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.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, July 09, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, June 01, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
It's not whether you win or lose, but I'm going to describe it anyway
or Personal highlights in a team game
My psoas and related pains have been plaguing me for two weeks. As I headed for a full day of Ultimate, I wondered if this might be a day where the pain became crushing. Somehow, I ended up with the opposite. My psoas hardly bothered me at all. Ultimate seems to be the cause of my greatest pains and of the greatest healing. That sports as life metaphor thing was really kicking into overdrive.
The fields were a little muddy and wet and the grass was high, but it was better than the alternative- sleeping in. We only had two women, so they had a full day ahead of them without anyone to relieve them. My team jumped out early in a shortened game and rolled over the other team. I caught one on a slide and ended up hydro-planing through a puddle to great splash effect. Our second game was much tougher as it was against the perennial champs. We fought well through the first half, but couldn't keep pace in the second half. My highlight there was a strange one. I tapped a disc on D and then hit the body of the offensive player. He missed the disc and called a foul. Usually, I react strongly in those situations, but this time I stayed calm and tried to get him to explain to me if he still thought he could have caught the disc if I hadn't fouled him. I was trying to figure out whether I should contest the foul or not, when he suddenly decided to overturn the foul. I don't think I've ever been on that end of a call/non-call before. There were some lows in that game as well, as discs bounced off my hands and throws went errant.
We had a nice bye after that and I wondered how I could go on for the rest of the afternoon as my body was already aching. We jumped out early again in the third game and rolled to victory. There were some great individual performances throughout the day, especially from the women who were having to grit through. MB was having a usually solid day and Karpo was shining in a way I haven't seen for years. Everybody was contributing, even Young B's layouts were going for D's. I think the third game might have been the game where I threw a hammer for a score. That's got to be my highest percentage throw. Especially after what would come later. I had backhands going high and flicks being handblocked in the fourth game. The game was a good match up. They had some good speed, but we were matching it. We traded points for a while. I got handblocked twice, but evened things a bit with a handblock of my own. I layed out around one player about three times, but never came up with anything. The wind had picked up a bit and misreads became more prevalent. We ended up falling 11-9.
Things really started to get tough in the fifth game. We lost one woman to exhaustion and had to play down a person. I was fighting cramps and the need to vomit. I ended up cramping first as I laid out for a huck, missed, and slammed my head into the ground. Ouch. Down a person, we started trading points, but it wasn't enough. The final team decided to play 6 men and 1 woman against us. More people were cramping. We fought hard early, but exhaustion was catching up with everyone. I managed to get in for a few points and get another handblock. We couldn't find enough to stick with the team and lost. Still, we fought all the way through and had a really good day. S was amazing. She was still running at the same speed and getting open on the last points of the day. I said it earlier and I'll say it again. Everyone contributed. The new faces really shone and helped the cause yesterday. We worked the disc well and worked together well. I'm really proud to have taken part.
Today, I'm scratched, sore, sun-burnt, and it takes me 30 seconds to get out of a chair, but I feel pretty happy about the whole thing.
or Personal highlights in a team game
My psoas and related pains have been plaguing me for two weeks. As I headed for a full day of Ultimate, I wondered if this might be a day where the pain became crushing. Somehow, I ended up with the opposite. My psoas hardly bothered me at all. Ultimate seems to be the cause of my greatest pains and of the greatest healing. That sports as life metaphor thing was really kicking into overdrive.
The fields were a little muddy and wet and the grass was high, but it was better than the alternative- sleeping in. We only had two women, so they had a full day ahead of them without anyone to relieve them. My team jumped out early in a shortened game and rolled over the other team. I caught one on a slide and ended up hydro-planing through a puddle to great splash effect. Our second game was much tougher as it was against the perennial champs. We fought well through the first half, but couldn't keep pace in the second half. My highlight there was a strange one. I tapped a disc on D and then hit the body of the offensive player. He missed the disc and called a foul. Usually, I react strongly in those situations, but this time I stayed calm and tried to get him to explain to me if he still thought he could have caught the disc if I hadn't fouled him. I was trying to figure out whether I should contest the foul or not, when he suddenly decided to overturn the foul. I don't think I've ever been on that end of a call/non-call before. There were some lows in that game as well, as discs bounced off my hands and throws went errant.
We had a nice bye after that and I wondered how I could go on for the rest of the afternoon as my body was already aching. We jumped out early again in the third game and rolled to victory. There were some great individual performances throughout the day, especially from the women who were having to grit through. MB was having a usually solid day and Karpo was shining in a way I haven't seen for years. Everybody was contributing, even Young B's layouts were going for D's. I think the third game might have been the game where I threw a hammer for a score. That's got to be my highest percentage throw. Especially after what would come later. I had backhands going high and flicks being handblocked in the fourth game. The game was a good match up. They had some good speed, but we were matching it. We traded points for a while. I got handblocked twice, but evened things a bit with a handblock of my own. I layed out around one player about three times, but never came up with anything. The wind had picked up a bit and misreads became more prevalent. We ended up falling 11-9.
Things really started to get tough in the fifth game. We lost one woman to exhaustion and had to play down a person. I was fighting cramps and the need to vomit. I ended up cramping first as I laid out for a huck, missed, and slammed my head into the ground. Ouch. Down a person, we started trading points, but it wasn't enough. The final team decided to play 6 men and 1 woman against us. More people were cramping. We fought hard early, but exhaustion was catching up with everyone. I managed to get in for a few points and get another handblock. We couldn't find enough to stick with the team and lost. Still, we fought all the way through and had a really good day. S was amazing. She was still running at the same speed and getting open on the last points of the day. I said it earlier and I'll say it again. Everyone contributed. The new faces really shone and helped the cause yesterday. We worked the disc well and worked together well. I'm really proud to have taken part.
Today, I'm scratched, sore, sun-burnt, and it takes me 30 seconds to get out of a chair, but I feel pretty happy about the whole thing.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Therapy: This time with gnomes
Acupuncture is different every time. It always feels like energy, or tiny particles, or tiny gnomes, or something are seeking out pain and then trying to find a way to get rid of it. Sometimes, it's pulling. Sometimes, it's pushing. This time it was swirling. It took longer than the other times. The energy/particles/gnomes got hung up in my knees. It's not that my knees don't sometimes hurt, but I came for the psoas and it took a long time for the gnomes to get there. They eventually made it, but I think they were tired from their time spent swirling around under/behind/through my knees, so they didn't do as good a job. I'm still left with something. Do I go back? I don't know proper Eastern remedy protocol.
There's a darkness in my psoas. As I sit with my eyes closed and needles poking out of me, I can't help but wonder if every person carries his/her darkness in some body part. I know it sounds a little crazy, but it feels like a reasonable theory even after the needles come out. Maybe all the bad stuff, the negative energy, the meanness, the evil in each of us has to go somewhere. Mine chooses the psoas. Sometimes the gnomes or deep breathing can clear it out for a while, but if I'm not careful the darkness returns. Right now, the darkness is still pissed.
Acupuncture is different every time. It always feels like energy, or tiny particles, or tiny gnomes, or something are seeking out pain and then trying to find a way to get rid of it. Sometimes, it's pulling. Sometimes, it's pushing. This time it was swirling. It took longer than the other times. The energy/particles/gnomes got hung up in my knees. It's not that my knees don't sometimes hurt, but I came for the psoas and it took a long time for the gnomes to get there. They eventually made it, but I think they were tired from their time spent swirling around under/behind/through my knees, so they didn't do as good a job. I'm still left with something. Do I go back? I don't know proper Eastern remedy protocol.
There's a darkness in my psoas. As I sit with my eyes closed and needles poking out of me, I can't help but wonder if every person carries his/her darkness in some body part. I know it sounds a little crazy, but it feels like a reasonable theory even after the needles come out. Maybe all the bad stuff, the negative energy, the meanness, the evil in each of us has to go somewhere. Mine chooses the psoas. Sometimes the gnomes or deep breathing can clear it out for a while, but if I'm not careful the darkness returns. Right now, the darkness is still pissed.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
Therapy
Two hard bounces of synthetic cow on concrete. One fluid motion to push the ball into the air before letting gravity take over. The soft pause of scuffed orange sphere falling against sun-worn criss-cross of white netting. Repeat.
Pleasure, purpose, points. There's a deep relaxation technique that I find myself missing on this Sunday afternoon. The driveway basketball hoop. Its virtues have been extolled in this space before. The hoop absorbed unrequited loves and insecurity. The bouncing ball followed no script and was not a metaphor. The neighbors were all inside, but I stood in the driveway lost in shot. My thoughts circled the makeshift court bouncing from the problem of the day to the next reverse lay-in. Nothing can be so bad if the shots are falling. With no defense, the shots had a way of falling, even for a runner.
I could use that today. Something to shake the earth one thud at a time. Something to shoot toward. Something to make. Something to repeat.
Two hard bounces of synthetic cow on concrete. One fluid motion to push the ball into the air before letting gravity take over. The soft pause of scuffed orange sphere falling against sun-worn criss-cross of white netting. Repeat.
Pleasure, purpose, points. There's a deep relaxation technique that I find myself missing on this Sunday afternoon. The driveway basketball hoop. Its virtues have been extolled in this space before. The hoop absorbed unrequited loves and insecurity. The bouncing ball followed no script and was not a metaphor. The neighbors were all inside, but I stood in the driveway lost in shot. My thoughts circled the makeshift court bouncing from the problem of the day to the next reverse lay-in. Nothing can be so bad if the shots are falling. With no defense, the shots had a way of falling, even for a runner.
I could use that today. Something to shake the earth one thud at a time. Something to shoot toward. Something to make. Something to repeat.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
2.65 things
1. Monday night I went to see Leonard Cohen live and in concert. Even though I was only familiar with one of his songs, I found his music to be very accessible. He had some great lyrics, sung in that gravelly 74-year old man voice and the songs seemed to flow together like one long song with changes in pace and instrumentation. My favorite lyric of the night was not "Where is my gypsy wife?" although that one sticks in my head, but instead, "There is a crack in everything/ that's how the light gets in." Lenny came on for encore after encore and eventually outlasted us in the cold and rain.
2. I went to graduation yesterday to support those with Bad Habits on their resume. I managed to spot four and congratulate three. Despite the rain, the optimism and idealism were everywhere, particularly in the address. My own graduations were always rather anti-climatic, but witnessing someone else's seemed somehow more purposeful. Congrats, grads.
.65. Nutella, advanced degrees, psoas
1. Monday night I went to see Leonard Cohen live and in concert. Even though I was only familiar with one of his songs, I found his music to be very accessible. He had some great lyrics, sung in that gravelly 74-year old man voice and the songs seemed to flow together like one long song with changes in pace and instrumentation. My favorite lyric of the night was not "Where is my gypsy wife?" although that one sticks in my head, but instead, "There is a crack in everything/ that's how the light gets in." Lenny came on for encore after encore and eventually outlasted us in the cold and rain.
2. I went to graduation yesterday to support those with Bad Habits on their resume. I managed to spot four and congratulate three. Despite the rain, the optimism and idealism were everywhere, particularly in the address. My own graduations were always rather anti-climatic, but witnessing someone else's seemed somehow more purposeful. Congrats, grads.
.65. Nutella, advanced degrees, psoas
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