the playgrounds. They were the pros. It's no wonder boys thought they could achieve that ideal. The fans are decked out in purple and gold. The shiny jackets are out in force. I don't know how those went out of style. I'm told, however, that they are out of style. If they replay this summer's series on on ESPN in 2030, I bet we'll see a lot Kobe jerseys. Will we wonder if we'd gone from wanting to be superstars to just wanting to dress like them? Maybe not. Maybe this series is going to bring back some of the magic to the NBA. Maybe it can be relevant again as a game instead of a business. It's stirring up a lot of history, which brings some excitement for the fans with a memory. What does it do for the new fans, I can only wonder. The teams lack some continuity, but that might be overlooked if we end up with a great series.
I worry that too many columns and too many blogs will slice and dice and analyze this series to death. I'm tempted to limit my sports reading to once daily with breakfast like the old days. I can't recall if I was taking the paper with the '87 Finals, but I'm certain I poured over the sports sections when Jordan was dispatching my hero Magic and the Lakers. I put up posters, full size behind the door and wore a purple Lakers hat, but the changing of the guard had come and it took me another 10 years to realize it. Here I am trying to appreciate the sports heroes of today. They don't seem to have the reach and the power that they did back then (if one ignores advertising dollars), but maybe the change is less about them and more about me. One change is certain: Go Celtics.
I'm a little bit excited for the NBA Finals. Not a lot excited, but a little bit. I'm excited because for the first time in a long time, a lot of the sportswriters seem to be talking about the same thing and it's not scandalous. They're talking about the battles of the past. They're talking about the history of the sport. They're talking about Bird and Magic and games that happened 21 years ago. Part of what makes (made?) pro sports so cool when I was a kid was the history and the continuity. There were fewer teams and fewer stars. The stars weren't so overexposed and if they happened to be greedy bastards it wasn't on the nightly news. They were grown men, playing a game, and generally they stayed with the same team for most of their careers. Teams like Boston and L.A. had the potential to be dynasties. I'm not sure I knew what that meant, but I knew it meant greatness.
Yes. Yes. I know this is an over-simplified analysis, but it's the analysis through the eyes of an idealistic 9-year old. Just a boy who wanted to grow up and play. Because playing was the best thing he knew to do. Now, I see a lit bit of that idealism in the columns and the sports-world chatter of excitement for this coming series. ESPN is replaying Game 6 of the 1987 Finals right now. The men in that game are not particularly muscular-looking. They look like they could have been pulled off the playgrounds. They were the pros. It's no wonder boys thought they could achieve that ideal. The fans are decked out in purple and gold. The shiny jackets are out in force. I don't know how those went out of style. I'm told, however, that they are out of style. If they replay this summer's series on on ESPN in 2030, I bet we'll see a lot Kobe jerseys. Will we wonder if we'd gone from wanting to be superstars to just wanting to dress like them? Maybe not. Maybe this series is going to bring back some of the magic to the NBA. Maybe it can be relevant again as a game instead of a business. It's stirring up a lot of history, which brings some excitement for the fans with a memory. What does it do for the new fans, I can only wonder. The teams lack some continuity, but that might be overlooked if we end up with a great series.
I worry that too many columns and too many blogs will slice and dice and analyze this series to death. I'm tempted to limit my sports reading to once daily with breakfast like the old days. I can't recall if I was taking the paper with the '87 Finals, but I'm certain I poured over the sports sections when Jordan was dispatching my hero Magic and the Lakers. I put up posters, full size behind the door and wore a purple Lakers hat, but the changing of the guard had come and it took me another 10 years to realize it. Here I am trying to appreciate the sports heroes of today. They don't seem to have the reach and the power that they did back then (if one ignores advertising dollars), but maybe the change is less about them and more about me. One change is certain: Go Celtics.
Monday, June 02, 2008
Monday is funday
My primary "flippin'-the-bird" finger has been swollen for two months. I finally made it to the doctor two weeks ago to see if maybe there was some breakage. My doctor referred me to the X-ray people, so now, two weeks later, I have found out that while I may be permanently disfigured, the guy who pulled my finger pulled it all back in place quite nicely. The referral doctor reminded me a bit of Kirk Douglas, in one of my all-time favorite movies Tough Guys, but he told me I was basically fine, so that's good news. Or may be it was Burt Lancaster. Either way, that's the closest I've come to liking a doctor in ages. I'm not sure we really developed a rapport, but then I forgot to tell him that he reminded me of a movie from the '80s. Maybe next time.
In non hand gesture news, I found out that garbage disposals have reset buttons. While this made my landlord look particularly handy, it made me feel just a bit on the dumb side. It also seems like maybe the landlord could have saved a trip here and just said, "have you pressed the reset button?"
I think reset buttons should go be placed on just about everything that can break. Car battery dead? Hit the reset button. City-wide power outage? reset button. Broken hopes and dreams? Reach under your foot and hit the little red button.
Now get out there and give it another go.
My primary "flippin'-the-bird" finger has been swollen for two months. I finally made it to the doctor two weeks ago to see if maybe there was some breakage. My doctor referred me to the X-ray people, so now, two weeks later, I have found out that while I may be permanently disfigured, the guy who pulled my finger pulled it all back in place quite nicely. The referral doctor reminded me a bit of Kirk Douglas, in one of my all-time favorite movies Tough Guys, but he told me I was basically fine, so that's good news. Or may be it was Burt Lancaster. Either way, that's the closest I've come to liking a doctor in ages. I'm not sure we really developed a rapport, but then I forgot to tell him that he reminded me of a movie from the '80s. Maybe next time.
In non hand gesture news, I found out that garbage disposals have reset buttons. While this made my landlord look particularly handy, it made me feel just a bit on the dumb side. It also seems like maybe the landlord could have saved a trip here and just said, "have you pressed the reset button?"
I think reset buttons should go be placed on just about everything that can break. Car battery dead? Hit the reset button. City-wide power outage? reset button. Broken hopes and dreams? Reach under your foot and hit the little red button.
Now get out there and give it another go.
Sunday, June 01, 2008
Up and at 'em
I could find very little enthusiasm for a 5k this morning. By the time I rolled out of bed and headed to the race, I knew that my warm-up would be cut short. Poor planning meant that I had no idea. What I thought would be an 8:00 AM start time was actually a 7:50 start time. I joined the crowd at the line when the starter announced, "1 minute until race time." I snuck through a few extra bodies and went off with the gun. I was awake and knew I had to move up on the tight course before I got boxed in. I moved a little too well as the out of this course was mostly on a slight downhill. I knew I was pressing, but I felt completely out of whack and so I figured I might as well press on. At the halfway point, I was out of touch with the group in front of me and running at 8:25. I knew that it would take a miracle to keep that pace. At 2 miles I was at 11:07 and the morning was starting to weigh heavier than early summer humid air. I chugged along, pretending that I might found the wherewithal to make a move forward. Eventually, I was passed by a few more people and I considered a full-blown collapse. I fought to the finish without being passed again, but I was out in no man's land. I finished in 17th in a time of 17:56 with a few dry heaves.
Some days are better than others...
I could find very little enthusiasm for a 5k this morning. By the time I rolled out of bed and headed to the race, I knew that my warm-up would be cut short. Poor planning meant that I had no idea. What I thought would be an 8:00 AM start time was actually a 7:50 start time. I joined the crowd at the line when the starter announced, "1 minute until race time." I snuck through a few extra bodies and went off with the gun. I was awake and knew I had to move up on the tight course before I got boxed in. I moved a little too well as the out of this course was mostly on a slight downhill. I knew I was pressing, but I felt completely out of whack and so I figured I might as well press on. At the halfway point, I was out of touch with the group in front of me and running at 8:25. I knew that it would take a miracle to keep that pace. At 2 miles I was at 11:07 and the morning was starting to weigh heavier than early summer humid air. I chugged along, pretending that I might found the wherewithal to make a move forward. Eventually, I was passed by a few more people and I considered a full-blown collapse. I fought to the finish without being passed again, but I was out in no man's land. I finished in 17th in a time of 17:56 with a few dry heaves.
Some days are better than others...
Monday, May 19, 2008
Fire up my gold watch
I had an anniversary today. I was the only one who dressed for the occasion. Some time ago, I made it my mission to stay with the company for five years. Today, I made it. I feel proud. I'm proud of what I've done and that I've carved out a little life for myself that now includes an office, more responsibility, and more other things that aren't unimportant. Somewhere along the line I realized that I like to be part of an organization that is helping people. I've learned a thing or two as well, and lost some of my optimism, probably not unimportant either. So today, sporting a yellow tie with blue spots, I took a moment to celebrate my little achievement. Like my diplomas, my spots were a symbol of the bundle of experiences that need to be built upon. This anniversary, like my 10-year high school reunion (that I did not attend), reminds me that while I'm proud of what I've done, it's what I have not done that scares me the most.
I had an anniversary today. I was the only one who dressed for the occasion. Some time ago, I made it my mission to stay with the company for five years. Today, I made it. I feel proud. I'm proud of what I've done and that I've carved out a little life for myself that now includes an office, more responsibility, and more other things that aren't unimportant. Somewhere along the line I realized that I like to be part of an organization that is helping people. I've learned a thing or two as well, and lost some of my optimism, probably not unimportant either. So today, sporting a yellow tie with blue spots, I took a moment to celebrate my little achievement. Like my diplomas, my spots were a symbol of the bundle of experiences that need to be built upon. This anniversary, like my 10-year high school reunion (that I did not attend), reminds me that while I'm proud of what I've done, it's what I have not done that scares me the most.
Friday, May 16, 2008
A spectacular failure with urban highlights
Today was bike to work day. Due to certain circumstances, not only did my bike remain in the dark corners of the basement, but I actually ended up on the roads driving a car home from work today. I think this marks the second time in five years that I have driven home from work and it could not have come on a more inappropriate day. While my behavior mostly makes me want to pull down a bike helmet and hide my eyes in shame, and while the traffic did make me consider leaving the comforts of my hybrid-for-the-evening to take a lead pipe to someone's shins, I did have two noteworthy urban moments.
First, after a nervous search for a zipcar, I got to experience my first ever car hand-off. I wandered around wondering where the zipcar could be. As I turned down the alley, I saw it pull in. A woman exited, we waved, and I entered. It was car-sharing at it's finest.
Later, as I searched for more than 10 minutes for a parking space (nothing for the urban vets, but not pleasing to me) I finally found a place to park illegally near where I wanted to park legally. As soon as I had shimmied into the spot, a car across the street vacated a legal spot. Magically the road cleared, I pulled out of my illegal spot, made a U-turn, and parallel parked on the other side of the street. That was pretty satisfying.
Today was bike to work day. Due to certain circumstances, not only did my bike remain in the dark corners of the basement, but I actually ended up on the roads driving a car home from work today. I think this marks the second time in five years that I have driven home from work and it could not have come on a more inappropriate day. While my behavior mostly makes me want to pull down a bike helmet and hide my eyes in shame, and while the traffic did make me consider leaving the comforts of my hybrid-for-the-evening to take a lead pipe to someone's shins, I did have two noteworthy urban moments.
First, after a nervous search for a zipcar, I got to experience my first ever car hand-off. I wandered around wondering where the zipcar could be. As I turned down the alley, I saw it pull in. A woman exited, we waved, and I entered. It was car-sharing at it's finest.
Later, as I searched for more than 10 minutes for a parking space (nothing for the urban vets, but not pleasing to me) I finally found a place to park illegally near where I wanted to park legally. As soon as I had shimmied into the spot, a car across the street vacated a legal spot. Magically the road cleared, I pulled out of my illegal spot, made a U-turn, and parallel parked on the other side of the street. That was pretty satisfying.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Update: Conflict resolution skills
I had a situation today in which I wanted to lash out and respond negatively to "a call". With Sunday's behavior on my mind, I instead chose to think about the situation from a different perspective. I eventually realized that there was room for my misinterpretation and a calm discussion with the caller led to that same conclusion. Perhaps the lesson about conflict resolution is not one that can be learned in the heat of the moment, but one that gets applied slowly and thoughtfully like a teriyaki marinade.
I had a situation today in which I wanted to lash out and respond negatively to "a call". With Sunday's behavior on my mind, I instead chose to think about the situation from a different perspective. I eventually realized that there was room for my misinterpretation and a calm discussion with the caller led to that same conclusion. Perhaps the lesson about conflict resolution is not one that can be learned in the heat of the moment, but one that gets applied slowly and thoughtfully like a teriyaki marinade.
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