Smiles for Miles.

It is the second week of December, and I have run approximately 2,433 miles thus far this year. My mileage tally had already rebounded by the time the calendar read, "January," when many others were closing out recuperation stints in the wake of CIM. My marathon in D.C. came at the end of October and I was gearing up for April and Eugene.

I was fully engaged in training, and my first true race of the year, a 10k in Sacramento, came on Super Bowl Sunday.

Gleefully PRing, giving the camera grins at 5:55 on the way to a 36:47.

 I recall feeling glad to have so much confidence in my running. In just a year, I transformed myself into a racer, and on this particular morning, I was eager to best my previous performance on the 10k course.

Evidence from the year's waning months, however, provide a stark contrast. My final race of 2012 came in the half marathon at the Clarksburg Country Run.

Angrily PRing, giving the camera nothing at 6:03, heading to a 1:19:11.

I'd already given up on racing to the finish, but after pushing through the ugly moments around mile 9, my pace bounced back to form. I resolved to give it what I could. It wasn't an enjoyable experience, as the image shows, but I'm happy to have the evidence, because there was a lot to learn in those 13.1.

And even though I didn't "race" in the California International Marathon as a relay participant and husband/coach, I do want to offer a final race image from my 22-mile run alongside Stephanie (just out of frame), who herself PR'd with a Boston Qualifying 3:33.

Running? Raining? Both!

It's been an incredible year--not necessarily one comprised of dramatic contrasts, but certainly one including its ups and downs. I can admit that, now that December's unfolding, the miles again include smiles. The easy ones, at least.

I promise!

How to End a Summer Vacation.

My summer began the way all things begin: from the end of something else.

Ironically, it did not start on the close of the school year, the evaporation of spring, or the heretofore description of my deteriorating health as it related to running. No, my summer commenced only after I abandoned a fruitless and impulsive meandering through non-teaching careers.

Downtime, as I learned last winter, doesn't always suit me well. Time to think begets time to entertain, which spawns the kind of frivolity that leads to trouble. So, conversations had, letters submitted, and resume polished, I did what any other clueless and ambitious job seeker does, and cast a wide net.

Learning, though, is a difficult concept to pinpoint. The results of my halfhearted seeking merely revealed my own lack of exposure, lack of qualification, and lack of knowledge. In terms of exposure, my offerings reflected the world of 2006 or 2007, a drastically different landscape than we now find ourselves traversing.  Qualifications, it seems mean everything, and the bullsh*t I've been guilty of imparting to prospective high school graduates for the last three years (your resumes are a place to spin the diction of "babysitting" into "child care professional") has no practical application. Turns out, no one wants to help a teacher build a bridge from one profession to another. This absence of measurable transition ostensibly rules out anything beyond dog-eat-dog cutthroatism. And while knowledge could very well exist in extension of qualifications, in my summer jaunt it seems more associated with naivete. Just surveying companies and organizations in fields where I professed some interest illuminated how incredibly ill-equipped I am at navigating in alternative employment universes. I was like a widower looking for a date, and feel as though life had somehow passed me by.

Awareness of my temporary malaise finally culminated in the realization of my own privilege. My job allots time off, which produces within me an inclination for reflection, which affords me the opportunity to make a whole lot of something out nothing. Once I again became comfortable with the fact that my rushed attempt to seek greener pastures was in fact a byproduct of the fact that I inhabit a greener pasture, I started to enjoy the benefits of my life.

I read. I ran. I harvested vegetables from the garden. I prepared adventurous meals--failing at a few--and baked a variety of kitchen staples. I wrote, both creatively, analytically, and educationally. I explored new activities. I reintegrated the bicycle, spent time in a pool, and allowed myself to let go of many a neuroses I'd built up over long periods of time.

I returned to coaching, which reminded me how much I enjoy being around (though not necessarily grading, raising, or befriending) teenagers. I planned for the school year, smiling at ideas and leisurely paces and opportunities to work both alone and in collaboration.

And yesterday, I spent my final day of summer vacation on my own terms. I took ownership of a situation and reveled in the idea that I had shown my own good fortune its proper respect. I arose early for fourteen miles around Folsom's Lake Natoma. I enjoyed fresh fruit, piping local coffee, and a house made honey bran muffin at Karen's Bakery. I was able to visit with my mother, meander through the grocery aisles, soak in a tub, complete a crossword puzzle, and construct a raw lunch.

I reorganized a curriculum for the upcoming school year while eating frozen yogurt.

I gave a friend a ride home from the airport, prepared dinner for my wife and me, and edited a newsletter for the racing team. I read a portion of Eugene O'Neill's The Iceman Cometh, and drifted to sleep just after dark.

Summer was not about giving up on ambition or relenting on the pursuit of a dream. It was about realizing that I live an enviable life that is the result of many wise choices I've made through the years. It was about finding ambition and exploiting the dream.

Physics [a love poem]

Taut hands extend slowly
finding you smooth, slightly oiled, and receptive

We conform softly,
sharing shapes
spread together

I am a sensuous force
the response is beautifully, thinly, outward

My direction fades
and the dance ends quickly

You are overpowering me.

We disintegrate in the heat
no longer a contrast

In no time, I succumb to frustration
my patience mixed in granules coating my fingers
now dry and crumbly, raw and yet burnt

I howl in my furious belligerence: Again!
My wife chides me for this:
I try pasta or pastry or pie
and am perpetually bested

Olympic Spirit

They only come 'round every four years, but at the first hint of their arrival you start to catch familiar scents. It's the aroma of grit, the wafting fumes of narrative, and the pungent blast of underdog. The games are as much individual tenacity as they are sport, equal parts regimen and recklessness. The heat of the summer and the sizzle of the global spirit are infectious. In response, the garden is flexing its muscles.

From left to right: The green bean stalks are kicking it in down the stretch, while the cucumbers are giving a steady performance; the tomatoes are just warming up, and the red lettuce has concluded its run in prolific style.

We'll keep you posted as the events unfold.

Just Below the Surface.

Three nights ago I dreamed about running. It's not my first dream on the subject, but the timing and features of the dream seem worthy of examination.

I've been out of my shoes for 10 days now in an attempt to heal some tendinitis that developed in my left knee. Tendinitis is an interesting affliction, I've realized, because it mainly nagged at me when I wasn't active. Sitting in the car, on the couch, or standing for longer periods of time often led to aching and tenderness. At the time it developed, I was blending bikram yoga with some of my run training, so when the pain became persistent, I halted the extreme stretching and hoped things would resolve. Since movement didn't make things worse, I continued to run.

I bumped my mileage, varied the terrain, and killed my speed work. I even raced a 5-miler on the July 4, posting a personal record at that distance and performing well.

In developing dialog with my physical therapist, we finally pinpointed the issue. A thin racing schedule in these summer months, paired with a steadfast desire to push strong through my favorite races in the late summer and fall, helped convince me to work on healing.

Not running isn't something I've worked into my training regimen, obviously. And while I love the act of running and the peace and enjoyment it provides, I fret mostly about missing the workouts and losing my base. The gym membership expired, and with it an elliptical to supplement the cardio work. Cycling seems a nice way to cross-train, but the time and distance needed to offset efficiency of running is actually more of a chore than a blessing. It's easier on the body, but it just doesn't appeal to me in the way that it should.

Oh, and I detest swimming. It's ironic, then that I'd find the antidote to rehab anxiety in a foam belt. Every day for the last ten days, a close mate--dealing with his own tendinitis (achilles)--and I strap up our jog belts and head for the pool in his apartment complex. Once there, we bob about in the deep end of the pool, jogging along like astronauts at zero gravity. We're decked out in our running hats and glasses, and he dons his inflatable booties to aid his stability. Together, we're conquering tendinitis, laughing off summer heat waves, and burning comparable calories. Our heart rates are higher, our arms are sore, and we're evening building in speed and tempo exertion to keep ourselves sharp.

Will any of this translate once we get back on the road? Perhaps. But the point is we'll get back on the road. Maybe then, my dreams about running won't seem so noteworthy.

Down on the Farm

The ball rolls a bit slowly in the landscaping department over here. But after a 2011 trip through the farm-friendly lands of the East on which I set about re-envisioning our backyard as a pseudo farm, I'm finally proud to announce the existence of an expanded, productive garden.

On a plan ride back from New Hampshire, I spent a considerable amount of time mulling over elements of my living and eating that I felt needed more personal investment. Despite having some moderate success with tomato and zucchini varietals, I came to realize that I possess an allergy to any kind of substantial yard toiling.

But if the yard can change, so can I, I resolved. The first step was to eliminate the restrictions imposed by a lawn that lapped up all available sunlight. It didn't take much to convince Dr. Z and the in-laws that we didn't need any grass, and once that became clear, my father offered to collaborate with me on building and installing raised beds as a birthday present.

I'm proud to say, nearly a year later, things are happening. Here's a visual rundown of the evolving cropland.

Moderate Bed: Two new tomato plants from Capital Nursery.

A vine of purple Cherokee burpees in the foreground, and a plant of grape cherry tomatoes behind it.

Here they come!

Large Bed: This little guy is a huge surprise. He was the butt of a number of jokes from family and friends. He was born in a Greek yogurt cup. Once he got outside, it took him a while to figure out what to do with the world. Maturity seems to be setting in, finally, though fruit itself remains a question.

"Sweet 100s" cherry tomatoes, started from seed in the kitchen, finally back from the brink.

Halved Wine Barrel: Mint and basil plants, both transplanted from supermarket starters. I was pretty heavy into watermelon and mint salads, but that desire has plateaued. Now, I can't find a way to incorporate the leaves much. I feel guilty, because I hover and pick at the barrel almost nightly--I can't keep my hands off the basil!

Other herb-from-seed plans failed here, so I improvised.

Large Bed: We expressed an interest in potatoes, and our friends Chris and Chelsea were happy to oblige. There are two kinds in the ground here, and we're told they're staying busy underground despite the size and color of the plant. Chris humorously showed us how, come harvest time, gathering your potato crop is like finding big clumps of dirty gold. Can't wait!

Scraps from the Britton Acres, these are red and yellow potatoes, making a go of it in a crowded bed.

Large Bed: Last year I learned the zucchini lesson. I'm told it's something everybody learns at least once. Namely, it's the realization that zucchinis grow like mad and that, after awhile, you run out of things to do with them. Now, I did my best to stay strong on the utilization aspect of that lesson, but heading into planting season this year, I dialed it way, way back. This year we only have two plants. I note that everyone else is harvesting their squash as I type this, but I'm still content to wait and watch.

Yellow squash from seed--giving lots of greenery, but no nubs thus far.

Narrow Bed: Last year, this little rectangle held some Zook/Petty compost and four summer squash plants. It produced an astoundingly impressive amount of food. This year, we kept it in the family by opting for three butternut squash plants. Our composting business is belly up, unfortunately, but these little guys don't seem to mind.

Butternut squash, from seed, is on the move.

Large Bed: I really wanted to go crazy with lettuce this year, but apparently I failed to convince the lettuce types to join in. From seed, only one little bugger decided to join the party. She's in good company with the green beans, and she's made some quality salad thus far. I hope all the corpses of the un-blossoming seedlings are taking note.

Red lettuce, the only lettuce varietal to sprout.

Large Bed: I forgot to insert little lattice squares after planting, so the green beans have taken over. I reward them by freeing them from the burdensome weight of so many beans. Seriously, every two or three days we're going from vine to plate. It's a perfect plant for a party of two!

Green beans, from seed, are continual producers.

Trees: When Dr. Z and I decided to plant trees back in the courting phase, we made choices that reflected our tastes, the climate, and our histories. We ended up with a white nectarine tree (foreground), and a grafted cherry tree (darker green leaves), both also from Capital. After a bit of research, we realized that the cherry tree would probably overtake the smaller, white nectarine tree, perhaps even one day leading to its removal. We also noted that we shouldn't expect any edible fruit from the nectarine tree for at least 5-10 years. Perhaps rightly so, the fruit tree seems to have taken offense to this. This is the second year we've harvested and eaten its fruit, and we're still waiting on the bees and the cherry gods to get crackin'.

The white nectarine tree, dwarfed by the grafted cherry monster on the right, is showing the garden how to make food.

Beds are for sleeping: Our menu now includes an "old vine" tomato special and a "sidewalk salad" option, for those interested in concrete culinary experiences. This cherry tomato plant emerged from the remnants of last year's plant (it sprouted in the location where the medium raised bed used to sit, formerly the only place that wasn't lawn receiving sunlight). Behind it, the lettuce growing through a crack in the driveway, is having the last laugh.

This cherry tomato plant grew from buried section of last year's root. Behind it, we have the Tupac Shakur-inspired red lettuce plant that grew from concrete.

We hope we can break bread with you as the days get shorter and the groceries start rolling in. Happy summer out there!

The Rebuilding Process

Since completing and recovering from the Eugene Marathon, I've withdrawn from particular Pettyisms that otherwise program my existence. I enjoyed brief departure from composition, a break from neurotic planning, and an escape from a world confined by boundaries and deadlines and goals. I've allowed ideas to pass in leisure, granted myself permission to pass on engagements, and, as of this last week, passively watched the school year's abrupt conclusion.

(The conclusion of the academic year felt, strangely, absolutely necessary and incredibly impossible at the same time. It had a quality of simultaneity; I felt it had both just started and yet needed to end.)

The withdrawal from one habit leads, ultimately, into the investment in others. As a result, I've been reconstructed certain aspects of myself as a way to focus and refine things I learned in my brief hiatus from my personal playbook.

The first site in need of attention was the body. The miles accrued in preparation for Eugene both pushed me to performance bests and devoured my physical landscape. I therefore inserted within my training schedule a semi-regular practice regimen of bikram yoga. For those who don't know the different yogic philosophies, bikram is "the hot one," whereby classes--held in rooms of 95-105 degrees--are led through two repetitions of defined poses. The workout (a title by which you must absolutely refer to it) is perfect for a stubborn ex-football player who can't effectively stretch on his own.

In addition to yoga, I've started adjusting my dietary logic and focusing more on raw fruits and vegetables and increased protein consumption. Furthermore, for a reason I've yet to actually locate, I've slowly chipped away at my coffee intake. This morning, for example, I have enjoyed three mugs of hot water.

I've been closely monitoring the body's response to these changes, particularly in regard to energy during the day and performance while running. I'm only now reaching a point where the runs don't a.) feel like slow slogs through literal and figurative pain; b.) trigger marathon flashbacks; or c.) give rise to questions about the entire practice in general.

Will bikram help performance? I think any stretching and strengthening of the core will do wonders for me, regardless of times and races. My introductory period at the yoga studio ended recently, and the mere fact that I re-upped with a set plan says something significant about something.

As far as food goes, I have noticed less energy devotion to breaking down complex, process foods after meals. Furthermore, rather than a daily obliteration of grain- and cereal-based calories leaving me hungry between meals, I'm finding more sustained satisfaction in my stomach throughout the day.

I'm excited, too, that my growing garden will play a role in the process of rebuilding. Realizing the lawn was the only spot receiving full sun, we this year killed it in favor of raised beds and crops. My "farm," as Dr. Z calls it, is coming along nicely.

And speaking of Stephanie, her new position as Deputy Attorney General has allowed us to reshape our life on the home front. No longer working in corporate law, Stephanie's new job with the state government means BlackBerry and e-mail free weekends, normal dinner hours, and a schedule befitting of a generally "normal" way of life. Her work adventures have sparked my own curiosities as well. I find myself questioning my personal and professional interests, and reconsidering how I approach the teaching and writing and coaching that sustains me. I'm already thinking about rebuilding approaches in my teaching next year, in fact. In the last week, I've ambitiously remapped two of the three curriculum I'm slated to teach, and also started the process of reinventing the school's cross country program.

And so, as the summer months open before me, there's much to be excited about. I could say more, but with the existence of more time, I've rebuilt a relationship with reading, and that seems like the best thing to do with the rest of my morning.

Comparathon? Hardly.

I’ve realized—and been playfully criticized, actually—that much of my recent blog activity is perhaps too focused on running. Quite frankly, much of my life seems to be too focused on running, so it comes as no surprise to me that much of how I operate seems bound to the larger cycle of training and tapering.
I see the point and willingly concede that, yes, I need to make an effort to entertain a subject matter more befitting of an audience of readers rather than an audience of runners.

I'm not sure where this one will fall, but please know that I'm trying.

On the heels of the Eugene Marathon, I’ve decided to forgo the traditional post-marathon-Kyle-and-Stephanie-perspective blog (sorry--I know those have been a hit in the past), and write a more open-ended recollection--reflective narrative, if you will--on my experience in Oregon.
--
Though they both centered on running, traveling for a marathon in Eugene bore no mental similarity to traveling for one D.C. The trips sprouted from two very different sources. Heading to Washington felt like a combination of vacation, sightseeing, and catching up. While there, Stephanie and I spent much of our time with Dan and Sara, and occupied ourselves with the sites and scenes in the nation's capital. We didn't see any Fleet Feet teammates until the day of the race, and didn't have a chance to talk or visit until long after the run. In Eugene, though, the teammates played a central role in the journey. Dinners, breakfasts, easy jogs, race expos--the spare moments all included the neurotic ramblings and perpetual nervousness of over-trained runners. We mentioned our ambitions frequently, told war stories from previous races, gossiped about local runs, and made finicky complaints about meal contents and the particular comfort level of the hotel bed. Eugene wasn't a vacation, but a long, slow lead-in to a monumental task.

I loved the experience, but it was certainly a shift from the, oh-I'll-just-run-this-marathon-in-between-stops-at-the-Portrait-Gallery-and-lunch-at-Busboys-and-Poets sentiment I realize now I enjoyed back in October.

Marine Corps is "The People's Marathon." It boasts a rich tradition that spans across decades. Even though Eugene is a baby by comparison, people still react with disbelief when they find it's merely six years old.

Race shirts and maps bear the phrase, “Running in the footsteps of legends,” a slogan that conjures up images of black and white photographs, ill-fitting race singlets, and a variety of mustaches. What many just outside the running community don’t know is that Eugene, OR, is "Track Town, U.S.A.” It earned the name because of the track and field athletes, along with the coaches and visionaries hailing from the region and the University of Oregon. Eugene can claim its ties to the founding of Nike, the glory and tragedy associated with Oregon's own Steve Prefontaine, and the storied lanes of Hayward Field, home to a series of U.S. Track and Field Olympic Trials events (the countdown to this year's trials is currently ticking away on a billboard on 6th Avenue).

All of these facets make racing in Eugene a bit different than Sacramento, Washington D.C., or even Boston. It wasn't just the size of the crowds or entrants in Eugene that solidified this, but the comments from those I passed. Some marathons offer only a string of witty signs (“Worst Parade Ever!” and “Pain is temporary, pride is forever!” are staples, as is, “You’re almost there!” which people always seem to decide is best shown in the first 10 miles, for some reason). Eugene had its share of these, but much of the support on the course reflected the run-centric nature of the town.

Take, for example, the many verbal notes we received directed at the strength of our strides. In the later miles along the south banks of the Willamette, passersby (note: not spectators at this point, just those out for their own jogs or bike rides) commented on how I was maintaining my speed or moving my arms. At one point, a mother commented to her very young son, “Look! Those two are teammates working together!” The content was all technical and specified.

I failed to notice this when running in Washington last October, likely because I figured comments on my racing uniform were directed at the fact that supporters couldn’t believe someone had ventured from Sacramento to run their city’s marathon. But in Eugene, I realized something different. Our Fleet Feet uniforms garnered attention not because they bore the name of our city, but because they represented an organization of runners and competitors, something people in Eugene can certainly appreciate.

Given Eugene's emphasis on track and field—along with its budding status as a marathon locale—it is easy for visitors to harbor misconceptions about the amount of off-road running one can do in Eugene and the surrounding areas. It’s not hard to find instructions for this (we received two trail running maps in the lobby of a nearby motel on our first night in town). Despite the options, the easiest and most inviting choice for trail running is Pre’s Trail, a short and soft track composed of dirt and wood chips that meanders through a glen of trees on the north bank of the Willamette.

Pre's trail is the only place I've run where I thought, Sacramento needs something similar to serve the needs of its running community. Too often the best option is the American River Parkway--which is certainly the "gem" the city professes it to be, don't get me wrong. Yet the paved Parkway is a combination training ground, dog park, race track, cyclist course, and picnic zone. Pre's Trail is pathway for runners. It's the only place where you can, as one fellow runner showed us, announce you're "doing a Fartlek" and be sure everyone understands why you need space on the left to zip by.

Let me be clear: I don't want to live in a place like Track Town, U.S.A. I also don't want to create in California's capital city a culture only catering to the serious runners. However, I do think resources and outlets descendant from the world of running--not from runner training or race promotion or fitness programs or adventurer coexistence, but from the pure and primal place that compels people to stride through the world--would go a long way. I think every interest should have a place to call its own, and I think Eugene provides a blueprint large enough to, if we snatched a few components, help other places get on track.

 Fleet Feet runners grouped up after our easy 4 on Pre's Trail.

 A map and overview of the landscape.

 The soft, inviting pathway.

 A Zook/Petty pre-race preparation.

Pre's Rock.

 A figure imbedded into the rock behind the plaque, adorned with a medal from that day's race.

A marathon bib, personalized with the ubiquitous, "Go Pre" chant.

Preparathon.

It's nearly the end of April, which means I'm slated to run another marathon.

Wait, what? 

I feel like the publication of my lead-up blogs to October's Marine Corps Marathon happened about a week ago.

The feeling seems plausible when I consider that some circumstances surrounding the context for the event don't seem to have changed--at least on the surface. Despite adjusting the clocks, I still, for example, rise at otherwise idiotic hours during the week in order to complete early morning training runs. I still struggle to maintain a high energy level at work, struggling most during the hours of 1:00 and 3:00 p.m. when, I assume, the decision-making portion of my body wanders aimlessly through my insides in search of a place to sleep.

At a closer look, there are some differences this time around. For one, I'm not inventing and coaching a cross country program while logging my miles. And, although it might sound foreign to the general readers, there's a huge benefit in the fact that I no longer struggle when my body naturally wakes around 4:00 or 4:30 in the morning. In that vein, this time around it all feels more natural--and by that, I (might) mean I feel more like a machine than a human.

I am also far more comfortable with my new schedule at work. Unlike years past, the first semester on our new bell schedule took an extraordinary toll on my professional patience. I struggled with the paper in-take, the curriculum design, three new classes to teach and prep for, and a clientele of surprisingly needy students at vastly different levels.

Credit for part of this efficiency can go to my coach and teammates. While the bulk of my marathon running colleagues set their sights on December's California International Marathon (CIM), I had recovered from D.C. and began addressing areas of improvement for April. CIM marks the unofficial end of our racing and training season as a team, so I found myself running and training in a status of limbo. I had ambition to build a foundation; everyone else needed the rest I'd just enjoyed.

So I decided--the week before Christmas, in fact--to establish the habit of running every day. It wasn't a belief that the schedule would increase my chances of success in Eugene, per se, but a challenge to myself that I could evolve (I was a naysayer on the practice as recently as spring 2011). And so I planned never to run fewer than 6 miles a day--pre-race 4-mile runs notwithstanding--and began building up the mental and physical fortitude I felt I needed to perform at a higher level.

Now, sitting here in the pre-dawn hours of my last Monday before Eugene, I'm forced to grapple with the monster my training has created. I want to run. Badly. Yet, my coach, the man to whom I attributed much of my earlier gratitude, has scheduled a day off.

Really? I had planned on time off, but only after the marathon. This level of consistency was supposed to represent one of the ways I would evolve as a runner. Running seven days a week became an integral factor in separating the next me from the former.

What to do...

Look, I'm no fool. Goals like these, when one pragmatically considers the reality of marathon-day performance, should fall by the wayside. Unlike October's peak mileage week (63), this time around I topped out at 75. Unlike my overall speed workouts and marathon mileage pace goal (6:45), my splits have shortened (6:20) and my endurance has increased. To think that I haven't already evolved would be to ignore reality. I've sent weekly emails to my coach for the past year and half, carefully detailing the seconds and splits of my workouts and races. He knows about my 7-days-a-week decision, and so he knows what my body needs heading into the race.

So as I wrap this up and look toward the teaching day, I will force myself to gracefully admit defeat because, as I noted, logic prescribed by professional training strategies should win battles against my kind of pride. Running every day solely for the sake of saying, "I run ever day," has no place on a regimented training calendar.

Whatever foolish desire I have to defy the calendar and sneak in a quick 2 or 4 mile jog can save itself for the final 2 miles on Sunday. More than the pride I'm struggling with now, I'll need that kind of recklessness to propel me through the tape on Hayward Field.

Compulsion and Confusion.

Compulsion
Traveling tends to bring out a compulsiveness that runners otherwise manage to keep confined to their own heads. Planning work or family leisure trips involves not only an understanding of treadmill policies at hotel gyms or knowledge of side streets, pedestrian and cycling lanes, and recreational trails; it also involves precise space dedication in a suitcase for shoes, shorts, fuel, and other accessories.

So long as I have an interest in running and training, I know the places I won't be visiting based solely on the lack of runner-related resources in the region.

Stephanie and I have enjoyed overlapping breaks for the first time since 2006. With her downtime between jobs coinciding with my district's spring break, we decided to spend a weekend on the central coast. Stephanie's only criteria for the trip was that the locale had to offer a place to run--we'd be hightailing it out of town at the peak of our training for the Eugene Marathon, after all. It had been over two years since my last pilgrimage back to my undergraduate stomping grounds, so the Monterey Peninsula seemed the most amenable place to find a respite.

And it didn't disappoint. In a departure from my own norms, we opted to stay in Pacific Grove, which proved a much smaller, quieter, and more affordable place to set up shop.

Our running schedule had us booked for 22 miles--6 of which had to be run at our prescribed marathon pace, an uninterrupted stretch of tempo running that trains the body for the grueling race ahead. For this reason alone, the Monterey Bay stands as a top-notch location to visit. We managed, with little difficulty, to run all 22 miles from our doorstep in Pacific Grove. We bounced from beautiful sea-front streets to sea-front bike trails--at times rolling along hills and by sand dunes--in the beautiful sun-drenched morning. The view remained consistently stunning, the wind mostly calm, and the environment tempered.

For other reasons, Monterey remains a great location for a quick weekend vacation. We explored some of the marathon course through Big Sur, meandering through parts of Garrapata and Molera and Yankee Point. We also enjoyed terrific food (try this in Monterey, and this in Pacific Grove) and plenty of relaxation.

Confusion
Runners follow the rules prescribed to pedestrians--mostly. On the streets, runners remain aware of the dangers of running with traffic, and therefore, when possible, run against traffic. This appeases not only the runner, but promotes eye contact with the motorist and keeps runners and cyclists on face-to-face terms.

When runners move to recreational trails, they continue to operate as pedestrians, while conceding the street role of automobile to the cyclist. Thus, the cyclist continues to operate in lanes as a driver would, while the runner continues to run against the grain of this flow, adhering to the same rules as those in the street. When sharing the trail with walkers, the walker and runner use the same direction, and the walker hugs the shoulder or, if possible, walks in the room just off the trail.

Somehow, these rules cease to exist in certain contexts. One of these contexts is the stretch of trail spanning the communities of Seaside, Monterey, and Pacific Grove. Contrary to logic, cyclists and runners are expected to ride with traffic on the street. It feels wrong in concept, obviously, but also remains a frightening mystery with every approaching vehicle's roar. Should your running habits reflect any other system, you will get yelled at.

On the recreational trails, cyclists are given their lanes, but runners and walkers in both directions are expected to share the dirt shoulder that only exists on one side of the trail. This makes for a massively confusing directional tango. Everyone dodges and ducks the walkers, some of them with their backs to approaching cyclists, some forced to watch the potential calamity while seeking a safe way to avert disaster.

It's not enough just to run the way you know is right (unless you're immune to angry feedback). My only suggestion for the avid strider is to rise early and do what you can.

The Sports Analogy.

While the equality argument seems a fundamental stance in American ethical debate, I can’t help but wonder on what level our public school system provides any cornerstone of equity or equilateral distribution of opportunity.

My concerns aren’t novel or rare by any means, so I won’t delve into the dramatic unpacking of the systematic failures in attempt to persuade. Instead, I think I’ll imagine what life would be like if a school worked like the National Basketball Association.

Stay with me. Or give me a chance at least.

I feel compelled to first examine the notion that the NBA is based on competition. I believe it’s certainly a component—it’s at the very core of sport, right? But the idea that professional sports represent regional competition—that it’s not an undeniable profit machine—is absurd. Salary caps, sports and media markets, labor union and players associations? A battle of strength and strategy they are not. So if we can at least agree that on some level this is about a model of performance, we might start building the comparison.

Put my administrator in the commissioner’s seat. She gets to negotiate when necessary, address the needs of a given classroom much like the NBA boss Mr. Stern addresses the needs of a given franchise. When someone struggles to perform, she enters the equation and works the numbers as needed.

As the comparison continues, teachers seem the most logical candidates for coaches. They’re drawing on whiteboards, designing templates to promote the success of students, or their players, if you will.  Someone’s struggling? Call a timeout and isolate the issue. Is it a coaching moment she needs? Does he need to sit the next one out? Who needs to see the trainer, head to the bench, or get in the game? Raise a classroom situation, be it a lesson plan or test or project, and the parallels seem plausible.

That said, I suppose one of the most implausible stretches in this comparison might be the parents-as-fans notion. But if you give it time, it’s not really all too illogical. Parents certainly fill the roll of invested audience members; they remain on the sidelines cheering and jeering. Their off court behavior focuses on the team and the way its run. Their interest peaks when their investments flourish, and fade when the grind wares on. Furthermore, on need look no further than the ubiquity of Twitter among athletes, and the proximity between fans and players effectively mirrors the current state of many a relationship between parent and child.

Unfortunately, the picture falls apart when performance starts to suffer. Rather than fire a coach, a decision the organization makes in the best interest of the team, the public school system keeps the bumbling fool in place because it is contractually obligated to do so. Can you imagine the caliber of coaches that would still exist in the league if the NBA didn’t allow turnover? It’d be a graveyard of franchises, festering corpses boating on false hope.

The parallel is again strained when you consider the element of trades and player development. Rather than press for the acquisition of the best talent for a given team or environment, teachers must continually work with the students counselors and computer queries give them. There is no opportunity to draft a prospect or nurture talent you’ve been scouting for years. Sure, students, like certain players, muster the gall to demand a trade, but not to the extent that one imagines. The bottom line seems to be that if teachers want to pick and choose it’s unfair or unethical. If students or parents want to opt for something different, it’s right and just.

And while this half-baked idea of teachers trading for talent served as the impetus for this written consideration, I’m finding myself unable to carry on with the exploration because of the exhausting realization that the system is, in so many ways, a failure. And even if I’m not ultimately advocating for a model of educating base on the something even slightly resembling a professional sports paradigm, I am certainly overwhelmed by the glairing need to change the rules of the game.

Where is my mind?

My mind is engaged with the Pixies. Or maybe with deep connections to Fight Club. The very fact that it hinges on anything at this point is impressive. It's coming on 3:30, on a Saturday, I'm sing-asking, "Where is my mind?"

This realization comes as the Zook/Petty machine chugs along on marathon-prep fuel again, striding through the dark mornings and extended evenings of March. The bodies are starting to creak a bit. The sleep grows heavier and deep. The runs become an immeasurable delirium where distances and days blend into one another like watercolors in the rain.

The picture, to extend the simile, still sits in plain view; it gets harder for those of us up close to make it out sometimes, though. I'm logging runs--and have been since mid-December--every day of the week. When I'm not preparing for a road race, the distance of these daily runs rarely gets below eight miles. There are a few six-milers thrown in from time to time, but they're rare.

It's odd what perspective does to the mind, and what that altered mind does to its body. As recently as last October, in training for the Marine Corps Marathon, I certainly valued resting a day or two each week. I applauded my increase weekly mileage totals, which then crested in the low 60s. Less than six months later, I find myself compulsively trotting out the door every single day, keeping the pace at an increasingly faster clip, and logging upwards of 70 miles a week. Ironically, I now find value in this. It's a weird place to be.

After dabbling in some semi-regular afternoon runs during the week, my schedule and its needs have forced a return to the dark streets of the morning runs. Nowadays, the alarm rarely shows a "5" in the hour slot. I'm out the door in the cool, black morning, making my miles with the friendly sounds of a podcast or a sports commentator.

Sometimes I get a buddy or two for these runs, but usually only on the weekends. Today, a Saturday designated for long distance, I put in 20 with a close friend who's nearly done training for the upcoming Boston Marathon.

I experience a daily fallout from my weekday runs. The teaching starts with a bang. It ends with a bang, even. But when the bell sounds at 3:09, I'm submerged in mental mush, having nothing to offer the world but the reflexes of a somber commuter. Today, on a Saturday, I find myself realizing the problem with my current state--my current replaying of The Pixies. The endorphins have worn off, the proverbial bell has sounded, and my body is mindlessly slogging into the late afternoon.

So "Where is my mind?" I know the answer. It's saving its energies for tomorrow, when it will have to grab an easy 8 to start the day.

All My Children.

Aside from the fact that my contemporaries seem to be admitting they’re partaking in the title line of this entry, the constituents of the Zook/Petty household—Zoe included—are not. However, this spring of spawning that surrounds us has forced me to consider what it might be like consume myself with the needs of another.

This week, though, I ultimately came to grips with reality.

I am my own father—or I am my own child. Somewhere in this twisted time and space, I see that I’m busy both caring for and raising myself. I’m adhering to a schedule of pre-5 a.m. running, pre-6 a.m. feeding, and pre-10 p.m. sleeping. I leave work as soon as the proverbial whistle blows, rushing off to meet the demands of my charge. I cart myself off to practice with teammates twice a week, I show up early on race day and stay late for the doling out of awards or the serving of dinners. I volunteer when I can, tend to the wounds that come from such rigorous activity, and deal with the doctor’s appointments that inevitably come up.

And clearly, I love it. The demands strain, but I find it so rewarding. I get to create joy for myself, and share in what I make. It’s tough with a schedule chock full of work and students and meetings, but we find a way to make it work.

I’m sure one day my I will outgrow my own dependence on myself. I’m sure my role will change accordingly. Sacrifices await our plight; they’re undoubtedly on the horizon as our needs and responsibilities will unfold and evolve. I’m sure the family and I will cross that bridge when it stretches out before us.

Until then, I suppose it’s more play dates on a busy calendar. And so long as everyone’s happy, we have no problem remaining selfishly satisfied.

When they start playing the game in the front row.

There's really no view like the front row. More than on the cusp of the action, you feel as though you're actually part of the action. From this vantage point, the seemingly clear wall between spectator and spectacle disappears. All that keeps you from joining in the fray is your own self control and sense of place. Yet from the front row, proximity continually borders on participation.

This evening, the front row came to me.

As I left the house around 5:00 to meet up with a teammate for a run along the American River Parkway, I noticed a pile of police cruisers blocking the street, just three houses down. The police helicopter hovered overhead. Neighbors stood in their yards--adults in conversation, and children tangling in the yard. An ambulance idled at the end of the street. As I rolled through a growing throng of onlookers, I glanced in the rear-view mirror in time to see two officers in swat gear approaching the house, guns drawn.

One neighbor pulled his car alongside mine as I chatted with his wife. "He's got a gun," the cop had informed him. "They think we should get inside or leave." His wife joined him the car, and they headed out behind me.

Word spread. Adults hurdled. Kids ran.

I had a nice twilight run along the American River. I told my friends the story about the cops, but the details evolved and dissolved, as stories often do.

By the time I'd returned to my car, details had emerged (except the part in the updated report about the man surrendering). I knew I might not make it onto the street, but that's all I knew. Seventh Avenue was abuzz with people, lights, and news vans. I parked down the block, and made my way through the mass, toward my awaiting front row seats.

After talking to a patrolman, I was able to pass the barricade, whereby he escorted me to the house. I had enough time once inside to fire off an email to Stephanie explaining what I'd learned. Upon hitting send, the doorbell rang.

And this is where the front row becomes part of the action.

The man at the door was a police officer--a member of the negotiator team, to be precise--and he wanted to talk about strategies. "In these situations," he told me, "we really need a 'home base,' a quiet environment with a table and, to be honest, a bathroom."

Stephanie is working a filing this week, and is in a the office at nearly all hours; my only concern at that time was getting some fuel in my body. The needs of the local law enforcement seemed far more pressing, so I agreed to let the negotiations team establish a communications center at the dining room table.

As the officer started shuttling team members and suitcases into the house, my head was flooded with images from serial crime dramas. There would be coffee in Styrofoam cups, cell phones, laptops, printers, and sweaty men loosening their ties. The tension would wax and wane. They'd have a specialist on the line--someone they'd need to tap in through an elaborate line swap. Maybe the suspect would make demands? Maybe the SWAT team would move in?

Before the second trip for gear, the officer informed me that the standoff had ended. The action was over. The game had ended. The front row became a house, and house received a number of compliments, for it still offered a necessary component of the aforementioned 'home base': the bathroom. Officer after officer offered thanks, appreciation, and an unusual volume of admiration (the width of the planks in the wood floor received the most praise).

Being part of the action certainly livens up the experience, but if I can swing it in the future, I'd just assume watch the game from home.

Reflections on Teaching, 2012 Edition

I am going to knowingly generalize for a few minutes in order to prove a point.

It's probably not uncommon for many classroom teachers, especially at the secondary level, to admit they went to school in order to teach because they enjoyed learning. They enjoyed the school setting, the classroom, and the process of engaging with material and finding inspiration. Largely, they enjoyed some form of success, whether tangible or intangible, and aspired to share that experience with teens not unlike their former selves one day.

The trickle down effect of learning worked. If one sat long enough, listened well enough, and tried hard enough, time brought about the desired effect.

There's a deep-rooted attachment to this method of educating, one that keeps teachers--myself included--married to a dogma that strikes chords for the few, but fails to rise above the din for other listeners. It's these other listeners who need teachers like myself to speak up, sometimes in their language, and begin a process of communicative teaching that transcends our comfortable attachment to antiquated modes of teaching.

The hardest part about this realization for me, unfortunately, is an awareness of how difficult this kind of teaching really is. Moreover, the difficulty is not periodic. I can't say, "This week is going to be a bear! Look at all this intensive instruction I have to plan," because this kind of teaching must happen every single class. And if this sudden awareness of the rigors shocks teachers into facing the proverbial music, imagine the paradigm shift that must occur in how they must now approach the work they do--the work they always imagined they could do with sophistication, ease, and (gulp) comfort.

Though this dynamic evolution is exactly what some energetic teachers are looking for, there are many of us who will readily admit that we didn't sign up for the profession to be blindsided by a paradigm shift. No one, I would wager, knowingly chooses a line of work that will dramatically alter his or her worldview.

And yet, here we are. Here I am, really. I'm staring at mass of expectant youth who know all too well the old, antiquated models of teaching and learning. They know that sometimes what I say will affect them and sometimes what I say will not, and that's just how things go. On and on, in an unfolding line of grades and rooms and campuses.

That's what school is. They expect me to drone on, in fact, because that's what school was, is, and will always be. Changing my practice changes their practice, and despite the fact that these new methods of instruction seems mostly effective, they still bear the scent of manipulation.

Students, like many teachers, remain perceptively aware of the failures of the current educational model. But it worked for them, so...

How to Get From There to Here.

As a student of literature and story, I sometimes find it difficult to separate the narratives on which my studies depend and the reality I continually create and inhabit. As a result, the experiences of my life often make the most sense when I contextualize them into an arc, a patterned tale prescribing the necessary beginning, middle, and end on which I so often depend to understand my plight.

And one does not need to study literature to do this to the details of the world. Perhaps the strongest example, I feel, is our seemingly universal adherence to the notion that the calendar's change somehow prescribes for us some form of renewal. The clock strikes twelve and, like magic, January has manifested itself before you, optimistic and cordial, ready to lead you into the hopeful promise of brighter tomorrows.

The anticipation for newness begins the fermentation process somewhere in the doldrums of March. By the time the hope dramatically suds to the surface of your chosen champagne glass, it's hard not to arrest your own emotional effervescences and give in to the legend of the changeover story.

I invested in the grand narrative pretty heavily around 2000. My chums and I, all juiced on adolescent fancy, Bicardi Limon, and a spritz of Cool Water, braved the freezing winter temperatures and walked the streets in South Lake Tahoe among many a throng of equally bitter revelers. My buds and I clung to each other, refusing to acknowledge the fear that any separation would remind us of the loneliness one inevitably feels when trying to celebrate the long-awaited arrival of an otherwise hollow moment.

I enjoyed recounting the details of this aimless experience in South Lake Tahoe. With each retelling, I described the blonde strangers strung across my mates and me, perhaps even offering proof in the form of pictures developed from the then ubiquitous disposable cameras. The New Year story was good then. But like all good things... with just two or three years further experience under my belt, I realized that South Lake Tahoe, on New Year's Eve, is really just an seedy barroom expanded across Highway 50 at the state line. Then the pictures just invoked an awkward moment--an isolated moment where emotionally isolated people forced themselves to mix and mingle.

Oil, meet Water. You two get along now. See if you have anything in common.

I grew tired of the dependence for something new on New Year's around '05. I spent my time catering to those out living their own New Year's stories, lubing their plots with booze--at a bar, appropriately--and eventually driving home a number of my on-the-town friends once the lights went out. I was had locked into the band Death Cab for Cutie at the time, and I remember how, as if by design, the song "The New Year" came on as I carted the partiers home.

So this is the new year / And I don't feel any different.
The clanking of crystal / Explosions off in the distance
So this is the new year / And I have no resolutions
For self assigned penance / For problems with easy solutions

So everybody put your best suit or dress on
Let's make believe that we are wealthy for just this once
Lighting firecrackers off on the front lawn
As thirty dialogs bleed into one

I wish the world was flat like the old days
Then I could travel just by folding a map
No more airplanes, or speed trains, or freeways
There'd be no distance that could hold us back.

The 2004-2005 stretch for me is characterized by a lot of analysis, and the notion of a singular narrative--a singular anything, actually--fell to exhaustive scrutiny. As such, I found the above song a brilliant anthem against the fabricated belief that December 31 and January 1 embody some fall line of great import. I thought it a testament to the inherent absurdity we all allow ourselves to succumb to in accepting a dominant narrative over the tangible reality before us.

I mention all of this (at unfortunate length), to emphasize my current acceptance of this annual event in the context of my life. Now, I no longer strain my eyes and brain to remain alert until midnight. I refuse to seek out the event or the experience or the people that will somehow set the proverbial tone for the year to come. And so on Saturday night, as another lovely evening bled into a typically late (10:00 PM) hour, I spent my moments the way I spend most of my moments: I enjoyed good food, good wine, and the good company of the woman I love.

What possible improvement is there to find in a life bubbling over with such advantages?

So this is the new year. And I have no resolutions.

Post Script:

There's never a January 2nd that comes when I don't think of my great grandma Irma or her daughter, my grandma Judy. It wouldn't make sense to offer such blathering nonsense an neglect to acknowledge both their presences. That's it. Cheers.