TV: my viewing habits

I thought I'd provide a run down of the shows that I am watching, so you can watch them too and prevent another Dollhouse.

I have been watching Dollhouse, but it's been an uninspiring season. There seemed to be some intrigue and interesting questions about what it meant to be human last season, but this season there wasn't much to go on. Fox must have noticed the same since they've killed it. I'm disappointed that we won't get resolution, but I'm not even sure there was anything to resolve.

I'm still holding on to How I Met Your Mother, hoping that one day we'll actually find out. The show manages about one genuinely likable moment per episode and is sometimes good for a really hearty laugh. Slap bets are pretty amazing and I find that like FutureMarshall and FutureTed, I'm making FutureDave deal with more and more of the ramifications of my decisions (or non-decisions).

I've recently picked up Modern Family. It's got Carol Vescey from Ed, the actual Ed from Married With Children and a pretty hilarious kid. The other cast members have their moments, but the kid just cracks me up. It's three families who are all part of one big extended family and I like the balance of the three stories and the interplay of the group. The kid is holding this one together though.

I also watch Glee. I have some concerns about their ability to tell a story throughout the season, but for now I like the music and the drama is on the right side of that show about pies that I quit watching. This could really go either way.

I'm still holding strong with The Office. I don't like Jim in his new role as much and Pam seems a touch crazier, but overall this group is one that I'm willing to continue to watch for quite some time. I feel pretty connected at this point. It's almost like a real office.

Community has my attention. The character Ahbed is the funniest character on TV. He has stolen the show multiple times. His Batman was hand-waving, foot-stomping fantastic. The other characters have good roles and the right mix of likable and not.

There are a lot of ensembles on this list, eh?

I'm still watching Grey's Anatomy. It has some good moments, balanced by some pretty silly overblown drama, but I feel invested enough to stick it out for at least this season.

I'm also still watching Project Runway. I have the sense that they are moving away from the creative process and into the human drama. I don't approve. I probably should've called it quits, but I'm loyal to Heidi and I like Tim and a some of the designers were really good looking this season.

Oh yeah, I'm all about the creative process.

Tivo is keeping me up to date and I just found a new hour on Fridays. Tuning in or out or on or rewinding to catch that again...

Oh, Internet, what are you up to?

A recent post on an Ultimate website I read is reporting that the women's team that won Club Nationals is done playing women's Ultimate and is looking for new challenges. It reads a bit like an April Fool's joke, but there is no indication that it is, including but not limited to the fact that it is not April. I don't follow the elite teams in any division closely, and I've never watched this particular team play. I've read that they've won Club Nationals four years running. It's not a long dynasty, but that's impressive. If this shift is true, it's fascinating to think about. I wish I had real insight to offer, but I only have questions.

My first questions tend to be about the level of play and the competition: How does the best women's team stack up against open teams? Are they good enough to beat mid-level open club teams? Strong enough to snag a series bid and knock an open team out? Is a division called open just waiting for something like this to happen?

My next questions are about spirit: Can egos on either side handle this climate? Presumably, the women's team would lose more games than usual. How used to dominance are they? Presumably, there are open teams who would not handle losing to a women's team very well. Can spirit of the game keep tempers in check?

I have questions about the community reaction: Would Ultimate as a whole be supportive of a women's team in the open division? Would this generate interest in the sport outside of the Ultimate community or confirm our niche status? Are there examples of this happening in other sports? If successful, could this open the door for other such cross-overs?

I really don't have any answers and I suspect that this will soon be revealed as a lark, but I think I would be interested to see an exhibition. I think about the women at CUA who play against men at nearly every tournament. An individual match-up may differ from a team setting, but I find both to be courageous.

four on the floor, one on the bus?

Today marks the first time I have taken the bus from home to work and then back again at the end of the day. Sometimes it feels like the rain is winning.

Tonight marks the first time I have driven a manual transmission vehicle in quite some time. I thought I was going to get a shot of re-living my early years (read 15.5 to about 28.5) in Iceland, but that rug was pulled out from under me by the rental agency. I had another shot a few weeks ago, but a series of car-borrowing events later put me behind the wheel of yet another automatic transmission machine. Tonight, through the generosity of others, I got my chance.

I will grant that Taylor Swift's song "You belong to me" may have contributed to my sense of nostalgia, but I still felt a ripple when I sat down in the driver's seat, depressed the clutch, put my right hand on the stick shift and was whisked away to another time and place. I felt the heartache of my late teens seep through the transmission and enter my body through my hand. I couldn't find a girlfriend, I wasn't sure of my place in the world, the rain made me sad and lonely. I released the stick and breathed back into my thirties. It's a more confident place, though perhaps not as far removed from those days as I like to pretend. As I maneuvered in and out of parallel parking spots, another wave of nostalgia came over me, this time in a surge of valet-instilled confidence. I was the sort of parking machine that women and men alike adored and under-tipped. I could park your big boat of a Lincoln towncar or pull around your late 90s T-bird, no sweat. I'm versatile that way. Manual, automatic, past, present- it's all here. Baby.

The turning point

This evening is on a teetering bridge made of rope and two by fours. If I scamper across, I'll go to bed early feeling productive and satisfied. If I stand here and stare at the abyss I will go to sleep late wondering how TV and the Internet managed to completely soak up my night off. I used to have hobbies, but lately it seems like I have exercise/Ultimate or I don't. This imbalance can be off-putting some nights, but mostly it's fine. Tonight, however, I'm passing on exercise, having gone pretty hard for several days in a row. Without Ultimate and without exercise my evening is free. I'd like to read, maybe play the banjo, or just meditate a moment on my career path, but somehow I find myself in the habit of just trying to fill the moments between thoughts of exercise and Ultimate or the actual activity. It's time for more action.

When I finish this paragraph, I'm leaving the Internet behind for several hours. I'm going to change clothes a la Monsieur Rogers, crack open a book and get to reading in my rarely used reading corner. When I get tired of being curled up, I will tune my banjo and bluegrass out. When even my leisure needs planning, I start to wonder who inhabits this mind of mine.

Seeking inspiration

I found myself in a full-on physical funk this evening when the little hand was on the six and big hand was on the twelve. My evening still involved getting home and working out. I was so tired I considered taking a cab home. I was going to call off the workout, but instead my mind started to wander to places of inspiration and motivation. I thought of the blog I'd read earlier in the day about my friend's 50 mile, 10-hour running odyssey. She ran 50 freaking miles. Wow. In the post, she detailed her run and the support she had a long the way. As I trotted home, weary only from a day of work, I thought about the support waiting for me. I couldn't quit today, not after I'd complained about others saying they were in before the moment when they bail. This is not FASHION, people. One minute you are IN and the next, you should still be in. I couldn't quit today because I'd already said I was in. I like to live up to the ideals and expectations I have of others. I didn't realize I would be tested so quickly. I arrived home and found my workout partners ready and waiting. My support was in place. There was really no quitting now. I turned to one final piece of inspiration and motivation, I turned to the toaster pastry of choice- the Pop-Tart. The Pop-Tart pushed me over the edge. I worked out. I lived up to my ideals. It's not 50 miles, but it's a step in that direction. I don't know what turned my mind to the positive tip, but I'd like to keep it around.

Focus on the positive

My rec league team had an unexpectedly great day. We were a small squad and I felt guilty as I’ve been a mostly absent captain, but once and a while, none of that matters. We started off trading points against a team and eventually pulled away. From there, we never really looked back. Our small group was clicking. Everything we did seemed to be working. Guys who have played fast and loose in the past, brought it down a notch. Our defense wasn’t great, but we were close enough to cause some problems and then able to punch it in for the score. ("Stalk and score", anyone?) Everyone was involved. Everyone was getting open, making good grabs, and working hard. The throws were generally pretty good. We had deep looks, we had dump swing offense, we busted through the zone on this perfect windless day in November.

My personal highlights involved laying out for a D on a dump by a member of Bad Habit and catching a trailing edge score off a ricochet D. I tried to huck a few times, but didn’t have much success. My game remains in the mid-range. I’m also excited because my Ultimate protégé coworker said that today might keep her coming back for more in the spring. Yeah, team.

Soda pops and italian subs

There aren't many days that I drink soda, but I couldn't pass up some post-practice root beer. The glass bottle in hand, sweetness on the lips and tongue, and the satisfying clink of a teammate to teammate cheer. Topping that off with an Italian sub from the warehouse district was the filling in the pothole. So smooth. I never would have ventured into the authentic Italian place on my own for a variety of reasons, but none so much as the fact that the building looked like a roughed up, downtrodden warehouse. Inside riches were displayed in olive oil of all shapes and sizes. Cans and bottles, truffles and extra extra virgin, all the olive oil I could imagine dominated the scene. In the far back, there was a butcher and some sandwich makers. They churned out real Italian subs, just like one might expect from the back of warehouse filled with olive oil and wine. If I knew Italian I'd whip it out right now and say, "delicious." I'm not that worldly, instead I present another post and the celebration of soda and subs.

more on lifting, more on vanity

There's another benefit of lifting that I neglected- MUSCLES! Every month or so, I find some muscles I never knew I had. Muscles remind me of a lot of people I know. They'll stay out of the way, lay low, try not to do work if they don't have to, but then give them a project and they work hard. Keep them motivated and they flourish. It started with my underarms. One day I flexed and I had triceps. My stick-figure arm suddenly had a little bulge. It was pleasing. I spent time in front of the mirror confirming that my imagination was not playing tricks. A tickle attack was in full force at some later date and I naturally tensed my stomach muscles. I knew I had stomach muscles, but these were tickle-stoppers. They shut down the attack. Now, this week as I was reaching across my body to grab a toothbrush, I found wings. I'm a few years removed from anything remotely resembling an anatomy class, so I don't know what they are, but trust me, I've never seen these muscles before.

If muscles were stocks, my portfolio would be looking good. Unfortunately, I still wouldn't be ready for retirement.

Lifting and special feelings

Some time ago, along about May or June, I started showing up at Alan's house to fit in a few basement weightroom workouts. I've never been much of a fan of weights. I never finished a weight workout feeling great like I did after a run. The workouts always took a lot of time and even though I didn't know what results to expect I knew that I didn't want to be too muscular. The best way to avoid that was to avoid the whole scene, I decided. I tend to make sweeping decisions even when they don't make sense. Then in May or June, after many declined invitations I decided to head to the basement and workout again. I wouldn't do it four days a week, but maybe two and I'd see what happened. I found that working out with Alan and Jim was nice enough. It felt like we were struggling together, a bit like the old days on a high school cross country team. They were (and are) clearly stronger, but weights like running can be an individual pursuit with individual standards and improvement.

I stuck with my two or almost two days a week and mixed in Ultimate, bike riding, running, and the fun stuff I enjoyed. Much of my exercise was transit, but I was spending a lot of time exercising. This netted some pretty nifty previously chronicled results in a mile I ran in July and I knew that much of the credit belonged to the lifting I'd been doing. That motivated me to continue to keep up my efforts in the weightroom. Throughout the summer, my efforts remained consistent. Then, as luck or fate or something would have it, Alan and I became housemates. That put his superior collection of weightlifting paraphenilia in the garage, as in close enough to trip over. The excuses not to work out shrank significantly.

At first I thought the weights were too close to the television. I could feel myself being sucked in and away from working out, but as we got into our new routine, I found something had changed. I found that I wanted to work out. I found that when I didn't work out, I was disappointed. It was a familiar feeling that I get with running. Now, I find that I'm itching to workout when I'm sitting on the couch. I don't get the same satifisfaction from lifting that I get from running, but I get more than I thought possible. I know that the strength will contribute to my other goals, running goals, Ultimate goals, and my own well-being.

That's a pretty special feeling.

Put that one in the kitty

A look through the archives reveals that yesterday’s post was treading on territory dangerously close to a post written in May. Either the realization is slower than I realized or my memory is so poor that I get to have the same epiphany every few months.

In hopes of getting out of my rut, I’m going to enter some new territory. This territory is inhabited by furry alien beings.

I’m not a pet guy. My sister had a fish when we were growing up, but for the most part I’ve spent my life in a pet-free zone. I did live with a dumb dog named Champ for a while, but that relationship never really clicked. Champ ran with me a time or two, but he couldn’t catch a disc and his conversation skills were lacking. He also smelled like dog. That wasn’t really his fault, but it wasn’t endearing.

I’ve gone many years again without a pet and I was happy, or mostly happy. I certainly didn’t feel like I was missing anything. I don’t hate animals, I just don’t have much use for them. I don’t connect. I don’t feel warm and cuddly when they are near. Did I mention they smell?

Not too long ago, I moved. I have new housemates. One of my housemates is named Manley and that’s my favorite thing about him. I think that’s worse than saying he’s ugly, but he has a great personality. For the record, Manley isn’t ugly and he doesn’t have a great personality. He’s got a cool name. Manley and I have the house to ourselves this week. It’s a bachelor pad. We’re watching movies in our skivvies, drinking brews, working out, staying up late watching inappropriate TV, tossing the lacrosse ball around, and belching without remorse. Awesome, huh?

No. Manley does not live up to his name. He doesn’t do manly things at all. He doesn’t even really do cat things. I’m told he’s a fine cuddler if the stars are aligned, but I’m also told that he’s a nasty biter if they aren’t. He’s a chubby cat and while he does chase a ball, bat a plush mouse, and eat, he doesn’t do much else.

There’s some tension in the bachelor pad. It grows with each passing meal. Manley wants more food. I want him to leave me alone while I scoop out his meal pellets. Will this end in bloodshed? Does Manley have secret hidden ninja powers? Will some other housemate return in time to quell this growing feud?

The slow burn of realization on the Ultimate field

When I first moved to town and I found CUltimAte, I was a year or two older than college seniors. I was the same age or younger than the grad students. I could slip into a college Ultimate tournament quite comfortably. If memory serves, I didn't play in the series or in games where I didn't belong, especially in the Spring. I jumped in to help the team or help myself to some more playing time, but not at the cost of someone's season, I gambled. The calendars have flopped over a time or seven and those college seniors I started with return only for the alumni game. New college seniors and grad students stand in their place, but time has moved on. I don't have quite the same speed or the same leap that I did back then, but my throws are better, and I can still hold my own. Last year, I jumped in to a mixed tournament during the fall college season. Being on the field was fun, but it didn't sit entirely right with me somehow.

This year, as the team has sometimes struggled with numbers, I've been asked to "cleat up" and take the field. I've resisted. I feel bad if I'm at a tournament where colleges expect to face colleges and I take advantage of a new player just learning the game. I feel worse if a college player uses superior speed and ability to take advantage of me in this same setting. So, I decline.

Saturday, the team faced a team of Haverford alums. I don't feel bad about battling college graduates, so I laced up the green cleats, donned the clown dress and afro-wig, and went to work. The team and I battled, but we again made too many mistakes to keep it close. The Mario-Kart clad alums were a bit drunk, but mostly solid. I had a few good moments- Tini picked up the junk deep put I threw his way. They threw zone without wind and I enjoyed dropping it over and around their cup. I picked up a layout D and got to hustle on the field. I got to share more directly in some of the frustration of our re-building year. I dropped a disc. I think I resisted throwing one away. We got rolled, but I couldn't stop smiling. I know the theme repeats itself here many times, but Ultimate means a lot to me. It's allowed me to meet and play with a lot of people. It keeps evolving with me or to me. I hope to be a part of it as long as it keeps bringing me joy and/or hot chocolate in a box.

I can do whatever I like

I've been told that it's National Blog Post Writing Month. It's supposedly this less-involved lower-key version of National Novel Writing Month. As a NaBloPo writer, I'm supposed to post something to my blog everyday. I'd link to the official site, but it's got all of these rules that I don't want to follow. Mostly the rules I don't want to follow are that since I didn't post yesterday I am no longer eligible for prizes. So, I'm making up my own rules while I try to build on my NaNoWriMo success of some five years ago by actually trying to get a little bit of writing done this month. In that less-than-inspired way, I plan to write more posts, post more writing, and find meaningful* ways to rearrange the language to suit my needs.

If I were betting, I'd say my readers can expect more posts about Ultimate, running, my vanity, lost cell phones, and the ongoing struggle of being a thirty-something man with the mindset of a twenty-something. If I'm feeling particularly feisty, I may again combine all five.

All of this is available for the low, low price of time. In the time it takes to brush some teeth, I can offer insight and brightening power.

*Meaningful in this case refers more to the act of making sense or attempting word play and less to the general appeal to the senses or emotions.

Of land and way, the ice and nor variety

Pronoun and character introduction: In the retelling of this journey will be C, she of world-traveling renown and amateur travel agent prowess and me, of this blog. The two of us will be the "we" to which I generally refer. If other we's sneak in, I trust that context will provide appropriate clues. Get on with it, then.

September 14- After a stint in the late twenties- to thirties-island-haven Hoboken and a plane ride across some of the Atlantic Ocean, we arrived in Keflavik, Iceland. The hour by Icelandic digital watch was in the sixes, but in my mind it was much later and earlier than that. We'd taken herbal "no jet-lag" pills, but even their black magic was not strong enough to overcome insufficient shut-eye. The bus from the airport to our hostel rolled through a grey-cloud covered land dotted with houses and cairns. We arrived at the downtown youth hostel at 0730, plopped down luggage and hundreds of krona (ISK) and enjoyed our yogurt that's also a website, skyrs.is. Too early for a room, we wandered the streets of the capital city, Reykjavik. We visited a church, Hallgrimskirkja, that was under construction and tried to find ways to battle weariness by wandering the streets and doing a little shopping. We eventually made our way to a library where I read a collection of Peanuts comics and dozed off.

After a restful three hour nap in our hostel, we had dinner at Geysir, the restaurant with cute little lamps in the windows, not the hot steam erupting from the ground, and I had my first introduction to the soft drink Malt. Malt was a sweet stout-like beverage. My taste buds found it curious and kind of wonderful. We capped off our night with a swim and some relaxing in geothermal pools. There are several of these pools around the city, but this was not really a tourist spot. It was a community pool with some geothermal heating. It was warm (39 and 42 degrees Celsius) and relaxing and made sleep even easier.

September 15- After some deliberation regarding the various touring options, we decided to rent a car. I'd started to get excited about driving a manual transmission vehicle when the rental agent asked, "Is automatic ok?" We took the red Opel Corsa to the streets, some of them gravel, and hit the tourist hot spots in Southwest Iceland. We found Geysir, where Strokkur erupted every 6-10 minutes, more often than even Old Faithful, as a crowd gathered to watch. Geysir itself has been quiet for some time, but to its credit is the reason that we call geysers by their name. We drove on, chasing rainbows through the black and green of lava rock and rolling rocky terrain to find the waterfalls and rainbows of Gulfoss. It was postcard perfect and I'm told that it's quite a sight in the winter when it's frozen. We stopped at a Pylsa stand for Iceland hot dogs and a Malt. Pylsa were everywhere. We ended up with hot dogs at more meals than I think either of us would have anticipated. The pylsa at this stand were quite good. We hit more of the dirt roads, drove along the coast, had some consistent sunshine for a few hours, saw just a few cars, and bounced and pitched our way to the Blue Lagoon, passing gorgeous views and rocky hills along the way.

The Blue Lagoon lived up to its billing. The water was milky-blue and warm. The price was high. I didn't want to leave until I'd shriveled into a prune-y version of myself with hardened hair. There were saunas and massage areas available, but we mostly stuck to slowly wading and floating around, sometimes with our silica masks. Silica masks and beards don't go that well together, but I tried. After nearly two hours of geothermal lagoon time, we polished off Iceland with my whale steak and Viking stout and C's reindeer burger and Polar beer. The steak was good, but I don't think the burger held up so well. I'm certain that Santa is none too pleased.

September 16, 17- We arrived in Oslo, Norway and almost immediately took a train to Finse. Our travel days were consistently sunny and few more gorgeous than this one. The train ride was about six hours long, but at every turn, at least when I was awake, beautiful views were just outside the window. There were lakes and streams with backdrops of mountains, some colored by evergreen and others starting to turn in the fall. We were on a rolling brochure for the natural majesty of Norway. As darkness came, we arrived at the highest train station in Norway, Finse, at 1,222 meters above sea level. The small town had sent a brisk wind and a light rain as a welcoming committee. We were right next to a glacier, but wouldn't know until the train brought us through again in several days. We made our way through the cold and dark to our shelter about 200 meters back of the train station and out on a peninsula. I could see the dark outlines of snow-capped mountains pouring into the wind-blown lake and couldn't contain my excitement.

Our lodging was spartan and cold as there seemed to be no heat in the rooms. After dinner with three interesting Norwegian fellows who were headed out to hunt the next day, we threw on our stocking caps and buried ourselves deep beneath the heavy comforters. We managed to shiver to sleep and make it through to morning fitfully, but without freezing. The temperature didn't rise well either and we set off on our bike ride in spitting rain at three degrees Celsius. We wore most of the clothes we'd packed, which made our bags light. I was nervous about our fingers and toes and a little upset with myself for not being better prepared. It was mid-week and bordering on the miserable, so for most of the trip down we were alone, or only in the sight of one older couple. The trail was rocky and the sky was gray, but the scenery remained unbelievable. I took more pictures that consist of colored homes, bodies of water, and rocky hillside than I should probably admit. Our route followed close to the train tracks, but there were a few moments when I wondered how long it might be before someone would find our frozen bodies on the trail. I talked C into wearing her spare socks as gloves and I worked hard to warm up my hands at every chance I got. The day eventually got warmer as we made our way down. We descended 1,220 meters over 56 or so kilometers. Our patience was separately tested, but I was mostly prepared and spent my time waiting enjoying the scenery. We survived without much incident after a 6.5 hour ride. The last 20 km had been crazy steep. Our destination was Flam, 2 meters above sea level and on a fjord. I was unimpressed by the Flam-fjord view after enjoying so many mountain views, but my perspective would be altered another day. We had dinner in Norway's only train car restaurant. The Norwegian meatballs and the faux-attraction of a train car restaurant were only enough to sustain, not entertain. The hostel shower, even at 10 krone per 5 minutes was glorious. I may have been tired, but I hatched a theory that "upstand" might mean urinal in Norwegian. That amused me. I probably could have asked since everyone spoke English well, but I already felt guilty enough about that.

September 18- After 13.5 hours of sleep in our hostel cabin, we ate our co-op shopping-procured-breakfast on our porch. We covered all the Norwegian breakfast bases as we understood them, drinkable yogurt, cheese, bread. Our drinkable yogurt may have been blueberry flavored milk, but the line there looks pretty blurry to me. We hiked about 9 km over fjord to Aurland, had lunch, and then caught a boat to Gravunden (?). "Oh, my fjord!" I have run out of ways to describe the views we saw. It was "fjords gone wild," and I only stopped taking pictures because I couldn't find any new ways to show how impressive it all seemed as our ferry-like boat slid through the water framed by high rocky gray and green mountains climbing into the sky on both sides. We took the bus back to Flam and went through the mountains. It was the only way to save space on my camera's memory card and there were no boats back.

September 19- It was another bright and sunny day spent traveling. We took the Flamsbana train ride, but the views were familiar as we'd already biked them. We could see from the train window how much busier the bike trail was. I still admired the scenery as we took another train back to Oslo. We skipped a possible Venga Boys concert at Oslo University, but saw where the king sleeps and some of Oslo in the night. The hip section of town on the harbor reminded me of an Ikea catalog explosion. The architecture was that mixture of awesome and sparse with hard corners and functional square shapes. The buildings in this area seemed to be high-priced lofts and places of business.

September 20- I had trouble getting going despite "breakfast in a bag" at the P hotel in downtown Oslo. We finally made our way through the gray skies and sprinkles to Vigeland Park where it was all-you-care to see naked statues. We stopped for coffee and then decided to tour separately. C went to see Munch and I went to see mini bottles. The entrance fee was steep, but this was the largest mini bottle collection in the world. I saw thousands of mini bottles. If Oslo were a giant hotel, this building would have been a brilliant mini bar. It had bottles from all over the world and in all shapes. Some were quite beautiful in blown glass, while others were quite crude and included or were part of lewd humor. I was quite interested in the Scotch section and in section of cognacs where a whole collection of mini bottles shaped like Napoleon resided.

We had dinner at a hipster joint and drinks at Olympen. We were expecting a dive, but instead found ourselves in a pretty nice bar with large wooden tables and 20 foot tall red velvet curtains. I tried the Norwegian drink Aquavit which I'd discovered at the mini bottle gallery. It was a bit like cough syrup. It grew on me as I sipped it, but I think I was supposed to shoot it and I don't know that I ever need to have another taste.

The end- Icelandair took us back to Iceland and then on to New York. We slipped on to a standby flight and made it home in time to be exhausted. The pictures turned out great and reliving it a month later is not a bad way to go. I've told everyone that I was quite taken by Norway, but I think I'd enjoy more outdoor adventures in either place. I'm keeping my passport handy. The world awaits.

Motion seconded

Disappointed that I wouldn't be able to join some friends running a race over the weekend, I jumped at the chance to run in a 5k at the Ham Festival in Trigg County, Kentucky. Surprisingly, C agreed to run/walk too. Perhaps it was Southern hospitality, but I wasn't asking questions.

There were about 40 people entered in the race. I knew that I would have a chance to win, but I also understood that my control was limited. I tried to explain this to C, but the mere act of explanation seemed to further cement me as the favorite in her mind. As I told her that even if I had a great race that would really only be different from a good race by 20 or 30 seconds. I didn't talk about what having a bad race would mean. She politely listened and told me that no one else in the race would be thinking about those differences. After seeing a few other people warm up, C did grant me that a few others might at least be thinking about their races.

I eyed my competition and narrowed it down to a trio of high-schoolers, likely on a local cross-country team, an older guy in blue shorts, and a guy about my age in a grey singlet. I knew that looks could be deceiving, but mentally figured this group would pose the threats. I still run like a respectable high-schooler in the 5k, so I had a pretty good idea what I might be up against. Later I would find out that the high-schoolers among my competition had eyed me and targeted me in the very same way. I guess a little judging by the cover can be effective.

I started the race in the second row behind an eager group of munchkins. It was an out and back course, a slight uphill out and a slight downhill back. After passing the kids, I was in a small pack with the threats I'd identified. The grey singlet was already starting to pull away. Blue shorts slowed and announced "It's time to slow down." For some reason, I responded, "But, I have to go after him."

Soon, I found myself alone and breathing. I focused on grey singlet's back. I crossed the mile in 5:23. Grey singlet carried on and I continued to lose just a little bit of ground as we carried on. I remember very little- a few words of encouragement, thanking a volunteer, and grey singlet slowly pulling away. As I came upon the two-mile mark, I was amused to see C headed in the other direction. We crossed our marks a few seconds apart. I'd run 11:03 at two miles, but was delighted that for now I can claim that I'm twice as fast. This will come in handy when we are getting ready to go somewhere.

From there, I pushed on. One man asked if I was going to be able to catch grey. I told him I didn't know, but I was trying. My efforts didn't amount to much more than maintaining the status quo, maybe pushing it slightly. I finished in 17:11. Second place. Grey was some 40 seconds ahead and 50 dollars richer. At least my streak stayed alive. I think I've now finished second overall or in my age group in 5 consecutive events.

Later in the day after the endorphins wore away, I found that I was sore. In very appropriate fashion, as I wandered the streets at the annual festival celebrating pigs, I found it was my hamstrings that were causing me the most trouble.

I'm serious.

Scared of the curb

I don't know how people rage against the machine every day. I am exhausted from my bike rides in the city lately. There's nowhere for me to hide. I was honked at and yelled at over the weekend. The honking provoked me to have a stare in a rearview mirror and then have a conversation where neither party heard a thing through closed windows. The holler to "ride on the sidewalk" prompted a deep angry shout of, "I'm on the road and I belong on the road." I don't know if I've ever shouted with such fury.

The problem lies in my route, but no route from my new home is without traffic. There are cars everywhere. As I ride, I also find that my moral superiority has slipped away and I find that I am particularly concerned about how drivers view not just me, but all bicyclists. I now better understand why some cyclists choose to don neon gear and have flags waving on the backs of their bikes. They are trying to convince one more driver to see them and then hopefully share the road with them without comment. It's a battle and if it didn't rock so much to get to work in 15 minutes with awakened heart and lungs, I'm not sure I could fight it.

New home: A poem of sorts

The dishwasher is training for a marathon,
Boston if the electric kettle has anything to do with it.
The TV stops and goes at my command.
Couches and desks fill up empty spaces.
There's a cat who adores me when I open a can
I climb out of the ground to greet the day
and shower beneath foot falls.

It takes six keys to enter, but only one to leave.

I'm not a blogaholic

It’s been 21 days since I last posted.

That sentence makes me sound like I want to join a support group. I have notes in the back of the “Iceland Review” all laid out for a chronological trip review, but I’m not ready yet to review it. Instead, I’m caught up in Saturday’s Ultimate games.

I’ve resolved to make my weekend Ultimate games take a backseat to my other fitness goals. That means I’m not going to skip a workout on Friday just because I have a game on Saturday. It means I still want to find time to run or even race and play. In theory, I believe this to be good well-rounded life-balancing policy. In practice, I am already finding this to be a painful way to exist.

On Saturday, we had a double-header and something like 3 subs. I found myself in the games more than I wanted to be, largely because I worked out on Friday and I was still sore. The first game was a lazily-defended, deep-cut slug fest. I was happy to be one of the deep cutters, less happy that I keep getting burnt on the defensive end. We can blame my sore legs, but it’s starting to feel like 50/50 discs go to the other guy 70% of the time. It’s the ones where I’ve got a step that I’m getting. In the first game, I often had a step. I need to figure out how to get back in the mix more often, even as I am getting out-jumped.

Other things to think about:

-Maybe if I’m going to show up sore, I shouldn’t be quite so zealous when it comes to getting down the field on defense on the pull. There were some great pulls though, and I like when hustle defense leads to a Callahan.

-I can do better dictating on offense and defense. I’m being too passive when my man is close on almost everything except for my force side cuts.

-Either the team needs to recognize our personality or I do. We’re going to have a tough time out-muscling other teams, so we have to play smarter and move the disc better. We looked pretty recreational with our clogging and inefficient use of players on the field.

We lost the first game 16-15. I had to watch the disc zip by me too fast and far to be the game-winning score and then watch my man jump up and grab number 16 for his team. The second game was a rainy mess and I didn’t have much fight and neither did the team. It was a bit rough.

Me and my trophy: A story that contains children

Long ago, before the month of August, which was an especially long month in some senses and an especially short one in others, I was part of a plaid-wearing, flag-waving team of beach blokes that managed to win a division in that beach Ultimate tournament of Wildwood, New Jersey. I recounted much of that adventure somewhere down there. Scroll down and I'm quite certain it can be located. This victory was particularly sweet as it had come after a number of years of losing. Those tales are also recounted in the archives. It's never the winning or the losing that really matter, but sometimes they do matter. Sometimes they matter enough to warrant a golden cup. This was one of those times. On that fateful day, I held the cup and drank from the cup and then I said farewell to the cup.

It is difficult to share a single trophy among a whole team, but I wanted my day with the cup. I had grand plans. The cup and I would sing and dance together. We would frolic in that way that only victors can frolic. This would be beautiful and glorious and it began to seem as if it would never happen.

Saturday, the cup and I were reunited. I grabbed the golden chalice and took a short victory lap around the picnic area. It was as golden and as heavy as I remembered. I gazed at my golden reflection and my beard shined just a little brighter. First, I held my cup with my left hand. Then, I held it with my right. I decided to toss the frisbee with my fellow picnic people, but rather than relinquish my grasp, I carried the cup with us. When one hand grew weary, I switched to the other. This led to an especially interesting game of catch as my fellow picnic people also switched to throwing with their off-hands. Passers-by must have thought we were rather talented at catching the disc to be throwing so poorly. I'm sure they also thought that I looked like a champion.

They were right.

The difficulty of being a champion is that others seek to knock champions off their high horses. Fortunately, my horse is vertically challenged. I don't have a horse, but the trophy did attract the attention of a young boy. He wanted to hold the cup. I was still uninterested in releasing it. The last time I let it go, I did not see it for more than a month. The boy was persistent, but I held my ground and my cup.

The boy attacked. At first I danced away from his advances, sometimes darting away in a sprint, other times with a juke move, but the boy pressed on. He climbed me. He strangled me. He hit me. He grabbed my shoulders and rocked me back and forth. I tried to discourage him by spinning and by holding the cup ever higher. This back and forth, this dance of strength and wits with a young boy went on for quite some time, maybe even an hour. Somemtimes, he would ask nicely or get his even smaller brother to ask for the trophy. Other times, he would come at me ferociously. He'd sneak up and jump on me or run by and make a grab at the gold. He would walk away, run a race, throw a disc, look distracted and then attack again. He'd climb my back again and I'd hold the trophy above my head and try to spin him away.

"What strange champion is this?" park-goers must have pondered. "He holds a trophy high and spins with a boy on his back." Perplexed, they must have wished to be champions themselves.

I just wished this kid's parents would show up before one of us got injured.

That cliche is hot

I usually live in areas with hot, humid summers. Perspiration drips off me instantly when I crack the door open. My poor towel-drying skills beccome laughable and moist becomes a state of being. Today, I'm visiting a climate where "it's a dry heat." I know of people who don't buy it. They say, "hot is hot." After a day in Phoenix where the mercury was licking the hundred teens, I am not one of those people. A temperature of 115 is a microwave on low. It makes all surfaces in the sun, particularly asphalt, radiate heat. Walking through a parking lot in mid-day with the sun beating down from above and the asphalt radiating heat upwards, leaves only a small section of my t-shirt covered torso unscorched.

It may not be fair to compare 115 and no humidity with 95 and humid, but I contend that both are fierce and fiery in very separate ways. In Phoenix the heat is sapping. In DC it seems to be more a wilter. I can't drink enough water in PHX, but in DC I can't get the sweat off of my hands fast enough.

I wonder if the difference is the difference between burning and drowning. It's been a summer filled with lovely weather, so maybe it's merely the difference between whining and crying.

Oh, my heart is breaking all right

I went to see The Time Traveler's Wife last night. Now I know that going to see a movie based on one of my favorite books is courting disappointment, but I thought this would be different. I thought Rachel McAdams could make it all work. She tried, but she couldn't. The movie was a mostly emotionless Cliffs Notes version of the book. On some level I understand that a lot of stuff had to be cut out, but I missed that stuff. Sometimes I missed that stuff with more emotion than Eric Bana ever managed in the whole movie.

My recommendation for this movie is to read the book. In the book, time travel and that desperate sort of star-crossed love are exactly the awesome combination that they should be. In the movie, time travel and love are just kind of there. They happen. I'm not sure the screen captured anything that the book didn't, except Rachel McAdams and even she wasn't enough for me.

I'm skipping ahead in time to the next Audrey Niffennegger novel. Update: It's out! I'm skipping ahead in time to when I'm reading it.

Supersonic August

This month is zipping by. My weekday evenings are filled with Ultimate, working out, and various social gatherings. My weekends have been busier than that.

Feeling like a first-class jet-setter flying coach, I took to Chicago two weeks ago Saturday to catch a wedding. I arrived by plane, subway train, bus, and a mile walk on or to the boulevards of the University of Chicago. With overnight bag strapped to my back. I wandered the empty ivy- and construction-covered campus searching for food, chapel, and something to occupy my time. I found a bit of what I was looking for and then stumbled on to the wedding party early and by mistake. Fortunately, catching a wedding does not require the same stealth that catching a fox might.

My love for the wedding has only grown stronger in the last few years. It's not the wedding, as much as the eating and dancing of the reception, but for the sake of brevity, "I like weddings." This one proved no exception. The company of the groom, his new bride, their friends, and friends I haven't seen for years were so delightful that I almost forgot to dance. Almost.

It may have been during Aretha's "R-E-S-P-E-C-T" that I looked up from the flailing I was doing and realized that I was lip-synching right along with 11 women. I was the only male on the makeshift dance floor in the lobby of the SmArt museum. One friend turned to me and said, "I'm glad I know you or I might think you were a little creepy."

I think it's the beard.

As the night wound down and the line dances grew in complexity, I was whisked away to Amy's where I was treated like the princess and the pea. On a hard floor stacked with multiple area rugs for padding I laid my weary head down after several hours of catching up. I felt no pea and instead slept wonderfully secure with old familiarity and thoughts of how nice these good people had turned out and how wonderful it was to see them. In the blink of an eye I was back to work and answering "What did you do this weekend?" with, "Went to Chicago."

Last weekend, celebration of a different sort convened on the beach of South Carolina. My roommate from sophomore year of college had a 30th birthday party in a beach house. My friends have been rocking the 30th birthday and this was no exception. It was really neat to see how the people I knew had grown up in the last few years and to meet people from his high school and his post-collegiate life. Everyone got along well and had a good time. I stayed up to watch poker one night, but mostly I couldn't hang with the late night crowd. For the weekend as a whole, I was particularly pleased with the camping that C and I did on the way there and on the way back. It pleased my desire to be rugged and thrifty which was deeply offset by the huge house a block from the beach, not that I don't have desires to be treated like beach royalty too. It's conflicted in here sometimes. We stayed one night at Jones Lake State Park. C had been laughing about the brochure that called the lake "tea-colored." The brochure wasn't turning mud into hyperbole, instead when we went to swim, we found ourselves in what looked and felt like a big cup of tea. We made the most of it, but I probably could've seeped a little less.

This weekend I'm packing which has been broken up by long periods of not packing. Soon it's on to the next adventure. Hi-ho blog reader. Away!

BAM. Life changed

Yesterday was completely different than so many before it. The sandwich has been moving out for days and we said our goodbye earlier in the week, but when I got home in the evening, the big stuff was gone. My house was huge, or bigger than small and my books had nowhere to call their shelf. It was like I'd been robbed and the thieves did some vacuuming.

I will miss the sandwich for more than just his stuff. He always listened to my rants and I enjoyed his perspective on the world. In some ways, I think he grew up right in front of my eyes. S has good taste in roommates, I'll give her that. This week when I came home and the car was gone, sadness bubbled up inside me. The bubbling sadness, sometimes mixed with nostalgia has been happening a lot lately. I pass by things I never really even cared about and think, "this could be the last time," or "I still haven't..." The last time I walk home and grab a bite from the generic Potbelly? I did that three times ever. Or I still haven't been to Nicaro? The Spring isn't getting torn down, I can still go. I guess six years in a place has made the "end" a little confusing for me. It is like 1/5 of my current existence we're talking about.

Feelin' Good. It's Wildwood.

This is my fifth trip to the vast swath of sand located between the waves of the Atlantic Ocean and the fried Oreos of the Wildwood boardwalk. I look forward to it every year because even in times of injury two days at the beach with a disc pretty much rules. The layouts are legendary and the good times are close behind. I joined the nucleus of Red Delicious who became Donk-a-phant Dance Party and were now Stillerman's Beach Blokes. Our intended jerseys were British Flags, a nod to Stills who was in Europe and unable to join us on the field. My flag was iron-on, one was drawn, another was the full jersey, others were tankinis, or neck ties or still flying somewhere in the great part of Britain. The word uniform took a turn to the individual last year when we went plaid and seemed to continue on its movement away from uniformity. With only four to a side on the playing field, uniforms really don't matter much.

I'm going to recount my weekend and as I formulate it on the screen I can already see that the action will dominate. If I could do this well, I'd mix the action in with the good feelings of being at the beach with my friends. I don't know that I can. Somehow layouts are easier to talk about than just enjoying time spent in the presence of others. The layouts seemed less frequent this year. It's hard to tell if that was a direct effect of our style of play which seemed to either be pretty accurate or pretty inaccurate or if it was a sign of something else, like exaggerations of past flight. We may never know. Friday night was familiar territory as the car I was in arrived late. I assume only people who leave on Thursday manage to arrive early. We arrived late and found the mansion of a tent already in place. Sweet relief was moments away, but wasn't as AJ, AH, and BH drank and talked well into the night while I curled up thinking violent thoughts and wishing for ear plugs. Finally quiet came and was soon followed by morning. Morning hit us hard and when we stumbled on to the puddle-covered beach we came out slowly. The other team had a step on us and we were dispatched in a quick game.

That loss lead to some fire and we tried to recreate the magic of last year, but taking down a superior-seeming team. We jumped out early on some beautiful throws from MH and hard work and good luck from everyone. One of my personal highlights came in that game, as I put up a loopy outside-in flick to a cutting MH. He was headed to the back corner. It was headed to the back corner. Meanwhile, MH's defender gave chase and the 6 foot 8? inch monster of a player came to help. Yet, the angle of the throw prevented anyone but MH from making the grab. We continued to celebrate. Then, the superior-seeming team clamped down in a flash of superiority and brought us back to earth. Fast. We didn't do much scoring after our 6-2 lead and lost 12-8.

In other years two losses might have put a dark cloud over us, but we seemed to be playing with very little in-game emotion. Instead we played with an almost calm familiarity and the tide began to turn. We won a game and then another really long game and ended our day 2-2. MH had sweet throws. MB had some sweet moments outfoxing his defenders, including one where he let two defenders fight over a disc in the air as they batted it away. He was able to react and recover the ricochet for a score. It wouldn't be the last time he would use smarts to make good things happen. HG was a valuable pick-up and she really worked the disc well and brought thoughtful comments to our sideline. She made us all handlers and she kept us calm and smooth when our edges started to get rough.

In the evening, when other teams went to the beer garden, we were cooking out on the grill. MVP awards to AJ, MD, and MH for some brilliant campground cooking. The kebobs and burgers were the tastiest creations this side of the state park. The relaxing outdoor meal in this on-going incredible weather of summer was the flaming marshmallow (non-cancer causing) in this s'more of a weekend. When our heads hit pillows Saturday night, we fell hard into slumber.

We bounced up on Sunday and still puttered around enough to nearly be late to the fields. The sand conditions had changed quite a bit as they had mostly dried out. SM did her captaining best to get us together and going again. JM was supplying some sweet odd cheers and we got out and rolling. We won our first game and then carried that tired swagger into the second. The puncture wound on my foot started to bug me, so I tried out my shoes. The other team complained about them for various reasons, but they were sweet relief. After the complaints kept coming, I ditched the shoes, got a layout D, had another hand block and we were in position for victory. Recent coaching time has brought me to a more strategic place and I was pushing for a timeout call. In a time game, the timeout is apparently more controversial than I knew as the other team reacted poorly. Discs were slammed down, but we took our time, scored the goal, got the horn, and headed for the bracket championship game.

We've been to championship games or pseudo-championship games the last two years. We were playing for the plastic cup of the third bracket. Again, the usual jitters were gone and we seemed to be ready to continue to play and then go home regardless of the outcome. Rather than time, the structure dictated the best two of three games, the first two to seven, and the third to five if necessary. JM threw down a wicked cheer, "In England, they drink tea in golden cups. Golden cups. GOLDEN CUPS!" Then the Beach Blokes went to work. Lightning-like we were up in the game. We threw some zone. We threw some hucks. Everything seemed to be working. MH put a throw in traffic to AJ. He went up and with two guys helpless below him and snagged a two-pointer. We took the first game 7-2. I felt a moment of jitters, but we discussed what adjustments the other team would probably make. If they made them, it was not evident. In the blink of an eye and on the leading edge of a storm, we took the second game 7-2. The other team seemed flat and stunned.

We jumped and danced and hugged. SM had wanted a cup and it was great to see her with it. AH stopped complaining for a moment and as the rain poured down we could gather our stuff like winners and make the long drive home. We sipped our victory drink from the cup and later continued our celebration over dinner and DQ ice cream. The spoils tasted sweet*.

*It's a funny thing, winning. We keep score and I do want to emerge victorious, but more and more getting to play is such a joy. To play with people that I care about means even more. We may not spend time practicing or working together much, but to share the field and to have those moments where we count on one another and then for it to work out in more wins than losses, that's something. That's one of the reasons I keep playing.

Texas, revisited

In June, when I was tubing in Texas, I met some new people that were fun to be around. In the olden days, they would have been filed away in my memory bank only to be withdrawn with a smile and an “Oh yeah,” at some later date far in the future. I am the low-key Kool-Aid man of memories.

The future is here and the olden days are toast. Facebook and blogs have kept me in touch with these fun people. They knew I was moving. I knew they were waterskiing. We shared surface details, the kind that gets bandied about on the Internet, which led to an exchange. Now just about a month after our first meeting, these new people were quite gracious to me when I visited their area.

I was in a conference center on a work trip clear across town from these Texans. Still, they came and picked me up from this island of a conference center, perhaps not fully realizing how far they had to go. They whisked me away to Fort Worth.

Our first stop was a water park. This wasn’t a slides-and-wave-pool kind of place, but a sit-and-think park with water as its central design theme. It was neat and modern and somewhat unexpected in a hot Texas town. It was quite visually interesting. Each section had a sort of theme- one was set below street level in a dimly lit recess with a long shallow well-lit pool of still water. The walls had a light coating of falling water and were lined with trees. There was space to sit and to relax in this quiet area. Another section had 40 fountains all spraying like oversized sprinkler heads and creating what the sign called “a single plane.”

The most interesting section to me was shaped like the inside of an upside-down pyramid, ice cream cone-like, without the rounded edges. Water was cascading down the sides and there were unevenly spaced and shaped rectangle steps spiraling down to a pool below. When I stopped to look up after taking a few steps down, it looked a bit like I was in a waterfall or some rapids but no water was splashing on me. I went further down, trying hard not to slip and fall, and then made my way back up again.

From the park, we made our way to the Fort Worth I had expected. The shops were closed, but even window shopping I could see a vast array of boots and cowboy hats in the stockyard section of town. I can imagine the thrill of the rodeo and still taste lamb fries.

Be very, very quiet

I've been doing a little hunting lately. I haven't killed anything, but I think there's a place to rent that we've got our eye on. House hunting is more complicated than I remember. I haven't done it in six years and I've never done it in a group larger than two, but I still wasn't prepared.

To be fair, much of the hunting was done by my potential flatmates, or really just one who managed to be a whirlwind of house hunting prowess. She was organized, on top of things, and kept us moving along through multiple options. It was a pretty awesome train to be on. I did keep an eye out and I found a few potential places, but we didn't end up looking at them.

It didn't matter. We looked at several. Some were too small. One was too large. One was oddly divided and had a bathroom as far away from everything else as possible without having an outhouse. One seemed like it might work. It had 3 bathrooms and that seems advantageous to everyone but my internal cleaning lady. It had enough space for stuff, like my two bikes and my naugahyde furntiture and me.

When I first started looking, I somehow forgot that four opinions might be different than one. I forgot that it wasn't just my stuff that had to fit, but everyone's. I only partially realized that we would be talking about four commutes and four ideas about what a home should look and feel like. This experience has been good for my thinking. I trust it will not be the last if this all works out.

I don't want to jinx it by talking about it here and I usually don't blog about things in the future, but this time I'm making an exception. I'm not sure how we'll respond if someone else has applied first or if the landlord rejects us. It will be hard to bounce back and head out to look again. It's not just time consuming to hunt for a place to live, I think it requires a good-sized emotional investment. To plan on a space, to picture a life in that space is a challenging thing for me.

I'm really glad I'm only renting at this point. I can't imagine the committment of buying. People who buy must be brave. Me? I'm just shooting from the hip, an emotional outdoorsman looking for the next shack.

Beat it

I’ve been meaning to write something about Michael Jackson since his passing on June 25. I didn’t cry when I found out that he’d died. I was surprised, but I didn’t watch enough news to be sick of the coverage. I wasn’t part of the Twitterstorm that took them offline. I’ve been sort of put off by the guy over the last few years, but I have a few fuzzy memories associated with him and it seems like time to share them.

When Thriller came out, my neighbors bought the record and invited us to listen. My dad and I joined Jesse and Ben and their father at their house in the front room. Someone, probably Ben’s dad, pulled the record out from the cover. I can’t quite make out the artwork in my memory without assistance, but I remember the black edges and white in the center. I don’t remember hearing the album then or anything else about that moment except that I don’t think I have ever been somewhere for the specific purpose of hearing a new record at any other point in my life.

I had a copy of Thriller on tape, probably made from my neighbor’s record. I nearly wore that tape out. It lived in my Walkman for a while. I think the title track scared me a little bit, but “Beat It” made me want to be tough, “Billie Jean” made me want to sing and perhaps act a little cavalier toward the opposite sex, and “The Girl is Mine” made me want to argue about girls with my friends.

I kept listening to Thriller in my Walkman even after we moved away. When I returned, Michael soon followed with his hit “Bad”. I liked it, but in some jaded 10-year old way I was more taken by Weird Al Yankovic’s parody “Fat” by then. Michael Jackson and I began to part ways, but never entirely. It’s quite possible that old tape might still be in the drawer in my cracked walkman today. I'll have to check.

A slow release of work frustration

Does bureaucracy ever decrease if the players remain the same? Or does that require new players in the game? It seems to me that my work has found an increasing need to go through layers. Sometimes it’s to save money, which costs me in time and frustration. Sometimes it’s to save someone else time, which means that it takes me longer and I can’t get any support.

Some of my criticism comes from the automation that gets introduced. I know having certain systems automated must reduce bureaucracy, save time and money, but the one I'm thinking of fails in my eyes. What was once done on paper with relative ease is now done on systems that are so far from user-friendly that they might be user-mean. If I’m able to navigate the meanness, I usually end up having to do something twice because I missed a step or failed to code something correctly. This is my problem, I recognize, but it’s not just my problem when everyone I know is doing the same thing.

Give me some step by step instructions. I might follow them. That very well could be the rub.

Poor automation does its best, but unfortunately even automation still involves people. People are automation's downfall.

This lifting stuff might be working in more detail

The last three weeks or so, I've had a pretty steady diet of exercise. I've been going five or six days a week, usually with biking and running four or five of those days and lifting two of the days. I've had some times where I was dragging a bit. There were even a few nights where I felt like I had entered the land of fatigue, recognizable by an inability to sleep despite general heaviness. Yet, there were also times where I felt like my body was stronger and more resilient. A few weeks ago I raced in that four-miler and I felt like I was able to count on some different muscle groups. Yesterday, I put myself to the yearly mile test.

I'd actually passed the test in April, but in ways it's a new year and I wanted to go well under the five minute mark. I set my sites on 4:48. That would be an improvement of nearly ten seconds over April's run. The heats were structured differently than I remember. There was a 4:50 to 5:20 heat and a 4:50 and under heat. What happened to 5:00 and under? My initial instinct was to enter the under 4:50 heat. That was my goal after all. As I warmed up, doubt crept in. Would I be better served at the back of the pack or at the front? Was I really going to be able to improve by ten seconds? I nearly gave in and switched heats, but Clare helped fortify my confidence. Besides, I told myself, someone has to get last; it might as well be going after it and missing by a few seconds. It's not like I'd be in anybody's way.

The pep talk in my head was chock full of strategy and low on pep. I knew that at least ten runners in the race were looking to post times at or below 4:35. I recognized a couple guys that I've seen run 4:25 in the last few years. The race happening in front was not my race. Chasing the leaders would be chasing failure at this point. I called on my experience from a few weeks ago and my experience from many miles and reminded myself of this strategy repeatedly as I approached the line. Getting excited wouldn't help me, I needed to stay focused on my goal and run 4 laps each one at about 72 seconds.

The heat before us went off and a group finished with times of about 4:47. Another wave of doubt started to wash over me, but I silenced it with a strider and felt the power in my legs. With my head quieted, I took my place at the back of the starting pack. The night was almost perfect. The sun was behind clouds and the heat and humidity have gone missing from DC's summer menu. The breeze was slight. GO! I started the race in last on the heels of a man in blue shorts. A large rumbling pack sped around the corner and I held my position in last trying to gauge my pace. I knew a 72 second lap would feel pretty comfortable, but with the race going on it was feeling slow. I took the first lap in 70 seconds. I stayed behind blue, flashing a little to the outside as I could see a small gap opening up between us and the trailing group. Blue held me off and I tucked back in. We came across in 2:22. I was slightly ahead of pace, but wanted to dip no further.

The third lap takes its toll. It's where the runners who got out too fast for their liking start to fade. Blue and I surged. We seemed to have the same race plan. We picked off a small pack and kept going. I don't know my lap three time, but it had to be pretty close to the others, probably right around 70 seconds.

The bell was ringing for the last lap. I heard the cheers of my friends as I went by. Blue continued his surge. I gave chase, but he opened up a small gap on me. We passed another. I tried to make a move on the back turn, but as far as I can recollect nothing happened. I held off somebody down the home stretch, but I did it with an almost imperceptible kick. I arrived and found my time to be comfortably below my goal. I had run 4:41.

I don't think I've run that fast since the middle of college. Looks like I'm going to keep lifting.

Thinking about guilt

First, came the Callahan. I didn’t expect it to be thrown into me, so I was a little surprised when it hit my hand. I didn’t really react. Then, at game point with the teams playing newly introduced zone, I found my way behind the deep-deep. A big throw went up, floated, stayed up, and as the deep-deep began tracking the disc, I set up my jump and made the game-winning grab as we bumped into one another slightly. These plays made me feel guilty.

I didn’t feel guilty shutting down my man dancing for the dump. I didn’t feel guilty when my throws connected with receivers. I didn’t feel relieved when I got out-jumped three times last week or out run over the rocks and ruts of the field, or when a handler dropped a high release backhand over my shoulder. So, I’m writing to understand why guilt appeared with these other plays. Both of the plays did occur when the score wasn’t close. That seems to be a factor. I don’t want the other team’s players to feel bad, not in this league, not when the focus is on learning and having fun. However, we keep score, so someone does win and someone does lose. I do want to win and so does my team. These plays are more like punctuation. They are final statements where the eyes are on me. Everybody isn’t watching shut-down defense. Even a good throw hangs in the air and waits for someone else to catch it.

Maybe that’s all there is to it. Final statements in not-close games aren’t where I want to be. I prefer that my statements get made in closer competition.

I was just accused of over-thinking things.

Ice cream license: REVOKED

All this talk about ice cream sent me out for more today at lunch time. It was more high-priced fare, none of that custard stuff that my tubing friend suggested, and I was prepared for deliciousness to drip down my chin and stick in my beard. I got to Gifford's and instead of picking a flavor that has served me well for so many years, I was tempted by another. The specialty flavor of the day was Guinness Stout. I can almost see the connections in my brain.

Guinness= good
ice cream= good

Good! Good!

So, I ordered Guinness Stout ice cream. It was cool and creamy and had a beer aftertaste.

What was I thinking? I didn't want a beer aftertaste in my ice cream. It wasn't a Guinness aftertaste either. It was the bottom-of- the-cooler, happy-hour leftover, beer.

It was not the flavor I wanted lingering on my taste buds.

Therefore, I am revoking my own ice cream purchasing license. I am on thirty days probation. I can still eat ice cream, but I cannot choose my own. For the next month ice cream decisions will be left up to more responsible parties. This hurts me more than it hurts you.

You can't put a price on self-control

I'm pretty steamed at Cold Stone Creamery right now. First of all, they have now priced their small at one cent below their medium. ONE CENT! Like the guy in front of me said, "Why would anyone get a small?"

Why?

Perhaps because even the small is huge. It's at least two scoops of ice cream and then there are add-ins. I got a small. When they tried to push me to the medium, I said, "You can't put a price on self-control." I know I'm well on my way to curmudgeondom, but come on.

As if this price scale atrocity is not enough, I believe the menu is misleading. The obvious pricing on the left hand side, the side that I read first, is not the pricing for the items prominently placed on the menu- the signature creations. OH NO, that's on the far right. It cost me almost six dollars for some ice cream. I realize that is about the norm these days, but I thought I was going under five based on the menu.

"Holy crap." I said to the cashier, "I'm done for the summer."

Between poor menu design, and trying to force me into a medium-size, my trips to Cold Stone Creamery are done. I will get my overpriced ice cream elsewhere.

Strange days of summer

For some reason, I've been caught in limbo today unable to wake up and anxiously awaiting the results of last night's four-miler. I don't know what the results tell me that I didn't already sense, but still feel a relief now that they are published. With the results in hand, I can recount the rest of this diverse weekend.

When the whistle blew on Friday, I headed down to the mall and caught some Welsh musicians playing Welsh love songs. After a few rounds of sad tales from Wales, I went to a different tent of the Smithsonian's Folk Life Festival and danced to Caribbean beats. Those seeking more cowbell would have been pleased with the rhythms of six going at once. From there, I went to play some Ultimate with my rec league team. We were rolling until just after half-time, then the temperature dropped ten degrees, the wind picked up and rain started to fall. Nipping at the heels of the drops of rain were lightning, lots and lots more rain, and hail. The mad dash for the cars was probably my best cut of the day. To recap then: Welsh love songs, Caribbean dance grooves, and one wild little storm that brought plenty of tree branches down. I hadn't even made it to the bar yet.

Saturday left behind the power of the storm and brought forth the power of the Internet. First, I posted a few items to freecycle. These are the yahoo groups that put people in touch with others who may be seeking the very junk I'm throwing out. Within minutes, several someones had jumped at the chance to scoop up items for free. At first, I was quite pleased with this turn of events, but later after my stuff was gone and no human interaction had occurred I felt a little cold and wondered if I'd been used. I've gone back and forth feeling good and feeling unsettled about freecycle. I think I'll probably settle on the plus side, since stuff I'd planned to get rid of for months is finally gone.

The Internet was not done yet, though. I'd tried to gather a group to head out to run a four-mile race, but had not had any success. I was planning to get a Zipcar, when I happened to notice that one of my Facebook friends had included "running a four-miler tonight" in her status update. We hadn't communicated in a while, but I figured it was worth a shot, so I reached out and found success. I had a ride, race day company, evening entertainment, and best of all pie, all thanks to the Internet.

The four-mile race was a "Twilight" event, but the sun was still beating down when the started uttered, "Go". It was a larger race than I usually attend. They even had someone singing the National anthem. I worked my way into the third row and took off with the lead pack. I quickly found myself trailing twenty or thirty people moving fast. I had a race plan, but it was out the window. We were moving too fast for me and I knew it, but I was caught up in it. The first mile was 5:26. It was fast, but so was the course. The whole race was blurred by the hot sun and mounting pain. I would describe it later as "semi-fun" and that's all it turned out to be. The second mile was tougher, but I still felt like I was fighting well. I found myself using different muscles to try to stay relaxed and in the fight. I crossed the two mile mark at 11:15.

The course was two loops, so we'd seen it all before. I made it another half mile before my early enthusiasm started to catch up with me in force. I was passed by a pair soon after, including the eventual female overall winner. I struggled on and crossed the three mile at 17:00. The second/fourth mile had a slow uphill grade in the hot, hot sun, and they exacted their toll. I was passed by another. I tucked in and chased him, but could never quite pull even again. Pain was everywhere. With about 300 meters to go, I got nipped by another fellow and felt the footsteps of several more. I held the rest off for a finish of 23:10.

I ended up finishing 19th overall, 2nd in my age group (3rd if you count the 2nd overall finisher), but I have to say that I didn't enjoy myself a whole lot. I got a shirt and a burrito out of the deal, not to mention a race and a fun post-race evening, but the race isn't going on my list of favorites.

Meeting Collin and other vacation highlights

Having my vacations overlap was not my original intention. I hated to use up all that vacation goodness at once, but it turned out to be a fantastic plan. I got to have two very different and enjoyable experiences in one long week of near-uninterrupted fun. It almost felt like cheating.

The first portion of my vacation was with family in Colorado. Very little went as planned, but the trip was quite enjoyable. My sister, who has surpassed me in most ways except age, carted us around in her Tahoe. It was half a family reunion every time we went out to eat and we went out to eat a lot. With 8.5 of us piled into the car, we made our way to vacation destinations nearby like Estes Park. Estes Park is the closest thing my family has to a repeat vacation destination. We’ve spent time there during two family reunions there in my lifetime and my mom and aunts have many memories there from childhood. It’s a cute little tourist town with a mountain backdrop and the occasional elk crossing the street. It’s Colorado’s version of “Northern Exposure.” Last summer, my family took up disc golf at the Y camp there. This summer we returned to try again.

Some of us, like my cousin Tedward, have taken their disc golf game to new heights. Others of us, like me, don’t ever throw the discs and expect the game to come easily. The score card would reflect these two approaches to the game accurately. At least the scenery remained pristine.

Tedward was joined on this vacation by his friend Collin and I was reminded of the age of 17, one that at times seemed to be quite a ways in the rearview mirror. There were moments when 17 felt like it was a breath away, like when passing a waxing studio called “The Screamin’ Peach.”

Some things never change.

Home was still home, even when it wasn’t mine. My parents have carved out a nice niche and it was a wonderful place to spend some time. I got to see my niece, who took somewhat of a liking to me and shouted “UncleDave” when I came in the door. Although my beard was considerably shorter this time around, she continued to prefer that I keep my distance. We were able to stomp our feet together and share her playhouse, but reading to her was out of the question and fist bumps required parental prompting. I lost a few foot races to her, but I think with the proper training I can get her next time.

Clare and I scooted to Denver for a day and managed to meet up with people that we don’t get to see nearly often enough. It was a fun and slightly frantic drink and dinner. I would have liked more time, but was thankful for the catch-up time available.

It was wonderful to spend time with my family and a few friends on their turf and it made me want to do it more often, but as always it made me appreciate the life I have where decisions are made less often in committee and chaos is harder to find.

From the Denver airport, I went to be with friends in Texas. I was excited to go to Texas for several reasons. BBQ and tubing were my immediate goals, but I was also looking forward to seeing where Alan grew up. Early on in our friendship, he’d been brave enough to accompany me to Missouri and now I had the chance to reciprocate in some way. Finally, I would see where the fighting unicorns called home. The trip had many facets, as Alan had invited a whole host of his friends. I admire the way Alan manages to be inclusive in his invitations and I’m trying to pick up that skill from him in some small part. Many from DC couldn’t take him up on the offer, so I had the pleasure of meeting a contingent of high school and college friends. I’ve often been thrilled by how awesome my friends’ friends turn out to be. By now, I guess I shouldn’t expect differently.

Enough of the abstract, it’s time for BBQ and tubing. I wouldn’t have to wait long once I reached Texas to get to the two things I wanted most. Alan’s folks lived in a magical place not far from the river we would spend enormous amounts of time in. In the morning, we could walk down the street, dive in the water, swim the stream, walk another mile, and float down the river back to that original spot. The longest shortest river in the world was a dream for a lover of public transportation. No cars were necessary in the completion of this portion of the adventure.

I have never been a fan of tubing. It lacks the control and the speed which I usually prefer. Age, a few well-placed rapids, the community spirit, and other factors have made me into a fan of tubing, at least temporarily. One factor was my introduction of the proper way to enter a tube from the shore. Step one: Toss the tube into the water. Step two: Cock arms back and set feet. Step three: Leap into the air. Step four: Raise legs. Step five: Land rear-end first into tube-sitting position. Landing in the tube ready to go may very well have been the pinnacle of my vacation.

One evening we ate BBQ and headed to San Antonio. Alan, Doc, and I shared the expense of the Tower of Americas elevator and wind tunnel, before settling above the city to share the expense of frozen margaritas. Before and after the high-priced drinks, I found the famous riverwalk was more commercial than I’d expected and we couldn’t forget the Alamo, especially when our walk led us by twice.

Another evening, we went to Austin after a delicious stop in Driftwood for all-we-could eat BBQ. The sauce and the carry-out pie were delicious. I was happy as a bat bolting out from under a bridge. That’s not a saying, but the intensity and continuous nature of the 1.2 to 1.5 million bats that stream out from under the bridge on Congress in Austin was impressive. There was a cluster of them that stretched for miles. I don't know where the bats went, but I know they didn't go into the storm or to the bar. Those bats might have been on to something.

After Austin, the party started to grow. More people from Alan's past began to appear and more trips were taken by tube. Earlier in the week, we'd spent some time at a waterpark and then swam the river home. It was more of an effort than the tubing, but still a great way to travel. My feet weren't growing into flippers yet, but at least one of the tubing trips was spent searching for precious metals. Precious metals in this case being the alumininum of beer cans and searching in this case being the act of diving under water, opening eyes, and almost always finding one or more.

The proximity of waterpark and river meant that the inhabitants of the town, or at least the parts we saw, often shared a uniform. That uniform was topless men with bare feet and swimsuit clad women. The occassional flip-flop or wet shirt was also mixed in, but most people we saw stuck to the dress code.

There's a culture in the rivers I have been to before, and I had expected to see it early in the week, but it took the weekend to really meet my expectations. The culture is defined by aimless floating and beer. Weekday floaters tended to be more professional and less hammered, but the weekend brought out the rowdy crowds. We weren't quite ready to be rowdy and I attribute that in large part to our goals.

Perhaps driven by dreams of commercial success after some of us might possibly maybe appear dancing in a commercial they were shooting at the Tavern in/on/through the Gruene, we became ambitious in our tubing. Originally, we considered tubing as many as six runs in a day. The heat and some sense prevailed and we ended up going twice in the heat and once at night on this particular Saturday. The first trip mid-morning was much like our others earlier in the week, but after lunch the experience changed significantly. We arrived at the put-in to find tube to tube traffic up an down the stream. Giant two-person luxury tubes with built-in cooler space bumped up against traditional black tube after black tube. Some of the tubes carried supplies, a few even met the regulation 16 quarts or under size. Other tubes were built for supplies and carried 60 quarts of liquid ticket-inducing madness. There were tubes and beer everywhere.

We put in and joined the masses. The lack of available river real estate resulted in the somewhat regular experience of bumping awkwardly into a stranger. Sometimes this contact warranted comment, but often it was as if we were all algae floating on at the whim of the current. We linked up as a group and floated slowly down. Sun burns and tube pyramids went into full effect. I let go of my desire to paddle and floated peaceably with my fellow algae, sometimes dipping my head in the water or trying out different ways to roll through the tube. Some attempts were more successful than others. I could never match Megan's grace at slipping through the tube and moving into the full relaxation position. Instead, I ended up floundering in a tube on its side or splashing into the water.

The record-breaking third tube run came on an infamous night-tubing experience. Having enjoyed continued success and enjoyment from jumping from the shore into tube position, I decided to up the ante. Embracing the river culture, I planned to toss my tube into the water, make my leap, and open my Mike's Hard Lemonade in the air, before landing in the ready position. I tossed the tube and leapt. I popped the top and heard the fizzing.

Night-tubing is different from regular tubing in at least three important ways. The first is darkness. I'm not afraid of the dark exactly, but without my glasses, dark shapes easily blended into dark scenery and I found myself unable to find people on the shore or determine who was who. The hot sun is long gone and with it one of the primary tubing attractions. Also gone are the people. We were nearly alone on the river.

I hit the water and grazed my tube. I held my drink high as I plunged into the dark water. With my free hand I paddled frantically as I tried to get my lemonade back into the air and out of the river. Finally, I emerged to laughter, climbed into my tube, wiped the can, and enjoyed what was left, only fearing contamination slightly.

We spent lots of time in the tube chute and here again I missed better vision. I found myself facing fear on several occassions both that night and even sometimes in the day. I had no idea how comforting vision can be, particularly in unfamiliar situations. I see well enough to make out shapes and navigate through the world, but diving on my tube off a small falls or bouncing through the chute made me pause with fear. I don't know that vision made any difference since I survived each, but I was uncomfortable for reasons that I can only link to my vision. I fought my own fears, but I also caused some fear. Once through the chute, I came upon a diver. He had his head down with the light illuminating a small circle of river. The current took me right toward him. I tried to navigate away, but my foot still splashed through his downward searching light. He jumped up with a holler, saw me and said, "You scared the **** out of me!"

"Sorry," I laughed before floating on down the stream.

In the dark, with a drink, setting a record, facing fears, sometimes shivering, lacking good vision, I felt a tickle inside of me. I was either digging my vacation or I really had to pee.

Lessons on the trail
There were a few clouds in the sky and when they were able to muster up the energy they threatened rain, but mostly the threats were those of a weary father with little intent to see them through. We were hiking Old Rag in the Shenandoah Valley. My father was not along, but I’m sure he would have enjoyed it. The previous day’s plans had all gone up in flat tires and rain, but a cool breeze sliced the solstice and made Sunday plans look better than advertised.

Previous experience would serve to remind us of several lessons on the brochure-worthy day hike. Getting started is difficult was the first. For a mile or so our hike was spent in a trudging, heavy-breathing, fitness-questioning state. Then, as if our bodies had recognized the futility of fighting on into the nine o’clock hour, hiking became walking in the woods and the early trudge became nature on an incline with rocky footing.

When bike riding faded from view on Saturday, Alan’s gym served up a cardio substitute that had my calves and hamstrings burning. For much of the uphill walk, this was a minor annoyance, but when the scrambling started, my legs gave a little shout with each push off and landing. Even with the pain, I enjoyed scrambling the most. There is satisfaction in making your own way. Scrambling is exercise with puzzle-solving mixed in. There’s no definite trail. Each person looks at the rocks and the gaps and thinks about his/her physical strengths and limitations and then makes a path. It may be a path that many have traveled before, but the rocks don’t show much wear and it feels like blazing a new trail. There are tenuous grasps on hand and footholds and there are slippery sections. There are gaps that look too large to leap and others that seem to have well-shaped launching and landing pads. I find great pleasure in scrambling.

In the section that had challenged us the most last year, we came upon a father and daughter trying to navigate the tricky rocks. We waited for them to find their hold, but they weren’t keen on having an audience and helped us pass. Experience breeds confidence. The section was unchanged as far as we could tell, but instead of struggling for fifteen minutes as the father and daughter must have, we were up in two. It still took some pulling and struggling, but we’d been there before and we attacked with little doubt that we would succeed.

This section and another gap that I jumped reminded me that hesitancy can’t always be the policy. It was only by swinging my leg through and using my momentum that I was able to find my next handhold. If I’d tried to play it safe or creep up to the spot where I could get a grip, I would have slipped and fallen far short of it. Of all the lessons, this was the one that I sensed could be most relevant right now.

The last lesson was the most delicious and needs no explanation. On the way home, stop and eat ice cream.

Who is this guy?

I am unprepared for the grays that have entered my existence. In late late December of ’08, I did something that would be almost inconceivable to the 2004 model of me. I bought a cell phone. It’s a pre-pay phone and those who call me will tell you that I’m harder to reach now than ever before. I do send some text messages and even answer the thing in public sometimes, but I also tend to forget it, let the batteries run low, and check my messages promptly in a matter of days or even a week.

There were many factors that led to my decision, but none so much as cost. The cost of a landline on my own and that of a cell phone were nearly identical. Although I do sometimes stare inquisitively at the house plant that has replaced the home phone waiting for it to give me messages, I knew that if I was going to pay the same price, I might as well give in to the cell phone fad.

I railed in this space against cell phones, but now that I have one I better understand the challenges of those I’ve railed against. I still try to take my calls outside of a store or earshot when I can. I shorten the conversation as much as possible when I’m on the Metro, even trying to use the text message feature more often there. The one thing I do like that I never thought I would is the walking and talking. I’m sure it makes me more susceptible to getting run over by a car or bus, but it makes a lot of sense. Rarely, do I see a person I know on my way home. Rarely, do I speak to a stranger. It feels rather useful to use that walking time to make a needed phone call to my parents or a friend. It seems efficient, effective, and sometimes even rewarding. I guess the walking talkers knew that all along.

The lines of right and wrong, black and white, they start to blur. Now it’s ok to walk and talk, but not ok to walk and talk on the phone in a crowd? Maybe the line needs to blur some in the other direction too. If it’s ok to walk and talk, then it’s ok for someone on the street to interrupt the conversation? My rulebook doesn’t have the answers, but I suspect that I’m looking for some intersection of utility and respect for others. I think I also need to look in my rulebook for some everyday forgiveness knowing that rulebooks may not all be the same.

There’s more gray, but it belongs in a vacation post. I may not be entirely comfortable in the grays, but I was pretty comfortable on vacation.

John started it

Inspired by John's recent Blogging is fun? post and the generous comments, I decided to take a moment and reflect on my consumption of the Internet. There are five places I go on a daily basis- my email account, Facebook, John's blog, Alan's, and washingtonpost.com. Why?

I check my email multiple times a day in hopes that someone has written me. My inbox is filled with real new messages at a rate far below my compulsion to check. I've found that the collision of Facebook and my thirties has driven email traffic way down.

I turn to Facebook to make up for the deficit. Here, I find messages that aren't directed to me specifically, but might as well be since they are from my sister's high school friend and relate to her most recent trips across the country. This does not fill me up in the way I hope, but that doesn't stop me from checking back later just to make sure. Sometimes I manage a pithy little status update to entertain my 150 some odd friends. I sense the initial thrill of Facebook wearing off. It's nice to see familiar faces, but I find myself needing more.

I then check Alan's blog. He posts on a regular basis, and although he has taken to making his blog a workout journal, I find this a little inspiring. I usually end up doing some extra push ups on days that Alan works out. He also provides good tidbits on fitness, Ultimate, and music. I can appreciate that.

Alan's blog leads me to John. John posts regularly and with a nice variety. He provides entertainment, sports, and music commentary, insight into the leading edge of journalism, and some nice visuals. I can't go wrong there, although I do sometimes skim the American Idol posts as I don't know the players.

Next, I check the Washington Post. I read the Sports section, the advice columns, and any Opinion section or other item that leaps off the page. I'm very comfortable with my local online paper. I no longer miss the feel of the paper in my hand, although I do sometimes miss the comics section. It's just not the same online.

After the regulars, I trust my RSS feed to direct me to new content. I used to read a variety of friends' blogs, but many are now dead or dying. The Gig is still kicking and I follow my friends entertainment opinions there faithfully. Some side reading occurs at The Art of Manliness, but sometimes it gets too manly or too preachy. I was reading the Happiness Project, but now it's in Slate, so I catch it there when the Post sends me in that direction. For Ultimate related thoughts, nothing beats The Huddle. I mean to keep up with Gwen Bell and Inhabitat, but they post with incredible frequency.

I'm sure I'm missing something, but I don't have time to read it unless I stop checking my email or looking for my fifteen minutes of fame.

Melodic acid burn off
It may have looked the part of summer on the lawn of the Wolf Trap amphitheatre, but some things were missing. The bugs hadn't all come out yet. The spring chill in the air wasn't all gone.

I shifted in the lawn trying to get my body comfortable as the moon rose above the easement. Emmy Lou Harris, Patti Griffin, Shawn Colvin, and Buddy Miller were playing up front, but I didn't know the tunes. My aching muscles may have needed further justification, and I couldn't focus on the songs that didn't have a driving beat. Patti Griffin did sing a delightful number that tickled the crowd and included the line "Our love's a dud."

The mic banter was that of artists appreciating a shared experience. It helped me return to my shared experience of the day before. The voices on stage became the voices of songbirds and I found myself lost in thought, often about the games from Saturday. I replayed the way the DT and MB worked together. They were the offense in one stretch. MB seemed to find an extra fast twitch muscle to explode toward another disc that DT had launched in his direction almost without looking. They were playing at a different speed than the rest of us. It was awesome to watch and likely very special for them as their opportunities to take the field together have been limited in recent months. Shawn Colvin sang beautifully and only once did her notes remind me of those that plagued me on the loop of MovieTunes in my first job. Sonny came home a lot that year. The past played a role on Saturday as well as I looked at the top teams. It seems that the quality of play in the league has improved over the last few years. Where once each team had two people that stood above the rest, I think there are now three or four who are complete competitive players. I tried to gauge my own age in this consideration, but I don't think it's a matter of declining ability as a defender as much as it is one of growth for the sport.

Buddy Miller's role as the odd man in this group of women, reminded me again of the reverse we experienced at the end of the day. How could S play all of those points? She credited some zone, and others credited some stubbornness. Regardless, the women's performance was inspirational and it gives me hope that what we can handle might be more than we think.

I did focus some on decline while on the lawn. It may have been the mixture of sad folk songs that drove me to it. I don't think I'm supposed to admit weakness as a competitor, but I'm seeing them. I see them in others too. I don't think the decline is enormous or debilitating. I think there are even parts that can make me better if I allow myself to become a more well-rounded player, but there is a decline occurring. Too many discs flew over my head and too many pictures show my feet barely leaving the ground. This is not cause for alarm or reason to call it quits. It's reason to be like Emmy Lou Harris and bring together people we enjoy and do what we enjoy. I saw no weaknesses in Emmy Lou Harris's singing, but I don't think I would have been there if she'd been the only one playing. There's strength in bringing people together and making beautiful music. Or sport.