Cereal Bowls
The other day, I was accused not once, but twice, of being “weird,” and each of these accusations came from a 7th grader – which is, as the saying goes, probably an example of, “the pot calling the kettle weird.” Anyhow, the first occurrence occurred when a student accused me of wearing a “weird-looking shirt,” which technically isn’t accusing me of being weird, but since it’s weirdness by association, we’ll go ahead and split the difference and go with it for now. What I was wearing was a Hawaiian shirt that I’d gotten in Hawaii, and which I consider to be quite stylish. I asked him why he thought my shirt was “weird” when I viewed it to be quite stylish, and he said he liked it, but it just wasn’t my normal style (which, to be fair, it probably isn’t since it has buttons and a collar and my usual shirt has neither of those). The second incident occurred when a student asked me if I had a special bowl that I used for cereal, which may seem like kind of a random question for someone to ask (and I guess it might be, but these kinds of things happen on a regular basis when one is dealing with 7th graders). Apparently, there’s a reference to having a special bowl for one’s cereal in a song called “Friday” which I was supposed to have heard of because it’s fairly popular and is sung by some fairly popular teeny-bopper. I hadn’t heard the song before, so I went and listened to it later, and I have to say I wasn’t impressed (especially by the really lame video accompanying the song) but then I listened to the original version by Bob Dylan, which was actually pretty good, and I was kind of depressed by how horribly the teeny-bopper had mangled Bob Dylan’s pretty decent song. Anyway, I told this 7th grader that I did, in fact, have a special bowl for my cereal, and she thought that was pretty weird, which led to her accusing me of being weird, because, as she put it, “Can’t you just pull out any old bowl and use it?” but I explained that I like big bowls, so I’d bought a big plastic bowl that I use for cereal and salad and grapes and other food items that go into big bowls, and what’s more I have certain cups for my coffee because I like the size and feel of them and she decided that was even weirder, to which I guess I had to sort of agree about my weirdness, because I guess I am a little weird about the whole bowl/cup thing, but what are you going to do?
Oracle Revisited
I experienced/observed yet another strange occurrence on Oracle this morning (previous strange sightings have included nuns in a Ford Taurus, a ninja runner, and a monkey in a car). Today, as I was driving down Oracle on my way to work after a lovely swimming workout (marred only slightly by the presence of a gaggle of giggling boot-campers) I was in the far left lane cruising along between Ina and Orange Grove when I spotted a car ahead of me that was stopped. Right in the middle of the road – just stopped. No hazard lights on – just stopped in the lane I was driving in. So I slowed down, wondering what was going on, and switched lanes so I wouldn’t plow into this car that’s stopped in the middle of the road, and as I approached, I tried to figure out why he had stopped in the middle of Oracle (which is a pretty busy road – even at 6:35 in the morning) and near as I can tell, he had stopped because there was something (about as big as a breadbox) sitting right next to the median and he was checking to see if it was worth picking up. I deduce this from the fact that he was stopped in the middle of the road, that he opened his door and leaned out of the car to take a closer look at whatever the object was (I wasn’t able to make out what the object actually was) and that he apparently decided it wasn’t worth picking up, because he closed his door without picking the item up and continued on his way (this happened after I’d passed him by). I will admit that I’ve stopped while riding my bike a few times to pick something up (usually a pair of sunglasses) but I don’t think I’d ever stop my car in the middle of a busy road to do so. And neither should you (consider this your driving tip of the day).
Speaking of swimming…
As I was finishing up my swim today, I decided to try a couple of laps of backstroke as a cool-down. This was suggested to me by my swimming coach, Josh, who claims that it’s a good way to stretch out the muscles and has been trying to get me to backstroke through my cool-down at our practices. Actually, I think he’s only encouraging me to backstroke through my cool-down because he thinks it’s funny to watch me thrash about aimlessly and run into the ropes on the sides of the lane. The problem is, I’m not a swimmer by nature (or nurture, for that matter) so I haven’t done much backstroking in my course of my life, so I have a tendency to run into the ropes on the sides of the lane while attempting to navigate down the pool. But as the old saying goes, “Practice makes perfect” (or maybe it’s, “That which doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”) so I figured I’d give it a shot since I had a lane to myself and nobody was really paying attention to me (there are lifeguards, but I don’t think they’re paying all that much attention to us at these early morning swims – especially with all the gyrating and giggling and what-not that the boot-campers are doing). Anyway, the point of all this is that I actually made it all the way from one end of the pool to the other without once whamming into the floats on either side of the lane (I will admit I cheated by peeking over every once in awhile to reorient myself). So there you go.
That’s all I can think of for now, so until next time, may your passages through whatever town you pass through be worry free, may your cereal bowls be large enough to accomodate whatever cereal you choose to eat, and may your backstroke remain smooth and unfettered by herky-jerky motions that misdirect you off the desired course and into hazardous waters.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Final Burger and Pet Peeves
The Final Burger
Several people were wondering after the last posting exactly what kind of burger I ordered at Zinburger and what that might suggest about me. For those of you who want to know, here’s the rest of the story… As I usually do, I ordered a “Samburger” on that fateful eve (which is a burger with bacon and cheese – quite delicious). So what does this suggest, you might ask? Is there some connection to the bacon (some subconcious “pig-man” type of thing) or is it the name itself that compels me to place this particular order. I would say the latter (I don’t think I want to be a pig-man) and that this probably suggests a deep-seated and latent desire to be named “Sam.” If only, I often think as I lay tossing and turning late and night, I had been named Sam. How different my life would have been. A life filled with action, adventure, romance, suspense, and drama – a life including alien abductions, thwarted love, suffering and torment and overcoming unbelievable odds - instead of the plain old humdrum life that is mine. Actually, that’s more the life of someone named “Jack” than someone named “Sam” so if there was a “Jackburger” this scenario might make more sense (which makes me wonder, exactly why a burger with bacon is called a “Samburger” in the first place – was it invented by someone named Sam or is Sam the word for bacon in some exotic language and locale?). So if that’s not it, perhaps there’s some other “Sam” connection. I do remember I once had a friend named Sam who lived down the block. And I was always jealous of Sam because he had all the newest and coolest GI Joe paraphernalia (like the GI Joe tower that had a zip line and working searchlight, and the six-wheeled all terrain vehicle/mobile command post that also had a working searchlight, and a really cool wind-powered vehicle with wheels and a sail that we used to take outside so that GI Joe could go whooshing down the sidewalk, and other various/sundry cool stuff). Or maybe my Sam connection is related to the first dog I remember our family owning, a fat old basset hound who used to lie in the middle of the road by our house. Or it could come down to the simple fact that I really like bacon on my burger. Who’s to say?
These are a few of my least favorite things
With apologies to Julie Andrews, there are certain things that are just annoying. Not major, earth-shattering things that make your stomach turn and your heart hurt, just minor peeves that itch under the skin and make you grit your teeth slightly and question the laws of the universe. Several of those things reared their heads the other day, and they are as follows.
First on the list is “Aqua Boot Camp,” which is held every Tuesday and Thursday morning at 5:30 in the pool at the Y. This is the pool where I put in my laps every Tuesday and Thursday at 5:30, and up until the advent of “Aqua Boot Camp,” these morning constitutionals were peaceful and soothing, and I would be able to get in a quality workout along with a few other dedicated souls who rose before the sun to soak up the chlorine. But now, we have “Aqua Boot Campers” joining us, and they’ve recently expanded into a group of a dozen or so, when I was hoping they would just fade away after a couple of weeks. So I’m fearing that they’re probably here to stay. What’s so bad about this, you might ask? What’s wrong with a program that gets people out and exercising? Well, sure, that’s a good thing, but here’s what bugs me about the whole situation. First, they’ve now taken yet another lane (up from two lanes to three) from the lap-swimmers (leaving us with only three), which means we often have to “circle swim” which is pretty much a hassle. Second, they play loud, really cruddy music (like “Heart of Glass” by Blondie - only this isn’t the version by Blondie, it’s a cover band version made to fit a particular tempo conducive to Aqua Boot Camping and once you’ve heard it, it’s stuck in your head for the rest of the day). Third, the person running the boot camp is drearily cheerful for 5:30 in the morning, cheering on her “Aqua Boot Campers” as they tread water and dance in the water and gyrate in the water. I was under the impression (from my extensive experience as a viewer of movies portraying boot camp) that boot camp is about demanding drill sergeants who berate naïve young souls for being “namby-pambys” not people who encourage and urge on in a positive and cheerful manner, telling everyone what a “great job” they’re doing as they tread water and dance in the water and gyrate in the water. Fourth, and perhaps most annoying of all, the annoyingly cheerful person running the boot camp wears camouflage. Every day. I peek over at her every once in awhile through my slightly foggy goggles and shake my head in disgust – because I have to tell you, she’s not blending into the background at all, and isn’t that the point of camouflage (to blend into the background)? And if she’s not trying to blend into the background, what the heck is she doing wearing camouflage? It’s just wrong.
Second on the list is people who refuse to put their dog on a leash. I get that there are some very well-trained dogs who probably don’t need a leash, and that don’t chase after people who are running and try to bite them, but there are a lot of other dogs that aren’t that well-trained, and they do chase after people who are running and they do try to bite them, and that’s exactly what happened the other day, ironically enough, just outside a dog park that I was running by. This person who refused to put their dog on a leash let their dog run over to the dog park entrance (so it could say, “Hello,” to one of its dog friends) while she was getting out of the car, and sure enough, when the dog spotted me running by, it barked and chased and snapped at me, making me very uncomfortable, so I said something along the lines of, “I would greatly appreciate it if you would keep your dog on a leash so that it doesn’t chase after me and try to bite me,” to which she responded, “He’s only trying to play,” to which I responded, “He tried to rip out my Achilles tendon,” to which she responded by getting huffy, (and her response – surprise, surprise - was supported by all the other people with their dogs in the dog park, who booed and hissed at me for getting upset about being chased and snapped at by a dog that wasn’t on a leash).
Third on the list is people who drive great big trucks with horse trailers on dirt roads by my house and try to run me over – even though it’s a dirt road with just about no traffic on it and I’m way over on the side of the road. Just after the dog incident, I was running along the side of the dirt road near my house, and this big truck with a big horse trailer passed by going very slowly and as soon as the truck passed me, the driver cut immediately in front of me to turn into a driveway, forcing me to stop, or I would have run smack dab into his truck. So I stopped and waited for him to turn very slowly and waited for the trailer to follow him very slowly, and I wondered what the heck was the matter with him to do such a thing. But I guess he proved his point (whatever it was).
Whew – glad to get all that off my chest. Until next time, may your peeves be paltry, may your Achilles tendons remain intact, and may your burgers remain Sam-a-licious.
Several people were wondering after the last posting exactly what kind of burger I ordered at Zinburger and what that might suggest about me. For those of you who want to know, here’s the rest of the story… As I usually do, I ordered a “Samburger” on that fateful eve (which is a burger with bacon and cheese – quite delicious). So what does this suggest, you might ask? Is there some connection to the bacon (some subconcious “pig-man” type of thing) or is it the name itself that compels me to place this particular order. I would say the latter (I don’t think I want to be a pig-man) and that this probably suggests a deep-seated and latent desire to be named “Sam.” If only, I often think as I lay tossing and turning late and night, I had been named Sam. How different my life would have been. A life filled with action, adventure, romance, suspense, and drama – a life including alien abductions, thwarted love, suffering and torment and overcoming unbelievable odds - instead of the plain old humdrum life that is mine. Actually, that’s more the life of someone named “Jack” than someone named “Sam” so if there was a “Jackburger” this scenario might make more sense (which makes me wonder, exactly why a burger with bacon is called a “Samburger” in the first place – was it invented by someone named Sam or is Sam the word for bacon in some exotic language and locale?). So if that’s not it, perhaps there’s some other “Sam” connection. I do remember I once had a friend named Sam who lived down the block. And I was always jealous of Sam because he had all the newest and coolest GI Joe paraphernalia (like the GI Joe tower that had a zip line and working searchlight, and the six-wheeled all terrain vehicle/mobile command post that also had a working searchlight, and a really cool wind-powered vehicle with wheels and a sail that we used to take outside so that GI Joe could go whooshing down the sidewalk, and other various/sundry cool stuff). Or maybe my Sam connection is related to the first dog I remember our family owning, a fat old basset hound who used to lie in the middle of the road by our house. Or it could come down to the simple fact that I really like bacon on my burger. Who’s to say?
These are a few of my least favorite things
With apologies to Julie Andrews, there are certain things that are just annoying. Not major, earth-shattering things that make your stomach turn and your heart hurt, just minor peeves that itch under the skin and make you grit your teeth slightly and question the laws of the universe. Several of those things reared their heads the other day, and they are as follows.
First on the list is “Aqua Boot Camp,” which is held every Tuesday and Thursday morning at 5:30 in the pool at the Y. This is the pool where I put in my laps every Tuesday and Thursday at 5:30, and up until the advent of “Aqua Boot Camp,” these morning constitutionals were peaceful and soothing, and I would be able to get in a quality workout along with a few other dedicated souls who rose before the sun to soak up the chlorine. But now, we have “Aqua Boot Campers” joining us, and they’ve recently expanded into a group of a dozen or so, when I was hoping they would just fade away after a couple of weeks. So I’m fearing that they’re probably here to stay. What’s so bad about this, you might ask? What’s wrong with a program that gets people out and exercising? Well, sure, that’s a good thing, but here’s what bugs me about the whole situation. First, they’ve now taken yet another lane (up from two lanes to three) from the lap-swimmers (leaving us with only three), which means we often have to “circle swim” which is pretty much a hassle. Second, they play loud, really cruddy music (like “Heart of Glass” by Blondie - only this isn’t the version by Blondie, it’s a cover band version made to fit a particular tempo conducive to Aqua Boot Camping and once you’ve heard it, it’s stuck in your head for the rest of the day). Third, the person running the boot camp is drearily cheerful for 5:30 in the morning, cheering on her “Aqua Boot Campers” as they tread water and dance in the water and gyrate in the water. I was under the impression (from my extensive experience as a viewer of movies portraying boot camp) that boot camp is about demanding drill sergeants who berate naïve young souls for being “namby-pambys” not people who encourage and urge on in a positive and cheerful manner, telling everyone what a “great job” they’re doing as they tread water and dance in the water and gyrate in the water. Fourth, and perhaps most annoying of all, the annoyingly cheerful person running the boot camp wears camouflage. Every day. I peek over at her every once in awhile through my slightly foggy goggles and shake my head in disgust – because I have to tell you, she’s not blending into the background at all, and isn’t that the point of camouflage (to blend into the background)? And if she’s not trying to blend into the background, what the heck is she doing wearing camouflage? It’s just wrong.
Second on the list is people who refuse to put their dog on a leash. I get that there are some very well-trained dogs who probably don’t need a leash, and that don’t chase after people who are running and try to bite them, but there are a lot of other dogs that aren’t that well-trained, and they do chase after people who are running and they do try to bite them, and that’s exactly what happened the other day, ironically enough, just outside a dog park that I was running by. This person who refused to put their dog on a leash let their dog run over to the dog park entrance (so it could say, “Hello,” to one of its dog friends) while she was getting out of the car, and sure enough, when the dog spotted me running by, it barked and chased and snapped at me, making me very uncomfortable, so I said something along the lines of, “I would greatly appreciate it if you would keep your dog on a leash so that it doesn’t chase after me and try to bite me,” to which she responded, “He’s only trying to play,” to which I responded, “He tried to rip out my Achilles tendon,” to which she responded by getting huffy, (and her response – surprise, surprise - was supported by all the other people with their dogs in the dog park, who booed and hissed at me for getting upset about being chased and snapped at by a dog that wasn’t on a leash).
Third on the list is people who drive great big trucks with horse trailers on dirt roads by my house and try to run me over – even though it’s a dirt road with just about no traffic on it and I’m way over on the side of the road. Just after the dog incident, I was running along the side of the dirt road near my house, and this big truck with a big horse trailer passed by going very slowly and as soon as the truck passed me, the driver cut immediately in front of me to turn into a driveway, forcing me to stop, or I would have run smack dab into his truck. So I stopped and waited for him to turn very slowly and waited for the trailer to follow him very slowly, and I wondered what the heck was the matter with him to do such a thing. But I guess he proved his point (whatever it was).
Whew – glad to get all that off my chest. Until next time, may your peeves be paltry, may your Achilles tendons remain intact, and may your burgers remain Sam-a-licious.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Burgers and Birthdays
Half a Burger is Better than None
To celebrate our oldest daughter’s 21st birthday, we took her out to Zinburger for a burger and a glass of wine to celebrate the extreme momentousness of this extremely momentous occasion. The whole thing reminded me of my own “coming of age” which happened in the great state of Wyoming, which is where I was living when I “came of age,” which is worth mentioning because a person “came of age” in the great state of Wyoming earlier than they “come of age” in Arizona today, that is to say, back then we “came of age” at the tender age of 19 rather than 21 (not sure if it’s still the case today) because, if you haven’t guessed, this whole “coming of age” business has to do with the age when it becomes legal for a person to enter a bar and purchase an adult beverage. The main thing I remember about my 19th birthday is that there was a huge snowstorm that afternoon/evening that dumped a whole boatload of snow on the city/town of Laramie, and all the dorm denizens streamed out of their dorms and engaged in a free-for-all snowball fight that escalated into a mob scene where a group of students eventually turned over a Domino’s pizza delivery car (with the poor pizza-guy trapped inside - I was not part of this group, but I did witness this spectacle from a safe distance). Needless to say, there wasn’t any snowball-flinging or car-tipping going on at Zinburger (for which I’m quite grateful).
There’s a well-documented (but not particularly well-known) scientific study that suggests that what a person orders at a restaurant, such as, say, Zinburger, reveals a great deal about that person’s personality, values, etc. With that in mind, I paid close attention as each person in our party ordered their meal. Carrie started out by ordering a burger with extra mushrooms – suggesting that what’s good enough for the common folk just isn’t good enough for her and that she demands more from everything in life, especially when it has to do with fungi. Next, Caitlyn ordered. In addition to a glass of wine (she asked for a recommendation of what was the sweetest wine they served – which obviously suggests she needs some sweetening up) she ordered half a burger that she would split with my wife. This takes care of each of them, and suggests that they’re satisfied with less than something that will fill them completely, that they’re able to share (this was shocking in Caitlyn’s case, because as a child, she was not exactly a sharer, but perhaps her new-found adulthood has brought about some adult-like attitudes and behavior – like sharing, for example). And finally, Connor ordered a “Plain and Simple Burger,” which is a burger without a whole lot on it, only even without a whole lot on it, it still had too much on it for Connor, so he had a special request to make the “Plain and Simple” part even more plain and simple by requesting that the “Plain and Simple Burger” should come with nothing but a patty and bun and nothing else. While this might, at first blush, seem to suggest that Connor is undemanding and easy to please, in fact, it suggests the exact opposite, which is that he is extremely high-maintenance (and if you know Connor at all…).
So once we ordered, we chatted for awhile, and then the food began to arrive. First came Carrie’s burger with extra mushrooms, Connor’s plain and simple “Plain and Simple” burger, and Caitlyn’s half a burger. Which seemed a bit odd to me, because wouldn’t they bring out both halves of the burger at the same time? Then they brought out my burger… and that was it. No second half of the burger for Katie, which, at this point, really raised my eyebrows. I couldn’t imagine, for the life of me, what could have happened to the missing half of the burger. I mean, it’s not like they prepare half a burger at a time, is it? So why wouldn’t both halves be out at the same time? After speculating over this for several breathless minutes, the mystery was resolved when a very official-looking type of person (I’m assuming it was the manager – or at the very least, the assistant manager) showed up at our table and very apologetically explained that both halves of the burger had indeed been ready to go, but unfortunately, one of the halves was accidentally tipped off the plate onto the floor, so they were preparing a new half (which makes me wonder what they did with the other half of that new burger? Didn’t this mean that for the rest of the night, they would always be off by a half a burger? I mean, I kind of doubt a single person is going to come in and order half a burger – in fact, I doubt if that is even allowed. So how do they account for this? Or does someone in the kitchen get to eat the extra half? I was going to ask the assistant-manager-type person about this, but before I could, she get distracted by the wobbly table I was sitting at and set about fixing it, and in the hulabaloo that ensued, I forgot about the half a burger completely. Which leaves me now, pondering this whole thing late at night when I should be sleeping.
That’s it for this entry, so until next time, may your burgers remain firmly anchored on their plates, may your meals be made to order, and may your life remain just as plain and simple as you want it to be.
*Did you notice that nowhere in this entire entry did I mention running, cycling, or swimming? Wonder what that’s all about?
To celebrate our oldest daughter’s 21st birthday, we took her out to Zinburger for a burger and a glass of wine to celebrate the extreme momentousness of this extremely momentous occasion. The whole thing reminded me of my own “coming of age” which happened in the great state of Wyoming, which is where I was living when I “came of age,” which is worth mentioning because a person “came of age” in the great state of Wyoming earlier than they “come of age” in Arizona today, that is to say, back then we “came of age” at the tender age of 19 rather than 21 (not sure if it’s still the case today) because, if you haven’t guessed, this whole “coming of age” business has to do with the age when it becomes legal for a person to enter a bar and purchase an adult beverage. The main thing I remember about my 19th birthday is that there was a huge snowstorm that afternoon/evening that dumped a whole boatload of snow on the city/town of Laramie, and all the dorm denizens streamed out of their dorms and engaged in a free-for-all snowball fight that escalated into a mob scene where a group of students eventually turned over a Domino’s pizza delivery car (with the poor pizza-guy trapped inside - I was not part of this group, but I did witness this spectacle from a safe distance). Needless to say, there wasn’t any snowball-flinging or car-tipping going on at Zinburger (for which I’m quite grateful).
There’s a well-documented (but not particularly well-known) scientific study that suggests that what a person orders at a restaurant, such as, say, Zinburger, reveals a great deal about that person’s personality, values, etc. With that in mind, I paid close attention as each person in our party ordered their meal. Carrie started out by ordering a burger with extra mushrooms – suggesting that what’s good enough for the common folk just isn’t good enough for her and that she demands more from everything in life, especially when it has to do with fungi. Next, Caitlyn ordered. In addition to a glass of wine (she asked for a recommendation of what was the sweetest wine they served – which obviously suggests she needs some sweetening up) she ordered half a burger that she would split with my wife. This takes care of each of them, and suggests that they’re satisfied with less than something that will fill them completely, that they’re able to share (this was shocking in Caitlyn’s case, because as a child, she was not exactly a sharer, but perhaps her new-found adulthood has brought about some adult-like attitudes and behavior – like sharing, for example). And finally, Connor ordered a “Plain and Simple Burger,” which is a burger without a whole lot on it, only even without a whole lot on it, it still had too much on it for Connor, so he had a special request to make the “Plain and Simple” part even more plain and simple by requesting that the “Plain and Simple Burger” should come with nothing but a patty and bun and nothing else. While this might, at first blush, seem to suggest that Connor is undemanding and easy to please, in fact, it suggests the exact opposite, which is that he is extremely high-maintenance (and if you know Connor at all…).
So once we ordered, we chatted for awhile, and then the food began to arrive. First came Carrie’s burger with extra mushrooms, Connor’s plain and simple “Plain and Simple” burger, and Caitlyn’s half a burger. Which seemed a bit odd to me, because wouldn’t they bring out both halves of the burger at the same time? Then they brought out my burger… and that was it. No second half of the burger for Katie, which, at this point, really raised my eyebrows. I couldn’t imagine, for the life of me, what could have happened to the missing half of the burger. I mean, it’s not like they prepare half a burger at a time, is it? So why wouldn’t both halves be out at the same time? After speculating over this for several breathless minutes, the mystery was resolved when a very official-looking type of person (I’m assuming it was the manager – or at the very least, the assistant manager) showed up at our table and very apologetically explained that both halves of the burger had indeed been ready to go, but unfortunately, one of the halves was accidentally tipped off the plate onto the floor, so they were preparing a new half (which makes me wonder what they did with the other half of that new burger? Didn’t this mean that for the rest of the night, they would always be off by a half a burger? I mean, I kind of doubt a single person is going to come in and order half a burger – in fact, I doubt if that is even allowed. So how do they account for this? Or does someone in the kitchen get to eat the extra half? I was going to ask the assistant-manager-type person about this, but before I could, she get distracted by the wobbly table I was sitting at and set about fixing it, and in the hulabaloo that ensued, I forgot about the half a burger completely. Which leaves me now, pondering this whole thing late at night when I should be sleeping.
That’s it for this entry, so until next time, may your burgers remain firmly anchored on their plates, may your meals be made to order, and may your life remain just as plain and simple as you want it to be.
*Did you notice that nowhere in this entire entry did I mention running, cycling, or swimming? Wonder what that’s all about?
Monday, March 7, 2011
An Ultra-Long Ultra Description
March 5, 2011 will be one of those days that I remember forever, not just because I managed to finish my first 50-mile endurance event, but because of the way it happened. First off, thanks to the generosity of many of you out there, we managed to raise over $2,500 for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society before the starting gun went off at 6 in the morning. Second of all, it was an absolutely beautiful day, and the event was held in a spectacular location. And finally, things went just about as well as I could have hoped for them to go. The following is my attempt to recreate the experience for anyone who's interested in what it was all about (for me, at least).
4:20 a.m.: The alarm goes off, but I'm already awake, and have been since around 3:00. I haven't slept particularly well, but I don't feel bad about it, because I was kind of expecting it. I've been fairly nervous about this for the past few weeks. Not sure if I'll be able to make the distance - especially because the course is so tough (8,000 feet of elevation gain – and 8,000 feet of descents - on some pretty rough trails and roads). What if something goes wrong? What if I take a wrong turn? Twist an ankle? Tweak a calf? I've tried to stifle the doubts and remember all the time and effort I've put into training for this. It's been a long haul, and the time is finally here, so I get up, get my gear together, get my act together (as much as possible) and go out to the common area to meet the rest of the group (there are five of us running today).
5:00 a.m.: As soon as we step outside, the cold air hits us. We drive to the starting area, get our numbers, and find a spot to store a drop bag for the finish (the course starts and finishes in the same spot).
6:00 a.m.: The race begins, but rather than immediately running, everyone around me is walking up the first hill. There’s definitely a different vibe in this group than in the usual marathon crowd – kind of mellow and relaxed – plus there are only around 150 of us. I’ve got a couple of guiding principles for the day (taken from Born to Run, a great read by the way). The first is to walk up all the hills. The second will serve as my mantra throughout the day – “If it feels like work, you’re working too hard.” With that in mind, I set off in an easy shuffle-jog on the flat portions and walk up all the hills. The sun rises, and we move from road to trail and back again as we wind up and down hills. There’s no opportunity to really get into a groove, but I don’t mind that – I’m kind of enjoying the constant changes in terrain and conditions. Sometimes the road is rocky and steep, sometimes it’s gradual and smooth. I focus on eating and drinking enough, and the time goes by quickly.
11:00 a.m.: I reach the halfway point after about 5 hours on the trail. This is faster than I was planning, but I know that the second half of the course is supposed to be even tougher than the first half. I change socks, eat and drink as much as I can, and hit the road again. The wind has picked up and is in our faces as we head up a long 4-mile uphill stretch. I try to run, but with the wind it’s just not happening, so I resign myself to a slow uphill climb.
1:00 p.m.: I pull into the 33-mile station. The wind has died down, the temperature has climbed a bit (still pretty comfortable, though), and I’m eating and drinking as much as possible. I can’t believe I still have 17 miles to go. My legs are feeling it now – but nothing is really bugging me, just general fatigue, so I’m still feeling pretty confident. The next portion is one I’ve never run before, so I’m not sure what to expect.
2:45 p.m.: At the 40-mile station, I realize I’ve now gone further than ever before. I’m tired, but I know I’m capable of another 10 miles. The last stretch was really tough – lots of steep, rocky hills. I change socks again, eat and drink as much as possible, and hit the road.
4:15 p.m.: The final station at mile 46. The final section is one I’ve run before, so I know now I’m going to make it. As I set off through the last five miles (the race is actually 51 miles), I’m just soaking it all in. As I run, I get a little choked up as I my thoughts wander. I think about all the people who donated to the cause – helping us raise over $2,500 to support the fight against cancer. My mom, who’s going through a tough time right now. Wendy, Susie, Kathy, Colleen, and Kathleen – the other four runners in my group. All our friends and family members who came out today as our support crew – especially Sandy and Katie, who have been on the course all day (and will stay till after 9:00 when our final runner finishes). All the people who have encouraged and supported me along the way. The runners I’ve coached over the past few years and run with as they’ve completed their own events. It’s kind of overwhelming to think that I’m going to actually do this – something I never really believed I’d be able to do, and I’m a little surprised that I’m still feeling pretty strong as I pass by several people who are walking. The last section is deceptively long, and I keep thinking I’m almost there, then find out I’m not.
5:30 p.m.: For a little while, I think I’m going to be able to finish in under 11 ½ hours, but 5:30 passes and I’m still not in sight of the finish area, so I decide to relax and savor the moment. I slow to a walk and soak it all in. The sight of the mountains around me, the feel of the breeze cooling the sweat on my face, the taste of salt on my lips, the grit in my shoes, and the aching fatigue in my quads and glutes. It’s all good. I pass through a gate and head up a slight hill to the finish area, and as soon as I round a corner, people start cheering and encouraging me forward. “It’s just around the bend. You’re almost there.” I continue on to the top of the final hill, where I can see the finish line about a hundred yards away, and with a smile on my face, I reach down for one last burst of energy, and I start to run.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Marching Forward
What is this white stuff falling out of the sky?
A very strange thing happened in the "Old Pueblo" this weekend. When I got up on Sunday a.m., I glanced out the window, and what to my wondering eyes should appear, but some strange white substance perching on cactus pads and coating the roofs in the neighborhood. I blinked and rubbed my eyes, then stepped outside to take a closer look and further examine this strange substance. I tentatively poked at a patch and immediately drew back after registering that it was cold. And slightly wet. What could it be? I picked up my paper (after dusting off the white stuff coating the plastic wrapper) and dashed back inside, where I bolted for the computer and quickly googled "white wet cold stuff" to see what I might be able to find out. And I found out a lot. Among other links, there were ones for adult beverages, a music album, and an episode of "The Dukes of Hazzard" (yee-hah!). And then there were links about this stuff called "snow." The more I thought about it, the more familiar that strange word seemed. It triggered something hidden deep in the dark recesses of my memory. Something I'd repressed. Something I'd pushed down and chained into a dank, shadowed corner of my subconcious. I then pulled up images of "snow" and memories started flashing through my mind like a kaleidoscopic vision accompanied by bongo beats and flutes, and I think I passed out for several seconds. And when I awoke, I remembered it all. The cold, dark days of winter. The blustery, shivery winds. The temperatures below zero, accompanied by frostbite warnings. Shoveling huge masses of this substance called "snow" off the driveway and sidewalks around my childhood home. Scraping the windshield every morning to remove the frost. Luckily, snowfall is a highly unusual occurrence in the "Old Pueblo" and it's supposed to be sunny and warm this weekend as opposed to cloudy and cold.
And away we go…
Hard to believe, but "U-Day" is almost here. In less than a week, I'll be lining up with about 175 other semi-crazy folks in the predawn dark and waiting for the starting gun to go off. And once it goes off, I'll start running. And I'll keep running and keep running and keep running (and walking on occasion) for the next 10-12 (hopefully) hours until I've covered 50 miles and gone up, down, and all around for 8,000 feet in total elevation gain. Hopefully, I won't run into too many blisters, cramps, other other issues along the way and I'll be able to manage my eating and drinking and pacing in such a way that I'm able to actually finish this thing upright. Right now, I'm feeling strong but nervous. I know I've done the best I could with the training, and for the most part, I think I stuck to the plan the way it was written up, so I suppose I'm ready to go. It's just a little hard to imagine actually being out there on the roads/trails for such a long time/distance.
And once the Ultra is in the rear view mirror…
It will be time to ramp up training for the next event on my list, which is the "Deuce-man" triathlon at the beginning of June. I've (obviously) been running plenty over the past few months, and I've been swimming a couple of times a week, so even though I'm not particularly fast or graceful in the water, I think I can thrash my way through the 1.2 mile swim, but I've really been neglecting the bike portion, so I've got to spend more time out on the road in the next few months. Tally ho!
That's all for now, so until the next time, may your weather remain clear, may your hills remain climbable, and may your wishes all come true.
A very strange thing happened in the "Old Pueblo" this weekend. When I got up on Sunday a.m., I glanced out the window, and what to my wondering eyes should appear, but some strange white substance perching on cactus pads and coating the roofs in the neighborhood. I blinked and rubbed my eyes, then stepped outside to take a closer look and further examine this strange substance. I tentatively poked at a patch and immediately drew back after registering that it was cold. And slightly wet. What could it be? I picked up my paper (after dusting off the white stuff coating the plastic wrapper) and dashed back inside, where I bolted for the computer and quickly googled "white wet cold stuff" to see what I might be able to find out. And I found out a lot. Among other links, there were ones for adult beverages, a music album, and an episode of "The Dukes of Hazzard" (yee-hah!). And then there were links about this stuff called "snow." The more I thought about it, the more familiar that strange word seemed. It triggered something hidden deep in the dark recesses of my memory. Something I'd repressed. Something I'd pushed down and chained into a dank, shadowed corner of my subconcious. I then pulled up images of "snow" and memories started flashing through my mind like a kaleidoscopic vision accompanied by bongo beats and flutes, and I think I passed out for several seconds. And when I awoke, I remembered it all. The cold, dark days of winter. The blustery, shivery winds. The temperatures below zero, accompanied by frostbite warnings. Shoveling huge masses of this substance called "snow" off the driveway and sidewalks around my childhood home. Scraping the windshield every morning to remove the frost. Luckily, snowfall is a highly unusual occurrence in the "Old Pueblo" and it's supposed to be sunny and warm this weekend as opposed to cloudy and cold.
And away we go…
Hard to believe, but "U-Day" is almost here. In less than a week, I'll be lining up with about 175 other semi-crazy folks in the predawn dark and waiting for the starting gun to go off. And once it goes off, I'll start running. And I'll keep running and keep running and keep running (and walking on occasion) for the next 10-12 (hopefully) hours until I've covered 50 miles and gone up, down, and all around for 8,000 feet in total elevation gain. Hopefully, I won't run into too many blisters, cramps, other other issues along the way and I'll be able to manage my eating and drinking and pacing in such a way that I'm able to actually finish this thing upright. Right now, I'm feeling strong but nervous. I know I've done the best I could with the training, and for the most part, I think I stuck to the plan the way it was written up, so I suppose I'm ready to go. It's just a little hard to imagine actually being out there on the roads/trails for such a long time/distance.
And once the Ultra is in the rear view mirror…
It will be time to ramp up training for the next event on my list, which is the "Deuce-man" triathlon at the beginning of June. I've (obviously) been running plenty over the past few months, and I've been swimming a couple of times a week, so even though I'm not particularly fast or graceful in the water, I think I can thrash my way through the 1.2 mile swim, but I've really been neglecting the bike portion, so I've got to spend more time out on the road in the next few months. Tally ho!
That's all for now, so until the next time, may your weather remain clear, may your hills remain climbable, and may your wishes all come true.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Update and Bad Mixes
Training Update
As of Saturday, I'll be 2 weeks away from the ultra. I've finished my final long runs - with a 27-miler last Saturday and a 19-miler on the ultra course on Sunday - so it's now time to taper for a couple of weeks. Have to say, I'm actually kind of looking forward to it. I'm also feeling a little uncertain about the whole thing - lots of doubts about whether I'll be able to hold up for so long/so far on the day of the event. I guess there's nothing I can really do about it at this point other than to trust the training that I've done and hope for the best. And knowing that I'm out there for something more than myself (and even more than the cool belt buckle pictured above that I'll receive if/when I finish) will definitely help me through the rough patches. So thanks to everyone who's donated to the cause so far, and if you haven't yet but have meant to, now would be as good a time as any. http://pages.teamintraining.org/dm/DeucesWT11/bbindschad
Bad Mixes
There are probably an uncountable number of things that just shouldn't be mixed together. There are great combinations, like ham and eggs, peanut butter and jelly, and Batman and Robin (maybe that one's debatable), but there are also things that just don't work - imagine ham and chocolate sauce, peanut butter and liver, or Batman and Wonder Woman (trust me, that's one relationship that would never work). Well, we recently discovered a bad combination that probably should have been obvious, but was somehow overlooked due to parental negligence on the part of two parents. A certain 13-year-old boy (who shall remain nameless) and a credit card. Unknown to us, when said 13-year-old boy set up his new X-box live system, somehow the credit card remained active in the depths of its underbelly, which meant that said 13-year-old boy was able to purchase games and powers with impunity (at least, he thought it was with impunity - though that only lasted until we got the credit card bill). And so he did (purchase with impunity, that is). And by the time he was finished purchasing with impunity (on the day that we received the bill, all hints of impunity were eradicated) he'd racked up a pretty good bill. Needless to say, this particular 13-year-old boy no longer has X-box live (or any X-box for that matter) and is now suffering through video-game withdrawal, which amounts to a lot of moaning and groaning and sleeping on the couch.
That's all for this week, so until next time may your belts remain buckled, may your combinations combine nicely, and may your children remain cute and cuddly.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
A Serious Reflection and a Small Celebration
Moments
It seems to me that there are indelible moments in our lives. Moments that resonate within the fiber of our being for as long as we’re alive and change something fundamental about the way we view our world. Moments that we’ll always remember in detail - where we were, what we were doing, and how we felt when we first heard/saw/witnessed whatever it was that happened. And it seems that these moments, which are often, but not always, tragic, become touchstones for a generation. These are moments like the bombing of Pearl Harbor, the assassinations of the Kennedys and Martin Luther King, Jr., the lunar landing, the shooting of Ronald Reagan, the Challenger space shuttle disaster, the Columbine massacre, the Oklahoma City bombing, 9/11, and so on. And now, especially for those of us who live in Tucson, we have another moment that will live within us forever. A moment when our view of our town was changed forever, and a politician’s attempt to reach out to the people was transformed by one misguided person’s misguided attempt to do whatever it was he was trying to do. And now several people, including a little girl, are dead, while others struggle to recover from the injuries they sustained. The whole thing is senseless to me, and as I listen to various people try to make sense of it, and witness their attempts to figure out the why’s and the how’s, my mind turns inward in order to insulate me from the reality that tries to crack through my protective shell of denial. This supermarket was only a couple of miles from my home. It’s an intimate part of my everyday world, and I pass through the intersection of Oracle and Ina each morning and each afternoon as I make my way to and from work. And now, this once-ordinary parking lot is cordoned off by crime scene tape and inhabited by law enforcement officials and media members, and my stomach churns as I take in the sight. Imagining what it must have been like on Saturday morning. The smell of gunpowder. The sound of screams. Blood on the asphalt. A senseless slaughter that accomplished nothing productive. A pointless act that did nothing but remind us all of how tenuous this whole thing actually is. Moments like this, I can do without.
On a Lighter Note
In my life, I’ve stared at the woman I love more than anything as she walked down the aisle to stand at my side, witnessed the birth of all three of my children, stood on the top of windswept mountains, struggled across marathon finish lines with my hands raised in victory (and helped many others across that line as a coach), crossed the plate for the game-winning run, walked off the final green with the lowest score in the tournament, given a speech at my parents’ fiftieth anniversary, sat back with a satisfied sigh on the last day of twenty-three (and counting) school years (as a teacher), slalomed down steep slopes of powder, negotiated rafts through rapids, and watched chunks of glacier slide into the sea, but all of these (okay, that’s an exaggeration – but it’s done for effect) pale in comparison to what happened this past Monday when I walked through the door at the end of the day. What to my wondering eyes should appear? A fully functional kitchen with a working stove, microwave, refrigerator, dishwasher, and sink. I immediately broke into my “Happy Kitchen Dance” (thankfully, the only one there to witness this fiasco was Connor – and he already thinks I’m a pretty strange individual). After three months, several major setbacks, and more money than I want to think about, we have a kitchen that is not only beautiful and stylish, but that you can actually – wait for it – cook in. To celebrate, I boiled some water (on the stove) and made linguini, and that evening, Katie whipped up a batch of chocolate chip cookies (in the oven). And they tasted really, really good.
That’s all for now, so until next time, may you continue to do whatever it is you do that brings meaning to your life, helps make the world a better place, and allows you to move on after senseless tragedy strikes. Stay strong, Tucson.
It seems to me that there are indelible moments in our lives. Moments that resonate within the fiber of our being for as long as we’re alive and change something fundamental about the way we view our world. Moments that we’ll always remember in detail - where we were, what we were doing, and how we felt when we first heard/saw/witnessed whatever it was that happened. And it seems that these moments, which are often, but not always, tragic, become touchstones for a generation. These are moments like the bombing of Pearl Harbor, the assassinations of the Kennedys and Martin Luther King, Jr., the lunar landing, the shooting of Ronald Reagan, the Challenger space shuttle disaster, the Columbine massacre, the Oklahoma City bombing, 9/11, and so on. And now, especially for those of us who live in Tucson, we have another moment that will live within us forever. A moment when our view of our town was changed forever, and a politician’s attempt to reach out to the people was transformed by one misguided person’s misguided attempt to do whatever it was he was trying to do. And now several people, including a little girl, are dead, while others struggle to recover from the injuries they sustained. The whole thing is senseless to me, and as I listen to various people try to make sense of it, and witness their attempts to figure out the why’s and the how’s, my mind turns inward in order to insulate me from the reality that tries to crack through my protective shell of denial. This supermarket was only a couple of miles from my home. It’s an intimate part of my everyday world, and I pass through the intersection of Oracle and Ina each morning and each afternoon as I make my way to and from work. And now, this once-ordinary parking lot is cordoned off by crime scene tape and inhabited by law enforcement officials and media members, and my stomach churns as I take in the sight. Imagining what it must have been like on Saturday morning. The smell of gunpowder. The sound of screams. Blood on the asphalt. A senseless slaughter that accomplished nothing productive. A pointless act that did nothing but remind us all of how tenuous this whole thing actually is. Moments like this, I can do without.
On a Lighter Note
In my life, I’ve stared at the woman I love more than anything as she walked down the aisle to stand at my side, witnessed the birth of all three of my children, stood on the top of windswept mountains, struggled across marathon finish lines with my hands raised in victory (and helped many others across that line as a coach), crossed the plate for the game-winning run, walked off the final green with the lowest score in the tournament, given a speech at my parents’ fiftieth anniversary, sat back with a satisfied sigh on the last day of twenty-three (and counting) school years (as a teacher), slalomed down steep slopes of powder, negotiated rafts through rapids, and watched chunks of glacier slide into the sea, but all of these (okay, that’s an exaggeration – but it’s done for effect) pale in comparison to what happened this past Monday when I walked through the door at the end of the day. What to my wondering eyes should appear? A fully functional kitchen with a working stove, microwave, refrigerator, dishwasher, and sink. I immediately broke into my “Happy Kitchen Dance” (thankfully, the only one there to witness this fiasco was Connor – and he already thinks I’m a pretty strange individual). After three months, several major setbacks, and more money than I want to think about, we have a kitchen that is not only beautiful and stylish, but that you can actually – wait for it – cook in. To celebrate, I boiled some water (on the stove) and made linguini, and that evening, Katie whipped up a batch of chocolate chip cookies (in the oven). And they tasted really, really good.
That’s all for now, so until next time, may you continue to do whatever it is you do that brings meaning to your life, helps make the world a better place, and allows you to move on after senseless tragedy strikes. Stay strong, Tucson.
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