Physics [a love poem]

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

We conform softly,
sharing shapes
spread together

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

My direction fades
and the dance ends quickly

You are overpowering me.

We disintegrate in the heat
no longer a contrast

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

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

Olympic Spirit

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

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

We'll keep you posted as the events unfold.

Just Below the Surface.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Down on the Farm

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

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

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

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

Moderate Bed: Two new tomato plants from Capital Nursery.

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

Here they come!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Butternut squash, from seed, is on the move.

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

Red lettuce, the only lettuce varietal to sprout.

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

Green beans, from seed, are continual producers.

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

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

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

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

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

The Rebuilding Process

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Comparathon? Hardly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 A map and overview of the landscape.

 The soft, inviting pathway.

 A Zook/Petty pre-race preparation.

Pre's Rock.

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

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

Preparathon.

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

Wait, what? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What to do...

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

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

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