The Difference Between Sitting and Standing.

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.

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

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.

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

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:

1. 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.
2. 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."
3. 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

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!

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.