Strasburg on the tele
He's three starts in and approaching the fourth, so Strasburg has been well covered, especially in this area. Speaking with the authority of someone who has lived here for this Nationals section of history, Strasburg, rookie starting pitcher, is a bigger story than baseball coming to town. My gauge of his impact: I have heard conversations about him on the streets and in the lunch lines. People in this town don't usually talk about baseball. They talk football. Sometimes they'll talk basketball. They might talk hockey for the short time the Capitals are in the playsoffs, but they don't talk baseball. The baseball park is just another joint that serves overpriced drinks. Strasburg has changed that. His name seems to appear in almost every newspaper chat. I bet he was in the advice columnist's wedding chat. The poster probably wanted Strasburg to be a bridesmaid. Another indication of his impact: My household has watched portions of two of his three starts. I think I last intentionally watched baseball on TV when I lived in Ohio. I can tell, everybody can tell, that he's special. He had fourteen strikeouts in his first outing. He was cool. The crowd was nuts. They were cheering every pitch. Most games half the crowd is in danger of being whacked in the skull with a foul ball. Now, they're awake. They expect to win. This town expects them to win. I'm amazed that one player can do that, but it's been neat to witness, if not directly yet, then in the outer rings of Strasburg's splashdown.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
Reflections on water gun warfare
The route my dad's bike buddies take is almost a complete tour of my childhood. There's the first school I attended. There is the path where I wanted to see what frost bite felt like if my alibi holds or where I scared myself into thinking the neighbors house was haunted. There's the park with the penguin. The slide that smelled like urine is sealed off, but somehow the urine smell remains, at least in my nasal cavity. There's the tumbleweed blowing by the joint where Showbiz pizza once rocked the birthday circuit and now only Sears and the softer side of empty live. There's where John resided with his Raleigh dirt bike long before he became Johnny. It had been a year and a half since I'd been to KC. The old sites still conjured up memories and the cleaning adventure down memory lane added to the misty water colors, but more than ever KC no longer felt much like my town. It wasn't entirely clear when I had the pleasure of the company of some good college friends who I see far too often on Facebook and not nearly enough in real life. Nor was it obvious as I ran the old high school training runs with my sister and then again on my own.
My long absence was clearest to me while on the road. It took my mental map longer than the GPS to figure out where I was headed. I struggled to recall the names of roads I once traveled often. Were there always this many trucks here? Most disconnecting of all was my re-entry into the greater metropolitan area after a visit to rural MO. As the outlines of familiarity, the places that would have once signaled the approach of home and the satisfying finish of a trip, started to appear on the horizon, my mind whirred and clicked. It searched to connect home and formerly familiar sites. Instead of connecting to KC, I flashed to Maryland and Virginia. I thought of the return trips from many Ultimate tournaments and a few driving vacations in the east. The satisfying finish couldn't slide into place. Instead, I allowed the GPS to take me on in to a place that was once so clearly defined as home.
We'd gone canoeing. It's a more patient past time than I've allowed myself time for lately. The trip was with the canoe club I grew up with. Some of the long time members that I remember as a kid have passed on, but a few remain. I was surprised to find out that one would be celebrating eighty this year. He couldn't have aged all these years while I did. I'm sure he thought the same of me. That wasn't the only time warp. With my sister on the trip, a few moments felt like they did so long ago. Having Bruce there made me look around fully expecting to see the others from our age group- Molly, Emily, Sarah. They weren't there, though their families were. Their parents spoke of grandkids, my friends' kids. Weren't we still ten or no more than fifteen? My own young niece was on her first canoe trip, while her little sister had her first camping experience. I'd brought C and finally introduced her to Spam after five years of promises. So they and my cousin and her boyfriend in the Navy reminded me that, no, we weren't still ten, and yet when the water guns came out, maybe we weren't so far from then.
The water guns have changed. The pace of war has changed. When I was a boy, I say while I stroke my beard, using a water gun on a canoe trip was more about stealth. It took a sneak attack with a hand held gun to cause a rain-drop like disturbance. It was moist annoyance and the danger of a vicious counter-attack paddle splash was always a very real concern. The evolution is clear as super soakers replaced handhelds adding volume and distance, and now in this day and age, which probably arrived seven or so years ago, the water cannon emerges as the weapon of choice. The water cannon takes two hands to fire. It takes a big drink to load and a big push to spray. The stream is hose-like. The shooting distance is sizable, too far for most paddle retaliation. The catch is that the reloading time is obscene. It's one long shot and done. I imagine that a good army of canoeists must have the discipline of the Brits in the eighteenth century. Build the line, fire the musket, and then take on the opponents fire during reloading. The only hope is a second wave of cover. We did not have that discipline. Water gun warfare has taken a giant step back in speed to acquire more power. It's mutually assured wetness.
The route my dad's bike buddies take is almost a complete tour of my childhood. There's the first school I attended. There is the path where I wanted to see what frost bite felt like if my alibi holds or where I scared myself into thinking the neighbors house was haunted. There's the park with the penguin. The slide that smelled like urine is sealed off, but somehow the urine smell remains, at least in my nasal cavity. There's the tumbleweed blowing by the joint where Showbiz pizza once rocked the birthday circuit and now only Sears and the softer side of empty live. There's where John resided with his Raleigh dirt bike long before he became Johnny. It had been a year and a half since I'd been to KC. The old sites still conjured up memories and the cleaning adventure down memory lane added to the misty water colors, but more than ever KC no longer felt much like my town. It wasn't entirely clear when I had the pleasure of the company of some good college friends who I see far too often on Facebook and not nearly enough in real life. Nor was it obvious as I ran the old high school training runs with my sister and then again on my own.
My long absence was clearest to me while on the road. It took my mental map longer than the GPS to figure out where I was headed. I struggled to recall the names of roads I once traveled often. Were there always this many trucks here? Most disconnecting of all was my re-entry into the greater metropolitan area after a visit to rural MO. As the outlines of familiarity, the places that would have once signaled the approach of home and the satisfying finish of a trip, started to appear on the horizon, my mind whirred and clicked. It searched to connect home and formerly familiar sites. Instead of connecting to KC, I flashed to Maryland and Virginia. I thought of the return trips from many Ultimate tournaments and a few driving vacations in the east. The satisfying finish couldn't slide into place. Instead, I allowed the GPS to take me on in to a place that was once so clearly defined as home.
We'd gone canoeing. It's a more patient past time than I've allowed myself time for lately. The trip was with the canoe club I grew up with. Some of the long time members that I remember as a kid have passed on, but a few remain. I was surprised to find out that one would be celebrating eighty this year. He couldn't have aged all these years while I did. I'm sure he thought the same of me. That wasn't the only time warp. With my sister on the trip, a few moments felt like they did so long ago. Having Bruce there made me look around fully expecting to see the others from our age group- Molly, Emily, Sarah. They weren't there, though their families were. Their parents spoke of grandkids, my friends' kids. Weren't we still ten or no more than fifteen? My own young niece was on her first canoe trip, while her little sister had her first camping experience. I'd brought C and finally introduced her to Spam after five years of promises. So they and my cousin and her boyfriend in the Navy reminded me that, no, we weren't still ten, and yet when the water guns came out, maybe we weren't so far from then.
The water guns have changed. The pace of war has changed. When I was a boy, I say while I stroke my beard, using a water gun on a canoe trip was more about stealth. It took a sneak attack with a hand held gun to cause a rain-drop like disturbance. It was moist annoyance and the danger of a vicious counter-attack paddle splash was always a very real concern. The evolution is clear as super soakers replaced handhelds adding volume and distance, and now in this day and age, which probably arrived seven or so years ago, the water cannon emerges as the weapon of choice. The water cannon takes two hands to fire. It takes a big drink to load and a big push to spray. The stream is hose-like. The shooting distance is sizable, too far for most paddle retaliation. The catch is that the reloading time is obscene. It's one long shot and done. I imagine that a good army of canoeists must have the discipline of the Brits in the eighteenth century. Build the line, fire the musket, and then take on the opponents fire during reloading. The only hope is a second wave of cover. We did not have that discipline. Water gun warfare has taken a giant step back in speed to acquire more power. It's mutually assured wetness.
Monday, May 31, 2010
There's bubble in your eye, sucka
Nostalgiaville, USA- In the process of cleaning out my folks' basement, I have discovered many interesting items. I'm a little dismayed by my attitude toward the baseball cards for instance. I have a box full of them. Most are housed in plastic sleeves and organized by team. I'm no longer interested in them, but clearly I spent a big chunk of 1988-1990 buying, trading, and organizing them. It seems callous to toss them. Initially I pulled out the Royals and the Cardinals cards, along with a few pitchers that I followed- Dwight Gooden, Oral Hershesier, Roger Clemens, but then I realized that I didn't really want to keep those collections either. It's time to part ways with a box full of cards. I'm struggling with the trashing (whatever form it may take) of something that at one time was so valuable in time and money. It's hitting me a little hard.
The next item to hit me hard is one that I've been searching for. Earlier this month, I ran a brisk 10k in 36:58. I was pretty proud of it. Since I've only run a few 10k races in my life I figured this one had to be approaching my PR, or personal record. I asked my parents to take a look to see if they could locate results from the only 10k race I remembered from high school. They had no luck finding the results. I asked a friend if he had the results and he figured he lost the results in a move. I was starting to think that I should just call it. Maybe I ran 36:30 in high school. I could go after 36:30.
Welllll, it looks like I didn't give high school me enough credit. I found the results. In '95, I ran 35:40. In '97, I ran 34:43. I need to shave about 22 seconds PER mile off of my time. Um. I'm afraid that means that I have a lot more lifting and running to do. I really thought the 10k time was the most reachable. The course is very flat and of my events, that one probably comes closest.
For comparison sake, let's look at some figures. Most recent mile: 4.41. Best: 4.18. Difference of 23 seconds, over 1 mile. Most recent 5k: 17.11. Best: 15:46. Difference of 1 minute 25 seconds over 3.1 miles or 27 seconds per mile. Looks like this is all pretty close, but the 10k seems most reachable.
It's time to get to work, or at least it's time to get back to cleaning up the basement.
Nostalgiaville, USA- In the process of cleaning out my folks' basement, I have discovered many interesting items. I'm a little dismayed by my attitude toward the baseball cards for instance. I have a box full of them. Most are housed in plastic sleeves and organized by team. I'm no longer interested in them, but clearly I spent a big chunk of 1988-1990 buying, trading, and organizing them. It seems callous to toss them. Initially I pulled out the Royals and the Cardinals cards, along with a few pitchers that I followed- Dwight Gooden, Oral Hershesier, Roger Clemens, but then I realized that I didn't really want to keep those collections either. It's time to part ways with a box full of cards. I'm struggling with the trashing (whatever form it may take) of something that at one time was so valuable in time and money. It's hitting me a little hard.
The next item to hit me hard is one that I've been searching for. Earlier this month, I ran a brisk 10k in 36:58. I was pretty proud of it. Since I've only run a few 10k races in my life I figured this one had to be approaching my PR, or personal record. I asked my parents to take a look to see if they could locate results from the only 10k race I remembered from high school. They had no luck finding the results. I asked a friend if he had the results and he figured he lost the results in a move. I was starting to think that I should just call it. Maybe I ran 36:30 in high school. I could go after 36:30.
Welllll, it looks like I didn't give high school me enough credit. I found the results. In '95, I ran 35:40. In '97, I ran 34:43. I need to shave about 22 seconds PER mile off of my time. Um. I'm afraid that means that I have a lot more lifting and running to do. I really thought the 10k time was the most reachable. The course is very flat and of my events, that one probably comes closest.
For comparison sake, let's look at some figures. Most recent mile: 4.41. Best: 4.18. Difference of 23 seconds, over 1 mile. Most recent 5k: 17.11. Best: 15:46. Difference of 1 minute 25 seconds over 3.1 miles or 27 seconds per mile. Looks like this is all pretty close, but the 10k seems most reachable.
It's time to get to work, or at least it's time to get back to cleaning up the basement.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
What a compliment
I think my shin cramped today. That was after the calves, the right quad, the hamstrings, and various cramp-like feelings all up and down my legs. I didn't even know shins could cramp.
I'd like to be able to tell you what it is about Ultimate. Playing for a day beats me up. The beatings tend to get worse the farther away I get from my birthday. The disappointment can be brutal at times. I ended one game today watching a floating disc bounce off my hands. I ended another throwing a break throw right to the defense. Those images tend to stick in my head, but I'm trying to have a short memory. At least I'm trying to replace the bad with good. I'm trying to remember the string where my in cut seemed covered and so I went deep. My deep cut was covered by two people, but Alan threw it anyway. It had a little bend and I read it well, curled around just right, and caught it in stride and with my outstretched hand. I'm thinking of the up the line dump cut I made. I turned and fired a nice flat throw over MBs head that he was able to track down.
Even as I fight my age, my throws have improved. I'm a bit worried that I'm trigger happy of late, but the throws are better than they used to be. Each of those plays provided a high, as did tossing a score to MD, or seeing SM make a perfectly timed cut, or watching YB get a few big D's. There's something special in about every game, something to appreciate and enjoy. The one-offs are one thing, spending a day playing Ultimate with a team is another. There's something about fighting fatigue or about the volume of throws and catches, about the struggle against body, concentration, momentum. I've written about it many times in this space and I spend a great deal of energy and thought on Ultimate. I often run out of things to say about it, but I keep coming back for all those reasons and in a voltron-esque way, more than the sum of those reasons.
As I was standing on the sidelines, exchanging some banter with ES, a teammate on Team Schaefer for some five or so years now, she said a wonderful thing. She said that she appreciated my passion. She liked the way I played and my skill level, but she called the best part, passion.
I find a great deal of joy in chasing the disc and getting lost in the game. It hasn't always been smooth or easy or even fun, but more often than not, I have a "strong or extravagant fondness, enthusiasm, or desire" for Ultimate.
Cheers to another spring tournament.
I think my shin cramped today. That was after the calves, the right quad, the hamstrings, and various cramp-like feelings all up and down my legs. I didn't even know shins could cramp.
I'd like to be able to tell you what it is about Ultimate. Playing for a day beats me up. The beatings tend to get worse the farther away I get from my birthday. The disappointment can be brutal at times. I ended one game today watching a floating disc bounce off my hands. I ended another throwing a break throw right to the defense. Those images tend to stick in my head, but I'm trying to have a short memory. At least I'm trying to replace the bad with good. I'm trying to remember the string where my in cut seemed covered and so I went deep. My deep cut was covered by two people, but Alan threw it anyway. It had a little bend and I read it well, curled around just right, and caught it in stride and with my outstretched hand. I'm thinking of the up the line dump cut I made. I turned and fired a nice flat throw over MBs head that he was able to track down.
Even as I fight my age, my throws have improved. I'm a bit worried that I'm trigger happy of late, but the throws are better than they used to be. Each of those plays provided a high, as did tossing a score to MD, or seeing SM make a perfectly timed cut, or watching YB get a few big D's. There's something special in about every game, something to appreciate and enjoy. The one-offs are one thing, spending a day playing Ultimate with a team is another. There's something about fighting fatigue or about the volume of throws and catches, about the struggle against body, concentration, momentum. I've written about it many times in this space and I spend a great deal of energy and thought on Ultimate. I often run out of things to say about it, but I keep coming back for all those reasons and in a voltron-esque way, more than the sum of those reasons.
As I was standing on the sidelines, exchanging some banter with ES, a teammate on Team Schaefer for some five or so years now, she said a wonderful thing. She said that she appreciated my passion. She liked the way I played and my skill level, but she called the best part, passion.
I find a great deal of joy in chasing the disc and getting lost in the game. It hasn't always been smooth or easy or even fun, but more often than not, I have a "strong or extravagant fondness, enthusiasm, or desire" for Ultimate.
Cheers to another spring tournament.
Monday, May 17, 2010
The three branches of Sunday
Only the judicial branch was not well represented in my Sunday plans. Decisions were made, judgments were passed, and the day reigned supreme, but it was the executive branch, I watched eight episodes of season four The West Wing while recovering, and the legislative branch, I ran a 10k on Capitol Hill, that were the highlights.
I didn’t want to miss a race so close to home. ML and I tried to form a team named “Declarations of Swiftness”, but we ended up declaring our speed only to one another. Fortunately, that was quite enjoyable. I did the wrong things in preparation for the race. I played Ultimate on Saturday. I stayed up and on my feet and even had a few drinks Saturday night. Yet, at the sound of my alarm on Sunday morning, I was ready to go. To me this either highlights the fortunes of genetics or highlights the importance of the more general decisions that get made in life rather than the ones immediately preceding an athletic endeavor.
I endeavored to run reasonably fast. As usual, I hadn’t really trained for the specific race I was about to enter. I thought I’d go out a little slower than my general goal, say 6:15 in the first mile and try to build from there. Those with exceptional recall may remember that a similar plan was enacted for the 10k I ran in December. The story line is remarkably similar. I got distracted in my warm-up catching up with ML, but was still fairly ready when race time rolled around. At first, ML and I stood toward the front of the thousands, but as the minutes came ever closer to start time, I decided that I wanted to be nearly at the starting line. I moved up and chose a spot about three rows deep. At “GO”, the masses bolted. I was immediately stuck behind two young girls, but soon found a space on the outside and made a move. I’d guess about fifty runners stretched out ahead of me. I ran down the center line of the road and watched as the pack began to spread. At the first real waggle around a park, I could still see the leaders moving at lickety-split speed. I was up on my toes and making comfortable, but fast strides. Strategy was again out the window and I crossed the mile at 5:55.
Right on cue, C appeared on the street to cheer me on. In a moment of frivolity, I crossed over to give her a high-five. It was nice to have the support. I returned to the pack and continued to pick away at the runners in front of me. Meanwhile, the sun continued to pick away the clouds. It had started as a cool morning, perfect running weather, but as we neared RFK, the sun sent telegrams from summertime and the wind picked up too. It was lonely, hot, and windy as we rounded the stadium. I made note of it and then focused again on the runner in front of me. I spent a lot of time focused on the next runner. I remember very little of the scenery, even less than usual. My focus was quite pleasing. My thirst, less so.
Back up the slightest hill on the out and back section, I crossed the two mile in 11:50. My pace had not changed. I grabbed at the early water stop with some greed, told C to look for M and went back to my business of chasing backs. I don’t know what happened to mile three or really four. I know I crossed mile four at 23:35 and was pleased that I’d sped up just slightly. I did wonder for a moment if I could hold my pace, but mostly I kept looking ahead. As the pack in front of me broke apart little by little and more runners had separation from each other, I kept passing one at a time. As we neared the downhill of Capitol Hill, I tried hard to encourage one runner to join me in my chase. He wasn’t the only runner I encouraged to try to combine forces, but he was the only one that responded. He stuck with me for several hundred meters as we closed in on another runner. With only a few more meters to go before we closed the gap though, I seemed to lose my new partner. I moved past another and another as we made our way down the hill. I watched the leaders rip by as they made their way through the last turnaround. Third place followed soon after. With a slight estimate, I figured that I was currently running in about fifteenth place. Just before the turn, I picked off the woman who was in second place. By the time I reached the up portion of Capitol Hill, I had the leading woman in my sights. My motivation remained steady and I put a target on her back. I was still closing the gap at about three-quarters of the way up the hill when I couldn’t close any more. I lost a few steps in that last quarter of the hill and a bit more at the crest. It wasn’t a lot, but it was noticeable. I was still moving well, but my legs no longer seemed to be moving at quite the same pace.
At the six mile mark, I was able to recover a little and I began to close the gap a bit. I raced past photographers and I heard the click of their shutters. As soon as I went by I heard more clicks. I hadn’t been passed for miles and I really didn’t want to be passed now. I tried to surge. When I finally turned the corner and could see the finish line, I gave a pretty good kick, but I knew that I was really only fighting to hold off challengers behind me. I could not challenge the woman in front of me.
It was a good race. I ran nine seconds faster than I did in December. My time was 36:58. I placed fourteenth overall and fifth in my age group. I’m pleased.
Only the judicial branch was not well represented in my Sunday plans. Decisions were made, judgments were passed, and the day reigned supreme, but it was the executive branch, I watched eight episodes of season four The West Wing while recovering, and the legislative branch, I ran a 10k on Capitol Hill, that were the highlights.
I didn’t want to miss a race so close to home. ML and I tried to form a team named “Declarations of Swiftness”, but we ended up declaring our speed only to one another. Fortunately, that was quite enjoyable. I did the wrong things in preparation for the race. I played Ultimate on Saturday. I stayed up and on my feet and even had a few drinks Saturday night. Yet, at the sound of my alarm on Sunday morning, I was ready to go. To me this either highlights the fortunes of genetics or highlights the importance of the more general decisions that get made in life rather than the ones immediately preceding an athletic endeavor.
I endeavored to run reasonably fast. As usual, I hadn’t really trained for the specific race I was about to enter. I thought I’d go out a little slower than my general goal, say 6:15 in the first mile and try to build from there. Those with exceptional recall may remember that a similar plan was enacted for the 10k I ran in December. The story line is remarkably similar. I got distracted in my warm-up catching up with ML, but was still fairly ready when race time rolled around. At first, ML and I stood toward the front of the thousands, but as the minutes came ever closer to start time, I decided that I wanted to be nearly at the starting line. I moved up and chose a spot about three rows deep. At “GO”, the masses bolted. I was immediately stuck behind two young girls, but soon found a space on the outside and made a move. I’d guess about fifty runners stretched out ahead of me. I ran down the center line of the road and watched as the pack began to spread. At the first real waggle around a park, I could still see the leaders moving at lickety-split speed. I was up on my toes and making comfortable, but fast strides. Strategy was again out the window and I crossed the mile at 5:55.
Right on cue, C appeared on the street to cheer me on. In a moment of frivolity, I crossed over to give her a high-five. It was nice to have the support. I returned to the pack and continued to pick away at the runners in front of me. Meanwhile, the sun continued to pick away the clouds. It had started as a cool morning, perfect running weather, but as we neared RFK, the sun sent telegrams from summertime and the wind picked up too. It was lonely, hot, and windy as we rounded the stadium. I made note of it and then focused again on the runner in front of me. I spent a lot of time focused on the next runner. I remember very little of the scenery, even less than usual. My focus was quite pleasing. My thirst, less so.
Back up the slightest hill on the out and back section, I crossed the two mile in 11:50. My pace had not changed. I grabbed at the early water stop with some greed, told C to look for M and went back to my business of chasing backs. I don’t know what happened to mile three or really four. I know I crossed mile four at 23:35 and was pleased that I’d sped up just slightly. I did wonder for a moment if I could hold my pace, but mostly I kept looking ahead. As the pack in front of me broke apart little by little and more runners had separation from each other, I kept passing one at a time. As we neared the downhill of Capitol Hill, I tried hard to encourage one runner to join me in my chase. He wasn’t the only runner I encouraged to try to combine forces, but he was the only one that responded. He stuck with me for several hundred meters as we closed in on another runner. With only a few more meters to go before we closed the gap though, I seemed to lose my new partner. I moved past another and another as we made our way down the hill. I watched the leaders rip by as they made their way through the last turnaround. Third place followed soon after. With a slight estimate, I figured that I was currently running in about fifteenth place. Just before the turn, I picked off the woman who was in second place. By the time I reached the up portion of Capitol Hill, I had the leading woman in my sights. My motivation remained steady and I put a target on her back. I was still closing the gap at about three-quarters of the way up the hill when I couldn’t close any more. I lost a few steps in that last quarter of the hill and a bit more at the crest. It wasn’t a lot, but it was noticeable. I was still moving well, but my legs no longer seemed to be moving at quite the same pace.
At the six mile mark, I was able to recover a little and I began to close the gap a bit. I raced past photographers and I heard the click of their shutters. As soon as I went by I heard more clicks. I hadn’t been passed for miles and I really didn’t want to be passed now. I tried to surge. When I finally turned the corner and could see the finish line, I gave a pretty good kick, but I knew that I was really only fighting to hold off challengers behind me. I could not challenge the woman in front of me.
It was a good race. I ran nine seconds faster than I did in December. My time was 36:58. I placed fourteenth overall and fifth in my age group. I’m pleased.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
The return of the psoas
There are few muscles in my body more sinister than the psoas. Some two years ago while trying to play Ultimate on a mid-level club team I managed to aggravate my psoas. I don't know how it happened, but I ended up sitting out most of the season and bouncing around between doctors and therapists who barely managed to help me deal with the slight pain and the decreased use of some much needed body parts for the game of Ultimate. I'm talking about my groin, my back, and my stomach muscles. Pretty important stuff when trying to run, cut, and throw. My life went into a bit of a tailspin at that point. I recognize that aggravation of a major muscle isn't exactly a big deal when so many people are dealing with real problems, but I was inconsolable. It was ugly.
I came to terms with less Ultimate. I spent time weightlifting. I made amends and got a hold of the inconsolable parts and finally talked some sense into them. I'd worked it out. I got to play some Ultimate and I put my energy into other areas. It was good, even great. Then consistent weightlifting started to translate into Ultimate success. Ultimate success sent me out looking for more Ultimate.
Recently, I chose a low-level, low-commitment club team to be my new playground. I figured that I could recruit my friends to be on the team, not worry so much about the game and the score, and have a good time. Parts of me struggled with this decision. There's still a piece of me that yearns to be the best and battle it out with the best, but frankly, I was scared to of the time and effort that might take and I was scared of my psoas. I admitted it, but a voice in my head (and a few voices not in my head) kept egging me on to try to do more. I was content with my decision, until Saturday. On Saturday, the team I'd chosen canceled the low-commitment practice for the rest of the month.
I wanted to play Ultimate. That was the point. So, I made up my mind to put out a feeler at the mid-level again. My psoas didn't like that. I didn't even get to the practice. I just decided to go. That sent my psoas into a frenzy. Just like last time, the pain started in my groin. Then it anchors itself firmly in my right abdomen and teases my back muscles. It doesn't hurt exactly, but it spells trouble. I skipped the mid-level stuff and began trying to do damage control.
Even if I need to slow back down with Ultimate, I will not crash this time. I am more than a game with a disc and I will prove it everyday if I have to.
There are few muscles in my body more sinister than the psoas. Some two years ago while trying to play Ultimate on a mid-level club team I managed to aggravate my psoas. I don't know how it happened, but I ended up sitting out most of the season and bouncing around between doctors and therapists who barely managed to help me deal with the slight pain and the decreased use of some much needed body parts for the game of Ultimate. I'm talking about my groin, my back, and my stomach muscles. Pretty important stuff when trying to run, cut, and throw. My life went into a bit of a tailspin at that point. I recognize that aggravation of a major muscle isn't exactly a big deal when so many people are dealing with real problems, but I was inconsolable. It was ugly.
I came to terms with less Ultimate. I spent time weightlifting. I made amends and got a hold of the inconsolable parts and finally talked some sense into them. I'd worked it out. I got to play some Ultimate and I put my energy into other areas. It was good, even great. Then consistent weightlifting started to translate into Ultimate success. Ultimate success sent me out looking for more Ultimate.
Recently, I chose a low-level, low-commitment club team to be my new playground. I figured that I could recruit my friends to be on the team, not worry so much about the game and the score, and have a good time. Parts of me struggled with this decision. There's still a piece of me that yearns to be the best and battle it out with the best, but frankly, I was scared to of the time and effort that might take and I was scared of my psoas. I admitted it, but a voice in my head (and a few voices not in my head) kept egging me on to try to do more. I was content with my decision, until Saturday. On Saturday, the team I'd chosen canceled the low-commitment practice for the rest of the month.
I wanted to play Ultimate. That was the point. So, I made up my mind to put out a feeler at the mid-level again. My psoas didn't like that. I didn't even get to the practice. I just decided to go. That sent my psoas into a frenzy. Just like last time, the pain started in my groin. Then it anchors itself firmly in my right abdomen and teases my back muscles. It doesn't hurt exactly, but it spells trouble. I skipped the mid-level stuff and began trying to do damage control.
Even if I need to slow back down with Ultimate, I will not crash this time. I am more than a game with a disc and I will prove it everyday if I have to.
Wednesday, May 05, 2010
When the past meets the present
The alumni game is a junior this year. It has found its stride. This by far is the best alumni game we've had. We pulled John from Chicago. We pulled Kevin from 1999. We pulled three of the most prominent women from CUA's Ultimate past (as known to me). There were 30 some-odd people wandering the sidelines and a number of fans. The women's team got a chance to show their stuff and then we went to 5:2 mixed format for the game.
This game had some chatter going into it. The alumni were convinced that this would be their year. Having graduated eight players just one year ago, it was hard to disagree. They lost a couple key individuals to conflicts, but the alumni still looked strong. My loyalties, as they always are, were torn. I tried hard to cheer for Ultimate, but did find myself slightly on the side of the current team as the game was winding down. Maybe a little bit at the beginning too when I offered up a few scouting tips. I found myself on the other side when I picked up a Karpo lame-duck hammer for a score and then tossed a break-side backhand to Arin for another to tie the game before exiting. Alan has recapped the scoring reasonably well. I'll recap a few moments.
What always gets me about the alumni game are the memories and the new battles. One of the great new battles was Rachel vs. Jess. Rachel was playing really well. I'd forgotten how effective she could be, especially against other women. Jess was rotating through a full team of women, so didn't have the chance to battle back. That gave R more opportunities for my flashbacks like when Dirty tossed her the disc and they moved it up the field. Another great battle was Paul and Arin. Arin has the height and great instincts, but Paul can jump to the clouds and he's no slouch in the play-making department. In the nostalgic category, Tim was working the zone, Karpo found a few patented dives, and Alan pulled out some big hucks. It was so neat to see so many familiar faces making familiar plays. So many styles of play remain unchanged. Ranjo still brings a smile to my face. Dan is still tough to chase. John finds his spots. One of the major post college success stories has to be Sam. She has gone from XC runner working the field to Ultimate player. She poached the lanes well, played hard, and just knows what's what. It's pretty awesome. I get to see her weekly, but to see her in the context where I first saw her play, it made me appreciate what she is doing even more.
The game was close, and Stills who graduated at semester switching sides gave the current team too many fast weapons for the tiring alum to handle, but I'd like to believe that the real lessons for the current team are the following: 1. Playing together makes you better. The alums struggled early and late because they didn't have the familiarity to know where their teammates would be or who to turn to, and 2. It doesn't take long to get out of shape. Even the alums a year out of college were remarking about how much faster the game seemed to be and how they weren't used to running. Both of those lessons should be applied to the current team as they head to next year.
For me, what I take away more than anything else, is what I've always taken away. Ultimate people are good people. I'm so lucky that the CUA gang has let me hang around and grow with the team. I look forward to many games to come.
The alumni game is a junior this year. It has found its stride. This by far is the best alumni game we've had. We pulled John from Chicago. We pulled Kevin from 1999. We pulled three of the most prominent women from CUA's Ultimate past (as known to me). There were 30 some-odd people wandering the sidelines and a number of fans. The women's team got a chance to show their stuff and then we went to 5:2 mixed format for the game.
This game had some chatter going into it. The alumni were convinced that this would be their year. Having graduated eight players just one year ago, it was hard to disagree. They lost a couple key individuals to conflicts, but the alumni still looked strong. My loyalties, as they always are, were torn. I tried hard to cheer for Ultimate, but did find myself slightly on the side of the current team as the game was winding down. Maybe a little bit at the beginning too when I offered up a few scouting tips. I found myself on the other side when I picked up a Karpo lame-duck hammer for a score and then tossed a break-side backhand to Arin for another to tie the game before exiting. Alan has recapped the scoring reasonably well. I'll recap a few moments.
What always gets me about the alumni game are the memories and the new battles. One of the great new battles was Rachel vs. Jess. Rachel was playing really well. I'd forgotten how effective she could be, especially against other women. Jess was rotating through a full team of women, so didn't have the chance to battle back. That gave R more opportunities for my flashbacks like when Dirty tossed her the disc and they moved it up the field. Another great battle was Paul and Arin. Arin has the height and great instincts, but Paul can jump to the clouds and he's no slouch in the play-making department. In the nostalgic category, Tim was working the zone, Karpo found a few patented dives, and Alan pulled out some big hucks. It was so neat to see so many familiar faces making familiar plays. So many styles of play remain unchanged. Ranjo still brings a smile to my face. Dan is still tough to chase. John finds his spots. One of the major post college success stories has to be Sam. She has gone from XC runner working the field to Ultimate player. She poached the lanes well, played hard, and just knows what's what. It's pretty awesome. I get to see her weekly, but to see her in the context where I first saw her play, it made me appreciate what she is doing even more.
The game was close, and Stills who graduated at semester switching sides gave the current team too many fast weapons for the tiring alum to handle, but I'd like to believe that the real lessons for the current team are the following: 1. Playing together makes you better. The alums struggled early and late because they didn't have the familiarity to know where their teammates would be or who to turn to, and 2. It doesn't take long to get out of shape. Even the alums a year out of college were remarking about how much faster the game seemed to be and how they weren't used to running. Both of those lessons should be applied to the current team as they head to next year.
For me, what I take away more than anything else, is what I've always taken away. Ultimate people are good people. I'm so lucky that the CUA gang has let me hang around and grow with the team. I look forward to many games to come.
Saturday, May 01, 2010
May day quick hits
*There will likely be a bigger mushier post about Ultimate after the alumni game tomorrow, but for now, I just have to say that although Team Schaefer got crushed today, I dropped a really dumb pass and threw a couple away, for one moment I jumped like I haven't jumped in years and skyed a guy. It. felt. awesome. I also had some passes that had my roommate M working hard, but she did the dirty work to pull them in. That was pretty cool too.
*I took a one-day-only business trip yesterday. I don't know that I've ever flown somewhere and then come back all in one day. It was a morning meeting and I think I was there mostly as a show of support. It felt surreal and I've been tired pretty much since then. It's part of some new responsibilities which have me excited about my job, but it's going to be a challenge.
*I had something else important to say, but it's gone.
*There will likely be a bigger mushier post about Ultimate after the alumni game tomorrow, but for now, I just have to say that although Team Schaefer got crushed today, I dropped a really dumb pass and threw a couple away, for one moment I jumped like I haven't jumped in years and skyed a guy. It. felt. awesome. I also had some passes that had my roommate M working hard, but she did the dirty work to pull them in. That was pretty cool too.
*I took a one-day-only business trip yesterday. I don't know that I've ever flown somewhere and then come back all in one day. It was a morning meeting and I think I was there mostly as a show of support. It felt surreal and I've been tired pretty much since then. It's part of some new responsibilities which have me excited about my job, but it's going to be a challenge.
*I had something else important to say, but it's gone.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
The list in my head
There's a checklist that I go through mentally almost every day. Did I eat? Did I exercise? Did I take a moment to recharge? Using a variation of the international "check please" symbol, I either place my check mark in the sky or I address the list item. Did I eat? Did I exercise? Did I take a moment to recharge? are my three main questions. The catch is about 153 other questions seem to sneak onto the list every day.
It sometimes feels as though my main job is beating back those questions so that I can affirm my main three. Some days I beat the others back well and some days not so much. The other catch (man, it stinks that there are two catches) is that it seems to me that my main questions have become trickier. I used to answer, "Did I eat?" with "Yeah, straight from a can." Now, I want to answer that I ate in a healthy way. I had my veggies, my protein, my omega-3s, and on and on. I used to answer "Did I exercise?" with "Yeah. I ran." Now, I want to answer that I warmed up, ran and/or lifted, used the foam-roller, and stretched. "Did I take a moment to recharge?" has grown trickier as well. It's not the answer that has changed as much as the moments that are in competition with the recharging moment. I can sometimes steal a moment in the exercise or in the eating or cooking. I can sometimes steal a moment at work or on my commute. The tricky part is my mind. It often chooses to run through the daily list instead of taking a moment. Sometimes when I mean to take a moment I end up on the Internet trying to get a little kick from a new status update or a new email. It occasionally works, but it's often a hollow victory, not a real moment to recharge.
There are times when other items make the main list. Writing still makes a cameo appearance. Thinking about playing the banjo tries to throw its hat in the ring. Ultimate and the associated planning still takes a starring role. The list is life and it keeps going.
There's a checklist that I go through mentally almost every day. Did I eat? Did I exercise? Did I take a moment to recharge? Using a variation of the international "check please" symbol, I either place my check mark in the sky or I address the list item. Did I eat? Did I exercise? Did I take a moment to recharge? are my three main questions. The catch is about 153 other questions seem to sneak onto the list every day.
It sometimes feels as though my main job is beating back those questions so that I can affirm my main three. Some days I beat the others back well and some days not so much. The other catch (man, it stinks that there are two catches) is that it seems to me that my main questions have become trickier. I used to answer, "Did I eat?" with "Yeah, straight from a can." Now, I want to answer that I ate in a healthy way. I had my veggies, my protein, my omega-3s, and on and on. I used to answer "Did I exercise?" with "Yeah. I ran." Now, I want to answer that I warmed up, ran and/or lifted, used the foam-roller, and stretched. "Did I take a moment to recharge?" has grown trickier as well. It's not the answer that has changed as much as the moments that are in competition with the recharging moment. I can sometimes steal a moment in the exercise or in the eating or cooking. I can sometimes steal a moment at work or on my commute. The tricky part is my mind. It often chooses to run through the daily list instead of taking a moment. Sometimes when I mean to take a moment I end up on the Internet trying to get a little kick from a new status update or a new email. It occasionally works, but it's often a hollow victory, not a real moment to recharge.
There are times when other items make the main list. Writing still makes a cameo appearance. Thinking about playing the banjo tries to throw its hat in the ring. Ultimate and the associated planning still takes a starring role. The list is life and it keeps going.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
College Sectionals
There were two main story lines at Sectionals for Habit. I tried my best to be part of both. In the open division, we were back at St. Mary's with Bad Habit. I still had some bad memories lingering from last year. Entering the outskirts of town, I could still taste a bit of the disappointment of wasted potential, as eight graduates had managed to not practice together much and it showed throughout the tournament. I wiped away that taste. This was a new year with new expectations. The men were seeded 11th out of 19 teams. I'd heard murmurs that we would upset the apple cart with this team, but although we are a young team, I was realistic because we'd run into some of the same problems. Practice time together has been mostly a luxury. I saw our seed as appropriate, maybe even high. I wanted us to build on the experience though and come back stronger in the future.
On the other side, were the women. Some time, not long, ago I realized that we were just a few women short from having enough for a line. I started to think that maybe we could take a team to Sectionals. I pushed a little in February to try to send a team to a tournament, but it didn't fly. A few weeks ago, with the enthusiasm of Paco and the return of Fruit Loop, the team took shape. In three weeks we saw recruits come and for the time being go. By the end the women had just enough to field a team, eight on Saturday and seven on Sunday. They had no expectations, and having never played a game, were seeded 12th of 14 teams. We had to laugh at that.
I was bouncing back and forth between games trying to see as much as I could and be there for the key moments. I missed a lot, but I saw a lot. Bad Habit (the men) split their games on Saturday, losing to the teams seeded above and handling the teams seeded below. Good Habit (the women) dropped two games to strong contenders and then crushed a B team in the cross-over game. The first victory was nearly a shutout and I was surprised to see that the tiers of teams were so varied.
I was proud of the individuals, but it seemed like Bad Habit couldn't quite gel or couldn't hold it for long when they did. I don't know how to teach that or what it would take, but I suspect it's practice. Good Habit on the other hand seemed to be coming together. Perhaps it was expectations, or perhaps it was the fact that the women only had each other and no subs by Sunday.
There was no one on either of the teams that I wasn't proud of. Everyone was a great reminder of why I like to be a part of this sport. The effort and the highlights of individuals working together were something special. The frustration came when someone tried to do too much or when we realized that we'd let too much potential slip away. It's okay to want more, but demanding it as Sectionals slides through our fingers seems counter-productive. It needs to be demanded months ago.
The men finished 12th, the women 10th. Their weekends were nearly parallel, small squads, flashes of talent, fading a bit at the end. One slight difference: Expectations. The other slight difference: The attitude that came with those expectations.
I don't know if it was seeing freshman score, or make calls, or make good cuts that made me happiest. It might have been the great catches by the women and their aggressive defense that pleased me most, but it was only by a hair. It only outshone the battles and the rest of the game and the men's fight against Maryland slightly. I hated wanting to be in two places at once, but it was super to be a part of both experiences. Choices loom in the future, but for now, Sectionals met and perhaps even exceeded my expectations. Can we carry that momentum forward? And am I the guy to help?
There were two main story lines at Sectionals for Habit. I tried my best to be part of both. In the open division, we were back at St. Mary's with Bad Habit. I still had some bad memories lingering from last year. Entering the outskirts of town, I could still taste a bit of the disappointment of wasted potential, as eight graduates had managed to not practice together much and it showed throughout the tournament. I wiped away that taste. This was a new year with new expectations. The men were seeded 11th out of 19 teams. I'd heard murmurs that we would upset the apple cart with this team, but although we are a young team, I was realistic because we'd run into some of the same problems. Practice time together has been mostly a luxury. I saw our seed as appropriate, maybe even high. I wanted us to build on the experience though and come back stronger in the future.
On the other side, were the women. Some time, not long, ago I realized that we were just a few women short from having enough for a line. I started to think that maybe we could take a team to Sectionals. I pushed a little in February to try to send a team to a tournament, but it didn't fly. A few weeks ago, with the enthusiasm of Paco and the return of Fruit Loop, the team took shape. In three weeks we saw recruits come and for the time being go. By the end the women had just enough to field a team, eight on Saturday and seven on Sunday. They had no expectations, and having never played a game, were seeded 12th of 14 teams. We had to laugh at that.
I was bouncing back and forth between games trying to see as much as I could and be there for the key moments. I missed a lot, but I saw a lot. Bad Habit (the men) split their games on Saturday, losing to the teams seeded above and handling the teams seeded below. Good Habit (the women) dropped two games to strong contenders and then crushed a B team in the cross-over game. The first victory was nearly a shutout and I was surprised to see that the tiers of teams were so varied.
I was proud of the individuals, but it seemed like Bad Habit couldn't quite gel or couldn't hold it for long when they did. I don't know how to teach that or what it would take, but I suspect it's practice. Good Habit on the other hand seemed to be coming together. Perhaps it was expectations, or perhaps it was the fact that the women only had each other and no subs by Sunday.
There was no one on either of the teams that I wasn't proud of. Everyone was a great reminder of why I like to be a part of this sport. The effort and the highlights of individuals working together were something special. The frustration came when someone tried to do too much or when we realized that we'd let too much potential slip away. It's okay to want more, but demanding it as Sectionals slides through our fingers seems counter-productive. It needs to be demanded months ago.
The men finished 12th, the women 10th. Their weekends were nearly parallel, small squads, flashes of talent, fading a bit at the end. One slight difference: Expectations. The other slight difference: The attitude that came with those expectations.
I don't know if it was seeing freshman score, or make calls, or make good cuts that made me happiest. It might have been the great catches by the women and their aggressive defense that pleased me most, but it was only by a hair. It only outshone the battles and the rest of the game and the men's fight against Maryland slightly. I hated wanting to be in two places at once, but it was super to be a part of both experiences. Choices loom in the future, but for now, Sectionals met and perhaps even exceeded my expectations. Can we carry that momentum forward? And am I the guy to help?
Monday, April 12, 2010
Neglect and vacations
If not for the posts I just snuck into March and early April about vacation, it had been nearly a month since I've posted to the old blog. I tried some new things on vacation this round. It was a more relaxing brand of vacation and it included Internet access. I knocked out two books and while I intended to do some "writing", all I really came up with were the posts below. Rather than just take notes, I wrote my posts on the road. I found it interesting to reread because I could sense the feeling of the day better than with the notes, but as I slightly edited my work I realized that I missed recreating the vacation days in my head. I suppose a different kind of vacation calls for a different kind of record.
I have Sectionals tales to tell now after just a few days after getting back to the US of A and holiday pictures which appear to be particularly grainy to edit and post to other places, so perhaps more is to come. This record of life goes on, round and round, and for the moment, in a groove.
If not for the posts I just snuck into March and early April about vacation, it had been nearly a month since I've posted to the old blog. I tried some new things on vacation this round. It was a more relaxing brand of vacation and it included Internet access. I knocked out two books and while I intended to do some "writing", all I really came up with were the posts below. Rather than just take notes, I wrote my posts on the road. I found it interesting to reread because I could sense the feeling of the day better than with the notes, but as I slightly edited my work I realized that I missed recreating the vacation days in my head. I suppose a different kind of vacation calls for a different kind of record.
I have Sectionals tales to tell now after just a few days after getting back to the US of A and holiday pictures which appear to be particularly grainy to edit and post to other places, so perhaps more is to come. This record of life goes on, round and round, and for the moment, in a groove.
Monday, April 05, 2010
One last day
I was done last night, ready to go home, but today was grrreat. After seeing the Fry Guy off, C and I were finally able to rent bikes. It barely happened again though as we failed to get the tandem they promised us and then we were the last two bikes they sent out. Phew.
It started off a little scary, but after some time we were able to translate the claims of bike-friendly and wind our way up the hill to the '92 Olympic Stadium and then back down to take bike paths that were weaving all over the city. We stopped by the port for some tapas and outdoor seating and paid for it, but the weather was nearly perfect and the tapas weren't bad either. I could have done without the little fried fish, but C ate them up. We biked on for most of the afternoon, passing some great views and some new sights. Biking really turned out to be a great way to see lots of Barcelona in a blur. We stopped when we needed to stop and covered the city nicely. There are a few spots that we didn't get to- Tibidabo looms on the hill for next time, but we rocked the Ramblas and were shocked by the sheer number of people out on a Monday. It must be spring break somewhere.
We decided to stay close to our boutique hostel for dinner. Google maps directed us to an 11th century castle. We thought it might be too expensive, but decided to splurge. We arrived at 8:15 before the kitchen even opened. We decided to wait and we were rewarded. I had amazing grilled vegetables and then Iberian ham with some foie gras on top. This dinner usurped the French cuisine of the other night. It was that good and it was finished with nougat ice cream with whiskey. I don't know my Spanish or my Catalonian, but it was magnificent.
Tomorrow is the long ride home.
I was done last night, ready to go home, but today was grrreat. After seeing the Fry Guy off, C and I were finally able to rent bikes. It barely happened again though as we failed to get the tandem they promised us and then we were the last two bikes they sent out. Phew.
It started off a little scary, but after some time we were able to translate the claims of bike-friendly and wind our way up the hill to the '92 Olympic Stadium and then back down to take bike paths that were weaving all over the city. We stopped by the port for some tapas and outdoor seating and paid for it, but the weather was nearly perfect and the tapas weren't bad either. I could have done without the little fried fish, but C ate them up. We biked on for most of the afternoon, passing some great views and some new sights. Biking really turned out to be a great way to see lots of Barcelona in a blur. We stopped when we needed to stop and covered the city nicely. There are a few spots that we didn't get to- Tibidabo looms on the hill for next time, but we rocked the Ramblas and were shocked by the sheer number of people out on a Monday. It must be spring break somewhere.
We decided to stay close to our boutique hostel for dinner. Google maps directed us to an 11th century castle. We thought it might be too expensive, but decided to splurge. We arrived at 8:15 before the kitchen even opened. We decided to wait and we were rewarded. I had amazing grilled vegetables and then Iberian ham with some foie gras on top. This dinner usurped the French cuisine of the other night. It was that good and it was finished with nougat ice cream with whiskey. I don't know my Spanish or my Catalonian, but it was magnificent.
Tomorrow is the long ride home.
Sunday, April 04, 2010
Things not going as planned
Train canceled. Rerouted, waited for a bus while our train came, had the real French cafe experience while we waited for another train. Took the train to a college town that was not our planned destination. Fry Guy and the Hamburgler had to eat so they went to McDonald's. I went looking for a hostel and it was full, so was much of the town. We finally found a 2-star joint and took it. Hamburgler found it creepy. She went back to the train station to get Internet while Fry guy and I went to find me some grub. I found a good restaurant that served three courses. Fry guy left me to go get Hamburgler from our designated meeting spot. I waited forever at dinner. Fry guy didn't return after the Chevre Chaud and well into my cassoulet. Hamburgler was nowhere to be seen. I was a little freaked. I was then told that she'd had some run-ins with locals, fell down, broke down in a hotel lobby, and just ran into Fry guy as they were circling our hotel. I wasn't loving it, but I downed my three scoops of awesome ice cream and went back to the crap hotel. Bam. A zillion hours later we made it to Barcelona.
Fry guy and I went to Guell Park- totally Gaudi. Then we all went to an apartment joint by Gaudi. It was pretty cool and had a neat looking roof-top terrace that rain prevented us from visiting. We walked to Rita's for some good food. Thanks guide-book. I finally found some vegetables after surviving the day on bread and lunch meat. We rambled down the Ramblas and returned to the hostel where our room is next to the common area and it's loud. Go earplugs. Maybe next time we should camp. I'm ready to go home.
Train canceled. Rerouted, waited for a bus while our train came, had the real French cafe experience while we waited for another train. Took the train to a college town that was not our planned destination. Fry Guy and the Hamburgler had to eat so they went to McDonald's. I went looking for a hostel and it was full, so was much of the town. We finally found a 2-star joint and took it. Hamburgler found it creepy. She went back to the train station to get Internet while Fry guy and I went to find me some grub. I found a good restaurant that served three courses. Fry guy left me to go get Hamburgler from our designated meeting spot. I waited forever at dinner. Fry guy didn't return after the Chevre Chaud and well into my cassoulet. Hamburgler was nowhere to be seen. I was a little freaked. I was then told that she'd had some run-ins with locals, fell down, broke down in a hotel lobby, and just ran into Fry guy as they were circling our hotel. I wasn't loving it, but I downed my three scoops of awesome ice cream and went back to the crap hotel. Bam. A zillion hours later we made it to Barcelona.
Fry guy and I went to Guell Park- totally Gaudi. Then we all went to an apartment joint by Gaudi. It was pretty cool and had a neat looking roof-top terrace that rain prevented us from visiting. We walked to Rita's for some good food. Thanks guide-book. I finally found some vegetables after surviving the day on bread and lunch meat. We rambled down the Ramblas and returned to the hostel where our room is next to the common area and it's loud. Go earplugs. Maybe next time we should camp. I'm ready to go home.
Friday, April 02, 2010
Vendredi, the bulls
No fondue.
Today was largely about sampling and relaxation. I suppose my run was not so relaxing, but after that I read extensively about Julia Child's life in France. That lady was a character. It was bright and sunny out and I rotated through reading locations from the roof deck, to the bedroom, to the library, to the dining room and back again. This went on most of the day.
It was our last day in France and we started to grab at all things French. For late breakfast, we sampled items from the patisserie. The Nutella on a sugary hole-less doughnut-like substance was pretty solid. As we walked to the bull fight, I nabbed my first crepe of the trip, Nutella again. We decided to dine in after the bull fight and whipped up steaks, pasta, frozen veggies, and bread and olives. We topped it off with leftover chocolate tart and venietta(?).
Enough about the food, what about the bull fight? I have mixed emotions on the bull fight. It wasn't quite as exciting as I remember. I was about eight at the time, so perhaps my memory has grown fuzzy. There was a lot of showy posturing and downtime. I suppose it's also possible that my tastes have changed a bit in the last 23 years. There was a certain elegance to go along with the bloodshed. Although, I did find it strange how much running from the bulls seemed standard. Perhaps we needed a reminder of the speed and power of the bull. We were pretty high up and the fighters made a dangerous sport look mostly easy.
We saw a matador make his debut in the hometown Arles arena. It was interesting to contrast his style with the far more popular fighter who followed. The hometown boy had trouble finishing off his bulls and elicited some whistles of disapproval while El Juli's strikes were deadly and brought out the white handkerchief waves of the fans. (We found out later this was a plea to give the fighter the bull's ear due to his fine performance.) The blood was at times gushing and hard to watch. One fighter who enjoyed taunting the bulls, miscalculated and nearly got gored which gave the crowd a fright. Another missed his mark and seemed to trip. There were moments of excitement and tension for both fans of the matador and fans of the bulls. I think it was clear that people respected the bulls and yet I had moments where I was repulsed by the display. Those moments passed when I thought about my forthcoming steak dinner.
We closed out the night with the instant slideshows of the digital age and a final toasting of French wine and beer. Tomorrow brings the last of bread for breakfast and a day of travel and separation. We'll make our return to Barcelona (or so we thought).
No fondue.
Today was largely about sampling and relaxation. I suppose my run was not so relaxing, but after that I read extensively about Julia Child's life in France. That lady was a character. It was bright and sunny out and I rotated through reading locations from the roof deck, to the bedroom, to the library, to the dining room and back again. This went on most of the day.
It was our last day in France and we started to grab at all things French. For late breakfast, we sampled items from the patisserie. The Nutella on a sugary hole-less doughnut-like substance was pretty solid. As we walked to the bull fight, I nabbed my first crepe of the trip, Nutella again. We decided to dine in after the bull fight and whipped up steaks, pasta, frozen veggies, and bread and olives. We topped it off with leftover chocolate tart and venietta(?).
Enough about the food, what about the bull fight? I have mixed emotions on the bull fight. It wasn't quite as exciting as I remember. I was about eight at the time, so perhaps my memory has grown fuzzy. There was a lot of showy posturing and downtime. I suppose it's also possible that my tastes have changed a bit in the last 23 years. There was a certain elegance to go along with the bloodshed. Although, I did find it strange how much running from the bulls seemed standard. Perhaps we needed a reminder of the speed and power of the bull. We were pretty high up and the fighters made a dangerous sport look mostly easy.
We saw a matador make his debut in the hometown Arles arena. It was interesting to contrast his style with the far more popular fighter who followed. The hometown boy had trouble finishing off his bulls and elicited some whistles of disapproval while El Juli's strikes were deadly and brought out the white handkerchief waves of the fans. (We found out later this was a plea to give the fighter the bull's ear due to his fine performance.) The blood was at times gushing and hard to watch. One fighter who enjoyed taunting the bulls, miscalculated and nearly got gored which gave the crowd a fright. Another missed his mark and seemed to trip. There were moments of excitement and tension for both fans of the matador and fans of the bulls. I think it was clear that people respected the bulls and yet I had moments where I was repulsed by the display. Those moments passed when I thought about my forthcoming steak dinner.
We closed out the night with the instant slideshows of the digital age and a final toasting of French wine and beer. Tomorrow brings the last of bread for breakfast and a day of travel and separation. We'll make our return to Barcelona (or so we thought).
Thursday, April 01, 2010
Birthday plans and beyond
We flip-flopped our plans at the last minute and purchased tickets for a train as it pulled away from the station. Eventually we made it to Marseilles, where we again did not rent bikes. C tried to leave the rest of us behind on public transit, but we found our way to reunion at the port. We tried to go to Chateau d'If (famous thanks to the Count of Monte Cristo), but it was closed due to weather. We assumed wind as it was a bright sunny day. Marseilles was a happening place, but we headed by the island of If and went right on to the island of Frioul (I think). We hiked a bit, had some great looks at If and Marseille. I couldn't believe how far it stretched along the coast. It turned into a good day. To keep the string going we headed out for dinner and quickly found that no one was willing to seat us. We gave up and headed to the street vendor's steak haiche and fries sandwiches. They were surprisingly delicious. We'd planned ahead and had a delicious tart for dessert.
We woke up early to return to Avignon and rent bikes. My patisserie self control was now shot, so I had maxi coco for breakfast part deux and just finished off a sachristine before recording these events. We took the bus to Avignon, showed up to rent bikes within the given time to do so, and still the bike shop was closed. ARG. We ended up renting city bikes from a kiosk called VeloPop. It's like smart bikes in DC or other card-based bike rentals. The bikes are tanks, but they got us out and around in Avignon. We cruised the Rhone and later crossed the bridge to ride on an island in the middle of the river. It was a gorgeous day and time well spent. We then separated for shopping adventures. I found a great store, but couldn't quite bring myself to spend 80 euros on a rustic French clock. I saw some tie-dye yarn and a shirt for the sandwich- it said, "My other shirt with awesome graphics is in the laundry."
Tonight, fondue?
We flip-flopped our plans at the last minute and purchased tickets for a train as it pulled away from the station. Eventually we made it to Marseilles, where we again did not rent bikes. C tried to leave the rest of us behind on public transit, but we found our way to reunion at the port. We tried to go to Chateau d'If (famous thanks to the Count of Monte Cristo), but it was closed due to weather. We assumed wind as it was a bright sunny day. Marseilles was a happening place, but we headed by the island of If and went right on to the island of Frioul (I think). We hiked a bit, had some great looks at If and Marseille. I couldn't believe how far it stretched along the coast. It turned into a good day. To keep the string going we headed out for dinner and quickly found that no one was willing to seat us. We gave up and headed to the street vendor's steak haiche and fries sandwiches. They were surprisingly delicious. We'd planned ahead and had a delicious tart for dessert.
We woke up early to return to Avignon and rent bikes. My patisserie self control was now shot, so I had maxi coco for breakfast part deux and just finished off a sachristine before recording these events. We took the bus to Avignon, showed up to rent bikes within the given time to do so, and still the bike shop was closed. ARG. We ended up renting city bikes from a kiosk called VeloPop. It's like smart bikes in DC or other card-based bike rentals. The bikes are tanks, but they got us out and around in Avignon. We cruised the Rhone and later crossed the bridge to ride on an island in the middle of the river. It was a gorgeous day and time well spent. We then separated for shopping adventures. I found a great store, but couldn't quite bring myself to spend 80 euros on a rustic French clock. I saw some tie-dye yarn and a shirt for the sandwich- it said, "My other shirt with awesome graphics is in the laundry."
Tonight, fondue?
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Day Mardi
We bounced up before eight and noticed immediately that sunny France was not looking so sunny. The bike riding plans were put on hold. This was the Europe of my childhood and I wasn't going to let a little rain stop me. I left for a run immediately after breakfast and returned in the rain. Then came the thunderstorm. Maybe it was good we weren't riding, but I was still bummed. Arles is not big and we were reaching its activity/shopping/tourist attraction/Roman ruin capacity. We had lunch at a cafe. I chose the plat du jour which was fish. It was a risk, but I needed to take one. The fish was supposedly sweet. It wasn't candy fish, but it wasn't fishy-fish either. I'd write about the kind of fish, but I could neither understand the waiter nor read it on the chalked-in blackboard menu. Fish it is! I survived.
After some false starts, C and I made our way to Avignon by train. It turns out Avignon was a temporary Vatican City some time ago. The cool thing about Avignon was its wall. There's something about a town inside a wall. It seems important. Avignon was pleasant enough, pretty even, in its views of the Rhone river and the famous bridge that no longer spans the gap, Saint Benezet's Bridge. I took lots of pictures and am extremely pleased with my camera. Avignon tested my lens though, as much of the scenery was pretty far away and I needed a little more zoom, or a telephoto lens. I was prepared for my limitations though, so for now I'll return to the arty pictures and when that doesn't work I'll use one of the filters like fish-eye.
I stepped up my French game a bit today, in a sense. C burnt out at the train station and I could tell she'd had it. We couldn't figure out if the train was headed back to Arles or not and we weren't really in the mood to go to the wrong place. Finally after bouncing around between signs, I went up and asked the ticket agent if he spoke English. I asked in French. He responded in English, "very badly". We got through it and on to the right train. Later I snuck off to do a little shopping excursion. I knew what I wanted and said "I want" in French, but then had to resort to pointing. I had no idea what the clerk was asking me when she wondered if it was a gift. The French pretty much fell apart there and her English came through. She was extremely polite and switched back to French to complete our transaction. I mostly stood around bewildered.
Tonight, BC arrives by train (we hope). More adventures tomorrow.
We bounced up before eight and noticed immediately that sunny France was not looking so sunny. The bike riding plans were put on hold. This was the Europe of my childhood and I wasn't going to let a little rain stop me. I left for a run immediately after breakfast and returned in the rain. Then came the thunderstorm. Maybe it was good we weren't riding, but I was still bummed. Arles is not big and we were reaching its activity/shopping/tourist attraction/Roman ruin capacity. We had lunch at a cafe. I chose the plat du jour which was fish. It was a risk, but I needed to take one. The fish was supposedly sweet. It wasn't candy fish, but it wasn't fishy-fish either. I'd write about the kind of fish, but I could neither understand the waiter nor read it on the chalked-in blackboard menu. Fish it is! I survived.
After some false starts, C and I made our way to Avignon by train. It turns out Avignon was a temporary Vatican City some time ago. The cool thing about Avignon was its wall. There's something about a town inside a wall. It seems important. Avignon was pleasant enough, pretty even, in its views of the Rhone river and the famous bridge that no longer spans the gap, Saint Benezet's Bridge. I took lots of pictures and am extremely pleased with my camera. Avignon tested my lens though, as much of the scenery was pretty far away and I needed a little more zoom, or a telephoto lens. I was prepared for my limitations though, so for now I'll return to the arty pictures and when that doesn't work I'll use one of the filters like fish-eye.
I stepped up my French game a bit today, in a sense. C burnt out at the train station and I could tell she'd had it. We couldn't figure out if the train was headed back to Arles or not and we weren't really in the mood to go to the wrong place. Finally after bouncing around between signs, I went up and asked the ticket agent if he spoke English. I asked in French. He responded in English, "very badly". We got through it and on to the right train. Later I snuck off to do a little shopping excursion. I knew what I wanted and said "I want" in French, but then had to resort to pointing. I had no idea what the clerk was asking me when she wondered if it was a gift. The French pretty much fell apart there and her English came through. She was extremely polite and switched back to French to complete our transaction. I mostly stood around bewildered.
Tonight, BC arrives by train (we hope). More adventures tomorrow.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Day lundi
Another lazy day for us. We meandered around town and passed by the ampitheater, the St. Triomphe church and Hotel de Ville. We ate couscous for lunch and meandered some more. We traveled through industrial Arles to try to find a bike rental shop, but came up empty. We ended up tossing the disc in a field nearby. On the way back through town, we shopped hungrily at the monoprix (Arles' answer to WalMart) and made dinner at home. Arles is the sausage capital of France and we added some sausage to pasta for dinner. It tasted great and we're turning in early to try to discover morning in Arles tomorrow.
Another lazy day for us. We meandered around town and passed by the ampitheater, the St. Triomphe church and Hotel de Ville. We ate couscous for lunch and meandered some more. We traveled through industrial Arles to try to find a bike rental shop, but came up empty. We ended up tossing the disc in a field nearby. On the way back through town, we shopped hungrily at the monoprix (Arles' answer to WalMart) and made dinner at home. Arles is the sausage capital of France and we added some sausage to pasta for dinner. It tasted great and we're turning in early to try to discover morning in Arles tomorrow.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Another day in Arles
We lost some time to daylight savings and some more time to a desperate need to sleep. By lunch time, we were ready for breakfast. C went out to get bread, jam, and Nutella to go with our tea. We spent the day meandering about town, past the arena where we'd later see the bullfight and through the forum/square/thing. We again had trouble finding a restaurant who wanted to serve us food on our schedule. We finally settled outside a cafe and proceeded to order every salade on the menu as we conversed away the afternoon. It was very French and relaxing, but for our English tongues. We went to the grocery store to gather dinner on our own terms and ended up with bags and cans of food, including steak in some very strange packaging, frozen legume mixtures, and a can of lentils. I designed that dinner, merci beaucoup.
I went for a run along the Rhone and felt great. I was bounding off rocks and hurdling gates as I ran past the sheep and the water treatment plant before turning around at the goats. The goats were loud and I was actually a little frightened of them. I was running on my toes as I think I'm gearing up to go barefoot. It may be a placebo effect, but I swear it engages the big muscles and makes me feel faster.
It took three of us and lots of effort to get the grill going on our rooftop terrace for dinner. I can't even blame the brie, wine, or darkness as a distraction. It was simply poor fire skill at work. We finally got things cooking and turned out a fine meal. Bed has come quickly, but then it would since I hadn't left it that long ago.
We lost some time to daylight savings and some more time to a desperate need to sleep. By lunch time, we were ready for breakfast. C went out to get bread, jam, and Nutella to go with our tea. We spent the day meandering about town, past the arena where we'd later see the bullfight and through the forum/square/thing. We again had trouble finding a restaurant who wanted to serve us food on our schedule. We finally settled outside a cafe and proceeded to order every salade on the menu as we conversed away the afternoon. It was very French and relaxing, but for our English tongues. We went to the grocery store to gather dinner on our own terms and ended up with bags and cans of food, including steak in some very strange packaging, frozen legume mixtures, and a can of lentils. I designed that dinner, merci beaucoup.
I went for a run along the Rhone and felt great. I was bounding off rocks and hurdling gates as I ran past the sheep and the water treatment plant before turning around at the goats. The goats were loud and I was actually a little frightened of them. I was running on my toes as I think I'm gearing up to go barefoot. It may be a placebo effect, but I swear it engages the big muscles and makes me feel faster.
It took three of us and lots of effort to get the grill going on our rooftop terrace for dinner. I can't even blame the brie, wine, or darkness as a distraction. It was simply poor fire skill at work. We finally got things cooking and turned out a fine meal. Bed has come quickly, but then it would since I hadn't left it that long ago.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Vacation
The first few days of the trip were spent in full travel mode. I took those jet-lag pills, but I'm either too tired to notice them working or they didn't work. There was a trans-Atlantic flight to London. I actually did some sleeping since the entertainment system was on the fritz. In Heathrow, we hit up the yotel (probably pronounced like hotel, but I preferred the pronunciation that more closely mirrored the high pitched singing in the Alps). The yotel was the comforts of a cruise ship on dry land bathed in purple light. We were packed in like a can of those smelly fishes. As far as hotels connected to an airport go, the yotel is definitely the best (and only) one I've ever stayed in. From London, we flew to Barcelona. I have no idea what happened in Barcelona except that I vaguely recall some dinner, a hostel, a walk, and some attempts at Spanish that went nowhere. There was an Amazing Race-style event that C and I attempted at her urging. Somehow my train got walloped by her bus. I have to wonder if it was rigged.
To add to the international intrigue, my pocket was very nearly picked on the public transit system. Fortunately, I felt the shady fellow trying and failing to scratch my passport out of my pocket. It was pretty awkward and unnerving, but a good wake-up call.
Then came a new day with a lost lens cap and a train ride from Barcelona to Arles, France. I think the train ride in Norway spoiled me. There were some nice moments where green rolling hills dotted with country houses and towns were part of the vast landscape in front of the snow-capped Pyrenees, but there were also a fair number of industrial buildings with graffiti on their backsides. I mostly took to reading "The Yellow Jersey". The cover calls it the greatest cycling novel ever written. I'm afraid if that's true that I'm finished reading cycling novels.
That night, we lounged around our home for the week long enough to turn a leisurely dinner into a rush to get back to the train station to meet another reveler/traveler/our conversational sherpa. I ended up alone in the restaurant waiting for l'addition (the check) and alternately trying out half-remembered French phrases on my self and straining to hear the couple speaking at the nearest table. I may have napped too long today because as the clock rolled past bedtime, I got my second wind.
The first few days of the trip were spent in full travel mode. I took those jet-lag pills, but I'm either too tired to notice them working or they didn't work. There was a trans-Atlantic flight to London. I actually did some sleeping since the entertainment system was on the fritz. In Heathrow, we hit up the yotel (probably pronounced like hotel, but I preferred the pronunciation that more closely mirrored the high pitched singing in the Alps). The yotel was the comforts of a cruise ship on dry land bathed in purple light. We were packed in like a can of those smelly fishes. As far as hotels connected to an airport go, the yotel is definitely the best (and only) one I've ever stayed in. From London, we flew to Barcelona. I have no idea what happened in Barcelona except that I vaguely recall some dinner, a hostel, a walk, and some attempts at Spanish that went nowhere. There was an Amazing Race-style event that C and I attempted at her urging. Somehow my train got walloped by her bus. I have to wonder if it was rigged.
To add to the international intrigue, my pocket was very nearly picked on the public transit system. Fortunately, I felt the shady fellow trying and failing to scratch my passport out of my pocket. It was pretty awkward and unnerving, but a good wake-up call.
Then came a new day with a lost lens cap and a train ride from Barcelona to Arles, France. I think the train ride in Norway spoiled me. There were some nice moments where green rolling hills dotted with country houses and towns were part of the vast landscape in front of the snow-capped Pyrenees, but there were also a fair number of industrial buildings with graffiti on their backsides. I mostly took to reading "The Yellow Jersey". The cover calls it the greatest cycling novel ever written. I'm afraid if that's true that I'm finished reading cycling novels.
That night, we lounged around our home for the week long enough to turn a leisurely dinner into a rush to get back to the train station to meet another reveler/traveler/our conversational sherpa. I ended up alone in the restaurant waiting for l'addition (the check) and alternately trying out half-remembered French phrases on my self and straining to hear the couple speaking at the nearest table. I may have napped too long today because as the clock rolled past bedtime, I got my second wind.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Shamrockin'
Thanks to public transportation, I was early to the St. Patrick's Day 8k. The city was relatively quiet and grey thanks to possible rain and the lost hour of daylight savings time. I considered a number of warm-up options, but finally settled on walking the course in reverse for a while and then starting my run in that direction before turning around to warm-up on the last mile to focus my finish. It was a perfect temperature for running, a bit cold for standing around, but just warm enough for the single layer during the race. I wasn't very nervous. I had a few flashes of pre-race jitters and I had to slow my warm-up down, but for the most part I was calm like Pennsylvania Avenue on this Sunday morning.
The race had a team element, like the 10k in December. Many participants from that group returned and we added in some new legs. We'd gone from Team Shiver to Shiver Me Shamrocks, ShiMeSham for short. People seemed genuinely excited to be together. I had trouble focusing on both racing and socializing, but I managed. MB helped me coax the team into a warm-up. I had us go through a similar route including the little out and back down 10th street that extended the finish just a bit. It was a strategic warm-up, but we didn't communicate it well enough and so still left a few people surprised.
The starting line was packed with green-clad runners. We stood and chatted as we waited for "Go". I again had trouble focusing on the race and the chatter, but found something soothing about being around so many familiar smiles. We were a ways back in the pack again, but it felt right, like we should stay with the team rather than forcing them out of their comfort zone or splitting apart.
Go. We went, slowly at first, weaving our way through green human traffic. There were four of us together who had similar goals. AS was the wild card, younger and faster than the rest of us, but he fell in with us for the early part of the race. MB, PJ, and I all had designs of running 5:50 miles and holding that over 8k. PJ moved first and we dodged and weaved trying to follow. He seemed to be moving fast and I worried that my pacing was poor or I wasn't having a good day. I had to let him go a little bit and found that I wasn't moving as well as I'd thought. I had a first mile split of 5:57. I was in a little hole, but I figured it was as much the slow start as anything. After we climbed the hill near Columbus Circle and turned back, the four of us began to bunch. MB and I traded the lead a few times while still passing people at a good clip. The advantage of starting back is that passing people goes on for long stretches. We chewed through another 9 minutes that I barely noticed or remembered. I didn't see a two mile marker or much else. Only the sounds of a few clapping hands and the light thunder of hundreds of shuffling feet remain in my memory. AS silently made a move. He looked silky smooth and was made smoother by my awareness of MB's labored breathing. I looked over at MB and offered up an encouraging word as I strode after AS. I crossed the 5k mark at 17:56 (18:03 by the officials). I tried to do calculations in my head, but had to settle for a general awareness that I was nearly on schedule and maybe a bit ahead. I was still near AS; MB and PJ weren't far behind. As we approached the four mile mark, AS began to pull away. I offered up some encouragement and lost a few steps, grabbed a drink and lost a few more. AS was out of reach with less than a mile to go.
In the territory I'd warmed up in, I looked at the 23:04 on my watch and called on the couple of mile-repeat workouts I had done. I knew I needed to run as I'd finished those, preferably in the low 5:40s and definitely under 6 minutes. I made my move, which after looking at some time charts, seems to mean I didn't slow down. We made the turn on 10th and I looked back to see MB gaining. After being unable to hang with him in the 10k, I really wanted to edge him out in the 8k. He propelled me forward. My other goal was trying to track down all the green. I wanted to beat everyone in that hue. I may not have succeeded, but I came very close. I chased a guy in a Clark jersey, but I couldn't quite catch him and finished in 28:41.
I pause from the narrative for a moment to try to determine how that could be. My original goal had been 29:30, just a few seconds per mile faster than my 10k time. My adjusted goal had become 29 to 29:10, about 10 seconds per mile faster. Here I was at nearly 13 seconds faster per mile. I believe there were a number of contributing factors, both the workouts of mile repeats and the presence of AS as well as the team, the temperature, and general success with my new eating plan and the use of an energy gel before the race to fight off hunger. Based on various race time calculators from the 10k, I should have run about 29 minutes*. I like to think it was more than just a good day.
Back in the race, MB came in ten seconds later and PJ soon after. We cheered on the others and returned to our chatting. I was pleased with the race and the results. We thought that third place as a team was a possibility after our fourth place finish in December. The decision to stay for the awards was made and it turned out to be a good one. Not only did we win prizes in the raffle, but we also picked up three age division awards; I snagged second (Update: Now third, apparently they lost somebody) in the 30-34 category (after removing the four who were in the top ten, so really I was sixth). That meant a gift certificate and a new green shirt! The winning wasn't over though, as they announced the team victor and that team was Shiver Me Shamrocks. Jubilation ensued. Our top four (including at least one of the other gender, our captain SM) averaged 30:06. The second place team averaged 30:45. We were in very good shape and quite pleased. We gladly accepted the trophy and vowed to take to the streets again.
*I've never used a calculator like this for anything but curiosity, but based on my times for various events last year the thing matches up well. Only that mile really throws it off. This 8k is a little off too. Maybe good things are coming.
Thanks to public transportation, I was early to the St. Patrick's Day 8k. The city was relatively quiet and grey thanks to possible rain and the lost hour of daylight savings time. I considered a number of warm-up options, but finally settled on walking the course in reverse for a while and then starting my run in that direction before turning around to warm-up on the last mile to focus my finish. It was a perfect temperature for running, a bit cold for standing around, but just warm enough for the single layer during the race. I wasn't very nervous. I had a few flashes of pre-race jitters and I had to slow my warm-up down, but for the most part I was calm like Pennsylvania Avenue on this Sunday morning.
The race had a team element, like the 10k in December. Many participants from that group returned and we added in some new legs. We'd gone from Team Shiver to Shiver Me Shamrocks, ShiMeSham for short. People seemed genuinely excited to be together. I had trouble focusing on both racing and socializing, but I managed. MB helped me coax the team into a warm-up. I had us go through a similar route including the little out and back down 10th street that extended the finish just a bit. It was a strategic warm-up, but we didn't communicate it well enough and so still left a few people surprised.
The starting line was packed with green-clad runners. We stood and chatted as we waited for "Go". I again had trouble focusing on the race and the chatter, but found something soothing about being around so many familiar smiles. We were a ways back in the pack again, but it felt right, like we should stay with the team rather than forcing them out of their comfort zone or splitting apart.
Go. We went, slowly at first, weaving our way through green human traffic. There were four of us together who had similar goals. AS was the wild card, younger and faster than the rest of us, but he fell in with us for the early part of the race. MB, PJ, and I all had designs of running 5:50 miles and holding that over 8k. PJ moved first and we dodged and weaved trying to follow. He seemed to be moving fast and I worried that my pacing was poor or I wasn't having a good day. I had to let him go a little bit and found that I wasn't moving as well as I'd thought. I had a first mile split of 5:57. I was in a little hole, but I figured it was as much the slow start as anything. After we climbed the hill near Columbus Circle and turned back, the four of us began to bunch. MB and I traded the lead a few times while still passing people at a good clip. The advantage of starting back is that passing people goes on for long stretches. We chewed through another 9 minutes that I barely noticed or remembered. I didn't see a two mile marker or much else. Only the sounds of a few clapping hands and the light thunder of hundreds of shuffling feet remain in my memory. AS silently made a move. He looked silky smooth and was made smoother by my awareness of MB's labored breathing. I looked over at MB and offered up an encouraging word as I strode after AS. I crossed the 5k mark at 17:56 (18:03 by the officials). I tried to do calculations in my head, but had to settle for a general awareness that I was nearly on schedule and maybe a bit ahead. I was still near AS; MB and PJ weren't far behind. As we approached the four mile mark, AS began to pull away. I offered up some encouragement and lost a few steps, grabbed a drink and lost a few more. AS was out of reach with less than a mile to go.
In the territory I'd warmed up in, I looked at the 23:04 on my watch and called on the couple of mile-repeat workouts I had done. I knew I needed to run as I'd finished those, preferably in the low 5:40s and definitely under 6 minutes. I made my move, which after looking at some time charts, seems to mean I didn't slow down. We made the turn on 10th and I looked back to see MB gaining. After being unable to hang with him in the 10k, I really wanted to edge him out in the 8k. He propelled me forward. My other goal was trying to track down all the green. I wanted to beat everyone in that hue. I may not have succeeded, but I came very close. I chased a guy in a Clark jersey, but I couldn't quite catch him and finished in 28:41.
I pause from the narrative for a moment to try to determine how that could be. My original goal had been 29:30, just a few seconds per mile faster than my 10k time. My adjusted goal had become 29 to 29:10, about 10 seconds per mile faster. Here I was at nearly 13 seconds faster per mile. I believe there were a number of contributing factors, both the workouts of mile repeats and the presence of AS as well as the team, the temperature, and general success with my new eating plan and the use of an energy gel before the race to fight off hunger. Based on various race time calculators from the 10k, I should have run about 29 minutes*. I like to think it was more than just a good day.
Back in the race, MB came in ten seconds later and PJ soon after. We cheered on the others and returned to our chatting. I was pleased with the race and the results. We thought that third place as a team was a possibility after our fourth place finish in December. The decision to stay for the awards was made and it turned out to be a good one. Not only did we win prizes in the raffle, but we also picked up three age division awards; I snagged second (Update: Now third, apparently they lost somebody) in the 30-34 category (after removing the four who were in the top ten, so really I was sixth). That meant a gift certificate and a new green shirt! The winning wasn't over though, as they announced the team victor and that team was Shiver Me Shamrocks. Jubilation ensued. Our top four (including at least one of the other gender, our captain SM) averaged 30:06. The second place team averaged 30:45. We were in very good shape and quite pleased. We gladly accepted the trophy and vowed to take to the streets again.
*I've never used a calculator like this for anything but curiosity, but based on my times for various events last year the thing matches up well. Only that mile really throws it off. This 8k is a little off too. Maybe good things are coming.
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