Yes
I just want to let out a guttural roar of satisfaction. It wasn't always beautiful, but my Ultimate team came to play today. That's what I wanted. We ran some good warm-up drills put on by our leaders and the wind helped reinforce our strategy. It was a back and forth battle for the first half and then we mostly cruised in the second half. I'm still struggling with my handler role. I got point-blocked and I made a few ugly throws, but I feel like there was some good work too. We all still made some mistakes, but we were making them at full speed and that meant we also made some great plays. There were some big throws, big catches, and bid d. Yes. Thank you, team. I hope we can keep that rolling.

Hi, Grandma

As I flip the channels and find Dancing with Stars and a musical called Glee, I can't help but think of my grandma. She watched Lawrence Welk, owned about two VHS tapes, Gigi and My Fair Lady, both gifts and always said, "They just don't make 'em like they used to."

That's probably still true, but the singing and dancing seem like they'd be right up Grandma's alley. Well, at least the dancing.

Apparent tragedy and the Internet

I have a friend whose significant other is apparently lost in the woods. He went on a solo hike some days ago, didn't show up at the appointed hour, and hasn't been heard from since. The search teams have been called off after several days of searching. Everything I know about these events I've heard from the Internet. The initial message that he was late was a Facebook status update. The outpouring of prayer and support were comments and wall posts. The updates were links to local news reports. I've followed along with a clump of fear in my throat and a mind filled with hope.

I'm trying to imagine the emotions my friend must be feeling, but my attempts at empathy are impotent. I can't face my fears, let alone hers. This may be a personal failing or it may be the only way I can continue to function. The only emotion that I can get a grip on is hope. I have hope that somehow the searches missed him and hope that he'll appear. I have hope that everyone involved has the strength to deal with these events and hope that if I'm ever faced with something so serious that I have the support and strength to do the same. I also have hope that my examination of my feelings on this issue in a public forum isn't inappropriate. I'm plowing forward because I have something to say. Is that enough? Several comments on the news sites seem to suggest it is.

I wouldn't usually take my lead from Internet commenters, but I feel an urge to defend a man I don't know. Some commenters, armed only with the knowledge of a few lines in a news report, are prepared to say that he was unprepared for this hike. I can't defend his hiking abilities, but I staunchly defend his right to go on this hike alone and off the grid. I have to believe that what these commenters are really saying is that they have hope. They are grappling with the decisions they make in their lives and on their hikes and they see something familiar in this situation. Recognizing themselves, they can only manage to express their hope in a twisted way. They have hope that if they find themselves in a dangerous or potentially tragic situation they will be able to find a way to survive. I think we all have that hope or we would never leave our homes.

I wish for courage and peace for all involved.

Trust on the Ultimate field

As I had previously recounted, the lowlight of my trip to Mixed Sectionals in September wasn't that we lost all of our games. It was a great day of Ultimate, but for the very end. In a tie game at the end of a long day, I tried to do too much. I was focused down field because I lost trust that my other handlers could move the disc. I stopped picking my spots and played a desperate brand of Ultimate that ended up costing us the game when my hucks went to no one. I mention this moment, because recently trust has caught my attention again.

My league team seems to have abandoned trust of each other. We aren't making dump throws. Handlers aren't waiting to set up their dump cuts, they are just charging in and putting themselves in a poor position. Markers aren't letting downfield defenders do their work, instead they are overplaying fakes which allows easy break throws. Throwers aren't moving the disc, they are looking for the big strike. We can attribute a variety of causes to these behaviors, but I think it boils down mainly to trust.

I've identified the issue, but I don't know how to remedy the problem. How do we get trust back? It's simple to say do the right thing, but how do we get to a point of believing it? How many players have to believe?

I sometimes wonder if I have a tendency to over-think, but in Ultimate that's usually not my problem. Something must be done. I've turned to the written word as my first attempt and thought I would share it here.

Dear Team,

I’m going to trot out a sports quote out for you.

“It’s not whether you win or lose, it’s how you play the game.”

I’ve seen you at your best. I know the sort of high-flying, hard-charging, crisp-throwing Ultimate players that you can be. I know that together we can play a beautiful game of Ultimate. We’ve spent the last few years battling it out with very talented teams and often we’ve come out on the losing end. There were days when I wished for more depth on our sidelines, but I’ve always been proud of our efforts. I’ve seen nearly every one of you fighting tooth and nail to get open on a cut, to make a D, to put yourself to the test against some of the area’s finest players. I have always been pleased to be a part of Team and it’s with that in mind that I write this note and ask this of you.

Can we be the beautiful Team next week and beyond?

The Team I know and love gets down on the pull. We play hard defense. We trust our mark, our throwers, and our dump. We make easy throws when we can and we find ways to make plays when we need to. Can we be that team? I think we can. How? I think the first step is in our approach to the game. We need to look at the players we are facing and see them as REAL threats, because they are. Then we need to shut them down. We do that individually and we do that as part of a team. It takes both pieces in that equation for us to succeed- individually and as part of a team.

Maybe you’re thinking, “We’ve won almost all of our games, right?” We have, but I need us to be better. I want to be a part of something special. I think that something special is an Ultimate team that’s playing to its potential, an Ultimate team that is BETTER than its individual players. That’s what I want. Can you help me get there?

Thanks and glug,
Dave

Honestly, I thought you were a liar

I must have some verbal tick that annoys those who listen. I suspect it's the way I finish sentences with an inflection that indicates that I have more to say. I shouldn't complain, but I sit on my glass recliner in my glass apartment and prepare my stones for throwing.

I thought we'd passed this point, DC people. It seemed we'd moved on to a more truthful age. A truthful age where statements no longer needed to be held up by the word "honestly". Honestly is creeping back in to the vernacular or it's creeping back under my skin. If a speaker tends to lie, then perhaps the use of honestly is appropriate. It must act as a signal that while other statments are lies, this one is truth. It's a beacon, but how can I be sure that even the use of honestly is not a lie? I cannot.

My preference would be for speakers to make honest statements and leave the honestlies at home buried in the back of the closet. I'll agree to believe it, if speakers would just agree to let me try.

It all works out

The following anecdotes are connected, but I cannot prove it. That sounds far more compelling than it is. There aren't many moments when I wish I had a car, but Saturday I had one of those moments. Arriving by Metro at a Virginia high school, I discovered that I was actually supposed to be playing Ultimate at a Maryland middle school. Without a car, I had no hope of switching states to make even part of the game. I was stranded without Ultimate. Also, I forgot my public transit reading material. All of this, to quote some surfer dude, bummed me out.

In order to make up for missed Ultimate, I began to search for a suitable running replacement on Sunday morning. I found one, not too far away, but decided that the price and the early schedule did not suit me well, so I went about my normal schedule. As I awaited Sunday scrimmage with Habit, a sign went up on the wall behind me. It was a sign for a 5k. It was a sign for a 5k that started in 20 minutes. This late advertisement was perfect for me, but did suggest some level of disorganization.

Scrimmage time and race time supposedly coincided. I stood around waiting for players for the scrimmage and then decided that I could run a 5k and probably be ready for scrimmage when warm-ups concluded. My guess turned out to be a little off, but I went to enter the race. I expected a $5 race and was instead told that the entry fee was $25. Whoa, I said with a $10 bill in my hand. I don't need to race that much I thought as I backed up from the table. With a look to the left and right, the official decided that $10 were better than $0 and I was entered in the race. I was then asked if I'd be in the under 15, 15-21, or 21 and above category. I looked at the choices on the page and asked, "Do you want my age?"

"No, your time," was the reply

I'm no slouch when it comes to a 5k, but if anybody showed up on this Sunday morning to run under 15 minutes, they should really consider a return to division one college athletics. I picked the middle category and began to wonder what I was getting in to. I was getting in to laps on the track. That was ok, at least it was until they said that we'd be running 14 laps. I did some calculating in my head. I admit it wasn't sophisticated, but 5k is 5000 meters. It's an actual distance not a cute name for a run. The 14 laps on a track would each be 400 meters long. That would yield 5600 meters. This was no 5k. Still ok, but a little annoying since the track was probably marked with a 5k starting mark, it being a track and all.

We lined up on the starting line. No one was interested in lane 1, so I took it figuring that I wouldn't be too far off the lead. I tried to determine if passing slower runners should occur on the inside or the outside, but the race "official" could only tell me to use good running etiquette. That was really no help at all.

We heard go and we ran. For the first 400-800 meters, I led and tried to control my pace to be right at 6 minutes per mile. I heard footsteps and wondered how long they would be present. Soon they died off as I held my pace. It was almost right at 6 minutes at the mile. I was responsibly counting my laps which turned out to be fortunate when the "official" asked me what lap I was on. I focused harder on not losing track of my laps after that. I kept clicking through at slightly under 6 minutes per mile pace and as I felt comfortable began to speed up a bit. Round and round and round I went. I kicked it in as best I could the last two laps, ran 20:15, shook a couple of hands, and then walked away to be present at Ultimate practice. It was strangely disconnected and satisfying.

As I was leaving, someone called out to me, "Come get your prize." They seemed unsure about something, so I assumed it was a joke, but no, there was a prize. Someday soon, I'll bowl for free. The spoils. The spoils.

Cars are hard and I am soft

As the temperature hovers around perfect while the sun shines just enough to warm skin, the bike lanes fill up like lemonade glasses. Biking in the city has been an ongoing challenge. It's a push and pull of safety, expediency, mob mentality, and fear. My principles are tested and reformed daily. I've nearly settled on a few to guide me, but even those tend to favor the familiar routes. I've started to realize the places where it's better if I turn right on red so I can cross lanes to make a left in the next block. Illegal? After 7 AM it is, but if I don't jump the light I get angry drivers bearing down on me. I've started to realize where I can time the lights and keep my momentum and where I might as well just follow behind a car because it's not going to change my ability to get to my destination any faster. With fuller bike lanes, the laws of traffic and sharing space within the bike lane become more challenging, but the laws of the road are still important to keep close to the gear shift.

Yesterday as I was skirting around a line of cars on the right who were stopped at a stoplight that would soon turn green, I rediscovered a little something about cars. They are hard. There was no bike lane, so I was riding in the space between car and curb. Should I have been there? It's where I'd be if traffic was moving, so I think yes. I passed two cars as the light was turning green. The third car, the one in front at the light, chose that moment to turn right just as I pulled up next to it. I felt it happening and managed to turn right as well. My turn wasn't sharp enough and my arm slapped against the side mirror. As I was pushed farther to my right, the side mirror made a satisfying BOING back into place. I circled quickly on to the sidewalk in shock. I hadn't fallen and I had nothing more than a racing heart and a light scratch on my arm.

I took some deep breaths as the driver and I apologized to one another. I don't think it was either person's fault. She should have had her turn signal on and I should have been more careful shooting that gap. Ok, but rattled, I did what the old adage says to and got back on my horse. I was a little jumpy, but pretty alert. I rode to work, out to dinner, home, and I'm headed out again today.

I'm taking my chances and I'm hoping that all my collisions are as mild because cars are huge and can crush me and the not-so-gentle reminder of that was a bit harrowing. Back to the streets...

My beard is not velcro
What I want to describe is not a highlight in the typical sense. I had my share of highlights in the zero win and four loss day at mixed sectionals. It was nice to get a layout D, a point block (although the ricochet was caught), to knock away a hammer, and to stymie some cuts and win at least one battle in the air. On offense it was nice to get off hucks, both flick and backhand that flew almost as I’d intended. I was particularly pleased with 2 of my 4 hammers that were pinpoint accurate, one on a quick strike at the endzone (although it was dropped) and one that flew 40 yards and opened up the zone a bit. At this tournament with a group of CUA alums, students, and a couple of friends, I had as many touches as ever before. I can’t recall a time where I’ve handled so much in a tournament. I only remember one disc on offense that hit my hand that I didn’t catch. That was on a layout bid for an up-the-line cut. I pulled a fair amount and those weren’t too bad either, but with all the touches, I also had my share of lowlights. I threw ill-advised hucks, two that really sting in the final point of a close loss in the final game. I wasted a hammer when another throw would have been more responsible in that game too. I got whipped on a couple deep cuts and I bit too hard on some fakes. I got jumped over and on and I came up short, really almost embarrassingly short, on a few bids.

The highs far outweighed the lows, and as promised I wasn’t measuring success in wins. I was proud of the team’s improvement and I’m optimistic for the college team’s future.

All that said and I still haven’t described the feeling, the events that were neither highlight nor lowlight. It may not even have been noticeable to the sidelines. It tended to come later in the day, when my hydration was waning and my muscles were tiring. I was cramping slightly, but not enough to call for an injury sub or stop the game. It happened when I made sudden bursts or changes of direction. I’d go for a disc, often on defense, but sometimes on offense. It wouldn’t always be a layout bid, but it did usually involve falling to the ground. Earlier in the day, I might have recovered and stayed on my feet, but now I found myself hitting the grass with my calf muscles in spasm. They’d stop their spasms as I hit the ground and I’d feel the pull of the game. It was still moving even if I shouldn’t have been. I had to get up, preferably quickly, but I was slowed by the remnants of cramp and the full day of play behind me. I couldn’t spring up like I wanted to, but I needed to keep playing. I’d rise up in a way that felt slow, at least slow in comparison to what I wanted it. I wanted to be a jack-in-the-box and instead I was a rusty hinge. As I used my arms to push myself up, I had to pry my face off the ground, my beard scraping against the grass. It happened more than once. I can recall at least four occurrences. My beard and the grass acted like Velcro in every way but the satisfying sound. I’d stagger up and move on as quickly as I could. I always felt a little dazed and a little grateful. It was pleasing that I hadn’t had to stay on the ground writhing in pain.

Neither high nor low, and yet my slow rise back up felt like a tribute to the game of Ultimate. The game continued on without me for those few long seconds that I struggled. As soon as I could return to the action after spending valuable seconds on the ground, I did. It was a triumph, regardless of the result. It hurt, but I was happy that I could still be part of it.

The gamble
The revolver was a controller held in hand
The hammer cocked when the Xbox orb glowed green
The spinning cylinder replaced by scrolling films
The genre Like: Martin Chuzzlewit an open chamber
Click.
The genre Independent a loaded round
Click. click. click.
Moon starring Sam Rockwell the bullet
Play, the trigger
BANG.
Entertainment/death?
Netflix Roulette

Ditching 50 and goodbye Hard Rock Cafe

Inspired by the idea of having less stuff, I decided that I needed to get rid of fifty things. Even before I was planning to move, I was already starting on this quest. Now that I've nearly moved, I realize that getting rid of fifty things is easy, but when I started it was quite difficult. I need to get rid of about 50 more since I still have too much stuff, but I did shake the following:

1. Nikon Cookpix 4800 manual and bag
2. Nikon battery charger
3. Garmin Forerunner 101
4. Ultimate 101 DVD
5. Quidditch World Cup (Gamecube)
6. drumsticks
7. chrome towel bar
8. short sleeve dress shirt
9. pair used Asics
10 pair dress shoes
11. laundry bag
12. Gel Fusion bicycle seat cover
13. Aiwa headphones
14. miniature frog figurine
15. Portageuse/English Dictionary
16. Page Proofs- The Ten Roads to Riches
17-22. metal hangers
23. black pleather vest
24. purple pleather pants
25. The Jerk with the Cell Phone
26. The Woods
27. Micromessaging
28. The Science of Self-Realization
29. Box of magazines (including 3 SI Swimsuit issues, 2 Runner's World, 1 Ultimate News, 1 Cosmopolitan, 1 Vogue, 1 Psychology Today, 3 Mental Floss, 8 Bitch, 1 Washingtonian)
30. Graduation calling cards (high school)
31. A Man, A Can, A Plan
32. Heart-shaped ash tray
33. ying-yang watch
34. 43things.com
35. Bad Habit Hoodie
36. vest
37. bed risers
38. Spam bag
39. AARP bag
40. I run, therefore I am T-shirt
41-50+. Hard Rock Cafe T-shirts

After years of collecting Hard Rock Cafe T-shirts, I finally decided the cost was too great and the closet space was too valuable. I didn't get rid of all of these, but parted with the vast majority for $12 in a garage sale. The final tally included the following Hard Rock locations:

Salt Lake City
Memphis
Cleveland
Indianapolis
Boston
Aspen
New York City
St. Louis
Houston
Nashville
Phoenix
Maui
Honolulu
New Orleans
Los Angeles
Las Vegas
Baltimore
Denver
Toronto
Myrtle Beach
Austin
San Francisco
Atlanta
Newport Beach
Washington DC
Niagra Falls (Canada)
Niagra Falls (US)
London*

*Did not visit Hard Rock Cafe London. This was a gift. I never wore it or took the tag off out of principle.

Bad ideas that sounded good

I'm in the process of moving. The year went by too quickly, and the Fab 4 are going their separate ways. I'm the only one in the house even managing to stay in town. The rest are headed to be part of the fifty. There are bigger posts related to the relationship between my disappointment and my awe that my roommates are moving on or to discuss the finer points of the challenges that didn't come from living together but came from staying together. There's also a post about cats in there somewhere, but I'm focused on just one issue of moving right now. Due to some timing issues, I'm rocking two rents this month and one of the benefits I thought I'd reap was being able to move one shoe at a time all month long. It was a good idea at first. The one shoe bit was an exaggeration, but for the first week or so I moved a few boxes at my convenience. It was working well. The big stuff went over to the new place on a truck, I moved a few boxes. It was nice. Then, and maybe others saw this coming, but somehow I didn't, my stuff was in two places. Whatever I needed was wherever I wasn't. And the stuff keeps coming. I have accumulated so much stuff in my lifetime that it's becoming unreasonable. I even got rid of fifty things unrelated to moving (another post to come) and still the stuff seems to be climbing out of the closet just to haunt me.

It's almost over now. There's some kitchen items and a few scraps to go and then I'll be fully moved in to the new place. It's true that the lack of a timeline has meant more freedom, but it's also meant a slow paced move. I'm learning that can be tough.

The Jersey Shore

When I say, "Wild", you say "Wood". WILD (WOOD) WILD (WOOD). When I say, "Ultimate", you say, "just tell the story already."

Ultimate- The beach tournament at Wildwood, New Jersey has become the Ultimate event of the summer. There were 440 teams registered, even with some overlap in divisions, that's an astounding number of people on the beach playing frisbee. Mostly the crowd that was once Red Delicious, Donk-a-phant Dance Party, and Stillerman's Beach Blokes became Assume the Wurst, an insult and German-inspired team with grand plans to wear lederhosen and drink from steins. As usual the costumes got left for last and we were a hodge-podge of suspenders and awkward shorts. The steins were cylindrical and aluminum and had American writing them. Outlawed in state forests along with their cousins Stoli and Jose, the steins stayed relatively quiet. The lederhosen that SM and JM wore, those were loud. I sported suspenders modified by Clare with a flowered strip of cloth. My pants were borrowed sport shorts and unaccustomed to the pull that accompanies a good suspender.

I am ahead of myself. I should first describe the accommodations. Alan again let us live in the 8-person tent that has suited the team so well. This year we had a few invited guests and so 8 became 10. Anyone who has spent time in a tent will recognize that putting more people in a tent than the name implies usually doesn't work that well. Even when the tent has two rooms and seems incredibly expansive, a tent has its limits. Assume the Wurst and friends were prepared to test those limits. With 5 on a side, and not a hint of a breeze, we settled on top our sheets and bags and tried to find sleep. Sleep was elusive. It was hot as a euphemism and we were packed in like a similie. I didn't really expect a visit from the sandman, but eventually I turned out to be one of the lucky ones. Some claimed they only received a post card.

Morning came hotly. The mercury at 6:05 was already starting to rise with the glowing orb in the east. The games, the Ultimate games that we'd come for, came later, closer to the heat of the day, and on the soft warm sand just 400 meters from the sea and a whole lot closer to the cotton candy and go-karts of the boardwalk. Assume the Wurst had trophy hopes, but faced a dominant opponent early. Dispatched of quickly, Wurst moved on and notched a victory. As a team we seemed more impatient and less willing to do the methodical work that helped us win last year. The upside was that the highlights seemed more prevalent. We battled it out with a talented DC team, but after staying even early, we fell way behind. The sun beat on. We jumped in the ocean between games and tried to keep water in our systems. We closed out Saturday with a cross-over game victory. The wind seemed to make our throws a little shaky, but we were having fun. Saturday night we gave up on the campground and headed to a motel and a diner. The team spirit was in full force as JM offered up some of his fries with a side of fries.

We lingered on Sunday morning. With a full night of sleep, and a later start, there was time for that sort of thing. I got a prescription filled. We went to the grocery store in waves. Eventually morning turned to later morning and lingering turned to rushing. We showed up for our game late only to be outdone by our opponents who showed up later. We jumped out to a 4-0 lead and then were outdone by younger speedy legs. We took our loss on a day that didn't seem as hot, but would soon turn on us too. In what became our final game, we rolled to a 17-7 victory in the hot, hot sand. At times, the sand was almost unbearable. We were all digging in our feet at every stoppage. On one play, I caught the score and kept on running until I got to the shade of the boardwalk for some relief. It was painful in that burning arches sort of way.

We then went over to watch the finals and reflect on some of our own great plays. HG was a force. In one game, after a rare mistake, my defender turned to me and said, "I think she'd been perfect up until that moment." I had to agree and I enjoy playing with her. I like the way she moves the disc down the field and the way she grinds it out on defense. MB was his usual flying-high self. Two plays in particular stand out. MB called out to me as he was headed up the line. Prone to accepting suggestions, I jammed a throw into the back corner of the endzone. His defender was on him, but he layed-out high and pulled down a big score. There were other great dives, but the other play that stands out was his greatest. He jumped out of the endzone and flipped it back in bounds. JM dove for it and on his way down, speared the disc, not from underneath, but from above, and pulled it in for the score. It was sweet. JM saved a number of discs with that same sort of well-timed grab. It was fun to watch. AH found his dominant sand legs and made the sort of noise that he makes on grass fields regularly with big skies, big D, and general bigness. Alan pulled out a few big hops and big throws of his own and I do enjoy sharing the field with him. The doc pulled out some silky throws as usual and SM kept us focused on our goals.

My personal highlights, some of which are documented on the Youtube included a callahan, a game-ending layout grab for a score with accompanying cramps at the end of day 1, a handblock backed up at the endzone, and some fancy help from my alternating hands. Three times my hands were there to try to help each other out. The first time as I was headed out the back of the endzone, I reached up with my right hand and then changed my mind in mid-air and went with my left to get a little more reach. I was out of bounds, but closer. Later, I reached up with my left hand to catch a disc and as the disc was d'ed off my hand, my right reached up and grabbed it for the score. The final scene of the highlight film and my best play came on a disc from Alan. He threw an outside-in flick that sliced more than expected. I tracked it, reached up with my right hand as I was jumping and then grabbed it with my left hand before falling to the ground. All in all, it was another pleasing, thrilling, wonderful trip to the beach in New Jersey. That's the situation.

Nike and Tracktown, USA

The day started slowly, but with made-to-order omelets so I'm not complaining. It's hard to move a family of four out of a hotel, particularly when one of the four seems to absolutely love hotels. She thinks hotels are the vacation destination. We had other ideas. I give my sister credit because kids might slow her down a bit, but they definitely don't stop her. We drove a short way to Beaverton to locate the Nike World Headquarters. I'd heard good things about HQ, but I was unprepared for the Nike Campus. I like Nike ads and some of their products, but never before had I wanted to work there. After visiting the campus, I want to work there. They had soccer fields and tracks. We heard about weight rooms and every building seemed to house a small museum of famous sports figures. The campus was beautiful and like college except the yards were better trimmed and the dorms were noticeably absent. College for adults with an adult-sized rec center. We saw a lunch break soccer game going. This was the day before a holiday weekend too. Wow.

We left Nike drooling and set our sites on Eugene. We got distracted by an outlet mall. Then it was traveling with my family. There's something about an outlet mall that speaks to us. Judging by the crowds, we must not be alone. Much much later, we finally arrived in Eugene, Oregon also known as Tracktown, USA.

Tracktown USA lived up to its billing. We ate dinner at Tracktown Pizza where the pizza was good and the decorations were track-related. It was like we'd entered an alternate universe and track had replaced football as the town's chosen sport. This was the alternate universe Applebee's. After dinner we went to the famous Hayward Field at the University of Oregon. The gates were wide open and the end of a high school meet was in progress. We got sunsets and rainbows and a preview of the cheering crowds. We wandered around the whole stadium, a stadium dedicated to track, and even got a few moments on the track itself. It was something else.

On my birthday, I got to run with Kevin on Pre's trail. The trail, which wasn't that easy to find, was built for Steve Prefontaine and is a wonderful soft surface through a rolling park. It takes the runner in loops, but seems so separated from the world. The trail was shared by many runners and walkers, but the trees and turns allowed for a certain solitude. The afternoon was for the Pre Classic. This track meet is now part of the Diamond League series and attracts some big names. It also attracted a sold-out crowd of over 12,000. Incredible! To have 12,000 people pumped up about track and field, cheering on the jumpers with claps and standing on the last lap of distance races was just awesome. I'd purchased my tickets late, but I still had good seats on the first turn with a fine view of the finish line. I wouldn't be able to call any photo finishes, but it was a good view. We saw 20 people break the 4:00 minute mark during the International Mile (1600m) and Bowerman's mile. It was almost unbelievable. The steeplechase was a thrill and so was the 5000. It was amazing to see Matt Tegankamp, a former challenger, grown up, ripped and chugging to a 13:25 finish. The crowd was cheering the last lap of the 5000 like crazy. They really appreciated distance events. It was great.

I finished the evening with another tiring run on Pre's Trail with my sister. Then we had dinner with a 400m Duck runner and his mother at Papa's Soul Food and ice cream at Prince Puckler's. Both were delicious and both had more people talking track.

I didn't have time to dream of track that night because I had to catch an early train back to Portland. When I arrived in Portland a sense of familiarity washed over me. Well, it did once I figured out where I was and how to take the light rail to the airport. With a little time on my hands, I stopped in to a fine little cafe serving Stumptown coffee. It was my first Northwest coffee. It was a good cup, but I'm no expert. I felt at home drinking my coffee, reading about traffic, and waiting for the light rail. Then I glanced at my hulking backpack, headed out for 12 hours of traveling and caught dozens of fireworks shows at a time as my plane cruised through Pittsburgh and on in to Baltimore.

Thanks, America. That was a good trip.

Jeff's Portland

When I sent Jeff a message on Facebook, I gave him options. I hadn't seen the guy in a few years. We basically grew up together, he was almost like a little brother for a while, but the frequency of our interactions had been on a steady decline since middle school, so I didn't know exactly how much was fair to ask. The options I gave Jeff were multiple choice a) meet up for drinks (it being Portland and all), b) meet up for dinner, c)allow me to couch surf, d) all of the above, e) none of the above. I wouldn't have been offended if Jeff had chosen option e, but I turned out to be very lucky that he went with d) all of the above. Jeff picked me up at the train station and then whisked me off on a Portland adventure. As Jeff is a resident of downtown Portland, the couch/floor lodgings were perfect for me. Better than the comfy carpet was the excellent hospitality. The "triad" of favorite places we toured on the first night included Bailey's Taproom for a fine selection of microbrews and a little boggle, a Mexican restaurant hole-in-the wall that shared a bathroom with an adult establishment, and a nice smokey bar without the smoke called Tug Boat. Jeff introduced me to some of his friends and I felt immediately like a bona-fide Portlander.

The next day I ran the very pretty waterfront, did a little laundry, and headed for the only Portland destination on my list, Powell's bookstore. Powell's was chock full of books. It was city blocks of books. They had satellite locations. The rooms were color coded and on a sunny day I was quickly overloaded. I didn't last long in Powell's but I vowed to return.

Dusting myself off after being overwhelmed by books, I borrowed Jeff's cruiser bike and headed to Hawthorne Street. Hawthorne had a similar reputation to Seattle's Fremont. I wandered a bit and stumbled upon the Waffle Window. The Waffle Window granted my waffle wishes and also served up a stellar mint green tea lemonade. The lemonade was great, but the hippies didn't have what I was looking for otherwise. I biked on from there to Forest Park and took in one of the U.S. of A's largest urban wilderness parks. I'm not sure what that means exactly, but it meant a nice bike trail through the woods for me, so I took it. On the way back, I made a stop at the infamous carts for some BBQ Fusion (which tasted a lot like regular BBQ).

We went to play some pick-up Ultimate that evening, but due to poor planning Jeff and I rarely ended up on the same team. From there we went to dinner at Montage. Montage was a pretty special place. It was under a bridge and had some mixture of Bayou, rustic, modern, under-the-highway vibe going that I couldn't really place. The food was tasty and the leftovers were artsy in some pretty impressive foil creation containers. After dinner, we went to OMSI (Oregon Museum of Science and Industry) for beer and Einstein. There's something pretty cool about taking a few swigs while wandering around a museum. Whether spotting a member of the band Everclear having that same experience adds to the coolness is still up for debate. Speaking of the 90's, we rocked out to some fine ones on the drive home. I'm fearful that the 90's are the new oldies. Don't tell the guy from Everclear if you see him at a museum.

The next day in Portland, the rains came. I'd started to wonder if every day in the Pacific Northwest was perfect. Even the rain didn't really call for an umbrella. I was starting to like this town. I set to wandering again and found VooDoo Donuts where "The magic is in the hole." I had a delicious Portland Cream, wandered through the Pearl Street District and didn't buy expensive goods, and ate lunch at the counter of the Byways Cafe. My malt was a disappointment, but I soon found myself meandering through Powell's in the way it was meant to be meandered. It was bookstore heaven. If I hadn't already purchased two books and if I hadn't had to carry my purchases, I might have flipped out and purchased a library full of books right there. I managed to limit myself to one book, on sale, and already on my list. I added a few to my "to-read" list and salivated quietly.

That night we met my sister, brother-in-law and nieces in Tigard for bratwurst at Gustav's and Jeff left me for my next adventure in Nike and Tracktown, USA.

Independent Seattle

My plane arrived late to Seattle. I had missed my chance to take public transportation to my hotel, but I was too tired to worry about it. I took a cab to the Moore. What it lacked in class it made up in interesting carpet, but I wouldn't find that out until the next day when I used the stairs. My room had a view, if a bay off in the distance and the buildings that once made up the factory district can be considered such. I slipped quickly into a Northwestern slumber. I woke up early, strapped my camera and some snacks into my hip pack and ventured into Seattle. I only had a few places in mind to visit and I knew I'd get to them eventually. For now, I was just walking. I walked along with morning traffic for a while before noticing a park. I walked up hill through the park and then just kept going up. After about an hour of walking without direction, I seemed to hit the crest of the hill in the Queen Anne neighborhood. As I walked by a joint called The 5 Spot, I saw their sign, "It's all down hill from here." It seemed like a fine place for breakfast, so I ate there and enjoyed chorizo in my omelet. The waiter seemed troubled when I didn't order coffee, but he soldiered on.

Breakfast had been a fine destination, but I still had little direction. After wandering through more of the Queen Anne area, I spotted the Space Needle down the hill. I'd already decided that I didn't need to go up in the Space Needle, but I did want to go by it and visit the nearby EMP. The Experience Music Project (and Jimi Hendrix museum) captured my attention when I heard about its opening in 2000. It obviously wasn't the highest of my priorities, but I did intend to make a stop. I pointed my walking shoes toward the needle and descended. I arrived at EMP, next to the Needle, just in time for the doors to open. I bought a ticket and got to experiencing music. The Hendrix exhibit lacked the volume of Graceland, though I suppose Hendrix may have lacked the impact of Presley, but it still provided a lot of interesting guitars, garb, and facts that I'd previously been unaware of. Hendrix was the face, but the music experience was this museum's calling card. I got to bang on drums. I got to play the guitar with lights pointing me to the correct fingering. I even got to play a few riffs of famous rock songs on the keyboard. This was all very cool, but it did make me want someone to turn to to say, "Hey, check this out!" or to watch them (preferably a them with actual musical talent) rock out as well. Still, I experienced it and then I headed off for a lesson in the growth of grunge.

The EMP is connected to the Science Fiction Museum. I'd never heard of the Science Fiction museum, but I decided to check it out. The nerd in me wasn't that impressed. The museum lacked something. Or maybe I was just annoyed that a little girl pushed me out of the way so that she could continue her adoring commentary of an ET doll.

From science and music, I made my way to fish and markets. I stopped in for some tasty schwarma before tackling Pike Place Market. The market was everything that I expected it to be. Maybe I watched The Real World: Seattle too closely. I looked around. I took a few pictures. I tried to figure out if I could catch some fish and then I walked on.

I made my way up to the Pioneer square area where I discovered a really nice bookstore. The Elliott Bay Book Company was welcoming and I spent an hour browsing and picked up two books on sale. I took my books to a nearby park where I read and rested and considered my dinner options. I decided to return to the bookstore and hear Mishna Wolffe read from her book I'm Down. The book is about having a father who acts like he is black. It's a memoir and Mishna was quite white. During the question and answer portion of the reading someone asked about where her father was and what he thought of the book. Mishna pointed to the corner of the room and said, "He's over there and I think he's proud of me." There was an electricity in the air as the whole room shifted their attention. The African American woman in the corner was quick to point out that she was not the woman in the stories that we'd heard.

I found a Mexican restaurant for dinner and enjoyed enchiladas by Seattle sunset. I returned to the Moore about 13.5 hours after I'd left that morning and headed to bed satisfied with my walking tour of Seattle.

The next day my wandering style proved less fruitful. I'd picked out the Fremont area as my goal. I went for a run hoping I might stumble on the area, but lost my way. I checked out of the hotel, referred to my map, and again pointed toward Fremont. With my big blue backpack weighing me down, I ignored the buses and continued my trek toward Fremont. It was to be a land of hippies. I was compelled to visit. I walked through several neighborhoods and up and around a rolling hill. After an hour or more of walking, I finally arrived in Fremont. Nervous about the train I had to catch, I only had time to glimpse a commercialized Fremont, grab a bite from Whole Foods, and catch the bus back into town.

Amtrak was my ride to Portland. It was a 3.5 hour train ride through some good-looking and green Northwestern countryside. More on Portland with Jeff- coming soon.

Vacation as a series of opportunities to eat and other adventures in four or so parts

It wasn't the defining moment of the trip or even really the defining moment of the first of four parts, but it seems telling. Margo and Tom had already been married for some twelve hours. I found myself in the mother of the bride's kitchen the day after the wedding. I wasn't in the wedding party. The bride and groom had already left for a pre-honeymoon nap. We'd said our goodbyes. I was waiting around to catch a plane of my own. Attendants came and went. One had just left for the train station. One was upstairs packing. Fine china and good silver from brunch were stacked in and around the sink.

On the corner of the counter, under a dessert plate and a long knife, in a box opened just slightly, rested a quarter of the wedding cake. The wedding cake was really really tasty. As I removed the plate and the knife from the box top, I momentarily worried that I might be scooping up what should be saved for anniversary one. Preposterous, I soothed myself, that piece is long ago wrapped and protected elsewhere.

I cut myself a slice of deliciousness. Rather than dirty more plates and utensils, I decided to stuff cake directly into my mouth while standing over the sink. Yes, Margo's mom could appear in the kitchen at any moment. Yes, my mom is cringing as she reads this, but sometimes the right thing to do gets overtaken by really good cake and efficiency.

Part 1: Midwest Wedding
There was a time when I could count the number of plane trips I'd taken in my life. These days I have trouble counting the number of plane trips I've taken in a year. Much of the airplane travel ritual has become standard, but the flight to St. Louis was special. It wasn't Southwest airlines with their new found touchy-feeliness, although the lack of a checked bag fee never hurts, that made this leg of the trip a winner. No, the winningness was all due to Kim. It had been a long time since we'd been on a trip. Motherhood has kept her busy. We talked the whole flight, only pausing to consider that our life vests were under our seats and to take thoughtful conversational pauses.

Monika and J picked us up at the airport and our triumphant return (for 75% of us) to the Midwest was fully under way. The eating highlight, other than the previously mentioned cake, would prove to be the City Coffee House & Creperie in Clayton, Missouri. The menu had more delectable-sounding crepes than most teams had goals in the World Cup. It was so good that we ate there twice. If I lived near the place, I'm not sure I'd go anywhere else. I'd probably end up working there and swiping table scrap crepes from the tables I bussed. That dream was put on the back burner though, because I had a wedding to attend.

Margo and Tom were getting married. Up to that point I had three distinct memories of M & T as a couple. The first was when M and I were talking and she told me she was dating Tom. "Hmm," I thought. "I remember him from FARC." FARC, my college dorm, holds a vast power over its past residents. Few can even speak the name without a twinkle in their eye. The second memory came in a blink some months later when M was asking me what I thought of Tom. After fumbling about for a while, I finally settled on, "It's been more than 8 years since I saw him. If he makes you happy, I'm happy." The third memory was of an M & T visit to DC. Tom had Margo in stitches. It's true that she laughs a fair amount, but she certainly seemed happy.

Now, I have more memories to fondly add to the catalog. Their smiles as they surveyed the church at their wedding were enormous and wide. Tom has a naturally big smile, but neither of their faces seemed able to contain the joy they felt. It was contagious. By the time it caught up with me, I was ready to dance. My table of many former FARCers joined forces with some of the attendants to carve up a little corner of the dance floor. With flashes of college mixed in with a more grown up confidence, we danced. Sometimes it was a reckless tango with Hava, other times it was a slow motion tennis match with Kim. We interpreted individually or as a group, sang along, and let the joy spill from our dancing shoes. Jen and Dan cut the rug gracefully while Monika and J started out reluctantly before catching fire. We missed some of those FARCers who weren't able to dance with us. I sometimes found myself looking around for Matt as he's always been an inspiration to this particular breed of dancing, especially in that company. Our energy was easily matched by the bride's family. It was party and I was digging it.

Before the party could wrap up, a few of us slipped away to a fading beach party in the middle of a street, a limbo contest that didn't end, and a short visit to the bride and groom's house. They were absent, but we ate Doritos in their living room in their honor. It was a joyful start to an excellent vacation.

Part II: Independent Seattle- coming soon

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.

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.

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.

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.