Bobcats Gone Wild
Just before school started this morning, one of the students noticed a bobcat in a tree. The bobcat then moved from the tree to the top of the ramada next to my classroom, where it climbed onto a post and settled in. And so, we went into “lockdown” mode and herded all the children into the library, commons and MPR so that they wouldn’t be attacked (not sure there was much chance of a student being attacked, but in this day and age, you can’t be too careful). Meanwhile, just about every adult on campus came out to the commons so they could get a look at the bobcat, who was not a happy camper. And so, we spent the next couple of hours waiting for someone to show up and take care of the bobcat. First, a deputy from the sheriff’s department showed up – all he seemed able to do was to stand guard and make sure the bobcat didn’t escape (not sure how likely this would be, but he did have a gun). Next, someone from Game and Fish showed up, scoped out the situation with binoculars, and took some video (with a camouflaged video camera). At that point, we were asked to “clear the area” and I’m assuming he went and got the tranquilizer gun. After that, I’m not exactly sure what happened, because we weren’t allowed outside, but the bobcat moved from the ramada onto the roof of the building, where it hid behind one of the air conditioning units. Eventually (two hours and forty minutes after the first sighting) the guy managed to tranquilize the bobcat, and once it conked out, they boxed it up and hauled it away, and we were finally released from our “lockdown.” Ah, the excitement of dwelling in the desert.
The 114th Running of the Boston Marathon
Having participated in several marathons now, I have to say that this one was unique in several ways. There’s a kind of a cultish ambience surrounding the whole thing that grows more pervasive the closer you get to Boston. We got up early Saturday morning to drive to the Tucson airport, and as we were waiting for our flight, spotted several other Boston runners (they were easy to spot, because they were wearing the official Boston marathon jackets, which are bright blue with yellow stripes – apparently, this is a badge of honor, and just about everyone seems to have one of these). As we made our way across the country, we imagined a wave of these bright blue jacket wearers converging on New England from every direction (except from Europe, of course, which was inaccessible because of the giant cloud of volcanic ash), and by the time we landed at Logan airport, the bright blue jackets with yellow stripes seemed to be everywhere. And the people wearing these jackets all appeared to be really, really fit. This was especially apparent at the Expo. Normally, there are a fair number of people who you can tell are serious runners just by looking at them, but there are also plenty of people who you would never pick out of a line-up as a marathon runner – they just look like ordinary folks you’d see at the mall, or the movies, or just about anywhere else. Not so here. Seriously, it was like a gathering of Stepford Runners (wearing bright blue jackets with yellow stripes).
The next big adventure was making it to the starting line. Actually, this was kind of a “marathon before the marathon” scenario, because it actually took about half an hour longer for me to get to the start line from my hotel as it did for me to get from the start line to the finish line during the race. First I had to hop on the train and ride to Boston Commons, where the buses were waiting for more than 20,000 of us to load up. And if you’ve never seen 20,000+ people try to load onto school buses, well, suffice it to say is that this process involves a lot of standing and waiting in line. It was a serious mob scene. Once on the bus, it was then an hour-long ride to get to the starting area, where there were the usual long lines for the porta-potties and lots and lots of people milling around. Thankfully, the rainy weather from the weekend had cleared out, and though it was windy and chilly (in the 40’s) it was dry. Within about an hour, it was time to strip off layers and turn in my drop bag, then we had to walk about a mile to get to the actual starting line where we were directed into our corrals so we could stand around and wait some more. As the clock ticked closer to 10:00, you could feel the tension building, they played the national anthem, and a couple of jets flew over (the announcer told us that, just in case we were interested, these jets would be reaching the finish line in approximately 12 seconds – like I needed to hear that). And then the race began. Like most races of this magnitude, there’s a corral system, and you’re assigned to one of them according to your time, with the faster people lining up in front of the slower people. I was back in corral 12, which meant there were 12,000 people in front of me, so it took around 10 minutes of shuffling forward before I actually reached the starting line. With that, the first “marathon” ended, and the real one began.
From the very beginning, it was obvious that the people I was running with were pretty fast. More to the point, I spent almost the entire race getting passed by other runners, because I was running at a slower pace than my qualifying time (on purpose). Strangely enough, though, I found that I didn’t really care, because there were spectators cheering us on from the moment we crossed the starting line, and it never, ever stopped. The course runs from town to town, and since it’s Patriot’s Day, it’s a tradition for people to come out and cheer on the runners. And they take this tradition seriously. Thousands upon thousands of people lined the course, and since I was wearing my purple TNT jersey, I heard lots and lots of “Go Teams” as I piled up the miles. The weather was perfect (in the 50’s with a nice little tailwind), I felt good, and the miles slipped by. Earlier in the week, I had decided that I was going to try to run this race like Tiger rather than Phil (if you happen to be a golf fan, you may know that Tiger snarls and Phil smiles - Tiger stalks and Phil saunters - Tiger glowers and Phil waves - Tiger curses and Phil laughs – and then there’s the whole other issue, that we won’t get into here). In the past, I’ve kind of had a Tiger approach to marathoning (this is not as bad as it might sound, so read on) where I go inside myself and focus completely on running as fast and as hard as I can so I don’t leave anything out on the course. This works well as far as running as fast as possible, but it takes a lot of concentration and I find that I almost get angry as I’m running in this mode. Instead of that, for this race, I decided I was going to try to focus outward and enjoy the experience without worrying so much about how I was doing time-wise. I wanted to run a decent time, but I didn’t feel any need to run as fast as I could, so I waved at people and high-fived little kids and chugged along at a reasonably comfortable pace. And then we reached Wellesley.
At around mile 12-1/2, the route passes by Wellesley College, and this particular stretch is known as the “Tunnel of Love” because all the Wellesley girls come out and scream (and yes, I do mean scream) for the runners. And many of them are holding signs that say things like , “Kiss me, I’m Jewish,” “Kiss me, I brushed this morning,” “Kiss me, I should be studying,” “Kiss me, I’m drunk,” and so on (are you seeing a theme here?). At this point, I was faced with an obvious choice. As in, who, and how many, was I going to kiss. Here’s the thing. I haven’t kissed very many girls in my life. In fact, you could probably count the total number of girls I’ve kissed on one hand (actually, I think you can count then on one hand). So here was my opportunity to double, triple, maybe even quadruple that number. The girls were practically begging for kisses. But then I remembered – I’m Phil, not Tiger (plus, I’m way too shy). So instead of passing out kisses, I smiled and waved and slapped hands as I continued to run, but I never kissed a Wellesley girl.
After that, the course continued over rivers (the Charles), through woods, past lots and lots of cheering spectators (and probably houses belonging to grandmothers), and though I started feeling fatigued, I was still chugging along at a pretty steady pace. We entered Newton, which is where the famed “Newton Hills,” including the most famous one known as “Heartbreak” are located between miles 17 and 21, and ran by Boston College, where lots of students who were, shall we say, “celebrating the holiday,” were screaming, yelling, and carrying on like college students who have been celebrating a little bit excessively, and after that , it was pretty much a straight shot into downtown Boston. During the last three miles, the crowds grew even larger, and the course was lined three-to-four deep on both sides as we made our way down Beacon Street to the finish line. It was like the final 200 yards of some of the other marathons I’ve completed, but this was for three continuous miles, and the cheering never let up. Once I spotted the giant Citgo sign that marks the one-mile-to-go mark, I knew I was going to make it, and I cruised along the homestretch feeling tired but good, and watching my pace to make sure I made it over the finish line before the 4-hour mark ticked off.
Overall, it was a pretty amazing experience. I’m not sure I’ll ever want to do it again (or, for that matter, that I’ll ever be able to qualify again) but I’m very grateful that I got the opportunity to run it, and I’m really glad I was able to finish feeling good and with a respectable time (almost exactly my goal when I set out).
Time to go, so until next time, may your carry-on always fit in the overhead compartment, may your luggage always reach your destination, and may your flights always depart at their scheduled times.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Grapes, Unexpected Encounters, and a Trip to Beantown
Communication Breakdown
You would think that after nearly 23 years of nearly constant marital bliss, my lovely bride and I would have the whole communication thing down pat. The sad and ugly truth is, however, that we don’t. There are a couple of theories floating around out there as to the reason for this. According to me, she often doesn’t tell me what’s going on, then springs things on me at the last second, which catches me by surprise and throws me for a loop. According to her, she often tells me about things, then I forget that she told me, and then I get testy when they actually occur. Anyway, this all came to a head recently when I noticed some grapes in the freezer. You might be wondering, why were there grapes in the freezer? Well, I was wondering the exact same thing, which was, “I wonder why there are grapes in the freezer.” I assumed, for whatever reason, that the grapes were Katie’s, and that they were somehow connected to her job (not sure why, but it seemed like it made sense at the time). She, on the other hand, had also noticed the grapes in the freezer, and she (along with wondering why there were grapes in the freezer like everyone else) assumed that they belonged to me, and that I had some very logical and well thought out reason for storing a bunch of grapes in the freezer. Time passed, and the grapes in the freezer remained frozen, and we both continued to wonder why there were grapes in the freezer, until finally one day as I was putting the groceries away, I asked Katie, “Why do you have grapes in the freezer?” to which she replied, “I thought they were your grapes,” to which I replied, “I thought they were your grapes – aren’t you using them for some kind of school project?” to which she replied, “Why would I used frozen grapes for a school project?” to which I replied, “I don’t know, maybe it’s some kind of an art project - or maybe you’re studying grapes or making wine - or something,” to which she replied, “Are you serious? An art project with frozen grapes? Wine-making with little kids?” to which I had no reply, other than to shrug sheepishly. Eventually, we worked through all this confusion and came to the conclusion (thanks to input from our lovely daughter, Carrie) that the grapes, in fact, belonged to our eldest daughter, who had visited for a couple of days over Spring Break and had invited friends over to watch movies and make smoothies, hence the leftover grapes in the freezer. Mystery solved.
Strangers in Paradise
Since Katie and I will be traveling out of town this weekend (more on this below) the kids will be spending some “quality time” with the g-parents. So Katie was informing Connor of this the other day and said, “I’ll take you to meet Grandma on Friday afternoon,” to which Connor replied, “But I already know Grandma.” Gotta love that kid.
Beantown
The big day is just around the corner, and all our ducks are (hopefully) in a row. Airline reservations are set, hotel rooms await, entry fees are paid, and bodily systems have been trained, peaked, and tapered so that they will (hopefully) perform admirably under the stress of running 26.2 miles as fast as possible. Katie and I will rise early (in the 4’s) on Saturday, board a plane, make a transfer, cross a couple of time zones, and wind up in Boston around 5:00 pm (eastern time) or so. Then on Monday, I’ll get up very early again, take a bus to get on another bus, which will take me to the starting line, where I’ll sit around and wait for a couple of hours, then line up behind 12,000 people who are faster than me (but in front of about 14,000 others) and wait for the gun to go off, then will inch forward inch by inch until I finally cross the actual start line and the race begins. The race starts at 10 am eastern time, which is 7 am here in Tucson, and it will probably take 20-30 minutes before I actually cross the start line. If you’re interested, bored, or have nothing better to do Monday morning, you can follow my progress throughout that morning (let’s hope it doesn’t stretch into the afternoon) by logging onto the Boston Marathon website (http://www.bostonmarathon.org/) and entering either my name, or my bib number (12597). The site will update automatically when I cross certain checkpoints along the course, so you can see how I’m doing.
I’ve got sub plans to write, so that’s all for this entry. Until next time, may your beans grow in straight and orderly rows, may your freezers remain grape-free (unless you’re planning on making smoothies), and may your jell-o break the mold.
You would think that after nearly 23 years of nearly constant marital bliss, my lovely bride and I would have the whole communication thing down pat. The sad and ugly truth is, however, that we don’t. There are a couple of theories floating around out there as to the reason for this. According to me, she often doesn’t tell me what’s going on, then springs things on me at the last second, which catches me by surprise and throws me for a loop. According to her, she often tells me about things, then I forget that she told me, and then I get testy when they actually occur. Anyway, this all came to a head recently when I noticed some grapes in the freezer. You might be wondering, why were there grapes in the freezer? Well, I was wondering the exact same thing, which was, “I wonder why there are grapes in the freezer.” I assumed, for whatever reason, that the grapes were Katie’s, and that they were somehow connected to her job (not sure why, but it seemed like it made sense at the time). She, on the other hand, had also noticed the grapes in the freezer, and she (along with wondering why there were grapes in the freezer like everyone else) assumed that they belonged to me, and that I had some very logical and well thought out reason for storing a bunch of grapes in the freezer. Time passed, and the grapes in the freezer remained frozen, and we both continued to wonder why there were grapes in the freezer, until finally one day as I was putting the groceries away, I asked Katie, “Why do you have grapes in the freezer?” to which she replied, “I thought they were your grapes,” to which I replied, “I thought they were your grapes – aren’t you using them for some kind of school project?” to which she replied, “Why would I used frozen grapes for a school project?” to which I replied, “I don’t know, maybe it’s some kind of an art project - or maybe you’re studying grapes or making wine - or something,” to which she replied, “Are you serious? An art project with frozen grapes? Wine-making with little kids?” to which I had no reply, other than to shrug sheepishly. Eventually, we worked through all this confusion and came to the conclusion (thanks to input from our lovely daughter, Carrie) that the grapes, in fact, belonged to our eldest daughter, who had visited for a couple of days over Spring Break and had invited friends over to watch movies and make smoothies, hence the leftover grapes in the freezer. Mystery solved.
Strangers in Paradise
Since Katie and I will be traveling out of town this weekend (more on this below) the kids will be spending some “quality time” with the g-parents. So Katie was informing Connor of this the other day and said, “I’ll take you to meet Grandma on Friday afternoon,” to which Connor replied, “But I already know Grandma.” Gotta love that kid.
Beantown
The big day is just around the corner, and all our ducks are (hopefully) in a row. Airline reservations are set, hotel rooms await, entry fees are paid, and bodily systems have been trained, peaked, and tapered so that they will (hopefully) perform admirably under the stress of running 26.2 miles as fast as possible. Katie and I will rise early (in the 4’s) on Saturday, board a plane, make a transfer, cross a couple of time zones, and wind up in Boston around 5:00 pm (eastern time) or so. Then on Monday, I’ll get up very early again, take a bus to get on another bus, which will take me to the starting line, where I’ll sit around and wait for a couple of hours, then line up behind 12,000 people who are faster than me (but in front of about 14,000 others) and wait for the gun to go off, then will inch forward inch by inch until I finally cross the actual start line and the race begins. The race starts at 10 am eastern time, which is 7 am here in Tucson, and it will probably take 20-30 minutes before I actually cross the start line. If you’re interested, bored, or have nothing better to do Monday morning, you can follow my progress throughout that morning (let’s hope it doesn’t stretch into the afternoon) by logging onto the Boston Marathon website (http://www.bostonmarathon.org/) and entering either my name, or my bib number (12597). The site will update automatically when I cross certain checkpoints along the course, so you can see how I’m doing.
I’ve got sub plans to write, so that’s all for this entry. Until next time, may your beans grow in straight and orderly rows, may your freezers remain grape-free (unless you’re planning on making smoothies), and may your jell-o break the mold.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Stalkers, Bagpipes, and Monks
More on Miley
I realize that having yet another entry related to Miley Cyrus crosses some metaphysical line in the sand, and once that line is crossed, there’s no returning to life as we know it – even so, I find myself creating for the third time in a row, an entry related to M.C. So be it. The other day, my wife was having lunch with a first grader (not sure why, but she does this kind of thing more often than you might expect) and as they were chatting about the health care bill, the situation in Somalia, and other topics of interest, the aforementioned Miley Cyrus popped up (not literally, which would be very creepy, but in a figurative way, which means her name came up as a topic of conversation). This particular first grader expressed her dismay upon learning the news that Miley may be giving up singing (actually, she was dismayed that Hannah Montana was quitting, which just goes to show you how damaging this whole alter-ego thing has been for the youth of America. Anyhow, Katie immediately informed her little friend of the little-known reason that Miley/Hannah was hanging it up (which you, as a faithful reader of these entries should be fully aware of, is because of these entries – specifically, the one in which I went on a wild rampaging rant about M.C./H.M, and which M.C./H.M. must have read or heard about, prompting her decision to retire). In other words, Katie let the cat out of the bag (have you ever wondered what the cat was doing in the bag in the first place – it can’t be anything good) and said something along the lines of, “My husband convinced Hannah Montana to quit singing,” whereupon her little lunch companion burst into tears and vowed to spend the rest of her long and bitter existence seeking revenge on the person who had caused her life to descend into despair – namely, me. So now I’ve got to worry about some grief-stricken first grader who’s plotting against me popping out of the woodwork and doing who-knows-what to me. Like there’s not enough going on as it is. Sheesh.
Speaking of American Idol…
Okay, I realize we weren’t technically speaking of A.I., but if we were, then I feel the need to mention how totally awesome it was last week when one of the contestants, in the middle of his song (which happened to be “Hey Jude”) had a bagpiper enter the stage. And not just enter, but come down the staircase bagpiping away while dressed in the whole Scottish bagpiping get-up. It had to be one of the most strange and random and pretty darned mildly amusing things I’ve ever seen on television. And then the judges were all like, “Yeah, that was really weird with the bagpiper,” in a really subdued way that you could tell meant they weren’t very impressed. Actually, it seemed like they were more impressed by the person who was accompanied by a didgeridoo, which was also pretty cool, but I still thought the bagpiper trumped it.
Brother Connor
Ah, the joy of parenthood, especially when one or more of your children morph into creatures that you neither recognize nor understand (nor do you particularly want to). For the most part, Katie and I have been blessed with children who are pretty much enjoyable and agreeable, but there are moments when we look at each other and wonder, “What the heck were we thinking?” Such was the case last week when our son, who is twelve stopped speaking. At all. To anyone (even the cat, which was when we really knew he was serious). We’re not exactly sure why he did this. One theory is that, because his class is studying various religions in social studies, he decided (serious scholar that he is) to create a simulation for himself in which he pretended he was a monk who had taken a vow of silence (hence, the “Brother Connor” reference above). Another theory has to do with anger and revenge. Why he got angry at us/me and felt the need to gain vengeance is not exactly clear, but I think it might have stemmed from me asking him to clean out the cat box, followed about an hour later by me asking him if he had cleaned out the cat box, and him saying he had, but then me noticing that he hadn’t, which meant that he hadn’t done what he was supposed to, then made it worse by lying about it, so I got mad, and he got mad, and when I get mad I kind of just let it out, and when he gets mad, he kind of just holds it in, and because he was angry and because he has a tendency to get kind of passive-aggressive when he’s angry, he decided to “punish” us/me by taking a vow of silence. Either way, the end result was he didn’t speak for two days. Which was actually surprisingly tough to deal with, and as frustrating and aggravating as it was, there was also a part of me (a very, very small part) that was sort of impressed by his stubborn refusal to speak. Now, if only we could get him to put that kind of effort and focus into more positive things. Like, for example, cleaning the cat box.
Update
Boston marathon is 10 days away. Tapering is going well. Hoping the weather (and all my various body parts) cooperate. Fingers crossed.
Okay, that’s all for now, so until next time, may your entrances be spectacular, may your motives remain pure, and may your evil empires crumble.
I realize that having yet another entry related to Miley Cyrus crosses some metaphysical line in the sand, and once that line is crossed, there’s no returning to life as we know it – even so, I find myself creating for the third time in a row, an entry related to M.C. So be it. The other day, my wife was having lunch with a first grader (not sure why, but she does this kind of thing more often than you might expect) and as they were chatting about the health care bill, the situation in Somalia, and other topics of interest, the aforementioned Miley Cyrus popped up (not literally, which would be very creepy, but in a figurative way, which means her name came up as a topic of conversation). This particular first grader expressed her dismay upon learning the news that Miley may be giving up singing (actually, she was dismayed that Hannah Montana was quitting, which just goes to show you how damaging this whole alter-ego thing has been for the youth of America. Anyhow, Katie immediately informed her little friend of the little-known reason that Miley/Hannah was hanging it up (which you, as a faithful reader of these entries should be fully aware of, is because of these entries – specifically, the one in which I went on a wild rampaging rant about M.C./H.M, and which M.C./H.M. must have read or heard about, prompting her decision to retire). In other words, Katie let the cat out of the bag (have you ever wondered what the cat was doing in the bag in the first place – it can’t be anything good) and said something along the lines of, “My husband convinced Hannah Montana to quit singing,” whereupon her little lunch companion burst into tears and vowed to spend the rest of her long and bitter existence seeking revenge on the person who had caused her life to descend into despair – namely, me. So now I’ve got to worry about some grief-stricken first grader who’s plotting against me popping out of the woodwork and doing who-knows-what to me. Like there’s not enough going on as it is. Sheesh.
Speaking of American Idol…
Okay, I realize we weren’t technically speaking of A.I., but if we were, then I feel the need to mention how totally awesome it was last week when one of the contestants, in the middle of his song (which happened to be “Hey Jude”) had a bagpiper enter the stage. And not just enter, but come down the staircase bagpiping away while dressed in the whole Scottish bagpiping get-up. It had to be one of the most strange and random and pretty darned mildly amusing things I’ve ever seen on television. And then the judges were all like, “Yeah, that was really weird with the bagpiper,” in a really subdued way that you could tell meant they weren’t very impressed. Actually, it seemed like they were more impressed by the person who was accompanied by a didgeridoo, which was also pretty cool, but I still thought the bagpiper trumped it.
Brother Connor
Ah, the joy of parenthood, especially when one or more of your children morph into creatures that you neither recognize nor understand (nor do you particularly want to). For the most part, Katie and I have been blessed with children who are pretty much enjoyable and agreeable, but there are moments when we look at each other and wonder, “What the heck were we thinking?” Such was the case last week when our son, who is twelve stopped speaking. At all. To anyone (even the cat, which was when we really knew he was serious). We’re not exactly sure why he did this. One theory is that, because his class is studying various religions in social studies, he decided (serious scholar that he is) to create a simulation for himself in which he pretended he was a monk who had taken a vow of silence (hence, the “Brother Connor” reference above). Another theory has to do with anger and revenge. Why he got angry at us/me and felt the need to gain vengeance is not exactly clear, but I think it might have stemmed from me asking him to clean out the cat box, followed about an hour later by me asking him if he had cleaned out the cat box, and him saying he had, but then me noticing that he hadn’t, which meant that he hadn’t done what he was supposed to, then made it worse by lying about it, so I got mad, and he got mad, and when I get mad I kind of just let it out, and when he gets mad, he kind of just holds it in, and because he was angry and because he has a tendency to get kind of passive-aggressive when he’s angry, he decided to “punish” us/me by taking a vow of silence. Either way, the end result was he didn’t speak for two days. Which was actually surprisingly tough to deal with, and as frustrating and aggravating as it was, there was also a part of me (a very, very small part) that was sort of impressed by his stubborn refusal to speak. Now, if only we could get him to put that kind of effort and focus into more positive things. Like, for example, cleaning the cat box.
Update
Boston marathon is 10 days away. Tapering is going well. Hoping the weather (and all my various body parts) cooperate. Fingers crossed.
Okay, that’s all for now, so until next time, may your entrances be spectacular, may your motives remain pure, and may your evil empires crumble.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Weeds, Power, and Dean Karnazes
Winter showers bring Spring…
…weeds. Lots and lots of weeds, as in my entire backyard overflowing with all types of weeds. Tall ones with yellow flowers, creepy-crawly ones with purple flowers, bushy-stickery ones with pinkish fuzzball flowers, and a variety of grasses. When they first started growing, they actually made the yard (which is basically a big old bare patch of dirt) look pretty good, but as time went by and they started to dry out and get scraggly, it began to look more than a little tacky. So in honor of Spring Break, I decided to break out the old "hula hoe" and take them on - speaking of which, I have to wonder who invented the "hula hoe" and if it's strictly a Tucson (aka - "The Old Pueblo") kind of thing. I don't remember ever running into one of these when I was a kid (though I did my fair share of weeding) and it really is a pretty clever contraption. Anyway, it cost me three days, lots of sweat, a couple of blisters, and sore abdominals (which makes me wonder if I should capitalize on this whole thing and churn out one of those exercise videos that seem to be so popular in today's day and age - instead of tae-bo or pilates or pole dancing or whatever type of workout they're offering now, this could be the "hula-hoe" workout, with the added bonus that you get a weed-free yard in addition to a stronger core). Bottom line is that I have finally managed to transform the big old bare patch of dirt that was overflowing with lots and lots of weeds back into a big old bare patch of dirt without any weeds - at least until the monsoon season hits.
Say it isn't so
If you read last week's installment, you may recall a certain little rant I went off on that had to do with Miley Cyrus and her serving as a mentor for "Americal Idol," and how I couldn't see that as a viable option for a variety of reasons which I won't get into here, because if I did, it would just be rehashing an old rant, and nobody wants that. On a related note, though, I was more than a little surprised to find out that within 48 hours of my posting last week's rant, Miley announced that she was giving up singing - apparently because the music industry wasn't positive enough for her. Wow! Imagine my surprise when I heard this news. I had no idea of the power I held at my fingertips. When they say the pen (or in this case, the keyboard, or maybe the digital universe - not sure what's the best way to phrase this phrase) is more powerful than the sword, I guess they're really not kidding. So I suppose the lesson I take from all of this (and one that I hope all of the millions of readers out there in cyberspace take as well) is that we all need to be very, very careful about what flows from our minds out into the universe, because the dire ramifications of the consequences that can follow are sometimes extreme and completely unexpected, and because of this, they can catch us all by surprise. Duly noted.
Ultra-Light
For those of you in the know when it comes to running long distances, you've most likely heard of a dude named Dean Karnazes who wrote a book about himself called "Ultra Marathon Man" in which he shared some of the amazing (and slightly insane) things he's done related to endurance sports (like running a marathon at the South Pole, or running 300 miles, or winning some of the crazy ultra-marathons like Badwater and the Western Open). Anyhow, with apologies to Mr. Karnazes, I've decided that my (as yet unpublished - and unwritten) autobiography should be entitled, "Ultra Half-Marathon Man," because I just completed my first "ultra half-marathon" this past week (actually, there really isn't such a thing as an "ultra half-marathon" but I think there should be because it's not only manageable for us mere mortals, but it's also kind of fun to run one - and it sounds really impressive even though it's not really all that big of a deal). What is an "ultra half-marathon" you ask? As stated above, it doesn't actually exist, but if it did, here's what it would be: any race where you go longer than a half-marathon, but it can't be a full marathon, and it also can't be a designated distance between a half-marathon and a marathon (like, for example, a 20-mile race - that would just be called a "20-mile race"). So the way I accomplished this was by signing up for the Arizona Distance Classic, which is a half-marathon (and which I ran as a Team in Training alum - thanks to the students in my classes who donated over $1,000 for the fight against cancer) but instead of driving to the start, which most people do, I decided to do what any other ultra half-marathoner would do and ran to the start instead. So I got up at around 4, left the house at around 5, and ran 10 miles to the start, then lined up for the start of the race and ran the half-marathon for a total of 23 miles. Since this was also my last long training run before Boston (2-1/2 weeks to go) my goal in the race was to run my slowest half-marathon time ever, which may sound a little strange, but if you know me, you know that once a race begins something crazy happens to me and I become this crazed person who runs as fast as he can rather than taking it easy and enjoying myself, and I didn't want to do that in this particular race because it was a training run and there was no reason to risk getting injured a couple of weeks before my marathon. So I figured tacking on the extra ten miles before the race would force me to slow down, and lo and behold, it actually worked. I stuck to my planned pace, I ignored all the people who passed me (people that I could have easily passed had I wanted to - just saying) took walk breaks every once in awhile, stopped to say hello to my wife and daughter at their water station, and generally had a very relaxed and pleasant run. And at the finish, I felt good - tired, but not completely spent like I sometimes am when I run really hard. So all that was good, and I'm now in the tapering (or peaking, depending on which term you like) phrase of my training, and I'm feeling ready to go.
Guess that's all for now, so until next time, may your accomplishments be ultra-magnificent, may your gardens remain weed-free, and may your phrases remain short and pithy.
…weeds. Lots and lots of weeds, as in my entire backyard overflowing with all types of weeds. Tall ones with yellow flowers, creepy-crawly ones with purple flowers, bushy-stickery ones with pinkish fuzzball flowers, and a variety of grasses. When they first started growing, they actually made the yard (which is basically a big old bare patch of dirt) look pretty good, but as time went by and they started to dry out and get scraggly, it began to look more than a little tacky. So in honor of Spring Break, I decided to break out the old "hula hoe" and take them on - speaking of which, I have to wonder who invented the "hula hoe" and if it's strictly a Tucson (aka - "The Old Pueblo") kind of thing. I don't remember ever running into one of these when I was a kid (though I did my fair share of weeding) and it really is a pretty clever contraption. Anyway, it cost me three days, lots of sweat, a couple of blisters, and sore abdominals (which makes me wonder if I should capitalize on this whole thing and churn out one of those exercise videos that seem to be so popular in today's day and age - instead of tae-bo or pilates or pole dancing or whatever type of workout they're offering now, this could be the "hula-hoe" workout, with the added bonus that you get a weed-free yard in addition to a stronger core). Bottom line is that I have finally managed to transform the big old bare patch of dirt that was overflowing with lots and lots of weeds back into a big old bare patch of dirt without any weeds - at least until the monsoon season hits.
Say it isn't so
If you read last week's installment, you may recall a certain little rant I went off on that had to do with Miley Cyrus and her serving as a mentor for "Americal Idol," and how I couldn't see that as a viable option for a variety of reasons which I won't get into here, because if I did, it would just be rehashing an old rant, and nobody wants that. On a related note, though, I was more than a little surprised to find out that within 48 hours of my posting last week's rant, Miley announced that she was giving up singing - apparently because the music industry wasn't positive enough for her. Wow! Imagine my surprise when I heard this news. I had no idea of the power I held at my fingertips. When they say the pen (or in this case, the keyboard, or maybe the digital universe - not sure what's the best way to phrase this phrase) is more powerful than the sword, I guess they're really not kidding. So I suppose the lesson I take from all of this (and one that I hope all of the millions of readers out there in cyberspace take as well) is that we all need to be very, very careful about what flows from our minds out into the universe, because the dire ramifications of the consequences that can follow are sometimes extreme and completely unexpected, and because of this, they can catch us all by surprise. Duly noted.
Ultra-Light
For those of you in the know when it comes to running long distances, you've most likely heard of a dude named Dean Karnazes who wrote a book about himself called "Ultra Marathon Man" in which he shared some of the amazing (and slightly insane) things he's done related to endurance sports (like running a marathon at the South Pole, or running 300 miles, or winning some of the crazy ultra-marathons like Badwater and the Western Open). Anyhow, with apologies to Mr. Karnazes, I've decided that my (as yet unpublished - and unwritten) autobiography should be entitled, "Ultra Half-Marathon Man," because I just completed my first "ultra half-marathon" this past week (actually, there really isn't such a thing as an "ultra half-marathon" but I think there should be because it's not only manageable for us mere mortals, but it's also kind of fun to run one - and it sounds really impressive even though it's not really all that big of a deal). What is an "ultra half-marathon" you ask? As stated above, it doesn't actually exist, but if it did, here's what it would be: any race where you go longer than a half-marathon, but it can't be a full marathon, and it also can't be a designated distance between a half-marathon and a marathon (like, for example, a 20-mile race - that would just be called a "20-mile race"). So the way I accomplished this was by signing up for the Arizona Distance Classic, which is a half-marathon (and which I ran as a Team in Training alum - thanks to the students in my classes who donated over $1,000 for the fight against cancer) but instead of driving to the start, which most people do, I decided to do what any other ultra half-marathoner would do and ran to the start instead. So I got up at around 4, left the house at around 5, and ran 10 miles to the start, then lined up for the start of the race and ran the half-marathon for a total of 23 miles. Since this was also my last long training run before Boston (2-1/2 weeks to go) my goal in the race was to run my slowest half-marathon time ever, which may sound a little strange, but if you know me, you know that once a race begins something crazy happens to me and I become this crazed person who runs as fast as he can rather than taking it easy and enjoying myself, and I didn't want to do that in this particular race because it was a training run and there was no reason to risk getting injured a couple of weeks before my marathon. So I figured tacking on the extra ten miles before the race would force me to slow down, and lo and behold, it actually worked. I stuck to my planned pace, I ignored all the people who passed me (people that I could have easily passed had I wanted to - just saying) took walk breaks every once in awhile, stopped to say hello to my wife and daughter at their water station, and generally had a very relaxed and pleasant run. And at the finish, I felt good - tired, but not completely spent like I sometimes am when I run really hard. So all that was good, and I'm now in the tapering (or peaking, depending on which term you like) phrase of my training, and I'm feeling ready to go.
Guess that's all for now, so until next time, may your accomplishments be ultra-magnificent, may your gardens remain weed-free, and may your phrases remain short and pithy.
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