Couple's costume- It must be serious

Despite C's complaints about Halloween, the party in our midst meant that she agreed to dress up. The perfectionist and the procrastinator may make costumes more challenging, but a simple concept done right can overcome those obstacles. After batting a few ideas around, we'd settled on a costume. What it lacked in timeliness, it made up in simplicity.

We decided to be the 2010 youtube sensation Double Rainbow. With more than 31 million views, we knew that a few people wouldn't get it, but for the most part we'd be covered. We started to realize how well covered when we were shopping for shirts with rainbows on them and found mostly double rainbow shirts. Not wanting to be a quadruple rainbow, we kept our search going and eventually settled on homemade fabric pen rainbows. C also found a sweatband set to really round out the look. Nothing like a balding man in a rainbow headband to make the crowd say "It's so beautiful."

I can't be certain that "it's so beautiful" was an exact quote, but we did manage to snag an Honorable Mention at the party. The crowd had already cheered for Google maps (best overall edging out Axl Rose), the gnarwal (most creative), and the nurse (most risque), so they didn't have much left for our double rainbow, but we know in their heart of hearts they had to be thinking, "What does it mean?"

A bit of pride, a bit of jealousy

My friends ran a 50-miler last weekend. Read Paul's recap here. I'm awed by that accomplishment. I don't know that 50 miles of running is something I ever need to do, but I don't like that I missed out on this running adventure.

I didn't just miss out either; my running right now is in another universe. They ran for 7 hours, I ran for 7 minutes. Other than Wildwood and bike commutes, I haven't really done any exercising since July. I would complain about my 7 minutes since it felt far from right, but I won't. Instead, I'll tell you about reaching for my shoes. Sometime in August, I took my running shoes out of the hallway and stored them high up in the closet. My black dress shoes that don't get out much go up in the closet. Today, even in the rain and the hint of a cold, I reached up into the closet and pulled down my dormant running shoes. They looked white and clean. They were firm and crisp, almost like new. As I gingerly brought them down, I had to push away high school cross country practices and recreational 5ks. I couldn't call up those memories today. Today I just had to put one foot in front of the other.

Today was another step on a long journey.

New TV is shiny

Internet, I have to admit something. The new TV season is making me giggly inside. I can't stop watching new shows. There's hope and promise that comes with the season. It's like going back to school with a fresh slate. Freshmen year is over. We're sophomores now, so we kick butt.

I know that I sometimes rail against television and the negative effects it has on my life, but for now I'm mildly enthralled. That's a step up from slightly jazzed, but down from medium pumped.

In a few words, maybe even a sentence or three, let me give you my rundown on the latest shows (and some of the not-so-latest).

The New Girl: The promos were everywhere and I was sick of them, but it's Zooey Deschanel. Claims have been made that hipsters could watch her eat spaghetti and be pleased. After watching an episode, I'll give it a C. Zooey managed to pull off a few adorable moments, but there's something just off about the show. I'll probably watch another. The Douchebag jar was a nice flourish.

The Hart of Dixie: Wow. This show is a giant cliche, written poorly, acted poorly, and really predictable. Rachel Bilson is amazingly unbelievable as a wanna-be heart surgeon. Eight minutes in, C asked me how much longer we were going to give the show. I answered slowly, six to eight.... weeks. She laughed at me, but I might be serious. It's so bad, it's fun. Plus there's Bilson and banjos.

Free Agents: It's now been on in my house twice and I didn't like it either time. I'm just not interested.

Up All Night: Will Arnett should stop trying to be the lead in shows. The end.

Ringer: It's great to see SMG back, but not so great that we need to see her on screen with herself. That didn't last long, but I think the show is moving too fast for its own good. The idea of suspense is starting to build, but episode two made me start to lose interest. Grade: B-

Whitney: I watched a tiny bit of Whitney, died a little inside, and considered writing a show for Will Arnett. No thanks.

The Office: I'm still clinging to some hope. The Nard Dog pulled it together as boss and the writer's reminded us that even without Michael Scott Dunder Mifflin is a big ol' family. Wait and see mode on.

Community: They are hyper-aware of their awareness and it's getting to me a bit. The song about their awareness was pretty funny and so was the Britta/Chang symbiosis, but they might be pushing Jeff Winger to places I don't want to follow. I'm hoping they return to form soon.

Modern Family: I keep missing the first 8 minutes of Modern Family, so I'm giving them a pass for now.

Parks and Rec: This is a warning to myself. I hated this show when it first came out. I hated it so much that I swore it off forever. Well, after some badgering, forever ended and I decided to give it a chance. It was kind of funny, then Ron Swanson enacted an elaborate high-speed escape plan from work. He ended up in the woods with a giant beard. That, my friends, was a turning point. I'm cruising on through the season with this show. I may even find time to catch up on the episodes I missed.

TV. You've got my number. Please keep it away from the Internet. Oh, crap.

(Added late: Oh, I forgot Suburgatory. It's got a "Mean Girls" flavor. It seems promising.)

Barefoot and in the kitchen

Nearly half a can of tomato sauce meets my approximation of half a cup of brown sugar. Then, I heat it. As the sugar turns to liquid and the brown and reds start to become brownish red, I reflect on the culinary arts as practiced by an amateur.

I'm mostly following a recipe from the Clarks, a fine family that I've met twice before. It's a recipe from a cookbook celebrating a time and place I never was- Windy Hill. The co-mingling of personal effects that comes from co-habitation sometimes leads to this brand of exploration. Memories and associations cross-pollinate and become meatloaf. As a kid, I loved meatloaf. My mom made it better than anybody. Other meatloafs tried to compete, but slathered in Heinz, mom's meatloaf was blue ribbon grade A gold star delicious. Mix that reminiscence for meatloaf with C's nostalgia for Windy Hill, add some Worcestershire sauce and BAM, now we're cooking.

It's not always meatloaf, of course. These explorations can take all sorts of funny twists and turns. Sometimes it's an affinity for Britney Spears that didn't seem quite so strong before. Is it mine? Is it yours? Is it stronger than yesterday?

Can we even share an affinity for a pop star? It would seem so. Now my meatloaf is nearly done. Will it taste like I remember? Or does that require my mother's touch? Will it taste like Windy Hill or is that a Clark secret ingredient that didn't get transcribed?

The mystery is in the meatloaf. The lunch ladies know what I'm talking about.

Three (or so) things to write about

Missing the DC earthquake by being in California and other tales from last week's trip

The 100th storm of the century or why the hurricane doesn't seem to scare people

Facebook is ubiquitous or the I just had a baby text and status update

Riding in the moonlight

First I'll tell you about the good. As darkness settled on the district, some hundred and change bike riders stood near the coolest bike store I've found- BicycleSpace. Some were decked out in their finest, those were the sponsoring dandies and quaintrelles, while others were in light or bright colors. A trumpet played us out and we rolled out into the coming darkness with tail lights blinking. With my neon orange shirt flapping in the wind, I joined in this evening parade of bicycles. We nearly took over the streets as we made our way to Truckeroo. Truckeroo was a gathering of food trucks and a musical act. A new idea in DC summer nightlife and one that I support. We wound through the streets waving and ringing bells as we traveled. As we dipped down around RFK stadium, I looked back over my shoulder to see the mass of cyclists, white lights blinking against the dark sky. There was a powerful connected feeling in our celebration of cycles- the moon and the two-wheeled variety.

When we arrived near Truckeroo, we darted up an empty parking garage winding up, up, and up, until we reached the top with an overlook at Nationals stadium and Truckeroo. We could see the trucks lining the outside of the venue and the people were lined up and packed in the center. It was like a human whoopie pie. Or what I imagine a whoopie pie to be, since like many of the food items, the whoopie pie was sold out.

The not so good: The ride itself was full of fun, but cruising through intersections and asking drivers to wait patiently with a wave struck me as presumptuous and worse. I continue to battle with my place on the roads and this group-think takes over the world seemed like a step in the wrong direction. How can I complain about cars crowding me during the day if at night I and my lightly-dressed cohorts act as though the roads are ours? When I think of sharing the roads I think of simultaneous co-existence, not an agreement where bikes take over the roads at night and cars take them on during the day.

The interesting: This ride gave me bike and clothing envy. I don't know that I need to be a dandy on a fixie, but I'm tempted. I feel like this month I've started to explore a world where competition is not the focus. I seem to be stumbling on social clubs and considering ideas that are about creating and sharing instead of competing. We'll see where that takes me.

The not-so-good morning

"Is this what you want to do?" she asked me. "Yes" wasn't an answer I was prepared to give. That seemed ok before, but yesterday my hesitation weighed heavily on my innards. Is it really hesitation if it's lasted 8 years? I played it off poorly, "That's the question of my life."

We circled advertising, but her memories of the world were everything I didn't want. She claimed it was great training and recalled her experience fondly, but I was mired in her description of the long hours, the high pressured accounts, and a lack of disagreement when the word soulless came to my lips. I think that window has closed. What door has it opened?

I mentioned teaching. The fall back option that I've never even tripped toward. She murmured and there it sat. We moved on to other topics, but "is this what you want to do?" sticks with me like gum to the bus seat.

It was fine not knowing what to do two years out of college. Fine to stay for the benefits five years in. It was mostly fine last week. It lets me do what I want to do, I'd say. With injury and summer lurking, I'm left to wonder. It's ten years out, now. It's not as cute as it once was. Time wasn't supposed to change things, me, this way. It's ok not to know what to do, but it might be about time to start thinking about a plan. Retirement calls after all.

Being earnest

Last night I attended a performance of "The importance of being earnest". I knew the playwright Wilde was known for being witty, but little else. The wit was delivered and it came with a side of gender-bending. The men in the play were played by women and the women were played by men. At times this was equal parts amusing and off-putting. Some of the women made charming men and some of the men made fine women. Others had less success with the transformation. I don't know how intentional this casting may have been.

The actress playing Jack seemed to take on a caricature of manhood in her movements. It was as if she was constantly fighting the urge to grab her crotch and spit. Algernon was more convincing, her softer features seemed to lend him the appropriate air for a man of leisure. Cecily was a handsome women, oddly tall, but feminine nonetheless. Gwendolyn was a sight, feminine mostly in wardrobe and as a reflection of Cecily, but otherwise rather masculine. Lady Bracknell was a giant man/woman with a booming voice and matching hat. Yet, after the initial shock, he/she was somehow she was very convincing as a woman of that age and temperament.

I don't attend many plays, but the H Street Playhouse was an intimate venue. From the third row I felt as though I could look right in the eyes of an actor. This as much as anything kept me engaged.

Overall, the play was average. I chuckled sometimes at the wit and sometimes at the squeals of men or the forced masculinity of the women. I enjoyed the evening, but despite a few great lines from Wilde and the curiosity of equal acting rights I couldn't quite recommend this performance.

Thanks, body

Somehow, some way, my body answered my pleas, at least for the weekend. It might have been the sand or it might have been a miracle. I'd gone to Wildwood expecting only to play a few token points, but I managed to stay in the rotation in every game.

Although this was the seventh consecutive year I've been to the tournament, this year was full of changes. As we packed up to hit the road, the most glaring difference was in who wasn't coming. Alan and Megan were missing. It's been five years since that happened. The second difference was that there had been no last minute scramble to the thrift store to supplement a silly outfit. Instead, we donned crisp white jerseys. Tracie designed a hideous zombie hand holding an engagement ring. We were "Death Do Us Part" lovingly shortened to D-Dup. We were a celebration of beach, Ultimate, fun, and the upcoming nuptials of Jim and Tracie. And the undead.

Matts, Sam and I piled into Sam's swanky van with the automatic everything and hit the road. We stopped mere blocks away for some semi-fancy grub at Smith Commons. Later we worked our way into the traffic. There's always traffic. It should be on that list with death and taxes. Ben Franklin probably left it out because he had a side job with the Wildwood chamber of commerce. FACT. Or something resembling fact.

We arrived at the Bolero sometime well after Arin and Alan would usually be a few drinks past thirsty and howling at the moon. This year, that duo was not around; so we found a zillion Ultimate players hanging on every balcony of our hotel instead. I wondered what exactly we'd gotten ourselves into, but our suite turned out to have thicker walls than I'd imagined. Eight on Friday and nine on Sunday called the suite home. (Suite home).

Saturday morning, we found more changes afoot. The beach and boardwalk remained, but we were entered in the 2-2 beer division. It'd been years since I'd been in the beer division and I'd been clamoring for a try at 2-2 for almost as long. We faced off well against our opponents. We often led, but rarely by much. Tracie's friend Em was a sweet handler and lots of fun to play with.

Speaking of fun to play with, I had managed to convince Amanda to join us. We last played Ultimate together in Lawrence, Kansas in 2002. Nine years had passed and Amanda was awesomer than I remembered. I don't even think that's a word, but it doesn't matter. It felt pretty special to be able to take the field/sand with her again. I never would have guessed that our friendship would survive this long, but man, look at it sailing.

Kyle helped us with some sweet cheers and we turned to musical numbers that replaced "love" and "marriage" with "brains". Going to the chapel and we're gonna get BRAINS" or "brains and marriage, brains and marriage"

Despite our musical stylings, we won all 4 games on Saturday, but we lost Jim. He went down hard and broke his collar bone. Tracie put up a disc to him, he went after it, ran out of field, saw the wooden walkway to the ocean, dove over the walkway, and then came the writhing and the "I broke my fiancee" shout. A doctor, a nurse, and a fiancee all converged on Jim, but we still needed the EMTs.

Amanda lent us some help from Bawlmer and we closed out the day with victories. Natalie helped us focus on beer league with a bottle of tasty liquid, but most of us couldn't get our minds off the score. Nat just shook her head and went off to find someone with a more understanding palate. Later in the evening, a group of us meandered off boardwalk and finally discovered a splendid Italian restaurant. We savored it, conversation, wine, dessert, waitresses who told personal stories. The food and company were standing equal to the Ultimate.

Sunday, we were looking for help again, but soon decided to go with what we had. Stills was back in the mix and he was rested. The previous day, he'd had a nice layout from a floater from Jim, but on Sunday he had more giddy-up. His throws were crisper and we were looking good. Up 7-3, we hadn't turned the disc over, until I tested out a hammer. We got a little sloppy after that. Hopefully, I made up for it with a layout D. It was my only one this year. We looked great and cruised to victory.

Our semi-final battle would not be so easy. We were challenged at every spot. We made a few mistakes, one of them perhaps being in score-keeping. Down by 2, with the sounds of the closing horn in the air, we had to find a way to go full field for 2 points to tie. We hadn't scored a 2 all weekend. We hadn't even taken that many shots. The team we were playing was a bit taller, and had some really good players, but without the 2 we were bound to lose. Somehow they let me slide back to the end zone to catch a dump. I saw Matt B. working his way toward the endzone. I knew a flat throw would be dicey, so I put the disc outside in and hoped Matt would out read his man. The throw worked out perfectly. Matt dove for it as it was bending toward the back line and the defender didn't seem to have a chance.

We had a shot on universe point, but came up short. With no finals match-up, we ended up on the boardwalk as a team, eating pizza, and fried goods (Boardwalk Treats!), and in the go-karts. That felt like quite a prize.

That prize was nearly outdone by my three best of seven victories in the game of trees. Wildwood weekend is such a great weekend.

A month without Ultimate

I went to practice today. I didn't play. I tried to be supportive, helpful, and useful. I even wrote those three words on my hand to remind myself of my goals. In some degree, I think I managed to be that. What I didn't count on, but probably should have was how much I'd want to get out there and play.

Watching the disc fly through the air, sets my muscles to twitching. I want to run and jump and pluck discs out of the air. I went after a few because I couldn't help myself. Unfortunately, those plucks only served to remind me that I'm not yet healed and I may have a ways to go.

I've spent the month fairly well. Exercise has slipped a bit, but my reading has increased considerably and I've spent some time on other pursuits- biking, canoeing, even a bit of banjo picking. What I want though, is a return to Ultimate. I've got a week before Wildwood about 6 weeks before Sectionals. I'll probably go easy on the beach, but I need some good healing to happen in the next 6 weeks.

Please body, let me play.

Dear driver,

I'm sorry about our exchange today. I think we both said some things in a tone we didn't mean. The words were ok, like when I said, "Please go ahead, you don't have a stop sign," except without the "Please", oh, or the "go ahead." Or when you said, "Your hand was out, like you were turning." You were correct, I was signaling a left turn, but I didn't want to make it directly in front of your moving vehicle.

I think we were both trying to respectfully share the road and avoid collision. For this, I am grateful. I thought about you as I rode away and I'm thinking about you now. I thought about the venom in our words and wondered if I should turn around and say, "We were right. We were both right."

I hope you'll accept this letter instead and not run me over next time either.

Hugs and kisses,
Dave

Philadelphia quicksand or How I learned to watch the clock and stop worrying about the place

It doesn't get better. It only gets worse. -Matt


We arrived just before 10 PM, Bull, Murray, Matt, and I, taking Philly and a bit of silly, in the dark of night. Our directions weren't clear, and yet, when we stopped and got of of the car we found ourselves just outside of the campsite. At that point, it was more city park, more make-out spot, more odd place to be after dark than anything else. Just on the other side of the building where the indomitable Rocky climbed the steps in triumph, we set up Paul's house-sized tent by headlamp. We went to bed in one of only three tents on the site and woke to a growing tent city.

The race started at 10 AM. Our relay team of 5 had shrunk to 4, with me nursing an injury. I'd hoped that rest, acupuncture, doctor, stretching, miracles might lead to recovery, but as I tested myself soon after sunrise, I knew it was not to be. I readied my support.

As we talked to other runners in various iterations of the 20in24 event, we realized that flexibility abounded. Some runners were running 24 hours. Some part of relays running 4 laps each of the 8.4 mile course, some part of relays running only 1 lap each. We had 10 laps, 84 miles, but we could divide those laps any way we wanted. Recognizing that I wanted to do more than support and that the challenge of 10 laps by 3 individuals would be a big one, I offered to walk a lap. Maybe I could run a bit if things went well. Regardless, I could provide Paul and Matt a rest before they embarked on clearing 20 or 30 miles for the day and I could contribute more to the team than just support. It felt right and I hoped it would work.

As we circled museum drive looking for parking, Paul and Matt hatched a plan and negotiated who would run 4 laps and who would be left with only 3. Then it was 10 AM.

Paul kicked off the running portion of the adventure for the team known as Fast Fraction Five. I started my watch. Marie, Matt and I then made our way back to the tent and the shade, glorious shade, to wait for our team to be announced over the loudspeaker. We conversed and snacked and laid the groundwork for an enjoyable Saturday cycle. When Paul reached two miles from the finish of the loop, a PA announcer would interrupt the blaring music to let us know. At least that was the intent. With about 50 minutes gone by, I began to expect the announcement that didn't come. We soon headed back to the start line, just in case. As we arrived, so did Paul. We'd botched the first hand off, but only by a few moments as Paul came in right around 61 minutes. Matt bounded into action and left for lap 2.

Paul got a drink and his first wet towel and we returned to the tent and shade. Paul gave us an economics lesson while we waited for Matt. Team names like Gingerbread men, Dirty Birds 1 (and 2), B'more Charmers were read over the loudspeaker. Concepts like debt and deficit and Nutella were discussed. The latter less for economical reasons and more for snack reasons. Matt arrived early, but the announcers were on it. So, the team waited together for his arrival at the chute as he cruised in having looped in about 55 or 56 minutes.

Exact times seemed too much for me to track, but I busied myself with paying close attention to pace and making sure we were ready when the runner on the course came in. Although race day comfort is a personal thing, I also found myself trying as much as I could to be involved in the off-the-course comfort of the team. If all went well, I wouldn't walk until nearly 6 PM, so my day would be largely spent in support of FFF. I wanted to embrace that and being in the company of friends. At the early stages, it was easy. Marie was off and clicking through her first lap. Paul and Matt discussed their first loops and I tended to snacking, listening, and writing the early portions of this retelling. About 68 minutes later, off went Paul for his second lap.

We'd just passed the 3 hour mark and were sending out Paul for the fourth leg. The race was off to a good start. Marie toyed with idea of napping and brushed off compliments of her speed. We waited longer than expected for Paul. I thought I'd accounted for some delay, but I was nervous that we'd again missed the announcement on the loudspeaker. My nervousness was slightly misplaced, as Paul had some runner's trouble on his second loop. He still came in at 64 minutes, but he was a little pale and quite a bit rattled. We got him cooled off inside for a bit and calmed down a few notches while Matt made his second loop. The body was ok and there was time to rest.

The PA announcements came in spurts, interrupting the likes of Beyonce or Phil Collins in turn. Got the runs, On your left, Blank Romans, Molasses were all making their way through the course. We began to hear about the ultra-marathoners over the PA as well. A subdued celebration with light applause echoed for the scratch on the surface for those brave souls taking on the course on their own, lap after lap after lap.

Matt was back in 58 minutes. He handed off the yellow and sweat-covered wristband of joy to Marie for her second and final lap. Most relay teams were now in or nearing the first round of their runners. Our brave team was taking on their second lap already. The vibe in the camp was upbeat. People were happy to be done with a loop, proud of their accomplishment, and only tired in little ways. FFF still had a big day ahead, but Paul's swagger had started to return, and Matt looked well. If I looked closely though, I could see they both had a hollower look of fatigue that other campers would soon know. I knew and they knew they could go on, but we also knew they had a lot still to ask of their bodies.

While Marie was out, Matt hatched a revision to the plan. Paul readily agreed. We'd push me to leg 9, so that way Matt would be fresher if he was needed in all or in part for leg 10. I didn't mind, another 70 minutes of waiting to walk didn't change my day much at all. So it would be.

Marie came through in about 76 minutes, pushing us near the 6 hour and 22 minute mark for the day. The three who were acting as five, held us in fifth through 6 laps in the 10 lap division, as Paul took out again. After Marie cooled off and settled a bit, her first question was about Paul. Moments before Marie had finished her leg, and several minutes after he'd wearily declared the next loop would be a slow one, the color and confidence had returned to his face. Paul would knock out his third leg just fine. We could sense it.

He did while Marie basked in being done for the day. Matt knocked out a fine last leg of his own while I started to develop a few jitters. I had a two hour walk ahead of me. I knew I could walk 8.4 miles and I was fairly certain I could do it without much pain, but could I do it "fast" and more than that did I want to? The questions swirled in my head and the snack food rolled a bit in my stomach.

As I stood waiting for the hand off, I eyed young fast runners jealously. I told Paul that I was shooting for 2 hours to give him some sense of when to expect me. Matt came in, wished me well, and handed me the sweat covered wrist band. I stuffed it in my pocket feeling more disgust than joy and waddled off. As the perspiration of the sweat band seeped through my pocket, I turned the corner around the art museum, and picked off two others, one resting ultra-marathoner and another walker like me. As I searched for my identity as a walker, I was fortunate not to be passed by anyone until nearly 3/4 of a mile. Soon after the runners came by, but it didn't hurt to be passed. This was my pace and passing happened. It just did.

If we believe the mile markers, and I'm told we didn't, my first mile was in 14:30. At times, I glanced at the scenery. At times, I focused on my breathing and tried to manage or improve my nagging injuries. I found times where I was lost in the speed of my breathing and my walking, times where the world melted away just like it does when I run. I tried not to look at my watch much, knowing that I'd be out on the course for a good long time. I thought I'd found a groove and skipped right through mile two, but it wasn't true. Mile two came in another slow 14 minutes. The relative speed of the miles would get better, though.

I passed walking runners and runners passed me. Some exchanged positive words and others slipped by silently. I lost and found focus. I grabbed water or Gatorade when I passed by the relief stands. My steps weren't the steps of a runner, but my time and place were still measured by getting to the next mile. This sense of purpose, this fight for focus, these are reasons I run and the reasons that walking on this day were ok. I had time to consider my pain points and I had time to try to make adjustments to correct that pain. I had time to see some scenery. As I made the turn nearing halfway, the sun and the hills worked together to cast shadows on the bridges and the river, but not on the cemetery on the hill. The cemetery was bathed in evening light with shadowed bridges below. None of my teammates saw the cemetery at all, even though the course passed right by it. I didn't see it all, sometimes lost in my own thoughts, and never allowing myself to lollygag, even if my walk slowed.

The team Nice View From Behind passed me by and I gave a cheer. Then I began to notice others in our division go by. I struggled to keep some within striking distance for our last runner, but the difference between walk and run was vast. Four miles became five and the time to go seemed almost pleasant and manageable. Aided by a salty pretzel, I passed and was passed and passed and was passed again by one of the ultra-marathoners. Being in a battle, I on my 8 mile walk and he on his 100 mile run, seemed strange, almost wrong, and yet still a little motivating.

As we neared mile 6, I was passed by a division competitor who then slowed to a walk. I passed him, but soon he passed me again. He didn't last long though and by mile 7, my walk was once again closing in on him. They'd radioed in that my finish was coming, probably still 26 minutes away, but still coming and I knew that FFF would be waiting.

I wanted to close the gap on my competition, but I had no other walking gear. I kept my man in site for some time. Then as the signs on the road read 1/2 a mile to go, my eyes started to water. Desperately, I wanted to gallop. I wanted to close out the race with a wicked kick. I wanted to support my team with speed. I wanted to do what I do well. I wanted to run, not walk. I wanted to test my guts and my mettle against those other runners around me. I wanted to prove that I was runner, to hear my lungs heave and my heart beat and to feel that exhausted satisfaction of the finish line. I wiped my eyes and steadied my walk. I was a walker today. Paul would close the gap. Despite what my head and my heart and my lungs told me, my side, my groin, my back had been telling me for weeks not to run. I'd gone 8 miles not running. There was no reason not to go .4 miles more as a walker.

In about 1 hour and 53 minutes, I'd covered the course and handed the now nearly dry wristband of joy to Paul for FFF's final leg. Darkness was moments away and the full moon was rising.

The team had packed the tent in my absence. My legs did have more soreness than I expected. I wobbled just a touch as we packed up a little more and waited to celebrate with Paul.

He came in 11 hours and 25 minutes after we'd begun. He'd had to walk a bit in the last leg, but still finished strong. He grabbed more cold wet towels and we celebrated with rest and dance moves. Marie, Matt, Paul and I relished our collective success, our very different days, and our shared joy. We relished it as we snacked and talked our way, sometimes delirious way, home.

Maybe the body and the legs didn't get better as the day wore on, but it did get better. There's a reward in trying and a reward in finishing and there's a reward in doing it together. Thanks, team.



*Matt did clarify that he only meant in the context of getting more tired in a long distance race and not in general.

Canoe come out and play?

My hands pulled dry bags from the van and I plopped the rubbery pillow-like masses on the driveway. My younger sister walked by carrying a sleeping bag into the garage. I saw her out of the corner of my eye and I felt the urge to check the answering machine for messages from our friends. I turned my eyes up the street and saw my nieces, two growing girls with a third on the way.

The answering machine is ten years gone, our friends have moved up and out of town; like my sister, they are married and have children of their own. The family van is long gone, replaced by my parent's Sportsmobile for rolling in retirement.

Canoeing with my family makes me feel like a kid. I'm getting better at hoisting the canoes on cars and tying knots to hold them down, but that's still the purview of my dad. It's not something I do much more than yearly. Sometimes that seems like a problem, but like most of my problems, that all seems to flow downstream when we finally get to the campground near the river. Water gun warfare returned in force this year as even more big and small children joined the manufactured fracas.

My niece Madeline, now 4, had stocked up on small-person-friendly artillery and threatened a watery downfall for her Uncle Dave. As we headed out again this year on the Niangua river with a smaller group of about 20, water came down from the sky. The rain slowed the first volley as raincoats and ponchos were donned. The rain lasted longer than predicted, but it was a soft cool rain in the July summer and I found it refreshing.

With Clare working and my uncle unable to join us on the river, I had the unique pleasure of paddling the old Grumman with my aunt. We knocked off two days and 14.4 miles with relative ease. The water was down from last year, and the few rapids left seemed all but harmless. My aunt's been canoeing longer than I have and her experience in the bow was noticeable. She'd know to draw before I needed to ask and we'd glide past fallen branches and protruding rocks. She did brace more than expected, but that seemed to provide her some comfort. We mostly stayed out of trouble when we weren't causing it.

Aunt Julie and I launched a number of in-boat attacks on small children and her grown children and their significant others. In some of these we came out wetter than planned. When not being drenched by a spray of water, I couldn't help but smile to see my cousins both running their boats calmly on the Niangua. When did we all have time to age? It must have been between canoe trips, because I found myself asking the same question at the campsite, between s'mores.

The tents have mostly been replaced by Sportsmobiles and some of the tents that did remain had blowing fans plugged in to electrical outlets. This is not the roughing it, the conservation, that I remember. Comfort has come to outweigh those other values. It's hard to get too upset about those choices though, especially when family, community, and enjoying the outdoors on and off the river remain.

Reason for optimism

I just leaned against the handlebars of my bike at a traffic light. The pain that's taken flight since Saturday, the pain that's sent me in a downward spiral of 2007, the pain that's not even that bad except that it prevents me from going to play Ultimate, is in a different spot.

There's no guarantee that this means I'm ok. There's no way for me to know if I can work this pain out and get back to playing after a week of vacation. The only thing I know is that for a moment, I have hope. I'm going to try and work this out. I'm going to hope that I can get back to playing. I'm going to eschew pain and emerge victorious.

Tough day for psoas, decent day for Ultimate

I didn't take time to work out much this past week and I may be paying the price. As my team, Casual Encounters, warmed up yesterday for our one day tournament in Catonsville, I could feel my psoas start to act out. I'd warmed up extra and I thought I was managing it, but yesterday it struck back early. When caught nursing my side with a pained look on my face, I confessed that I may not be quite as ready to play as usual. I could feel pain in my groin. Last time groin pain led to an inability to change direction. It's tough to compete in Ultimate without being able to change direction.

I worked on it on the sidelines as the first game started. I decided it was ok to play and got in a few points. For some reason, and I don't think it was my psoas, our offensive cutters were in the way of one another, me included. It was chaos and fairly frustrating. We still seemed to be hanging around in the game, but we never really challenged the other team. I think I managed to catch a deep score and float a score to Fox, but I don't remember much else beyond the cutting turmoil. My psoas didn't get worse.

Our second game was against the one seed and likely the sectional favorite- Grey. They are athletic and have good throws. I was told I would be mostly sitting in hopes that we could mount a stronger attack in the third game. We were getting beat soundly, but we were fighting hard. The offense started to clean up a bit and everyone was competing. I did manage to get in a few points and make some things happen. I took one cut deep and got a floaty huck from Bruce Wayne. My defender made up the ground on me and a help defender caught up as well. As the three of us ran to position ourselves for the slicing disc to come down, I'm told that my defender uncoiled and began to leap after the disc, but instead he slammed into his teammate. I took a few steps away from the pile and pulled down the score. I played some solid defense against a guy who was running all over the field. He didn't get the disc, but my teammates took delight in telling me that his approach was what it felt like covering me. I just said something to the effect of, "That's exhausting."

My play of the day that wasn't quite, happened late in this game on an in cut across the field. With my defender's hand almost on mine and some contact, I snagged a disc across my body and high with a step in bounds before being slammed to the ground. I popped up, to the surprise of my defender who thought he got the D, came back in bounds, pivoted and got fouled, had a zero stall count when I saw Gersh going deep. From the sideline I put up a beauty of a huck that went about 55 yards just out of bounds and with a slight outside in that managed to come back in bounds and just glanced off Gersh's outstretched hand. It's one of my best throws in recent memory.

I believe that was one of only two of my turnovers. The other was a short flick that floated a bit high on me and bounced off Heather's hand. I played less, but I still hope this is a start of a new trend.

The third game was another that we seemed in, but just weren't. Our defensive lines aren't scoring. We're just trading unforced (and sometimes forced) errors. I remember one point where it took us three chances to get into the end zone. We started to see some better handler movement in the third game. I had a decent offensive performance. I got one huck off the brick. My defender was in front of me and there was no help back, so I just took off. The offense seemed to be flowing better and there were a few points that we just marched right up the field. The only problem was that Hyperbole did the same to us. I did get at least one other deep grab. I was wide open and the disc was trailing away. I tracked it down in the back corner of the end zone and left the field fired up saying, "Come on! We can do what we want!" I really think that team is beatable, but we've got more to work on before we get there.

The fourth game was against a tired Dirty People team. Zone defenses were exchanged, but we eventually seemed to wear them down to get a win! By the end it felt like we were running them ragged. It was nice to get a win. That's only my second with the team. I'm looking forward to more. Hope my psoas agrees.

From home

"Work is what you do, not where you go." Isn't that how the argument for teleworking goes? I'm hesitant to mix my office life with my home life. I go by different names at home and at the office. What if I don't recognize myself?

This week as the offices on my floor were swapped like trading cards, although I'm fairly certain nobody snagged two offices for a McGwire rookie card, I ended up at the desk in my living room doing work.

I pushed back the piles of home, the various notebooks and paperweights that frame my iMac, and I created space to function. Work felt more like art in that moment. I needed surface area to think. The trappings of work, the various grants and manuals filled the recently cleared section of wood, and spilled out into the room. I worked in relative quiet and calm. I worked with focus and purpose.

For a while.

I checked email. I wandered to the fridge. I listened to the songs on iTunes that have been silent since '08. The distractions of home were more complete. Even the Internet at home offered escape unlike the Internet at the office. The guilt free breaks were real and left me ready to return to the projects at hand in full force.

Without the distraction of getting to the office or getting home, I found that I was driven. This was a blessing and a curse yesterday. It meant that I didn't want to stop, I wanted to finish. Only practice could shake me from the work I was doing. My desire to complete was only usurped by a desire to compete, or at least the desire to show up to my previous commitment.

It may have been the new environment that helped propel me. A little off balance, I became more alert and more productive. The jolt may have been short-lived as the pull of the weekend started to wear on me today. I'm off balance in other ways too. My bladder is full from all the water I'm drinking, but my desire to exercise has been minimal. It's as if pitched from my routine, I'd rather gather moss than roll stones.

The moral of this story seems to be about the ebb and flow of productivity and distraction, about the advantages of both the habitual rhythms of life and the kick of falling off that rolling sine wave.

Catch the windy spirit and they'll badger you to return

I like to start a vacation with a wedding. There's nothing like lifelong commitment to make a man appreciate a week off from work. This wasn't just any wedding either. This was one of those love stories for the ages. This was an engagement documented heavily on youtube and celebrated for all time or at least a week.

Excuse me, I'll take a break from the wedding to get the cynical fly out of my love stew.

I was in Chicago with C. We were crashing with friends S and A in their new and beautiful home on the Chicago river. The weather wasn't very cooperative and they were entertaining other friends that weekend as well. It rained. There was ping-pong, some bird-feeding, a scrumptious little brunch, and a lot of scrawled notes and missed connections. If it hadn't been a year or two since we'd seen this crowd, I could have sworn that we'd seen them last week and would see them again in a month. Time would play fast and loose like that all week. We bounced in and out of old friends lives. Heck we'd cleared three FARCers before we even got to the wedding.

Speaking of the wedding, I'm back and ready to appreciate the event fully. In case you're counting, and I was, I think this puts me at 25 weddings attended since high school. I'm a fan of weddings and as we approached the interesting venue Salvage One and saw the groomsmen in the street I got excited. (I actually got excited when I put on my tie, but come on, how vain is that?)

Not to worry, the groomsmen weren't playing in traffic. It was a photo shoot. Salvage One is an architectural salvage store. A more accomplished writer with a better memory could describe the venue better, but the foosball table with wooden players was in the back, the giant chandeliers with film strip piping were near the makeshift bar, and the pews were for sale. The wedding itself was a quick event, as my sophomore year roommate wed his high school girlfriend in this the later round of their love. They'd worked hard to get to this point and they knocked out some nice vows, kissed, and sent us upstairs to eat and party.

The reception was gorgeous. The event planner now wife and the art director now husband had their personality seeping throughout and their personalities clearly have class. At least until you view the photo booth pictures. Their DJ was dancing to her own beats. It made me consider a new career while I danced along. The bride and grooms' friends had moves. As we age, I think more people are realizing that they can dance. I went for quantity, because if you can't out-move them, out-move them, if you know what I'm saying. You don't? Well, man the groom's grandma had dance moves like you would not believe. It's a good thing somebody pulled her to the bar before she started planking.

Five FARCers down and Chicago's in the rear view mirror. Madison, WI, we're coming for you. First, we stopped for dinner in a town that seemed to be a series of streets plopped down on a field. We'd visit C's Wisconsin study abroad pals and find her sport, cornhole. And on to Madison.

Madison was so quiet because that very day the Wisconsin college Ultimate team lost in the National finals. C assured me that wasn't the case. Maybe school was out. Maybe the protesters at the state capitol were tired. Maybe no one could believe that we were staying in a hotel. Don't worry, it was only for one night. Madison was sixth street for us. We seemed lost without a tour guide. Even when we enlisted the help of another FARCer, Jenn, over drinks, we just couldn't seem to find our footing as we rambled on B-cycles not unlike the Capital Bikeshare in DC, away from the lake and onto the trail that looked not unlike MKT. Madison to us may have been a collection of places we'd already been.

It may have been the siren call of Fond du Lac that had us distracted. M, K, and their children left the DC area about a year ago and now finally we got to see them again. Their children were bundles of energy. They probably had half the energy in Fond du Lac. I believe M called it a suburb without a big city. I'm pretty sure it had a Wal-Mart. We spent two quiet, other than the sometimes screaming kids, days in Fond du Lac and it reminded me why I love those cats. Bouncing through the playgrounds and chatting at the kitchen table I could have been 18 or 80 and I think I'd still like being around M and K. Those kids are pretty awesome too. They wanted to be tossed, turned, twirled as much as energy would allow. I tried walking lunges and squats, but their turn as dumbbells only seemed to tire me out and leave them wanting more. We even got in a little disc throwing from 5 feet apart. Fond du lac should definitely be closer.

It is closer to Milwaukee and our next stop on the trip. I slept while C drove. This was a vacation pattern that seemed to work heavily in my favor. Another pattern heavily in my favor, was that C let me pick a lot of our activities. We toured the Pabst mansion (that Pabst, of Pabst brewing, did you know he had a mansion? And some seriously interesting germanic tastes? Whoa. Also, servants quarters. Get some.) We had lunch at the Milwaukee market in the historic third ward where the advertising museum has been closed for several years, but the building is for sale in case you're interested. We then made our way to N and J's home for another bout of guest rooming. N and J were excellent hosts and let us bask in the glory of Clifford the Big Red Dog and Elmo. There daughter E may have factored heavily in those television choices.

When Clifford and Elmo were off, we spent our daylight at the Milwaukee art museum, the Lakefront brewery tour, and hanging out in the yard as N checked her veggies. We spent an evening at a gallery viewing too. I can't remember what Alice Cooper said about Milwaukee in Wayne's World, but I can almost guarantee he was right. And then the vacation got real. How do I know? The hosts got a baby sitter to go out on Friday night. I don't know what the going rate for baby sitters is, but I know that N and J got their money's worth. Or I got their money's worth. Or somebody got some money's worth. Look over there- bratwurst. Yum.

10 FARCers in all. Only 217 Facebook friends to go.

Driftwood

Vacation ended on Saturday, saving airline bucks, but also allowing me to play Ultimate on Sunday. I woke up at 5:30 AM, grabbed a zipcar and drove. Seat dancing was in full swing to keep me awake and driving. Traffic was really light, but it was raining, I was heading to the beach on the day most folks head home and it was really early.

The team seemed happy to see me. It was a changed team from Bell Crack. With about 15 people missing from the final roster, the team was just a third of its previous size. There was plenty of playing time to go around. I felt great. While everyone was dragging around their tired legs, my legs had been touring, floating through the sky, and now were fresh and ready to play.

I made a few mistakes early, even though I'd planned to protect the disc. I had an immediate drop as the dewy disc slid through my hands. I tossed away two dump throws, one because the handler wasn't in position yet and one because he wasn't headed where I expected. I tossed away two other throws that I really want back in that first game as well. I was excited and zipped them in. One was better than the other, but both were inside and overzealous.

We couldn't find a way to win, so the team went 3-4 on the weekend, but I was mostly proud of the way we were playing and it was nice to start to get a feel for what people like to do. I'm excited to keep that process going.

I had a few highlights that I'm proud of. I positioned myself on a floaty huck and came down with a grab. I had some help D's where I got to sky some ladies. My two best plays came in our last game though. I caught a huck and called time out. We set up an iso play to Karpo, but I couldn't find space I was happy with, so Andy, my current favorite handler wheeled around behind me for the dump. I flipped something a little too close to a push-pass to him and then headed up line on that force side. He sent me to the edge of the end zone, but I was able to plant my foot in bounds and make the grab before I stepped out.

The other play was also in the end zone. The vertical stack was a mess. The cutters weren't getting open, or when we did, we were still five yards out of the end zone. The handlers worked it and sometimes got it to a cutter, who flipped it back to them. It was the end of a hot day, so this seems like it went on for minutes. I made a force side cut from the back of the stack and had a little bit of daylight. My defender was close and pretty speedy. Bruce Wayne fired the disc at me. The defender was well positioned to make a play, but I was able to reach forward and grab the disc for the score. It was nice to get one of those. I feel like I'm on the end of that sort of thing a lot. Maybe it's more noticeable from the other end.

More Ultimate tales to come. I'm pretty pleased with how the season is going so far. Winning hasn't been the thing for a while now. I'd like to win, but it's fun to play, make new friends, and build something together. Meanwhile, the psoas seems to be holding out. I'm working out and massaging it quite regularly. It's been manageable and I hope it will stay that way.

For the non-sports fans, I may have a vacation recap rattling around in my head somewhere. Maybe I'll be able to squeeze it out.

Five fingers, five toes

I finally ran in my Vibram five finger shoes. I've been walking in them a few times a week for a while. I work out in them, but I hadn't been on a run. They work my ankle support muscles and my calves, even on a walk. For the run, I was tentative at first. I found a park near Chicago. The ground was soft, a little muddy even. I warmed up properly. I trotted through the grass. I delicately placed my feet. I avoided tree roots and watched for drunkard's glass. I gingerly stepped over asphalt and sidewalk and tried to stay on the path. The single track wound around the way. I chased it and got more comfortable with the run. I sped up. My strides didn't lengthen, they had to quicken. My heels grazed the ground. My ankle creaked, but on I sped over grass and mud. Stepping lightly again over asphalt and concrete. Pace quickening. Choppy stops. Up the muddy hill I ran. All my toes engaged. I felt balanced even in the slippery conditions. I wrapped it up in 20 minutes. My calves and hamstrings both felt used. My shoes were wet with mud and sweat.

Man, do they stink now.

Bell Crack

I’ve been to about 10 Ultimate tournaments in the past year, but other than Wildwood on the beach, I don’t know when I last traveled and stayed over night at a tournament I played. It felt odd at first to be at Bell Crack in PA. There were new faces and new names to learn. The setting felt familiar and yet I felt somehow out of place. It wasn’t one or two new names and faces either. It was more like 20. I’d picked up a few names at try-outs, but for the most part I am still learning.

On Saturday, we played like a team of strangers. There were a few moments where the team worked together, but a lot of moments where we looked lost and confused. Our results would reflect our struggle. We lost all three games and none were particularly close. Each contained pretty significant lapses where we fell behind. In two games, we were beaten by a star and a reasonable supporting cast. Individually we matched up pretty well, but overall we were failing. There is much room to grow.

The cup of our zone forced a floaty throwaway in one game that led to an easy Callahan. I was in the right place to make that score. The sidelines enjoyed it immensely. I handled a bit and was frustrated by two throwaways one to a popper in the cup that just seemed to be about confusion over the open space and one through the cup that was all about letting a backhand sail too high to a cross field handler. My favorite point on Saturday was also my most exhausting. One of my new teammates also played on a Rec league team I captained some time ago. I know he likes to huck. He knows I like to run. It works out well, sometimes. His first put in the zone was perfect, except that a speedy deep defender had more speed than we realized. By the time I knew that the defender was coming, I couldn’t adjust and we were back on defense. The second put was down the line, shorter, maybe 20-30 yards, but it didn’t come in bounds. It hovered a few feet out. I toed the line, laid out and tried to tap it over my shoulder on a greatest attempt. It wasn’t my greatest greatest attempt, I admit. Finally, we connected on a deep shot almost like the first one. This time the deep defender didn’t get there in time. I was fortunate that between at least one of these points, my opponent chose not to do much running because I was breathing heavily and trying to recover.

I think my experience with Andy from Rec league was helpful, because it allowed others to see me as a deep threat. I had a fair amount of success on the in-cuts as well and I felt like I was able to play some pretty good D, although I think my mark was lacking somewhat. Karpo called me “grease” for any offensive line, which was a nice compliment. I had a few more throwaways, maybe 6 in all, and I was D’d once on an in cut. That’s far too many turnovers, but I’m a little rusty. I feel like I’m not moving as well with the disc as I used to and I also thought that defenders were more likely to take away the lane. I need to work on exploiting that with break looks or dump movement. I did get off one huck that I was pretty pleased with, but it floated just a little too long and got knocked down.

On Day 2, I feel like my highs were higher and my lows were lower. I bid multiple times on Sunday on defense. On one I connected, but the disc spun up into the air and my receiver came down with it. Vowing to catch the next one, I all but had my hand around it and yet somehow the receiver still came up with it. I’ll have to work out those kinks.

My hamstrings were really sore all weekend, but especially on Sunday. My concern over my recurring psoas injury was also increasing. I had a sweet grab early on a disc trailing away from me. I grabbed the trailing edge and then turned and threw (a really shaky throw) for the score. I called a foul, but I’m not sure it was much of a foul. The defender laid out in front of me and hit my hand just a bit. I think I was startled as much as anything.

In the same point that my D failed, my offense left me too. Chasing down a floaty huck, I jumped too early once, recovered, and as I jumped a second time a woman from the other team flashed past. I took my eye off the disc and it bounced off my hands.

Obviously, I still have some work to do to get back up to game speed. I did catch our only game winner though. After a turn, I sprinted toward the end zone figuring Andy would put it. He hadn’t reached the disc, so I took off sprinting for the in cut, caught his eye, and changed direction. He floated a bender into space. I jumped up and grabbed it. It felt good to get a victory.

Two other cool moments: I spotted a college teammate and a former Schaefer teammate on the fields. It was a nice treat to see them both. More Ultimate to come.