A month without Ultimate

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

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

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

Please body, let me play.

Dear driver,

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

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

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

Hugs and kisses,
Dave

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

Canoe come out and play?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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