Tarheel country

Big Ed's at the City Market was not exactly my intended lunch time destination. I got off a plane and set off with my daypack full, running shoes poking out of the water bottle carriers. I wore my green safari/fatigue/sport coat and my red cap. The sun south of here was hotter than I expected. The bus ride longer. Then, I didn't factor in the extra loop through the airport. Public transit isn't the answer other places. I arrived downtown, wandered to the city market, and stumbled onto Big Ed's. Corn bread, country ham, food was the way to get acclimated.

I had the afternoon to myself. Completely. No one but me knew where I was. Even I didn't know where I was going. I was carless, bikeless, and now not so keen on the bus. I walked. I walked through historic Oakwood where the porches of my dreams framed house after house. I longed for sweet tea and quiet company, but only kept the latter. I wandered on the outskirts of a cemetery, past the dead of Raleigh, on my way back to the capitol. I had loose plan, but I didn't know the scale of my map or when I'd left it. My watch had broken and so I told time in foot pains and hunger pangs. I toured the history museum, closed according to the information booth lady, where I found a 1920s pharmacy sans soda jerk and the North Carolina Sports Hall of Fame sans Air Jordan. Still thirsty, still curious, I walked on to an avenue speckled with bars not ready to open. Not knowing quite how I would get to my hotel for the night, I continued to walk. On foot, I found my bus route into town and stopped at LocoPop. It was all I could expect from a shop just outside the campus of NC State. Part ice cream shop that served only popsicles and part art gallery that catered only to elementary art school classes, I chewed through a mango-papaya pop and rested.

Renewed by the popsicle, I carried on through campus, but no longer felt quite so at home as I have in years past. As I neared the highway, I began to except that my nomadic, public transit fueled dreams were coming to a close. Stumbling on a pay phone in between the dilapidated Pizza America and the crusty car repair joint, I called for a cab. It took some leafing through an attached phone book, but I was pleased to note that the entire world had not passed me by. After my quiet afternoon as a big city adventurer, I had to wonder if in fact I was actually gaining.

Ultimate dominates headlines

There are few things that I've been thinking about more than Ultimate lately, so if I do manage to get something up in this space, it's probably going to be Ultimate-related. I will give out a fine anecdote that includes Sir Mix-a-lot (reference) before I return to the subject at hand.

I was in line for dinner last night and the side dish was red beans and rice. My mind was churning, but I couldn't quite come up with my thoughts. I turned to my friend and said, "I'm trying to think of that Sir Mix-a-lot lyric." I trailed off, hummed a few bars to myself, "something red beans and rice din't miss her." The girl in line in front of me turned around and exclaimed, "I was thinking the same thing." I ordered a plate full, but they missed her.

Back to Ultimate- I should try to use this space to work out the challenges of teaching new players and experienced players the game at the same time. Or I should write about my feelings of inferiority when it comes to verbalizing my thoughts on the game in a practice or huddle session. Instead, I'm going the selfish route and focusing on last weekend's personal highlights. There weren't a lot. The team was out-numbered and comparatively inexperienced and as a result we struggled. I quietly went about my business and didn't see a lot of action. I handled more than I usually do and while I didn't find this as stressful as I expected it to be, it really confirmed my preference to cut. I'm ok with running around more and touching the disc less. On defense, I played ok, but I often found my layout attempts to be a tad late and a tad short. I was talked out of my first highlight when I let a player with worse perspective determine that I was out of bounds on a scoring catch. At this point, almost a week later, I'm not sure if I slid in, caught the disc, and then clipped the line or if I slid in, clipped the line, and caught the disc. Still, I'm frustrated by this mainly because I know the exact moment when he won his case. He said something like, "I mean, you can have it if you want." and shrugged his shoulders. I didn't want his pity point. I wanted it outright. The team would get one, and only one, later against one of the best teams I've ever faced, but mine was gone and at least in part because of my struggle to think clearly in a conflict.

My two favorite moments of the day were 1. on a outside in backhand that curled just into the path of my teammate for a wicked layout score. and 2. hollering at the rookie to keep him cutting back and forth and back and forth, until he finally ended up with his first score.

Sunday, we played one of the local Masters teams and it appeared we had finally met our match. Still, they jumped out to an early lead. We came back, but neither team was playing that well. Mistakes were being made all over the place. They had one guy who seemed to think I wasn't there and he threw it within a step of me on at least two occasions. I grabbed those. I had a nice battle going with one of their other players. On one point he was covering me and had a bead on the disc on my in cut. He knocked it away and it fluttered in the air. Crawling on the ground, I lunged for it, stretched out my arm through the grass, and smiled gratefully as the disc landed in my hand. Later, on that point or one soon after, I was covering my man and I had a bead on his in cut. Jazzed from the earlier play or tired of running, or still feeling the Wildwood vibes of my plaid skirt, I launched myself into the air and caught a layout D. Impressive, except for the fact that the offender was probably 10 feet away. The other good moment in the game was in a zone. The handlers swung the disc, got it to the rookie on the sideline, I raced over to get a short pass and then turned and sent a flat backhand down the line for-ev-er. Our team speedster tracked it down with a ridiculous layout grab in the back corner of the endzone. Sweet. None of this was enough for us to notch a win on the weekend.

Still, losing Ultimate is better than no Ultimate. Lots better.

Proud of the Internet

Social networking is swell, online journals are neat, maps, movies, and tv at my fingertips is magical, but the site that makes me proud to know the Internet is The Huddle. It's Ultimate-related and it poses questions to some of the games big names and minds. Those minds then answer the question and the knowledge just drips off the page. It's amazing and exactly the sort of collaboration that makes everybody better. Their most recent installment is on the UPA Board of Directors election. If I could find a presidential election site that did this well, maybe I'd feel better about that vote too.

I'm awed and so appreciative of this gift.

The strangeness of September

It's a little scary to re-enter the blog world. I dipped my little toe in the other day and it doesn't appear that I lost any skin. I thought I'd try again before September ended. This month didn't go the way I thought it would, though, I don't really think much about how a month will go. I don't usually have the energy to live in chunks that large. I entered the month with a renewed interest in writing and finding some voice and then like a storm front blowing through, that interest was gone. It was usurped by Ultimate. In spare moments, I think about trying to revive that interest. The word play suits me, but I think I better understand the scores of folks who make a hobby out of intending to write.

At the end of August and the beginning of September, I accepted a volunteer coaching position. It's similar to the position that I've had over the last few years helping out at a local university, but this year the captains and I have formalized it and are trying to take the steps to move the team forward. We've come up with a curriculum that takes us roughly through November and we've run practices with more intent and planning. It's exciting, but I'm discovering that I'm more a creature of habit than I realized. Changes to the schedule or personnel have thrown me for a loop. Disappointing dips in attendance have boiled my blood in ways I'm not proud to admit. It's a learning experience and it's hard work. I'm trying to master a number of fears and challenges at once. It's a constant juggling act and it seems like someone keeps adding items to juggle. It has taken years to even get to a point where I'm ready to think about juggling. There's so much that I could talk about right here, that I think I'll wait and see if I can't use some of October to draw together my coaching experiences and my desire for word play.

In other strange September doings, I injured my knee last week. I stayed off it as best I could all week (which did nothing to improve a recent mood prone to sour spells) and then bought a knee brace. I strapped on the knee brace Saturday before playing Ultimate in a tournament. The knee brace cut the back of my knee, but otherwise seemed effective. After 5 games of Ultimate, some without the knee brace, my knee now feels better. I'm trying to convince myself that my dreams of Ultimate curing all my ills has finally come to pass. There are some personal Ultimate anecdotes from the weekend that also need a home here, but those too will have to wait.

Here are some lyrics to say it better while I prepare for October.

Don't mind me, it's just September....
....so afraid that what you'll find is all you deserve...

Perhaps September has reluctantly agreed to serve as an outline for future blog posts.

Go Pre

If you've waited 11 years wondering which 1997 Steve Prefontaine movie you should watch, I recommend Prefontaine over Without Limits. The latter focuses more on skirt-chasing, but the former is chock full of the Olympics, his fight with ATU, and some great running scenes. Both close out the same. I wasn't born when Pre was running, but it must have been amazing.

Life without car

I'd like to pretend that I never want or need a car, ever. I can't. Usually, I fill the need with a Zipcar or a gracious friend, but sometimes even that doesn't make sense. So, when both my bikes were crippled by rear flat tires it took me a full week to find the energy to get to a bike shop. Finally, on Friday with tires and tubes draped over my shoulder like a Project Runway design gone sour, I ran to the nearest bike shop. It was satisfying, but a 10-minute car trip was instead a bit of sweaty pavement-pounding ordeal. It's one of the few times that I've truly missed my car. I feel guilty that I have let that trip become an ordeal. Even as I'm proud of the end result, I'm disappointed at the laziness that rests somewhere inside.

Lazy or not, as I balked at the cost of two new tires and two new tubes, I felt pretty good that I haven't been to a car repair shop in quite some time. Something tells me that fan belts, oil filters, and other mechanic-speak would bring me balking to my knees.

Another Olympic moment I enjoyed

It may be the time difference or the rough performance that high expectations have brought on USA Track & Field, but I haven't found a lot to be excited about this week. The Bolt was amazing and although at least one official has called him disrespectful, I think I lack the proper thrill only because he was favored. I admire what he has done and think his speed is beautiful, but he hasn't captured my imagination. So my notable moment is once again off the field of play. This moment was a reaction shot of the now former World Record holder in the 200 meter race, Michael Johnson.

As Usain Bolt again ran a dominant and impressive race, we were treated to a shot of Johnson during the replay. I could see the disappointment he felt from losing his World Record, but he still jumped up and down in excitement and disbelief at what he was witnessing. It was so very human and genuine.

I think it says bad things for my Olympic hopes when my favorite moments are reactions.

My favorite Olympic moment*
I almost hate to admit it because I'm so sick of everyone talking about him, but this moment was too much. I was sitting on the third base side somewhat watching a Nationals game when I glanced down at my watch. "Michael Phelps races in three minutes," I announced. Some thirty seconds later and 400 feet away up in the bar out in centerfield, a small crowd erupted with more energy than we'd seen all game from anyone. I could see TVs in the bar, but my prescription glasses aren't strong enough to see what was on them, yet I knew. People around us murmured wondering what was happening in centerfield."Michael Phelps won gold," I said quietly with a smile. A few minutes later a man with a radio confirmed it. Michael Phelps by 1/100th of a second.

I haven't seen the race yet and although I've heard and read that it was amazing, I'm not sure the visual will surpass my curious communal experience.

*I have not watched any track and field yet and that stuff is pretty near and dear to my heart.

Once, twice, five times with needles

Some time ago, I stumbled upon some free acupuncture in my neighborhood. The place doing the poking is a fascinating sort of place that offers all kinds of classes that I'm fearful to use. Yet, somehow the acupuncture, even when the "free" was gone, stuck (pun intended). I like my acupuncturist. He seems so genuine and eager that it's almost uncomfortable. Yet, even when d my face sometimes hurts with the awkward pauses in our conversation, it seems like he listens to me 1.6 million times better than my doctor. Maybe that's why I find myself going back. Last week I made my fifth trip to see him. Each one has felt slightly different. There's always the initial prick that comes from being stuck by a needle; it's less painful than a shot, but not unnoticeable. Then after a few quiet moments, something almost otherworldly seems to happen. Let me recount those experiences.

1. The psoas darkens. Then it gets lighter, as in less weight. Totally trippy.

2. A stress ball of a psoas flattens out. Odd.

3. A flattened ball dissapates. Then I feel the magic of acupuncture pressing the connecting parts, searching for something to relax. When the pushing doesn't work, the magic starts pulling. Also trippy.

4. 17 needles later and I feel a little better. This time was different. Before I even got poked by the needle, I thought I felt it. Maybe it was the number of needles or maybe I was externally more sensitive.

5. This time the needles are applied directly to a new area of pain in addition to other places in line. Like a magic scrubber, something seems to clean all the muscles around the pain, but the pain does not go away. So, needles are added again to further pinpoint the pain area. The pain leaves, but returns some hours later. Trippy and unfortunate.

Next time, I don't know what to expect.

Summer at Mordor?
I'm starting to be concerned about the Olympics. Between revoked visas and the Sally Jenkins' column regarding questionable air quality and corporate sponsorships, I worry. One of the favorites in the men's marathon has already dropped out. Supposedly, events over an hour scheduled on days when air quality is bad will be rescheduled. It almost makes the days of drug scandals seem like the good old days. The Olympics haven't even started. Maybe I should worry less about the Olympics and more about China (or the world?) in general.

Burning butterflies
There’s a fire in my calves. It’s like a vertical rope burn that almost overshadows the memory of Friday’s butterflies in my stomach.

I was nervous. Nervous like a ninth-grader. As part of the local running series, I had decided to run in a 2-mile race on the track. My legs were still sore from last weekend. Running all week had done nothing for my confidence. I knew that I could run two miles, but as I munched lunch I reflected on the speed I wanted to attain, 5:20 per mile, and the unfamiliarity with the distance. It had been a regular race in high school, but not a popular recreational event over the last 11 years.

I tried to recall some of my past success at Friday night track meets to calm my nerves, but that did not work. It took two pre-race steps to quiet the jitters. The first was a comforting warm-up with MB who helped take my mind off the race and the second was some striders. The striders made me realize that my dead legs still had life.

The race was large for a track and the pace diverse. This was an 11:30-and-under heat, and the leaders planned to run 9:30. I made my way into the second row at the start and waited for “Go.” It took almost a full 75-second lap before I’d jostled into inside position. The 8-laps-at-80-seconds-each plan I envisioned had already begun to unravel and I’d only just started. Racing is never the same as planning.

Post-race reflection has me running at around 15th place as I came through the half-mile mark in 2:30. For a moment, I had visions of a roaring to a 10 flat 2-mile. Even in high school races of 10 minutes or better were sweet achievements. This wasn’t high school and I haven’t trained for such an effort. So my legs slowed me unconsciously. I settled in to a comfortable pace that brought me through the mile at 5:15. I still had room to slow and meet my goal. Most of the middle laps don’t seem to be a part of my experience, although I do recall one memory quite clearly. It’s the stuff of movies. I was cruising on a straightaway and only the track was visible. Everything else was a blur. The world was quiet, I didn’t hear my steps or panting, I just sensed the exact distance I had remaining and an assured feeling that I had enough inside to get through it. The quiet blur left me when one runner made a move to pass. I don’t remember seeing him, I just sensed that he was coming. I sped up in response. We still had the better part of 3 laps to go and I was able to hold him off at this stage. On the back stretch, I passed two runners and believed that I might be able to leave the runner on my heels entangled in their pace, but as we came off the turn, I found that he was still around.

If my 2 mile is going well, I am able to pick up the pace with 2 laps to go. I’ve always felt that I need to string out my finishing kick more than many of my competitors. The change was subtle and driven by the runner giving chase. I didn’t have the power or the confidence to shake him and he continued to push as I tried to keep him at bay. He was still on my heels as we entered the bell lap. The bell cries out inspiration for every distance track runner. It comes down to this. I pushed through the back stretch desperately hoping my competitor would break before the final stretch, but I still sensed him as we entered the turn. As we came off the turn and faded across the track during the last 100 meters, I gritted my teeth, pumped my arms, and flashed through many races that ended with competitors kicking their way right past me. I always draw on those experiences as I try to avoid another one. I only know what I’m told about the stretch because my muscles were contorted and heaving, but I’m told that neither of us gave an inch. We pushed one another all the way to the finish. I crossed in 10:28 and thanked eighth place for a wonderful race. It wouldn’t have been the same without him.

I can’t fully articulate why it matters or why this burning and butterflies are worth so much, but I’d say that putting it on the line makes me feel alive.

Beaches aren't relaxing

My annual beach weekend is set back from the sea a good 100 meters. It involves a lot of flopping in the sand and chasing after plastic with my friends. This year it involved half-donkey, half-elephant, half-plaid, dancing machines. It's no wonder some people don't invite us to their beaches. Wildwood, New Jersey is not some people and they keep having us back. Some 300 teams, easily 1,000 Ultimate players, once again took to the sand and coated themselves in it.

Getting to Wildwood has never been easy, it looks closer than it is and traffic is always thick. This year my car found out that it is closer than it is. Or at least we found out that navigating is important. It was a hard lesson to learn, one we started to consider some hour or more after we'd missed our turn. The lesson was reinforced by one generous cop who decided that we looked pathetic or awesome or just not troublesome enough to ticket for speeding at 1 AM.

I found 3.5 hours of sleep were savory and delicious in the tent mansion, but longed for more. All that was soon forgotten as time stood still for the plastic chasing. Beach Ultimate, as long-time readers know, is wonderful for the sheer amount of diving that goes on. Look in most any direction and someone is bound to be flying through the air. This year was particularly special as it became a reunion of sorts. First, I was reunited with the disc, as I haven't played since about May. I was a little nervous, but nerves were calmed early as I cut up field and watched A fire a disc toward the back corner of the end zone. I couldn't believe how far out in front of me it looked, but it seemed almost reachable. I gave chase and silently begged for the disc to stay up in the air just a little longer. With a burst and a layout, I reached out my arm and felt plastic before crashing into the sand for a score. That was the last of the nervousness.

I was also reunited with teammates and friends. It was a joy to spend a weekend in the company of those good people and to make some new teammates and friends. Back to the action: One general highlight was the return of my Frisbee (man)crush on Alan. I felt so comfortable on the field with him. There were so many moments where I just felt like he understood where I was headed or went exactly where I needed him to go. Even when he skyed me late in the day on Sunday, it was only because he knew I couldn't find the floating disc due to my (otherwise awesome) team hat. I can't even think of a specific throw or catch that he made to make me say this, I just remember multiple times locking eyes and then going to get a disc or releasing one to him. I could probably gush some more, but it would likely only get more awkward, so I'll spare us all. I also really enjoyed being on the field with MB who has such a great sense of the game and his body in the air. I can't count the number of times that he managed to fake out his mark and drop a sweet pass right in front of me. We had a great give and go and he gobbled up almost everything I could throw. He even tracked down the longest one-pointer I could possibly throw capping it off with a wicked grab. The team as a whole really had some nice flow. I can't remember playing at a Wildwood event where we seemed so in sync. Almost every time I looked up, I saw someone in plaid making a sweet cut. I bet MD faked out so many defenders with cuts to my flick that their knees got tired and locked up. It was so awesome to see her and all the plaid working well together. I wish that I could outline all the highlights of the weekend for all my teammates, but I focus and remember mostly what happened to me and what stands out from there. (And even then my memory is short.)

I've already recounted my first layout. We went 3-1 on the first day, knocking off a ridiculously athletic Colorado team at universe point and then dropping one to a team that I believe we should have defeated. Our early games were pretty easy, although the first one turned out to be closer than it should have been. I had a manic-depressive game in our loss and I've already tried to block it from my memory. The wind had shifted and we struggled in it. We came into Sunday and I've already forgotten most of what happened. If I recall we came out fired up against a good tie-dye team in a battle of the patterns. We were clinging to a lead and then fell at universe point. The 4th next-point-wins situation of our weekend. We split them evenly. We then played a team that didn't see me. It was like I had on my invisibility cloak. I didn't though, it was the same red plaid skirt and modified women's darker red blazer with green trim. I had at least three catches on their first throw up the field, which led to a couple very easy 10-foot throws for scores. My favorite moment of the game though was on an up field pass. The cutter had broken behind me and the throw went up. I gave chase, launched my body into the air, stuck at my left hand and snagged it. I don't get to catch my layout D's very often. That felt pretty sweet. I almost matched it later in the game as I got my finger tips on a nearly perfect outside-in throw that unfortunately landed in the receivers' hands. We kept the points coming and managed to keep our lead steady in a game. As the rain and thunder came it felt like a nice way to end the day.

Only it wasn't. The storm passed and play was allowed to resume. Most teams had left and my body and my mind were halfway back to DC. Despite a quiet protest from yours truly, we returned to our field to wait for an opponent. None showed up, so I took to cleaning the trash that my beloved community had left behind. I was joined by MB and MD and I'm proud to say that we cleaned the sidelines of something like 10 fields. Ultimate players need to learn to pick up after themselves. As time wore on, I began to relax in the knowledge that a hot shower and rest were in my near future.

Only they weren't. Sam had brokered a deal which would allow us to have a rematch with the tie-dye team we'd lost to earlier with a trophy going to the victors. I was audibly annoyed about the mind shift this would require. It took a stern talking to from MD, but once the game began I was all in it and mostly happy to be a part of it. Tie-dye was not taking us lightly this time and the winds from the passing storm lingered. Our throwers struggled, but we fought on. Tie-dye took it to us with some very nice throws and plays. One guy in particular managed to fake me out of my shorts (I'd changed from the skirt) at least twice for scoring catches. Somewhere though, I managed to save a little face as I was on him again and managed to keep my shorts on and knock a disc down that would have been a score. My last memory from the game was a bid on a throw that I've since found out wasn't to me. It's a fitting way to leave the beach; with something more to grasp. MB whipped a pass down the line. I believed I was the intended target and launched myself into the air. I think I was as high as I've ever been horizontally. It was my only chance to make a play and I gave it all I had. The disc flew by and I thudded to the ground, probably swallowing just a little more sand. Tie-dye went on to win. The plaid Donk-a-phant Dance Party headed home, a little richer and a little sandier from the experience.

Picking up where I left off

Sometime after 9 AM on Friday morning, with a large chunk of day ahead, D and I made our way to Dam Four. We had nearly six uninterrupted hours of waiting until we’d return to the trail. We found a bit of shade and tried to get some sleep. I believe that we both had intentions to sleep, but our 21st century bodies couldn’t find peace with nature. D attempted to sleep in the grass, giving himself over to all sorts of bugs. I tried to sleep in a parking space and found that complaints about my bed’s concrete mattress are in fact exaggerated. I believe I managed two twenty-minute naps before the sun rose up and swiped our shade. D didn’t do much better in the grass. With the heat bearing down on us, we decided to seek out another shady spot nearby. We moved the car and lapped up a few moments of air conditioning, before idling and returning to the hot day already in progress. The shade was thicker in this spot and so were the mosquitoes. I don’t remember the minutes thankfully, but time passed in a lazy way. I swam briefly in the strong current of the Potomac. The cold water was a great relief that no tale of polluted water could dampen. For lunch, or whatever meal one eats when he has been up since Thursday morning, we couldn’t find a knife and so instead used carrots and folded up slices of bread to spread the Nutella. Time passed slowly, but eventually our crowd gathered. P and A slogged their way to us. There was a sense of satisfaction and grit behind the sweat and weariness.

D and I eagerly took our turn. We’d waited all day to get going again. We had about 12 miles to go for this leg and we planned to alternate every 4 miles. Feeling like I had to slice through the air with a machete, I began the section that took us past Dam 4 and a few steps closer to the finish. Weighed down by perspiration, D and I were able to converse during the first section of our leg. We switched off without incident. D took to running and I watched as the heat and the many more miles he’d already put in took their toll. To entertain him, I gladly recounted my high school running career in the sort of detail that few people would enjoy. Hopefully, it kept his mind off his labor. Through too many tales of my past glory or from the easy spin of biking, I nearly leapt from the bike for my next 4 miles. I took off at a brisk clip and then spotted some geese on the trail. They waddled on ahead and I decided to give chase. I was gaining on them quickly, but they seemed unperturbed. As I got closer, they began to waddle more quickly and move slightly to the right to allow me to pass. I was surprised that they were not taking flight, but they waddled on. I increased my speed to pass them and they increased their waddle. As I reached the leader, I glanced over to see a goose waddling fiercely at my pace and looking at me in a way that seemed threatening. I’ve seen the Hitchcock movie The Birds and I wasn’t looking for trouble. I accelerated some more.

I don’t know how fast I was moving at this point, but as the temperature dripped down from the mid-90s, I was cruising. Running on 40 minutes of sleep, past glory, and a fear of geese, I whooped and hollered and had myself a hootenanny in the woods for at least another quarter of a mile. Then came the pain. For every peppy step I’d had over the last 15 minutes, I now felt the weight of foolishness bearing down upon me. It was hot. I was tired. The cherry on top of my miserable sundae was that I’d been ridiculous and careless with my energy. I desperately wanted to ask D to spell me just for a moment, but I couldn’t. So I slowed down. Waaay down. I couldn’t ask D for a rest because he wasn’t fresh and he hadn’t just foolishly chased geese. As I plodded along, he recounted his days as a college activist. I listened as best I could as the thickness of the air closed in around me. I was glad to be outdoors and in nature, but my vision no longer extended much past the slow rise and fall of alternating knees. I was folding up into myself and I still couldn’t escape. Slowly, painfully, we made our way to the exchange point. I greeted M with a very wet hug as M and P took over for us. Another leg was behind us, another leg was ongoing.

Next stop: Dinner. Using a borrowed cell phone, I made a call to one of D’s friends in New York by mistake on the way to dinner. She was very polite. Then I sent a text message to the correct B who was part of another batch of reinforcements. Thank goodness for reinforcements. Dinner was high on a hill in Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia. Darkness was approaching, but the team recounted our first 21-plus hours of enjoyment over food and drink. I wasn’t scheduled to run until 6 AM the next morning and so I elected to have a thick stout beer with my meal. Due to ongoing logistical challenges, one last batch of reinforcements, and the ever-changing Tom’s Run event, I found out that my time on the trail could actually be done. I sipped my stout with a smile, but then the smile left. I wasn’t ready to be done. I hadn’t properly said goodbye. My pleasure at completing my contribution turned to disappointment at not contributing enough. With a few more nods to the organizational wizardry, I managed to become part of a post-dinner 3-person, 2-bike, group heading out for an 8 or so mile leg. I was there strictly as additional support, but at least I’d get to properly wrap up the athletic portion of my experience.

Riding in the dark quietly behind my teammates, with a headlamp helping to illuminate the path, I listened to the periphery of a conversation and reflected on my time on this trail. I rode slowly as B and LMB alternated two mile sections. In one frightening moment, LMB looked over his shoulder and tumbled off the trail. Fortunately, his fall was only a few feet and he was able to pull himself up and continue on, but not for long. I can no longer recall which bikes’ tire went flat or who was on it, but the leak was immediate. We pulled slightly off the trail and began to examine the situation and our resources. We struggled to find a patch kit as we fumbled in the dark with the tire. Someone surely brought a spare tube, but it wasn’t on the bike. Patching a tire often involves letting glue dry before applying the patch. As we let the glue dry, we found that our string of bad luck wasn’t over. We found this out in the form of rain drops. B stood over the tire trying to block the rain from preventing the glue from drying. We got the tire patched up and pumped up and headed on our way. Within 50 feet, the tire was flat again. It was still drizzling and laughter was our only recourse. I agreed to walk the bike in while the other two pressed on. We arranged for a pick-up at the next section which would require cars back-tracking. As my teammates took a few steps forward, I realized that I had no desire to be out on the trail alone at 11 PM at night. I think scared would be a fine descriptor, but I didn’t allow myself to process that much; I just placed one hand on the seat and one hand on the handlebars and took to running with the flat-tired bike at my side. About two miles later, after a few self-handoffs, all three of us arrived at the pick-up point. The rain had stopped, although some thunder remained. We were jittery. This was the first real hiccup in the plans for many of us. Various attempts to pump up tires and redistribute loads were made as we dodged other teams in pick-up trucks and made preparations to continue on. LMB decided that he’d had enough and the only sensible course of action was for a tired me to join B for the next 4 miles. I nervously agreed that it could be done. B and I had a very nice chat as we alternated a few more miles to the end of the leg.

The end of the leg was the end of my athletic participation and my good-bye had been far more appropriate and eventful than I had bargained. The experience starts to become fuzzy at this point. It was sometime about 2 AM on Friday night. Since Thursday night, I’d slept for perhaps an hour and run something like 18 miles, 2 of them pushing a bike. I was pretty tired and didn’t argue when MB helped me clear out the back seat for some rest.

The next thing I remember is waking up and noticing that all the stuff was piled in the front seat. The car had moved further down the trail, all the way to Riley’s lock, and I’d been out cold the whole time. It wasn't quite daylight yet, but it’s approaching. Oh my, those 2 hours of sleep felt amazing. We cheered some more and daylight came. Our goal was approaching and still Saturday morning spread out before us like an enormous picnic blanket. As D and I made our way to the finish line to wait for our teammates we made two startling realizations. D made the first one- he had picked up a buddy, a little f***er of a tick, clinging to his hamstring. I made the second one, with a good 4 hours before the race was to finish we were a mere 15 minutes from my home. After some internal and external debate we decided that a shower and an Internet search for tick removal were in order. The shower didn't fulfill me the way I'd hoped; maybe I needed other things more, sleep for instance, but the tick removal was a success. D and I achieved new levels of friendship as I slowly plucked the little guy from his leg and stuck him in a baggie for safe-keeping.

Then in a quiet sort of way, similar to how this had all begun, we waited for it to be over. We all gathered together, excited for the finish. Other teams lurked around, but they had the same tired, quiet, heat-worn look that we did. And then, before we knew it, J and J finished it up. Some 200 miles and nearly 36 hours from when we began it was over. They made a few speeches and we nodded our agreement. We ate a few sandwiches and cookies. We took a few photos. We had some beer. Then a month later, after some pizza together and some pool together, I wrote about Tom's Run the way I remembered it. Yet, for all that stuff- speeches, sandwiches, cookies, photos, beer, pool, pizza, writings, nothing could really capture the experience.

It was ridiculous and I loved it.

A fitness event?

We pulled up to a creek blocking the hard-packed red dirt road somewhere in the hills of Maryland. It was nearing 2:30 AM. P was riding shotgun. We'd met at a gathering a week or so prior and I'd been part of high volume email traffic, but other than the last hour we'd spent getting to know one another, we were strangers. I was driving a borrowed car, a low riding silver grey Honda civic. I got my driver's license in a stick shift, but I don't drive much these days. The steep hills of Cumberland provided an early test, and the dirt hills a fine re-test.

Stopped at the creek, I let P get out and examine the the flowing water before us. He seemed to be the group leader; he was organized and seemed very together. He called me over to the creek for a second opinion. I got out of the car and by the light of headlights saw two parallel mounds three or more inches under water that seemed to form a trail leading from one bank to the other. Downstream, just off the left mound, a two to three foot drop led to more creek. I eyed the creek and eyed the low-riding civic.

"We might make it across those trails," I announced motioning with stiff hands in parallel tracks, "but I'm pretty nervous."

P agreed and informed me of alternate route which would require backtracking and additional time. We had at least an hour and a half before we would exchange places with our biking and running teammates. Our decision would cost us potential sleep, but would keep the borrowed car from becoming a part of the ecosystem.

We got back in the car and I looked at the embankment on each side of us. There wasn't room to turn around. We'd descended a hill to reach the creek and now we'd have to back out. I glanced over my shoulder and realized that on top of the darkness of night, my view was also obstructed by the bike we were carrying on the rear rack. I stuck my head out of the window and looked up into the darkness.

"P, I need you to roll down your window and let me know if I get too close to that side."

Up and up and up we went in reverse, P helping me maintain my position on the road. After about 150 meters, I had to stop and take a break. Another 50 meters after that and P directed me into a spot to turn around. As we wheeled away, I exclaimed, "Nice to meet you, P! "

If I ignore the many games of pool, the tussle with a bike rack, a few organizational hiccups, and the drive to Cumberland Maryland, this story began some two hours earlier in the parking lot of a Holiday Inn. There were five of us, organizing gear and bikes in the two cars. A train rolled by, but otherwise it was quiet, the way one might expect on a Thursday night in northern Maryland. At about 12:15, we found our way to the starting line of Tom's Run. There was no fanfare, just Roger, the organizer and a participant, waiting to send off the various teams. We snapped a few photos and began a 200-mile journey. MB was running the first leg and D was biking along in support. Teams could start at any time after midnight on this night. The goal was to finish by 11 AM on Saturday morning.

While MB and D were sloshing through the darkness armed with bikelights and headlamps, P., A. and I were trying to make our way to the end of the first leg to do a little cheering. It was a little shaky at first. I unintentionally led A. into a game of chicken with an oncoming truck as we circled the Holiday Inn looking for gas. Some quick reverse work and the patience of a Ford owner got us back on track. We climbed through the neighborhoods until we found some friendly, possibly high, folks who guffawed and then pointed us in the right direction.

We waited in the darkness while the mosquitos enjoyed the buffet of our skin. We exchanged hellos with another team and soon saw the white light of arriving runners. It turned out it wasn't our team, but we clapped anyway. A few hearty claps in a dark and tree-filled place. We seemed small and I had a moment of impatience. MB and D arrived in good spirits with a thin layer of mud caked on their legs. We cheered for them for a moment and exchanged a few words about our early challenges. Then off they went. As they ran and biked off into the darkness, I heard D say "And then in my junior year..."

It would be almost 5 AM, before I hit the trail with P. I'd opted only to rest my eyes because after the thrill of the epic reverse had worn off, I was checking the trail for signs of light. Instead I heard frogs and bugs, and then the caravan of SUVs. They chuckled at our tiny car and then departed after their team had moved through. Finally, my teammates A and D arrived. They were right on schedule, but I was itching to get going. P ran first while I biked along next to him. He was chugging through the early morning hours and put down 13 miles at beautiful and brisk pace. We barely spoke as the sun came up and we cut through the morning fog. The trail all looked the same in a quiet, green, curving, flat way. We switched and I carried out the same pace for another 6 miles with P riding at my side. There was still morning fog and temperatures had not risen either. The wildlife seemed to be mostly in our heads as P was frightened by a lynx that turned out to be wildflowers and I swore I'd seen a kangaroo that was probably a deer.

Some time later, after a water stop and a little cheering for a weary MB and D, we made our first team stop. MB was tired like I've never seen him before. The usual spring in his steps had been reduced to something nearing a drag. He and D had put in a lot of miles over the last 8 or so hours and breakfast was badly needed. The veterans of this event had planned a perfect stop at a small-town diner. Delicious waffles and the first wave of reinforcements were welcome treats.

My next assignment as laid out by agreement and the binders full of maps, instruction, and fun, found in each car was to get the reinforcements, M, to her first leg, and then to pick up D so we could spend the day waiting for our legs together that afternoon.

I knew going in that waiting was going to be a large part of the experience and so I tried to incorporate that into my plan. The first daylight waiting with M was perfect. We rocked the binder fun pages until she spotted our team on the trail. I went galloping after them and then we made a successful transition.

Tune in next time for dam napping, goose chasing, and possibly the exciting conclusion...

Looks like I remember it

American Teen seems to be a suitable substitute for a high school reunion*. High school seems the same, only now with more text messages.

Here are three fun memories that seeing this movie dredged up:

-the thanks, but no thanks college rejection letter

-the obsession with finding a date, particularly to dances (before I actually liked to dance).

-the incredibly unhelpful things that parents can say when they are trying to be helpful

Here are three interesting scenarios that seeing this movie brought to my attention:

-I really don't know what else parents could have said.

-Wow. High schoolers are filled with optimism that this theater audience did not share.

-I wonder how my life would be different if I'd felt pressure to choose a school based on a sports scholarship.

*I haven't made it to a reunion yet, so that's not an informed statement.

Fun Fact #763

The cleanliness of my bathroom is inversely proportionate to the (relative) length of my hair.

This axiom sounds more telling than it probably is.

Stranger than Fiction!
I was sleep-walking to the Metro today, so what I'm about to spill into this space could be made up, but I don't think it is. Stumbling along, minding my own business, I had just thought to myself, "I really don't desire to go to work today."

The end.

No. I kid. I had just thought that I didn't want to go to work and that I was barely awake, when out of the sky came a bird. This bird attacked from the rear flank and slammed into my upper arm and backpack before flying away. Stunned by this event, I looked around and saw the bird flapping away. I walked on and the bird turned as if to make another attack. As he flew by, I ripped my bag from my back and tossed it aside. The bird was not near enough for another strike, but still too close for comfort. Two kind gentlemen asked, "What happened?" as I looked around with a mixture of fear and anger.

"The bird attacked me," I replied. They laughed. I grabbed my bag and rushed off saying only, "There's a story for you."

Later, I tried to formulate a headline for my story. It went something like this: Bird attacks man with banana. Banana not that good anyway.

MAGIC-al
I'm a little bit excited for the NBA Finals. Not a lot excited, but a little bit. I'm excited because for the first time in a long time, a lot of the sportswriters seem to be talking about the same thing and it's not scandalous. They're talking about the battles of the past. They're talking about the history of the sport. They're talking about Bird and Magic and games that happened 21 years ago. Part of what makes (made?) pro sports so cool when I was a kid was the history and the continuity. There were fewer teams and fewer stars. The stars weren't so overexposed and if they happened to be greedy bastards it wasn't on the nightly news. They were grown men, playing a game, and generally they stayed with the same team for most of their careers. Teams like Boston and L.A. had the potential to be dynasties. I'm not sure I knew what that meant, but I knew it meant greatness.

Yes. Yes. I know this is an over-simplified analysis, but it's the analysis through the eyes of an idealistic 9-year old. Just a boy who wanted to grow up and play. Because playing was the best thing he knew to do. Now, I see a lit bit of that idealism in the columns and the sports-world chatter of excitement for this coming series. ESPN is replaying Game 6 of the 1987 Finals right now. The men in that game are not particularly muscular-looking. They look like they could have been pulled off the playgrounds. They were the pros. It's no wonder boys thought they could achieve that ideal. The fans are decked out in purple and gold. The shiny jackets are out in force. I don't know how those went out of style. I'm told, however, that they are out of style. If they replay this summer's series on on ESPN in 2030, I bet we'll see a lot Kobe jerseys. Will we wonder if we'd gone from wanting to be superstars to just wanting to dress like them? Maybe not. Maybe this series is going to bring back some of the magic to the NBA. Maybe it can be relevant again as a game instead of a business. It's stirring up a lot of history, which brings some excitement for the fans with a memory. What does it do for the new fans, I can only wonder. The teams lack some continuity, but that might be overlooked if we end up with a great series.

I worry that too many columns and too many blogs will slice and dice and analyze this series to death. I'm tempted to limit my sports reading to once daily with breakfast like the old days. I can't recall if I was taking the paper with the '87 Finals, but I'm certain I poured over the sports sections when Jordan was dispatching my hero Magic and the Lakers. I put up posters, full size behind the door and wore a purple Lakers hat, but the changing of the guard had come and it took me another 10 years to realize it. Here I am trying to appreciate the sports heroes of today. They don't seem to have the reach and the power that they did back then (if one ignores advertising dollars), but maybe the change is less about them and more about me. One change is certain: Go Celtics.

Monday is funday

My primary "flippin'-the-bird" finger has been swollen for two months. I finally made it to the doctor two weeks ago to see if maybe there was some breakage. My doctor referred me to the X-ray people, so now, two weeks later, I have found out that while I may be permanently disfigured, the guy who pulled my finger pulled it all back in place quite nicely. The referral doctor reminded me a bit of Kirk Douglas, in one of my all-time favorite movies Tough Guys, but he told me I was basically fine, so that's good news. Or may be it was Burt Lancaster. Either way, that's the closest I've come to liking a doctor in ages. I'm not sure we really developed a rapport, but then I forgot to tell him that he reminded me of a movie from the '80s. Maybe next time.

In non hand gesture news, I found out that garbage disposals have reset buttons. While this made my landlord look particularly handy, it made me feel just a bit on the dumb side. It also seems like maybe the landlord could have saved a trip here and just said, "have you pressed the reset button?"

I think reset buttons should go be placed on just about everything that can break. Car battery dead? Hit the reset button. City-wide power outage? reset button. Broken hopes and dreams? Reach under your foot and hit the little red button.

Now get out there and give it another go.

Up and at 'em
I could find very little enthusiasm for a 5k this morning. By the time I rolled out of bed and headed to the race, I knew that my warm-up would be cut short. Poor planning meant that I had no idea. What I thought would be an 8:00 AM start time was actually a 7:50 start time. I joined the crowd at the line when the starter announced, "1 minute until race time." I snuck through a few extra bodies and went off with the gun. I was awake and knew I had to move up on the tight course before I got boxed in. I moved a little too well as the out of this course was mostly on a slight downhill. I knew I was pressing, but I felt completely out of whack and so I figured I might as well press on. At the halfway point, I was out of touch with the group in front of me and running at 8:25. I knew that it would take a miracle to keep that pace. At 2 miles I was at 11:07 and the morning was starting to weigh heavier than early summer humid air. I chugged along, pretending that I might found the wherewithal to make a move forward. Eventually, I was passed by a few more people and I considered a full-blown collapse. I fought to the finish without being passed again, but I was out in no man's land. I finished in 17th in a time of 17:56 with a few dry heaves.

Some days are better than others...

Fire up my gold watch

I had an anniversary today. I was the only one who dressed for the occasion. Some time ago, I made it my mission to stay with the company for five years. Today, I made it. I feel proud. I'm proud of what I've done and that I've carved out a little life for myself that now includes an office, more responsibility, and more other things that aren't unimportant. Somewhere along the line I realized that I like to be part of an organization that is helping people. I've learned a thing or two as well, and lost some of my optimism, probably not unimportant either. So today, sporting a yellow tie with blue spots, I took a moment to celebrate my little achievement. Like my diplomas, my spots were a symbol of the bundle of experiences that need to be built upon. This anniversary, like my 10-year high school reunion (that I did not attend), reminds me that while I'm proud of what I've done, it's what I have not done that scares me the most.

A spectacular failure with urban highlights
Today was bike to work day. Due to certain circumstances, not only did my bike remain in the dark corners of the basement, but I actually ended up on the roads driving a car home from work today. I think this marks the second time in five years that I have driven home from work and it could not have come on a more inappropriate day. While my behavior mostly makes me want to pull down a bike helmet and hide my eyes in shame, and while the traffic did make me consider leaving the comforts of my hybrid-for-the-evening to take a lead pipe to someone's shins, I did have two noteworthy urban moments.

First, after a nervous search for a zipcar, I got to experience my first ever car hand-off. I wandered around wondering where the zipcar could be. As I turned down the alley, I saw it pull in. A woman exited, we waved, and I entered. It was car-sharing at it's finest.

Later, as I searched for more than 10 minutes for a parking space (nothing for the urban vets, but not pleasing to me) I finally found a place to park illegally near where I wanted to park legally. As soon as I had shimmied into the spot, a car across the street vacated a legal spot. Magically the road cleared, I pulled out of my illegal spot, made a U-turn, and parallel parked on the other side of the street. That was pretty satisfying.

Update: Conflict resolution skills

I had a situation today in which I wanted to lash out and respond negatively to "a call". With Sunday's behavior on my mind, I instead chose to think about the situation from a different perspective. I eventually realized that there was room for my misinterpretation and a calm discussion with the caller led to that same conclusion. Perhaps the lesson about conflict resolution is not one that can be learned in the heat of the moment, but one that gets applied slowly and thoughtfully like a teriyaki marinade.

Ultimate. Ultimate. Ultimate.
I'm only going to make three observations about playing Ultimate yesterday, even though I could probably make more. Then I'm going to try to apply those three observations to bigger questions. Watch me now! (work, work!)

Observation the first: On a backhand fake, I stepped on the marker's foot and then he hit my hand as I slipped to the ground and called "foul." He reacted negatively and I announced, "You hit my hand." He replied, "You stepped on my foot." I lost my cool a little bit and said, "FINE. Then I fouled you." We sort of brushed our negative exchange aside and restarted the game.

Life Lesson/question: Does Ultimate really help teach conflict resolution skills? I suppose ignoring the conflict is a way to resolve conflict, but I'd like it better if I reacted with less emotion in the moment and we actually resolved something.

Observation the second: I had a pretty satisfying day yesterday and I attribute a large part of that to the personalities on my team and on at least one of the opposing teams. It really felt like we were pulling for one another, working together, and enjoying the day, the sport, and our opportunities.

Life lesson/question: Do the people that we share the field (pick a field, any field) make so much difference? Is there anyway to seek those people out or is it mostly time and luck?

Observation the third: Recently I have found a new (to me, I think? ) space to throw to on the field. It seems that everyone starts to shift to one side of the field and if just one receiver goes against the grain, I've had a lane to put the disc out to space that they can track down. When I think about this throw, it doesn't quite make sense. I don't think it should be that open or easy.

Life lesson/question: If the lane opens and you've got the throw, you might as well put it, right?

This is not the post I want to write

-There's a hole in my blue shorts. It is not along the seam, it's a very clean cut, and I can only assume that it is some form of sabotage. I don't know what my left thigh did to offend, but I don't want to be there when it retaliates.

-The cool(?) thing about running in a group is that it is glaringly obvious when I don't have much spring in my step. There was some glaring obviousness today.

-Barbara Kingsolver kind of rocks. I'm reading Prodigal Summer. I just finished a chapter that made me jittery about goat farming.

-I'm after something. I don't know what it is. I hope I have the right shoes to give chase.

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.