Petty Observations

Reflections on Teaching, 2012 Edition

2012-02-02T06:59:00.000-08:00

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.

2012-01-02T12:33:00.000-08:00

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.

2011: From Running to Runner

2011-12-22T16:02:00.000-08:00

Between 2008 and 2010, I entered and participated in six racing events in the region. Half of those came in 2010, and one was the California International Marathon (CIM). This year, I competed in 13 races and two non-entry community fun runs.

Before this year, I considered myself a casual runner at best. I ran perhaps 4 days a week--at most. In leading up to the CIM, Stephanie and I joined a training group operated by the Fleet Feet store on J Street in Sacramento. This "training" consisted of small, incremental workouts, weekly mileage goals, and friendly organization.

After a fairly successful marathon on what I now realize was insufficient mileage and intermittently adhered-to training, a coach (now friend and teammate) suggested I apply for the Fleet Feet Sacramento Racing team. Beyond the races, here are some end-of-year reflections on how I've transitioned from "someone who runs" into a runner.

Apparel - It seems so materialistic in nature, but I really can't say enough about how an upgrade in clothing and gear can make such a difference in comfort. I stopped buying inexpensive gear from big-box retailers, for one, and settled on Nike shorts and race-offered tech shirts (only the good ones though). I also invested in some sunglasses, gloves, arm and ear warmers, and a handful of pairs of quality socks (made by Balega and Nike). I still run in my synthetic Champion shorts for shorter distances, but anything longer than 8 miles or more intense than an interval run warrants the good stuff.
Amount - I often cite conversing after some of those initial practices with my Fleet Feet teammates in which I specified a clear opinion: If I found myself getting up before 6:00 a.m. or running 7 days a week, the joy would likely have been sucked from running. It's less than a year later, and I'm in my fourth month of pre-dawn running (sometimes, when things are hectic at work or the miles are needed, I'm up as early as 4:00 a.m.), and I just recently upped my running from 6 to the afore-dreaded 7 days. In those runs, I also never run fewer than four miles (for some weirdly compulsive reason, 6 has been the minimum as of late). Some call these facts hypocritical. I will gladly eat that crow.
Trinkets - I felt this category needed its own space outside the "apparel" section. Really, we're dealing with apples and oranges. The first items worth mentioning fall under the title of "safety gear." I now use a headlamp and a reflective bib or singlet. I still run with an iPod shuffle on distance runs, but it carries podcasts or a book on tape, and not loud, distracting, or pace-altering music. My most valuable trinket, though, is my Garmin Forerunner 605. This GPS watch is absolutely amazing. It measures my distance, my pace, my elevation changes, my interval workouts, and even feeds me when I need fuel. (OK, so I made that last part up, but it would if it could). I upload my workouts into an online database and view my runs using satellite technology. I cannot believe I ran, even as late as June 2011, relying solely on a stopwatch and the promise that I had a clue (I didn't, by the way). There has always been a bit of skepticism concerning the accuracy of these devices, but that's all fine and well and expected. I just can't argue with my results in using it as a runner, frankly. Beyond making things a bit more serious, the watch makes it a lot more fun.
Travel - Every time I went out of town this year, I packed running supplies. In many cases, I even scouted out running locations using Map My Run or word-of-mouth suggestions. On a trip to Idaho in June, I managed a tempo run on the world's oldest treadmill (seriously) and an 8-mile out and back on a gravel trail made from a converted railroad bed. Later in the summer on a trip to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, Stephanie and I ran 8- and 10-mile loops through the harbor and into Maine. On a later stop in Manchester, we found a high school track and completed a speed workout, then tried our hand at trail running in Mt. Holyoke State Park in Vermont. Our big plans to travel and run came in October when we flew all the way to Washington D.C. solely to run in a marathon (well, to visit Sara and see the city as well). Over the Thanksgiving holiday we managed a 12-miler from St. Helena, and we have a long-run planned for our short trip to Half Moon Bay. This trend continues next year; in April, we take our habits to Eugene for our third marathon.
Competition - My running started taking off when I summoned the desire to run a half marathon just to say I'd done one. Running is certainly more goal-driven these days. I now engage in friendly competition with myself, others in my age group, my teammates, and members of the community. The dedication has pushed my brain into continual consideration of my PRs (personal records), and each race at a given distance presents a new challenge.
Community - It isn't all competition, though, and this last category is not something that, per se, makes me define myself as "runner" instead of "someone who runs." The final point here is really about what running has done for my family and me, and what our friendships with teammates has meant. I've definitely met some amazing athletes, and I've run and trained with some of the hardest working runners in the region. There is also a deep dedication to volunteerism, with all runners dedicated hours and days of their lives to supporting the team, the community, and the culture of running. It's here that I've connected with amazing, caring friends who, at the even the slightest hint of uncertainty, would race (seriously race) to my side. Success on the course isn't why the team is successful; it's the way people with common interests support one another and work toward something better.

As I exit the list, I realize that in writing this the reflection has transformed into an appreciation letter to my wife and teammates. But that's OK. It's not about me. And maybe that's another reason we're really all training for here?

Happy New Year, to you and to FOO.

The long and winding road

2011-12-15T18:06:00.000-08:00

that leads / to your door / will never disappear

This week, like clockwork, it grows.

The final day of finals week stands at the ready, and in the days that lead to its glorious arrival, my typically quiet break and prep roar to life with conversation. Students trickle in, form a line, and mumble among their colleagues as they wait to discuss the direction of their final papers--due tomorrow, by the way. With their colleagues, and with me in conference, these students disclose their concerns and articulate the process of their drafting. It's a heartwarming time for me because it validates the process I hope they'll grasp before they leave my classroom in June.

I am not a masochist; I do not assign composition during exam week in order apply pressure to their already stressful lives. I do not assign writing so that they'll suffer this week and perhaps truly appreciate the fact that they're given a vacation. I do not assign writing because I believe in unifying their collective thinking on the issues that shape our world. I assign so that I can depart confidently with a stack of unique, slightly confident voices in my tote bag, for the winter affords time to read. Slowly.

**************************
I hear voices, one by one, as they move forward in line. "So here's my introduction, Mr. Petty." I don't really know if it's what you're looking for."

"Put the paper down," I say. "Tell me what the point of this essay is. Verbally. Please."

And then I wait for awhile. When the soft sounds start to fall forward, I sometimes make funny faces. Sometimes I close my eyes because, as they artfully stumble over canned thesis statements and familiar verbiage, I feel like I'm swallowing cubes of ice shaped like stop signs.

(Maybe a stop sign is the wrong figure, but I'm definitely ingesting an oddly shaped command.)

Despite my contortions and my countenance, I love the listening. I love hearing them come to terms with the purpose of their writing. I love listening to them realize they are not writing for me or to me, but instead as a means to prove something to someone somewhere.

When they realize this, their tractor beam eyes bore a hole through my frame and fixate on an attainable mirage. It's a plateau, a clover field of respite in the not-so-distant future.

They bounce off like elk in pursuit, but I'm sure this excitement subsides in time. Writing is, after all, a process. At some point, likely late at night, they'll bash their elk horns dramatically against the wall (or keyboard) in hopes of shaking the kernels of truth they found blossoming in our dialogue from their stems. Sometimes, amazingly, petals fall to floor where they're quickly collected and funneled onto the computer screen.

**************************
It's Thursday evening now, and tomorrow's submission deadline approaches (along with any round of exams). The long and winding road is not so long and winding anymore. At the last bell I spoke to only two students. There's a small queue forming in my digital inbox, but it's not the same.

I have high hopes for voices tomorrow. The kind coming from the essay of a developing writer, at least.

Two People and the People's Marathon

2011-11-09T17:22:00.000-08:00

The blog below offers Stephanie and my separate observations of the our most recent accomplishment, finishing the 36th Annual Marine Corps Marathon.

Pre-race

S: I stopped checking Weather.com on Saturday when it told me that it would feel like mid-20s at the start. I decided I was better off not knowing what awaited me. After a metro ride, a line for the world's shortest bus ride, and a security checkpoint, we ended up huddled under a tent in the Pentagon parking lot. I was wearing a headband over my ears, gloves, a tank top, a throw-away t-shirt, arm warmers, running shorts, sweat pants, a throw-away sweatshirt, and a fleece sweatshirt, and still muscles I did not know I had were shaking in the cold. This didn’t give me a good feeling about the pace my body would hold.

During the very mild winters in Sacramento, I move at near crawling pace for the first two miles of any run. My original goal for Marine Corps was to try to hold 8:45 per mile pace (this translates to a finish time under 3:50) for as long as possible with the real goal being to finish under 4 hours (9:10 pace). My first marathon led me to believe that fading in the last 6 miles was inevitable. I don’t run the kind of mileage that I should, and even sub 4 hours would have been a 10 minute PR. My challenge to myself was to stay tough and keep fighting as long as I could. All week I had been making a mental list of things to focus on when the miles got hard: (1) my grandfather, who is no longer with us but remains a source of inspiration, (2) my grandmother who is probably the toughest person I will ever meet, (3) my dad’s annoying “just one more” mantra, (4) Kyle and how I would want him to keep working in the same situation, (5) how I was able to sustain my pace during some tough training runs, and (6) my friends and family back home.

K: My mind, dependent on a particular method, would have likely spent the hours before the race fretting over my less than methodical body. Luckily, I suppose, I had the freezing temperatures to preoccupy me. Beneath my Fleet Feet Racing tracksuit I wore my racing singlet, tube sock arm warmers, throw-away t-shirt, and a Marine Corps Marathon mock turtle neck. I also wore my neoprene gloves and a neon green throw-away beanie.

I could see stars, so I knew the sun would eventually show itself. But I wasn't certain how long it would take to warm me up. The most comfortable I felt outside all morning was bunched in the security checkpoint lines. This is ironic now, since later I would be running in a race boasting tens of thousands of entrants and wouldn't have any sort of proximity to a bunched group outside the starting line.

Once Stephanie and I checked our bags, I darted in and out of the throng toward what I assumed would be the starting line. I considered this a warm-up, and actually ended up running about three quarters of a mile. Once I reached my corral--right behind the start line and the elite corral, I had plenty of time to stretch, stride, and move about. I found Erin, a Fleet Feet employee, just as they collapsed the first two corrals and moved us in together toward the start line, where I was about two rows back. I ditched the t-shirt, and waited for Drew Carey to fire the start gun.

Mile 1

S: (8:40) My watched beeped well before the first mile marker, so the first mile was definitely slower than this. In general, my watch measured the course a little long, so take my mile times with a grain of salt. Mile 1 has some uphill portions, but I was surprised by how quickly I got up to pace. It was much less crowded than CIM, despite the extra 13,000 runners.

K: (6:43) I had no idea where we were headed. I started to recognize elements ofRosslyn, where our hotelwas located, and seeing elements from the previous days. I didn't really anticipate the first hill on the Lee Highway, which made the hard left pretty tough. The first runners alreadydarted off the street to use johns.

Mile 2

S: (9:37) I knew there was another hill coming but when I saw the size of it I practically groaned. My plan had been to run with even effort and not waste energy on the early hills. I’m a good hill runner, but I have a tendency to charge up them to the detriment of the rest of my race. Apparently, I jogged up this hill. I wasn’t happy when I saw how much time I bled.

K: (6:45)Coming up toward thetwo-mile marker, my cluster started passing a number of chair racers,especially those cranking with their arms. There were some chain issues, someweather issues, and some just showed fatigue. It was clearly going to be astruggle for some of them all day.

Mile 3

S: (9:25) The uphill continued onto the third mile. I had already conceded that I wasn’t going to hit 3:50, but I realized I needed to step it up to break 4 hours. I had a pace band that had the paces for each mile to break 4 hours, and I wasn’t on it. I was, however, warming up. I started the race still wearing the headband ear warmer, gloves, throw-away t-shirt, and arm warmers, but by the top of the hill, I had ditched all of my extra layers and was down to my tank top and running shorts. Somewhere around here I passed a guy wearing a full shark costume.

K: (6:36)Before mile three we turnedat a CVS pharmacy, I remember. There was a woman running on my side whose soncheered as he watched his mother competing for the first time. I recallcongratulating her before cutting the tangent and heading down hill on LorcomLn. The sun was starting to assert itself a bit, and the creek and foliagelooked beautiful in the autumn dawn.

Mile 4

S: (8:14) This mile had a nice downhill which I love. I can really let go and fly and it doesn’t bother my quads at all. How fast and easy this mile was made me realize I was silly to go so easy up the hills when I was going to rest soon on the downhills.

K: (6:16)The downhill helps explainthis split, but just before the four-mile marker we climbed a hill and crossedan old bridge off the George Washington Memorial Pkwy. The line of runners wasnoteworthy, but the spectators hadn’t made it out in full force yet. I say thisbecause the bridge was frozen, and no one really knew it until their stridesstarted sliding around. After the small bridge, we rejoined the main road andcrossed the Potomac into Georgetown.

Mile 5

S: (8:51) This mile went uphill a bit. I passed a man who was running with a prosthetic leg and added that to my reasons not to complain. I wanted to say something to him, but couldn’t think of anything good enough. Throughout the race, there was a lot of passing and being passed by wheelchairs, which was a big production. On the uphills, they were stuck or cranking at a crawl. I felt bad for them. On the rest of the course, people would yell for the runners to move to the left or the right as the wheelchairs passed. It got confusing whether they were saying to move to the left or the wheelchair was on the left. I took my first gel here. I was trying to fuel better than in my first marathon by fueling early and often. I took Gatorade at every water station before the first gel and water at every aid station after that. I even drank some water and ate some Jelly Belly sport beans at the start line.

K: (6:27)Leveled out on Canal Rd.and passed a few groups. I ran with three or four in a pack, losing one to thepit stop in the high grass on the side of the road. Saw my first non-marathon,casual joggers along the river and thought their decision to run was a bad idea(although I didn’t have the same feelings about my own). Pace was regulated,and I was satisfied but a long way from relaxed

Mile 6

S: (8:34) This mile was a nice, slow descent. This was the part of the course when I started thinking that I liked the course because it seemed to have more downs than ups. I know that’s actually not true, but once I was over the early hills, it felt easier. This was also one of my favorite parts of the course because there is a stretch where you can see the runners ahead of you coming down a steep hill on the right. I looked forward to running down it. We saw the wheelchairs and then a car with a clock on it and then the lead runners. It was exciting to see how fast those guys were running and how good they looked doing it. We all clapped as they passed even though we were running, too. I moved over to the right shoulder in the hope that I could see Kyle if he came down the hill. Alas, I only saw about the first 10 runners.

K: (6:33)Between 5-6 I caught myfirst glimpse of chair racers coming down the hill. No lead pack, so I wasstill making decent time, though I didn’t know how far away from that downhill I was at thetime.

Mile 7

S: (9:01) There is another set of hills going up mile 7. I had learned my lesson and pushed up them slightly. I passed a guy running completely barefoot. No Vibram FiveFingers – just barefoot. In light of the icy bridge we had already passed, I didn’t think this was a good idea.

K: (6:43) Doubled back and headed uptoward the reservoir in Georgetown. A pretty sizeable hill. Passed more chairracers and ran directly into the sun, partly blinded. Topped out and fetched myfirst fuel, which I’d trapped in my watch, since I knew I’d have water again at7.

Mile 8

S: (8:44) I was a bit disappointed when we hit the downhill. It was so steep no one around me was running at the right pace. As a result, I had to slow down and dodge people, and didn’t get to take advantage of the steep descent. Instead, it was like hitting the breaks. Yuck.

K: (6:20) The pace here speaks foritself. I was coming downhill through the suburbs. The cheering picked up here in Georgetown. I passed a team surrounding a blind runner. Very amicable,very supportive guys all around. Lots of chatter about who was stationed where.

Mile 9

S: (8:34) I took my second gel and enjoyed running through the crowds in Georgetown.

K: (6:17) I didn’t really slow off thedownhill when leveling off into the central district through Georgetown. Thetown was a blast. The streets were caked with people and signs and noise.Turned right toward the Potomac and caught another downhill with a sweet view.Beautiful spot, until we were suddenly socked in under a raised freeway.

Miles 10 - 13

S: (8:57) Sara told me she would be waiting before the 10 mile marker. As we approached, the street was lined on both sides with people and her puffy white jacket wasn’t as unique as we thought it would be. I worried I would miss her, but ended up finding her and Andrew easily. I was happy to see friendly faces.

(8:35) When I saw this split I told myself I was crazy and to remember that I had 15 miles left. Perhaps my body didn’t understand what it was in for? In retrospect, I think this was when I found my grove.

(8:39) There were a few times when there was a break in the crowd and I felt how cold the wind was. It occurred to me that Kyle might be having a different experience out in front. The brutal cold was apparently the perfect temperature for me. It was keeping me from being hot. Only afterwards did I realize how much running in a crowd had saved me from the wind.

(8:40) The gel I took here came straight from the gel station. It was awesome. Marines were lined up holding boxes and shouting flavors. In general, they ran the aid stations with the expected military precession, but the gel station was particularly impressive. I didn’t hear the guy who yelled “raspberry” in time to get over and that is my favorite flavor. I hate chocolate and mocha so I gave those marines the cold shoulder. I was happy with vanilla.

(6:23, 6:32, 6:30, 6:36)

This blurs together in my mind. It was a pretty straightshot down an island in the Potomac. Pace didn’t waver much after Georgetown. Weran through park settings, some of which were clogged with people, and othersthat were desolate and empty. According to my map, I missed the view of theLincoln Memorial here. My first conversation of the race was over one band’sstellar rendition of STP’s “Vaseline.” I crossed the mat at 13.1 at 1:25,nearly better than the PR I tried so hard to beat for the first 6 months of theyear. I finally ditched my tube sock arm warmers here, though I probably couldhave gone longer.

Mile 14 - 16

(8:54, 8:36, 8:50): Somewhere around here I stopped checking my pace band at every mile. It was also now loud enough that I couldn’t always hear my watch beep. I was minutes ahead of my goal and my splits had been good, so I just went with the flow. I also decided that because I was feeling so good, Kyle was surely feeling good, too. I was sure he would smash his old time and I looked forward to conferring with him after his race.

K: (6:28) I planned to fuel again at14, but I needed water to wash down the gel. This might have been anothermistake, since there wasn’t any aid station on the horizon. I had the Gu openin my hand, but continued to hold off. I wasn’t desperate, but I wanted tofollow a regimen, at least.

(6:35)I realized I’d made ajudgment error, so I started taking little plugs from the Gu and doing my bestto digest them without water. I caught a quick sight of the new MLK Memorialhere, which was enormous.

(6:34) I finally got my water atmile 16, and charged through the rest of the Gu. There was a little turn aroundhere, and spectators bounced back and forth across the median in order to gettwo viewings of the runners. Given the gaps in the faster pack, I actually hadto dodge a few fans. After the water station, I lost sight of the person infront of me and had to ask a Marine if the route turned.

Mile 17

S: (8:39) At CIM last year, this is where the wheels came off. I wanted to get as far past this point feeling OK as possible, and I was pleased to still feel good. I took another gel.

K: (6:24) Just past 17, you gothrough something called the MCM Gauntlet, but I don’t recall of what itconsisted. Maybe it was just a bunch of Marines? On the map, this section ofthe course is so phallic it’s not even funny. Seriously. Maybe that’s where itgot its name? Anyway, I hit another water station, and tried to add crushedelectrolyte tabs I’d packed in my Spi belt to a cup of water. The cup spilled,and the tab wouldn’t dissolve, so I had a sip and then a bite of the tab. Thetaste was bitter, and the plan was ill conceived.

Mile 18

S: (8:42) The mall was chaotic in a good way. I think this was about where I saw Sara and Andrew again. There was so much going on that I’m not even sure exactly where I was at that point. It was a blur of bands, people on both sides of the street screaming, and landmarks. Not to mention the surreal feeling of realizing I was deep into the race and still feeling good. Once I found them, even though she said she might try to see me again, I stopped looking for them because it was so crowded and scanning the crowd was taking a lot of effort.

K: (6:26) I still felt good at thispoint, and was optimistic about finally cutting the remaining miles to singledigits. I emerged from a tree-lined street and caught a beautiful view of the CapitolBuilding, front and center, just as my watch hit 2 hours.

Mile 19

S: (8:31) I grabbed some sport beans from that station, and we did a circle in front of the Capitol. One odd thing about me is that despite how many years I have been running, I’ve never chaffed. Ever. Before long runs, I put body glide in certain spots just because it seems like the thing to do. At this point in the marathon, I realized the streak was broken. Underneath my arms stung a bit. I was chaffing for the first time ever. It didn’t hurt badly, so it was easy to ignore. I blame the cold, but overall that it was funny to realize, “oh, so this is what chaffing is.”

K: (6:30) Just before 19, I hadchance to rectify the electrolyte debacle with the Jelly Belly fuel station. Istruggled to open the package with gloves, without gloves and cold hands, andin my teeth. It was so frustrating I even laughed aloud, prompting the guy nextto me to look over.

Mile 20

S: (8:43) There’s a bridge around the 20 mile marker that I barely registered at the time. Batala Washington, Inc., an all-women percussion group was playing before the bridge, and I loved them. I’m a big fan of any sort of drum line. (Earlier, I also enjoyed the ‘90s alt rock covers that Kyle had.) It made this stretch of the race a lot of fun and any incline on the bridge unnoticeable.

K: (6:42)Hit another water stationand opted for Gatorade because of the concern over electrolytes. I finally toreinto the beans—though I lost three—and once I got them in my mouth realizedthey were pretty well frozen, which made for a tough chew. A hard left justpast the Smithsonian, and we were heading toward the water again.

Mile 21

S: (8:31) When I passed the 20 mile marker, I remembered that one of Kyle’s teammates said to go all out from here on in. I didn’t know how to translate that into the right level of effort, particularly because I still thought I might start to fade soon. Nonetheless, I did start picking it up. It occurred to me that Kyle was finished. I had my final gel and the shark came back on me. I was impressed, but then I realized that you must be a strong runner to think you can run a marathon in a shark costume. This part of the course was a little strange because you are running on a freeway, which has some hills to it. There were people stopping on the median to stretch their calves. It pains me to see this happen to people. I can’t imagine having to restart with so much distance to go. I almost broke my streak of not seeing anyone throw-up, but luckily looked away in time. My legs were definitely feeling the effects of having run for so long, but it was surreal how well I felt and how I was now dodging the slowing runners around me. I was pretty certain I would break 4 hours at this point, and I was really happy about it.

K: (6:42)I finally ditched the freeCIM beanie here, but mostly because I wanted some pictures in the last stretchwithout a neon orb on my head. A man on a bike, who I’m told was a one timeFleet Feet racer, caught me just after mile 20 and said, “Make Chad (my coach)proud.” The map calls this Beat the Bridge, but the only challenge seems to bethe desolation. It’s a long bridge, yes, and it’s on a freeway, but there’snothing out there to beat except your brain. I opened another Gu justacross the bridge, still operating under the 7-14-21 plan despite the fact thatI just had my last packet at 16. Again, I made an error, and didn’t see wateruntil 22. Again, I took small nips from the packet in hopes that I could dosome damage control in the process.

Mile 22

S: (8:45) In general, I would say that the aid stations were really good for such a crowded race. I had to change my pace a bit and dart in to get a drink, but it wasn’t bad. The exception was the water station before mile 22. It was located on the outside of a turn and I went to the inside before seeing it. I had to make an abrupt change of direction to get water and slowed down a lot in the process. It was a lot of chaos for that point in the race.

K: (6:42)Crystal City is perhaps thebane of my MCM experience. It was the kind of stretch that’s packed on purelyfor mileage. It’s urban, it’s odd, and it’s unfriendly. Runners pass you on theright, and you keep waiting and waiting to make the loop and join them. Onceyou see the spot, you can’t believe your eyes. It was about the size of a hotelvalet loop, and it was surfaced in brick.

Mile 23

S: (8:32) I had the sport beans I had been saving. A few beans flew out of the package as I opened it, and I realized jelly beans are a silly thing to eat while moving. I wasn’t a fan of the Crystal City out and back, but was thankful there was at least some crowd noise.

K: (6:42)Despite hating thisstretch, I maintaed steady 6:42s here, which might look like some sort ofregulating. Unfortunately, it’s really just the precursor to the breakdown. Ipassed Erin on her way out, and she complimented my race. I thanked her, butthought she’d probably catch me. I made a few turns and felt serious fatigue.One or two passed me here, albeit slowly, and I complemented them as best Icould. I was offered Dunkin’ Donut samples by a very pushy volunteer justbefore the 24-mile marker, and turned her down. In retrospect, I wonder if itwould have helped?

Mile 24 - 25

S: (8:49, 8:29) It started to dawn on me here that I was approaching 3:50 pace. I didn’t think I could break it, but it was going to be close. It was strange to reconsider something I had given up on at mile 2. Another weird aspect of running on freeways towards the end was running down a very twisty offramp.

K: (6:54) Two Gatorade cups here atthis aid station. I remember reaching for anything that I thought might sustainme for two more miles. I kept thinking it would only take 14 minutes if I couldkeep it under 7s.

(7:22)I passed the Pentagon andcursed a bit, wondering how a location I had to take a train to could be soclose to the finish line, the station from which I took the train in the firstplace. I caught some more Gatorade at an aid station near the start line, nowstrewn in shed clothing. I kept checking my pace as I felt myself slowing, andnoted that I was close, really, really, really close. I recall imaging that Ilooked like a slow motion recording—either that or someone dragging around awagon full of lead.

Mile 26

S: (8:14) I ignored the last water station because I figured it wouldn’t make any difference and it was better to get the faster time. Since my watch was off from the course, I couldn’t calculate exactly how fast I needed to run the last mile in order to break 3:50 or if it was even possible. My gut told me it just barely wasn’t possible. I also didn’t know how to race the last mile. MCM ends on an uphill I had never seen. It would be dangerous to redline before that and then have to charge up the hill. I was also really happy about what my time was going to be regardless. I never thought I could come so close to 3:50. I knew the wheels weren’t going to fall off and I would run in strong. During this mile, I also realized I had not thought of any of the things I intended to think of when it went bad, because it never went bad. I was so happy. I was also dodging even more runners and it was getting harder to dodge some of them because our speeds were so different. It was a good thing I was not going all out.

K: (8:09) My watched logged the 26^thmile before the map shows it—which is at a distinct left turn—and given theseverity of my fatigue, I was pissed. Much of what I recall is a haze. I watched my shadow, now and what I assume is crawling speed, as I inched through an area that looked like bizarro-wasteland version of the start line. I was only passed by one or two folks, since at this point most that weren't breaking down nabbed me back near the Pentagon and the Key Bridge.

Mile 26.2

S: (8:22 pace) As the 26th mile approached, I kept looking for the hill because I knew it would signal the end. It was strange how not seeing it made me frustrated. When I finally saw it, I was taken aback by how long and steep it was. I had been feeling good, but as soon as I started charging up the hill, I felt instantly much worse. I still finished strong in 3:50:13. I was so happy with how good I felt, but I realized that my slow first miles and lack of aggression at the end cost me a sub 3:50 finish. As often is the case, I was faster than I gave myself credit for.

K: (8:06 pace)Two men were walking (though they bothstarted back up), and once I made the turn toward the final hill (yes!) and theIwo Jima Marine Corps Memorial, I was at a crawl. My watch was over 26.2, mylegs were done, and I slowed to a wobbly walk to climb the hill. It was one ofthose Disney movie moments where the crowd feels pity and starts to will youon, so I started running, only to slow and stop again. Near the top, I pickedit up, and crossed to a somewhat lackluster closing. There seemed to be somesetup still going on, and I don’t eve recall my name being said. I stopped mywatch, and realized how really ugly the end had become. I was on pace for another8:10 mile. It also indicates that the MCM course ran long, a fact that wasconfirmed by at least three other watches in our group and a number ofsuspicious runners at the finis.

Post-Race

S: The finish was well-organized. You had to walk a bit, but I think it prevented me from getting too sore later. I also liked that they handed you all the food and drink you could want instead of you wandering around into different lines. I’m not good at thinking and finding lines after a marathon. CIM made me overwhelmed. It was a long walk back to Kyle and I started to get anxious wondering how he did. I was so excited when I saw him and his teammate Brian sitting on a curb by the UPS trucks. I was so sure he had broken 3 hours and really happy for him when I heard he had. I chomped on my post-race food as we waited for Sara and Andrew to show-up and then Dan shortly after. I was so proud of Dan for finishing his first marathon. Particularly after I saw his bloody shoe.

It was so nice to feel good after a marathon. Before I ran my first marathon, I had always thought that longer distances (and ultimately the marathon) were my strength, but the way I felt after CIM erased that belief. Marine Corps made me think of myself as a marathoner again. All in all, I thought this was a great race. I loved the crowds and the course would definitely run Marine Corps sometime in the future.

K: I don't recall how I knew where to go, but after the finisher photo and a meandering pathway through stacked boxes and Gatorade sports bottles, I trekked nearly½ mile down toward Rosslyn. I remember being extremely happy to be wrapped in my finisher foil. It cut the wind and, when hit by the sun, immediately warmed me. I found my assigned UPS truck at the bottom of a long, sloping hill, and tried to get into something warmer. My hands felt like blocks, and when I opted to kick my shoes off, I struggled to do so without allowing my calves to seize. It was a battle. I fought my compression socks for nearly 20 minutes, and count finally getting them on as the second major accomplishment of the morning. I found a street corner in the sun, transferred the wrap to my legs, and starting sifting through social media updates to see how far out Stephanie, Brian, and Dan were. We had planned to meet in the link-up corrals, but it wasn't necessary given the surprising ease with which I found them all coming down the street.

Other than the fact that the finish provided plenty of time to brood over the final miles, I was damn happy with the result. The sub-three time had, at one stage in the training, seemed like a pipe dream. I consider my myself lucky to have done so well for 24 miles, no matter what 25 and 26 and .2-ish ended up looking like.

For more, check out Sara's video coverage of the event:

The Marathon Blog B-list

2011-11-02T21:27:00.000-07:00

We're busy cooking up a marathon blog over here, but it takes some time to simmer and set up. When time permits, Dr. Z and I will distill miles and the memories from our epic trip to D.C.

Until then, however, I have some thoughts I'd like to share about marathons and traveling and running that wouldn't otherwise make it onto the A-list spousal recall blog. So for now, enjoy the B-list blog.

Body: Travel does interesting things to people. I'd like to say that each and every trip on an airplane is a learning a experience, but all I really understand is that I have no idea how my body operates when it gets confused about where it's at.

I had decided that running a marathon, for me at least, required a kind of normalcy that I feared traveling might disrupt. If things didn't happen exactly how I believed they should have in the days leading up the race--if something was off even in the slightest sense--I feared my performance would degrade as well. Marine Corps stood as the marathon to test this theory, and to test the notion of destination marathoning in the future.

The bad news: my body did not cooperate. Airplanes and airports and snacking and restaurant food defeated me again. All the wife's tales, homeopathic remedies, and coffee in the world didn't save me from the circumstances. The good news? None of it mattered. Despite giving my mind something supercilious to fret over, my system did not negatively impact my physical performance in the race.

Breakfast: It's been a tradition since our training for CIM in 2010 to have a serving of oatmeal as our pre-race meal. We've rotated additives from time to time, trying preserves, raspberries, dried cranberries, and lately, walnuts. It's an easy meal that doesn't fill us up, yet manages to last well into the final stretches of the race.

In order to continue that tradition in D.C, I had to divvy up servings of oats and walnuts into small plastic bags. Without flatware, I dropped our ingredients into hotel glasses. Without a stove top or microwave to heat the water, I placed the glasses under the drip system of the hotel coffeemaker. Voilà! Hot water, and the tradition lives on.

Bands: I recall them playing during CIM, and there certainly are some popular half marathons in the city of Sacramento that station musicians and pep bands at various miles along the course. The Marine Corps Marathon offered this as well, but it's worth noting that the regional flavor offered a far more diverse brand of entertainment.

Good old Sacramento loves its classic rock, so the bands on the course love to play versions of popular songs from the genre. I've heard more covers of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers' "Running Down a Dream" than I care to count (once played by different bands at different places in the same race). But in D.C., given that so many of the tenants are 20- and 30-somethings, the tunes reflected another time and place altogether. There was the band covering "Vaseline" by the Stone Temple Pilots--covering it so well that I originally thought it was being played from the album itself; there was the all-girl group thumping some mean original songs out by the golf course near mile 14; and there was the banjo-heavy folk group on the edge of the mall. The music was collectively distinct, unique, and refreshing.

Another contrast worth mentioning is the difference in music played by the various marching bands who work along the course. East Coast high school bands are obviously part of a different musical rotation than band directors opt for out West. Yet these songs and styles weren't as distinct as the various college and university bands who proliferated the course. Under the direction of younger (and dare I say hipper?) band leaders, the music they offered didn't solely disrupt the monotony of running a marathon, it actually entertained.

Bystanders: In addition to the Marines who dedicated their mornings to chauffeuring and organizing, to handing out water, Gatorade, and fuel, the supportive fans made the race a memorable experience. Many held signs and posters, and some of these were quite creative. Some of the standouts:
"Stop reading this sign and keep running."
"You are the 1%, because 99% of us would never do it."
"Toenails are sooo last season."
"Worst Parade Ever."

Buddies:It was great to have Stephanie, Dan, and Sara involved in the experience.

Sara and her boyfriend Andrew hopped the metro through the District in order to catch our crossings and document the experience. She put together a great video of the run using a flip camera.

I was fortunate to also share the racing experience with three teammates from the Fleet Feet Sacramento racing team. Lisa, whose husband ran the Marine Corps Historic Half Marathon, ran the full. My buddy Brian, in town for a conference the previous week, also participated. Here we are warming up after the race:

In addition to diligently following Sara around town, Andrew, who works for a congressman, gave Stephanie and me a private tour of the Capitol. Here are a few shots from before and during the tour to close out the B-list.

Armories, Lobbies, and Other Useful Ways to Avoid the Weather

2011-10-31T15:07:00.001-07:00

It was likely the phrase uttered by most of the people inthe Washington. It was a subject on everyone’s mind, and it hung like the cloudof its subject as we navigated the people and puddles to pick up our racepackets at the marathon expo.

“God, I hope it’s not like this tomorrow.”

I’m referring to the weather on Saturday, of course. I doconcede that the phrase was altered in various ways by the time the race rolledaround—the most common of which was probably, “It’s a good thing they don’t runthese things on Saturdays.” All the preoccupation with the weather waswarranted, though, because Saturday stands as a wet, cold reminder of winter onthe East Coast.

With my treadmill television stuck at the Weather ChannelSaturday morning, I observed how the news coverage made a point to push thesnow flurries out of the district. It was almost like they willed it so, to behonest. The line on their forecast screens did not maintain the arbitrary boundaryI’m used to, but instead followed the geography of the city limits.

The weather cooperated with this for plan for some time.Waiting under an umbrella outside the Armory, I spoke with Lisa, a teammatefrom Fleet Feet Racing who regularly runs Marine Corps (MCM). She told of snowoutside the city, cars being towed, and a certain degree of wonder at the wholemess Mother Nature seemed to be making. We did our best to stay dry, and werethankful to have the expo, even though it was largely pointless from a runner’sstandpoint, since it shielded us from the rain.

We also took refuge in a terrific restaurant and bookstorecalled Busboys and Poets, a tribute to Langston Hughes and his time spent as,yes, a busboy in a D.C. hotel.

By the time we’d hoofed it to Sara’s apartment, themeaningless lines from the weather report had blown away. From the lobby of herbuilding, we watched as the rain turned to sleet, then ultimately snow. Itdidn’t stick to the ground, but instead flurried and faded as it saw fit. Itcontinued for most of the afternoon, and when we glanced out the windows fromour fourth safe haven, the Portrait Gallery, we were treated to the sight offalling snow.

The winter storm sputtered to a close as we walked to dinnerat a fantastic spot called Founding Fathers. We weren’t much paying attentionto the weather, however, due to an overwhelming desire to eat everything on themenu. As far as pre-race dinners go, Founding Fathers is second to none. (It’snoteworthy to mention that the waitress did not completely botch the finalpayment, either.) By the time we exiting the restaurant, the stars were out andthe wind had lost some of its consistency.

At one point I may have even said, “I can run in this.” Itwas a phrase I certainly felt happy to utter.

Down in the District

2011-10-29T04:25:00.000-07:00

And by "down," I most certainly mean temperature. Here's a short rundown of the events thus far.We landed in Dulles around 3:15 EST to clouds and mid-50s temps and a sputtering, blustery wind.

After a lengthy taxi ride into Arlington and a quick hotel check-in area festooned by Sauconys and Asics and swag bags, we took the metro to find Sara and Dan, who had secured reservations at a swank spot called 1905.

We enjoyed socializing over a mostly decent meal (a fatty brisket special, an organic beef burger made with mushrooms, medium-rare [?] duck, and an order of folded spanakopita), but felt quite let down when our server's actions revealed that she didn't know how to logically divide a check between three parties. (We asked for the tab to be paid with some cash, then split the rest between two cards. On the first try, we received receipts for two cards that had been charged to split the entire bill, thus leaving the waitress with a cash tip at something like 55-60%. Once we prompted the host to correct this, we received two receipts split at an even amount, but much higher than the leftover price should have been. It appears as though she split the cash, then the check, and did so in a way that still left herself with a 25% cash gratuity.) Or maybe she knew too well? Time to write "cash" on the credit card receipts and go.

We emerged from the restaurant around 8:30 EST and found a chilly evening, light rain, and a game 7 underway. (Sidebar: I honestly don't know how folks on the east coast watch evening sports. I tried to watch the final innings before going to sleep, and had to turn the TV off in the 8th because it was almost 11 PM.)

Halloween started early here. The metro stations and trains offered an odd mix of commuters, tourists, kids, and characters. A man previewing one element of his costume, a replica jacket inspired by MJ's "Bad," garnered the most attention. The ride home nearly morphed into a on-train dance off, but a jeering adolescent's pride got the best of her.

It's morning here now, the Cards have won the World Series, and I've finished my last training jog before the marathon. It saddened me a bit that I had to resort to using a basement treadmill to run 4 easy miles. While I have the right clothing for a street run in D.C., and I would have preferred to acclimate myself to the temperature, Stephanie wisely pointed out the fact that one does not want wet shoes before a 26.2-mile run. Running with a television in your face is also, apparently, educational. I now know what a Nor'easter is.

Today we'll take the metro to the Armory building and quickly wander the Marine Corps Marathon Expo. We'll pick up our bibs, our swag, and maybe some used gloves for Stephanie to wear and then ditch along the course. Then we'll meet up with Dan and Sara for some quality friend time, then put the finishing touches on an epic week of carb loading at a place called Founding Farmers.

I'll work on a quick update later that provides bib numbers, links for spectators, and instructions on how to maintain pre-race rituals when you're living out of a suitcase.

Going, going, gone.

2011-10-24T19:43:00.000-07:00

The last bit of gin before the marathon. It's hydration from here.

Extreme Makeover: Marathon Taper Edition

2011-10-23T21:24:00.000-07:00

Eight days before the marathon and six days before the departing flight, we found ourselves with a weekend. The mileage was down (10 instead of the long 20s, and no speed interval in the mix), there were no essays to speak of, and a hair-brained scheme to transform the yard took root--er, form.

Stephanie and I returned from our run to find my parents destroying the ivy bordering the front of our house.

One thing led to another and down came trees, bushes, and a few drip-system sprinklers. What emerged in its place was a lot of colorful array of brick and a lot of possibility.

The ivy, invasive as it is, will return. But the goal will be to keep it at a manageable height. The remaining bush will still bloom, but the house now receives far more attention and air than it has in quite some time.

I also went on a tear on the western side of the house. We uncovered some ground, and located a lime tree. I also rekindled a long-standing relationship with an acacia tree. Both of these, despite being consumed at the trunk by twirling ivy vines, provide extensive coverage and sharp, stubborn thorns.

The 'rents also provided some drought deterrent additions to the landscaped portion of our yard. The only original features in the photo above are the rosemary, the butterfly bush, and the two green globs in the left and right of the photo. Another addition: the rock placed (seen in the lower left near the rosemary). I'm told there's another one coming, but I'm quite pleased with this one.

The remnants, much to the neighbor's chagrin. We filled our green waste bin, so I guess this makes me a proponent of the dreaded city "claw" that chugs around the neighborhood addressing street pickups.

Our shiny digs, at the end of a few hours' journey. It definitely alters what we'll envision as we stride through D.C. next Sunday.

When it rains, it pours.

2011-10-14T16:52:00.000-07:00

And this week was a wet one. Here's the rundown:

Marathon:
I was slated to top out in mileage--hitting 63--before tapering next week down to 45. While it's only three more miles than last week, the subtle changes occurred in the addition of two miles to Friday's morning and two to Sunday's. Overall, the week followed an 8, 9, 8, 6, 20, 10 format, with appropriate speed work built in on three of those days.

Work:
Here's where the "rain" really started falling. Schedules collided, and I ended up accepting two different essays across three different classes. Ever non-running, non-sleeping, non-teaching (*ahem* non-blogging) moment has revolved around reading and scoring.

The work also involved preparation for tomorrow's Bronco Invitational in Folsom. The planning and registration went smoothly enough, but it always seems to take more time than it should. Coaching for 4-5 hours on a Saturday also gets in the way of running and grading.

Attitudes at work also shifted this week, thanks to Homecoming. The schedule sagged under the weight of events, costumes, a rally, a parade, and a lot of hollering. Kids were really focused on school. Couple that attitude with the essays and you get an hour or so's worth of phone calls home (which ended around 4 today).

Body:
Maybe I should change the title of this section to "When it pains, it sores."

Things are creaking. The achilles lump has tightened and, though I keep in the icing rotation, proved to be a non-issue this week. Both calves remain unsettled. The lump from Sunday's 20 miler persisted through Tuesday and led to late-night cramping. The issue eventually pushed me back into sleeping in compression socks, and even ran in them on Thursday.

This (Friday) morning the calves held up, but the pain on the left side migrated up to the area behind the knee cap. I made it through, but am now a bit swollen, a bit strained, and a bit apprehensive about going 20 and 10 to close out the week.

---
I want to believe my update next week will be sunshine and roses thanks to the taper. But there's always room in the sky for a little rain.

**Addition: Saturday rolled off like any Saturday during peak training should. The early morning, the long coaching stint on my feet, and the sunshine and small lunch made for a tough twenty. I started around 1:00, in a mid-October hot spell. The temperature was in the mid to upper eighties, and the humidity was high as well.

I made it through the first seven, then kicked into the GMP for 6 more. By the third--the turn around--things were crumbling. My sodium levels were low, my muscles hurt, and the heat seemed oppressive. I wore a fuel belt, so I couldn't remove my shirt and continue to operate comfortably. I passed ultra marathoners on the course and we looked equally sapped. The problem was, I do not operate like an ultra marathoner.

At the close the sixth GMP--the thirteenth mile--I had to stop. I walked a bit, but felt the backside of my knee tightening. I started the slower-paced recovery, and found plateau. I managed to keep it going for a mile or so, but felt the need to stop again to recover. This became the operative strategy for the remaining miles.

I finished at Sudwerks, still making decent time given the circumstances. My final long run, in my final weekend building up to MCM, in my longest mileage week on record, was, by no stretch of the word, brutal.

Time to taper!

Urban Calf

2011-10-09T17:09:00.000-07:00

Twenty yesterday, the last six of which came in my goal marathon range (6:31-6:41). The achilles fared well enough; the only tightness occurs during stretching.

Something unexpected emerged during the running, however. The upper portion of my right calf now seems to include a tightened ball/knot just below the inside of my knee. It feels muscular, obviously, but there were moments during today's miles that I felt pains in my back and hips. Stephanie had a recent diagnoses of something clumping near her sciatic nerve. Without any knowledge of what this means, but with pain springing up in all kinds of places, I can't help but wonder.

Forget Googling or doctoring, I think I'll just take Monday off and press on. Sixty three next week, and then the taper!

Back in black

2011-10-06T20:36:00.000-07:00

The post-PR hangover is officially gone, and after a day of rest of Monday I was back at it again. Now, however, it's officially a marathon training schedule, and it's officially fall.

My body responded impressively well considering the post-race pain in my achilles and the fatigue that set in around mile nine of the race. I didn't have the typical aches and pains I felt following the halves in March and May, and appreciated the chance to build in ice and compression on the troubled spots--not just my body as a whole.

With no speed workout on Tuesday due to Sunday's race, I logged an early 8, then another 8 on Wednesday with a set of four hill sprints on the overpass. Amazingly, the pain in the heel and tendon--while still present when stretching and testing in the house--was virtually gone during the run. Even after Thursday's 9 miler (5 of which consisted of a marathon-paced tempo), I can admit with astonishment that my running is not hampered by the injury.

Knock on wood that home therapy and general TLC continue to produce positive results.

One thing to add about these early runs this week: the weather. I actually broke out the long sleeve shirt yesterday, and considered gloves today. It was spitting rain and gusty, and the clouds provided a pinkish, orange glow in the morning darkness.

The skunks came out to admire the morning as well. Today I dodged a total of five. It must be pretty funny to see someone running a 6:40 pace in the dark. But when that dude starts clapping and barking, and the flashlight strapped to his head starts bouncing about, it must look downright schizophrenic.

Stephanie informed me that we're only about two weeks from tapering. I'm sure that will sink in after my 60 and 63 mile weeks pass. Nothing says "Saturday" like a schedule that reads, "20 miles w/ last 6 @ marathon pace."

See you out there...

PR-fect.

2011-10-02T13:50:00.000-07:00

Sundays and early alarms aren't usually precursors for great experiences. I suppose that's why I woke up before my 4:30 a.m. alarm today (at 4:21).

It was race day, so we walked over to the park in the dark and arrived at the Fleet Face racing team tent around 6:30 a.m. My ankle and Achilles felt nearly healed. Things felt a bit tight when we settled into the warm up, but all was mostly good. I found the good doctor's tent, and he gave me some special black tape along the ridge of my tendon. (For the record, I shaved far more of my leg and foot than I needed to, but oh well.)

I had some initial issues with my watch and locating the satellites a the start line, so my pacing seemed to be in question from the start. I powered down, and waited for what seemed like an eternity for the Garmin to revitalize. For the first mile, I relied upon the pacing of my teammates and the fact that I was in front of the 1:25 pacer. My watch revived about a quarter mile in. I started it up at the beginning of the second mile, and settled into the 6:19-6:25 range.

Miles 3 through 6 were steady at 6:22. I separated from Adam (my teammate), and started chipping off the per-mile pace. I locked in the seventh mile at 6:13, and started knocking a few runners off around the halfway point. It wasn't speed in bursts, but increases in the pace for individual miles. Therefore, when I passed other runners, it was gradual, methodical, and measured.

After a slightly foolish 6:07 eighth mile, I held in around the 6:13-6:19 range for the subsequent couple. I knew I would break the 2009 PR, but I wasn't sure by how much at this point. My watch, remember, didn't have my overall time, so I couldn't depend on my knowledge of the 1:25:10 time to beat, nor the location of the 1:25 pacer. I was largely alone, moreover, running in a spread field of the first 20-30 racers.

I felt fatigue in the quads around mile 9, but didn't fuel with a Gu until the water station at mile 10. I passed another man between mile 10 (Sutterville Road) and the La Rivage hotel, then swooped onto Riverside Boulevard. I felt pretty comfortable at this spot--it's actually my cool down route after my tempo runs on Thursday--so I ramped up a bit at mile 11, which brought the per-mile pace down to 6:09, then again to 6:06. Things started getting tired, however. I started digesting the Gu and my stomach felt full. A few burps helped, along with some loud volunteers at the Sutterville Road overpass who cheered and chanted as I passed.

I caught another runner just before the 12-mile marker. His shirt said, "If you can read this, I just passed you," so he had to go. He was struggling, unfortunately. His stride was more of a bound, but I gathered (and later confirmed) that he was in my age group. I said, "C'mon, baby!" emphatically, as I came up on him. He did not respond, and I don't blame him because I was him, once.

I felt most alone in the last mile even though it ended in the park with the crowds. There were a number of joggers from the 5k and a few sporadic fans spread in through the shade trees. Some teammates gave me encouragement, which helped. By my watch, with 1/2 mile to go, I cut my pace to a 6:02 mile. I never looked at it again, but my uploaded time for the final mile was 5:59.

What I erased in seconds for the 13th mile I more than made up in grimaces. But when I heard my family and saw the clock ticking through the 21st minute of the hour, I pumped my fist jubilantly into the finish line. The final results: 20th overall, 4th in my age group, and 1:21:52--a new PR.

When I tell the story from my first PR in 2009 it sounds so reckless. No watch, no team, no clear goal, and a 3rd place finish in my age group. The PR hang heavy for three subsequent halfs. The Fleet Feet training through March (Shamrock'n 1:25:43) and May (Avenue of the Vines 1:26:50) of 2011 didn't quite get me there, either. I kept coming close, though, so I thought I'd measure my progress today in seconds.

I ran confidently, sure I would finally best the 2009 time. But not by over 3 minutes. Maybe it was the training. It could have been the Garmin watch, or the practice and the recent bump up to F Group. I could credit the doctor, the coach, the shoes, the team, the wife--all of it. But it wasn't just one thing. It was a compilation, and because I believed in it, it paid off.

First day, last day.

2011-10-01T06:50:00.000-07:00

October first, and the last day before Urban Cow.

With a cross country event in Yolo today at 8:00, I again found myself in the pre-5:00 streets of Land Park, getting a final 4 miles in before the coaching and the racing.

The morning was extraordinary. The sky held an eerie glow from the surrounding light pollution, and I could make out wispy clouds and the brighter constellations. Because I only went four, my route circled the park. But when my calendar involves longer runs, the view overhead seems far more impressive from the levee and riverside.

The Achilles and ankle feel better than they've felt since this affliction began last week, but there's still stiffness and pain. The home remedies seem to be working (foam rolling, ice on the ankle, heat on the calf, toe raises, and single-leg squats). I slept in compression socks again last night, but think that after wearing them to the invitational this morning, that will be it for me.

My physical therapist will be on hand at the race tomorrow, and he has promised to tape my ankle. I look forward to shaving half my leg later. Welcome to October, race fans!

Urban Cramp?

2011-09-29T18:43:00.000-07:00

With the Urban Cow half marathon approaching (Sunday), I find myself in a bit of a bind. After last Tuesday's team practice (hill repeats in Fair Oaks), I suffered some serious soreness in the area around my achilles and ankle.

I attribute the soreness to a number of unscientific factors. First of all, I arrived to practice a little late, and didn't complete my active stretches before starting my in-and-out strides. To compound that, I hadn't completed hill repeats on this particular course in nearly two months. To compound that, I hadn't completed my new workout group's reps on that course (faster times and another repetition). The workout went really, really well, but it goes without saying that I probably pushed too hard for too long. As a result, my ankle was a bit creaky through the remaining mileage of the week.

I continued running despite the pain only because the pain didn't affect the running. On Sunday, for example, I ran a fast 18 miles in Folsom, embedding 5 miles of marathon-pace tempo miles in the middle of the long run. I was at (a previously scheduled appointment in) the physical therapist's office Monday, swollen and sore.

My mind and my style are cramped. First, I have weekly mileage goals for my marathon schedule, so I don't want to lag on the totals heading in to October. Second, I don't want to hurt myself because Sunday's half remains extremely important to me. Really, I want to break my own record. I've worked hard, and want to confirm what I know to be true--it has paid off. And yet, I don't want to jeopardize my overall health and strength for the marathon.

So, my foot is in a bucket of ice. I take Tylenol in my lunch. I run if it doesn't hurt, even if it swells. I sleep in compression socks. We'll see.

Rocktober

2011-09-25T16:03:00.000-07:00

The descending temperatures. The enshrouding darkness. The increasing in mileage. The threat of October 2011 looms over the Zook/Petty household. The month begins and ends with two climactic races.

The first, Steph's and my third go round in the neighborhood's Urban Cow half marathon on October 2, presents an opportunity not only to set personal records, but a chance to gauge the effectiveness of my first year of training with Fleet Feet Sacramento. Back on September 11, in a bit of a ramp-up for Urban Cow, I ran a dynamite 10 miler in the Buffalo Stampede (1:02:45). If I can hold form, Sunday's half should bring with it a chance to finally break the PR I recklessly set back in 2009.

We're far less familiar with the second race, both in location and in distance. Our second attempt at marathon running comes on October 30, less than a year after finishing our first run in the California International Marathon. This year our goals lead us to Washington D.C. for the 36th annual Marine Corps Marathon through Northern Virginia.

With both races and increased training on the calendar, we've taken to early bedtimes (usually 9ish), ungodly alarm times (typically 4:15-5:00, depending on the day), and frequent refueling. On that front, I've expanded some of the menu creativity and built in side dishes that vary our intake and allow us to experience some of the more enjoyable flavors of the region. I return this extra work by ensuring that my increased laundry needs are addressed, since running and working mean the family's wearing four outfits a day. Stephanie keeps up, but it's amazing how much of what we fold and dry is made by Nike, Asics, or Champion.

In the blog world, my goal for now is to keep adding small updates on racing, training, and reacting to all things running. As we approach the big event on the 30th, I'll work to communicate the sights and sounds of our travels, as well as provide links to the race day festivities, racing times, and mileage splits.

Stephanie and I hope to see you out there as we continue training. We wish you the best that Rocktober has to offer (even if it's just a pumpkin latte and a day or two with temperatures in the low 70s).

On the Run

2011-09-01T13:12:00.000-07:00

Summer proved a nice time to read, crossword, and run. Despite the time to sleep in, I continue to rise at pre-dawn hours to make miles in the cool morning climate along the river and through the park near my house.

Since the start of the school year nearly one month ago, the dust has yet to settle. With typical rapidity, the Woodland Joint Unified School District continues to approve changes to educational approaches, school schedules, and district policy. As a result, the Pioneer High School teaching staff is diligently trying to navigate a schedule with seven 52-minute periods. Furthermore, these seven periods split on Wednesday and Thursday to a rotating block, with students attending periods 2, 4, and 6 one day, then 1, 3, 5, and 7 the next, for 93 minutes. I find myself struggling to make use of my prep time, and it always seems like I'm shoring up last-minute elements of the day's agenda in a frantic rush before the bell sounds.

I also stepped into the position of head cross country coach. When the position was offered, I figured the job would provide running time, and thus allow me to continue working on weekly mileage goals while coaching and supporting like-minded runners. This notion proved completely misguided, and now I find myself facilitating workouts that meet the varying needs of a variety of running types. When we run intervals on the track, I am able to jog in the opposite direction and provide encouragement and critique. However, if I send them on long/easy runs, they're strung out across town, and my attempts to join them prove either shortsighted, or just plan ignorant. I learned the hard way when, as I tried to keep two fatigued runners talking through the workout, another set of students had to hail a ride from a passing teacher to stave off an asthma attack.

With the running world unable to coexist with the coaching world, I've found myself doing something I once chastised my teammates for doing: Two and three times a week, I rise at 4:30 a.m. to put away 8 or 10 miles before work. With this decision I've had to eat crow, essentially, because in addition to finding a way to make it happen, I've started to absolutely love it. I'm sure the end of daylight savings and the onset of an autumn chill will have me humming a different tune, but for now, I'm a convert to the 5 a.m. run.

Two things to point out beyond the obvious difference in temperature and the fact that, for the rest of the day, the workout is behind you: 1.) I've seen an inordinate number of meteors; 2.) I enact my revenge on the automobile by running right down the middle of the street, which at that hour is free from obstruction.

The training has worked, and my speeds have increased along with my overall mileage. I've graduated to a higher training group on the racing team, and as a result I will face harder workouts as October--my biggest racing month this year--approaches. I'm slated to run in October 2's Urban Cow half marathon, then slated to recover and revamp for October 31's Marine Corp. Marathon in Washington D.C.

Hopefully in the interim I will have figured out how this cross country monster works...

The State of Things in the State of New Hampshire.

2011-07-23T12:22:00.000-07:00

A lot of people have asked why the hell Stephanie and I found ourselves in obscure, small towns in Massachusetts and New Hampshire. Most "vacations" to that region tend to include metropolitan stops, historical landmarks, and the Cape. The best response to the curiosities remains the basic need to briefly escape California and the steamrolling effect of the summer schedule at major law firm. But to choose this region as the destination for our summer trip illustrates our preference for bed and breakfasts, walkable places of interest, and the chance to, should we want, do nothing at all.

With those things in consideration, a trip from Boston to Portsmouth, west to Manchester, then south to Amherst begins to make sense. This slice of the east also offers a combination of gorgeous scenery, myriad walkable sites and shops, and progressive approaches to food, drink, and leisure. Like a number of more driven pockets of the country, trendier towns in New Hampshire and Massachusetts seem focused on catering to locavores and offering organic products and farm-to-table food.

Rather than provide a summary of the places we slept and ate, however, I want to focus on how this Northeasterner mindset affected one particular experience. (I can give you the lowdown on all the other details, if you are interested.) We zoom in on the morning following our first night at the Bedford Village Inn.

Zoom closer.

Closer!

There we go!

Our spread included a small kitchenette, something the lodging description signified as a "convenience kitchen." I don't know what that means, but perpetual restauranting in a place of such abundance for the consumer started to seem illogical. I took the availability of a stove and an oven to mean that I could, if I felt so inclined, use the facilities to explore the culinary potential of the local landscape.

Despite the presence of the kitchen, our cupboards contained nothing beyond the standard flatware necessary for in-room dining. Thus, at our complimentary continental breakfast, I delicately inquired as to the possibility of procuring a pot and pan to prepare a locally inspired, "home-cooked" meal. No problem, I was assured. Sounds like fun, even.

Newly liberated by the absence of a hard and fast dinner reservation, Stephanie and I spent the better part of the day traipsing through the Lakes Region, mulling the possible local goodies we could purchase and enjoy later that evening. Thanks to our handy travel guide, we settled on Moulton Farm, where, inspired on-site, I concocted a plan involving green beans, tomatoes, zucchini grown on site, as well as some house-made granola. I also found some plump plums, nectarines, and an organic yogurt from nearby in Canada. For protein, Moulton offered a selection from Sal's Fresh Seafood, a Boston company who set up a small booth outside the market. Despite the options, I realized how foolish it would be to pass on spectacular cod filet, caught that morning and tailored for our tastes.

Notice the sharp dicing knife I found in the kitchenette.

A solid pound of fish!

Ingredients in tow, we made our way back to the Inn and ambled over to the afternoon wine and cheese hour. After a nice glass of house red, I set out to obtain the hardware needed to put together my regional dish. Upon inquiry, I was promptly refused the items I had been formerly promised. "Only industrial supplies on site," I was told. "Mistaken," was the earlier information. "Convenience kitchen," I was reminded.

It should be said here and now that free wine does devious and wonderful things to people. When on couples this with the tone set by driving around behind New Hampshire license plates that pridefully claim to "Live Free or Die," and wine hour turns into an easy way to enjoy (read: smuggle) wine well past the allotted hour. Simply pour wine into paper coffee cups located in the same room as the wine glasses, cover the cups with heat-trapping lids, and easily and inconspicuously transport hooch back to your room for dinner. Live Free or Die, indeed.

Once back in the room, I made a phone call, asked for the manager, and quickly received the supplies I was promised.

Without oil or butter to facilitate the cooking process, I ended up pan frying the zucchini in water flavored with salt and pepper while boiling the green beans (4 quick minutes). After draining the water, I added the diced tomatoes and warmed the concoction on medium for another couple of minutes.

Along with the wine, we pocketed a number of crackers which I intended to use to make bread crumbs for the cod. But without a coagulate, a lot of hard went essentially went for naught.

Stolen crackers.

Making bread crumbs by smashing crackers between two bowls.

Unbreaded, here's the meal just before plating. It actually looked pretty good. The fish cooked quite quickly in the remaining zucchini water and relatively low heat. I added the remaining diced tomatoes and used a spooning technique to add heat to the exposed portion of the fish.

Just before we sat, I added the yogurt and granola to the diced fruit, which made a sweet fruit salad to compliment the other components.

The inspiring setting, the sweet and sour staff at the Bedford Village Inn, a vacationer's industriousness, and the collective desire for happiness all worked out in the end. After our meal, the turn-down service provided two chocolate chip cookies, which completing an otherwise healthy meal by providing some sugary sweetness. And the free wine was fine, as you might imagine.

All told, our time in and around Bedford, Manchester, and the Lakes Region provided ample opportunities to savor all the good things the Northeast has to offer.

A Tale of Two Soccers.

2011-07-03T12:39:00.000-07:00

My title itself commits an egregiously jingoistic foul. I'll take a yellow card, a penalty for an error akin to a national avoidance of the metric system, the temporary rejection of "French" as an adjective, or a history of snubbing tea. I won't refer to the sport by its logical, globally-preferred title. I'll suffer the snubs and call it "soccer" so that everyone within earshot knows I'm not talking about Roger Goodell's pad parade. I run the risk of eye rolling from my more cosmopolitan contemporaries, but I am and have always been a red-blooded American who can distinguish his arugula sprigs from his rocket.

My attraction to soccer is relatively young and largely attributed to my wife, brother, and brother-in-law. As my personality continues to stray from its roots in Pop Warner and high school football culture, though, I also see my mannerisms, tastes, and behaviors more connected to the enormous family of soccer supporters. Despite my own ignorance of fundamental facets of the sport, I'm often initially mistaken for a player in some circles because of my smallish frame and style of clothing. In only 5 years, however, a network of players and fans have helped educate and expose me to much of the sport's bedrock traditions and quirky idiosyncrasies. I've since read literature, surveyed European leagues, closely followed regional tournaments, taken part in supporting the rise of Major League Soccer in the states, and, unbelievably, attended a World Cup in Africa.

I've also found myself embroiled in the debate over the fate of soccer in America. Much of this discussion focuses on how the sport can meld with and adapt to the landscape of a saturated American sports market. Yet, as I came to believe last night in Stanford Stadium as the New York Red Bulls battled the "home" team San Jose Earthquakes, much of the problem with soccer in America seems to be America itself.

Take, for example, the fact that professional soccer games in the states are still played in stadiums designed, quite ironically I might add, for football. Players in last night's match directed the ball across heavy turf, through blades of grass spray painted green to hide the collegiate yard markers. The Quakes, a representative of a surprisingly fervent Bay Area fan base, have no permanent pitch to call their own. This is not unique in Major League Soccer.

Another troubling aspect of last night's match: Many supporters lack, well, an understanding of the term "support." The many families, footers, and tailgaters who clustered amid the eucalyptus groves for pregame festivities notwithstanding, many seats sat cold well into the announcement of the lineups and the procession of teams. Perhaps it reflected the privilege characteristic of a city like Palo Alto (we actually saw a restaurant dedicated specifically to hummus despite no clear dietary or regional need), but the late arrival--merely ten minutes of expendable American nonchalance--meant a lot in a game that saw its first goal in the seventh minute. And once these groups arrived, strangely, many seemed to lack a basic understanding of how sports institutions organize and classify seating. All around us, the dapperest of spectators quibbled over the labeling of aisles, seats, and sections, while the rest of us tried to find a view of the ongoing match.

My biggest concern over the place of soccer in America, however, reflects the way game's organization conflicts with an American sports culture obstinately entrenched in its heavily-marketed, heavily-ritualized, yet somehow whimsical mentality of competition-as-pastime.

Take organization, for starters. Soccer, whether you know it or not, is comprised of two, uninterrupted forty-five minute halves. There are no timeouts, no commercial interruptions, and no stoppages for substitutions. The clock rolls. If time is wasted, the referee determines a degree of (arguably artificially decided) stoppage time, which is added to the end of the half. This design promotes, in my eyes, two very acceptable football behaviors: support and sustenance. Without the built-in TV timeouts, pitching or inning changes, or punt-return producing commercials, soccer is conditioned to provide the typical human body with the space and time it needs to thrive. After your pre-match eating, drinking, socializing, and ball kicking, you can wisely use the restroom, sing your anthem, and settle in for roughly 47 minutes of regionally-specific, energetic-yet-tastefully-restrained fanaticism. In that span, you are encouraged to shout, chant, cry, gesticulate, and bemoan the universe before you. You expel the energy stores you collected outside the stadium during the process, and after the whistle sounds, you stop. The football gods then allow 15 minutes to repeat some pre-game behaviors and rituals while the action has subsided, which allows you prepare for another 45ish minutes of support. Then, it ends, and you celebrate, discuss, reflect, or take it to a pub.

Unless, of course, you take your American sports habits along with you as you explore what MLS matches have to offer your American sports pallet. In this instance, as I learned last night, you show up a little late, get up to use the bathroom in the 23rd minute, then buy your buddy a hotdog and some garlic fries in the 38th (which seemed confusing at 8:15 pm, by the way). You follow the exodus into the aisles at halftime--who cares why, since it's more acceptable--only to return in the 53rd minute, buy cotton candy from a vendor (why are vendors even an option during play?) in the 68th minute, and leave to beat the traffic in the 84th. While it might just seem like sport to you--you did wear your Henry jersey only to cheer for each San Jose goal--I find your reliance on the fundamental American sports experience as a drag on so many's desire to enjoy soccer--er, football--in the way it was meant to be enjoyed.

I, along with fans far more dedicated and experienced than myself, can't force the national sport's landscape to carve out a patch of grass for professional soccer. But like those fans, I don't see a need to set a place for it at the proverbial table. "The beautiful game" isn't characteristic of anything in the American narrative. I don't write this in order to qualify America as ugly, only to point out this conflict is perhaps more indicative of a positive trend. Ever the optimistic entrepreneurs, Americans have a knack for making commodities out of habits, passions, or a preferences. Thus, it seems logical and savvy for these budding sports franchises and organizations to strive for ways to make soccer more appealing to an American market.

But football isn't American. And while many would argue that this forced translation is essential to the success of the sport in the states, it remains a global game, and it should be aloud to speak its native tongue.

Unraveling a Good Yarn.

2011-06-30T11:08:00.000-07:00

More and more, I see life as a prolonged absorption. I consider where I've been, who I've seen, and what I've heard, and how it constructs who I am and what I think and believe. Time and retellings sometimes layer the stories and memories that build me with a glamorous dust of nostalgia, and if I'm not careful, I find myself soaking in sterile versions of an otherwise complex reality.

Absorption is natural. It's a process of construction akin to setting up a Jenga tower one block at a time. And self examination, self analysis really, requires a certain stock of vigilance in order to scrutinize the fundamental elements of one's personal makeup. It can be exhausting, frankly, and lead, like gaming the Jenga tower, to periodic toppling.

Unlike Jenga, however, the fallen blocks do not constitute a loss. Understanding this, over time I've made self examination and self analysis as natural as absorption. I've learned that these symbolic Jenga pieces can do a lot more than make and remake towers; however, I've also come to see that making self study second nature renders one a slave to process--a believer that knowing is ongoing, really.

With this prologue in mind, I submit my annual summertime musings on the father-son dynamic by which I'm so ardently intrigued. In past summers I've analyzed some father-son traditions, asked that my old man expose me to one part of his history, and even tried (failed, really) to walk in his footsteps. In keeping with this interest and tradition, this summer I asked Dad to help me discover more relics of our father-son dynamic by showing me elements from his own past, moments from his history that perhaps trickle down to inform our own.

I can't say for sure if this in some way fuels my own understanding of my relationship with him, but I know that learned behaviors reconstitute themselves over time, and I know I understand him--to some extent--because of the way he understands his own experience as a father and son. Like last year's backpacking trip, I again forced him to take the reins. This time, however, I challenged him with a less strenuous quest through his hunting history in Idaho.

Hunting, for my father as a child, was a learned behavior. He followed the lead of his own father, who had in his youth forged relationships with other men who enjoyed the practice. This enjoyment eventually took them to the northern regions of Idaho, a place where hills give way to sweeping valleys and dramatic canyons that offer a treasure of public and private lands teeming with deer, elk, sheep, and bear. My father's first trip into such country involved 12 hours in the back of a trailer, where at 13 he and his twin brother bickered and argued nearly the whole of a drive which culminated in two, long hours down a nauseating dirt road into Wild Horse Canyon.

After returned trips, a property owner in the canyon suggested she and her husband better "make friends with them California boys." And thus, what started as an invite for dinner forged a bond that outgrew its original intentions. The family eventually provided lodging and hospitality for countless hunting trips, and offered staging areas for various trips in the canyon and around their daughter's home in the community of Council. In exchange for this kindness, my grandfather provided tractor parts--his trade, really--along other necessities for the rugged, canyon living characteristic to this kind of country. The relationship eased the burden of isolated living for them, and provided relief from the burden of urban living for my family. Things evolved--continue to evolve really--into an extended family forged by fondness and frankness, bearing all the brightly and darkly shaded tones of tradition and time.

I've included some highlights of my recent trip, and brief explanations of particular threads comprising the familial flag.

The view west through Wild Horse Canyon, toward Council, Idaho.

The view of the ranch house from an overlook bearing family memorial plaques.

My father, addressing his dad's plaque, alongside current property owner Darryl. The ranch and land were passed on from his father-in-law Arnold, whose plaque sits in the foreground. Portions of both men's ashes were scattered from the hilltop.

The ranch house and seasonal garden (below).

Darryl (at right) making homemade ice cream in the kitchen/dining room.

The staircase to our lodgings.

My spread.

We took a dirt road out of Wild Horse, driving the ridge line toward popular hunting locations. This is a view from the rim of the canyon, looking northwest in the direction of Oregon state.

The view toward a tiny speck of the ranch house from the deer trail (below), trekked countless times by the men in my family.

Dad, indulging my desire to try the fast-moving Wild Horse River, tying the brightest spinner we have.

We wised up, finding far more success the next day. Here's the result of my first cast at Lost Lake, north of Council. The second and fourth casts provided the same result.

Uncle Ray shows off the day's dandy whopper.

Final tally came to 14, four shy of the limit. We threw a number of smaller perch back, but saved a few for what I'm told are tasty filets.

Ruth, the matriarch and initiator of the friendship "with them California boys," surveys the remnants of our fish fry back in Council.

For me this experience, like those in past summers, hasn't been about uncovering the past so much as using aspects of it to justify the future. Before the dinner we shared on our final night in Council, Ray made a brief whiskey toast at cocktail hour "to old times." The salute seemed fitting: he and my father, estranged step brothers, had just spent the afternoon casting line and telling stories. From Ray's left, with my own glass, I added, "and to new ones," in a hazy move to solidify the permanence of our unfurling lineage. He paused, considered, and agreed as the atmosphere seemed to turn momentarily poignant.

But a really good story will do that to you.

Sibling rivalry: When the TV Fights for a Place at the Table

2011-06-20T15:49:00.000-07:00

I was fortunate enough to see my college roommate on Father's Day. This is significant for a number of reasons, but the most prominent include that facts that, a.) He was the first in my inner circle to become a father; b.) The opportunity to become a father ended our time together as roommates (rightfully so, we would say); and c.) I haven't seen him in at least a year.

He and his family live a stone's throw from my grandpa's house. Since the old man is a father worthy of celebration, I found myself chatting in the garden and realizing I should probably pay a visit. I walked over to his place and sipped on a gin and tonic, because I thought it would be funny to boast about the childless world of Sunday afternoon gin baths (kidding, sort of). I ended up catching the tail end of their family movie night, and showed up just in time to see a motley group of digitized, sub-Saharan animals walk off into the sequel to a Madagascan sunset.

"Is this a weekly occurrence?" I wondered.
"Pretty much," he replied. "We like that the television is in here. Usually its music or voices for their entertainment."

Here was a tiny alcove near the front door, probably conceived as a mudroom for shoes and coats. As I sat on the floor, the children bounced on a small loveseat and told me about their favorite scenes before scampering off into their own sunset, now just visible through the branches of a tree and the backyard swing.

I told my wife about this arrangement later that evening--about secluding the television in another room--and we discussed the nature of television in our childhood homes, as well as what we observed with our friends then and now. In my house, I told her, everyone got ready at their own speed, so spending my middle school mornings with Eek the Cat! was pretty common. My step-mom even coaxed my brother and me into submissive cereal sessions by using VHS episodes of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles we'd seen hundreds of times.

I was somewhat of a latchkey kid outside of football season, so I spent afternoons with Music Television staples like The Grind or Singled Out or, in earlier years, Fox's Mighty Morphing Power Rangers. When dinner was served or homework started, the TV finally went blank. It kicked back on later, and even put me to bed on occasion. I confessed to having, but not abusing, my own small TV set in my room at one house.

At certain friends' houses, both then and now, the TV is the chattiest member of the family. It's on even when no one's watching it. The steady beat of commercial jingles, conversations, and sportscasters fills any gap day-to-day living and communicating might create. Most often, the ubiquitous white noise of the television causes anxiety, confusion, or stress when eliminated. Things seem a bit awkward for them, likely the same kind of awkward I feel with the damn thing always on. The existing silence represents a lack which, like a junkie after that sweet warm glow, needs fixing.

In the interest of full disclosure, I will say that we have an enormous television set in our house. It is featured prominently in a central location. We have modern bells and whistles as well. There's a dusty Wii, the an unfilled 6-disc DVD player, and an old VCR. We also rely on the genius of TiVo to select and record programs, then zip through commercials that get in our way. While I might sound like a slave to entertainment, last night I realized something kind of neat. TiVo ensures that we know why we are sitting in front of the screen. No one sits down and says, "What's on?" It's only, "What do we have saved up?" or maybe an expectation of a regularly scheduled episode. When the show ends, so does our TV time. Because we select the shows we want to watch, we flip, surf, or endure programs in the hopes of finding something to watch. The TiVo, it seems, is a solid reason we don't feel compelled to let the tube prate on in the backgrounds of our evenings.

Though my life does not share the context or the structure of my old roommate's young family, I do not fear that someday my own clan, whatever shape it might become, will rely on a channel to fill the spaces between its members. I'm sure this imaginary family will have plenty to talk about as soon as Daddy figures out how to kick this internet habit...

Call it, "A meditation on fantasy."

2011-06-16T08:32:00.000-07:00

It's summer again, so I'm carving out a new routine.

I wake at the same early hour, somewhere before six. I open three windows, grab the newspaper, start the coffee, feed the cat. I usually head out for my run before 7; if I'm resting that day, I dig into the A section.

By mid morning, I'm at the keyboard, reading analysis and commentary on Slate or Grantland, updating newly downloaded podcasts, checking in on Facebook, and considering my errands and chores list.

Sometimes there's time for television, and since my usual cycle of watching only includes the staples I've made time for, summer represents my best chance to catch up on the nonsense I would otherwise skip in lieu of favorites like Community, Friday Night Lights, or Mad Men.

So, I've reacquainted myself with Anthony Bourdain and his No Reservations franchise, something I admitted to loving back in an early blog nearly three years ago. What I loved about the show, then and now, remains Bourdain's episodic commitment to spinning a food-centrist narrative. All the ills plaguing social and cultural landscape of the Western world--one might gather in watching Bourdain's the carefully-constructed arduousness of his trek across the globe--can be solved by reading the fine print on the centuries-old food labels on simplistic, old-world meals.

He eats. He asks. He learns. He even cooks, on occasion. And throughout each venture, you hear him espousing the ways recipes reflect lifestyles, the ways these lifestyles reflect people, and the ways these people make the world. It's a fantastic product, one that catapults Azorians, Icelanders, or Laotians into American living rooms, rendering them tangible, pure, and equally enviable. I admit I occasionally buy into his vision of the world, and identify what I perceive to be a kind of lack within me--an awareness of some cultural or familial legacy I desperately seek to acquire even though it might not exist. I sense a distance between myself and my past.

Is it the narrative creating this? Is Bourdain a glorified commercial, artfully orchestrating some product placement scheme, trying to sell me something I a.) don't need, or b.) can't actually obtain?

In a week, my father and I will embark on a trip that came about from similar ruminations on history, narrative, and tradition. There are things I need to see; places I need to know. So with my summer and his retirement, we have the chance to visit remote areas in Idaho, places he frequented in his life with his father and brothers. We will stay at a rustic family home in a vast, isolated canyon, brought to unnatural life only in the evening and morning by generator power. I will tread the ground where family ashes were returned to the earth. I will learn, like the patriarchs of my family, by the terrain of surrounding hillsides and the eddies of the swirling creek that swells along the property. I will hear the stories of the people who reside there.

Because I can't tell the future, I can't be certain this trip will satisfy all my structured longings. I can say for certain, however, that I've already built a scaffold for the experience in my mind. The deconstruction of these expectations might need to occur before the trip can become organic--before I can allow it become "real"--and by that point, I might already find myself disappointed in the chasm between the life that is and the narrative I so often want it to be.

And that's the thing about Bourdain's narrative. It's easy to spin a yarn about the quality of life when the spool of fabric encompasses an afternoon meal. What I need is proof that something obtainable exists when the episode ends. When the commercial goes to commercial.

The End / The Beginning

2011-05-21T15:32:00.000-07:00

Members of the class of 2011 ventured on the annual grad trip this past Thursday and Friday, set to tear madly through Disneyland and California Adventure alongside thousands of other graduating seniors and a few hundred overtaxed, underpaid chaperones. Rumors came via text on Friday that bus number two broke down just below the Grapevine, stranding a group of anxious teens and one reportedly cantankerous bus driver.

I don't know what any of this means, but there must be some symbolism somewhere.

For four exciting hours they sat on a bus. They reminisced, they laughed, they slept. Some perhaps joked about this final ride on a yellow Blue Bird with black trim. Internally, many of them reflected that they've crossed some milestone; they acknowledged a sense of wisdom they've acquired, and how it already exceeds that of their classmates around them. They know better, but they can't help but believe that they are better. And in these thoughts, they remain reliant on their parents' (who helped finance the trip), their teachers (some of whom sit among them), and the company of their classmates and friends.

Then, the world stands up and beats it into them: You are still a child, it scolds, reminding them of their coddled rearing. You can't fix a casserole! What will you do with the engine of the bus? The rest of the planet is whizzing by--even the slow lane is a blur--and there they are, in shock and on the sidelines.

I don't know what any of this means, but it's got nothing to do with The Rapture.

Senioritis

2011-04-16T16:38:00.000-07:00

I've yet to see it manifest in my students, but I've been forewarned by many an educator that the motivation, will, and general interest my twelfth-grade students brought to the classroom in August will soon evaporate in the warm, spring sun. And while this should bother me (since what I do with them is supposed to matter), I've got a very real concern about another big problem--my own developing case of senioritis.

Is that what you call it, even if you're not a senior?

My typical educator mindset this time of year--a gradual loosening of ties that occurs post-spring break, pre-summer vacation, and by way of standardized testing--is this season overshadowed by the excited relief I feel by the potential end of this three-year pursuit for a graduate degree.

The students are excited. I sense their piqued curiosities as we read Frankenstein and talk about the pursuit of knowledge, many of them realizing this is perhaps the last time they'll be in a school-based learning environment. And while I can still recall the joy and trepidation I felt as I graduated from high school just ten years ago, I can't fully permit myself to celebrate with them without secretly and momentarily celebrating for myself.

Because when it's all said and done, I'm not certain my jubilation will be about what I've done more so than what I've acquired--and by that, I mean time. One skill I seem to have gained through this process is the ability to account for family, friends, work, school, and running without a prolonged sacrificing of any one of these elements. The skill means I'm functioning almost mechanically at times, which is good for productivity. But it's a cold, and robotic way to live.

The prospect of sleeping on a Saturday without an internal compulsion to get up at 6:00 and start work will be nice. Eliminating the need to drink coffee after dinner twice a week will certainly be good for my heart rate. Actually participating at book club--hell, even reading for pleasure or without a deadline, will be extraordinary. I think I'm most looking forward to the ability to lumber around, rather than zip or storm about; this alone should do wonders for my outlook on the world.

For now, I'm tasting these possibilities. I'm all caught up in two classes, and my drafted thesis sits on a couple imaginary shelves in cyberspace awaiting feedback from an adviser and a secondary reader. Pending some breakdown in the formula by which these projects typically come to an end, I should find myself with a completed degree late next month.

I'm not sure what the completion of this MA means, where it will take me, or how soon I'll go there, but I know things will be different. That said, I will definitely miss it. Academia is good for me. Very, very good. I'm lucky so many people have put up with me while I've dabbled and indulged.

One random thought recurs these days. I imagine on some nondescript Thursday evening somewhere in the future, I'll be at the kitchen counter chopping vegetables. I'll glance at the clock, see that it's 5:34 pm, and think, "When I was 28, I would most likely be standing here after work and a 10-mile run and a shower. I'd glance at the clock while simultaneously making lunch and cooking dinner, and hope for no traffic on the freeway toward Sac State." In the thought, I smile. I finish casually chopping my vegetables, then kiss my wife, open a bottle of wine, talk to the cat, and let the memory drift away.

My seniors are likely no strangers to these kinds of thoughts. They know what I need because they need it, too. The cure for senioritis is graduation.

A poem for spring

2011-03-31T17:40:00.000-07:00

Winter wrapped her last breath
about a yell and up-
rooted the neighbor's tree

Now resting on his broken arms
among the wet grass blades
and shattered sidewalk tablets

Brittle and frail as the bones
of human hands snapped
by those agents

Who likewise clean the automobiles
parked along a street
made newly mad by spring.

Break and Repair.

2011-03-25T08:26:00.000-07:00

Spring break, if we care label this last blast of wintery goodness either "spring" or a "break," arrived on Monday. The Woodland Joint Unified school district shutters its campuses for a full two weeks this year, and it's no stretch to say that I'm their most fortunate employee.

For the first time in three years, my professional and educational reprieves overlap. This stroke of luck affords me one week of unobstructed time to catch up, look ahead, and compose. True, two evening classes remain the only scheduled items for second week of the vacation, but the emptiness of the first has been both calming and inspiring. And while I've thus far put multiple pans in the fire, each task has surpassed my expectations.

Foremost in this list of tasks has been the drafting of my MA thesis. I'm some fifty pages in, adding roughly 18 from my own pilot study and another 12 pages of freshly written words in the past three days. And though it will undergo periodic stages of dramatic revision, I'm energized by the progress. Apparently, until now, I refused to recognize the looming reality that I'd actually find a way to compile something before the submission deadline. So I'm giddy. My spirits are bolstered by the reality that I may actually put a bow on this phase of my life.

A close second on my list of tasks is physical recovery. After putting up decent numbers in the Shamrock'n Half Marathon on March 13, I've scaled back the miles and speed work in order to let the sorer regions of my body return to their normal forms. From late February to early March, I was running an average of 40 miles per week. Following the race, I dropped down to 10--not exclusively for want of a break, but because of persistent pain in my right glute, hip, and left calf. This week, my totals will again reach the low 30s, just in time to gear up for a few races in April and May.

The absence of speed work and the influx of rain has resulted in a number of milder runs on the levy. This is also due to the effect winter weather has on the dirt track in Land Park. As a result of this change in training location, I've been able to arrive at a few noteworthy points.

First, with the increased water releases upstream, I'm impressed by the extremely high levels of the Sacramento River. It has been a trip to see so much water rushing by, and also to witness how it transforms both the shoreline and access to the American River Parkway. It's worth mentioning that, in nicer weather, it's tough to get any reaction from other users of the trail. During these last few storms, however, there's a shared acknowledgement between the few stubborn runners and parks department employees I pass. We don't necessarily make eye contact, but we wave our glove-covered hands at each other.

I've also concluded that I'm comfortable calling myself a runner. I've always liked to run, but I think I'm ready to let the title consume me. So here it is: I'm a runner. And you'd think the training miles, the marathon, or the races themselves would be the catalyst for this change, but they're not. And while it's related, the shift doesn't totally reflect my membership with Sacramento's Fleet Feet Racing Team.

No, this new awareness comes from an unlikely place deep in the recesses of my memory when, as a teenager in high school, I liked snowboarding. At the time, and still now, I never really considered myself a snowboarder. I didn't buy season passes consistently, I didn't ride with the school's elite snowboard team, and I didn't seek employment opportunities at the local board shops or ski resorts. I also avoided, unlike many of my friends, competing in local events, or pushing myself to reach higher, faster, and riskier levels. I thought actual snowboarders were sponsored riders. I saw them in films, in magazines, and in competitions around the region. I knew a few people on campus with some corporate deals, and I knew I wasn't one of them.

The closest I got to tasting this sponsoring was a free t-shirt and a roll of stickers we received from a company called Mission Six. They only sent the swag because my buddy Colin and I hung out with some of their riders at an event and then wrote the company a letter to inquire about the product.

Early this week I picked up a new pair of discounted Asics running shoes from Fleet Feet. I came home and emptied the dryer. I folded my Asics shorts and hung my Asics Fleet Feet warm-up suit and my orange FOO racing singlet on their designated hangers in the closet. I deleted some emails--one about volunteering at racing events that conflicted with my schedule--and another about the availability of team arm warmers and socks, before it struck me. I am a runner. Unfortunately, though, this conclusion was born not from the seeds of my desire or the results of my actions, but from the status and materialism associated with the sport.

And so, while my mind shifts to account for this new definition of myself, I'm a bit ashamed of the way it all went down.

The Song that doesn't End.

2011-02-19T14:22:00.000-08:00

I tinker with words constantly. I concoct silly puns, contradictions, oxymorons, and homonym plays--usually while running or driving--and record them with no real intention of using them. The results might emerge in a Facebook update or an occasional blog post, but the products mostly just sit on the pages of a journal in my book bag.

When I was an undergraduate, these pedantic little word games got me through long classes and literature seminars. I would string sentences or phrases together and think, That would be a cool band name. Or an album title, even. The writing picked up when I lived at home while completing my credential. I had more time then, so the work grew into larger bodies that actually had some miles. I paired my scribbling with a beginner guitar my brother loaned me, strummed the eight or so chords that Justin showed me, and started building "songs."

I kept my cards close, then. I didn't even play the stuff for my on again/off again college girlfriend (partly because I hated the sound, partly because the songs were not-so-subtly coded angst). I ponied up for cheap recording software and a new guitar. I sent files to Jamie and Justin, and eventually posted some work on Myspace. I made booklets and track listings for little "albums" in the living room with a coffee mug of wine. I painted the covers, drew on the discs, and gave them to my mom and stepmom.

Then and now, I know the work was completely self-serving. I often explained it as such, and excused myself from sharing because I didn't want to expose what I considered my own self-involvement. I didn't want to admit to the fact that, even if the outcome didn't make sonic or intellectual sense, it made me feel good. It helped me make sense of my departure from life on the central coast, a friendless, post-graduate slump, and life back in Placerville. It was lyrical, musical diary, really. It was my Post Secret--but with Myspace, there was a dash identity, and the thrill of imaginary audience.

I never performed my music for an actual audience, though. I played some songs over a cuppa wine on a number of occasions, usually at the request of Brittany and Sol. In the last couple of years, I've been pretty dormant, musically speaking, and don't mind much. I'm losing anything I ever had, to be honest. Whatever skills I developed evaporated; now, I find it hard to play more than three or four covers without cramping in the wrist and wincing at the pain in my fingers.

I still love words, but I use what I create differently these days, if at all. The Myspace page remains largely untended. From time to time it gets a visitor (and from time to time it's me, I confess). Once, last year, my brother in-law called me by my musical pseudonym. I got embarrassed.

This week, a wonderful student named Ivan stopped me as I returned some graded work. He said, "Mr. Petty, I heard a cool song this weekend." My gut flared a bit, but I suppressed it with doubt.

"Oh really, Ivan? That's cool." I saw the bait and swam away, turning to continue dispersing papers.

"Yeah. It's called, 'Stalkings.'" It's one of my tracks about someone who is obsessed with a girlfriend and suspects her of cheating. The speaker is hopelessly dependent, and stalks about town to find proof of his suspicions. That's stalkings, not stockings.

Like I said, word play.

So, the cat has destroyed the bag. Ivan looked guiltless. "Kelsey showed me," he said.

Ivan submitted his essay Tuesday. His properly formatted MLA heading read,

Ivan P--------
Mr. Petty / Kid Grin
Senior Lit. and Comp.
15 February 2011

Turns out, a lot of students know about this side of me, and no one really cares for an explanation despite my internal compulsion to offer one. It is what it is: a kid trying to make sense of his world on his terms. He's still connected to society (albeit virtually), but he's chugging along at his own speed.

I guess I can see why a 17 year-old would appreciate that in a teacher.

My critical eye is closed, for now.

2011-02-13T15:28:00.000-08:00

The two previous blogs were fairly ambitious. I engaged in some tertiary texts and made an argument or two--albeit creatively. I would likely classify those entries, if the necessity presented itself, as critical responses.

Enough of that, though.

While it has taken away the time and desire to build up the family blog in general, the writing I'm being asked to do in graduate classes is purely criticism. It is all argument, all the time. Thus far this semester, it has consisted of weekly prompt addresses (roughly three pages, on average), a response paper (nearly four), and the continual building of an MA thesis (stalling around page eight, currently).

Always, I am arguing.

Aside from the data spawning my thesis, my arguing is focused on the work of two distinctly prolific writers: Shakespeare and William Carlos Williams. Since enough has been said on the former--and since I'm slogging my way through an undergrad course to fulfill a requirement, let me address a few things about Mr. Williams.

The man is a machine (he often writes of cars and loved his typewriter, ironically). He wrote in all genres and forms throughout the span of his life, and did so while tending to and entertaining a family. Oh, and did I mention he was a full-time practicing pediatrician? He admits, in his quite funny and digestible autobiography, he'd typically come home late after work, head full of notes and thoughts, then bang out eight or ten pages before bed. It's somewhat frustrating to read of his nonchalance with this habit, actually.

If you're not familiar with Williams, as I wasn't upon registering for the course, you'll enjoy knowing he hung with a talented crowd. He did not leave with the other expats during the first War, though he visited them. He spent considerable time with Ezra Pound, Hilda Doolittle, E.E. Cummings, Gertrude Stein, and many others. He hated the fact that T.S. Eliot gave the poem "back to the academics," and considered his famous The Waste Land "[T]he great catastrophe to our letters."

If you do know Williams, hopefully you know more than the one about the wheel barrow, the one about the plums, or the one about the fire engine. If not, seek context. I beg you.

I enjoy where I find my head after reading his work, regardless of genre. There's play, humor, and ambition in the autobiography. The poetry and prose in his early books is a departure from the familiar. It's imaginative; his unabashed veracity, inspiring.

It's enough to be critical for the class. But here--here, there can be fun. Here's some of what I'm making from these thoughts.

River there placid,
friend to winter on
calm, clear, brisk
days of February--
Me here
on this levy
in jog, between
your stillness
and the workers flooding
the freeway, whose
rumble and
roll and
rhythm
have replaced you.

----

she has folded the magazine pages
back upon themselves to better
facilitate her reading--
the glossy stack curls from the
spine and creates
from this angle
the shape of a heart.
and the pages tell
the story of a
war.

----

in seeking the
poetics of the run i see
instead webs
fled by spiders
desiring simpler means
of survival. bound up
in rhythm too
s t e a d y
for word,
i submit

to be lost in breathing.

----

drowning steady hums
from fixtures in my kitchen
the teapot whistles

Seeking the space to critique structuralism, I succumb to its pitfalls.

2011-01-30T11:14:00.000-08:00

I agree, to a reasonable extent anyway, with the notion of rules and structures, at least as far as societal function and cultural facility are concerned. I do not prescribe to the notion that we're inherently good beings that, when left to our own devices, will consistently act in the best interest of what's dubiously dubbed "the common good" or "a brotherhood of man" [overt patriarchal language maintained intentionally]. I generally believe human beings habitually conceive of and impose structures to, essentially, grease the wheels of the masses. We regularly agree to stop at red lights, pay our taxes on time, and abstain from public flatulence because it works. We subscribe, unflinchingly often, that these kinds of rules exist for everyone's best interest.

Now, there are times when I knowingly disregard the pull of the structural tide. For example, rather than teach the "rules" of writing (read "grammar"), I advocate reading. My rationale is simple. I've seen too many students recite--in prompted chorus--that Sentences must have a subject and a verb and convey a complete thought, only to watch them grip their pencils and write a sentence like Except for when he learns Victor is his creator. Therefore, I direct them to books because I want their brains to get so used to the rules of language that I don't have to ask for choral responses. Rote memorization of these rules, in my and many researchers' eyes, never produced good writing. Really, I'm sneakily advocating from a kind of subliminal approach to structuralism, one that still teaches, but keeps me from overtly doling out oppressive language rules from my podium on Mount Pious (a term often used by this guy to criticize holier-than-thous atop soapboxes).

I'm belaboring the point of this post, which is actually both meaningful and perplexing.

I've had a frustrating week at the keyboard. Since last Sunday, after I went on my usual romp around my favorite pages on the interwebs, I've been hacking away with a huge monkey on my back. The weight has plagued me through typing simple emails, quick literary response papers, and even delayed the otherwise attractive immediacy of my Facebook postings. Thanks to Farhad Manjoo's article decrying the widespread acceptance of two spaces after terminal punctuation of a sentence, I've been afraid the grammar police will bust through my door any minute. "Can I let you in on a secret?" Manjoo begins from his powerful chair of knowledge. "Typing two spaces after a period is totally, completely, utterly, and inarguably wrong."

Hold the phone. Not that it's impossible to fathom, but he's essentially accusing my middle school computer class, high school keyboarding instructor, undergraduate technology lab professor, and instructions from a digitized Mavis Beacon as being misinformed. Can this be?

If personified, Manjoo's article would don black sunglasses, cross its arms, and gesture authoritatively toward a badge. It reeks of know-it-all. While he has his reasons--even noting that the Modern Language Association clarifies this rule in its yearly publication of humanities typographical norms--it's an abrasive read. And while I must concede his point, I desperately wish that I, like the rest of us habitually double tapping the spacebar after every finished thought, could have been let in on the development. Not for our own benefit, but to make Manjoo hate us less. His offense is, well, actually offensive. He bemoans our ignorance, upset by the fact that "people who use two spaces are everywhere, their ugly error crossing every social boundary of class, education, and taste."

Geez, man. We had no idea.

So, this week I've been working on cutting that second, quick thumb slap at the end of my sentences. I started a couple of paragraphs ago, in case you wanted to know. And it's not easy; my endless revision a la deletion has forced me to realize how ingrained typing is in my day to day operations. It makes me want to go outside, really. Or write a letter. Or avoid Slate.com for awhile.

Realistically, the article strengthened my resolve as a teacher. While I have conceded to try and adopt this single-space structure, I remain adamant in my stance that there's a lot of damage posed by this kind of tone with these kinds of rules. In my eyes, they don't inform so much as belittle. Disenfranchising is something I strive to avoid in my adult life since, in retrospect, I spent far too much time mastering the art of ostracizing others as a teenager.

So now, in my professional life, the pages I read will still look relatively normal even if the writer uses two spaces. And Manjoo? He will still hate the world.

Why I Love the Romantics (or, Why I Hate the Romantics)

2011-01-21T17:19:00.000-08:00

Be through my lips to unawakened Earth

The trumpet of prophecy! O wind,
If Winter comes, can spring be far behind?

And it's now, fair reader, that I venture into waters heretofore uncharted. I admit I may lose you with this next sentence alone, but it's true: I've been snookered by the beauty of "Ode to the West Wind," by Percy Bysshe Shelley's terza rima, by his five sonnet ode to the Zephyrian gusts, and by his burning desire to, well, get blown.

You blacked out until blown, right? I can't say I blame you.

Before this week, I preferred not to tango with Romantic poetry. I happily ignored all things Wordsworth and Coleridge and Blake as soon as I, then a senior in high school, closed the massive anthology and opened Huxley's Brave New World. It's fitting, really. That "brave new world" I sought wasn't to be found in gushing naivete of a Romantic mysticism; the world I wanted was hurdling through the future, spinning off into distopian catastrophes, and stoking the fires of prophetic failures in a false social "order."

But today, I capped off a week of Romantic poems with my seniors through an examination of Shelley's ode. After four days, I finally got them to focus on how the aforementioned poets regarded nature and their relationships with it. I washed the poetic intricacies with suds of superficiality. I accepted the dumbed-down responses. I broke them of the wont to label these poets hippies, escapists, or just plain loony. They finally recognized my urgings, eventually reciting for me--in sloppy handwriting all--how speakers "want to be in harmony with nature," how the rationalism sent them "on journeys to make nature mysterious again," and how social order in the cities "made monsters of good people."

Then, I casually sent them back into the ugly world they inhabit, oblivious to an existence without artificial sounds, artificial light, and empty hands. Before one group of students left, I reflected on an assignment I used to mandate. For homework, I told them, I used to ask my students to seek out a location in a natural setting. There could be no traffic, I recalled, no music, and no cell phones. When students arrived, I just asked that they sit for 30 minutes. After that time passed, I only requested they write about their reaction to the previous chunk of time. I didn't assign this today, mind you, just invoked it as a hollow threat.

The gasps were overwhelming. The horror of disconnection, even for thirty minutes, seemed unfathomable to many of them. It forced me to wonder, If being a Romantic is no longer attainable for anyone who claims to have a soul, is merely understanding the Romantics, the circumstances that drove them to create, and the awareness of their appeal, also impossible?

When I got in my car and left, I received a partial answer:

"The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind./ The answer is blowing in the wind."

Race for Daylight.

2011-01-15T14:40:00.000-08:00

Stephanie admitted possessing an unimaginable optimism at the prospect of running with the sun out. Such are the wants at the Zook/Petty house.

Before today, all we had to show was a whole lot of wanting. Since the marathon and the much-needed rest period that followed, we've been slowly getting back into a routine. I've joined the Fleet Feet racing team this year, and Stephanie has mapped out a semi-independent racing schedule of her own. Preparing for racing and distance events again, for us at least, involves training in the dark. When given the chance to run friendlier times, we've been subjected to weekend runs marred by clouds, fog, and rain.

Initially, the weather didn't faze us. No longer training, we shared our excitement about not having to hit particular distances, not needing to complete tempo runs or adjust for pacing, and not even wear a watch if we felt so inclined (only I can cop to this, however). But with the increase in speed work, workouts involving splits and tempos, and overall mileage, we've struggled to absorb the added work alongside the relentless winter weather. Since Christmas, for example, I've felt compelled to add sleeves, gloves, and a hat to my ever-growing collection of gear. It helps the training, but the process of bundling up can force me to question the value of the time spent in the elements.

Today, despite the fact that fog swarmed the area around 9:45, we enjoyed an easy run on a parkway bathed in morning sunlight. We started from my new favorite location, the Bella Bru at Fair Oaks and Arden, and jogged to the trail entrance at William Pond. Steam rose from the river, cobwebs and tall grass glistened in splotchy orange shimmers, and my hands and head felt a necessary freedom outside their cold-weather protection.

The pace was smooth; I set out with other team members, conversing throughout at a pace around 8:15 per mile, while Stephanie held back and operated at a speed more conducive to her current workout schedule. I finished my 10 and returned to Bella Bru for a cup of coffee, paper marking, and a bran muffin. Stephanie returned not long after, having finished 12 miles of her own. We enjoyed a leisurely breakfast together amid a throng of gym goers, cyclists, and runners, and decided we'd definitely been missing out on the post-training culture that this part of east Sacramento has to offer.

It was a great way to spend a morning. By the time we left, the sun, much like our plans for exertion, had called it a day.

Resolution Revolution.

2011-01-01T21:01:00.000-08:00

I love opening the paper on New Year's Day and seeing all the gibberish about resolutions. People plan to quit things, moderate things, alter hobbies, and regiment their lives. Many of the stories seem recycled or tired, and much of the skimming I do really only clears the cerebral grogginess lingering from the previous night's champagne.

It's always easy to spot some of these resolvers. I see them when I'm out running errands, sloshing through the mud and rain and wind in their new cross-training jackets and sleek fit caps. They're crawling on gym equipment like ants at a campground, and they're draped in new apparel, looking perplexed as they read the instructions on the lat pull.

I was never one to set resolutions. I suppose it's because they've always seemed so pie-in-the-sky. I have to applaud people for setting goals, but those kinds of decisions don't really seem feasible or attainable for me. In the last two years, however, I've realized something about New Year's resolutions. If the decision is measurable and incremental--if it's marked by weekly or monthly deadlines--it not only serves as a resolution for the new year, but can become a habit far those that follow.

My 2009 Resolution (met):
In an effort to bridge the important pieces of my college life with my post-college life, I resolved that Stephanie and I would meet up with Brittany and Sol at least once a month for a meal and a visit. We kept a steady schedule for the better part of eight months, enduring a wedding, honeymoon, and the holidays. Toward the end of the year, we had to double up in a later month in order to make up for problems arising near the holidays, but we remained diligent and steadfast, refusing to let the idea fade. We celebrated our final date on the first night of (what has become the annual party to celebrate) Hanukkah.

My 2010 Resolution (also met):
Only five months into our marriage (though many more into our relationship), I started feeling guilty about my penchant for providing a predictable and unaltered dinner menu. With a slew of new utensils, appliances, and cookbooks, I resolved to cook one new dish each month. Joining me on this adventure, Stephanie decided to explore the variety of baking options at her disposal.

This was a fantastic resolution, and it only felt like a chore once or twice. We faced some strain as the days dwindled in those longer summer months, or as we negotiated ambitious travel and hectic work schedules. Trying to hand crank homemade pasta at 9:30 was no picnic (in fact it led to a drink or two); but overall, this was enjoyably manageable, and it directly affected how we shopped for and utilized food products in the house. In fact, we shared our ambition with a number of friends, whether in the form of African stew in July, Thanksgiving pies, or spicy meatballs just two weeks ago.

The Resolution for 2011 (status uncertain):
The key to my success is the variety offered in month-to-month installments. This year, I hope to plant one new item in the garden every time I turn the calendar page. Inspired by this handy Sacramento Bee article, a bevy of unopened gardening books, and a bold family of trendsetting farmers, I'm hoping to begin harvesting seasonal fruits and vegetables very soon. If this resolution pans out like the previous two, I'll hopefully find myself reflecting on a newly adopted habit well into 2012.

Happy New Year out there! Whatever you do this year, do it well.

The Difference Between Sitting and Standing.

2010-12-31T16:50:00.000-08:00

We went south on December 27th. Our Southern California agenda included a brief visit with my relatives, viewing a high school basketball game, and a trip to the Magic Kingdom. We planned to return on Wednesday the 29th. Here's how it all went down:

Sitting
Packed quite lightly, we set off for Claremont around 8:45 a.m. The drive down Interstate 5 was largely uneventful. The winter weather gave pause to an abundance of tule fog and splotchy clouds. Most of the central state offered green, rolling hills, along with sardonic political signs blaming Congress for water shortages. The Grapevine offered glimpses of snow and sunshine, and upon our descent into the definitive south, we were met with traffic. I handled the wheel, while my wife intermittently slept in the passenger seat.

The traffic continued on the 210 East. Our driving window missed the morning traffic, but apparently coincided with afternoon gridlock. Stephanie and I saw the best of Pasadena, crawling along the freeway and discussing the merits of gift cards and shuffling through appropriately themed music (Death Cab for Cutie's "Why You'd Want to Live Here," The Decemberist's "Los Angeles, I'm Yours," and anything Gwen Stefani). I complained about the discomfort of sitting and driving, and wondered aloud how we made it to South Africa on an airplane.

Standing
Claremont, if you are unfamiliar, is a quaint community east of Pasadena. My uncle and aunt live there; both walk the quiet streets to their jobs at different Claremont colleges. My uncle works at Harvey Mudd, where he's a professor of literature. His wife works at Claremont Graduate University as a professor of religion. Despite the fact that it mirrored their daily routine during the semester, they accommodated our seated travel with a brisk walk through parts of the campuses. We settled at The Back Abbey, an awesome British pub with an intimidating burger menu and a stellar beer selection. Between the rich conversation on Greece, fries cooked in duck fat, and a mean seasonal stout, we settled into a fine mood and warmed ourselves for a walk to the car and a quick jaunt to Orange.

With directions punched into the GPS, we navigated the highways towards Anaheim. The lodging for the Jesuit High School basketball team was, we surmised, in Orange, the location of the tournament. After walking into the wrong Hilton Suites and knocking on a few doors, we continued to Anaheim and settled at a Hilton near Disneyland. Ben and the coaching staff hadn't yet eaten, so we made our way to a P.F. Chang's, where Steph and I enjoyed another beverage and chatted about the on-court happenings of the day. We then made our way to Bar Louie in Anaheim Garden Walk for more of the same.

After some snoring, a groggy purchase of some park-hopper passes, and a breakfast buffet, we set off down South Harbor Boulevard in the brisk December sunshine. We were warned of Monday's ticket sellout and admission cap for both theme parks, but we felt confident that if we arrived in the 8 o'clock hour we'd survive the rush. We did, and got our first taste of fun on the Buzz Lightyear ride, where we slaughtered a number of aliens hellbent on eating batteries (I think that's the storyline, anyway).

As the people piled in, we made our way to Pirates of the Caribbean, where the 40-minute wait felt like a breeze. We failed to procure any fast pass tickets because of our plans to see Jesuit play in the middle of the afternoon. From Pirate's, we hit Splash Mountain. I won the competition for first-to-see-someone-you-know, and we all got drenched before heading to Big Thunder Mountain for 75 minutes of zig-zaggin and a 2.5 minute roller coaster.

After the train ride, Ben split to meet up with the team, while Stephanie and I entered California Adventure for a quick walk and some lunch. After another 75-minute ordeal (for food, believe it or not), we walked (and ate) our way back toward the Hilton to prepare for the game.

Sitting
The tournament, held at Chapman University, included teams from across the state (and one from a town in Washington named Squalicum). Tired but excited, Stephanie and I enjoyed some top-notch hoops as the Marauders drowned the Squalicum Storm in flurry of three pointers and quick, cutting layups. We were impressed not only by the stamina of the high school kids enduring a holiday road trip, but also by Ben's poise, and the ability of the Chapman University snack bar to out-coffee the Hilton.

Standing
After the game, Ben, Stephanie, and I made our way toward a Subway sandwich shop and eventually a reentry into Disneyland. We hadn't yet learned of our good fortune that day, but we certainly knew the park was a popular spot. We pushed our way to the Indian Jones Adventure, waiting 80 minutes to drive the SUV through the temple. We passed the time with a number of cell phone checks, app downloads, and memories of our shared time in South Africa.

The ride ended just in time for us to catch the fireworks spectacular. Amid the throng of oohing, ahhing fans, we managed to find a nice spot beneath an obstructive tree and coo along with the masses.

Our plan was to beat the crowd back to Big Thunder Mountain, but our plan was thwarted. First, the Disney traffic directors made it impossible to get from Main Street to Adventure Land. Then once we finally herded ourselves toward the ride, we found it closed. The Matterhorn offered nothing better, so we swallowed our evening and prepared for Space Mountain's 120-minute wait.

As 8:50 became 9:45, and 10:00 became 10:30, we passed the time by playing variations of the I'm-thinking-of-a-person game, a game that if correctly played, most definitely helps to pass the long, cold minutes of waiting. This game was first played by us at SFO waiting for a flight to JFK (and then to Johannesburg). We've gotten pretty good at passing the time together. By 10:40, we'd made it indoors. We wound our way through the interior walkway, desperately seeking a place to sit. We were not disappointed.

Out of leg strength and out of time, we called it a day and headed back to the Hilton for some sack time.

Sitting
After another Hilton breakfast, we took the Prius back toward the highway for a long stretch of traveling. We stopped in Buttonwillow, where it became clear that Denny's is a place for travelers, not just old people. I grazed a tumbleweed or two on I5, never surpassed 75 mph, and returned safely to the cat that evening.

CIM, according to Stephanie.

2010-12-09T10:28:00.000-08:00

0: I line up a few people behind the 4:00 pacers. I don’t see my running partner, Brandy, from the training group, but I’m in the middle of a large crowd. When the gun goes off, the pacers get sucked forward quickly. I’m a long way from the starting line, so I decide it’s not wise to run to catch them until I cross it.

1 mile (9:19): I’m not dodging people, but the course is crowded. I hold back to avoid going out too fast and let the people sort themselves out. It feels like a jog. I alternate looking on the side of the road for signs of Kyle and not looking out of fear I will see him. I hope that his knee is feeling good.

2 (9:01): Things are pretty rural. I can smell farm. I can also see men on the side of the road peeing. Now I’m close to the pacers. My goal is to slowly work up to them.

3 (8:53): Too fast, but I don’t panic. I heard miles 2-3 can be fast. We’re going up and down hills and I’m just following along.

4-6 (9:07, 9:02, 9:09): I seem to be settling into the right pace. I feel good. At the first relay exchange I realize I’m running with my head entirely turned to the right looking for my brother-in-law, Chris, in a verrrry long line of people. I wave to someone and then realize it is not Chris. It would probably be impossible to spot him.

7 (8:59): I’m not sure if it is here, but at some point I realize that one of my water bottles started half empty (is it leaking?) and that I’m taking in water faster than usual. The sky is clear (hooray for no rain) but it’s making wearing a hat far too hot for me.

8-9 (9:10, 9:10): I’m going along at a consistent pace, but it’s crowded and at times hard to find a good spot in the group to run in. I get stuck on the painted lines in the road (who knew they were 3-D?) and have to dodge reflectors. At one point, I almost slip on a reflector. Yikes. Time to get out of here…

10 (9:01): I start looking for Kyle’s mom and step-dad, who said they would be in a church parking lot at mile 11. I see a church parking lot, but it’s not the right one. I finally spot Brandy a few people behind the pacers in the group.

11-12 (9:07, 9:11): I wave vigorously at a woman in a church parking lot who turns out to be very clearly not my mother-in-law. This street has an unbelievably large number of churches. I listen for their vuvuzela. I finally spot both of them. I’m still towards the center of the road so there are a lot of people between us. “Ron” is apparently the easiest to yell out, so I go with that and waive frantically. They see me and seem unusually excited. I can’t ask how Kyle is doing, but I’m encouraged that he’s not there.

13 (8:57): I finally catch up to the pacers by the halfway mark. My split for the half is a nice 1:59:27 and everything feels easy. But I’m thirsty (not good) so I grab some aid water even though I have some left in my belt. It’s time to supplement. The cup has hardly any water. Not much help. The road narrows substantially as the relay runners go one way and we go another. A woman falls down in front of me and causes a chain reaction. I put my hand on someone for support and have to stop for a second and then run around her. That’s all it takes for the pacers to get away from me again.

14-15 (9:09, 9:07): Still feeling good. I try to work my way back to the pacers.

16 (9:12): Not easy, but still feeling good.

17 (9:21): Suddenly I can tell I can’t keep up 9:10 anymore. The pacers are getting too far away and 9 miles left is too far to push that hard. I can’t figure out what I can do.

18 (9:51): I fall back to my easy/long run pace. I am disappointed in this development. I see one of my coaches, Ryan, on the aforementioned bicycle with the California flag. I flag him down and he rides with me for a bit. He takes the hat I had clipped to my fuel belt. He tells me to concentrate on my splits and that Brandy is not very far ahead (probably 25 meters) and not feeling well. He says we should work together. This seems like a good idea, but an impossible distance to bridge. I’m also not sure what splits I can keep at this point. I ask how Kyle is doing. Ryan tells me that Kyle is doing great and that his pace group was going too slow so Kyle went on ahead. I’m relieved that Kyle is feeling good. I know 8 miles is a lot to go, but it sounds like the knee is good.

19 (9:52): I’m now actively looking for water and taking it in twos at every aid station. Granted, once I spill almost an entire cup on the ground, so I’m not necessarily actually drinking two cups of water every time.

20 (9:54): We pass through “the wall.” It’s a fake wall. It makes me a little nervous for what is next given how I’m already feeling. I see the men that Kyle mentioned offering beer. I’m confused. Are they kidding? Is it actually sport drink? I grab an orange Gu and stash it in my shorts pocket for later.

21 (10:21): A woman passes me and pauses to say that she’s been running behind me for miles and offers me encouragement. This is really nice, but again, I can’t seem to do anything other than keep at this pace slower. Also, now that I know I won’t hit 4:00, I don’t exactly have a goal. 4:05? 4:10? 4:15? They all sound good enough to me at this point. I kind of like how I am feeling right now. Maybe it’s all the drink, but I seem to be coming back. Still, 5 miles seems like a lot to push and I see more people starting to walk around me. Who would give up this feeling for that? I concentrate on looking forward to seeing Ben.

22 (10:11): I push up the bridge. Not bad at all. This makes me feel good. I’ve slowed down but I’m still strong. The 4:05 pacer comes along side me. I contemplate trying to stick with him, but eventually it’s clear that’s not happening either. On the downward slope, I see Ben in a purple Kings sweatshirt scanning the crowd. He starts clapping and yelling like he does when he coaches basketball. He is holding a fuel belt already. I take this as a positive sign from Kyle. I’m thinking that at this point he will at least finish. I give Ben my fuel belt. It feels really nice to get rid of it.

23-24: After 22.5, my watch dies. Perhaps for the best as I don’t care about time too much at this point. My calf is intermittently cramping up. I appear to keep moving at my 10 minute speed, but I fear something terrible is about to happen (like that my calf will completely cramp up). I take my orange Gu. Unfortunately, the next aid station is a ways off. It’s not tasty. I concentrate on getting to 26th and L, where one of my favorite coworkers, Andrea, has promised to be on the corner. After, naturally, waiving to someone who is not Andrea on the sidewalk between 25th and 26th, I find actual Andrea on the corner (I realize now Andrea is too precise to have strayed from the corner) with the same scanning-the-crowd squint Ben had. I wave and she waves excitedly. This gives me a boost.

25: Calf appears to have worked itself out. I’m still not motivated to push (apparently my mother was right about me being obstinate) but I’m not slowing down. I appear to have locked into this speed and it cannot be altered either way. My two other Fleet Feet coaches, Russ and Tina, are on the side of the road. Tina yells out, “Stephanie is looking good!” Stephanie is looking good because she’s been running easy for miles now. By 19th street, I’m counting each block down to 8th.

26: As I turn the corner from 8th onto the final stretch, I see my mom and Kyle standing next to each other and yelling. They look so excited. Kyle looks very refreshed. Did he really just run a marathon? I’m finally able to pick it up. I wonder – where was this energy the last several miles?

26.2: Finished at 4:09:30. I’m pleased that I’m not at all dead when I cross the line, and can obtain my medal, fake blanket, and get my timing chip clipped without any difficulty. It takes me forever to find my family (the finish area is very crowded), but when I finally do, they are really good about getting me my stuff and helping me navigate the food line and get my sweat bag.

CIM, according to Kyle

2010-12-09T10:25:00.000-08:00

Preparations for CIM have been underway for some time. We registered quite early this year, participated in a bi-weekly training group from from August to December, and spent the better part of Saturday putting things in order for the big race. This included the pinning of the bib and fastening of the time chip, the filling of the fuel belt, the packing a both a pre- and post-race bag, and the cutting to size of the tube sock-turned-arm-warmer.

After all that excitement, the following transcript constitutes what I recall from the day of the CIM. Please note the ways in which time, miles, and blocks all serve as markers of time and progress.

3:28 a.m. Despite the fact that the alarm was set for 3:45, we stirred around 3:00. I hit the floor near 3:30, fired the water for coffee press and oatmeal, and counted the hours of sleep acquired since 10:00 pm the previous night. Stephanie followed shortly after, rising with the alarm and falling into a pre-run routine.

4:51 a.m. Thanks to the Zooks, we had a ride to the shuttle stop at the Embassy Suites by the Tower Bridge. Not only did they wake at an unbelievable hour, but they arrived two minutes early and greeted us with a video camera and enthusiastic support.

6:21 a.m. Our ride to Folsom, a school bus donated by the Elk Grove Unified School District, left the hotel around 5:10. It inexplicably avoided the freeway in favor of circling certain areas of the grid to caravan with other buses up the hill. Our bus finally arrived and parked in huge, yellow line. We departed, thanked the driver, and headed for the next line: the bathroom.

6:56 a.m. After a barely-audible overview from the 3:10 pacer, a bunch of strangers and I clumped near the gates and observed the singing of the national anthem. At the conclusion, a gun fired, and the pack started moving. My initial goal was to stay with the 3:10 pace group, as the finishing time would qualify me to run in the Boston Marathon. I set off with two mates from my training group, and we quickly agreed that the pace felt slow, the group burdensome, and the race constrictive.

mile 1 GPS watches all around me beeped the distance, but by my clock the pace, set at 7:15 minute splits, was 7:42. I broke rank, making a move to the right, and ditched the sock-gloves near the second aid station. I cruised the next couple of miles in isolation. The pack thinned along with the crowd, and I tried my best to absorb the pastures and fog of the morning. I'm too excited at the absence of rain.

mile 2 Stretching out from the pack also means I've strayed from Scott and Astin, my two training mates. It means I am running most of this alone.

mile 5.5 The first race marker, and huge relay exchange, came just after a huge left turn near mile 5. I spent most of this stretch looking to the right for my brother Chris, who awaited a relay exchange. My search was interrupted by screams of support from my principal and a colleague, also there for relay purposes. This unexpected morale booster carried me into the next miles.

mile 6.5 Around the 6th mile I started to wonder about the strength of my knee. The previous Sunday I experienced significant pain in the iliotibial band on my left leg. After a serious physical therapy session and ample rest and stretching, I began the race in doubt that I'd make it far enough to test my recovery. Nearing the 7th mile, I noticed discomfort and started contemplating exit strategies should the pain increase.

Aside from those concerns, it was during these boring miles that I continued to realize how lovely a morning we'd been given, weather-wise.

mile 11 The knee concerns a fading thought, I focused on finding my mother and step father, who explained they'd find a place near the eleventh or twelfth mile. As I crossed the associative intersection, I heard a miniature vuvuzela squealing above the cheering fans. My mom and step dad appeared on my right, cheering mightily. I said, "Don't I know you?" to which she replied, "I love you!" I smiled so forcefully that my jaws hurt; it lasted for the next quarter mile. She later told me that it was as exciting as cheering for my little league games, rec. basketball teams, or football dashes. My step father was amazed at the supportive environment. He found Stephanie when she passed, despite the large pack and conspicuous outfit. They've vowed never to miss another race.

13.1 I cruised through the half marathon checkpoint at a cool 1:33. In October, I ran 13.1 in 1:28 with considerable struggle. On Sunday, my mind rejoiced at the idea that a mere 5 minutes could produce such a different feeling.

mile 15 By this point, the marathon becomes a faster version of one of the longer training runs we endured in the fall. Unfortunately, it's still 11 miles from the finish line, a long way from the grid of midtown, and a desolate place for fans. This all led to the realization that a marathon is a long freaking run. I forced myself to focus on the prospects of seeing more supporters, and perhaps chatting with my coach.

mile 17 Just before hearing my splits at 17 I met up with my favorite Fleet Feet coach Ryan. He patrolled the oncoming line on bicycle and carried a California state flag. He told me I looked calm and strong, and we chatted about odds and ends. I told him to check on Stephanie, and he told me to focus on hitting my splits from miles 18 to 21. "After 21," he told me, "the thrill of finishing among all those people will carry you through." I felt great.

miles 18-21 My pace didn't slow. Just as Ryan advocated, I maintained 7:08-7:10 splits through these crucial miles.

mile 21 As I neared Lohman's Plaza ("The Wall," they call it) I saw a woman on the curb, folded over in tears. Her partner (husband, boyfriend?) could not comfort her as she cried into her CIM bib. "This is crazy," I thought. Just then, I saw Christina Abshire, my close college friend, cheering me from the median across from Lohman's Plaza. I thanked her, cheered loudly, and pressed on through a throng of supporters. Here, I was offered beer in blue plastic cups, fives and handshakes, and plates of oranges. I declined all, eager to find Ben and abandon my fuel belt.

mile 22 This stretch is famous for it's poppy incline and subsequent grid running. I found the hill up to the H Street Bridge to be nothing special. Crossing, I focused on finding my brother-in-law Ben. I wanted to see a familiar face, but I badly wanted to shed my empty (and tightly fastened) belt. As I descended the bridge, I saw him approaching on the right, and violently unvelcroed my fuel belt. He said, "Good job. Good luck." And that was that.

Fabulous 40s Having finished my last gel fuel without water, I felt heavy and sluggish moving into the 50-block of East Sac. I moved slower, my calves and hamstrings tightening, and scanned the horizon for an aid station. At this point, I felt like I was grinding myself into the asphalt. (Coincidentally, later that evening I watched The Kitchen chef Noah Zonca grind wasabi root into sushi accoutrement and imagined myself as the root). I developed significant pain in left hamstring and right calf. Near Mercy (no pun intended), I was passed by the 3:10 pacer I'd ditched long earlier. Apparently making up for lost time, he seemed to be running negative splits in the second half of the marathon. At any rate, he passed me like I was standing still; although, he led a significantly smaller group of runners. I checked his splits, and they were, in fact, nearly negative for the later miles of the race. He finished at 3:09.

I started to rely not on the mile markers, but on the street signs. The 30s meant only 20 or so blocks until the end.

16th Street Moving at a crawl by this point, I heard my former credential colleague Sarah cheering me on. After finishing the first leg for her relay team, Sarah set up shop between 20th and 19th streets to cheer on the final participant. Needless to say, her presence had a powerful impact on my morale.

9th Street Just before Frank Fat's I hit the mile 26 sign. The pacer was long out of sight, but I held out hope that somehow he'd gone too fast, and that I'd cross with a time worthy of qualification in the Boston Marathon.

Left on 8th Street The crowd grew enormously. I turned a familiar corner and joined a number of other, slowing runners focused on crawling across the finish line. I took another left, finishing in front of the Capitol in 3:12:15, one minute and 16 seconds over the Boston qualifier time.

Post-race Immediately after crossing, I saw Beverly Zook mirroring my steps. She held our post-race bag, and offered a congratulations and a concerned look. I immediately took to stretching my calves, wrapped myself in a martian blanket, and posed for a photo with my finishers medal. I picked up my pre-race bag, lying on the grass in front of the capitol, and sought the pancakes offered to finishers. My body felt shredded; I cramped up in the food line, and hobbled to the curb like a drunk Frankenstein. I heard from Beverly that Ben has called, and Stephanie is advancing to the grid. I'm told it'll be around 50 minutes. Things are considerably better since my time in the changing tents, and I've traded my shorts for sweats and a free Kaiser beanie to focus on Stephanie's finish. We found her at the corner near the 4:09 minute, looking strong.

After the dust settled, the braincells restored, and the baths taken, Stephanie and I set off for a celebratory dinner at the The Kitchen. Everyone's a winner with wine flights!

C'mon Body.

2010-11-30T21:39:00.000-08:00

The instant I stopped our final group run on Sunday, the outside of my right knee locked up. I limped back toward the parking lot, switching between a hobble and a Frankenstein-like monster walk. A friendly teammate struck up a dialogue about the pain--an injury she's all too familiar with. It's the iliotibial band, the tendon running along the outside of the quad and around the knee cap (what? a syndrome?!).

After some ice, stretching, and time on a foam roller, I seized the chance to check out Elite Spinal and Sports Care. They work with many of the elite marathon runners and triathletes in the area, and over full body treatment for injuries many of us have come to perceive as localized issues. Dr. Lau essentially used his forearms and elbows to break up fascia in my muscles and tendons. It was a rather painful experience--I did a lot of uncontrollable shouting and practiced (what I imagine are) LaMas-style breathing strategies. The end result seems worth the pain. I'm sore, but I have confidence that my body can rebound in time for the race.

However, there's much more work to be done on my end in the lead-up to Sunday's marathon. More foam rolling, constant awareness while running this week, and anti-inflammatories. The plan to run remains, although the prognosis and personal goal is subject to change.

The Puking Tree - Part Deux

2010-11-26T13:23:00.000-08:00

There's a secret story behind the puking tree, one we tell out of earshot from the neighbors. They're at work today, so I'm going to proceed.

The neighbor's disdain for the puking tree predates my arrival at this house. The legend goes, Stephanie's former landscaper (coincidentally, her father) was approached by the neighbor and asked to bag the leaves so as to keep them from her driveway. It was a ridiculous request, but the landscaper obliged, because he is a nice man.

There's a caveat to this legend, one that involves our optometrist down the street. A nice man himself, he decided to help Stephanie by using his leaf blower to clear her yard of the puking tree's leavings. His kind deed was met with stiff rebuke from the neighbor. Thankfully, he still agrees to annually examine our eyes.

The puking tree, then, must be seen as the neighbor's enemy. It is the vexing figure by which all yardly tormenting emanates (for her, at least). As a result, I must constantly be on my toes. I must carefully survey the depth of the piling leaves. I must watch their subtle encroachment toward said neighbor's cold and clammy driveway. I must consider my manner warily when I carry on with neighborly business.

Because the puking tree and its reveling compadres in the neighborhood spill their contents all fall long, the Land Park community provides a pickup service. We pile our lawn clippings and leaves in a in the street, and a rumbling claw shovels them into a truck. It's more environmentally efficient, yes, to use the yard-waste bin for such matters, but the sheer volume of trees and their habit for puking still render the claw a viable and valued option for residents.

Not here though.

Our neighbor's location behind a storm drain provides her with an unprecedented level of angst. The street piles, she proudly argues, always lead to clogged grates, flooded streets, and unfit suburban living conditions. Letters! she told me, will be sent to those who continue to clump fallen leaves in the street! (In a connected story, the sheer fear of this woman led to an evening excursion during last week's storm, when I found myself achilles-deep in water in front of the neighbor's house at 9:30 p.m. I was only raking a puddle, but still.)

Thankfully, there's yet another story behind the puking tree. It's a developing story, you might say. There are three-parts currently, but like the steady drop of leaves, parts are most certain to continue accumulating:

Leaving the house last Saturday, we found a family of three on the sidewalk beneath the puking tree, taking family photos with a professional photographer. "We love this tree," they told us. "Louder," I thought, staring toward the neighbor.
While on the roof this week, I noticed an elderly woman in a minivan slowing in front of the house. She rolled down her window to tell me, "This is my favorite tree in all of Land Park."
Today, as I piled leaves from the puking tree into our (now full) green-waste bin, a woman hopped out of an SUV and asked to collect some leaves. She, here visiting her family from Arizona, began to describe how the ginkgo leaves can be used in select pottery designs to leave imprints during the firing of ceramics.

The Puking Tree

2010-11-20T12:00:00.000-08:00

The Zook/Petty family knows when autumn is near because the beautiful tree in our front yard begins belching up branches. In the narrative I concoct while working in the yard, these branches signify the tree's hearty metabolism. The tree wants to know what life is like in autumn--wants to see what the nightlife is all about, you could say. It starts shedding branches to get in shape for the well-to-dos and floozies in neighborhood.

The season's parties are underway. This week, the branches that survived the belching began throwing up.

This tree gets drunk on November, binging through windy afternoons and rainy weekends. Heartily soused, it challenges the other trees on the block to drinking games, then shames them back into their sophomoric corners with its strong arms raised to the darkening skies in exaltation. Even the most diligent humans, armed with the finest machines that Sears Robuck and Company can provide, remain unable to intervene with this lush's tear and the aftermath of its leafy vomit.

Then, quite quickly, the tree's indulgence subsides. Surrounding trees remain indignant, stuck in destructive cycles of addiction and perpetual hangovers brought on by their inability to purge. Fall turns to winter, and autumn walks out without so much as a kiss on the cheek.

Let the tapering begin!

2010-11-07T16:47:00.000-08:00

Training for the California International marathon on Sundays offers one unforeseen gem, hidden deep in the heart of autumn: it's an extra hour's sleep, once daylight savings ends, before the longest training run. Last night we made preparations for the big sleep-a-bration by gallivanting through the house and rewinding time. We set off for bed, relishing in the thought of added REM before embarking on our greatest distance.

Turns out our alarm clock, a sorcerer of grand futuristic wizardry, already possessed the internal programming to set itself. Thus, in a groggy haze--the gurgling coffee pot behind me and the boiling pot of oatmeal before me--I glanced at the clock and realized it was actually 6:30, not our ritualistic 5:30. This meant we'd need to eat and ready, forgo digestion, and get to Howe Avenue in a mere thirty minutes!

Undaunted, we arrived in time to join the tail end of our group as they strode into the morning. And though there's a certain degree of comedy, and a bit shame, in the way it all started, the run itself went well enough. The intermittent rain came down heavily at times. The American River Parkway offered one bird bath after another for bodies to dodge. My left orthodic bunched beneath my foot for the better part of twelve miles, necessitating two stops and thoughts of just push through it, right? Right? My training mate stopped three times for various reasons. All told, we ran off and on for nearly three hours.

Next week marks the beginning of our tapering. We run 16 miles--13 at our marathon pace. After that the mileage falls until December 5.

Marathoning

2010-10-31T14:03:00.000-07:00

Since August, Stephanie and I have been training for the California International Marathon (CIM). We've run three half marathons together, and were engaged before the Run to Feed the Hungry in 2008 (remember?). We registered for CIM the following year, but both missed the opportunity to run because of injuries. This year, we joined a group of runners from Fleet Feet on J Street. The group meets twice a week; on Wednesday leaders take us through speed workouts, and on Sunday we run long stretches of the American River Parkway.

The past three weekends have marked our longest runs yet (15, 17, and 20, respectively), and as we near the December 5 run date, we're learning a lot about our bodies, about refueling, and about how to regulate a urination schedule on certain days. Thanks to countless technological developments and modern marketing, we've also found ways to ensure that, despite our busy schedule, we're able to train. I've included these, along with some other observations in case any of you out there are thinking about running more or ramping up your mileage.

Body
Chaffing lurks in the distance, unassumingly, then pounces once your regimen reaches the 7-9 mile range. In the past, I've used Vaseline on my inner-thigh, toes, waistline, below my armpits, and any other place that sting during the post-run shower (there are other places, by the way). We recently received samples of Body Glide, which seems trendy, popular, and as effective as the petroleum jelly.

Since our long runs begin on Sunday mornings at 7 this fall, I've also started using medical tape on my nipples. Someone actually came up with something called Nip Guards, but any tape or Band-aid will work.

Running schedules and body routines don't always coincide. As a result, we've been getting up around 5:30 on Sundays, having some coffee and oatmeal, and ensuring that things unfold in a typical fashion before we start training. So far, so good.

Fuel
Given the eventual need to rehydrate and refuel while running long distances, you're likely to get dizzy just deciding between the myriad options available. Relying on conventional wisdom remains a good first step. If, for instance, you know that you're not overly sweaty after running, you'll probably be able to skip the salt tablet section of the store. If you don't plan on running more than 3-5 miles, you don't need to shell out $30-$50 for a fancy belt or pack apparatus or buy huge jugs of electrolyte formula.

It's recommended, however, that when you're utilizing the carbohydrates and nutrients in your system, you should plan on replenishing in particular intervals--especially when running long distances. On today's 20-miler, I tried a few different brands of fuel to gauge my body's reaction before deciding on one to use in December. I started with a vanilla bean Gu at mile 9, then had a raspberry Clif Bar Gel at 14.5, and then the raspberry version of CIM-affiliate Hammer Gel's product at 18. I am partial to Gu, which seems to have the same concentrated consistency as the Hammer Gel. I found the Clif Bar to be the easiest to swallow, and most convenient to open.

The secret to gobbling down the fuel is water. While you may prefer using an electrolyte replacement such as Power Aid or Heed (we dilute Cytomax), the gels are designed to break down with water and provide quick recovery. And while I'm on the subject of electrolyte replacements, avoid sugars and artificial ingredients that will severely complicate your body's metabolic functions during periods of peak performance. Those days we spent chugging Gatorade between plays are over.

Equipment
Where does one keep these fueling products, you might ask? At shorter distances, I was able to use Amphipod's hand held bottle. It has a convenient pouch that fit my car keys and two Gu packets. It also ensures that water or electrolyte is nearby. Initially I found the bottle to be cumbersome; I switched hands, and even passed it off to Stephanie on a few runs during the summer just to lose it. But before long I barely even noticed it was there. In fact, on the 15- and 17-mile runs I ran with one 20-ounce bottle on each hand.

I finally broke down and bought Amphipod's hydration belt, which contains a pouch for fuel, a sleeve that might fit a gel or two, and four eight-ounce bottles. Despite the increase in weight and the decrease in liquid volume, I actually found the belt a nice accompaniment. It forced me to regulate my intake by mileage instead of just drink from my handheld when thirsty or warm. In this respect it was not only made the run easier, but positively influenced my regimen as well.

Since the training sometimes occurs in the early morning or late nights during the week, Stephanie and I are sharing two crucial pieces of equipment this fall. We're the ones running around Land Park in reflective singlets and Petzl headlamps. The singlet makes the runner extremely visible to cars; the headlamp provides a wobbly beam to follow along the park trail. The only issue I have with the headlamp is where certain shadows fall. No matter how I adjust it, I always feel like I'm wearing giant, thick-rimmed glasses.

Celebrating Accomplishments
Currently, I am eating just about anything I want. I try not to disrupt my intake much, but I have realized that I'm replacing many more carbohydrates these days. It's ironic that I'm training for an elite event, since it amounts to grinding myself into the ground, indulging, and exercising my liver.

There will still be much to celebrate come December 5th. The shuttle to Folsom Dam leaves at an ungodly hour. The race starts near 7 (hence our Sunday trainings), when we'll head down Fair Oaks Boulevard, onto 16th Street, and over to the State Capital. If you're in the neighborhood(s), come out and do some yelling. As an added incentive, my brother Chris is also running this year. He's joined a marathon relay group and intends to run the 7-mile (and longest) leg of the course. This is an impressive feat for my little big man.

That evening, Stephanie and I have made reservations at The Kitchen to celebrate the end of our training. We'll relish in the idea that we've finished our first full marathon, and toast to our upcoming date-aversary, which commemorates our December 7 date to Arco Arena.

The 21st Century Church

2010-09-19T17:19:00.000-07:00

My personal experience with organized religion is comprised to two memories. The first is less clear. I attended a Lutheran preschool at a church on a hill. I sat in the actual chapel once, but mostly I remember the rice holes that got stuck in my shoes on the playground. Later, when my mom and now step dad entered the courting phase of their relationship, I remember eating crackers and drinking grape juice at a Baptist church while the Sunday School children shuffled off to their smaller sessions. Again, what I really remember is changing my clothes in the car on the way to Little League baseball games.

Maybe a friend took me to church once or twice. I assume some of the funerals I attended involved a cross and some denomination of it. I've prayed at my share of dinner tables, stood outside a temple in Utah during a wedding, and seen many a foot stomp many a glass. I'm always on the periphery, absorbing notions of god through the two things that consume most of my time: music and literature.

And thus, on a random Thursday in September, I came to the realization that my moral pillars are comprised mostly of prose and lyric. And musically, most of my awareness of a higher power comes from songs by Mason Jennings.

My first encounter with him came in Santa Cruz in 2001, where he and his band opened for particular legs of Jack Johnson's first headlining (and non Ben Harper) tour. Jennings later appeared (again before Johnson) when a buddy and I traveled to Manhattan to see (what ended up being one of the first final shows by) Dispatch. I saw him on his own tours in 2003 (with then unknowns the Decemberists, actually), 2004, and 2005. That same bud and I followed him from San Francisco to Sacramento, and the bud tailed him up to Portland. All the while, my days have been intermittently peppered with his songs and albums. I used to rock one of his t-shirts. I plastered a sticker on a water bottle. I hung a poster in my classroom. Mason and his music weave a significant thread through a third of my life.

Last Thursday, I returned to Harlow's on J Street to see Mason Jennings. The vibe was very different from my mind's vision of his show there in 2004. He appeared without backing, opting to switch between two acoustic guitars. The crowd--mostly my age and older--sat at tables and booths, many (Stephanie and I included) reserving in advance and enjoying dinner beforehand. He wasn't promoting an album or in the throes of a long tour; rather, he played across his discography, even taking requests for two of his three encores.

While walking to the car, holding my wife's hand, I came to the realization that spawned this entry. I'm fascinated by the possibility that I might not be alone in this. I wonder how many other nondenominational, unaffiliated agnostics I know--people who, instead of finding solace in a house of worship, find it melody and song?

Below, I've included a long list of lyrics and links that not only support my treatise, but illustrate the evolution of my faith:

"Jealousy has got no use for me / The past is beautiful like the darkness between the fireflies." ("Darkness Between the Fireflies")

"Freedom's the ability to feel love for everyone." ("United States Global Empire")

"So glad I found you / God is around you / And all that's about you / Shines with the light / Love won't deny you / Love won't confine you / Free what's inside you / Shine with the light." ("The Light")

"Living in the Moment."

"And all these burning battlefields are now behind us / Life has brought us here together to remind us / That love will rise above it all and just keep growing / Life keeps flowing, and every moment starts right here with us." ("Sorry Signs on Cash Machines")

"East of Eden."

"Fear is where all hatred begins." ("Adrian")

"It's the little details that derail your dreams / As simple as it seems / The separate little things that you should have done / Define your life, honey, one by one." ("Little Details")

"And i don't know what I want but i know where I want to be / And everywhere I go, I wish you were here with me / Stars hang on tiny strings, my dreams are made of memories / Once everything made sense, now I get so alone that I can't sleep /
Will somebody please tell me if this is where I'm supposed to be." ("Southern Cross")

"Everybody has to find / Something that gives them the strength to be alive." ("Southern Cross")

"Drinking as Religion."

"Be here now, no other place to be / This whole world keeps changing, come change with me / Everything that's happened, all that's yet to come / Is here inside this moment, it's the only one." ("Be Here Now")

"What do you got if you ain't got love?" ("If You Ain't Got Love")

"Someday, someday soon / You and I will both be gone / And lately, I can't help but think / That the love we feel will live on." ("If You Ain't Got Love")

"Life has no limit / If you're not afraid to get in it." ("If You Ain't Got Love")

"Some call me Allah, some call me Tao / Some call me Buddha, some call me now / Some call me Jesus, some call me God / Some say I'm real, some say I'm not." ("Some Say I'm Not")

"If You Need a Reason."

"Which Way Your Heart Will Go."

"Jesus, Are You Real?"

"I Love You and Buddha Too."

"How Deep Is that River?"

"There is nothing to control / No question mark left on our souls / Just sunlight on a freckled face." ("Sunlight")

"Lonely Road."

New Year, New Rules

2010-09-13T21:39:00.000-07:00

In addition to teaching seniors this year, along with the opportunity to teach an elective course I helped design, I credit my happiness to four more crucial decisions. Five years in the profession--countless lessons learned, ideas shared, and tactics employed--and it comes down to these (for now, anyway).

One
I've stopped policing technology because kids use cell phones and iPods. They need to learn to use them at appropriate times and for appropriate reasons. If I am not instructing, I do not expect them to deviously tap at their phones while I'm not looking or run their ear buds down their sleeve, rest their head on their hand, and listen to their music secretly. Maybe it's because they're almost actual people, and not mutants, but we have a tacit agreement that we three can coexist.

Two
I refuse to button the top button of my shirt, especially if the knot of my tie hides it anyway. My neck remains free to move; my airway remains open to sighs and laughter; my demeanor remains unstuffed, liberated, and casual in feeling.

Three
Along those same lines, I have eliminated the loafer portion of my wardrobe. On my seemingly eternal flight to Johannesburg, a character in one of the many films I watched to pass the time, utilized a shirt, tie, and a pair of Chuck Taylors to remind that I should not sacrifice comfort and style for an unwritten, unspoken rule. I'm still in my slacks and tie, but I don't go to work in anything but my Sambas. (Coincidentally, this ensures that I wear my orthodox, keep my plantar fasciitis in check, and stay on track for the CIM.)

Four
Only shave Sunday and Wednesday nights.

Teaching--or the version I imagined it would be.

2010-08-16T18:33:00.000-07:00

From my little corner on the southwestern side of campus, I see the world through rose-colored glasses.

It's not optimism this year, as it was in years past when I stood at the door anxiously greeting the wide-eyed ninth graders newly shocked by their new beginnings. I'm not in the corner shoving spoonfuls of sugar into my medicine, convincing myself I'll herd cats or change minds or mold maniacs. It's actual happiness.

For the sake of saying it, being labeled a braggart, and moving on, I'll mention that in this, my fifth year of teaching, I'm working with two groups of seniors and one a group of twenty in an elective course. An elective course I was fortunate enough to design, by the way.

Without getting into the minutia of the Woodland Joint Unified School District, this opportunity first blesses me with far less paperwork than that demanded by curricula for freshmen (and sophomores). Secondly, most of the attitudes, habits, and behaviors unfit for the classroom have been abandoned, redirected, or escorted out. This translates into civil conversations, agreeable requests, and a continual show of faith in the educational process.

I do not yet know the evolving symptoms of senioritis, when it will strike, and how I will combat it.

I do know that I no longer preoccupy myself with policing cellular phones or iPods because I no longer feel like I'm dealing with children. If they can master the etiquette of technology use in social settings, they deserve a green light to continue navigating.

For now, though, the architecture of my lessons do not hinge on gimmicks, buy-in activities, or acting. I begin with questions and ask them to respond. I make them argue and support, read, and discuss. We write about our thoughts and feelings because, well, they're able to write about their thoughts and feelings. It's glorious.

Desire is a fickle old mistress.

2010-08-07T06:57:00.000-07:00

When I initially mentioned a backpacking trip to my newly retired father, I did so for selfish reasons. Really, I wanted him to assume at least a semi-active lifestyle since his days no longer included being bounced around on bulldozers. I've implied similar notions in the past, using suggestive birthday gifts (bicycling gloves, hiking packs, Nalgene bottles) with moderate success, so I figured I'd at least have a pestering point with which to nudge him in the direction of the door.

But like a newly planted seed, he let the idea take roots. He fed it, nurtured it, and it quickly grew into a full-fledged plan. No longer dependent on weekends for free time, he conspired a mid-week, three-day trek into a section of the Mokelumne Wilderness. The distance, he said, was only about three miles, a perfect amount for someone eager to ease back into the lifestyle. The fishing on the north fork of the Mokelumne River, he told me, would be epic. Thirty years prior, he and his brother and their father could barely get their lines in the water. Each day they caught their limit before lunch, he recalled, and the river's meandering through granite and continual pooling gave anyone with a pole and a plan free reign on the trout.

He spread his excitement across the family like dandelion spores in the wind. Soon he was telling everyone about our return to the Mokelumne. He spent a good portion of my brother's wedding jawing with his brother and step-brother, beaming at his idea, his plan, and his new freedom. Most phone calls I made to him inevitably succumbed to preparations. Did I have utensils? he wondered; What food items did I plan to bring? The trip became a focal point between father and son; it was his pestering point, a countdown-worthy calendar item, the linchpin of my summer vacation that made all the trips before it merely warm-ups.

Day 1:
The trail head sits at Hermit Valley on Highway 4, just west of Ebbetts Pass. From there, it's four miles down the canyon to a spot named Monty Wolf's upper cabin site. The plan, my father said, was to go about three miles and stop near the inlet of a runoff creek labeled on our map.

We began at exactly 10:00 a.m. The trail skirted the north side of the river, then bent away from the water, dropping into a meadow formed by lightning strike and subsequent fire. The decrease in elevation seemed, at the time, undramatic, and my father continually plotted points on his mental and literal map. He pointed out hillsides where, according to him, the landscape would morph from thick trees to open granite. We trudged on through the timber, eager to find the place where the scenery opened and the river began falling into the aforementioned pools.

Could this be his last smile of the trip?

From time to time we rested, hydrated, and consulted the map. We ambled in and out of conversations, sharing both new stories and familiar memories, offering new analysis and previously unmentioned perspectives on the latter.

We crossed the Deer Creek inlet on a log and stopped for a meager lunch of dried fruit. We met two men--the only people we saw on the trip--who confirmed our location and the distance to Monty Wolf's upper cabin site. We passed beautiful campsites in the timber, both feeling headstrong and able, both certain we'd reach the vast rock slabs beyond.

Crossing a swiftly moving Deer Creek inlet on a log.

About a mile below our lunch spot, we veered from the trail and hopped up and down rugged boulders in search of a place to camp. The cross-country search proved the killer. Dad grew increasingly tired; the heat of the sun and the fifty-plus pound pack grew more and more oppressive. We eventually rested in a shady spot, removed the bags, and walked toward the river hoping to find a suitable clearing.

Nothing.

We packed up again and started trudging down the trail, eventually stumbling upon the same two men, shirtless, drinking from tall cans, and enjoying the shade. "You made it," one said, confirming we had in fact walked all four miles to the upper cabin site. My father's heart sank. Exhausted, suffering from a self-diagnosed condition called "rubber legs," and feeling lightheaded in the altitude, he felt his plan had tumbled out of control. There were a few so-so camp spots, one man told us, but nothing like what we'd passed after lunch, a mile or so back up the hill. We turned and, in small steps, made our way back up the small incline to find a place to quit.

Citing "something like claustrophobia," my dad desperately sought an escape from his pack and, eventually, being upright altogether. We ended up back in the shady spot, where I quickly threw together a fire pit while Dad rested. It was nearly 3:30. We'd misfired, bitten off more than we could chew, and had to establish a camp nearly four-hundred feet from the river. It was our only option.

The shady spot, looking back toward the trail.

A clearing, converted for camping.

Days 2 and 3:
Suffice it to say, the trip didn't go according to plan. The details stuck to my father's memory couldn't compete with the reality we'd found. The fishing was, as you might imagine at this point, terrible. I landed two tiny ones on worms Tuesday morning. Other than that, there was nary a hit. My father's attempts with a fly pole went as swimmingly, and we felt thankful we'd packed in sufficient food just in case the fishing stunk.

Catching rays (and not fish).

Both Monday and Tuesday included naps, as well as pre-twilight bedtimes in preparation for Wednesday's uphill trek. The downtime proved vital for us both, as the exodus from the canyon seemed one huge climb after another--something we'd each failed to consider on our optimistic walk in. Somewhere near the location of the lightning strike, Dad reminded me it was his birthday. I realized that he's scripted fifty-four years' worth of evidence that suggest a young mind and stout heart might satisfy your soul, but they'll break your body.

The chair I made for the aged one.

Looking up, the only direction to go from here.

Safely home and rested, I can easily imagine that the older one gets, the more the pleasure is worth the pain. And so I'll think fondly of our misadventure, fish be damned.

"Taste the sugar with the salt," and other cliches to live by.

2010-07-28T07:49:00.000-07:00

You've got to roll with the punches.
Life has its ups and downs.
When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.

Any number of mind-numbing cliches remind me that the lives we lead (or march within, rather) are anything but static entities. The plateaus, as my mind concocts them, range in distance and elevation, and then at times fail to exist at all. And while I find little to complain about in my life at this particular moment, I can't help but comment on the dichotomous nature of the happenings of these past few weeks.

The first story comes on the heels of the last blog in which I detailed the playful extravagance of the Zook-Petty anniversary trip in Las Vegas. Near the moment our marriage entered its second year (somewhere in a Las Vegas airport terminal), I received word that another marriage, one I'd attended just 5 years back, had crumbled. But, you've got to take the change-ups with the fastballs. You put the good on hold; you fortify, shield, and steel the ones you love against the bad. I offered up condolences and comforts. I adhered to the bifurcated view of the world I'd created. I tried to balance these conflicting emotions.

From this, though, I realized the foolish absolutism I employed to view this separation. From the surface, divorce of course appears an end, a tragic splintering of a family unit. The more I spoke to my friend, the more I realized that his voice possessed a clarity, an intentionality, and a strength I thought he'd lost. Marriage was his sacrifice, not his haven. He'd buried away the truest version of himself as a byproduct of the assumption that it would ensure his partner's happiness. I realized, in hearing him speak so candidly, that I wasn't balancing emotions so much as juggling my skewed perception of them.

On the home front (and unfortunately on the road as well), the private sector has slammed my wife against the wall and demanded she jump higher, run faster, and sweat harder. Unable to combat the threat of an unpaid mortgage and unwilling to promote even the inkling that any task is impossible for her, she's stayed late, gone in early, and found ways to perform even in the smallest of moments between living. She hacked away at keys until impossible hours in a hotel room last weekend, then rose at 7:00, worked until 9:45, and attended a wedding, after which she drove nearly three hours to return, yes, to work.

All this, while I enjoyed the twilight of my summer vacation by fraternizing with family and friends at Chris and Katy's destination wedding, where I imbibed in excess, and let a permanent state of relaxation and irresponsibility carve an increasingly deep smile on my face. Stephanie tells me that someone needs to enjoy the fruits of such hard work--or that teachers earn their summers, but as the contrasts between our roles shows its late-summer clarity, I wonder how my meandering through grocery stores, experiments in the kitchen, and afternoons in the garden compare with her obligation to seek out and account for billable hours.

This wonder didn't impede my indulgence at the wedding. And while I had my share of fun, I took it as my personal duty to make sure my brother and his new wife remained unfazed by the pressures of planning and carrying out this union. This emphasis on de-stressing the bride and groom, the parents, even the photographers, couldn't quell my own reactions to the state of the setting around me. The wedding, a prototypical "new beginning," seemed, at times, offset by the disrepair of an aging, dated Tahoe region. The glitz of State Line, the rustic charm of the condominiums, and the lure of the casino all seemed stained by smoke, chipped paint, and shoddy construction. The lake itself, the resurgence of the pine forests in the valley, and the eastern ridge-top views of the Carson Valley below managed to sustain the mountain charm the new couple likely envisioned for their special moment. The other elements, however, screamed, "RECESSION."

Though I gave myself wholeheartedly to this wedding, I kept track of Owen Britton's development at every opportunity. Pregnancy, childbirth, and parenthood all possess positive, at times even flowery connotations, and to consider that people must embark on parenting with anything less than unfettered joy remains difficult to comprehend. But on this roller coaster of emotions, I can't shake the thought that expectation, hope, and reality have tugged at Chris, Chelsea, and their families. The feelings obfuscate my own naive understandings of their positions, for they have endured so many complex emotions in such a short window of time that my outside perspective of their situation makes the big picture difficult to digest, or even recognize.

Is there a point to this, I wonder? As I try to make sense of things, I'm not so sure. I think now what I'm faced with is a reminder that the big picture is far too impractical to take at face value. My perception of the "known" is comprised of so many facets, features, and lineaments of uncertainty--of particulates and unknowns, really--that I just have to live in the moment, take life as it comes, and accept the good with the bad.

Sure. That'll be easy.

New Things

2010-07-20T17:28:00.001-07:00

Without the supporting cast of African stories and global football, I return to the blogosphere in hopes that my readers possess an attention span capable of indulging lackluster updates from a regular ol' life.

Around me, though, lives seem busier than martini shakers during happy hour.

I returned from the World Cup to attend my brother's bachelor party weekend at Silver Lake, south of Lake Tahoe. Thanks to Alex, we had a place to crash, fish, and relax. None of us struck out at the lake, pulling in a haul of rainbow and brown trout from a small aluminum boat and skinny dock. The late winter provided high water and cool weather for the weekend. We were able to catch the final games of the World Cup tournament down the road at the Kirkwood Inn.

Next on the news list is the first Zook/Petty anniversary celebration. To commemorate the big day, Stephanie and I put a mature mark on Sin City this past weekend. We arrived around 10 on Friday night, checked into our suite at the Venetian, and caught a late-night (for us) drink on the edge of the casino floor. We enjoyed the cover band, its indecent groupies, and an over served, over weight congregation of tourists.

On Saturday morning I enjoyed some strong coffee and a USA Today, then rousted my bride for a trip down to Bouchon for brunch. I went for the quiche and a bloody, while Stephanie chose a salmon baguette and a bellini. We then set out in the 113 degree heat for the Bellagio to find Le Cirque, the location of our anniversary dinner that evening. In the process of backtracking to our hotel, we walked the Forum Shoppes at Caesar's Palace, viewing the goods at Nike and Apple, then returned to the Venetian for a quick trip poolside.

The anniversary, somewhat appropriately, coincided with the NBA's annual Las Vegas Summer League, an arrangement of newly-signed draft picks and young representatives from certain teams vying to make impressions (and for some, make the team). It's a nice arrangement for the host UNLV, whose two joining arenas provide fans easy transition between games, teams, and players. The summer league also brings out coaches, veterans, and retired greats affiliated with either the league, particular organizations, or media covering the events. Some highlights for Stephanie and I include seeing Gary Payton, former Magic Dennis Scott, the entire Maloof family, Tyreke Evans and Jason Thompson, coach Paul Westphal, and assumed frenemies Vlade Divac and Rick Fox. I also bumped into Vinnie Del Negro in the elevator at the hotel, where I shook his hand and wished him luck on his new endeavor in Los Angeles. Another former great, Warrior Chris Mullin, casually strolled through the Southwest terminal while we waited for our departing flight on Sunday.

We watched an entertaining game in which the Kings fought back from a 16-point deficit to beat the Bulls by a point. The game included an Omri Casspi half court shot, an exciting moment that tied the game at the end of the third quarter. The game also led to my second televised appearance at a sporting event this summer.

If you can't tell from our attire, we left the game and went directly to our 8:30 reservations at Le Cirque. To kill 20 minutes, we sat down at the only slot machines Stephanie will play, "Deal or No Deal."

Our meals were amazing! Stephanie decided on the truffle risotto and the sea bass, while I picked the lobster risotto and a Chilean sea bass. We were extremely impressed with the experience, which we paired with a bottle of Rombauer chardonnay. For dessert, Stephanie (the baker) ordered/admired the Grand Marnier souffle, while I seized the opportunity to eat a tarte tartin with a glass of Hennessy VSOP. It was a lavish, indulgent, romantic experience we topped off with a walk down the strip, sharing barbs and jokes about our observations in the restaurant.

Though it happened from afar, we also welcomed my newest friend Owen August, the first child wrought by my dear friends Chris and Chelsea. Chris stands as my oldest school chum, and this experience has given me the opportunity to view the progression toward fatherhood through an entirely new lens. He and Chelse (whom I've also known since the early teenage years) have been insightful resources. Their humor and wit provide a uniquely humanistic perspective I've seemingly lost with others in the wash of small talk, baby-book jargon, or greeting card well-wishing.

They're facing the challenges posed by Ebstein's Anomaly, a condition they're carefully monitoring regularly. In addition to sending them our positive thoughts and best wishes, I'm adding some much needed excitement. I can't wait to meet this kid and watch yet another set of my mates raise a child.

The summer rolls on this upcoming weekend as my brother and his fiance give me one final opportunity to deliver a best man speech. Stay tuned for more reports on this occasion, my reconnection with my old friend Bill, and details on what I do with my rapidly shrinking summer vacation.

Final Videos

2010-07-08T07:34:00.000-07:00

Now that we've returned to the states and a reliable wifi connection, I'm able to load some of the digital video clips from our trip.

Johannesburg Zoo
A rather large bear on the move.

A crocodile's brief swim.

Moving on up.

Vultures seemingly abiding by the adage, "sharing is caring."

Scenery
The landscape on the drive between Jo'burg and Rustenburg.

On the outskirts of a rural township.

Football
You've heard the ubiquitous vuvuzela buzzing during broadcasts of World Cup matches. Here is what it sounds like at a restaurant when the host nation's team takes the pitch.

South Africa fans react to Bafana Bafana's first goal, the first goal of the 2010 FIFA World Cup, scored by midfielder Siphiwe Tshabalala. Until Tuesday's strike by Netherlands defender Giovanni Van Bronckhorst, I thought Tshabalala had the shot of the tournament.

Ghana fans gathered at Melrose Arch react to a successful Asamoah Gyan penalty kick in the Black Stars' opening match versus Serbia.

Celebration in the stands at Tshwane/Pretoria moments after Landon Donovan's now infamous stoppage time goal against Algeria.

Final Thoughts.

2010-06-27T01:03:00.001-07:00

South African Subtleties
-"To Let" means the same as "For Rent." No one has inserted the obviously funny i to any of the signs we've seen, unfortunately.

-Servers in restaurants deliver the bill at a European speed--a suitable vacation speed, it's worth mentioning. They take your order and deliver and remove your plates very promptly, but it seems that they will never bring a check on their own volition. You just have to ask after you've been sitting at your table without plates for awhile. Sometimes, they will even come by to check on your empty table to see if you need anything, but they never ask if you want a check. Unlike in the states, the patron fills the tip out before the credit is charged, and the charge goes through a device at the table. If the patron decides to tip poorly, she gets to sit and watch the server go through the motions of typing it into the machine in front of her in an awkward silence.

-One must order a "filtered coffee" to get an familiar, American cuppa' joe. Servers ask you, however, if you'd like hot or cold milk, which I'm never prepared to answer.

-There is apparently no central heating and air in South Africa (some locals verified this fact for us, as we have obviously not inspected a lot of homes due to all the barriers surrounding them). This is due in some part to the good weather. The heating system in our room is basically giant square plates on the walls that one plugs in and turns on. If it was colder, the fact they don't heat up the room very well would be more of a problem.

-Not having a car means we haven't struggled with the fact that driving is done on the opposite side of the road. What's difficult, though, is overcoming the natural inclination to walk on a specific side of the street, of a walkway, or up a staircase, as the flow of foot traffic mirrors the road traffic.

-Green lights, of course, mean "Go" and yellow lights mean "Proceed with Caution." Red lights, at least when they change from yellow, do not really mean "Stop." Most drivers consider two or three seconds of red to mean something like "Get Your Ass Through the Intersection." Traffic laws seemingly permit this, as the opposing direction's light does not turn green immediately, apparently as a means to accommodate for this habit.

-South African soap operas on television include dialogue in a blend of both Afrikaans and English--something like our notion of Spanglish. What's funny, however, is how the network selectively subtitles this dialogue. Some of the programs have also had World Cup items in the background or being discussed as part of some strange product placement.

-Our motel, like any motel, provided us with a Do Not Disturb placard for our door. Having gone to bed near 5 a.m. after the knockout game, we hung the sign in hopes of getting sufficient rest. With the sign up, the staff knocked on the door at 9, called the room to get us to allow for breakfast delivery, and then called later to ask us to leave so the room could be tidied. My question: Why provide a Do Not Disturb sign?

A Land of Contrasts
The drives to and from Rustenburg really showed the contrast in the quality of life in South Africa. At a couple of points we skirted the edge of shanty communities. People walked along the road to and from major intersections, some spreading used clothes and goods along the route to sell. (Roadside window tinting, anyone?)

Less than 45 minutes away, we found ourselves near an upscale suburb surrounded by mini malls, car dealerships, and a luxurious golf community.

Inside 30 minutes from the previous spot, we found ourselves surrounded by nothing but typical, rugged African terrain.

Personal Records
-I've worn each pair of jeans I brought at least three times. Each pair of socks went 'round twice. T-shirts generally went a day or two, commonly layered over something long sleeve and reused as well.

-I now know why I own seventeen pairs of boxers.

-Stephanie has washed my team U.S.A. jersey and warm-up jacket in the sink. Ben has done some laundry in the room as well. Stephanie says I have to be careful not to make it seem as though this is a Chinese laundry joke. Regardless, they are very skilled with what soap we have and water.

-I, on the other hand, have made some dinners out of some truly non-standard items (tomato and cumin spread for pasta sauce?) and kitchen appliances that don't have specifics as to temperature or time anywhere on them.

-I painted my own face three times and decorated Steph's twice. I tied patriotic bandannas around my face, wrist, belt, and wife's hair. (I also dried her hair one night when she felt too feeble and ill to rub her hair vigorously.)

-I lost my glasses in a moment of exaltation at Ellis Park Stadium.

-My digital camera is haywire. It no longer zooms, the menu button has stopped registering, thereby making it impossible to change the settings or navigate through the photos.

-I have witnessed, captured, and experienced some the best football in the world in an expansive foreign country on the trip of a lifetime. Thank you for supporting, interacting, and joining us on our journey.

Adoption Papers.

2010-06-26T19:21:00.000-07:00

I met a lot of great U.S. fans hailing from all over America. I met a lot of great Ghana fans, but none of them Ghanaian. Such is the nature of football when the tournament teams remaining represent a continent and not just a country. That said, you won't find many America supporters shifting their allegiances to Mexico now that the U.S. Men's National Team finds itself knocked out of the World Cup Finals.

After a 3-hour van ride, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on rye, a trek through a dirt parking lot (over six carefully counted mounds), onto a stadium bus transfer, and through a series of fences, we found ourselves back in Royal Bafokeng Stadium in Rustenburg for our last match of the trip. We spent some time at another friendly beer garden, tried our hands at ticket scalping, and endured the bandwagon Black Star fans before eventually finding our seats.

After only the third call of "quarter final tickets," we met Matthew, who hails from Mount Shasta, California. Matthew is in South Africa for a month-long internship, where his job is to drive soccer fans to their World Cup matches. Matthew, a new soccer convert due largely in part to the timing of this internship, unknowingly stumbled into the luckiest transaction in U.S. soccer history.

Scanning this beer garden photo, you'll see a homemade anti-Donovan shirt worn by a man in a green and yellow wig. The front of this Algeria fan's shirt says "Ghana's Newest Fans."

The fortune I felt at realizing our seating location is written all over my face.

We sat shockingly close, a mere three rows from the track bordering the pitch. We chatted up the man feeding the Jabulani balls to the players for throw-ins.

We sang. We cheered. We booed. The fans to our right were a veritable jukebox of nationally-focused rock songs. They worked with "Livin' on a Prayer," "Born in the U.S.A.," some unsuccessful Queen songs, and a nice little chant to the beat of a White Stripes' song. We watched Ghana take advantage of its two chances while the U.S. couldn't capitalize on countless. As the Black Stars hit the pitch, rode stretchers to the sidelines, and helped us vex our chances at a comeback, the feeling grew increasingly dire.

You saw me on television, likely mouthing an expletive that sums up the moment better than any writing I could do here and now. (This particular image was sent to me by a former student via Facebook. We are not Facebook friends, but he went out of his way to take a picture, search me out on the site, and send it with a heartwarming message. It's the most work he's ever done for me, come to think of it.)

Saddened by missed opportunities and surrounded by a large crowd relishing in the U.S. loss more than the Black Star victory, we retraced our steps through the throng of fans and locals selling an eclectic array of junk. We waited for another transfer bus while fans argued over how a queue works. We sat under another bunch of fans who'd adopted the Black Star, arrived at our van before any other members of our group, and then sat some more. A four hour trip to back to Jo'burg, through a mass exodus down two-lane roads, clogged highways, and three toll stops in non-reclining seats, and I'm rehashing it in the 4-o'clock hour before trying to get to sleep.

"Apartheid is exactly where it belongs--in a museum"

2010-06-24T23:57:00.000-07:00

We spent our post-celebration downtime by asking our favorite Arrive Alive driver Collen to take us to the Apartheid Museum, a renowned South African attraction in Ormonde. We left the suburbs and headed south, past the huge skyscrapers of greater Johannesburg.
South Africans show national pride in numerous ways, from the flags, jerseys, and car decorations already mentioned, to the windows of the skyscrapers in the photo above and the painted freeways pictured below.

The museum does not allow photography once inside, so what appears in the blog here only represents the beginning of our experience. I will say, however, that the issue of apartheid in South Africa is immensely complex once one moves beyond the principle of segregation. The museum seeks to educate visitors on pre-apartheid conditions, including the history of South Africa's gold boom of the late 19th and early 20th century, its subsequent patterns of immigration, and mandated segregation and forced removal that ensued. It moves through emergent nationalist policies, the secularist regimes, and the political and social injustices, all the while emphasizing the oppression and tyranny embedded in the country's history.

We moved through this cavernous museum feeling both informed and overwhelmed--not due to the manner in which the attractions were designed to educate, but in the amount of information the museum sought to include. The site also boasts a wing dedicated to the life of Nelson Mandela, including the details of his 27-year imprisonment and the impact of his release and eventual peace negotiations on South Africa and the world.

Steph approaching the pillars outside the Apartheid Museum. Each includes a word: Democracy, Equality, Reconciliation, and Diversity.

Also outside, the quote from Nelson Mandela reads: "To be free is not merely to cast off one's chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others."

A park bench designated "Europeans Only."

You enter by choosing one of two absolutes. Ben contemplates the impossible: Which entrance does a half-Asian, half-European use?

We ended up rushing through some of the later exhibits because of a pre-arranged pickup with Collen at 3:00. It's safe to say that if you find yourself in Jo'burg, dedicate a good portion of the day to the Apartheid Museum. Not only should guests of the nation understand the (recent) history of the country, but the museum allows its visitors an opportunity to contemplate the ways in which humans have tried and failed to justify their ignorance.

The Greatest Game in U.S. Men's Soccer History?

2010-06-23T12:38:00.000-07:00

The couch of our room before the arrival of the bus, which again showed late. In Pretoria, our guide decided to park us in an awkward location, walk us to a gate, and say, "Meet me here when it's over." None of it mattered, though, as we had over 2.5 hours to explore the grounds of the stadium before the match.

The stadium in Pretoria felt new in the sense that it had little character. We had a nice chat with a South African couple who were glad to hear our glowing reviews of their country, telling us we needed to see Cape Town in order to fully understand the beauty the nation has to offer. When we learned they had only seen Washington D.C. and Boston, we had similar advice about the states.

Despite having tickets in block 1, Chris stayed with us near block 11 before the match. When he located his seat he was interviewed by Al Jezeera, providing his thoughts on the outcome of the game. He returns to England Friday, ending our union here in South African together.

Ben and I thought this guy set U.S. fans back about 50 years. Stephanie agreed, adding that he simultaneously misrepresented everyone in the legal profession.

Signing the Hyundai ball. This makes more sense if you've seen the Hyundai commercial that airs here twice every commercial break in which fans sign and then bat around a giant, inflatable soccer ball.

The Algerians loved us, and we loved them back. Early on our group was a spectacle, posing for pictures and obliging the opposing fans. The Algerian fans do not think, despite whatFourFourTwo posited, that the U.S.A. is 'The Great Satan.' After the match, I shook more hands of congratulatory Algerians than I can recall. We also had a number of requests to trade our U.S. jerseys or scarves with Algerians', a post-match tradition (at least on the pitch). With an upcoming trip to the knockout game, however, we could not oblige. It was fantastic to share the experience with this group.

Zooks in their seats, all hopped up on emotion.

Sunset from our seats in Pretoria just before the start of the second half.

Ben and I both have video of the celebration, so this is the only picture we can offer. Just know that strangers hugged and shared high-fives. People cried, sending salt water streaks through the images painted on their faces. Voices already made hoarse by hours of supportive cheering were forced to strain and scream again. It was remarkably unique, a moment of raw celebration and tremendous relief.

The boys again lingered on the field to celebrate with their supporters. They visited multiple blocks of fans. Here, they're making their way to our side of the field where Jozy Altidore jumped the fence and ran into the front rows. Someone threw a flag to Donovan, who happily unfolded it and draped it over himself.

Next up, Ghana on Saturday in Rustenburg. Then, unbelievably, we depart for the states on Monday.

Three's Company

2010-06-22T08:57:00.000-07:00

The sunrise brought with it the resurrection of Stephanie, who after two days down claims to have her health restored. After a morning passing around the computer, shuffling cards, and flipping through pages, she agreed to venture out to the Arch for sunlight and sustenance. The walk consisted of rehashing the events of the previous days and unpacking and explaining the jokes Ben and I referenced from the times she was indisposed.

Because we've reached the final games of the group stages, the schedule for football watching has changed. We no longer enjoy three games a day from afternoon to night. Now we toggle between two sets of matches, first at 4 p.m., then again at 8:30 p.m. The matches share start times to ensure an ethical unfolding of the stage's final results. Things will certainly quiet down around here for now, as South Africa's beloved Bafana Bafana were unable to clinch a spot in the knockout round this evening. With the Cameroonians eliminated and Nigeria in poor shape, local attention will likely shift to Ghana and the Ivory Coast for some continental representation in the tournament.

As for us, we're glad to have all members of the suite healthy and headstrong for tomorrow's final group match versus the Desert Foxes of Algeria. The U.S. team openly touts a never-say-die work ethic, so the do-or-die scenario for tomorrow seemingly works in their favor. Additionally, for animosity's sake, we three hope to squash the Algerians because our FourFourTwo World Cup guide (our Bible these past two weeks) posits the following in its preview of the Desert Foxes:

"[H]istory breeds expectation, and Algerians, like most of the Arab world, will still expect victory against 'The Great Satan' (USA)."

We know you're supporting our mission here, and hopefully the mission of the Men's National Team as well. Keep an eye on the game tomorrow, and as always, go U.S.A.!

Man Down.

2010-06-21T05:55:00.003-07:00

For Steph, groggy turned into a fever, hence all that rest while her brother and I explored the craft fair yesterday. Our team reduced by a third, Ben and I struggled to occupy ourselves beyond the obligatory walk to Melrose Arch, trip to Woolworths, and watching the afternoon football match. The wheels started to turn as the day progressed, however, and by the time the Brazil-Ivory Coast game rolled around--with Steph promising to emerge and watch with us--Ben and I had constructed a game of our own to coincide with the events of the match.

The game mandated general consumption at the following moments:
- When the announcer used the full name of a Brazilian player.
- Whenever there were consecutive headers (later abandoned).
- Whenever a team passed back to the goalie.
- Corner kicks (also abandoned).

We stepped it up for the rarer occurrences, using the harder stuff, poured into plastic NyQuil dosage cups. Consumption rules were as follows:
- Stretcher appearance - 5 ml
- Yellow card - 10 ml
- Any goal - 20 ml
- Red card - 30 ml

Steph played along with a Vitamin Water (yes, an actual Vitamin Water, dissimilar to the one described when I recounted our bus ride to Rustenberg). We all made it out of the game safely, but sufficient damage was done to a some green bottles. The only one who woke up feeling under the weather was, unfortunately, Stephanie, who again spent the day resting and hydrating while battling symptoms of a fever.

Ben and I again did our best to stay occupied, this time following a wild hare by--wait for it--walking to Melrose Arch, going to Woolworths, and watching the afternoon football match. After laughing our way through the second half of Portugal's seven goal demolition of Korea DPR, we had to clear out for housekeeping. We took a different route down a new block to kill some time, finding a gem of joint called Debonairs Pizza. This place is pushing the limits of food; look at this section of the menu and tell me you're not simultaneously intrigued and concerned.

For indulging my digressions, I'll tell you that Stephanie is plugging along. She feels better at times, but so much rest doesn't provide her with a lot of strength to enjoy those moments. Ben and I are keeping her hydrated and cared for, and she has tomorrow to continue recovering before our next scheduled game on Wednesday.

How much for Father's Day? I'll give you Father and a D.

2010-06-20T08:23:00.000-07:00

We woke up today, America's Father's Day, feeling collectively groggy. We'd initially arranged for a 10 a.m. car to the Rosebank Mall where, on Sundays, a market and craft fair take place on the structure's roof. Stephanie decided to stay in and rest, but assured Ben and I to keep our plans since our final Sunday might include a game in the knockout round.

After a ride in perhaps the most offensive, overly air-freshened SUV, Ben and I wandered through the marketplace outside the mall, initially thinking the Sunday market we sought had become a permanent fixture. Booth after booth included carved wood, handmade trinkets, bead work, bracelets, and an array of soccer paraphernalia. From a distance, the booths looked to offer the same items. Upon more careful browsing, however, the items differed ever-so-slightly. It became immediately clear that the other shoppers came to wager with the locals. Ben and I found the back-and-forths going on around us fairly comical, both of us ultimately realizing we weren't out to buy anything at the moment.

Up a flight of stairs, Ben and I found what we'd read about. On the top level of the parking garage, an array of stands offered unique clothing, goods, jewelry, even books. It was a mixture of art, food, textiles, and more commercial goods similar to the permanent marketplace. We strolled through unique goods, deciding it best to eat chicken kabobs and a set of spring rolls before making any commitments. Ben went with art; I decided on woodwork. Before calling our ride we took a brief stroll through the mall itself, quickly remembering that we've been to too many malls and ought to just leave.

After we called our smelly ride, we fortunately caught the Soweto Marimba Youth League Project before bracing for a headache-inducing ride back to the suite. On the way, we went through a driver inspection point--an initially frightening moment for Ben and me. The police officer checked our man's license, circled the vehicle, and demanded he open the boot (trunk). We later learned that during events like the World Cup, random people offer up their car and driving services for profit. He also noted that such events increased the likelihood that South Africans are driving around with "illegal things" in the car.

Moments later, our car was stopped to allow the Slovenian National Team's bus to enter the intersection on it's way Port Elizabeth. Amazingly, the bus stopped, the players got out, apologized to Ben and I for the ref's behavior in Friday's game, and offered the Americans a spot in the knockout round. (I would only believe the first sentence of this paragraph if I were you. Happy Father's Day just the same.)

Outta Sight.

2010-06-18T23:30:00.000-07:00

Game day. U.S. versus Slovenia. By 11 a.m., we were focused on the task. By 12, we were ready for the brief coach ride.By 12:45 we were frustrated by the fact that the bus arrived late. We boarded, but hadn't started moving.By 1:00, Ben meant business. At 1:30, we were outside of Ellis Park Stadium, a beautiful facility and the infamous site of the South African Springboks' rugby world cup victory in 1995. (Note the presence of Chris, the infamous "lost boy" from the U.S.-England game and the subplot of my entry.)

The South African fans in attendance were jubilant. Upon entry, many cheered the foreigners, and one man asked to take a photo with us. Apparently we located the only person in the world who cannot take a photo--it took three or four tries and all somehow cut off huge chunks of the group. After finding a capable photographer and striking yet another pose, we told our new fan, "Go U.S." to which he replied, "Sure sure" (pronounced rapidly, shoshow) a common South African response. But then he added an, "ATL," hip-hop culture's call sign for Atlanta, Georgia. After some confused looks and a hearty laugh, we made our way towards the festivities outside the stadium, something we were not able to do in Rustenberg last week.

Our journey offered a mingling of Yanks, Slovenians, and South Africans. After getting clarification on the reason for Slovenia's green jersey and red, white, and blue flag, we asked the question on everyone's mind: Why use Charlie Brown's jagged stripe on the jersey? It's not about Peanuts, one fan said, it's the mountains in Slovenia, and the one in the center is taller than those that surround it.

We found the Slovenians to be extremely proud. We learned that they enjoy Sacramento's reception of their native Beno Udrih. They reminded us ad nauseam that their country contains only 2 million people. Given that fact, we found the number of supporters present at Ellis Park to be quite impressive. They also mentioned that Slovenia's publicity for the World Cup cast Johannesburg and South Africa itself in quite a dangerous light--not unlike that in some mediums in the U.S. The experience for these fans, however, had so far unfolded contrary to those warnings. They admitted South Africa felt safer and more welcoming than did Korea during their World Cup travels in 2002. (These sentiments may have been, in part, a result of the eager, cheery beer vendors in Budweiser's beer garden behind us.)

In a fit of anger after the game, Ben ultimately regretted bonding with this Slovenian, for obvious reasons.

Once inside, we had yet another reason to smile. Stephanie had unknowingly purchased tickets located in the first row of the upper deck, an unobstructed location where we could drape our flags, hover over the ledge, and slap the glass excitedly. Strangley, even with people standing behind us, the usher told us to sit on more than one occasion.
We watched the re-airing of the match again this morning. Apparently these seats also led to a television camera capturing me jumping up and down (twice, briefly). While the location of the seats no doubt increased the likelihood that the cameras would focus in our direction, having someone playing a hand drum to my right certainly didn't hurt my chances.

No one tells Ben he cannot stand. Later, he perfected the blasting of his long-coveted U.S.A. vuvuzela, conceding that it's an instrument that can only be mastered when one feels impassioned.

This stands as the last picture of me in these eyeglasses, excitedly celebrating Bradley's equalizer. Sometime during the fiasco associated with Edu's disallowed goal, they twirled into the lower bowl.

Ben, dejected and wearing the details of the day.

Our trip back to the coach was less treacherous than the one described in our trip to Rustenberg, but it was still flawed. Security blocked the route we needed to take, and the flow of people led us again toward unfamiliar territory. After an impromptu television interview with SABC and a subsequent wrong turn, Stephanie led Ben and I on a jog through the gates of the complex. With only one stumble on the way, she got us back to a bus that Chris claimed he kept idle on account that it could not depart without Zook, party of three, safely on board.

The Mourning After

2010-06-17T11:19:00.000-07:00

No one debated the vuvuzelas this morning. Horns were nowhere to be found on the silent streets of our Jo'burg suburb after Bafana Bafana's poor showing last night against Uruguay. Today we opted to stay close to home, returning to our stomping grounds at Melrose Arch. We took the advice of every tour book on our coffee table, settling in at Moyo for fine African cuisine, South African wine, and an Argentinian stomping on the big screen.

Not a fan in sight until a busload of Hondurans rolled in.

Ben ordered the spicy lamb tagine, an African stew, with basmati rice.

Stephanie ordered the Isishebo curry, traditional in Durban, consisting of spicy lamb. In the background you'll see the country's Stellenzicht shiraz.

I ordered the cig cig wat, an Ethiopian braised beef marinated in fenugreek, here wrapped in flat bread.

We're back in the room now, watching a heated France v. Mexico game. It's quite cold again in Jo'burg, but the forecast shows a slight increase in temperature over the next four or five days. Tomorrow's match against Slovenia begins at 4 pm, so we'll likely be back on the coach by 6:30, thus avoiding the late hours and the near-freezing temperatures.

Youth Day, 2010

2010-06-16T09:50:00.000-07:00

We spent the national holiday driving through the region in one way or another. Safaris, I've gathered, are supposed to be primitive. I imagine the open-air vehicle creaking and rocking through "the bush" and an expansive terrain where rare and wild animals live out the course of their lives, occasionally for paying customers. But I'm not in Africa for a safari. I'm here for the World Cup. But while we're here, why not spend today in South Africa's Northwest Province--Pilanesberg National Park--and take a chance to test my theory.

Our driver Nelson arrived early, around 7:45, and nine guests piled into the van eagerly anticipating all the day's offerings. Nelson's planning, however, led to a rapid deterioration of both our eagerness and our collective patience. After three stops (two of which were incorrect, one of which involved some questionable waiting), we had picked up more passengers and were northbound by 9:20, heading in the exact same direction as Royal Bafoking Stadium, the site of the U.S. v. England match last Saturday.

The travel time affords me the opportunity to explain some observations about this emerging country. For one, the smell of diesel in the urban streets of Jo'burg is, at times, offensive. Production obviously takes fuel, and it hangs in the air. When you leave the city, however, your nostrils must contend with the strong scent of wildfire, as smoke rises from chimneys, villages, and open grasslands across the horizon.

Another recurring theme here is protection. Everything, and I mean everything, warrants a protective fence or wall. Fence tops become sharp points, and when walls are preferred, spikes rise from upper tier. Then, perhaps to prove a point, electric fences or barbed wire wind above. All told, the South Africans enclose their worlds in 8 to 10 foot fortresses.

South Africans also use different terminology for various driving-related nouns. Stop lights, for instance are "robots." This is funniest in context. For instance, one man gave Nelson directions that included, "turn right at the second robot." We're still trying to figure out what they call headlights.

At noon, we finally reached the national park. We parted with Nelson, still perturbed at his pickup schedule, but more that he'd taken us on a totally unnecessary driving tour of nearby Sun City, a gaudy oasis for gamblers, golfers, and Ghana's Men's National Team.

Though Nelson had put my theory about the primitiveness of the safari in jeopardy, I tried my best to remain optimistic about the experience. The sights did not disappoint. I drew numerous parallels to Yellowstone--then reminded myself I was in Africa.
This rhino hung out by a roundabout.
These prompted our guide to make the obligatory "these are painted donkeys" joke.
We called it a wildebeest. The guide said "vile-de-best." Okay. You win.
We saw plenty of giraffes. The guide continuously complimented their eyelashes.

As we ambled out of the truck at the conclusion of our safari, Nelson and our van were nowhere in sight. Our guide herded us together again and drove us down the highway in his (windowless) safari truck toward Sun City at a whopping 45 km/h. We spotted road signs that indicated the speed limit was at times 100 km/h. Cars used the other side of the one-lane high way to speed by us going twice our speed. Even spotting a cluster of elephants from the road could not forgive Nelson in our eyes.

Certain members of our group felt--well demanded, actually--that they paid for a tour that included both a safari and time in Sun City. They wanted to take photographs of the palaces and hotel grounds and drop change in the casino. A majority of us, including Nelson, wanted to return to Jo'burg for tonight's Bafana Bafana match (South Africa v. Uruguay). "We're not here to sight see," we argued. Eventually, we found a compromise that involved Wimpy's Burgers, and in the process realized Nelson isn't that bad of a guy. He wondered to us why "some people" seemed to demand a false sense of leadership. He praised the U.S. and most visitors from there, saying that South Africans are rooting for our footballers nearly as much as teams from the African continent. He also swore he'd get us back to Jo'burg in 90 minutes, and told us he'd drop us off first. "If 'some people' want this trip to last longer, then I can make it so for them only." Another Nelson doing what's best for South Africa.

Another update on Ben's sleeping situation. We entered the room to find a new bed altogether. Ben is now luxuriously sprawling on a double bed. To recap, in six nights, he's slept on two twins put together, one twin alone, and now a double.

A Mild Winter's Bitter Revenge

2010-06-15T11:28:00.000-07:00

FIFA worked with the host country to set up 10 fan parks around the country for soccer fans seeking stadium-style atmosphere for each and every game. Admission is free, food and drink vendors are scattered across a vast lawn, and the games are broadcast on a gigantic screen. Emcees keep the crowds engaged between halves and between games, sparing the viewers from an otherwise aimless broadcasting team with way (read: waaaayyyy) too much downtime between matches.

Today we chose to watch the first game from the famed "group of death" between Ivory Coast and Portugal. We expected large crowds. After enjoying a stroll through the Sandton City Mall, we trekked through Jo'burg's financial district to set up at the fan park. While the skies remained clear and blue, the temperature dipped into the low 50s. With the near-freezing wind chill, which often sliced through our jeans, the day started to feel like a battle of wills. Until now, winter in South Africa had been closer to October in Sacramento.

The large crowds we hoped to find must have read the weather report.
The soccer supporter scarf is normally a trendy addition to one's outfit. Today it was a lifesaver.

We sampled some of the food options today, which gives me a chance to discuss some of the fare we're finding in Jo'burg. For the most part, the options are similar to what we're used in the states, with some subtle tweaks. Thin, naturally rising breads and doughs are used for sandwiches and pizzas. We find panini-style concoctions, but they're not called paninis. Unfamiliar hard cheeses are put in salads and certain plates. Much of the vegetable options look familiar but go by different names (they offer a variety of strange peppers, it seems). The ketchup and pasta sauces are sweeter, and Ben reports the mustard is nearly neon. He also does not endorse the South African Lay's potato chips. Brewed coffee seems a specialty item; much of what I've had comes from a powder.

Yesterday, Stephanie and Ben ordered fantastic smoothies at a quaint restaurant in the zoo that contained familiar fruits but in different combination. Stephanie had apple mint passion fruit, for example, and Ben had something called Gummiberry. I went out on the farthest limb today, ordering mutton curry from a woman at the fan park. The food seems modern, even European (chips instead of fries, cafe con leche instead of regular joe). Overall, however, I must admit we're not eating terribly risky, but loving nearly every minute of what we find.

We have now returned to our hotel to watch Brazil take on North Korea in a much warmer environment. We were once again transported by Arrive Alive, this time by Collen. On the way out of the mall parking lot in the dark, Ben told Collen that his "lights" were off. Collen didn't seem to register this. When we approached a stoplight, another driver pulled up next to Collen, honked, and made a flashing-light gesture with her hands. Ben again told Collen that his lights were out when he didn't seem to understand what was being communicated. Collen said, "What about them?" and proceeded to punch the hazard lights, then turn off the interior lights somehow. Ben finally said "headlight" and Collen got it, gesturing and smiling enthusiastically at the other driver for helping him out. We arrived home alive.

By the way, if you'll remember from yesterday's post, Ben was dispossessed a bed. Well, either the staff is reading the blog, or they have a sense of humor. When we returned home tonight, this is what we found:

Monkey Business

2010-06-14T09:54:00.000-07:00

Sleep patterns have been affected once by a 15-hour flight and twice by soccer celebrations. After sleeping until 12:30 following the U.S. v. England game, Ben and I both found ourselves awake at 3:00 a.m. Monday. It turns out the wee hours of the South African morning are the best time to upload photos to a blog and check in on the Sunday action in the NBA Finals in the states. Who knew?

We each managed to get some more shut eye eventually. By late morning we had nailed down an itinerary for the better part of the trip. We cross-referenced worthwhile sights from our travel books with our Bible, a FourFourTwo World Cup guide filled with team profiles and game schedules. Interrupted as it was, it turned out to be a very productive morning.

Our hostess Tumi provided a cab for an afternoon trip to the expansive Johannesburg Zoo. We rode in a small Toyota driven by a man named Stephen. Although taxi services are required to run by meter, Stephen's service did not use one. However, his business card read, "Arrive Alive Services," a title that needs no criticism or review from we three. A trip to the zoo is a must if you have time while visiting the city, although we certainly lucked out with the crowds since most guests in South Africa spent the afternoon watching the Denmark v. Holland game. Ben and I took ample pictures and video of the zoo attractions, but to spare you a tour of the animals, I've posted some funning in its place.

Welcome to the Johannesburg Zook.

Ben getting his against the ubiquitous FIFA World Cup mascot.

This one showed off for company.

Stephanie being greeted by a zoo local.

Going down gave me quite a fright.

And then there's this guy, who decided he get a little to friendly with his welcoming.

Thanks to a pay-phone call to Stephen, we "arrived alive" back home to watch Japan shock Cameroon, then tried to stay awake through a slow Italy v. Paraguay match. To our knowledge, the staff of our motel has no way of knowing our sleeping habits. That didn't stop them from stealing half of Ben's bed at one point, though.

Tomorrow we'll be at the FIFA Fan Park in Sandton to watch the colossal Ivory Coast v. Portugal match.

You Win Some, You Lose Some

2010-06-13T09:41:00.000-07:00

Our paths crisscrossed Chris's around mid-day. Like us, he wandered through Melrose Arch in his USA gear, ostensibly killing time before a trip to Rustenburg for our opener against England. When we returned to our apartment for lunch, Chris arrived in a Range Rover, trying to figure out how his initial transportation had failed him (foreshadowing, anyone?). We learned that Chris was from the states, went to East Carolina, was currently stationed with the USAF in England, and was traveling in South Africa alone. Since his lodgings had been secured at another location, he was only at our motel to catch the bus to the game. We kindly told him where the nearest liquor store was located and that we hoped to chat more on the bus to Rustenburg.

We ate lunch and eagerly prepared our faces and bodies with as much red, white, and blue as would fit in a suitcase. We overheard a familiar voice in the hallway checking in for the bus, and invited Chris in to have a drink and watch the end of the South Korea v. Greece match. He gave us USA bracelets, offered us Peronis, and kept the conversation moving. We painted our faces with stars stripes (I threw a '76 on my left cheek), and assembled our provisions for the celebratory ride north.

Our bus held a mixture of old and young, but most were know-it-alls of some annoying capacity. A handful of middle-aged men in the back of the bus drank beers and stood in the aisles, some Southerners debated the finer points of the SEC to our left, and our new foursome remained as quiet as we could, conserving our energies for an explosive evening.

We mostly watched the sun set.

We hit traffic at two toll stops, then again as we neared the stadium. Each time, the shoulder became a second lane, and the members of our bus took to flag waving, back-and-forthing with other vehicles, and reveling in hopes that the end of the near three-hour trip was at hand. As we four shed our silences, this reveling involved drinking South African Vitamin Water (Johnny Walker Red in a Vitamin Water bottle), while Chris drank Crown Royal from the bottle. We became the happiest section of the bus as Chris, being the nice guy that he is, passed his bottle to the SEC boys once or twice.

The coach driver, an amazingly astute man, parked the bus on a dirt road leading to the stadium. It is amazing: The Rustenburg facility is a state of the art sports complex in the middle of nowhere. It's flanked by rural Africans living in nothing more than cinder-block houses or shanties. Passengers (like us) unaware of our surroundings took pictures of the coach number in case we got lost on the return. We marched off toward the stadium, and as we reached the gate, Chris told us he needed to go back to the bus to fetch his ticket. He was not sitting near us, so while we felt bad for his blunder, we pressed on.

The stadium was beautiful; the pitch, pristine. We sat (stood) in the second tier just south of midfield. Three amicable Brits sat to the right of Ben, and four South Africans born in Britain were behind us. Three men in Uncle Sam duds, one of whom spent years on Tahoe's north shore, sat in front of us. Our bloc largely represented America, and though the vantage point of the broadcast likely showed England flags lining the lip of the second deck, the American fans--the fan base who bought the most tickets for this cup--outnumbered the England supporters.

At American sporting events and concerts, most people despise two things: buying alcohol and using the restroom, as both involve unruly people in outrageous lines. The restrooms, even the ladies' facilities, involved no lines whatsoever. Lines for beer (Budweiser in plastic bottles) vendors moved rapidly, as American and English customers saw no problem with paying 30 Rand (roughly 4 bucks--remember restaurants charge between R15-R20) a beer, a bargain considering what they're charged back home. The major flaw--be it a result of a night game, fans who drank on the ride in, or one aspect of life at a stadium in rural Africa--was the food situation. A shoving match for beef dogs, lamb dogs, soft drinks and chocolate bars took 45-60 minutes to procure.

The game started with four beers, and I hoped to seize an opportunity to get us a meal just before the announcement of stoppage time. (By the way, there was no operational scoreboard, so we had no idea how much time remained in each half other than loosely guessing using Ben's watch). You hopefully saw the first half (or highlights of it), so I will not describe the details of our fourth minute wake-up call, Green's condemning boof of Dempsey's strike, or the cleats Howard took to the ribs that led to a halftime Cortisone shot.

Just before the half I fought my way through the massive mob (there was no "line") for food, finally reaching the counter. A woman, who appeared to be in charge of corralling her young South African workforce, informed me the following three facts upon my uncomfortable arrival: 1.) The beef dogs would be ready in ten minutes; 2.) The 200 Rand bill in my hand would not be accepted because of counterfeit warnings; and 3.) The Visa payment device had lost its signal. A South African behind me asked where I got my Rand. When I told him the U.S., he cursed his own country for their unwillingness to accept good money. Miraculously, the woman in front me (Nidia) bought our dinners. In turn, I gave her the only non-200 I had, a 50 and a 20, which she used to quickly buy two beers. I returned to my seat (by walking on the chairs since no one was sitting in them) to find that Stephanie had once tried to find me to tell me to give up. I had missed some of the second half, but we had something to sustain our appetites.

Fast forward to the end of the match: The English players couldn't leave the pitch fast enough. The Men's National Team walked to the corner of the field to wave and thank the fans. The atmosphere was euphoric.

The US fans clearly felt they'd made an important statement by responding to the early goal and playing tough football. The English fans felt dejected. As Ben and I celebrated on the concourse and waited for Stephanie to use the facilities, England fans angrily scowled at our joy. One made a gesture of confrontation, and Ben and I fought back in question: "Why so angry?" It felt like a genuine query considering the game ended in a draw.

I can't see how we might have provoked it...

We took two wrong routes to the bus, falsely retracing our steps based on direction of the stadium and the quality of the road beneath our feet. After watching two military helicopters land, we found the correct road and the correct bus. Our coach director counted heads and cleared the driver for departure. Chris was nowhere to be found.

We arrived at the apartment at 2:30 am. It was a long ride full of people who love hearing their own voices. Some were drunk, but all were annoying. Poor things were said about the man who passed the Crown Royal around to his fellow fans. Judgments were made. We worried.

Riding a wave of energy and needing to nurse our throats with hot water and appease our stomachs with late-night snacks, we checked the reports on the game and re-watched footage on the television. Some time early this morning, Ben suggested finding Chris on Facebook (he mentioned using his burner phone to access his account on the bus). This morning, I received a response. Chris made it back to Jo'burg. We'll no doubt hear his version of the US v. England game. After all, he'll be back in our room with his Peronis before the US meets Slovenia on the 18th.

The Countdown Ends

2010-06-11T11:53:00.000-07:00

It's very convenient that we have wireless internet access. All three of us return to the room and pass around the laptop, checking email and Facebook, downloading pictures and uploading messages. It's funny though, the wifi is almost like speedy dial-up. We open a page, then sit and wait for everything to upload, often moving around the room to find the best spot for the network. I mention this because tonight's intermittent service has resulted in no uploaded photos for this version of the blog (pictures have since been added). As you read, bear in mind that all the days and times I reference are South African, which is nine hours ahead.

South Africans, at least the ones watching football, seem very friendly. We walked over to the market today and were greeted by nearly all passersby. Right outside the gate of our complex, a young woman stopped us, saw our Team USA scarves, and told us, "You MUST beat the English! You must!" We replied with the same request for their game versus Mexico, the team they played in the opener today (which concluded in a 1-1 draw). We and the South Africans may be citizens from different worlds, but we still hold a common grudge against our former British colonizers. Outside the Woolworth market, we went to the nicest liquor store any of us have ever seen. We have provisions "for days."

We staked out another lunch spot at a Melrose Arch restaurant called Primi. It was very trendy, almost like a Joe's Crab Shack or Dick's. Over time the place filled with people in spirited Bafana Bafana (the nickname for the national team) yellow and green, blowing their horns at each other and the television. The customers cheered at footage of their national team exiting the bus. They blew vuvuzelas as the players walked onto the field. Everyone stood and sang the national anthem. It was an amazing experience unlike anything you'd see for any sport other than soccer in any other country.

After lunch, we ordered a string of beers to keep the table for the first half of the match. In America this would be quite costly; but in South Africa, the beers, sodas, and spirits all cost roughly the same price (15-20 Rand, roughly $1.75-$2.00 American). Needless to say it was a task we each enjoyed.

We spent the second half outside in a courtyard staring at a big-screen television. It was packed--what I imagine parts of Mardi Gras must feel like. Having not yet attended a fan park, my only comparison to the watching the game here is celebrating New Years in South Lake Tahoe, except everyone here shares a common mission and purpose, and everyone is drunk on national pride (as well as alcohol). At the game's conclusion, everyone continued celebrating, charging through the stores and streets of Melrose Arch. A band started playing below the big screen to keep the crowd energized for the next game, which only started about 20 minutes ago. We tried to stick it out, but quickly realized it'd be warmer, safer, and calmer back in our room.

We'll be on a bus to Rustenberg tomorrow afternoon, located about an hour or two north of Jo'burg. We're going to spend the morning relaxing and preparing. Our patriotism will be unprecedented. We'll all be wearing team USA jerseys, sweatshirts/windbreakers, scarves, and stars and stripes bandannas. We have some face paint and full-sized flags as well. We're quite confident that no one will call us rednecks.

Day 1 (Day 3)

2010-06-10T08:00:00.000-07:00

We arrived in Jo'burg after a jarring travel schedule that left us shuffling weakly through the streets near Melrose Arch, looking for dinner in the middle of the afternoon. It's Thursday night now, but we boarded our first flight in Sacramento at 5:15 pm on Tuesday. The plane, a twin-prop matchbox flying for only 40 minutes, easily stands as the most frightening aspect of our travels thus far.

From SFO, we hopped a red eye to JFK, arriving around 7:45 am (east coast time), enduring another layover and breakfast before boarding the nearly 15-hour flight to Johannesburg. The plane was full of soccer fans, but many of them boasted allegiances to other countries.

Mexican fans were most prominent, already in full regalia for tomorrow's match against their South African hosts. We heard noisemakers and chants in the airport, dodged poncho-clad hooligans in the streets, and saw one man in full Mexican peasantry, prompting Ben to wonder how the guy will ratchet up his spirit tomorrow.

The citizens of South Africa seem noticeably energized for the event (though our driver joked that the heavy traffic period is daily from 7 am to 7 pm due to road construction. It had a completion date that expired three months back, he noted, then jokingly speculating it wouldn't end until 2017). Others we see proudly wear their men's national team jerseys: flight attendants, restaurant servers, room service workers, and many casual fans. The image of the flag is plastered through freeway interchanges in colored stone, and flags themselves fly from autos whose drivers shape them to fit their rear-view mirrors, hoods, and wheels. The upscale shops at the mall in Melrose Arch all contained soccer clothing regardless of normal merchandise.

What's most striking about the fervent spirit remains who shows it (those of the middle and upper class) and who doesn't (those of an impoverished lower class who instead focus on the opportunity to make money in any number of ways). It goes beyond a simplistic division between social classes, however, as we learned when a well-dressed, well-mannered man helped to load our bags into the tour van at the airport. We believed him to be part of our tour caravan so we held our tip, completely willing to offer it once we arrived at our destination. When we did not pay him for his service, he simply walked off through the garage.

At Melrose Arch we found a nice restaurant called Europa, and all decided we could've easily been dining in San Francisco. The food, people, and atmosphere felt posh, urban, and Western. We three can proudly claim that our first meals in South Africa consisted of two salads and a club sandwich with French fries. At the end of such traveling, however, the comfort Europa and its surroundings provided helped ease our transition into life nearby (and made the end of a tiring day very leisurely). After, we strolled through shops until we found a three-story Woolworth's department store. The first level contained the closest (and likely coolest) miniature grocery store to our apartment, and allowed us to stock up on some basic snacks.

We're lodged at an extended stay-style apartment complex north of Jo'burg. There's a kitchenette, small living room, and two bedrooms. We can hear every phone ring, every conversation in the hall or at the front desk, and might just have the grossest fridge in the city, judging from the responses of the maids. Far be it from me to make any unfair judgments before my first night's sleep. I will therefore proclaim that we are happy to finally be in a room, and be awake at what appears to be an appropriate evening hour for sleep.

Like all the houses on this hill, we're surrounded by high walls and electric wire.

Because of these walls, it's difficult to say how beautiful the houses around us might actually be. They're more like fortified villas. Guards sit at gates around properties that line streets manned by stationed guards at fences. It makes for a safe walk, but we couldn't help but question the lengths at which these people have gone to protect their existence.

The best part of the trip so far? Tournament play begins in less than 24 hours! I have never been so eager to paint my face, wave a flag, and cry out in praise of the Yanks.