One big happy family- Complete with the yelling and cursing
My role in the Ultimate of CUA has changed in the last two years as their confidence, their knowledge, and their needs have outstripped my ability to play-coach. Mostly, I've become a well-respected cheerleader with editor duties. I'm generally at peace with this transition as I think it meets the needs of the involved parties.

Yesterday, my connections to the team led to a special opportunity as I got a glimpse of how I fit into a bigger picture. I shared a field with an inaugural member, a few of the past stand-outs, characters, and captains of CUA Ultimate history, including the captain that originally welcomed me into the fold on a cold day more than five years ago. We faced off against the current team in their final tune-up before Division III Nationals. The phrase Division III Nationals tells the reader almost all they need to know about how far this team has come.

The Alums-plus team started well. I don't know if the current team expected us to roll over and play dead or if good fortune found us early, but for a group that had never all played together, we seemed surprisingly in synch. Perhaps, there are a few tricks to be learned after graduation. I think a few people were surprised at how serious the game was taken, as they remembered a lower-key version of this same sport played on the law school lawn, but for the most part the players that arrived to play had continued to play competitively at some level and they knew what we were up against.

We were up against a team that runs a structured offense and can become charmingly patient with the disc if the mood strikes them. It certainly made my heart pound a few times as I chased handlers around through dumps and swings, but it also made my heart sing to see such Ultimate being played. My favorite point, if I can brush off my bruised vanity for a moment, was a point when the traditional handlers were out of the game and the current team still found a way to score. They worked the disc in stops and starts, up the lines and through the dumps, taking only what old tired legs would give them and only what they knew they could manage, until their rising star could find a step (or three to five) and leave this poor guy diving at his heels as they took the half at 9-6.

The Alums-plus made a run after the half to pull to 10-9, but never seemed to sustain momentum again as our deep game was mostly stagnant, our defense started losing too many battles, and the intensity started to favor youth. These words convey a weight unrelated to the game, but one I can't separate from it. In the moment, the sun shone brightly and I thoroughly enjoyed my personal battles and the fight of my teammates, some more out of shape than others. It was a pleasure to be able to cheer both teams, and to have moments that saw 'Tini take flight and even with the sting of loss looming to try to will Frodo to do the same. To be a part of that growth, even in some small way, for a team to know how far they've come and still know that they have UP to go, to have watched so many of these players grow and to watch their games evolve and improve is a very special thing. The weight doesn't come from this game or this loss then, and it doesn't come from that evolution directly. Instead it comes from my own feeling of trying to cling to a torch that I don't want to give up, even if it was a torch that was never mine to pass. It comes from being a step slower, and from fighting my body in a battle that I won't win. The weight comes from having to acknowledge that battle at all.

Freed from the cell
The decisions we make do not always play out in such obvious ways. I had packed the phone number of some friends and planned to call them to make arrangements to meet. I'm still cell phone free, an aberration now, living a lifestyle that doesn't quite mesh with many I know. The world has changed since my embargo began, people no longer make advanced plans, they do it on the fly. I try to play along, but don't always succeed. I had the phone number and I was with a friend. When I asked him to borrow his phone, he thought for a moment before telling me that he had forgotten it. He seemed truly sorry, but as he was trying to take responsibility for this, a sentence escaped from my lips. I could not allow him to worry because he did not have his phone for my use. That would not be right and without hesitation I said:

This is the life I've chosen.

We found a pay phone. They still exist. And I'm still happy with my choices.

Constructive criticism from the universe
The pope came to town and I let him pass. I didn't understand all of the hullabaloo. He's just a man, I thought to myself. Why are people snapping a zillion pictures and lining the streets. Ridiculous. What kind of person does that?

I do.

My popes are less famous and less influential, but they compelled me to pull my camera out, line the streets, and hang on their every word. I like it when the universe acts quickly to teach me a lesson. The pope had hardly left town when I found myself in Boston, seven hours from home, hanging out on the streets to cheer on Deena Kastor and a host of other women trying to qualify for the Olympics. My camera was clicking as I scurried around trying to catch another glimpse as the marathoners paraded by.

Later in the day, I was in a room with three elite runners and I hung on their every word as they talked of their craft and their sacrifices and triumphs in that realm. It was moving and inspiring, made all the more so by a very appreciative audience. To be in the company of runners in a kind of conversation with these dedicated and accomplished females struck me as particularly special. It's one thing to listen to someone near the top of her field reflect on experiences, but it's a something entirely different when some part deep inside aspired or aspires to some level of greatness in that field too. It feels a bit like staring at a treasure map and seemed to be a rare treat.

Somehow, by mid-week, I found myself staring at another treasure map, listening to another someone near the top of her field surrounded by an appreciative audience. This audience was not filled with runners, instead they were the bookish Washington DC fans of the popular author Jhumpa Lahiri. As she delivered lyrical answers to banal questions, I again felt the thrill of being near greatness with that added boost of being in a crowd of admirers.

Bits and pieces

*What's the point of getting married if you're not going to dance about it afterwards?

*My return to tournament level Ultimate was hesitant. Then, I dislocated a finger. A man in a beer garden pulled on it (twice) really hard. After a few minutes of wanting to faint and/or vomit, I returned with a lot more vigor, a lot less hesitancy, and a swollen finger.

*During one series of about three points, I played dominant Ultimate. I got a help D, I was wide open on a couple of in cuts. I came in on an underthrown disc and ripped it away from a defender and then threw a score. I slid in to catch a low disc, my skirt rose up around my hips exposing less than I could but more than I should which elicited a curious sideline noise, that wasn't really a cheer; I adjusted myself instead of throwing to an open cutter, dumped it off and went on to score. I left the game with our team leading by two points believing the tide had turned.

*We lost the game. I was shaken. I didn't really recover that well, although thankfully the team did. I played with very little confidence in the next game including one horrible offensive series in which I didn't make a dump cut at all. I just stood there dancing. I hadn't gotten married, just skyed repeatedly. Ouch.

*My psoas has bothered me all week.

*I saw a movie called I'm a cyborg, but that's ok. It was a love story, Korean, and odd. My favorite bit was a metaphor for life. It was an elastic band tied around the waist. At the end of life, the band became so taut and then finally snapped back, pulling the person away and out of the picture.

*I had a hunch John would be back. I just didn't think it would be so soon.

*I'm going to dance right now in honor of some happy couple.

How low can you go?
The façade was more gutted department store than anything else. Through the dirtied glass doors of another forgotten strip mall, we could see a few burning bulbs hung outside a wooden ticket booth. Our angle of approach had been too severe to notice the out-of-place, ridiculously huge chandelier and the accompanying unimpressive sign for the "D'light Skate N Palace." As we waited for the rink to get rolling, I wondered if our experience would share the tired, almost creepy feel of the entrance.

I should not have been concerned, the entrance may have been rickety, but the palace inside was cared for, not new by any stretch of the imagination, but skate-ready. We got our skates from a shrinking old man with a twinkle in his eye. The skates had seen better days. My size 10s were the beat-up brown and gray of rink skates the world over. The laces had begun to unravel and tightening them around my ankles was an exercise in futility.

We were on the floor early, as less than 20 people had arrived. A thumping R and B beat made rhythmic skating sense to me, as I made left turns and searched for some comfort on wheels. The beat of the music was natural, though the songs were unfamiliar. This was advantageous, as it meant that very little skating nostalgia could creep into my mind. My wheels were turning to a current balance, not trying to withdraw some forgotten memory of how to skate.

The floor was filling up as the music thumped on. There were a few skaters who by now were really moving. Shaking and gliding to the beat sometimes in twos and threes, they zipped by on the outside with a dancer's grace. I had moments where I felt that glide, but these skaters seemed to live at ease. One couple was linked tightly. He twisted wheeling along backwards, forwards, and backwards again, almost without a thought. She shimmied to the beat, the natural wrinkles of her rust orange shirt chasing her stone-washed denim-clad hips as they rolled on together. Those two were attractive people, but that same grace was found in two aging men who had a groove of their own. Intimidated, but slightly enamored, I decided to try skating backwards.

Awkwardly, I had the movement down. Slowly, mostly gracelessly, I pushed with my left foot and rolled out of sight. I turned a corner at a slug's pace, but I must have looked fast because a full-bodied woman ran into my chest. I started to stumble backwards, and then crashed to the floor landing hard on my left buttocks. I was more surprised than hurt and with a helping hand, I was back up and facing forward. That would be my last attempt at skating backwards as the crowd grew larger and swifter.

We'd skated for over an hour and now the skaters began to swirl around us. We, the caucasian few, mostly an untalented skating bunch, had become obstacles to dodge and weave through. Even at my fastest, I felt like I was just able to keep up with the edges of the crowd. It was reckless to be swept up in their movement. At moments I tried, but the moments weren't comfortable. I felt the wheels shake and my ankles burn. I felt the earlier fall and considered that same bruise on my wrist or my face. And I slowed. I took a turn linked to another, but while the boy who remembered sitting out during the "couple's skate" was pleased, the skater that I had become was concerned about being in a crash for two. The masses now rolled by at a surprising rate. This was a whole other world of gliding and grace that I could barely visit. As the speedier skaters whipped around the outside, I began to recognize that the whole world I could barely visit was also a world I could barely leave. I searched for gaps in the crowd, like Frogger on wheels wondering how I would slip through the crowd and off the rink. Finally, after two extra laps around, I was able to shoot a gap and make my way back to comfortable shoes.

The universe is a funny place
Saturday, I was rummaging through my red bag. It's a bag I don't use that often, but it fits cleats, a disc, and a change of clothes quite nicely. It has a front pocket which doesn't close and isn't very large and mostly I find useless. This weekend I started putting my wallet there. Probably not that wise, but a wallet fit nicely. At some point Saturday I went looking for my wallet. It was elsewhere, but I felt something at the bottom of the pocket. Something metallic and plastic and key-like. I lost my keys two months ago. I had accepted their "gone-ness." I dreamed of keys. Keys appeared. Sweet.

Searching for the symbolism
I woke up from a dream a few moments ago. In it, I had arrived by bus at the Ballston Metro Station. The stop was across the street from the station and looked nothing like the real area, as this locale had a grassy, just off a two-lane highway feel. There was a group in the grassy area mulling. There was a sign that said the "Northup walk was closed." Still, these people seemed to be preparing for that walk. I have no idea what that walk might be. As I was looking across the street toward the station and my apparent destination, I dropped my keys in the grass. I couldn't immediately find them and so I was running my hands through the grass and next to this rock where I found keys. Keys that weren't mine. I started pulling out sets of keys. I must have pulled out three sets of keys before spotting mine in the grass a little ways away. I put the other keys back next to the rock thinking that might be the spot the people around me used for storage. I picked up my keys and woke up.

"How do you say son of...?" Paris Journal Day 8
We're winding our trip to a close and it appears that we fear that American desserts are inferior. Therefore we spent today stocking up on French treats. We got rolling a bit before noon with Lauren and Allen on a few city walks. I'm not really sure what we saw other than Rue de Madeleine and Bois de Bologne. The latter was an expansive park and part of our walk of about 6 or 7 miles today. We started and ended with delicious sorbet from Berthillion. In the middle we stopped at Laduree, home of high priced and delectable 31 flavors of macaroons. They were heavenly. When we finished them in a park, we passed the box around, each of us considering it for something but coming up with nothing. So Megan stomped on it. "I didn't know what else to do with it," she explained. We laughed, but that made sense. It was a nice day, a bit cold, but it felt good to be on a fast-paced stroll in a crowd. I think we all got to talk a bit and enjoy the cold spring day. We had dinner at an Italian place quite near where I was staying actually, and joined the ranks of Allen and Lauren visitors officially. We ate tiramisu for dessert, our prize for an 88% success rate on the week-long scavenger hunt. We missed a few arrondisments, and never found the woman in a skirt riding a bicycle. After the tiramisu came the pana cotta and then later the already-mentioned sorbet. We slowly closed out watching Flight of the Conchords episodes and our somewhat painful video logs. Tomorrow is the trip back to the U.S. where I'll have 170 pictures to sort through and lots of good memories.

And now, we'll always have Paris.

"You didn't eat a crepe the size of your head" Paris Journal Day 7
What a day. It's 2:45 and I'm tired, so the details will have to wait.

"Enough is enough" Paris Journal Day 7 continued
We started slowly. I was loitering in the park by the space age carousel, our meeting place for most of the days. Alan and Megan were running behind even their schedules and I was dodging pigeon droppings and the cold. They arrived and we had one of our indecisive moments. Before a plan revealed itself, a man in a blue v-neck sweater and matching blue hat joined our group and excitedly waved his newspaper. He was speaking French quickly and gesturing at the paper. We looked confused, but he must have mistaken that look for interest. After several minutes of blustery French and the single English phrase, "Enough is enough," he posed a question. Finally, Alan said "non Francias." Stunned that we'd let him go on for so long, he then laughed good-naturedly, wished us well and crossed the street to launch into his diatribe to more understanding ears.

We returned to Chez Schmanz for breakfast. I tried some of Alan's smoked salmon and cheure cheese- it wasn't bad. We then rolled on via Lauren's direction to get our shop on. We shopped in a manner that might be expected. It involved Megan and Lauren looking intently and sometimes buying while Alan and I zipped through the stores and then posted up outside to look for bicyclists in skirts. We didn't have any luck, but I did witness one truly graceful scooter parking job. Long hair bounced on shoulders as the helmet popped off, the sun shone a little brighter, while she stowed her gear, hallelalujah played softly in the background, as she expertly ran her lock through the rear wheel. Then she and a friend headed across the street and I stopped staring. We ate lunch near a bus stop, and buses seemed to just miss slicing the crust off our sandwiches. Ah Paris! Lauren had a crepe the size of her head which would later prove difficult to eat. Her attempts to finish it were comical as nutella and bananas were squeezing out in every direction threatening to cause a bigger mess. Alan and I found a shopping groove at Celio*; after a brief fitting room fashion show, only Alan emerged a new man.

After shopping we vaguely intended to eat dinner before the Moulin Rouge, but instead watched YouTube videos until we had to run out the door in the pouring rain and race to the bus that would be our ride to the big red windmill. Megan moved quickly in her heels and we managed to make our cold wet way onto the bus. Sensible people would have stayed off the top of the open double-decker bus, but we are not those people. In the covered front of the open top of the bus we got to re-see many of the sites we'd toured during the week. Our feet slowly froze, but we finally arrived at the Moulin Rouge. The square was filled with people. A giant line poured out of the Vegas-like Moulin Rouge entrance. This was big business, and not quite what I had expected. We waited in line, still cold and wondering if we would have been better off in the nearby bar listening to a cover band. Finally we made it inside. The place was larger than I expected and teeming with people. Due to some confusion, we ended up weaving our way through the seated crowd; I was following the usher in the red coat, everyone else was chasing my royal blue raincoat. It stood out all week. We ended up at the first table on the left side of the stage. What we lost in sight lines to the scenery, we gained in the arm's length reach to the edge of the stage. We could see the hairs and the make-up covered imperfections of the dancers who were in front of us. The show was a delightful mixture of circus, camp, pageantry, and nudity. It felt a lot like a long drawn-out amusement park revue, with boobs and champagne. It was an expensive ordeal, but worth it.
Je sais Paris.

Paris journal Day 6
It's much tougher out there on my own. I hadn't realized how much I'd enjoyed the vacation from the ongoing dialouge in my head until today. I started in Montmarte, an area that looked a little more rundown than some of the others we've been to. I wandered past the "birthplace of cubism" and a caricature/art market before arriving at Sacre Couer. We've been seeing Sacre Coeur up on the hill in the distance from everywhere and it was good to get up close. Inside, nuns were singing and it was moving. I think God must approve. The building was awe-inspiring inside and out, but I was a bit surprised to learn that it was built in the 1870s. That's fairly recent. They had modern sewers by then.

From Sacre Couer I took the Metro to Montparnasse. On the way, I accidentally exited the Metro when I meant to transfer and that cost me. It was my first realization that three heads can be better than one. Montparnasse was tricky because I couldn't decide exactly what I wanted to see. I eventually landed near Sartre's grave. Immediately after getting my picture taken at Sartre's grave, a strange tourist-y thing to do, it proceeded to rain while the sun was shining. As I searched for the rainbow, the clouds surrounded me and it began to hail, pretty hard for a moment, before raining again. I could only laugh and assume that this was the weather having an existential crisis. From the graveyard, I headed to the catacombs, but they were closed. So I backtracked to the Montparnasse tower and took the ride up. I spent an hour or so 200 meters above the city. It was an amazing view, although everything was pretty far away down below. The neatest thing to watch was the weather. About three-fourths of the city was in a foggy/rainy mess while the other fourth enjoyed bright sunshine.

I came down from high and headed where the sun had been- Le Jardin du Luxembourg where I saw some old men playing Bocce. Then I went to Saint Sulpice (made famous by the Da Vinci Code, but not nearly as impressive as Sacre Couer in my mind. Maybe it was the lack of nuns, or the presence of an ominous sounding sermon.) I cruised by the Sorbonne thinking that once again left to my own devices I eventually stumble on college. In case there was any question, even the sophisticated French university girls looked young to me. I then headed to the Pantheon- burial site for the likes of Voltaire, Dumas, Hugo, and others. Also home of Foucault's pendulum. And for this day a place to support the fight against cancer. I was accosted by a man on stilts in a flower costume and a woman in a bee costume. I played mute...

Tonight is yet to be determined, although I'll probably need dinner. I nearly forgot the chocolat chaud, that turned out to be more like chocolate soup than a chocolate drink. It was thick enough to drown in, but I wasn't impressed.

Later: Success comes in funny ways. I had a leisurely three-course French meal. I spoke no English during the meal. From there I wandered the Latin Quarter. I was considering a jazz club where a U.S.A man was playing swing, but I wasn't that excited about it. Instead, I found some street dancers to watch for a while. One managed an impressive one handed hand stand. Then for good measure he took to switching hands to the beat. Then I got rained on for good measure.

I've established a nightly ritual here in Paris. It seems to involve walking over a bridge, which sets me insides going. As I near my temporary home, my mind focuses intensely on two thoughts- 1. possibly returning to the streets for another Pelforth and 2. the toilet. I climb the winding five flights of stairs, auto-lights always flick on a few seconds too late. Desperately now, I try to open my door. I fail and try again. The lights have now brightened the hallway as I fumble with the lock. Success arrives and I fling open the door and rush in to the toilet. After I finish my business, I shut the front door and call it a night. Tomorrow I again express appreciation to and for my fellow travelers.

"You're our translator," said Alan to Megan. "I couldn't even order a drink that I didn't know what it was," she replied. Paris Journal Day 5
We were going to be a well-oiled Paris-touring machine today. I didn't run into any problems until breakfast. I had my order picked out based on the large "value-menu" like words on the wall. My problem: the words referred not to a hot chocolate and a specific pastry, but rather to a very general hot drink and a general pastry. After hearing some machine gun French, I chose the first hot drink I'd heard- caffe (coffee) and managed to point to a pastry (after being denied the extra large chocolate pastry). No english was spoken, so I suppose it was a very general success. After breakfast we headed to Saint-Chapelle for stained glass glory, but instead found ourselves in line to a closed church- worker's strike, upcoming Easter- I'm not clear, but we were re-released to the streets. We wandered to a bakery for Megan and Alan breakfast and then all waited in line at Notre Dame. Lauren graciously braved the cold to stand in line with us before departing when we entered. Every day seems to get just a little bit colder. I wonder how many more layers I can add without stretching out my clothes.

We climbed Notre Dame for more nice Paris views, gargoyles, and a really big bell. Then we headed to the crypt for Roman and original Hotel Dieu ruins. It was no sewer museum, as undergrounds go.

After a Metro ride to Les Invalides we toured the Charles De Gaulle museum. They had this amazing technology that would translate the exhibits into your pre-determined language when you walked near the exhibit. Amazing technology can be fickle and after a general success with an inspiring CDG biography propaganda movie, every exhibit was translated into French. Unfortunately, as Alan pointed out, we hadn't learned French during the biography movie and were therefore left somewhat un-amazed. Next up was the army museum, which turned out to be a bit of a slog through World War I and World War II. It suddenly felt like no joking matter when we passed by some touring soldiers. Finally, we arrived at Napoleon's tomb, which is only surpassed in size by the size of Napoleon's ego. From Invalides we went to Rue de Cler and did some window shopping and late-lunch, early-dinner non-decision making. We finally picked a cafe. While culinary highlights were achieved for Megan and Alan, I only managed to order an acceptable lasagna and another round of my new favorite beer, Pelforth Brun.

From Rue de Cler, we walked the Seine and then had need for an emergency bathroom stop. We couldn't find any of the free street toilets, those that look like phone booths and smell like bus stations, so we decided that a great place to stop would be by using our museum pass one last time at the evening hours of the Musee D'Orsay. The pass had us in the door in minutes while a large crowded waited outside. After the sprint to the bathroom, we did some Art nouveau (I think), but I'm not sure our hearts were in it. The crowd skewed much younger in the evening hours and it seemed like a great Paris-evening thing to do. It's too bad, but I'm not sure our timelines quite match much of the world's. It's tricky business this traveling stuff.

From there we took to the streets until we could find a suitable drinking establishment. Finding a tavern, we were greeted by a bartender who allegedly spoke English, French, and German. At first we took her up on English, me with a 12-year old Strathisla which was enjoyable but not amazing and no, not French. Then Megan tested her French and tried to order a special French mixed drink. Her order started in what sounded like solid French, but she eventually had to devolve into English as the concept of a special French drink may have been more confusing than even the words to order it. She ended up with a Pina Colada with some Italian liquor unavailable in the United States. She seemed pleased. The tavern remained pretty quiet. We enjoyed it, overtipped dramatically, and headed back for a midnight snack at 10:30 (22:30). Nutella abounds and I've had chocolate for breakfast every morning so far, but late night snacks are good. Tomorrow, I'm on my own.

"It tastes like cold meat and grass," me regarding dinner, or Paris journal Day 4
We took a little much needed slow(er) start today and headed to Versailles. I found myself quite frustrated with my lack of French-speaking ability. Today it made getting stamps, counting, and dinner all an adventure. I guess the longer we stay the less I can hide. Versailles was about a 30-minute train ride away. Our museum pass again took us to shorter lines. The front of Versailles was similar to my memory of it, although it was crowded with bus traffic and reconstruction/restoration work. The inside of Versailles was similar to my overall memory of Europe from my childhood excursions. The sights and paintings and royalty all start to run together in this mess of history and gold-plated niceties. As a 29-year old I am better able to focus my energy on appreciating something I'm seeing, but I'm still prone to mental slippage. The audio tour was interesting, but more striking was the comfort I felt from the solitary nature and English speaking voice in the headphones in my ears. The challenges of traveling were weighing more heavily upon me than I had realized.

We had a potentially illegal lunch in the gardens where Megan and I resolved to have chateaus and gardens of our own. We're willing to share if that becomes necessary. I was quite taken with the grounds of Versailles. They must be even more amazing when the flowers are in bloom. We rented bikes and tooled past the farm on Marie Antoinette's estate and then made our way around the outskirts of the grounds. It rained and got cold, but it was still a great way to appreciate the grounds. After the ride, we found ourselves throwing a disc in what appeared to be an abandoned garden. The sun shone brightly on us during this time, but later as we walked to a fountain celebrating Neptune it hailed. (This would become a familiar weather pattern during our stay.)

We wrangled with trains and some Prince biscuits before making it to Centre Pompidou. The museum pass scored again as we got to ride the escalators and look at some modern art. Our artistic souls fought on for a while, but by 8:30 (20:30) dinner called. We ended up in a diner-esque cafe, where our French bumbling was saved by a polite waiter, pointing with fingers, and the words that Megan could help with. Dinner was a curious mix of flavors. I ended up with a dish of cold meat, a delicious chocolate mousse, and a stellar bottle of Pelforth beer; it was French, brun, and quite tasty.

It's the last day of our museum pass tomorrow and we're looking for one more big push. A bientot.

Overheard near the Gates of Hell, "They don't swing open." or Paris Day 3
We managed to both find our way and stumble today. We made an early stop at the nearby grocery store, the Franprix ( or granny racecar drivers, as Alan put it) and grabbed breakfast and lunch for just 5 euros. We ate on a park bench nearby and then began to stumble. The RER train had us confused and we spent a good deal of time sorting out which train to take. Had we not tried to be so clever or walked all or part of the route as Alan suggested, we may have avoided even more of the crowd at Musee D'Orsay. Our museum pass did allow a nice reduction in line size, but that brought us face to face with art that we seemed unprepared for. I don't know if the crowds had grown, our enthusiasm had waned, the museum was laid out poorly, or some combination of those things contributed to our struggles in D'Orsay. We fought through it and this train station turned museum was a nice setting in which to admire art. Or it could have been. The crowds engulfed Monet, Van Gogh, and Degas. I caught a few somewhat satisfying glimpses, but never had time to stop and really enjoy the paintings before me. I was bumped and jostled far too often for that.

From D'Orsay we went to the underground and toured the sewers. It smelled a bit and the jokes were ripe, but it was a great history of Paris on the sewage timeline. The tools used to clean the pipes, like a rolling ball just smaller than the pipe were fairly fascinating too. This one is a diamond in the rough. From there we hit up Rodin. The gardens were pleasant, Hell's Gate and The Thinker were visually interesting, but I again got lost in the crowds, the time, and the layout as we viewed Rodin's gardens and mansion. I find my attention for sculpture doesn't last long. Steam was lost. I wasn't displeased with Rodin, just not particularly inspired.

Dinner brought more group challenges. We found that consensus was not necessarily so. I think we got it worked out. Even fairly laid back travelers can find ways to step on one another's toes. It may not be the last misstep, but I think we learned from it. We eventually settled on a home cooked meal- it was a little like the old days of "Chicken Voila" only more French and more breakfast-like.

We capped off the night with delicious gelatto and a brief walk in the Latin Quarter. It's supposed to get colder all week. I'm not prepared. Also, it appears that the stale "what have I accomplished" feeling isn't limited to U.S. nights.

"You won't find nightlife in a book, Dave" or Paris Journal Day 2
Today we began to walk Paris. After breakfast at a bakery called Paul, which turned out to be a chain, we bought dix billets pour la Metro and traveled to the Louvre. We invested lots of euros in a 4-day museum pass. Lacking much direction in the Louvre, we opted to follow the "Top 10" from one of our guidebooks. We got 9 out of 10- Venus de Milo, Mona Lisa, the glass pyramid, the horses of Marley, Winged Victory of Samonthrace, Michelangelo's Slaves, the Medieval moats, The Lacemaker, Cupid and Psyche, and added a few along the way including Napoleon's apartments and the Dutch painters including Rembrandt. The cour de Marley was light and we spent quite a bit of time there soaking it in. The Louvre may be huge, but our abbreviated tour powered us through in about 2 hours. We ate lunch at a food court- I opted for jambon et fromage; tomorrow we're going to try to go to the supermarche.

After lunch, we walked through the gardens and strolled the Champs-Elysees. Lauren had us on a scavenger hunt, so we filled a lot of time searching for items- some easy like a beret or bridges and some much more difficult or specific like a well-dressed French child or the cast of the Statue of Liberty. We have all week to complete 75%, but the days will go fast. We climbed the Arc de Triomphe stairs and gawked at the wonderful unending views of Paris. The traffic in the circle was as captivating as the sights. Next we headed to the Eiffel Tower with a few stops along the way, like for our first crepes- delicious. The tower lit up and sparkled as we stood beneath it and snapped picture after picture. We walked more and finally found a place for dinner. It was just ok, we may have received what we paid for... We walked past Les Invalides and then to the Metro home. In bed by 10:30 and off to do it again tomorrow.

Oh yes, today I used more of my French, however little it may be and felt the awkwardness of my attempts. Never much of a speaker, I'm truly out of it now, but picking up a few words here and there.

"Do I have to remind you the meaning of forgot?"
I went to Paris a few weeks ago. I tried to write a little about my day every night. I'm planning to share that here. Before I start I should probably introduce the major players in this drama. We have Alan: his camera was almost always on, his French grew by leaps and bounds and molded nicely with English, Spanish, and gibberish into some sort of Franglaisish, and his eyes were always peeled for scavenger hunt items. He was one half of the super cool couple that helped make this all possible. The other half was Megan: she was our French expert, always ready for a meal or some shuteye, and snapping a high number of photos clandestinely. I was the mild-mannered third wheel, knowing just enough French to be annoying, but pushing the pace just enough to be charming. Or so I like to believe. Jean-Claudius, the Connecticut college camel made many guest appearances, particularly in pictures, while Allen and Lauren proved wonderful when we lacked direction or nutella. Also look for appearances from the French activist in blue and the Franprix.

Paris journal Day one
I should be exhausted right now and I probably am, but I can't quite tell. The day has been eventful. We arrived 5:30 AM Paris time on very little sleep, despite my best hopes or intentions. We found Alan's sister's place with relative ease, the rolling suitcases clacking on cobblestones and threatening to wake up the whole of the Ile St. Louis. In the morning spit of Paris clouds, we then made our way to meet the landlord of the apartment I was renting for the week. By 9:30 AM, we realized he probably wasn't coming, so I called him (who knows how much that cost) and sorted out the difference between 9 AM and 9 PM. Ah, I hate to be a foolish American. We wandered around the area for an hour, finding some interesting sites, but mainly we all craved sleep. Finally, we got into the well-lit home of mine for the week and crashed. We could only sleep until 12:30 because we had plans to run at hash at 2 PM (1400). As we struggled from bed, the wisdom of this decision was called heavily into question, but months of planning would not be undone by our lack of sleep. After some wrestling with Metro farecards, we made our way to the hash meeting place to find no one. Worried and disappointed, we searched for possible hashers. Just as we were about to give up, we found them. They spoke English and were quite friendly.

We hashed with the oddities that come from a hash and the added oddities that come from an unfamiliar hash. Alan pointed out my exhaustion later noting that I took every possible opportunity to walk and rest. I survived the circle, consuming a touch over my usual two drinks, and pouring another drink or so onto my exposed noggin. This was all well and good, but the real story turned out to be the post hash festivities. They were truly grand. We were fed quite well, including warm chicken and rice. We had ample opportunity to mingle, including my chance to converse with a sweet French woman with a disarming smile. I conversed (in English) as long as my tired mind would allow. I was proud of my efforts on that front; after all my dad told me to talk to the French girls. The amazing part of the whole experience was how warm and real it made Paris seem. After the hash, we labored to stay awake for a few more hours to hopefully reduce the effects of jet-lag. It was a great first day of activity.

Pie: The great motivator
I race for many reasons, but few are as tangible as pie. Some days ago, near March 14 (3.14) I raced in a Pi race of 3.14 miles and the prize was pie. Engineers are nothing if not dedicated to a concept.

When I first arrived at the race, I found sleepy college students and I figured that the race would be cake. The beast relished the thought. Pie was my destiny and my destiny was pie. As the race got closer, fitter, trimmer, athletic-looking student bodies began to appear and I realized that the pie could not be cake. When the race began, I got off to a traditionally slower start and had to fight my way through some runners to position myself 5 yards back of the leaders. There was a likely pace runner who had every plan to leave us in the dust, but I trusted that as a race official he would give up his pie, so that left me and my two pie-vying rivals. A little over 5 minutes into the race, I picked off one of the runners, and set my sights on the other. We were moving quickly, but I had a pie or bust feeling coursing through me.

The course was two loops and I crossed the first loop in about 8:20. At that time, the pacesetter was not yet out of reach, and my pie-enemy was still nursing a 5 to 10 yard lead. He seemed comfortable, but was he hungry? By the next hill, I had closed the gap and passed him. If I could shake him, the pie was mine. My lead was short-lived and he quickly passed me back. I had some choices to make and most of them revolved around inner fortitude and pie. For some reason, I really wanted pie. I don't even like pie that much. On a list of my favorite desserts, pie is not even in the top 5. Oh, but today, I wanted that pie. I didn't let my competitor slip away. Instead, I again managed to overtake him and with less than half a mile to go, I began to lay claim to my pie. Then came the final hill. I struggled up it. I looked back to see my competition moving more fluidly. As we rounded the curve to the final flat 80 meters, he drew even with me. I wanted that pie, so I reached in and I began to kick. Pie was a medal. Pie was qualifying for the state meet. Pie was not being beat by that high school nemesis Pete Castor. The line couldn't come fast enough for me, but with pie representing so much, I was able to edge out my competitor and take home the pie in a time of 17:23.

The second lap had taken its toll on us both, but we finished with a flourish. I split my pie with my competitor. It was a gesture I never would have or could have made many years ago. The beast is awake- he likes pie, and he likes competition. Sometimes, he also likes sharing.

Hello competition, my old friend.

I joined the running group again this week and for the first time crossed paths with the group's "fast guy". There were three of us planning to run together on this evening. We started out slowly, but it wasn't long before we were moving at a pace that my training runs have not taken very often over the last few years. I struggled to keep up, surprised by the pace and trying not to get lost on the turns of an unfamiliar route. After willing my body through 15 minutes of pretty hard running, the other two started to slow and I was able to settle in more comfortably, at least in pace.

Inside of my head, a battle raged. "Crush them" growled the no-longer-sleeping beast of competitiveness.

"Now, beast, this is a friendly run and there is nothing to prove," explained the calmer voice in my head.

"They pushed the pace this far. Now is your chance to hurt them back," the beast growled. "They deserve crushing."

"Settle down. We're trying to make friends here. We can save the crushing for race day," said the calm voice. "Besides, we don't really know the route."

The beast would not go quietly, but eventually was subdued. I returned to struggling to keep up. I realized that the beast is too well rested and not well enough trained. This marks the beginning of an inclination to let the beast out more often.

A lackluster race is still a good way to start the day
The lost hour, the return of darkness, the cocoon of sheets and blankets are all possible causes for my lack of Sunday morning enthusiasm. It was race day. Race day usually means jittery nerves and a joyous outlook on life, but this Sunday it primarily meant that my clock said 7:00 AM and my body felt 6:00 AM. I stumbled through a pre-sunshine grey, unable to even put in race day contacts, opting instead for the less competitive, less aerodynamic spectacles.

Outside it was cold, freezing even; the 70 degrees of last Tuesday forgotten under a black layer of thermal wear. The borrowed car couldn't heat fast enough and my teeth clacked. Spots of ice dotted the first section of the course, but a short warm up assuaged any fears that ice would be a constant concern. The trails were rolling and clear, gravity had taken water on an alternate route.

Runners gathered around the indoor registration tables, neither huddling together nor rushing out to the starting line. With the start time approaching, I shed one layer and headed back out into the cold with the masses. It wasn't warmth that greeted me, but I knew that I still had on too many clothes. Turning around, I fought back through the school of fish headed to the line and shed another layer. Down to shorts, a long sleeve shirt, and my Bad Habit jersey, nun poised for a fight, I donned my stocking cap and made my way to the starting line. As soon as I stepped out again a gust of wind called my decision into question, but the wind quieted as quickly as it had threatened my internal organs with the prospect of solidifying into a frozen mass.

After Go, I found myself jostling to position myself comfortably and avoid the ice patches. Within 200 meters, I was in third. At about 400 meters of this 5 km affair, the neck of the second place runner rose up. He glanced around uncomfortably and downshifted. I was in second and chasing a strong-looking leader. His pace was licking the heels of my discomfort, but we were already alone. My only choices seemed to be run alone or fight to stay on him. I chose the latter.

He pressed on through the mile at 5:32. As we climbed the hill, the recreational nature of my training whispered like wind through the leafless trees. I spent the next half mile or so clinging to an expanding gap between us. He never looked back. Alone in the trees, bobbing up and down the hills of a concrete path I ran on, my focus shifting back and forth from the hopes of a second wind to the fear of an epic collapse. My lungs filled with cold air and wouldn't expand the way I'd hoped. My legs chopped along up and down and up and down, but never quite found the smooth stride that can momentarily take the pain away. I crossed the 2-mile in 11:32 and carried on to the finish. It was the sun, the volunteer race officials, and me; even as I looped past runners on an earlier section of the course, I could only grimace and try not to clip them with what had begun to feel like flailing. I crested the final hill still in a competitive no man's land. With my head cocked I summoned a small surge to carry the boxing nun on my hip to a finish in 18:31.

Rellena long day
Six hours and one Quesadilla later, I have returned home. In some circles the quest for decent Mexican food might be warranted. There are likely some secret Tex-Mex hideouts in the Southwest that even the Tex-Mexicans have only heard through rumors carried on salsa-flavored wind. Maybe there are pockets of culinary mastery in small towns just the other side of the Rio Grande. For those hideouts and pockets, a six hour outing might not be unheard of, might even be rewarded, but here in Maryland, a trip to Salisbury for Mexican food might be a tad foolish. The heart of Wicomico county may be many things to many people, but mecca of Mexican is likely not one of them.

It's fair to say that our intent was not to travel long distances only to eat the tortillas of our Mary-Mex brothers and sisters. In fact, I was there, like many places, to be involved with Ultimate. The heavens had other ideas and poured rain down upon us in a way less like sheets and more like down comforters. Heavy stuff. Taking a cue from Happiness gurus, I've decided to focus on the positive.

Let me start with lunch. Without lunch, breakfast and dinner are very far apart. Let me continue with the company that I kept. There's a field trip-esque quality that comes with traveling in packs. It's easy to overlook that joy, especially at a WaWa where it turns out that the pack is also the line for the toilet. We take our lines wherever we go. It's like we leave the fun part of amusement parks and just carry the annoying part around in vans. I'm working on the positive; I'm no guru yet. There was a warmth, in 'Tini's laugh, in the unveiling of the bent digit, in the high-powered and confusing lemon juice, that will get lost between rain drops and ticking clocks. I greatly enjoyed witnessing sugar roulette, which wasn't as deadly as it sounds. The sun breaking through the clouds and poking rich green farmland was something out of a painting and the winds something out of a movie, like maybe Twister. We didn't see flying cows, and sometimes what isn't there can be just as positive.

J-J-Jaded

I'm a little giddy tonight because I finally made it to the local running store's 7 PM Tuesday run. It was free. It was very pleasant. Still, I couldn't help thinking that it was a brilliant marketing ploy. Brilliant may be too strong of a word since only 5 of us who weren't already employees actually went on the run, but certainly a very fine marketing ploy. I now have good will toward the store. I'll probably buy my next shoes from that very spot. I'll be telling the local runners I know, "Hey, this store puts on a weekly run, you should come join it." Then they'll come and they'll shop at this store and it will snowball like DC snow, so only a little, but still very fine, I say. But, but, but...

Maybe it's not a ploy. How can I tell a ploy from just plain good intentions? What happens if a ploy and good intentions overlap almost completely? Is that big, bad, and scary? Or just awesome?

Let's check in with Aerosmith- My, my, baby blue... and I'm the one that jaded you.

Ah, it's Steven Tyler's fault. Or more likely it's at least bordering on awesome. If we're going to live in a consumer-driven society the place where good intentions and ploy overlap is the place I think I want to be.

Any other year and it'd be March
The post was going to write itself. Traveling on the down escalator to baggage claim, I was contemplating cell phones. My anti-cell mojo has taken a series of hits. I don't have the conviction that once splashed across the computer screen. I've grown weak and my reasons for maintaining disconnected start sounding nostalgic before they leave my throat. Recently, I encountered a test to my cell-free existence. I was trying to meet friends- an event in and of itself that has changed in my lifetime. I was to call from a payphone when I arrived at the predetermined Metro station. From there my friends would pick me up and drive me to the show. Payphones are getting scarce, but they can be found in the Metro without difficulty. I packed my 50 cents, the going rate for a local call these days, and grabbed an envelope and scrawled the number that needed to be called across the top. Metro whisked me to my destination and I strode to the phone. Popping my quarters in and dialing the number, I called for a ride. I heard a voice on the other end and said, "Hello." Several "hellos" volleyed back and forth with increasing intensity on my side and increasing question on the other side. My initial reaction was that my leg was being pulled, but I soon realized that like my convictions, the payphone was faltering. Finally, my friend said, "Dave, if that's you, we're on the way to the Metro."

I hung up, walked away and wondered if I should try the other phone. I didn't have 50 more cents. I searched my pockets several times for a stray dime, but came up empty. I stood a little bewildered wondering what I should do when the payphone started ringing. At first I was stunned, but then I jogged over and picked it up. "Hello," I exclaimed.

"It rang four times and stopped," she said.

I wanted to tell her why, but I could only stare at the phone and then hang up as the universe laughed at me. Taking solace in our first exchange I made my way out of the ground and hoped that I'd spot the car that would carry me on. I looked for other payphones, but found none. I considered asking a kind stranger for a phone call, but wasn't feeling too keen about that. How long should I wait on the corner before giving up and heading home? Fortunately, my wait didn't last long and the carriage appeared. My existence was quickly redeemed and I partially blocked out this event.

It must have simmered beneath the surface, because as the escalator descended I was formulating new arguments against a way of life I continue to resist. People don't have quiet moments anymore, I thought to myself. I'm going to be at baggage claim for the next half hour and then have a Metro ride home and not say a word to anyone. I will wait until I'm home to recount the tales from my trip. It sounds a little lonely when written that way, but it builds suspense and excitement. It allows me to collect my thoughts and appreciate the present. These people that would wait for their bags nearby, they'd all be chattering away, never reflecting, I was certain. How sad, I thought. What has the world come to?

The bags began churning out and I looked around and realized that almost no one had a phone jammed in his or her ear. A few flipped one open as they rolled luggage away, but most people were waiting quietly like me.

I don't know if it was the day of the week, or if I'm just too hard on my fellow man. Maybe we're not as bad off as I thought. However, we're still meeting at a predetermined time at a predetermined location because I can't call on the way, unless I have a few quarters and some good luck.

Oh! Take me to the movies

I finally saw Atonement and it was worth the wait. I really liked it. I thought it was shot well, told well, and other than Domino I don't ever mind watching Keira Knightley. I'd heard that the book ends in a very frustrating way; I haven't read it, but I suspect that in this particular case that same ending translates much better on screen. I'm putting my slightly bruised thumb up on this one. The bruise is not movie-related.

I also saw Definitely, Maybe. I avoided the V-day crowd on this one, but was very concerned that this would tread the same territory of the barely satisfying 27 dresses. I was wrong; the man once known as Van Wilder, starred in a well put-together romantic comedy. It's a little telling and a little sad that divorce now plays heavily in this type of movie, but this movie pulls it all off in a pretty charming way. I don't think this is top tier romantic comedy stuff, but it's definitely a few steps up from any that have come out in years. (As an aside, it occurs to me that perhaps the romantic comedy has changed less than I have which could account for my views on them. I'll consider it, maybe hit up netflix for a few test cases and see what I come up with.)

Cleaning my toilet, cleaning my soul

I'm not quite sure what it says about me that I've taken my break-up mix and made it into my bathroom cleaning mix. Only good scrub-free things, I have to believe. With a nod to John's recent movie post, I'd like to write briefly about the mix I called, "Ouch".

1. Hello, Goodbye by Sean Watkins- I love that the entire relationship takes place in a brief conversation; it's a great way to capture that possibility of new beginnings and that reality of missed opportunities.

2. Bubbly by Colbie Caillat- I heard this one was tearing a hole in the myspace-time continuum. My favorite part, other than the lolling tune, is the ripple effect that the song's subject has on the singer's body. A good nose crinkle can be a real kick.

3. Five Minutes to Midnight by Boys Like Girls- I just like the fairy tale meets New Year's Eve effect going on here. The music makes me want to grab Cinderella and rush home so we don't turn into gourds. Before the clock strikes twelve, we'll need to share one of those kisses that are more full of potential than anything else.

4. Mad World by Alex Parks- This is a sadder eerier version of Mad World than I've heard. There's an emptiness and a vastness that made it seem appropriate for this mix.

5. I Ain't Been Myself in Years by Yonder Mountain Boys- This to me is really the weak link on the CD. The title seemed right, but the song doesn't ache or bounce or feel the way I thought it did when I first added it.

6. All the Way Down by Glen Hansard- This song is heartbreak, but with the tiniest drop of optimism. The Once album is a better break-up mix than this one can even aspire to be.

7. Everything is All Right by Motion City Soundtrack- This song is just a little bit of a rockin' check-in to...um...make sure that, basically, everything is ok, or, at least all right. It's fun. It's airy. It's helping us all recover from being all the way down a moment ago.

8. Brick by Ben Fold's Five- We didn't last long being all right, so this one is pretty crushing. It's beautiful and it hurts.

9. Hey There Delilah by Plain White T's- This song is so full of optimism. I just don't see how this couple is going to make it. I love that. I'm not sure what kind of cynic that makes me, but there's got to be a place to be overflowing with hope and to be able to keep the mop of cynicism nearby. There's room in one man for both of these feelings and this song brings all of that out in me as I wail, "OOOOOh, it's what you do to me." It's cleansing.

10. Come Around by Rhett Miller- Sadness, nostalgia, begging, and the well-sung question, "Am I gonna be lonely for the rest of my life?" Bathroom cleaners everywhere know what I'm talking about.

11. Why does it always rain on me? by Travis- We've reached the feeling sorry for ourselves portion of the mix. Travis does it wonderfully in this song.

12. Screaming Infidelities by Dashboard Confessional- Dude, it's emo. Emo belongs on a mix like this. Also, it's pretty awesome the way he uses "making out" in two totally different contexts.

13. Hotel Fire by Hem- This song is beautiful. I think I remember hearing that it was about divorce and even if it isn't, it's just filled with the sort of sad destruction and still-burning flames of a break-up. This is my favorite band for a reason.

14. It Just Is by Rilo Kiley- Even acceptance doesn't feel good. Rilo knows it. She's not afraid to remind anybody.

15. I Am Trying to Break Your Heart by Wilco- This is a standard for me on this type of mix. It's sort of a childish taking of responsibility put together in a vacant lonely tone. It gets stuck in my head for days.

16. Just Like Heaven by Goldfinger- Nothing says get back on the horse like a punk cover. Also, air guitar has healing powers.

My mom is my Valentine

A large brown-papered box arrived at my house over a week ago. Even without the "Happy Valentine's Day" sticker, I knew what it was for. I don't get large boxes as often as some people might think. It was early because my mom wouldn't be home to send it as today approached. I know folks who would send a gift late or even a few who have stopped giving their twenty-something children Valentines. Please do not doubt their love. My mom just happens to have at least two qualities that make early Valentine's Day presents into reality. She's very organized and she celebrates holidays enthusiastically. I can't be certain, mostly because I've never asked, but I think holidays might be my mom's race day. She has pins, and wreaths, and flags, and outfits for almost every major holiday. She launches all-out holiday attacks on the senses and she gives generously, especially when she finds something special while shopping.

I admit that I considered very little of this while the box gathered dust in my room. I wasn't displeased to receive a large box in the mail, but I'm mostly past the days where a box can ignite the child-like curiosity that I once knew. Years ago, or last week, I might have groaned at the thought of the material goods that my mother had chosen for me, but I think she's recently heeded my groans and began to focus her efforts again on the things that I need, eschewing the singing, dancing heart-shaped doo-hickeys. She's more adaptable than I've probably given her credit for. The skills she's taught me or I've absorbed through genetics probably also deserve more credit. My coworkers think that I'm organized. I've been reluctant to agree because I hold myself to the gold standard of organization- my mom. My calendar is not as complete, my desk not as clean, but I know where things are and I think a lot of that comes from her. The rest comes from Google Desktop search, but it didn't send me a Valentine, so no tributes there.

Beyond organization, there are other pieces of me that I can fairly easily attribute to my mother- a desire to please, an inner drive, an appreciation of family, and a fondness for holidays like today. Last night, as midnight approached, I decided I could no longer wait to find out the contents of the large box. The kid in me still exerts some pull. I peeled back the brown paper to find a bright shiny red box with a red and gold heart on top. It was so bright and surprising that I had to set it aside and smile. I readied myself to bed and waited for Valentine's Day to arrive. The Valentines used to arrive at breakfast, but while respect for tradition comes partly from Mom, sometimes patience runs out. At 12:08, I tore off the shiny red wrapping paper, ripped through the packing tape to find the closest thing I can think of to a hug. They were warm, in a room-temperature sort of way, fuzzy new bath towels. I don't think I've had new bath towels since college. I'd say I don't even want to talk about how excited they made me, but I think I just did.

Happy Valentine's Day. Here's to hugs, real or packaged.

It's Valentine's Day right now somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean

If I had a club and/or a matchmaking organization, I think I'd call it "The International Date Line." Sounds exotic, doesn't it?

Happy Valentine's Day.

2008 pieces of mail

It seems like just this time last year we started hearing from various candidates about their intentions to run for president. There was a barrage of media, and commercials, and phone calls, and now 360 some-odd days later, we finally get to vote... in the primaries. Aren't these people governors and senators? Don't they have actual jobs to do? How do they have so much time to run for office?

With those questions in mind, I turn to my mailbox, the most overstuffed political consultant I know. Almost every day, I get something new touting the incredible nature/policy/lack-of-other-candidateness of yet another candidate. I've reached a breaking point. I don't want any more junk mail. I'm thinking of becoming a one-issue voter. My issue? Junk mail. I'm going to start voting for the candidates that don't fill my mailbox, don't call me at dinner, and don't fill in "Tivo" time. It's time for the quiet ones to rise to prominence. I fear that this will help the incumbents, but it will also help the write-ins. That's good news for Donald Duck.

Just another love note to running; not epic poetry
There was a light frost on the ground that gave the brown grass a grayer tint and confused the boundary between sod and sky. The air was crisp and held breath up for closer examination. The sun lurked beneath a thin layer of clouds, but even in the ticks before the 8 o'clock hour, evidence of February warmth began to peek through.

My friend and I were about to embark on a 5-mile race on a country road in Maryland. I don't have a lot of friends who would wake up on any day looking for a race. I consider this another reason to be thankful for this one. I knew from our run on Thursday that he has a spring in his step that doesn't seem to match his age. My stride feels weary, but he bounds. Just before we made our way to the starting line of the race, I assured him that if he felt up to it he should run on ahead of me. I don't often make such assurances, but I consider it a mark of maturity that I made this one. He knew my goal was once again to break 30 minutes and improve on the performance of 2 weeks ago. We ran together slightly off the lead pack for a little over three quarters of a mile. Then my friend bounded. I watched him pull away almost instantly. He crossed the mile around 5:43. I crossed 10 seconds later in 5:53. Sighing to myself, I considered how this race was beginning just like the last one.

Singing John Denver's song "Country Road", or at least two lines of it, country road, take me home, I made my way up the hills of mile 2, as my friend pulled further away. I could see him cross the second mile right on pace at about 12 minutes. I, on the other hand, had slowed to something around 12:22. I briefly thought of my 4 and a half hours of sleep the night before, the fruity but stout Belgian beer I had enjoyed and hopefully flushed from my system, and the insane barking of the otherwise charming lead singer of Sunny Day in Glasgow. I am not the runner I once was. He would have gone to bed early. With the turn on the out and back course looming, I banished the thoughts, waved to my friend and crossed the halfway point at 15:30.

Downhill started then. It was pleasant in a pounding sort of way. The country road now was taking me home, or at least in the right direction. I don't really recall what my time was at mile 3, though speculation and extrapolation leads me think that it was right about 18:30. I'd sort of lost contact with my friend and thoughts of him were momentarily shelved. I had more immediate goals, like overtaking the man in front of me and moving this race along. Gaining on a man in black, I was startled when out of the corner of my eye I saw a large black and brown dog headed in the direction of the course. With a burst of speed from sheer terror, I sped past my aim exclaiming, "That's motivation!" as the dog turned to parallel our route along what I can only assume was an electric fence. That burst of energy and the downhill nature of the course allowed the gap between my friend, his current running group, and me to shrink noticeably. As I ripped through a 5:25ish mile, cruising now at 23:52 with just a mile left, I began to have visions of meeting my goal and overtaking my friend.

No slouch was he, as he was able to find his way out of the group he had been with, and let them crumble behind him. I passed them as well, gaining slightly, but realizing that there was still a large challenge left before me. As the gap closed a little more, I began to feel the distance I'd made up so quickly down the hill after mile 3. Then I began to feel the upward slope toward the finish that seem to be the sadistic trademark of the race planners of this particular club. It was nothing like two weeks ago, though my mind did pause to remind me of that. Still, I asked my legs for more, but they were not particularly interested. I'd closed to within 10 yards or so when I spied the finish. With 200 meters to go, my kick was almost non-existent and it was matched (easily? He politely won't say.) by my friend. He finished in 29:28 and I in 29:36. We ran together for something like 6 minutes, but in the true spirit of competition, I believe we pushed each other the whole way. I look forward to another opportunity for personal records, for friendship, for competition.

Go to the fridge during the game
There are 4 Super Bowl ads that I feel the need to mention and react to in some way, mostly negatively, which may say something about me. They are also all liquids which may say even more; like I was thirsty.

1. SoBe LifeWater- these ads were kind of dumb. I don't really know what to make of LifeWater (if that's what it was even called.) I guess I'll drink it if I want to dance with lizards. Isn't that why I have Geico insurance or is that just for the talking?

2. Gatorade- This ad broke my heart and not in a "aw, we were so close to making things work" sort of way, but in a "Gatorade, WTF?" I get that they were falling in the babies, animals, sex syllabus of selling, but Gatorade is one of those products that has the potential to make me want to get up off the couch and be somebody. Maybe they are searching for a new market that includes dogs? I'm uninspired, disappointed, and reconsidering LifeWater and the lizards.

3. Coke- This ad containing parade floats chasing Coke was intriguing and kind of fun to watch, but I'm at a loss as to what to do with the end. Charlie Brown ends up with the highly sought after bottle of cola. Doesn't this go against the very thing we love about Charlie Brown? Is this a slap in the face to the memory of Schulz? Charlie Brown is the lovable everyman who doesn't kick the field goal, doesn't win the game, doesn't get the red-headed girl, so how does he end up with the Coke? I need more back-story or I need someone else to end up with the Coke. Good Grief.

4. Amp- I guess this is my winner. When the winner involves a large man attaching jumper cables to his nipples, this was a year when the game outplayed the ads. I don't want to downplay this one completely. It was horrifyingly appealing to watch and about an energy drink, so right on target in my mind.

Go back in time and get the Lemonade!

I stopped my feet from bouncing so I could reach up into the sky and wave my fingers around vigorously, a bit like I was conducting an orchestra of hummingbirds. This and the seizure-like bobs of a 1:15 AM madman are the apparent results of an iced coffee some hours ago. It started innocently enough with an order of lemonade. Feet pound on a non-existent bass drum. Hand seizures now violently direct traffic to the right The waitress, a sensible looking woman of low to mid twenty decried her establishment's lemonade with some remark about its unappealing fountain nature.

"Too sweet?" I asked. As my arms and my brain spin in opposite directions I am unable to recall her answer. Her look spoke volumes. She I point angrily channeling Lewis Black had a disdain for the lemonade which I took seriously. Not wanting the carbonated beverages of the Coca-Cola empire, I instead decided that an iced coffee with my 9 PM dinner would be wise. AN ICED COFFEE. I get some caffeine, but in no way have a tolerance wrists like pinwheels; bouncing has made its way up my spine.

Now I pay the price. I could've had gesticulating wildlya piss-poor glass of lemonade and been out by 11:30, instead masticating the air and punctuating my point with a powerful jab downward I chose poorly. Very poorly. Sleep does not just elude my grasp. I can barely recall the nature of sleep. Instead I want to grab my banjo, which hasn't been played in some months, and pick a tune. Wait. Wait. I've got one. How about "Lemon, Lemon, pick the Lemonade, you ridiculous little man from 5 hours ago."

It's not that well known.

Like the substitute mailman,
I kind of deliver. The gym was quite a challenge today. The gym is down in the basement of my building, but I managed to make three trips before successfully entering. I don't even remember what I forgot on my first trip; I then proceeded to forget my shoes, which required a hike back up the stairs and then my ID. After that, it was smooth sailing through 30 minutes of stationary bike and two sets of something or other before the fire alarm went off. My self-preservation instinct kicks in when the fire alarm starts going. There are some that will dilly and others that will dally, but among my coworkers I tend to be one of the first people out the door. Today, I took a calculated risk, considered my future as a charcoal briquette and gathered my stuff from the locker room before darting outside. I did encounter a naked man who asked, "Should I go out like this?" I said, "yes", but didn't stick around to see whether he followed my advice. Unlike my workout, I survived intact. Like my workout, I made my way home half-dressed and sweaty.

My dentist and my mom think my smile is great
I picked my dentist for two reasons- he's close and he's open after traditional business hours. I did not pick him because of his day job- prison dentist. I am not kidding. He's a little rough, but claims to be gentle on the paying customers like me. He thinks my teeth are amazing, but I always try to remember his baseline. If that's not enough to create the curious dental experience, his receptionist seems greatly disappointed when my cleaning does not result in money-making procedures like root canals and fillings. I don't know what to say except that as odd and off-putting as this experience continues to be, it's still better than my doctor's visits where I feel like the doc just doesn't care. Go Health Care! Go US of A!

The Great Debate
I took the easy road yesterday. I turned to movie reviews and imdb. The post I really wanted to write, the post that I'm still not sure I can get out was about the debate that raged inside of me.

What could cause my insides to roil on a Sunday afternoon? I had a movie to choose. Should I see 27 dresses or Atonement? It seems that a person like me could distill such a decision down to its most attractive...er...simplest parts and make this merely a question of Heigl vs. Knightley. Alas, a decision such as this turned out to be far more complicated.

I didn't know much about either movie, but by the few things I did know it appeared that 27 dresses was the cotton candy and Atonement was the apple, likely sans caramel coating. I sensed that even though Keira would be up there in big screen glory, I might have to work at it. I might have to be sad or upset or actually care. The more I thought about this, the more I realized that all I really wanted was to be entertained with little to no effort. I sensed that Katherine could deliver. Still, I struggled with my decision. I was about to spend $10.25 on a movie that I didn't really want to care much about. What was I saying with my dollars and cents? Please, Hollywood, make cotton candy because I don't want to be bothered. I want cheap thrills and easy laughs. I don't really want to think or feel, I just want you to kill a couple of hours and tie it up with a nice lavender bow for me. If I make this decision, how many heterosexual males just like me will make the same decision? Ok, wrong question, but how many times do we choose easy over more challenging? How many times is that right? And if we keep doing it will the more challenging options disappear? Will we lose the ones that force us to examine ourselves or the world in a different way? I don't even know if Atonement manages that or if that's what it means to be art.

Sheesh. No wonder I went to see 27 dresses. By the time I was done pontificating about which movie to go to, I was too tired to think any more. Or more likely, my primary solace in my decision is that I figure eventually Keira will woo me to the theater. I'm probably going to work, just not on Sunday.

27 dresses meets or exceeds low expectations
There is something about the romantic comedy that keeps me coming back for more. I don't think I've been particularly pleased with one since Notting Hill. What was that, 1995? Imdb.com says 1999 actually, so the drought is not as long as I suspected.

There have been a few during that time that I had high hopes for- Serendipity, Music and Lyrics to name two and at least one, Once that doesn't really fall in the same genre, but was pretty special. For the most part, this genre is a parade of cliches. 27 dresses marches on to the beat of the same drummer, but Katherine Heigl is just lovely enough to make things ok.

I think the something that keeps me coming back is the happy ending. When the happy ending doesn't do it for me anymore, I think that's when it's time to start worrying.

Additionally, further research indicates that in June, The Time Traveler's Wife starring Rachel McAdams (!) will hit theaters. There will be high expectations when one of my favorite books turns into a movie starring one of my favorite actresses, but it's about time for this drought to end.

Ah! The cinema!
Every so often a movie comes along that makes me want to grab someone's hand and go running through the streets.
Spirit of the Marathon is that movie. I could sense a closeness in the crowd immediately; it was the kind of vibe that usually surfaces at highly anticipated comic book movies, the difference here was that these were my people. The crowd was full of runners. Most of them may not have had the joys of a pre-movie run like my fine friends and me, but I could sense that most had been bitten by the running bug now and again.

I don't know what this movie would be like for the non-runner, but it gave me chills. It's put together so well and it helped me recall almost all of the trials and the triumphs of my marathon experience in 2004. On top of that pleasure, it manages to illuminate some other amazing stories including the elite marathoners. It's well shot providing both footage that gives some perspective to the vastness of the experience of tens of thousands of crazy people all pushing toward a goal as well as that individualized in the training and in the race perspective of the singular struggle.

It's awesome. I'm not sure I could get much more excited about a documentary unless it was about me. Maybe not even then because that might be both awkward and egomaniacal.

Taste memory
Before I get started I would just like to thank those in charge for having winter smell like winter, at least for a few days.

I purchased some chocolate chip Pop-tarts today and was reminded of my time as a liftie. To me, chocolate chip Pop-Tarts taste like ski lift shacks. This is not the best flavor, even for a toaster pastry. It's not that I dislike them, it's more like they remind me of overdose. Chocolate chip Pop-tarts were my drug of choice that spring, mostly because the price was right. I'm fairly certain that the year this particular model of tart came out someone with connections (though marginally impressive connections at best) secured a shipment of the tarts for general consumption. Consume, I did. Pop-tarts for elevensies, Pop-tarts for an afternoon snack, a pocketful of Pop-tarts for later. I was menace to my innards. My body has not completely erased that memory, so I will tread carefully with the remaining six in the box.

I suppose that I was trafficking in tastebud reflections today because besides the Pop-tarts that made it into my cart, I also considered a cylinder of the orange-flavored "do-it-yourself" cinnamon rolls. Orange cinnamon rolls taste like heartbreak to me. The pictures in my mind have grown blurry; I can only see snippets of a well-couched (at least in number) living room, a blocked-off fireplace, a tear-obscured face, and a plate of the cinnamon rolls sloppily coated in icing of heart wrenching orange. The cinnamon rolls would go fairly quickly. The heartbreak would linger for years. I put back the rolls and left with orange juice. I like to think it fights disease.

Measurements in pain or GAWRSH I like running
In my life, I would bet I have run races with a distance of 5 kilometers in the neighborhood of 50 times. When I enter a 5k, I cannot say how much this experience helps me, but after my first ever 5 mile race yesterday, I'm going to guess on the side of immensely. From the get-go, my mind was very focused on the nearly 2 mile difference between a 5k and a 5 miler. I tried to slow my pace so that I could better sustain my effort. My intent for every mile was 6 minutes, but the first came out more like 5:53. I was a little jumpy and 20 or so people were off to the races and I couldn't completely let them go. It isn't my nature. Plus, there was a woman up ahead and with a nod to feminists and the crop of female runners who could crush me, I still didn't really want to get beat by a woman.

With an internal monologue in full-on nag mode and my body already starting to complain, I crossed two miles in 12:10. The third mile clicked off in 6:01 and I was at 18:11. A 5k would've been over by now, but I was again reminded of my decision to join the country in eschewing the metric system. There was a group 30 or so seconds in front of me and a few stragglers off of that group. I set my sights to pick off the stragglers in the next couple of miles and see if I could pull my time down a bit. I held what I still believe to be an appropriate level of optimism mixed in with the realism coursing through my veins.

I picked off one pretty quickly and moved on to the next. Heading up a hill, I pulled even with another and tried to coax him to go after the last straggler with me. He wished me well, but would have none of it. This point was somewhere near mile 4 and the hills were picking up or I was being crushed down; either way I was really looking for the little orange sign with the 4 on it so I could gear up for the last mile. Mile 4 came in 24:23. I was tiring and the hills kept coming. I couldn't seem to close on the last straggler and then to make matters worse, a man I'd passed some time ago made his way into my peripheral vision. I wasn't entirely unhappy to see him, I had hopes that he could keep me going strong(ish). We descended a hill and were heading past a water stop. I took a rare grab for some aqua, not something I would do in a 5k, and had a gulp. This turned out to be less refreshing than I had hoped. Or perhaps it was the hill looming in front of me.

I climbed the hill and desperately tried to keep my new mate behind me. We neared the top of the hill and I could see that our left turn would take us up another hill. In this moment, the hills, the miles, the glass of water, and weariness proved too much for me and I could only watch the man pass me by. I was broken. He pulled away. As we got halfway up the next hill I had one last spurt to dig out, but it amounted to only a few pathetic surging steps of a weary man unaccustomed to such a distance. I finished in 30:45, good enough for 15th place and 9 seconds a mile off of my goal. The good news is I have a new personal record (PR) in the 5 mile distance. Most of me would like to say that I'm headed back to the 5k where I feel at home, but it turns out that next up on the calendar is my first shot to go after a new PR. The records, they are made for the breaking.

Relax, boy. It's a movie.
Juno is not a documentary about the Internet service provider. I found this and its mildly glossy treatment of teenage pregnancy to be shocking, or at the very least a bit discomfiting. However, by viewing this movie twice I am now able to say that I have taken my seat on the Juno bandwagon. Knowing that there would be some discomfiting moments, or perhaps more accurately just accepting that this was a movie and its depth on any subject was probably not going to send teenagers pouring into the streets to have babies just the way The Program didn't have teenagers pouring into the streets to get hit by cars... wait. Movies don't kill people. People kill people. New Academy slogan? Probably not. Regardless, my second viewing enabled me to really enjoy the textures, the soundtrack, and the love story in this film. I missed a lot of those in the first viewing by being disturbed by the premise and some of the sarcasm. The humor and the poignant seemingly throw-away lines were there in both viewings. And the details, save for some curious running-related decisions, were there and to my liking. Juno has the room of a 16-year old. It's crowded and messy and not Hollywood clean. She has junk and magazine cutouts and even a spotty hamburger phone for crying out loud. Although, have I lived in the east too long or don't all the kids have cell phones these days? It's nice to think that midwestern values like marginally workable hamburger phones might still be out there.

I liked this movie and I recommend it to the holdouts, but something about it prevents me from gushing. Something is keeping me from saying "Juno is totally boss." It's not just my judicious use of slang, either. "Honest to blog."

"It's your cousin, Marvin. Marvin BERRY!"
Lost in the shuffle of thousands of songs at my click-wheel is the inertia of choosing a 'till-now-forgotten CD and then allowing it to play through 22 tracks while weaving an audio portrait of now and then.

It's possible that in 10 years I will remember that I downloaded Kelly Clarkson's hit after returning from Wildwood, New Jersey in a car full of a smelly Steve, Karpo, and Cat who discovered that we took great satisfaction in joining Kelly in a rousing top-of-our lungs rendition of the CD-repeated "SINCE YOU BEEN GONE." I might remember that I found Rhett Miller wondering if he was going to be lonely for the rest of his life on pandora.com and then downloaded him when I started to identify. He joined a mix of painful yet hopeful musicians trying to cheer me. I already can't remember why I downloaded Bowling For Soup, but I suspect it had to do with either "1985", "Almost", or I really liked the name of the band. Maybe some things are more memorable than others.

Today, about 15 years from the original purchase, I found Chuck Berry's Greatest Hits. Poor Chuck hadn't seen the inside of a CD player in quite a few years. He came from a time when I could fit all of my CDs in a little grey 12-CD carrying case. He was probably part of my neighbor's BMG purchase, along with Bob Marley, and some early Green Day that I would inherit in those years between popularity stints. I'm sure I ended up with Chuck due to some combination of Oldies 95, the local oldies FM station, Back to The Future (making another appearance this month), and the low low price of $7.95. I was a teenage bargain hunter.

As I listened through the CD, I was struck by how similar the songs sounded to each other. I wondered if maybe that's why it hadn't made the airwaves in a while. There was a song about Delilah, and I wondered what it was about that name that seems to inspire. I searched for "Johnny B. Goode" and found "Maybellene". Why can't she be true? I remembered listening to "Sweet Little Sixteen" and thinking about the girls in my class and listening to "No Particular Place To Go" and wondering how many songs have been recorded about parking. Today, I listened at work and tried to convince myself that all of this wasn't "Too Much Monkey Business"; at least not for this "Brown Eyed Handsome Man".

"...You know that new sound you've been looking for? Well, listen to this..."

"We don't speak very good English, so we'll just sing."
New rule for 2008- I will attend any event that includes a Japanese tribute band.

I didn't even know I wanted to see The Silver Beats, a Japanese Beatles tribute band made famous by those English guys that sent your mom screaming to the record store, but there I was in a sold out club pressed up against friends and strangers anticipating the coming Asian invasion. I couldn't help a little squeal of delight when four mop-topped black-suited Japanese gentlemen launched into "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band."

Earlier in the evening, my friends and I had played a little game of "guess The Beatles' songs" we'd hear. We got a few of them, but were continually surprised and thrilled with the songs we'd missed. I'm not a Beatles afficianado by any means, so for my purposes the Beats were a thrill. I heard a few songs I'd never heard before, but mostly the crowd and I got to bop and sing along to familiar and lovable songs. At first, everywhere I looked people were smiling with that "Am I on Candid Camera?" grin, but the more we listened and twitched in time to the music, the more genuine the smiles became. (Other theories include: more beer.)

For the encore, The Silver Beats wrapped up with "Hey, Jude." Saying goodbye to new friends that hadn't even spoken, we were happy to sway and bray together in one of those pleasant moments of community.

Then we all pushed toward the exit and tried not to trample anyone; unless he was in the way.

Opening Act
Before seeing the aforementioned Japanese Fab Four, we heard a band with a name I never quite heard. It may have been something like 300 substitutes. I have theorized that they were all substitute teachers during the day. These guys were decked out in ties and untucked dress shirts. They reminded me a bit of Jim Halpert from The Office, even their pint-sized lead singer who jumped around with manic opening band energy, had that vibe. Their songs had Halpert-esque personality too. It was that mixture of confidence and down on their luck charm. All of their songs seemed to be about break-ups, pretty girls that wouldn't pay attention to them, and love gone awry. Basically, it was up my alley, and yet still pretty unremarkable. They were fun, but forgettable. At least they were until their final song. After all of the early angst, they finally managed to package it all together in a fun and honest tune with a chorus of, "Everybody (EVERYBODY!) has somebody to F$&# tonight, but me."

Maybe you had to hear it...

tales of a burrito genie

I wanted high-class urban Tex-Mex. I wanted opaque blue glass and top shelf tequila under low lights and guacamole made at my table. I didn't even need the tequila.

I was overruled.

I ended up in line for Chipotle take-out. Chipotle has its charms, including that Life is Burrito-ful jingle, but I wasn't in the mood for the entire contents of my meal to be wrapped and bagged. A little on the dejected side, I carried my burrito-ful brown paper bag on the Metro and headed home. The crumpled bag hung at my side helping me to balance as my other hand held the railing above. I adopted the classic vacant stare, vaguely aware of my surroundings, but mostly focusing on the disappointing meal I'd have at home. As I stood there, a few stops from mine, I half-heard a young man behind me recount his beer guzzling prowess. The beer had evidently left a unquenched hunger inside him. I knew this because he announced to his friends, "I wish I had a burrito." I was facing one way. He was facing the other.

It took me a moment, but slowly, like a tourist on the escalator, I realized what this young man had uttered. I glanced down at the disappointment crumpled in my hand, raised my arm, and shoved the package over the speaker's shoulder. He looked at me oddly. I smiled encouragingly. I can't know what he was thinking for certain, but he soon came around.

"Are you serious?" he asked.
"I don't want it." I said.
He accepted and a few minutes later hunger and a complete disregard for the law overtook him. I hated to see the law broken, but a hungry young man chowing down on a free burrito was a pleasing sight.

I smiled as my thoughts wandered to the dinner that now awaited me. With only a stop to go, I considered that the smell had influenced him, or by some slim chance he'd seen the bag in my hand, but still what kind of person asks for a burrito on a train with any expectation that they'll receive one? Pleased with my act, I prepared to leave when I heard, "I wish I had a million dollars."

That's Cap'n style to you
I got a new blue J. Crew vest for Christmas. I think it's awesome. It reminds me a little of the vest Marty McFly was wearing in Back to the Future. Today I wore the vest to work and nothing else. Well, at least no coat, because that's the kind of weather we're having here. I decided that I really didn't want to take the vest off, because, well Marty wore one in 1955 and 1985. If it's good enough for Marty as he traveled through time, it's good enough for me trying to get through a Monday.

I find my vest to be extremely hip. My coworkers didn't seem to agree. Finally when asked for the third time if I was cold, I replied, "No. I'm stylish."

I don't know a lot about style, but I think that it's one of those things that if you have to declare it, it might not be true.

Great Scott.

Nike: The Power of Advertising
I've recently watched a few "conversionals" regarding the Nike+. Conversionals appear to be conversation/testimonial/commercial/Internet thingys. Nike+ appears to be an iPod, a shoe, and some tracking information. At one point I was thinking that Nike+ might be a cool thing to have. It might be a nice motivator. It could help me keep track of how far or fast I was running. After watching a few conversionals, I've decided that I'm happy that Nike+ is creating new runners because I think running is a good thing, but I don't identify with these people. Nike advertising has generally been about striving toward something; "Just Do It" was about not making excuses and going after something. It left room for interpretation about what "It" was- Olympic gold or running around the block. These Nike+ conversionals seem to be about the way that Nike+ has turned the unmotivated into motivated. It's the ugly side of Just Do It. It says to me that Nike+ is the only thing keeping these people off the couch. I don't want people to know that a shoe and a pod are the only reasons I can think to run. I want them to think a fire burns inside of me. Forget them, I want to think a fire burns inside of me. I want to Just Do It, I don't want to just barely do it if the right music is playing.

This is branding! And for the time being, it has alienated this potential customer.

(Update: Ok. But the Need Motivation? commercial is pretty cool. Maybe I shouldn't make my decisions based on advertising.)

An incomplete caboodle

- I have work guilt. Today, I had to ask for help to order some cardboard boxes because that process has changed significantly in the last few years. When offered the opportunity to learn how to order the boxes, I rather aggressively declined. My response was something like, "I don't want to learn anything new because then you'll just make me do it." This is either standing up for myself or being a jerk. I haven't decided which, but I think I'm leaning toward the latter.

-The thing I like about my Raspberry Zing tea is that it leaves a little red mark at the bottom of the cup. I like to pretend these are lip prints left by my lover. I'm fairly certain this makes my lover a shriveled bag of tea.

-I went to a real gym today and discovered some things:
1. There's a certain charm to music videos that I had forgotten.
2. Gym owners can add windows, bright lights, and put the gym on the second floor up above the street, but there's a point in the workout when I still feel trapped in a dungeon.
3. I run faster when the little screen attached to my treadmill has women wrestling. I slowed down when they tagged their male partners. I had no idea WWE had coed wrestling or that wrestling was good treadmill viewing material.

Enjoying the movie Enchanted in a few easy steps

-Accept Disney propaganda. Only Disney could sell its soul, girl power, hyper-feminine dresses for little girls, and a hybrid of romance and reality without selling any of it at all.

-Don't watch Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story first. Dewey trained me to laugh at everything by telling me exactly what the jokes were as they were happening. Enchanted didn't do that. It left me wondering whether it was making fun of itself, Snow White, or me. I'm not sure even the writers were certain.

-Go with a laugher. This movie is much better with someone that giggles, chuckles, and even cheers in the event that a big song and dance number takes place.

Version 2008 is released

Last year had some nice moments and worthy achievements. I think I learned some important lessons, but I am quite pleased to toss the old calendars and break out some new ones.

Hello, January 1.

About a month ago, I entered a 5k race just to see how things would feel. I was anticipating the slowest race of my life, but I surprised myself a bit with a decent showing. At one point about halfway through the race I was running with the leaders and feeling pretty good about myself. There was a little course wiggle and I decided to go ahead and exert my dominance. This surge awakened the others around me and from that moment on I watched as the lead pack left me in the dust and my mid-race confidence turned into the aches and pains of six not-so-good training months. I managed to finish fourth with a time of 17:59. I was not displeased, but had to smirk at my foolish mid-race move.

Today, the first day of a new year, I raced again. It was a perfect day for a race. By start time I had shed my stocking cap and my running pants, opting only for shorts and a long underwear top older than some of my competitors. Just before the words "Go," the sun broke through the clouds and I could feel the heat absorbed in my shirt.

I soon found myself moving along with the top 10 or so runners. I pulled into about fifth place as we descended a hill. Up the hill I locked on to the fourth place runner and we began a very pleasant duel. He'd pass me, I'd pass him, we'd run side by side and slowly we creeped up on the second and third place runners. We crossed the mile in about 5:30. Then we overtook one of those ahead of us, and he fell back immediately, but the other was determined to fend us off. I could feel the effort he was exerting to stay in front of us. There's a beautiful mental dance that goes on within a race and this gentleman in second desperately wanted us to settle into his pace. I felt good, but recalling my experience from a month ago, I decided to give in a little and we became three. Our new partner stayed in it for a bit, but just could not quite find his comfort zone and he started to fall back as we made the second loop on the course. My other competitor stayed strong. I held off a little as we were going down the hill again and I tried not to push too hard back up, knowing that I still had a little over a mile to go. On the way up, I started to feel a little distance between us. We'd been in sight of the leader most of this time. He was way out there, but didn't seem out of reach. I felt good that I was even looking in his direction. I also was starting to tire.

As an aside, this time is the time when I both understand the recreational racers adoration of the iPod to block out the pain and the time when I wonder why anyone would want to be with any sound but his or her own thoughts. The internal conversation that goes on when the fun wears off is painfully glorious. I remember a few of my thoughts as I crested the hill and rounded a turn. The first was a gut check, and I used that very phrase. "It's gut check time." My guts were relatively intact. I can't tell for sure if I was making up any time on the leader, but I felt like I was gaining inches on my competitor behind me. He was now "out of touch," that comfortable place where a single move could vault him past me. His efforts would now have to be sustained to defeat me. I tried not to focus on him because I felt that if I could continue with strength I had him beat. So I focused forward, but my lungs, my legs, and my heart were aching. The finish line was coming. My chances to win were growing miniscule. I probably could have cruised in at this point, but 2007 (and races far older than that) would not allow it. "Don't let this race close out like your year. Do NOT sputter to a close. Finish with what you've got."

I didn't tap into all my resources, but I picked up the pace and finished strong in 17:25. We're off to a good start. Happy New Year!