tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43766580652768290012024-02-18T19:16:13.061-08:00Dirty RunningDirty Runninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11941067370886942981noreply@blogger.comBlogger215125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4376658065276829001.post-20608354484287860232022-08-26T12:20:00.005-07:002022-08-26T15:07:58.665-07:00The Gift of Sadness<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #292929; font-family: charter, Georgia, Cambria, Times New Roman, Times, serif;"><span style="font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -0.06px;"><b>I started a newsletter because I like to read newsletters. This is my first bit of writing for it. If you want to read about things I love — running, climbing, being a dad, and making a fool of myself, but rarely in that order, you can <a href="https://daxross.substack.com/" target="_blank">subscribe here</a>.</b></span></span></p></blockquote><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #292929; font-family: charter, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -0.003em;">My wife and I took a short trip to Maine to see my daughter perform at the</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #292929; font-family: charter, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -0.003em;"> </span><a class="au ki" href="https://www.monteuxmusic.org/festival" rel="noopener ugc nofollow" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: charter, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -0.003em;" target="_blank">Monteux Music Festival</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #292929; font-family: charter, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -0.003em;">. It’s an amazing program founded by French conductor, Pierre Monteux, in 1942. It’s a conducting school where some of the best young conductors come to train through the summer. Other musicians from around the world audition for spots in the orchestra. They practice hard, live in cabins, form bonds that you can only form when you train hours and hours every day with someone, then party until the early morning and do it all over again. They play a concert every weekend for the locals and vacationers in a beautiful area of Maine near Bar Harbor.</span></p><figure class="si sj sk sl fz sm fn fo paragraph-image" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; clear: both; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8); font-family: medium-content-sans-serif-font, -apple-system, "system-ui", "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Open Sans", "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; margin: 56px auto 0px;"><div class="sn so dp sp cf sq" role="button" style="box-sizing: inherit; cursor: zoom-in; position: relative; transition: transform 300ms cubic-bezier(0.2, 0, 0.2, 1) 0s; width: 692px; z-index: auto;" tabindex="0"><div class="fn fo sh" style="box-sizing: inherit; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 1440px;"><img alt="" class="cf nl sr" height="200" role="presentation" src="https://miro.medium.com/max/1400/1*s80atMv9bmnQPP5pcqt-6w.jpeg" style="box-sizing: inherit; height: auto; max-width: 100%; vertical-align: middle; width: 692px;" width="160" /></div></div><figcaption class="ss bm fp fn fo st su bn b bo bp co" data-selectable-paragraph="" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #757575; font-family: sohne, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 10px; max-width: 728px; text-align: center;">Acadia NP</figcaption></figure><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph jk jl in jm b jn jo jp jq jr js jt ju jv jw jx jy jz ka kb kc kd ke kf kg kh ig gi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="88b4" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; font-family: charter, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; word-break: break-word;">The highlight of the trip for me, aside from the lobster, and Acadia National Park, was listening to the Monteux orchestra perform Tchaikovsky’s <em class="sv" style="box-sizing: inherit;">6th Symphony</em>. If you can, please listen to it as you’re reading this. <a class="au ki" href="https://youtu.be/EHgHgbZ8YB8" rel="noopener ugc nofollow" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; box-sizing: inherit;" target="_blank">Here is a good, or at least what sounds good to me performance</a> (for the full immersive effect at no extra cost). My musical ear is not great, and that is what I told the nice grey-haired woman sitting next to me in the small theater in the middle of a forest in rural Maine, but this performance does seem distinctly Russian to me, in a good way.</p><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph jk jl in jm b jn jo jp jq jr js jt ju jv jw jx jy jz ka kb kc kd ke kf kg kh ig gi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="bf9a" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; font-family: charter, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; word-break: break-word;">I asked the woman whose friend recently had my daughter and some of her fellow musicians over for steak, lobster, and far too much wine (which is often the perfect amount) if the orchestra was any good. She was a season ticket holder and patron. She told me that they were great, and they played well together, especially considering the short amount of rehearsal time.</p><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph jk jl in jm b jn jo jp jq jr js jt ju jv jw jx jy jz ka kb kc kd ke kf kg kh ig gi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="7b99" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; font-family: charter, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; word-break: break-word;">My daughter had shown me the repertoire which was a page of over 50 pieces including symphonies from Mozart, Brahms, Prokofiev, Beethoven, and Tchaikovsky. The woman told me that if I had a good ear, I might hear something a little off. I told her that my ear was not at all good, and I was here to support my daughter. She told me that I would not be disappointed, and really, there is no way that I could, but I wasn’t expecting the overflow of emotion.</p><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph jk jl in jm b jn jo jp jq jr js jt ju jv jw jx jy jz ka kb kc kd ke kf kg kh ig gi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="5a69" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; font-family: charter, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; word-break: break-word;">The concert started with Debussy’s <em class="sv" style="box-sizing: inherit;">La Mer</em> and Mozart’s “Overture to Le Nozze di Figaro.” The music filled the building and flowed out the large open windows to the lush forest and mixed with the sound of summer insects and humidity. I especially liked the pre-intermission Mozart. It was familiar like a radio song that you know the words to even if you’ve never consciously played it.</p><figure class="si sj sk sl fz sm fn fo paragraph-image" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; clear: both; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8); font-family: medium-content-sans-serif-font, -apple-system, "system-ui", "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Open Sans", "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; margin: 56px auto 0px;"><div class="sn so dp sp cf sq" role="button" style="box-sizing: inherit; cursor: zoom-in; position: relative; transition: transform 300ms cubic-bezier(0.2, 0, 0.2, 1) 0s; width: 692px; z-index: auto;" tabindex="0"><div class="fn fo sh" style="box-sizing: inherit; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 1440px;"><img alt="" class="cf nl sr" role="presentation" src="https://miro.medium.com/max/1400/1*XShQwWSntnlViqwlmCzClQ.jpeg" style="box-sizing: inherit; height: auto; max-width: 100%; vertical-align: middle; width: 692px;" /></div></div></figure><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph jk jl in jm b jn jo jp jq jr js jt ju jv jw jx jy jz ka kb kc kd ke kf kg kh ig gi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="1901" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; font-family: charter, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; word-break: break-word;">Sophie came and saw us during intermission. She looked beautiful and grown in all black with her hair pulled back. This was my daughter playing beautifully and shining with a light that comes when you are doing something you love. We were connecting with her at her happiest and most fulfilled, and as a parent, there isn’t anything better.</p><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph jk jl in jm b jn jo jp jq jr js jt ju jv jw jx jy jz ka kb kc kd ke kf kg kh ig gi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="429c" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; font-family: charter, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; word-break: break-word;">It was a short intermission, and we settled in for the Tchaikovsky. Anticipating some boredom, I read the program and the liner notes for the upcoming symphony. The only thing I knew about Tchaikovsky is that he composed <em class="sv" style="box-sizing: inherit;">The Nutcracker Suite</em>, and I have had to sit through that multiple times in my life, and I have always been bored with the music. My daughters both performed in the ballet, and I loved watching them dance, but I never connected with the music.</p><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph jk jl in jm b jn jo jp jq jr js jt ju jv jw jx jy jz ka kb kc kd ke kf kg kh ig gi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="96b7" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; font-family: charter, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; word-break: break-word;">If you have been listening to the <em class="sv" style="box-sizing: inherit;">6th Symphony</em>, I hope you’re at the second movement by now. It’s a waltz, and it reminds me of <em class="sv" style="box-sizing: inherit;">The Nutcracker</em>. It’s light and airy like I imagine a waltz should be, and it reminds me of ruffles and lace dresses. It’s not really for me, but it’s kind of like having a pre-main course of ice gelato in a fancy restaurant that caters to foodies. I mean, who eats ice cream before steak? But it’s a palette cleanser, I guess.</p><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph jk jl in jm b jn jo jp jq jr js jt ju jv jw jx jy jz ka kb kc kd ke kf kg kh ig gi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="e9c6" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; font-family: charter, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; word-break: break-word;">Tchaikovsky was gay at a time and in a place where it was illegal and the punishment could be severe. He also suffered from depression throughout his life. This symphony, the <em class="sv" style="box-sizing: inherit;">6th</em>, was his last, and he died nine days after he conducted the first public performance of what he called “the best, and in particular, the most sincere of all my creations.”</p><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph jk jl in jm b jn jo jp jq jr js jt ju jv jw jx jy jz ka kb kc kd ke kf kg kh ig gi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="2e7e" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; font-family: charter, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; word-break: break-word;">There are many rumors surrounding his death. The official line is that he died of cholera, which was common in Russia at the time. However, smart and powerful people kissed his corpse as he lay in state, a questionable choice if he truly died of cholera.</p><figure class="si sj sk sl fz sm fn fo paragraph-image" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; clear: both; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8); font-family: medium-content-sans-serif-font, -apple-system, "system-ui", "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Open Sans", "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; margin: 56px auto 0px;"><div class="sn so dp sp cf sq" role="button" style="box-sizing: inherit; cursor: zoom-in; position: relative; transition: transform 300ms cubic-bezier(0.2, 0, 0.2, 1) 0s; width: 692px; z-index: auto;" tabindex="0"><div class="fn fo sw" style="box-sizing: inherit; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 768px;"><img alt="" class="cf nl sr" role="presentation" src="https://miro.medium.com/max/1400/1*aopqDwS25cs7px5exbHkmA.gif" style="box-sizing: inherit; height: auto; max-width: 100%; vertical-align: middle; width: 692px;" /></div></div><figcaption class="ss bm fp fn fo st su bn b bo bp co" data-selectable-paragraph="" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #757575; font-family: sohne, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 10px; max-width: 728px; text-align: center;">Funerary photo of Tchaikovsky</figcaption></figure><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph jk jl in jm b jn jo jp jq jr js jt ju jv jw jx jy jz ka kb kc kd ke kf kg kh ig gi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="bff7" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; font-family: charter, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; word-break: break-word;">Tchaikovsky struggled with depression his whole life, and he attempted suicide at least once. We don’t know if he died of cholera, succumbed to his depression, killed himself to hide his sexuality, or was convinced to end his life by others whose secrets he was protecting.</p><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph jk jl in jm b jn jo jp jq jr js jt ju jv jw jx jy jz ka kb kc kd ke kf kg kh ig gi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="b77d" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; font-family: charter, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; word-break: break-word;">I’m at the third movement now. If you’re not there, wait. It’s worth it. It’s a celebration, but knowing what we know about this piece, about Tchaikovsky, and what is to come next, it’s awful and beautiful. It’s set up as a celebratory finale, but there is nothing celebratory about it. With my novice ear, influenced and dulled by years of searing punk rock I hear a mosh pit. It’s that primal feeling of swinging your arms around, hoping to hit something, and get hit by something. Not violence for violence's sake, but an urge, a primal urge to feel connected to others through organized chaos.</p><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph jk jl in jm b jn jo jp jq jr js jt ju jv jw jx jy jz ka kb kc kd ke kf kg kh ig gi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="8d8e" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; font-family: charter, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; word-break: break-word;">I just switched to the concert video and there are some old, gray, tuxedoed clarinetists and there is nothing punk about them, except for the music.</p><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph jk jl in jm b jn jo jp jq jr js jt ju jv jw jx jy jz ka kb kc kd ke kf kg kh ig gi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="d951" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; font-family: charter, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; word-break: break-word;">The conductor of the 4th and final movement, “Adagio Lamentoso,” is a small Japanese woman, and my daughter told me she had been subdued when they practiced the piece.</p><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph jk jl in jm b jn jo jp jq jr js jt ju jv jw jx jy jz ka kb kc kd ke kf kg kh ig gi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="34dd" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; font-family: charter, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; word-break: break-word;">In rehearsal, the guest instructor pressed the conductor to show more emotion, to conduct with passion, and to let go of everything. My daughter told me when she finally did, she sobbed through the piece, letting go of everything, and everyone in the room felt this release. My daughter told me it was one of the most emotional experiences of her life.</p><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph jk jl in jm b jn jo jp jq jr js jt ju jv jw jx jy jz ka kb kc kd ke kf kg kh ig gi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="2798" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; font-family: charter, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; word-break: break-word;">It’s not something I can relate to, but I imagine actors, artists, musicians, and anyone who bares their souls as a group and opens themselves up to be torn down or fail in front of others know this feeling. This is something I work to guard against, this opening up to others, and sharing those deep, powerful emotions that we have been taught to hide.</p><figure class="si sj sk sl fz sm fn fo paragraph-image" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; clear: both; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8); font-family: medium-content-sans-serif-font, -apple-system, "system-ui", "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Open Sans", "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; margin: 56px auto 0px;"><div class="sn so dp sp cf sq" role="button" style="box-sizing: inherit; cursor: zoom-in; position: relative; transition: transform 300ms cubic-bezier(0.2, 0, 0.2, 1) 0s; width: 692px; z-index: auto;" tabindex="0"><div class="fn fo sx" style="box-sizing: inherit; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 810px;"><img alt="" class="cf nl sr" role="presentation" src="https://miro.medium.com/max/1400/1*0gRndCvxUEgtSso2dssDuQ.jpeg" style="box-sizing: inherit; height: auto; max-width: 100%; vertical-align: middle; width: 692px;" /></div></div><figcaption class="ss bm fp fn fo st su bn b bo bp co" data-selectable-paragraph="" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #757575; font-family: sohne, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 10px; max-width: 728px; text-align: center;">In her element (photo by Sandy Marcotte)</figcaption></figure><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph jk jl in jm b jn jo jp jq jr js jt ju jv jw jx jy jz ka kb kc kd ke kf kg kh ig gi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="17e3" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; font-family: charter, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; word-break: break-word;">The Tchaikovsky story that I choose to believe is a sad one. It’s depression and living a secret life, and maybe being convinced by himself or others to do something drastic to preserve the illusion. The last movement, preceded by the false finale is a study in sadness. Some audiences clap after the third movement thinking that the piece is over, but the finale is crushingly more powerful.</p><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph jk jl in jm b jn jo jp jq jr js jt ju jv jw jx jy jz ka kb kc kd ke kf kg kh ig gi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="964b" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; font-family: charter, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; word-break: break-word;">The orchestra in the middle of the woods performed it beautifully, and I breathed hard, holding in that tightness, that sadness, but there is a part in the middle of the movement where the strings soar, and the conductor lets go, maybe not as much as she did in the safety and comfort of the rehearsal space, but she shared it with the orchestra and the orchestra shared that emotion with us.</p><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph jk jl in jm b jn jo jp jq jr js jt ju jv jw jx jy jz ka kb kc kd ke kf kg kh ig gi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="1cd8" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; font-family: charter, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; word-break: break-word;">We demand that from artists. We expect the conductor, the musicians in the orchestra, and Tchaikovsky to give us their sadness, to bleed for us, and it would be unfair for me to stoically hold my emotion inside. In that movement, I felt a connection to the music, and to my daughter, that doesn’t come easy or often, but when it does, you have to recognize it and be generous with that spirit.</p><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph jk jl in jm b jn jo jp jq jr js jt ju jv jw jx jy jz ka kb kc kd ke kf kg kh ig gi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="bfba" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; font-family: charter, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; word-break: break-word;">My kids look at me sometimes to see if I’m crying. Usually during a cheesy movie, or a performance, or watching old videos of them when they were younger and didn’t roll their eyes when I asked for a hug. At these moments, I breathe deeper and my heart beats harder as I try to hold back the tears. My youngest daughter will usually say something accusatory like “Dad, are you seriously crying at this?” as we watch some teen drama, and I say “no, but they were just meant to be together” as I wipe the corners of my eyes.</p><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph jk jl in jm b jn jo jp jq jr js jt ju jv jw jx jy jz ka kb kc kd ke kf kg kh ig gi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="b037" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; font-family: charter, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; word-break: break-word;">The performance was a lesson. It’s okay to be sad. The sadness connects us. The sadness, the sorrow, the slow lamentation, the silence. Let them flow through you as you listen to that fourth movement. Channel Tchaikovsky’s sadness from more than a century ago, his sorrow, and the silence where you are at once alone and connected, before that storm of applause.</p><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph jk jl in jm b jn jo jp jq jr js jt ju jv jw jx jy jz ka kb kc kd ke kf kg kh ig gi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="dc4d" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; font-family: charter, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; word-break: break-word;">Our world is disjointed and angry, and we have become less connected to each other, to nature, and to ourselves, but sitting in that small concert hall, I was connected to the sadness of the art, the emotions of the artists, and the people around me who come year after year to listen to these young performers give freely of themselves to the point of tears.</p><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph jk jl in jm b jn jo jp jq jr js jt ju jv jw jx jy jz ka kb kc kd ke kf kg kh ig gi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="0f19" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; font-family: charter, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; word-break: break-word;">The <em class="sv" style="box-sizing: inherit;">6th</em> slowly fades out at the end with an almost inaudible drum, and I didn’t want it to end. This moment. There was silence, and nobody clapped. The audience knew. The conductor turned around, spent by the effort, and by the generosity of emotion. And nobody wanted to be the first to clap, but everyone did, and we all did at once. I looked around as we stood up, and this sadness had connected us, teary-eyed with ragged souls, and cheered for the artists with some inadequate form of gratitude.</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote class="sy sz ta" style="background-color: white; box-shadow: rgb(41, 41, 41) 3px 0px 0px 0px inset; box-sizing: inherit; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8); font-family: medium-content-sans-serif-font, -apple-system, "system-ui", "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Open Sans", "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; margin: 0px 0px 0px -20px; padding-left: 23px;"><p class="jk jl sv jm b jn jo jp jq jr js jt ju tb jw jx jy tc ka kb kc td ke kf kg kh ig gi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="15c3" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; font-family: charter, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; font-style: italic; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; text-align: left; word-break: break-word;"><span class="jm io" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-weight: 700;">Thank you for reading this. If you’d like to stay current on what I’m writing about please subscribe to my substack at </span><a class="au ki" href="https://daxross.substack.com/" rel="noopener ugc nofollow" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; box-sizing: inherit;" target="_blank"><span class="jm io" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-weight: 700;">https://daxross.substack.com/</span></a><span class="jm io" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-weight: 700;">.</span></p></blockquote></blockquote>Dirty Runninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11941067370886942981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4376658065276829001.post-55963143218601116412021-06-08T16:14:00.002-07:002021-06-08T16:14:56.905-07:00The More Things Change<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMskeJr8TJ_k-h4vK2n_K-gCa4E9bMJp5H93sgVNsn1gMqhdVai7A9KZbnpgixkLJRp7yUeiBMoH2snAlJOnaxT23Y1ufwcKB8Xy4N3kJvX1pb7qw9tviFI_CfGGkY5I-950rJiGw9glE/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMskeJr8TJ_k-h4vK2n_K-gCa4E9bMJp5H93sgVNsn1gMqhdVai7A9KZbnpgixkLJRp7yUeiBMoH2snAlJOnaxT23Y1ufwcKB8Xy4N3kJvX1pb7qw9tviFI_CfGGkY5I-950rJiGw9glE/w400-h400/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p>My favorite running route used to be a narrow, rutted, and rocky dirt path that led past a hidden pond on the way to winding singletrack that led up to a summit overlooking the Pacific Ocean to the west, the San Bernardino mountains to the north, and the Cuyamacas and Tijuana Plateau to the south. At the top of the peak is an American flag. It used to be weathered and wind-torn but has since been replaced with a new flag complete with a solar-powered light that illuminates the flag at night.</p><p>The first No Trespassing signs starting popping up years ago as our little piece of the North County San Diego suburbs started to grow. Narrow trails I had run in high school became access roads, and later 2- and 3-lane roads leading into and out of our expanding neighborhood.</p><p>We searched for new trails back then, combining animal-made singletrack with adventurous hiking and mountain biking trails, and firelines. Many of my exploratory runs ended in dead-ends and bloody, sliced-up shins and thighs, but we managed to put some fun routes together. The crowning glory was a 26-mile all-trail loop marathon, which was quite a creative task given the roads, and the private property that we did our best to avoid.</p><p>As the neighborhood was built out, more people started to use the trails. I wrote an article for our monthly neighborhood newspaper about the local trails and gave turn-by-turn directions to some of the easier ones. I was doing one of my regular runs on a horse trail when I passed a girl who had stopped and was looking, puzzled, at a newspaper clipping. She looked pissed, so I didn’t stop. The hills in our area were a surprise for people who were used to running along the flat coastline, but I ate them up.</p><p>As the town grew, the access shrunk. Park rangers informed us that we couldn’t access the reserve near our neighborhood from the west side, and property owners who noticed new trails put up signs and fencing on the lands we didn’t know were private. There were still miles and miles of trails to run, but as the town grew, and the barriers multiplied, we became less exploratory and more quotidian with our routes.</p><p>It’s still a beautiful area to run and live in, but a lot of the beauty has been shut down. I’m not going to get into the morals and ethics of trespassing and land rights. I respect the landowners here and do my best to obey the law, but it does make me extremely envious of the right to roam laws in other countries.</p><p>My favorite trail leading up to the flag is still there, it’s still a beautiful run, but the access trail leading up to it is now a black, paved road. It’s the kind of soft asphalt paving that is going to leave footprints in the hot summer. There is also a ten-foot-tall grey iron gate with NO TRESPASSING welded into the industrial design along the newly paved road. The gate has not closed yet, but it will.</p><p>There’s a scene from The Simpsons that shows a newspaper clipping of the Grandpa yelling at a cloud in the sky, and the headline reads, “Old Man Yells at Cloud.” I laugh every time I think about the headline. Things always change, and it’s mostly useless to get mad about the changes, but sometimes it feels good to yell at the clouds.</p><p>My favorite run of the week starts and ends at a local brewery in our town square. On any given Thursday night, between 10 and 20 (mostly) guys will gather at 5:30. Some are already sweaty and warmed up from a pre-run, and some look nervously at the ground, and at the group of runners because it’s their first time, and they don’t know what to expect of the group’s pace. Looking at some of the regulars, the new runners have a right to be concerned. There are a few marathon winners in the group. There are also many ultra-marathon podiums shared among the faster members. The new, maybe inexperienced members have nothing to worry about.</p><p>It’s a short loop, 4–5 miles depending on the finishing options. We re-group at about every mile so nobody gets left behind or lost, and it’s a social group. We talk about families, work, and mostly just running. We talk past races, future races, weekly mileage, and injuries. We also talk local trails.</p><p>For some of these new runners, this is the first time on these trails that have been flattened and widened by hundreds of thousands of footfalls and knobby tires. A lot of the runners are younger and newer to the area. They are starting to connect the local trails to make new loops, connections that I hadn’t even considered.</p><p>The chatter becomes less and less as we approach the end of the loop. Some of the faster guys break away for the last quarter of a mile or so. It is a Strava segment after all, and you don’t age out of competitiveness.</p><p>The conversation starts up again at the brewery as we rehydrate. They talk about weekly mileage and plans for a long weekend run, and I talk about my injuries, and why I can’t run longer than five or six miles. They talk about new routes, and I talk about the new gates and no trespassing signs. I find myself slipping into the old-timey, curmudgeonly, Andy Rooney role, but hold back because nothing can dampen these new runner’s excitement for races, weekly mileage goals, and miles and miles of undiscovered trails.</p>Dirty Runninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11941067370886942981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4376658065276829001.post-85066430746416511142020-05-12T11:13:00.002-07:002020-05-12T11:13:31.656-07:00Breaking the Toilet Paper Finish Line<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivT9fYwOximxcaKHGhEZ35xiZZpD1UPzFaz19S0vS58q9UW2d5cqvUowoA3W2hRPpEIeDdgmZAwqd9yKjT94d9NHJ7VHfizgAABgUVkT55Yr8K6sgpIcAZQXrH9NW1hc5LxbLMdzfoJwk/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1045" data-original-width="1400" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivT9fYwOximxcaKHGhEZ35xiZZpD1UPzFaz19S0vS58q9UW2d5cqvUowoA3W2hRPpEIeDdgmZAwqd9yKjT94d9NHJ7VHfizgAABgUVkT55Yr8K6sgpIcAZQXrH9NW1hc5LxbLMdzfoJwk/w640-h478/sunrise.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div>The best part of a 5:30 AM start is the sunrise. We gathered around and I started the pre-race briefing. I felt the same nervous energy I feel at every starting line. As the assembled group of friends looked to me for directions for the next 3–6 hours of their lives, I was grateful for them, but also scared.</div><div><br /></div><div>San Diego has hills. People see the Chamber of Commerce’s pictures of palm trees and the ocean, but also we have rocky, single-track trails, rattlesnakes, and some climbs that, can rival a tough mountain race.</div><div><br /></div><div>My goal was to create a tough mountain race in my backyard. My goal was to rival the elevation gain of Pike’s Peak at over 7,500 feet. I fell short of that, but I did manage to put together a course with about 5,000 feet more gain than the “hilly” Boston Marathon.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don’t live in a rural area, so I had to get creative with a 26-mile loop that stayed almost exclusively on trails. I live in North County San Diego, part of the sprawl that starts near the border of Mexico and crawls up the coast where it pauses at Camp Pendleton before it continues to Los Angeles. The beautiful thing about where I live is that some of the open space was preserved by the city or county planners. They opted for dense, rather than wide growth, so while our houses seem stacked on top of each other, we have miles of trails right outside our front doors. The trail linking project was something that took a lot of work and creativity, but I loved doing it.</div><div><br /></div><div>I would dream about sections of the course, and I’d wake up with new ideas for the race. Go right at the water tower, and run down the steep dirt path before taking a sharp left at the second power line access trail and cut through some desert scrub and manzanita to the horse trail that takes you up to Paint Mountain. At the top of Paint Mountain, you’ll see a notebook containing hand-written quotes. Tear out a page from the notebook to prove you made it to the top of the section (hat tip to Laz and the Barkley Marathons).</div><div><br /></div><div>After finalizing the course, I thought of a handful of people that this particular type of suffering would appeal to, so I sent out an email to about eight people. Word got out, and by the time we hiked to the top of Double Peak for the 5:30 AM start, there were 30 of us taking in that sunrise.</div><div><br /></div><div>I gave a disclaimer about the difficulty of the course, and I promised a very difficult day on the trails. I told them they would need to be self-sufficient, but also take care of each other. I warned them about the lack of aid stations and the absence of a capable and responsible race director to complain to.</div><div><br /></div><div>I started the day with 26 miles in my legs from the previous day. I marked the course with flour arrows, so people would know where to go. The only way to mark a course this remote was to run it, so I marked the first 13 miles in the morning and the last 13 miles in the evening the day before the event.</div><div><br /></div><div>I emailed the route to everyone who was planning on running the race, but this was before it was easy to load routes on a GPS, or maybe route-finding was part of the appeal for this group. My course overview was not very clear, and went something like this:</div><div><br /></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div>Once you hit the dam, go up the El Cielo trail along the side of the dam to the Equine Incline Loop and then run down the Way Up Trail, cross the street, run up the steep concrete access road and you’ll see a narrow single-track trail on your left. Take that and head towards Mount Whitney. Not that Mount Whitney, our 1500 foot version of Mount Whitney.</div><div><br /></div><div>When you descend, run by the old wooden shack where the guy should be out waving to you. I gave him a six-pack of Coors Light yesterday and told him a bunch of runners would be passing by his house in the early morning, and please don’t shoot us, and if it’s not too much trouble, could he chain up the Pit Bull?</div></blockquote><div><br /></div><div>He was out there on his wooden porch, cheering and toasting us with his AM Coors Light.</div><div><br /></div><div>I told the runners not to expect aid during the run, but my wife was out there anyway, driving from spot to spot with water, cut up oranges and watermelons, and homemade “You’ve Got This” signs. The aid stations were a great addition, especially as the sun burnt through the morning haze.</div><div><br /></div><div>The last climb was back to where we started the race over four hours before. It’s a hill called Double Peak, and I know every turn, every wind in the trail, every rut, and I didn’t think I could make it the quarter-mile to the top. I sat on a concrete curb and told April and Paul that I just needed a break. I told them to go on and finish, and I’d see them at the top. We’d spent the last few hours running together in this organic trio. We shared race stories, we laughed and we struggled together.</div><div><br /></div><div>They wouldn’t go on.</div><div><br /></div><div>April sat next to me and told me to take my time. Paul told me we were going to finish together. I got up and slow-hiked to the finish where a few of the early finishers, some friends, and some family were waiting.</div><div><br /></div><div>My daughter hung a string of beads held together by a leather strap over my neck. She bought beads and made 30 unique finisher medals. She had been working on them for a week. Travis had brought some homebrew. My friend’s wife and my son stretched toilet paper across the finish so everyone could break the tape at the top.</div><div><br /></div><div>From where I sat, I could see the ocean and feel the cool air against sunburned shoulders and tired legs covered to the knee in red dirt. We sat as people finished, sometimes solo, sometimes in small groups. I hugged everyone that crossed the line that day after Sophie hung the strand of beads over their necks. Some cursed at me as they finished, but they did it with a smile.</div><div><br /></div><div>A lot of the people who ran the race with me that day have since moved. I still talk with most of them and still run with a few. We run on the same trails, but that loop is now inaccessible for running. Different entities control various parts of the land. Fences, gates, and No Trespassing signs have gone up as more houses have been built. Rangers turn me away, trying to explain the confusing and ever-changing rules. They can’t be bribed with a 6-pack of cheap beer.</div><div><br /></div><div>That medal still hangs on the doorknob in my office. Every time I look up at Paint Mountain, I think of a Kathleen Harris quote on the sweat-stained piece of notebook paper, “Don’t fear moving forward, fear standing still.”</div><div><br /></div><div>Everything about that day was about our small running community and family — from the handwritten notes, to the marking of the course, the aid stations, the finish line tape, and the beaded finisher’s medal that holds a special place in my heart.</div><div><br /></div><div>Major races are getting canceled along with other large group events. I hope that they will return once things get back to normal, but these small races will come back first. Runners will be forced to get back to the roots of racing. The gatherings of a few friends, some flour arrows to mark the path, some stashed orange wedges and water, and if you’re really lucky, a toilet paper finish line and a strand of beads around your neck.</div><div><br /></div><div>It’s going to be a while before any of us stand shoulder to shoulder with thousands of other runners waiting with a mix of excitement, nerves, and dread, in the starting corral. It is more realistic to think that one of these home-grown events will be in your future.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Here’s how to plan your own:</b></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Technology</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Get comfortable with a GPS mapping program like CalTopo, Gaia, or Gmap Pedometer. I used Gmap Pedometer for my planning and I like it because it is simple to use, it keeps a running distance total as you plan the route. Most importantly, it’s free. Send the route to the participants and they will be able to load it on their own devices. That way, nobody can blame you for getting lost. You’ll want to be familiar with the area you are running. Make sure to buy the guy with a scary dog a 6-pack of Coors Light when you ask him to keep the dog on a leash the next morning.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Participants</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Don’t let it get out of hand. Only invite people you trust will be able to finish the race and people who have some experience running trails without aid stations. People need to be self-sufficient with these types of races. This will also help you limit the number of people to a number you feel comfortable with. It helps to know everyone as well, just in case something goes wrong (you also may want to have participants sign a waiver, just in case).</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Volunteers</b></div><div><br /></div><div>People want to help. As most trail runners know, it’s at least as fun volunteering for a race as running one. Some people will actually be relieved that you asked them to help rather than asked them to run. Get the family involved as well. My family still has some of our best memories while volunteering for races, and the kids actually love contributing. My friend Joe’s whole family set up an aid station at the midway point of our trail marathon. The amount of good karma and love they received that day will tide them over for years.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Extras</b></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: left;">We had custom shirts made. They are a collector’s item in our area. Use a web service that will let you place small orders, and design them yourself. They won’t be as flashy as the big-name marathon tech tees, but they will mean more to you. Trust me. The same holds true for the race medal. It doesn’t have to be fancy, but it will take a special place on your doorknob, in your medal drawer, or wherever you keep your stash. One last thing, don’t let the day end at the finish line. Get everyone together for pizza and beers to relive the stories. The friendships, the bonding, and the tales of suffering and overcoming are why we do this. That’s not going to change whether you finish on Boylston Street or at the top of a hill called Double Peak as you break through a makeshift toilet paper finish line.</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1hDlcypuYzdIMWZG4NGoA0As7Z1GAnJbx0gb35I6svaZgaisb0z5QIIuWqKavh5ON4fHU_etJehM12ryEdh6Y4R0kBRLKg9m4mKm9zF8SYwysBUm-dCpZyj_j5Tm3FloZS4LOHJ2Wnhg/" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="683" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1hDlcypuYzdIMWZG4NGoA0As7Z1GAnJbx0gb35I6svaZgaisb0z5QIIuWqKavh5ON4fHU_etJehM12ryEdh6Y4R0kBRLKg9m4mKm9zF8SYwysBUm-dCpZyj_j5Tm3FloZS4LOHJ2Wnhg/w426-h640/shirt.jpeg" width="426" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Dirty Runninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11941067370886942981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4376658065276829001.post-5937851345591475372020-04-15T10:10:00.000-07:002020-04-15T14:05:43.907-07:00Adventure in the Time of Covid<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRpf_3LsTtE832pjncFmoyyzlJlx0hFqUTBKmrM65i5N5jV-MgElxnotQjeiFO-86UcXh1ctw3GZpC6ozlICJ3caATI5ZSEhRvr5B4fwPLN3h0BI2rPvhn3fJKGPw7ZlYfrtt8188hFzM/s1600/IMG_0340.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRpf_3LsTtE832pjncFmoyyzlJlx0hFqUTBKmrM65i5N5jV-MgElxnotQjeiFO-86UcXh1ctw3GZpC6ozlICJ3caATI5ZSEhRvr5B4fwPLN3h0BI2rPvhn3fJKGPw7ZlYfrtt8188hFzM/s640/IMG_0340.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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Yes, this is a hard, unprecedented, difficult, uncertain, scary, pick your darkly ambiguous adjective time. We’re stuck at home. The news is constant now. The constantly updated death toll. The constant reminder of how we failed to prepare. The constant decline of the stock market. The kids constantly on their screens. I looked at my youngest daughter’s search history and she was searching for how viruses spread and Covid death rates. Okay, not going to lie, there were some makeup and TikTok dance tutorials scattered in there, too.<br />
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Through all of this uncertainty, there has been a pause, and I am thankful for it. Because we live near open, nearly empty trails, my wife and I continue to work, our kids have access to their teachers, music lessons and soccer coaches (all online now). My son has a skateboard and a mountain bike. One eats curbs, the other eats trails, and they both eat hours. My oldest is continuing her college clarinet studies and filling our house with beautiful music and the muffled, frustrated crying that artists will recognize as growth.<br />
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We are privileged, and I am grateful. And my heart aches for people who aren’t as lucky, people who have lost their jobs, and people who are dealing with the death of loved ones. It is a scary time, and I’m not trying to minimize it.<br />
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This will affect everyone in some way. I wake up at 2 AM, worried about how this will affect my kids, and I can’t go back to sleep.<br />
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I worry about my wife, who spends 12 hours a day in the ER and won’t tell us the worst of it because she knows we can’t handle the details. Sometimes she will just say it was a hard day and go upstairs to shower, and I can see how hard it was in her eyes, and she won’t let me hug her in that moment and that’s really all I want to do.<br />
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My kids sleep until 9 or 10 AM, and I let them. The school sent a bell schedule and I see others posting their amazing homeschooling routines. I hope to get there, but to be honest, as long as we all come out of this still loving each other, I’ll consider it a win.<br />
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I was initially excited in the early stages of our self-quarantine (we started earlier than most due to my wife’s patient interactions in the ER). I just assumed we would get outside for most of the day. I was already making a mental checklist. We would hit the trails for a run, surf, go to the climbing gym, daily yoga session, and a camping/climbing trip to Joshua Tree.<br />
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This was before the mountain towns, the gyms, and the beaches closed. This was before we knew the ramifications of most of these activities. This was before the term social distancing became less of a vague notion and more a concrete law. In my neighborhood, people have been posting pictures online in an attempt to publically shame neighbors who might walk a little too close to each other.<br />
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Self-quarantine became about self-isolation as we learned about flattening the curve. It felt like a dark hazy cloud was settling over my head. I would wake up, turn on the news, and break the day up by snacking, planning what to buy from the grocery store, planning what to eat, and eating.<br />
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I’ve alternated between two pairs of sweatpants for the past 3 weeks.<br />
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I’d still get out and run or bike occasionally, but by myself, and I’d still try to get some online work done, but it’s a battle and laziness is winning.<br />
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Spring in San Diego is a beautiful time, and day 14 of quarantine was especially beautiful. It was a Sunday. The sun was out, the clouds were feathery and the breeze was cool enough to make walking in the sun with t-shirt and shorts comfortable.<br />
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My wife was at work and my kids were reading the latest notifications from their friends and I was watching the news say the same thing over and over.<br />
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“Let’s go,” I said. They all were quiet, and they knew that there was no getting out of it, so with the solemn resolve of a prisoner walking to the van after the guilty verdict has been read, they changed out of baggy sweatshirts and cat-fur covered flannel pajamas into shorts, t-shirts, and running shoes.<br />
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We’re lucky enough to be able to cross the street and immediately be on muddy, rocky paths with yellow wildflowers and trees that have grown from saplings to 20–30-foot beauties in the 15+ years we have lived here.<br />
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As a long-time trail runner, I dreamed of having a running family. A legacy of cross country runners that a running magazine would feature someday. All bouncing along together in perfect stride, my daughters with their long brown hair, catching the golden rays of the sun, and my son with his “Like Father, Like Son” tattoo à la Matt Centrowitz covering his gaunt, slightly shrunken runner’s chest.<br />
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Didn’t quite work out that way. They all lasted through middle school cross country before deciding that isn’t the type of suffering they wanted to subject themselves to. I shouldn’t be surprised. My running journey was full of starts and stops, and I didn’t really learn to love the suffering until I was an adult with three young children. Running became an escape from a different kind of suffering.<br />
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So now, when I say “Let’s go,” I don’t say “Let’s go for a run.” But I’m not fooling anyone.<br />
<br />
We headed to the meadow. We call it the meadow in our family because it doesn’t have an official name, or maybe it does, but if you head down a muddy and rocky singletrack trail, cross two streams, go through a natural tunnel where the branches of the trees have joined overhead to create a canopy, past a small waterfall that was rushing harder than usual thanks to the recent rains, avoid the poison oak, and cross the wide and deep mud pit using a rope hanging from the oak overhead and a couple of two by fours that some kind person hauled there (and that my dog fully ignores), you will reach our meadow.<br />
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<br />
This pause has come with a quietness. Less people outside, and fewer cars. But it is so much louder in other ways. The laughs were louder. You could hear the rushing stream from further away, and there were more birds singing, or maybe I could just hear them now.<br />
<br />
Our family hike inevitably turned into a run as we headed down the steep and rocky singletrack in order to get some momentum for the jump across the stream where we all got at least one shoe wet.<br />
<br />
Last weekend was Easter Sunday and I watched as Andrea Bocelli sang to the empty streets of Italy. His music was cut with drone shots of empty city centers. There is something peaceful about emptiness. It’s not really empty, or lonely, it’s just quiet. And the music filled the space. The pull of nature is the same.<br />
<br />
We seek that quiet emptiness. It fills us.<br />
<br />
After our hike, we all returned to our screens. Me to my computer and the kids to their phones, but we were all a little happier than we were before we went out.<br />
<br />
I’m still scared for my kids, and what they will remember about this time. Hell, I’m scared for myself, but what I hope to remember is that short family outing from our front door. My 13-year-old daughter and 15-year-old son sharing a seat on a rope swing, laughing, and not even trying to elbow each other off. I’ll remember sitting in the driveway watching my son master a trick on his skateboard or listening to my daughter practice her clarinet or the walks with the dog in the early mornings on empty sidewalks. I’ll remember the fear and the uncertainty as well, but things are rarely all bad. I hope that years from now when we talk about the coronavirus, my family will remember these small things and the way we filled the emptiness with something beautiful.<br />
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Dirty Runninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11941067370886942981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4376658065276829001.post-3142126008005283122019-05-10T10:16:00.000-07:002020-04-16T11:33:46.574-07:00Riding the Wafer...The Worst Parade Ever
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I wasn’t a cyclist before Sunday.<br />
<br />
There are some unwritten rules of biking, and I’m sure I’ve broken all of them in the last few months of training leading up to the <a href="https://belgianwaffleride.bike/" target="_blank">Belgian Waffle Ride</a>. I didn’t shave my legs, I rode with spandex on the mountain bike and loose shorts on my road bike. I actually didn’t even ride a road bike, I bought a used cross bike for a couple of hundred dollars from a nice guy who rode it across Belgium in the pouring rain. He threw in the panniers and a helmet and shoes that were a little too tight. At least I was smart enough to not throw the luggage racks on during the race.<br />
<br />
The Belgian Waffle Ride can be intimidating. Just the distance is intimidating, and then you have a look at the elevation profile, and check out pictures of people who finished covered in a mixture of blood, dirt, spit, tears, snot, and mud. The full Waffle is 134 miles with over 10,000 feet of gain. The shorter, humbler Wafer is 74 miles with 5,300 feet of gain. Rolling into the expo to pick up my number, I couldn’t help but notice the veins, rolling like ropes up these men and women’s smooth calves. They also had shorts that matched their jerseys. These are called kits.<br />
<br />
I have one cycling jersey. It has a zipper in the front and pockets in the back. I bought it when I did Ironman Cozumel about ten years ago. It has a big Ironman logo on the front to let everyone who knows anything about cycling know that I can’t handle my bike in a pack for shit. It’s also brand new because when I did that Ironman ten years ago, I gave up biking. The training took too long, and with three small kids, I didn’t have the time to go for long rides. The tri bike went up in the garage, on a hook where it hangs today to serve as a warning for anyone that passes to turn around and run if they value money and/or time.<br />
<br />
The morning of the race, the organizers of the Belgian Waffle Ride laid out a gluttonous breakfast buffet of bacon, waffles, and melted butter. I skipped the bacon but did down a couple of waffles dripping with melted butter. All races should have waffles at the start, especially 5Ks. It would make watching them way more interesting.<br />
<br />
I felt all tingly waiting for the start, but that may have been the minty Assos chamois cream I’d slathered all over my taint and undercarriage area. The organizer gave a speech about how we are all friends in a giant parade and how we need to look out for each other, a kid played an awesome, guitar-version of the National Anthem while standing on top of an RV, a mariachi band played, and we were off.<br />
<br />
I’m not going to bore you with every detail of the race, I’m just going to bore you with some of the highlights.<br />
<br />
The start is on road for about 10 miles and most of the 6–700 people stay in a tight group. The group goes pretty fast because the people in the front of the pack break the wind for everyone else, so you just have to bike behind someone in front of you, and not slow down and not waver in your line while you’re making a turn, and bike super straight, and not veer to the right or to the left, and you will not crash, and have the 300 or so people who are riding behind you run over you and then they crash and you have ruined their day. Did I mention that I used to be a triathlete and most of my biking experience had been of the solo variety while riding in a straight line on aerobars? You aren’t even allowed to be within 10 feet to the cyclist in front of you when you’re racing a triathlon. This pack riding was new to me, and luckily, I didn’t ruin my or anyone else’s day.<br />
<br />
I did go down once, pretty hard, but it was in the soft dirt. I was leading a group of about 5 or so, and by leading, I mean there were probably 5 people behind me waiting for a good time to pass. A mountain bike came the other way, and I tried to turn, but my front wheel caught some sand, so I went down. Hurt my knee a little bit, but I was thankful when I looked back at the guy who was following me skid to a stop inches away from my head.<br />
<br />
Cross racing is a cross between road and dirt biking, with a bike that isn’t entirely suitable for the road because of its big tires, nor is it suitable for the trails because of its skinny tires. Despite this, cross racing is so much fun. I rode through streams, on singletrack, over gravel, up and down some twisting climbs, and the road sections weren’t any easier.<br />
<br />
I was told there would be women with bikinis handing out bacon at an aid station called The Oasis at mile 60, at the base of the hardest climb of the day. When I arrived, there was bacon, but no bikinis. My spirits were a little low at this point, but it had more to do with the upcoming climb than the bikinis. Everything changed a few miles later when I biked past my house and my son and daughter were there waiting for me. My son handed me a beer which made up for the lack of bikinis at The Oasis. I guess I’ve changed.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Near the top of Double Peak (don’t mistake that grimace for a smile)</td></tr>
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<br />
Adam and I shared the beer before we started the climb to Double Peak. Adam is a guy I’ve known for over 20 years. He came down from Santa Cruz to do the race with me, and he prepared by going to Colombia and cycling the longest climb on earth (over 10,000 feet). I prepared by climbing the Hills of San Elijo, but somehow I always left out Double Peak. That’s the high point of the Wafer ride, and it’s the only time that I considered dismounting and walking the bike. I should have as it would have been faster than my cycling pace.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and Adam in the early miles</td></tr>
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<br />
It went mostly downhill from there, but in a good way. I hit 45 MPH going down Twin Oaks, which is fun until you start thinking about all the things that could go wrong. I got into a pack in the last mile and asked who was willing to lead me out for the sprint. I was saving that bit of cycling lingo for the end, but nobody laughed. Maybe everyone was just too tired at that point, or maybe it just wasn’t as funny as I thought it was. So, in typical dad fashion, I sped up to another guy near the finish and asked him if he would lead me out for the sprint. He chuckled. Success. Then he dropped me.<br />
<br />
The finish area was awesome, but when the finish line is Lost Abbey, it has to be good. I sat with Joe and Adam, nursing the free beer, comparing battle scars and swapping stories. It was weird because if there had been a registration booth at the finish line, I would have signed up right there. I never have that feeling after a race. It usually takes a couple of days for the memory of the suffering to fade, and the good sections, the afterglow to come into focus before I’m ready to commit to another one, but this time I would have signed up again on the spot. I was covered in dirt, my teeth were gritty, the blood and mud mixture had dried on my knee, and I felt like I was going to throw up. But sitting there in the sun with hairy legs, a gritty smile, in my one and only cycling jersey, I felt like a cyclist.<br />
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I can’t wait to do this race again next year, but if they’re going to call it a parade, there better be some floats and beauty queens throwing candy. For now, I’m bathing in <a href="https://cbd1.vigniter.com/BuyCBD" target="_blank">CBD cream</a> and waiting for the appropriate occasion to pop the Lost Abbey Belgian Ale. Thanks to Joe, Adam, Ed, Chi, Craig, and others for sharing some of the road and race miles.</div>
Dirty Runninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11941067370886942981noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4376658065276829001.post-44896064600001017522019-04-30T13:49:00.000-07:002019-04-30T13:49:07.018-07:00Sunsets<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Do not go gentle into that good night<br />Old age should burn and rave at close of day<br />Rage, rage against the dying of the light.<br />-Dylan Thomas </blockquote>
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No, I'm not dying. I mean, we're all dying, but I hope to live a good while longer. My running career, on the other hand, is in its last stages, and that's difficult for me to deal with. It's difficult because, for the past 15+ years, I've defined myself as a runner. Labels are dangerous, but runner, or more specifically, "trail runner" was a label I was happy to take on. I wrote about running, I made a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nq8lJEJr3xk" target="_blank">dumb Youtube video</a> about stupid things that trail runners say, I planned vacations around running. Running connected me to some of my closest friends. Through running, I experienced some of the best moments of my life, and also one of my greatest disappointments. </blockquote>
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Dealing with not-running, with the slow death of that part of my identity has been difficult. I am self-aware enough (just barely) to understand that this is about as a first-world problem as poor wifi. Even though I tell myself not to be so dramatic, that sentence up there at the top of this paragraph shows how well I listen to that inner voice.<br />
About four years ago, while hiking the High Sierra Trail, I started to notice pain in both of my heels. The pain would be pretty bad in the morning, but after a few miles on the trail, it would go away, only to reappear the next morning. I figured it was a side effect of hiking the High Sierra Trail. </blockquote>
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I thought the pain would go away with time off, but it didn't, so I just dealt with it. </blockquote>
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I took up yoga, I stretched, I bought and used a variety of weird looking devices that gather at the foot of my bed, and I'd hide them from the housekeeper if we had one. I went to chiropractors, massage therapists, physical therapists, ART specialists, and I decided not to punch one of my running partners who asked if I'd tried stretching. My wife got me to try some capsicum cream which is basically like rubbing habanero peppers on your skin. God help you rub your eyes or worse with that cream on your hands. <a href="https://shop.vigniter.com/BuyCBD" target="_blank">CBD cream</a>, with all its hype, actually really helped with the pain and inflammation (it worked so well for me that I became a rep). None of this stuff cured me, but the combination helped mitigate the pain. I would run one day, take the next day off. On those off days, I limped, and inevitably would be asked why I was limping. Usually, I just said I was getting old. </blockquote>
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Finally, I went to a podiatrist and was diagnosed with Haglund's deformity in both of my heels. I hate that they call it a deformity because it's just a bone protrusion on the heel. I love feet a little too much, so it's hard for me to deal with a deformity in my own feet. The podiatrist said it's also called "Pump Bump," and that just sounds so much worse. I mean neither would work on an online dating profile, so when people ask why I'm limping, I usually just respond that I pulled a calf while weeding the yard, or something that sounds slightly less embarrassing than, "oh, this…this is pump bump." </blockquote>
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The doctor said he could open it up, detach my Achilles tendon, shave down the bone, then reattach the Achilles. He would have to do one heel at a time with months of recovery between the surgeries. He told me, with a smile, that with a full recovery I would be able to run 3–4 miles pain-free. One of the hardest parts of all of this is that I have goals that will be unfulfilled. I tell my kids they can do anything. They can overcome the greatest odds, but sometimes that's just not true. I will never run a 100-mile race. I'll never break 3 hours in the marathon. </blockquote>
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In trying to minimize the pain, both the physical and the kind in my head, I've tried to stretch out and do new things. I signed up for the <a href="https://belgianwaffleride.bike/pages/film" target="_blank">Belgian Waffle Ride</a>. It's a cyclocross race, so it's not quite road biking and not quite mountain biking. The full version has a 60–70% finish rate and it bills itself as one of the toughest bike races in America. I'm doing the half this year, and if I survive, I'll do the full next year. Any ride that starts with waffles and ends at a brewery can't be that bad. </blockquote>
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In training for the ride, I've been risking my life in the hopes of keeping up with my daredevil son on the mountain bike. Luckily, I'm done having children, because certain body parts have taken more of a toll than others. Yes, I'm talking about my balls. </blockquote>
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My son has an amazing sense of comfort on the bike that I just don't have. He flows through the turns and flies over the jumps with grace. He doesn't fight the bike. On the other hand, I'm not allowed to break the first rule of bike fight club, so let's just say I'm not quite as graceful. It's been fun to watch him develop this passion and to be able to share in some of his rides. He's still at the age where he'll occasionally ask me to join him for a ride or to take him to a different trail system than the ones we have within biking distance. I've always told my kids that I'll never say no if they ask me to do something active with them. I may regret that soon. </blockquote>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Glad I didn't say no to this ride</td></tr>
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I'm still running, just slower than usual, and with more pain, but as they say on Brokeback Mountain, "I just can't quit you." Maybe it's the simplicity of covering long distances with minimal equipment, or it could be the hours spent talking through histories that I can't get anywhere else. I'll be sitting in the lineup talking to a guy about how he is struggling to communicate with his daughter, and this is something I can relate to, and if we were running, this could turn into an hour conversation, easy, and we would bare our souls to each other and expose our fears to the dirt, the trees, and the wind. But this is surfing, and a set wave is coming. He stops mid-sentence and we both paddle for it. He has a better position, closer to the peak as it builds, a nice right. He says he's going right so I paddle hard towards the left, and it's a great wave. We both catch it, going different directions and ride it close to the shore. It's a great moment, and we both paddle back out with huge smiles. I head north for more lefts and he stays south. The conversation hangs there unfinished, but there are more set waves, it's glassy, and this is a lonely hunt. </blockquote>
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I ran a few days ago with two friends. We did a 6ish mile loop. One of them pushed their baby in a stroller. We walked the steepest parts of the climbs. We talked about our upcoming trip to Boulder, we talked politics and hate in the world, and of course, boobs were mentioned, mostly our own. I came home happy and full of energy. My heels hurt, but it was worth it. I wouldn't quite consider it "raging against the dying of the light." It's more like watching the sun slowly fade with the memory of that bath of color in that sweet spot that we don't like to talk about that pulls from both joy and sadness.</blockquote>
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Dirty Runninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11941067370886942981noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4376658065276829001.post-28941113045661844982018-09-17T13:25:00.000-07:002018-09-17T13:25:33.470-07:00You Can Fly<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I haven’t seen Dumbo in years, but I still get sad thinking about it. It broke my heart when I was a kid. This elephant with the big ears, stolen from his mom, picked on and forced to perform. Disney used to be dark. I can’t remember if he dropped his feather or was forced to jump without it, but the look of fear on Dumbo’s face sticks with me today.<br />
<br />
I get it. Dumbo had to believe in himself. He needed to know that his power came from inside him, and he could fly with or without the crutch. The current issue I’m dealing with as a parent is that I’m the crutch.<br />
<br />
I want my kids to take risks, I want them to climb, to flip, to drop in on the 20-foot halfpipe, or do a backflip off the 10-meter diving board, or even go for the slide tackle that explores the gray area of legality. I want them to fall off the bike and then get back up and try again. I want them to do all of this, and I praise them when they succeed and when they fail, but I still want to be the one to catch them, to spot them, to cheer them on, and occasionally to help them off the field when they hurt themselves.<br />
<br />
My son has been able to do a backflip for about 5 years. He can do a backflip off the high dive, and he can do one on a skateboard off of a ramp into a foam pit. He can do one on the trampoline too, but he still asked me to spot him. By spotting him, he means me being on the trampoline with him and at the most, barely feeling his shirt glide past my fingertips while he is mid-air. Physically, he didn’t need me to spot him, and I wasn’t spotting him at all.<br />
<br />
He can also do a front flip 180 and a front flip 360 which is kind of like a vertical and horizontal flip at the same time and looks way harder to do than a backflip. He doesn’t need me to spot him for those tricks or any of the others, but for the backflip, he needed me there. I was his feather.<br />
<br />
Every time he asked me what trick he should do, I would say backflip. He would ask me to spot him, and I would tell him that he could already do the trick and that he didn’t need me to be on the trampoline with him and that I don’t really spot him anyway, I just stand there looking stupid, and that it would probably be easier for him to do it without me standing there because I take up room on the trampoline and I absorb some of the bounce. I gave him all these arguments, but he would ask until I eventually relented.<br />
<br />
Last week I came home and my son ran up to me with this big grin on his face. His new trick grin. He asked if I wanted to see his new trick, and I started to head out back to the trampoline and he stopped me and said no, right here. He stood there in the middle of the living room, crouched down and did a complete backflip from standing.<br />
<br />
I was shocked, amazed, and proud. What about the trampoline? What about the spotting? He showed me how he progressed from doing the backflip on the trampoline to doing it standing on the trampoline without jumping, then doing it on the grass, then the carpet. No spot? No, he said, I did it myself. I was as proud of him as he was for himself, but I felt like a dropped feather twisting its way to the ground.<br />
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Dirty Runninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11941067370886942981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4376658065276829001.post-8990075557824892442018-05-02T13:36:00.002-07:002018-05-14T07:55:28.565-07:00Sharks and Minnows<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo and cropping job courtesy of Marathon Foto</td></tr>
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When I pictured myself running the Boston Marathon, it was cruising downhill on a crisp, but sunny spring New England day. A couple weeks out, the weather forecast called for rain, and a 15 MPH wind from the west, which would be nice. The rain would be annoying, but as long as the wind was at our backs, everything would be okay. A week out, the wind forecast shifted to a 20-30 MPH headwind with temps in the high 30s and low 40s. These were some of the worst conditions the race had ever seen.<br />
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I don’t like race reports. It’s hard to go back and be in that experience once it’s over. I’ll share what got me through the experience in the hopes that these strategies will help someone else. For Boston, I thought about middle schoolers. I should probably clarify that. I’ve been coaching middle school track and field, and it’s a good thing because that last sentence would sound kind of weird otherwise.<br />
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I’ve devised a system that works for me during races. It keeps me from thinking about how much warmer and drier I would be in the medical tent, or back in my hotel room with a hot shower and a steaming cup of coffee. I think about people I love, and things in my life that I am grateful for. During Boston, I thought about my kids quite a bit. My oldest daughter will be heading off to college next year, and it’s too soon, and I’m too young and emotionally immature to handle that. I thought about how amazing she is, and that I need to tell her I love her more often.<br />
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I thought of the middle schoolers I coach, including my two younger kids. Everyone talks about how annoying middle schoolers are. Yes, they can be annoying. So annoying. They have these chemicals in them that they don’t know how to handle, so they deal with it by being loud, obnoxious, and moody. They are also amazing to be around. They’re still kids and they do kid things like dance and sing together in practice, without the self-consciousness of high school kids, or the awkwardness of adults.<br />
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There is something about watching kids run that gets me excited. Again, as a coach. They have this naturally good form. They drive their knees, and their heels come all the way up to their butt on the backswing. Their heads are up, chests are out, and their arms drive forward. What happens to runners as we age? Why do we lead with the heels? Why do we shorten our stride? Why are we stingy with our energy? I guess we’ve been burned too many times. If I started Boston as a middle schooler, I wouldn’t last 5 miles because I’d be chasing everyone who passed me and end up running sub-6 minute pace for a few miles, then walking with my hands on my head, face flushed red, and gasping for breath. But, that form, that’s what I channeled.<br />
<br />
We play this game in practice called sharks and minnows. Even the shot-putters play it, and they actually run. Fast. It’s a common game. One person is the shark in the middle of the field, and the other 60 or 70 kids (minnows) line up on one side of the field and try to make it to the other side without getting tagged. If they’re tagged, they become sharks. This goes on for 5 or 6 rounds until everyone is chasing the last couple of minnows. The kids complain about running repeats, but when they play this game, when they are minnows, they run 100-meter times that beat anything I’ve seen them run in a race. And they’re smiling the whole time.<br />
<br />
We lose that smile, too. I made jokes during Boston. Freezing, soaked with rain, and I would step in a puddle and yell out “dang, now I’m wet.” People around me would laugh. And then 15–20 minutes later, I’d make the same joke, and people would smile, and then 15–20 minutes later, I’d make the same joke again, and people would roll their eyes. I’m a dad, it’s what I do. It kept me going.<br />
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Have you ever seen Kipchoge run a race? He smiles like a maniac. He’s laying down 4:34/mile pace at the end of a marathon and he’s got this huge grin on his face. He says it makes him go faster. It works. It works for the kids, too. I tell them to smile during their race, but they never do. They push, they strain, they try too hard. Racing isn’t fun, sharks and minnows is fun.<br />
<br />
I pushed too hard at Boston. In the back of my head, requalifying was a goal, so I didn’t adjust my pace for the weather. The cold, the wind and the rain took their toll, and the too-fast start caught up with me around mile 16. I slowed down (I don’t count the intentional Wellesley slowdown at mile 13). I reminded myself that running that race was a long-term goal that I had worked hard to achieve and that I was grateful and lucky to be there. I decided to just run. I stopped looking at my pace, I slowed for water at the aid stations, and I smiled.<br />
<br />
I probably looked like an idiot as I turned down Boylston Street and the rain came at me horizontally. I didn’t care. Mouth open, arms wide, running towards the finish with my eyes closed against the rain and the wind, and letting the tears mix in with all of it.<br />
<br />
I recognized that feeling, that middle school not caring how much is left, or who is watching, or what time I’m going to get, or how I’m going to make the two-mile post-race walk back to the hotel while dealing with hypothermia. I was fully in love with that moment, legs stretching, but not forcing anything, running like a middle schooler avoiding the sharks in the middle of the field like my life depended on it.<br />
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Dirty Runninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11941067370886942981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4376658065276829001.post-31858903992424787902017-12-03T16:39:00.002-08:002020-04-21T14:20:25.457-07:00Special Places<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The house on Rios wasn’t much of a house at all. It was a brown duplex, a long rectangle built from two squares, and I lived in the back one. It smelled like old, cheap beer and stale cigarette smoke. Most of the smell was from us, but some of it was from the once black now faded and multi-stained futon sofa we picked up on the street. If you walked by the house from 1994 to about 1998, you would most likely hear some 90s Warped Tour pop-punk, Biggie, Snoop, or Dre and you would most definitely smell weed.</div>
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One of the benefits of this house was that it was across the train tracks from the beach, Pizza Port, pick up basketball at Pillbox, and Mai Tai Mondays at Tidewater. Another benefit was that it was across the street from a group of old apartments, like the one I lived in, but instead of faded brown, they were a faded yellow. A group of Mexican families lived there, and there were always kids running through the dead grass courtyard in front of the group of apartments. On Saturdays, a Mexican baker would come around with a cart full of sweet bread and would yell something in Spanish, and it always seemed too early, but I would still roll out of bed and soak up the hangover with some of the sweet Mexican bread.</div>
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By far the greatest benefit of this house is that a half-mile down, the asphalt dead ends and a trailhead begins.</div>
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When I started running, the trail was always empty. Those first couple of runs, I couldn’t even make it to the trailhead, but as I gained fitness, and as my lungs rid themselves of the cigarette damage, I could venture further and further into the lagoon. The miles were hard and slow, but it helped that the lagoon trails were so beautiful and quiet.</div>
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The San Elijo Lagoon trail was narrow with sections canopied by cottonwood and sycamores, sandy in some places, and packed dirt and leaves in others. You can see the ocean from many parts of the trail and trace the seawater path as it transitions to salt marsh and grassland. You can also catch glimpses of the massive underbelly of the traffic-jammed I-5 Freeway. It’s right there, but the lagoon is so perfectly hidden that there are times when you feel like you are hundreds of miles from people and anything that runs by engine.</div>
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I would return after I moved, and as I got faster and trained more. I joined a group of triathletes on the other side of the lagoon for their regular 11-mile Sunday run. Pros would show up as they tuned their bodies for the Ironman Championships in Kona, and it would be painful and fun to stand in a group with elite athletes, pre-run stretching and listening to the stories and then starting together, trying to keep up for a mile or two, then watching their backs disappear around the turns as their warm-up pace increased to an easy Sunday run pace. I saw Meb running those trails once. Meb, one of the top American marathoners ever, sharing the same trail with me. I didn’t dare test my speed with his as he glided by on what for him was a recovery pace, but to me seemed superhuman.</div>
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I saved important runs for the lagoon, and as the trail became more well-known and crowded, I had to dodge hikers, run as soft as I could past birdwatchers, and smiled at the children catching crawdads along the reedy shore.</div>
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When my wife’s parents came from Iran to meet our second child, my infant son for the first time, we took them on a hike through the lagoon. My older daughter picked a daisy and put it behind her small ear, and my wife wrapped my baby boy in a sling and kept him close to her body.</div>
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I thought of that hike today as I took my three children, all currently in love with running, to the lagoon. With the popularity of the trail, the local parks department has refurbished the trail, making new signs, opening new trails, and lining the trails with wooden posts and steel cord in case the trail itself was lacking in instruction on where to go. They also officially opened a sandstone slot canyon once known as Mushroom Caves, because that is where the kids go to trip balls and climb through narrow canyons. It now goes by the more marketable name of Annie’s Canyon.<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: -0.003em;">We drove past my old place. The school has a new coat of paint and the duplex is no longer a duplex, but a new condo. The Mexican families are gone, and there are no kids playing in the courtyard of the multi-million dollar condominiums that replaced the old, cheap apartments filled with laughter, and day-drinking, and Saturday morning sweet bread.</span></div>
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We had to park a little further down the road than I used to, but once we all hit the trail, the magic started seeping through our shoes. We ran to the Mushroom Caves, and squeezed between the sand walls, my youngest daughter asked for help a few times, with the wavering voice of fear, maybe claustrophobia, or a first-time experience climbing between steep, narrow, sand walls.</div>
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We gathered at the top and looked towards the ocean and Ki’s and talked about the post-run smoothies we would order, then we ran down the back trail, my son running in front because he loves the downhill.</div>
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We got to the bottom and he asked if we could do it again. My youngest daughter, who I expected to protest, nodded her head up and down and told me she didn’t want any help this time. We did it again, slower in parts, taking in some of the weirdness of the place.</div>
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I ran back to the car with my younger son and daughter, while my older daughter and her friend continued under the freeway to the East side of the lagoon. The little girl who picked a yellow daisy and put it behind her ear is between cross country and track season and needed a few more miles.</div>
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When we got back to the dead-end road there was a family there, and the mom was asking directions to Annie’s Canyon. As I was explaining how to get to the canyon, her daughter walked up to us, she couldn’t have been more than 3 years old, and she asked me how to get to her canyon. I looked at the mom, and the mom told me that her name is Annie and she thinks it’s her canyon.</div>
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It’s good they changed the name, it’s good that so many people have discovered this special place, and I’ll trade the empty trails for the kids who now know this trail as their own.</div>
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Kids see their feet, their friends, their siblings, their parents, and a few places that are theirs. This special place is shared by everyone who has left a footprint in its sand, or traced the lines of sediment in the steep walls. It’s shared with the birdwatchers, and Instagram hikers, and first daters, and the little girl, Annie, excited to see her canyon, and with my daughter who shared the same excitement fourteen years ago when she picked the daisies, and with me as I make the drive past the nice condos and beautiful cars to the dead-end that marks the beginning of our place.<br />
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Dirty Runninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11941067370886942981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4376658065276829001.post-23383785225999451472017-02-02T16:19:00.001-08:002017-02-02T16:20:05.006-08:00One Immigrant<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>This does not have anything to do with running, so if that is the only reason you are here, you may want to check out. There are some things that are just too important to keep quiet about.</i><br />
<br />
I married an immigrant. She came to America when she was 9 years old. In Iran, before her family got out, she colored pictures of bombs falling on an American flag with the title, Death to America, in thick, blocky 9-year-old penmanship.<br />
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I fell in love with her smile.<br />
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She didn’t know she was leaving. Her parents told her the night before to pack. They didn’t want her to tell her teachers in fear of someone interfering with their plans. Her family was lucky. They received one of a handful of visas to leave the country.<br />
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Before she left, she saw televised live executions. She heard the revolutionaries in her neighborhood taking politicians and other wealthy people to prison. Many were never heard from again.<br />
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When she started school in America, she couldn’t answer the teacher’s questions because she didn’t speak English. The teacher thought she was mentally ill and belonged in a special education class. Today, she doesn’t have a hint of an accent.<br />
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She has this way of caring for people. Not the soft kind of caring, although she can be soft and nurturing when she needs to be, but a simple, and tough pragmatism that improves people’s lives.<br />
Nursing is a perfect calling for her. She works on the trauma floor in a downtown hospital. Her patients are mostly elderly, drug addicts, gang members, or homeless.<br />
<br />
She doesn’t tell me every story because I can’t stomach most of them. But she tells me some.<br />
She told me the story of the homeless woman covered in lice. Nobody wanted to touch her. My wife took her into the bathroom and shampooed her hair. She could see the lice dropping on the shower floor.<br />
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She told me about the elderly man, shivering in the cold room. His heavy cardigan sweater was on one arm, but the arm with his IV was bare. She disconnected the IV and put his sweater back on for him and reconnected the IV. He smiled and thanked her. She told me it amazed her that nobody thought to do that.<br />
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My wife is not a Christian.<br />
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When she started her job as a nurse, she worked night shifts, 7 PM to 7 AM with an hour commute each way. She would come home, tired after her shift and sleep for a few hours before the kids came home from school. She would wake up, help them with their homework, or help me with dinner, before returning to another night of work.<br />
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This past year she took online courses to add her second bachelor’s degree to her RN degree. She also passed an emergency department certification course. They asked her to come back and teach the course to others. She did all this while working full time, and while helping our family run smooth as only she can.<br />
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I don’t write this to brag about my wife, although I cannot contain my pride in what she has accomplished and I cannot hide my love for her. My wife is an immigrant. Our stories make us who we are, and the immigrant story is one of struggle, overcoming, and gratitude.<br />
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Our wedding ceremony was a mix of Western and Persian traditions. We licked honey off of each other’s fingers to symbolize the beginning of a sweet life together. We also stood in front of the Justice of the Peace and said I Do. I prefer the Persian tradition.<br />
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The story of our country is a story of immigration. A family member told me that the executive branch of our government should not be an international humane organization. While that may be true, our government should strive to preserve and maintain what makes this country great. We can’t save everyone, but if we don’t try to help others who are less fortunate than us, our story becomes a little less caring, a little more bleak, and more economic textbook than soaring poetry.<br />
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This is the story of one immigrant. One word of one line in a beautiful story that is the story of our country.<br />
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<i><br /></i><i>If you liked this, please feel free to share it. If you want to help, <a href="https://www.rescue.org/" target="_blank">The International Rescue Committee</a> is a good place to start. I’d love to hear other immigrant stories in the comments below.</i></blockquote>
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Dirty Runninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11941067370886942981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4376658065276829001.post-27098863204000622402016-09-21T09:56:00.001-07:002016-09-22T10:51:26.587-07:00Crossing Paths<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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We all have a running trajectory. It can start at different times, and it may be a long, slow bell curve, or a steep, sharp climb and then a dramatic fall. Sometimes the curve stops suddenly and then starts again after 10 or 20 years.<br />
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My line started as a punishment for a bad wrestling practice or getting my ass kicked in a match, which led to me being a frequent runner and joining the track team. It stopped after high school, then started again about 20 years ago, took a turn up, and now it feels like a long line that is gradually trending downward.<br />
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There are dots on those lines. The races, the training runs that brought me to tears, the beauty that I would have missed if I hadn’t picked up running, the long talks, and the bonds that are welded together out on the trail.<br />
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My kids are starting their own lines, their own paths that I hope will continue on a long, sustained upward slope, but I’m okay with it if they don’t.<br />
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Sometimes our lines cross.<br />
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My son came home with these multi-colored Adidas “lifestyle” running shoes and he wanted to test them out. His coach gave him a homework assignment to take a parent on a run over the weekend. Smart coach.<br />
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We headed out and ran to the top of a big hill. Reaching the top, we found these huge Yucca plant spears that had been left to dry out in the middle of the trail. They were big and looked heavy, but if you picked them up, they felt like those movie props made out of foam. We launched them like javelins into the knee-high scrub until we couldn’t see them anymore.<br />
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We ran again, towards the sun and a winding downhill singletrack. I bombed it, and waited for my son at the bottom, then we ran together.<br />
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A mile or so into the run I asked him if he wanted to go home, and he thought it was too short of a run. He suggested we take another trail. We’d done it before, and it’s more of a game trail than a running route and it involves climbing over some rocks and holding onto some tree branches or risk sliding 100 or so feet down a steep hill.<br />
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It’s not the type of route that looks good on Strava or if you’re counting miles, or tracking speed, but it’s the type of route that you remember years after you’ve run it.<br />
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His fresh out of the box bright and colorful shoes were now dusted light dirt-brown and we compared the blood scratches that crisscrossed over our shins and knees. We heard some rustling down the hill below. We threw small rocks in the general direction to see if the coyote or the mountain lion, or most likely the small rabbit would show itself, but whatever it was didn’t make another sound.<br />
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We followed a stream, slowly picking our way through tall reeds, then climbed up a steep drainage ditch.<br />
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We finally made it back to a runnable trail at the top of a dead-end and I told him the story of how I was mountain biking when I first moved to the area and was trying to discover new routes when I hit this same dead-end. There was a parked pickup truck and as I was turning my bike around, a guy’s head popped up from the back and then a girl and they didn’t have all their clothes on and they were embarrassed and said hi as I tried to turn my bike around faster and I gave them an awkward wave and said something like “carry on,” but for some reason I said it in a British accent. My son looked at me, puzzled, and then he just laughed.<br />
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On the run down the hill he told me how much he loved his new running shoes and I told him that new shoes are magic. They add a small burst of speed for the first couple runs. We hurdled a log and we raced the 100 yards back to the trailhead. I spotted him 3 seconds and we finished close…I may have have edged him out by a fraction and then we walked the block home.<br />
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It wasn’t a long run, two miles max. We climbed, stopped, and told stories, but it was the best run I’ve had in awhile.<br />
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Soon he will be faster than me and we won’t stop to throw Yucca javelins or follow snake tracks, because he’ll have a mileage goal to hit, and I’ll do my best to keep up, and I’ll remember with a smile that day when our running trajectories lined up at the perfect spot.<br />
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Dirty Runninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11941067370886942981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4376658065276829001.post-1861463857662485982016-08-01T17:19:00.000-07:002016-08-12T14:11:37.954-07:00Trail Running According to My 9-Year-Old Daughter<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The conversation went something like this.</div>
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Dad, want to go for a run?</div>
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I don’t know, it’s almost dinner and I’m a little tired.</div>
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You wrote on your blog that your kids never ask you to run.</div>
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Did I? I didn’t know you read that. Umm, there’s probably some stuff there you shouldn’t read. I’ll go get my shoes on.</div>
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We set out on a short, but difficult route near the house. It starts out with a steep uphill, and as usual, she took off too fast, and stopped to catch her breath 3/4 of the way up. I waited at the top, and then we ran side by side for awhile, stopping to point out some rattlesnake tracks and some bunnies jumping across the trail.</div>
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How do you know so much about running?</div>
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I don’t know that much, but I like to read books and articles about running.</div>
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You know like everything about trail running. You should write a book.</div>
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What should I write about.</div>
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Trail running.</div>
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Well, I can’t just write a book about trail running, there are too many of those. It needs to be something more original and creative.</div>
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You should write about…</div>
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And then she proceeded to tell me all the the things that she likes about running.</div>
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You should write a book about trail running.</div>
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What would I write about?</div>
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Everything you just told me to write about. If you write something about trail running, I’ll post it, and then people will read it.</div>
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She smiled at the idea, and I thought she would leave it at that.</div>
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We got home and she showed off her dirty feet to my wife (look, I have daddy toes), and I told her to go take a shower. I watched some TV, frantically trying to avoid any mention of Donald Trump.</div>
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Dad, want to read it?</div>
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Read what? Wait, you already wrote something?</div>
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Yeah, when are you going to post it?</div>
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So, here it is, unedited, bubbly, and pure, just like she is.</div>
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Trail Running : — ) </blockquote>
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Go run. </blockquote>
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So, are you running yet? Why not? You should. There are so many reasons why trail running is good for you, and if you don’t know some of them I am here to share some with you. If it’s a really lousy day and you are feeling lazy, just try a little run. Getting ready for a run is my favorite feeling when I feel like I don’t want to do it. It always wakes me up a little. </blockquote>
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Trail running is so worth it while you are running and the feeling after. For instance, it is worth it because it is locked inside your brain that you are having a breathtaking adventure and knowing that you are being active and getting healthier at the same time. There is so much fantastic nature that you can see with your own eyes that you have never seen before. I once saw a beautiful flower bed with over 100 flowers!!!! I have seen so many flower pictures, but seeing that many flowers took my breath away. </blockquote>
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It feels amazing while you run, but it also feels great after you finish your run!!! If you want to know how it feels after your run, I can’t tell you. You have to see for yourself. Now you know that you exercised for today, you can have a relaxing day knowing that you got outside and did something active. The best part is, you can do it whenever and wherever you want!!! </blockquote>
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There are endless trails and possibilities with trail running. I really encourage you to get outside at least 20–30 minutes a day!!! Boom.</blockquote>
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Dirty Runninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11941067370886942981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4376658065276829001.post-50088118082362485242016-06-17T14:08:00.000-07:002016-06-18T22:12:21.168-07:00Learning How to Run<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I set out to write a Father’s Day post about how I get my kids to run with me, how we head out to the trails and how I impart my endless wisdom through tough lessons learned through struggle, overcoming obstacles, and sometimes even pushing through limits. I had a list of How to Get Your Kids to Love Running in Ten Easy Steps. Those lists are bullshit.<br>
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Relationships are complicated. I don’t know how to get my kids to love running as much as I do, just as I don’t know how to get them to love the taste of pickled garlic as much as I do. Sometimes I’ll play them a song that I love. We usually blast some music after dinner, and you know how you have a history with a song, maybe it was the one you played when you drove home from your first real love’s house at 1 AM, heart ready to burst, and lips sore from making out for hours, and the windows rolled down because you wanted everyone to hear how much this song meant to you. You play that song now and all those emotions come back, and at the end of the song you want the people that you are playing it for to share those feelings, that excitement and thrill of young love, and then they look at you and say something like, it was nice, but the lyrics were kind of stupid, I mean did she really just say “I want to hold the hand inside you?”<br>
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Running has woven itself through my life, it connects me to my wife, to friends who have helped through some tough emotional times, and it has helped me drop a couple bad habits. My kids don’t run often. I don’t force it on them. They all have their current passions. My youngest is a soccer player and at this point she is probably logging more miles on the pitch than I am on the trails. I love to watch her play. She is small, but she is relentless, and she gets pushed around a lot by bigger girls, but she never ever gives up. I love watching the fight in her.<br>
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She just got a pair of light blue shoes from New Balance. Her favorite color. We run an aid station at the San Diego 100 Mile Race, and my kids come and help every year. Our aid station is at mile 43 of the race, after the toughest climb during the hottest part of the day. This year was especially hot, and people came into our aid station looking like they had experienced every level of hell. My youngest was in charge of the ice baths and as the runners stumbled in, heat-drunk, she offered to sponge down their heads and necks with ice water, and she soaked their hats and bandanas into the ice bath. She was tired and muddy after eight hours of being on ice bath duty. Her hands were bright red, and her new baby blue shoes were now brown, and even after a few washes, they are more a lighter shade of brown than blue. I think she likes them that way.<br>
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I can’t wait to get new running shoes dirty. The dirt tells stories, and there is nothing as boring, yet full of promise as a new shoe. The stories aren’t all good. There are plenty of bland, boring stories, dirt from the same trail run over and over, the layers stacking on top of each other. But someday, your shoe may be wet and cold after a stream crossing in the French Alps and those stories wash away the layers of local dust.<br>
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My son is always moving. I ran a 5K with him last year, and he spent as much time off the route exploring boulders that made perfect launching pads, just the right height to do a 360, than he spent on the trail. People would pass us, kids his age, and I looked for that competitive spirit in him, the feeling that I have, that competitive drive that will not let that person pass me, or that pushes me to catch that guy in front of me with all the expensive gear. I have to do it. My son doesn’t give a shit. Which is good.<br>
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His current passion is skateboarding. If you’ve ever spent some time at a skatepark, and if you can filter out the language and the occasional scent of weed in the air, you will see a bunch of kids and adults rooting for each other, supporting each other, looking out for each other, and teaching each other. There is a bond between skateboarders. It’s an outsider sport with a high degree of risk and skill. They fall a lot. They pretend to not be hurt a lot, and they bleed a lot. There is a bond of shared pain, and also knowing how many times it takes to practice a trick before you land it. There isn’t a lot of cheering, but the looks speak volumes, the head nod acknowledging how hard that last one was, or banging the board against the wood a couple times when they are really impressed. My son has been practicing a kickflip for months. He goes through a pair of shoes nearly every month, always worn out in the same spot, the top of the front left shoe right above the pinky toe. That part drags over the velcro and spins the board as the back foot pushes down and launches the tail into the air.<br>
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After the last mass shooting, my son and I took our dog for a walk. I felt the darkness around me and I knew that if I turned on the TV or went on social media, I would be crushed by the hatred and speculation and blame and sadness. We got back from our walk and I couldn’t go inside. I asked him if he wanted to play catch, and he grabbed our gloves and we threw the ball back and forth, not saying much, just listening to that perfect sound, the repetitive snap of the ball hitting that spot in the back of the glove. On that day, being outside and together, that was enough.<br>
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If relationships are complicated, a father’s relationship with his teen daughter is complicated like walking through a minefield while blindfolded and being chased by a pack of wilds dogs. I have learned that there are things that you just can’t say, and I have also learned that I have no idea what those things are.<br>
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I recently read an article about the two types of fun, type one fun and type two fun. Type one fun is intrinsically fun. You are actually having fun when doing the activity. Type two fun is a struggle, it’s painful, and the fun usually comes after the experience when you reminisce with your friends about how you made it through, how you suffered together, and what a great feeling it was to accomplish whatever it was you set out to do. It’s easy dealing with kids when they are young. They are full of love and adventure, and they look up to you and they run to give you a hug when you pick them up from school. Some relationships are more difficult. I’m lucky, my relationship with my daughter is good, but it’s changing from that type one daddy’s little girl relationship. She makes me laugh, she gives me a kiss good morning and she smiles when I drop her off at school, quickly glancing around to make sure nobody is watching before giving me a kiss on the cheek and telling me she loves me. It’s more of a struggle. I get more emotional with her, choking up at the smallest things, like watching her play her clarinet or trombone in her school’s jazz ensemble, or symphony. Hell, I have to hold back tears when I hear her practicing scales in her bedroom.<br>
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I love watching her run. She hates to run, or at least that’s what she tells me. It’s my thing, running, but she loves the feeling after she runs. She is her happiest when I pick her up from track. With that post-workout endorphin rush, she is like so many other runners that deal with the pain and suffering just for the feeling they get after they finish, the type two fun. It’s different for me, I love the feel of running, I love the people I run with, and I love the stillness that comes on those rare occasions where everything just flows. But there are days when it sucks. Days when I have pushed too hard and ended up dehydrated, laying on a random road in the mountains while my friend hitchhikes to our car miles away, and drives back to pick me up. Those are the most memorable runs, the runs I never tire of talking about, and the runs that transform a post-run mediocre hamburger and draft beer to the level of Michelin-starred excellence.<br>
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New Balance sent shoes to me and my kids, and asked me to try them out. My initial goal was to get the three of them together in their bright new shoes, and hit the trails for a family run, taking pictures along the way, stopping on the hill above my house to enjoy the sun as it dipped into the ocean. I wanted to get it done before Father’s Day. This weekend is Father’s Day and my youngest daughter has soccer practice, my oldest daughter has a Senior Recital (where I’m sure I’ll cry), and my son would rather attempt his 6,834th kickflip. The idyllic family run is not going to happen this weekend, but the shoes are well used. My youngest daughter’s shoes are brown from the mud of the SD 100 trails and the soles are worn from playing soccer in the streets before school, my son has already started wearing a hole in the top of his, and my daughter will wear hers out through the painful heat of summer cross country practice, hating the running, but loving how it makes her feel after, and how it changes her.<br>
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Running continues to weave itself through our family, unstructured with that sweet mix of elation and agony, like that old song that I keep playing for my kids until they discover their own.<br>
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Dirty Runninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11941067370886942981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4376658065276829001.post-61999117794159211562016-02-19T15:29:00.002-08:002020-04-21T12:41:16.790-07:0010 Things I Love About Trail Running<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I've been injured for what feels like years, but is more like months, and at the moment, I'm feeling completely sentimental about trail running. I can’t remember the last time I’ve logged a run longer than 15 miles, and while I’m working hard to overcome an Achilles injury with PT, yoga, cross-training, and even the occasional 5 mile run, it’s just not the same as packing up the car to head out for a day in the mountains. So, while I’m feeling all romantic about trail running, I thought I’d buy it a nice Pinot Noir, rub its shoulders and slip into a velvety robe while I list the things that I love about it.<br />
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<b>Connection with the Land</b><br />
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I love the connection I have with the land when I’m out there. I love looking at a peak miles away, and thinking that’s where I’m headed. I love moving over a difficult trail, picking my way up a steep line, bouncing over rocks, and then throwing myself down a hill without a fucking care in the world, flying by people wearing 10 pound hiking boots and using trekking poles to carefully plant each foot. I like my intimate knowledge of each and every bump in the trails I run regularly, knowing that around this next corner I can push a little harder on the steep uphill because it will level out pretty soon, and the next downhill is the perfect spot to open up on and stretch the legs, not having to think about where the feet are landing because this is the perfect line.<br />
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<b>The People</b><br />
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It would be hard to find another group of people that doesn’t like other people as much as trail runners don’t like other people. The trail has a way of distilling people to their bodily functions. Men and women blowing snot, farting, burping, pulling off to take a piss or the occasional, nonchalant dump, and I’m seriously not just talking about guys (see Equality below). Have you ever been to a runner party or a pre-race dinner? Most runners can’t come up with more than three words to string together in a social setting (unless it has something to do with running), but get us on the trails and it's like an episode of The View had a 3-way with The Man Show and Oprah.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My running friends say the most inspirational things</td></tr>
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<b>The Shower</b><br />
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And the shower beer. This is the best part of my day, especially in the summer, after a hot, dry and dusty run. I’ll just sit there as the dirt brown water swirls down the drain and sip a cold beer, and if I listen hard enough I can hear angels singing.<br />
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<b>Food</b><br />
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No, not the liquefied calories partaken during the run, but the post-run feast. I read on Wikipedia that you can eat as much as you want of whatever you want for an hour after you run, especially if you keep your heart rate strictly in Zone 3, so take advantage of that window. There is something special about a post-run burrito, and the only time I can keep a straight face and say “wow, this Arby’s Beef ‘N Cheddar is delicious" is after a long day in the mountains.<br />
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<b>Equality</b><br />
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You want to see democracy in action, run a trail race. If there is some kind of genetic, sex or age advantage that runners display on the roads, it is severely diminished on the trails, where the main advantage is toughness.<br />
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I like to play a game whenever I run an ultra. I look around me, judging the other runners with the cutting eye and bitchiness of Regina from Mean Girls. I pick out who is going to finish well and who is going to drop. Without fail, I'm wrong on close to 100% of my picks (just like last time I went to Vegas). The triathlete that I picked to win, the one with the shaved legs where you can see every vein feeding the massive calves came in limping behind the 63-year-old grandma wearing Crocs and a fanny pack. Experience, smarts, and grit do a lot to level the playing field on the trails more than any other sport I can think of, which is a good thing because I’m not getting any younger or fitter (and I can wear the shit out of a pair of Crocs).<br />
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<b>Beer</b><br />
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It doesn’t necessarily relate to trail running; I just like beer.<br />
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<b>The Not Running Part</b><br />
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The planning, the hanging out before or after a tough race, the scouring over maps and elevation profiles, watching Salomon running videos, the endless discussions about barefoot vs. minimalist vs. zero drop vs. platform cushioning vs. whatever the next big thing that will force our perfect, favorite pair of trail shoes to be discontinued. All this time spent on what is supposed to be the simplest sport. There must be some kind of special punishment we crave in turning the basic task of putting one foot in front of another into a complex science.<br />
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<b>The chemical rubbery smell when you open a new box of running shoes</b><br />
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<b>The Silence</b><br />
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I try to meditate. I try to sit on my meditation pillow, breathe slowly, quiet my mind, but then that picture of Jessica Alba comes to mind, the one where’s she’s wearing a bikini and she’s suntanning, and then I think about how she made a billion dollars selling bad sunscreen, and then about how bad Fantastic Four was, and then about Sin City, and on and on until the Buddha bangs the gong in my meditation app on my iPhone, and the Buddha says "great job today," and I say "thanks Buddha, but how much spiritual growth has actually occurred?" and the Buddha doesn’t answer because it’s just an app on the phone. I also try to reach this stillness when I take yoga, but I'm mostly just concentrating really hard on not farting.<br />
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The only times where my mind isn’t turning around on a hamster wheel, and is still enough where time bends, and I can’t remember the last 30 minutes, or 20 miles that just passed have happened while on a run. Something about the rhythmic, deep breaths, and the repeated patting of feet can make the time slip by in stillness. It’s not always like that, and most of the time it isn't. Usually, my thoughts bounce from one thing to the next while running, whether it be a problem, or an idea that needs to be fed a little more, or even the career arc of Jessica Alba, but those moments of stillness are a welcome sliver of quiet in my noisy life.<br />
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<b>Free Therapy</b><br />
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The fact that no matter what happens during the day, the stress, the sadness, the anger, the anxiety, nothing is ever worse after spending some time on the trails (except for my Achilles), and most things are a little better.<br />
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I can't wait to get back on the trails for some long runs, if for no other reason than to remind me why running hurts so bad, and why so many people hate it, because all this romance is starting to scare me.<br />
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Dirty Runninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11941067370886942981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4376658065276829001.post-88384077582150148972015-09-02T09:58:00.002-07:002015-09-02T10:35:20.139-07:00Getting High With My Kids<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wellman's Divide</td></tr>
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<b>5 Tips on Overnight Backpacking with Kids</b></h2>
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If you’re reading this you probably already realize the benefits of being outside. I try to get out on the trails as much as possible, but when I’m gone, it feels like about half the time I’m out there, I’m thinking of my family back home. When I did the <a href="https://medium.com/ultra-running/the-high-sierra-trail-aa066a78f964" target="_blank">High Sierra Trail</a> in August, I made it a goal to start bringing my family along on overnight backpacking trips. One of the first things I did when I returned from that trip was to block out a couple days on the calendar for a trip with my kids. I picked an overnighter in San Jacinto because it’s close, and I know the trails up there pretty well. It’s also a fairly easy summit for someone that is in pretty good shape, and the view from the top is amazing. It received a glowing Yelp! review from none other than John Muir.</div>
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The view from San Jacinto is the most sublime spectacle to be found anywhere on this earth!<br />
— John Muir</blockquote>
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The trip couldn’t have gone any better. The kids had a great time, and I spent half the time choked up at how great it was to be out there with them, and the other half amazed at how well they were getting along with each other. My son is ten and my daughter is eight. They love each other, and are either best friends, or at each others’ throats because of a perceived sigh or eye roll. In the mountains, it was all love, cooperation, and laughter.</div>
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Their goal was to summit the 10,834 foot peak, but my goal was just to get them out there in the wilderness, carrying a pack and enjoying a couple of days of unplugged beauty. For me, the summit was secondary.</div>
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This was our first overnighter, but we have done plenty of dayhikes and camping trips, and there are a few things that I got right, making this trip one of my favorites.</div>
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<h3 style="text-align: left;">
Involve the kids in the planning process</h3>
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Even though the trails were well marked, and I have been on the route a number of times, I still bought a topo map and let them trace our route to the summit with their small fingers, adding up the mileage sections and picking a campsite.</div>
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The first day would be two miles from the tram to Round Valley campsite. I figured this would be a good, short intro to hiking with a pack. We ordered the packs online, and they helped pick them out. We went with the <a href="http://gossamergear.com/quiksak.html" target="_blank">Gossamer Gear Quiksaks</a> because they are lightweight, big enough to carry their sleeping bags and pajamas, and they would double as a good daypack that I would carry with our food and water for the hike to the summit on the 2nd day.</div>
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The next day we would hike 4 miles up to the summit, then another 4 miles back to our campsite where we stored the packs, then another two miles to the tram. This was a long day, but I figured we’d go as far as we could and if it was no longer fun for the kids, we’d turn around.</div>
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We made a trip to REI a couple days before the trip. They picked out their meals, choosing a big 3-serving bag of mac and cheese for dinner. The first night, they found a big rock to share and took turns spooning the cheesy goodness out of the foil backpacker’s meal. I stood behind them just watching them take turns digging their spoons in the foil patch, sun setting over the meadow, enjoying the quiet of dusk descending on the mountain.</div>
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Have a good story</h3>
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They always want a story at night, and I’ve told so many that I have run out of good ideas. So, I start telling them the story of a boy named Daniel, a boy who moved from New Jersey to Southern California with his mom and he got bullied because he was the new kid in school. He loved karate, but his karate was no match for the Cobra Kai. Enter a nice, old, Japanese maintenance man, Mr. Miyagi.</div>
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“Dad, is this the karate kid?”</div>
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“Maybe. Want me to stop?”</div>
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“No.”</div>
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So, I spent the next 15 minutes telling the story of Daniel and his crush on Ali and the creative teaching methods of Mr. Miyagi. They loved the story, and my 8-year-old daughter hung on every word. The first thing she did when we got home the next day was to search Netflix for The Karate Kid.</div>
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Let them share in the work</h3>
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It takes me about 5 minutes to set up a tent. It takes me about 30 minutes to set up a tent with help. That 30 minutes is well spent.</div>
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I also could have carried everything in my pack, but it was important to them to help with the load, so they each carried their own packs with their sleeping bags, flip flops, pajamas, and a bottle of water. It wasn’t a total of more than five or six pounds, but they were contributing. It made the hike to and from the campsite more difficult for them, but their sense of accomplishment far outweighed the difficulty.</div>
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I let the kids find the route. I let them read all the signs and choose which direction to go. There were a couple of mistakes, but they learned quickly. We also took turns setting the pace. I’ve run with people that always have to lead, and it’s annoying as hell. There’s an advantage to leading, all of a sudden you feel a little stronger, and you can also control the pace, slowing down if you’re tired and speeding up if you feel good. It’s important to share that responsibility and advantage with everyone. Kids like to go out fast when they’re in front, but they quickly learn to slow down and keep a consistent, all-day pace.</div>
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Teach them how to squat</h3>
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There are few things as liberating as peeing off the side of a mountain. It’s easy for a guy, but hiking with my daughter is different. I expected it to be some kind of natural thing that she would just know how to squat and pee without soaking her tights, shoes and legs. Once she got it down, it was great. I won’t get into the number two details, but I had to teach them how to dig a hole and bury their poop without getting too dirty. It was more or less successful, or at least I was more successful than they were, but they learned a valuable life skill. Oh yeah, Purell is essential.</div>
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There was also a lot of farting talk on the trail. My son loved learning about altitoots, and in that respect it wasn’t much different than the trail talk that I’m used to.</div>
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<h3 style="text-align: left;">
Don’t force your experience on them</h3>
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Sometimes you want to pass on these experiences, and you want others to have the same experience that you have whether it be a love for the mountains, or even something like a book, a movie, or a restaurant (no matter how hard I try, I can’t get my wife to recognize the genius of Kenny Powers). You can’t have that experience for them, and it makes it worse to push it on them. I lowered my expectations with the kids. After all, twelve miles round trip at an elevation of nearly 11,000 feet is pretty tough for anyone, especially coming from sea level, and I have seen grown men in pretty good shape turn around on the route up to San Jacinto. Some friends even joked about bringing my own summit sign and busting it out at Wellman’s Divide (which is only 1 mile up from where we camped, and offers a pretty amazing view). They wouldn’t know the difference. I didn’t make my own summit sign, but turning around there was definitely an option.</div>
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My kids had other thoughts. While my goal was to enjoy the journey, the summit was way more important to the kids than it was to me. Towards the top of the climb, there’s this long, hot, exposed section and their spirits were low. I mentioned turning around, and that it had been such a great day and they had both done so well. They both looked at me like I was speaking a different language, and they gave me the look that all men and insane people know. They came to summit.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Summit Push</td></tr>
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We worked over the boulders at the peak, my son leading the way as I helped my daughter over some of the more difficult features. When they got to the top it was pure joy, and fist pumps, and hands raised in the air. We all looked around and I pointed out some of the other peaks, including the only mountain in Southern California that was higher than where we stood, Mt. San Gorgonio. We watched the planes fly below us and the clouds moving at eye level. We were alone up there, so I told them that on the count of 3 we should yell and scream as loud as we could.</div>
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“What should I say,” my son asked.</div>
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“You can say whatever you want. I’m going to howl like a wolf, because you are my wolf pack and I just feel like howling.”</div>
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So, we let loose until our throats cracked. Then we sat and ate the bison and bacon bars that we had been saving for the summit. They were delicious, but everything tastes better above 10,000 feet.</div>
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As we were making the long hike back to the tram, my son couldn’t stop smiling and talking about how he had conquered the mountain. He was using the language of a warrior, and I thought it would be a good teaching opportunity. I started lecturing him about how I viewed it as more of a bonding with the mountain, and about how you can never really conquer nature, it will be here longer than us, and the most we can do is respect nature and share it. I stopped short of making him hug the nearest tree when I saw that his smile was fading and his eyes had that look that kids’ eyes get when they are thinking about anything other than what you are currently saying.</div>
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“Yeah, bud, you conquered it, good job.”</div>
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And the smile came back and he climbed the nearest rock and jumped off. The respect will come, but it will come on his terms, and it’s my job to make sure that they have every opportunity to nurture that love.</div>
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On the drive home, my son told me he had a hiking plan for us. Next year, he wants to climb the highest peak in Southern California, San Gorgonio. The following year, Whitney, then the next year, the JMT. I look forward to howling from the tops of many more mountains with them.</div>
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Dirty Runninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11941067370886942981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4376658065276829001.post-75610423340732461452015-07-23T15:06:00.000-07:002015-07-23T15:21:36.905-07:00High Sierra Trail -- Trip Report and Gear List<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
This is the most beautiful place on Earth. There are many such places. Every man, every woman, carries in heart and mind the image of the ideal place, the right place, the one true home, known or unknown, actual or visionary.<br />
— Edward Abbey</blockquote>
The main thing that I realize when I head to the mountains is that I need to head to the mountains more often.<br />
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The calm, the beauty, the perfect sound of a river as you fall asleep. Those memories fade, and the long drive to and from the trailhead bookend what seems like a trail dream full of mountain summits, hundred mile views from peaks that leave barely enough oxygen to gasp and thank whatever it was that made this view, this quiet and vivid painting that can only be seen by taking that step onto the trail. You can’t get this at the Sequoia visitor center, or the crowded campgrounds with full trash bins and loud music and people too weighed down by their own fear to take those first steps.<br />
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Maybe it’s a good thing. It keeps the trail quiet, shared by those who are willing to put in the work, to climb, to sleep in the cold, and to look across a mountain range, point in the distance and think, with a mix of excitement and just a little bit of fear, that is where I am going.<br />
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It’s difficult to plan a trip in the backcountry, to get all the gear, figure out the permit lottery, arrange the time off of work and the time away from family. I get it, but it has to be done. At least every couple of years. There are moments and memories that remain. Soaking tired muscles in a cold river at Crabtree Meadow, knowing that the closest car is tens of thousands of hard-won steps away. That piece of the wild stays with you, that place, that most beautiful place on Earth.<br />
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Because out there, the destination is always secondary. The quiet morning along a river, the post-dinner talk in a quiet meadow as the day faded, the waking up in the middle of the night to be lulled back to sleep by a thick blanket of stars, the visible belt of your own galaxy, the suffering and sweat on the trail, the blood, and the work that it takes to climb up and over a mountain, those are the things that stick with you when you’re back in front of a computer screen trying to shrink your email inbox from 800 to the 50 that absolutely must be answered today. In the back of your mind is that wild, that freedom and you take a deep breath and know that you’ll be back out there again, that you must get back out there again.<br />
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<b>Day 1/2–5.8 Miles to Mehrten Creek Crossing</b><br />
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As we made the windy, hot and crowded drive up to Sequoia National Park, spirits were low. We could tell it was going to be tough to find a campsite. With no reservations, booked campsites, and no first-come-first-served sites available, we asked the Ranger if we could start our hike a day early. He had no problem with that as long as we were able to get two miles from the trailhead at Crescent Meadow. We decided to order some food at the Sequoia Visitor’s Center which included the most disgusting guacamole I’ve ever seen. The lines of tourists waiting for their pizza stretched out the door, and as I looked up from the guacamole (which is an insult to guacamole, because this was nothing like guacamole…it was a cylindrical pale-greenish tube of semi-soft foodlike product, pinched off at both ends, and something that I would expect to come from my dog’s ass, but even my dog would look away in shame at having produced this atrocity) I saw a man’s ass cascading over a bench, pants halfway down said ass, and what can only be described as the dark and hairy entrance of Hell. It was time to get on the trail.<br />
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We ended up splitting the first day’s mileage into two days. This got us away from the crowds, and it also allowed us to acclimate the first couple of days before we put some big mileage in. It worked out well, as our first night we camped at Mehrten Creek, and it was nice to get away from the crowds.<br />
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<b>Day 1 — 9.8 Miles to Hamilton Lake</b><br />
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Hamilton Lake is surrounded by mountains and is perfect.<br />
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We were warned about the deer at the Ranger Station. “They’ll steal your clothes,” he said, “they have a taste for salt.” The deer were brave, getting within a couple feet of me. They were cute at first, but became a nuisance when you realized you only have one pair of running shorts, and the long underwear probably wouldn’t be too comfortable on the ascent up Mt. Whitney. I stuck around the campsite, shooing the deer away until it became dark, then I tucked in for the night.<br />
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As soon as I closed my eyes, I heard what I imagined to be a 500-lb. man sprinting down the trail toward me at about a 3:50/mile pace, shaking the ground with every step. I bolted upright and by the time I could focus, I saw the 8-point buck, who had been in our campsite all day, bound across the river and disappear in the dusk and trees. Shining a flashlight to where the buck had come from, Toby saw a bear lumbering up the hill. I didn’t get too much sleep that night, and in the morning we saw the buck once again, but this time it had a gash along its side, four claws wide running across its right haunch. He arguably had a worse night’s sleep.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hamilton Lake</td></tr>
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<b>Day 2 — 22.5 Miles to Kern River Hot Springs</b><br />
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This was a long day that included a beautiful climb past Precipice Lake and a majestic view at Kaweah Gap of the Great Western Divide, a rattlesnake encounter, and a long, hot descent to the Kern River.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At Kaweah Gap</td></tr>
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<b>Day 3 — 16.3 Miles to Crabtree Meadow</b><br />
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This morning was beautiful. I slowed down to get some time by myself as the we walked along the Kern. The mountain walls on both sides kept it cool in the morning as the trail followed the river. We did a key swap with Kyle, who was running the other direction. This is the best way to do this trail if you can swing it. We switched cars with Kyle before the trip and ran in opposite directions. This saved us about 10 hours of driving time around the Sierras. Kyle did the whole trail in an impressive two days. Crabtree Meadow was a great spot to camp, and it has possibly the best camp toilet in the history of camp toilets.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Along the Kern</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Curing sore muscles at Crabtree Meadow</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Do Epic Shit</td></tr>
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<b>Day 4 — 18.3 Miles to Whitney Portal</b><br />
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Does anyone read these recaps? Just get out there and do it. Words can’t really describe the hike from Guitar Lake, the struggle of going up above 14,000 feet, and words definitely don’t do the view from the summit of Mt. Whitney justice, so I’m not even going to try. I will say the descent from the top of Whitney to Whitney Portal is too crowded, and it’s hard to adjust to going from the backcountry to the Whitney trail, but if you haven’t done the climb to Whitney, don’t let that deter you. It’s just a different experience than the rest of the trail. The cheeseburgers, fries and beer at Whitney Portal are as delicious as I remember them.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Guitar Lake</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the way up to Whitney</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A quick stop at 14,505 feet</td></tr>
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<b>Gear</b><br />
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Speed is a function of weight, and that is why I care so much about what goes into my pack. I take pride in a light pack (11 pounds, 19 with food), because I know that I need all the help I can get. I wasn’t in the best shape when I left for the HST and I knew that I would need to shave all the ounces I could to not hold the others back. Not only that, but I like the idea of ultralight as a general approach to life, a way to limit stuff to the essentials and nothing more. To live light, to carry food, shelter, clothing, and everything you need to survive a long walk in the wilderness in a small pack is the ultimate freedom.<br />
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I kept my <a href="http://dirtyrunning.blogspot.com/2013/08/john-muir-trail-part-1-gear-list-with.html" target="_blank">basic set-up</a> from the John Muir Trail, a GoLite poncho tarp and a water resistant bivy for shelter, but I switched out the one pound Western Mountaineering bag for a slightly heavier quilt bag from <a href="https://www.enlightenedequipment.com/" target="_blank">Enlightened Equipment</a>. I absolutely loved my quilt. It kept me warm and gave me more freedom to move around than the mummy bag did. I also added a couple ounces of weight with a new, more comfortable sleeping pad, the <a href="http://amzn.to/1ekkApK" target="_blank">Therm-A-Rest XLite</a>. We planned our itinerary so that every night we slept at a campground with a bear box, so I didn’t need to bring a bear canister. That saved a lot of weight and pack-space, and was a luxury that I didn’t have on the JMT.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sleeping set-up at Crabtree Meadow</td></tr>
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<b>A few of my favorite things:</b><br />
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<a href="https://www.enlightenedequipment.com/" target="_blank">The Enlightened Equipment 800-fill quilt</a>. This thing was magical. When I returned home, I ordered two more sleeping bags from them because I want to take the kids backpacking this summer.<br />
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<a href="http://amzn.to/1Il9ME1" target="_blank">The Delorme inReach</a>. I went back and forth with this. For one thing, it’s heavy. It also goes against what I love about being in the mountains; being disconnected and untethered for a short time. On the other hand, I was leaving my wife for a week, and I at least owed it to her to let her know that I was safe. I miss my family so much when I leave, and getting a couple of messages from them (the inReach provides for two-way messaging) on the trail made me smile, especially the one that read “Beckett wants me to tell you he hurt his nuts twice today.”<br />
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The stuff on my feet. This is arguably the most important gear choice, and I went with <a href="http://amzn.to/1Ip57mu" target="_blank">Injinji 2.0 trail socks</a> and <a href="http://amzn.to/1Il9Vr3" target="_blank">Hoka Challenger ATR</a> running shoes. It turned out to be a great choice. I didn’t suffer from any foot discomfort, no blisters, and the Hokas did great on the trail, although they were pretty worn by the end.<br />
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Runderwear. Because this picture made up for the 37 grams (237 grams when filled).<br />
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Something I wish I had brought:<br />
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Camp sandals. I didn’t have the time to make these, but the other guys all had these sandals that were made from string and shoe inserts (<a href="http://sticksblog.com/2012/03/04/campshoes-thoughts-diy/" target="_blank">here’s how to make them</a>).<br />
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I kept the food simple, Pop Tarts (the Trader Joe’s “healthy” kind) and coffee for breakfast, bars, jerky and trail mix for lunch (Epic Bars, USANA’s Nuts N Berries bars, and Picky bars were staples), an 800-calorie backpacker meal for dinner. I threw in some gels, chews, Rocketfuel Coffee shots, Snickers bars and Honey Stinger Waffles to snack on throughout the day. I was able to get in about 3,000 calories per day, and I never felt lacking.<br />
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<a href="https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/12shiLwVjqRPIgALE-cG_8p5jEne5FsAJQI1hs1uzDYo/edit?usp=sharing" target="_blank">Here is my entire gear list</a> (including weights).<br />
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Thanks for reading. For a detailed description of the High Sierra Trail, we all found <a href="http://www.everytrail.com/guide/the-high-sierra-trail-segment-1-of-7" target="_blank">this site</a> useful.<br />
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Dirty Runninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11941067370886942981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4376658065276829001.post-33790113671271044992015-07-01T12:38:00.001-07:002015-07-01T17:27:25.821-07:00The 7-Day "I Ain't Doing Shit" Challenge<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I had this scratch on my face for about a year and it just wouldn't heal. I finally went to the doctor (after waiting a year, because that's how long it takes to go through all the stages from pretending it's nothing to, oh maybe this might be a problem because it hasn't healed in AN ENTIRE YEAR, to finally, oh no, I have a full blown case of cyberchondria). My wife finally took matters into her own hands. She called the dermatologist, set an appointment, packed me a sack lunch with my name and a smiley face on the front, and laid out my favorite pair of velcro no-tie shoes, because, you know, once around the tree and into the hole, twice into the hole, then around the tree...who knows?<br />
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To my utter amazement, I wasn't dying of stage-5 side of face cancer that had jumped the skull and leaked to my brain (take that, WebMD), but I did have a relatively mild case of basal cell carcinoma due to years of being out in the sun when I was a kid, and not wearing sunscreen. I don't blame my parents, because I grew up in the era of no seatbelts, no helmets, and no supervision. Making it to the beach alive and in one piece was such an accomplishment, especially after that quick stop at Razor Bladey Knife Shop. Sunscreen was an afterthought. I remember being on the lake with my dad and uncles in the 70s and they literally rubbed the oil from a can of pork and beans on themselves to get a better tan. Pork and beans. Seriously, how did we all make it through that decade?<br />
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I had Mohs surgery on Monday. It's a fun process comprised of scraping off layers of your face and testing them until you are cancer free. I was reassured that my particular case of carcinoma looked mild, but as I left for the surgery, my wonderful wife, who loves hospital dramas and ER reality shows (she actually follows pathologists on Instagram for a "how did they die" mystery of the day) told me about this one time there was a guy who went in to get the Mohs surgery and came out with half a face, then she showed me the picture, and I was sure it was either Two-Face from Batman, or the guy from the cover of <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0092991/" target="_blank">The Evil Dead 2</a>.<br />
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Fortunately, I still have all my skin and it only took one scrape to get rid of the cancer, but that didn't stop me from using the "cancer survivor" line for the rest of the day. I didn't have to do dishes, I got to watch True Detective by myself, and the kids didn't argue at dinner for about 5 minutes, but then someone rolled their eyes at someone else, and it was on. Some slights cannot be ignored. I tried calling the Make a Wish Foundation, but I guess they have something against a "hall pass" in Vegas wish.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Use your sunscreen, kids.</td></tr>
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I was given strict orders of no running or surfing for a week. Actually, the orders weren't that strict. My doctor looked at me and smiled (and I detected the slightest eye roll...luckily, my kids weren't there to see my cowardice), and told me that I could run or surf, but I just had to be congruent, which I didn't really understand, but took to mean that if I wanted to be an idiot, I would have to be okay with the consequences. "If you come back in a week and have an infected face, and I have to go in and get rid of the infection and re-do the stitches, I'm perfectly fine with that," she said with a smile, and then gave me a list of infections from staph to E-coli that she has seen in her patients who try to resume their activities too soon after the surgery.<br />
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We had a couple friends over for dinner last night, and I told them that I was fine with the break from running, even looking forward to it, and what followed was more sarcasm, eye rolling, laughter, and stories about how I ran during phlegm-filled lung sickness, bad weather (even when it drops below 60 here in San Diego), and the wildfires a couple years back. I've changed, I told them, I'm actually enjoying the break. They laughed at me again and reminded me it was the first day, and by the seventh, I'd be <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bubbles_(The_Wire)" target="_blank">Bubbles</a> from The Wire. I took this as a challenge, something I could really get behind, dig deep, and push my limits, so it was born. The 7-Day "I Ain't Doing Shit" Challenge.<br />
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I see these challenges all the time, The 30-Day Squat Challenge, The 4-Week Raw Dinosaur Meat and Lettuce Challenge, the 14-Day Cold-Pressed $15/Bottle Juice Cleanse, so I figured I'd make my own. Want to join me?<br />
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Here are the details of The 7-Day "I Ain't Doing Shit" Challenge:<br />
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1. Don't Do Shit. No running, no surfing, no lifting weights, no bike trainer sessions in the office while catching up on old episodes of Archer.<br />
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2. Eat and drink well. My family says I get stressed and angry when I don't exercise, but I DON'T F*(@#ING AGREE. Good food and drink help.<br />
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3. Get on Facebook and Instagram and laugh at all the people posting pictures of their races and trail runs in the mountains. They are missing some good TV.<br />
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That's it. Day 2 is here, and it's already going well. I'm feeling awesome, and I'm ready to crack open some pork and beans for lunch, cover myself in the grease, slap on my Speedo, and get my tan on.<br />
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Dirty Runninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11941067370886942981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4376658065276829001.post-83339014965532757922015-04-27T15:32:00.000-07:002015-04-27T15:46:48.242-07:00What My 10-Year-Old Taught Me About Racing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's nice to be reminded what it means to have fun, to run with a light heart and an energy that can't be contained. My wife, my two youngest kids, and I pulled up on a grey morning to run the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/childrenforchildren5k" target="_blank">Children for Children 5K</a>. The 11-year-old race director, Natasha, organized the race to raise money for a children's charity, and she did an amazing job. She even handed out personalized, hand-written thank-you cards to everyone who ran the race. More 11-year-olds should be race directors.<br />
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My son, Beck, had been talking about this 5K since I told him that I signed us up for it a couple weeks ago, and the morning of the race, he couldn't stand still. There was no conserving energy, no feigned calm, just bouncing and jumping off every raised surface he could find, 360 spins and sprints to the next obstacle. This was before the race had even started.<br />
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Once the 5K did start, it was the same, no focus on the competition, no concern about passing the people in font of us or being caught by those behind, just detours to climb rocks, jump off boulders, and quick stops to read signs that marked the historic trail. He probably added 5 minutes of extra running to his time, but I didn't say anything about it. There was no reason to interrupt the pure enjoyment of the trails.<br />
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As he started to tire with about a half mile to go, I pointed out some boys a hundred yards or so up the trail, and told him he could probably catch them. I now regret injecting my own competitive motivations into his race, but it seemed to work, and he picked up the pace. I told him that it always hurts close to the finish line, but this is the time to accept the pain and to imagine himself crossing the finish line knowing that he had run well and with joy. As he sprinted to the line, dropping me for what I'm positive will not be the last time, I was able to watch as he finished, arms raised in victory. It didn't matter who finished before or after him, he had won.<br />
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Dirty Runninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11941067370886942981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4376658065276829001.post-55804605818571524372015-03-20T07:48:00.000-07:002015-03-20T07:48:22.664-07:00Finding My Religion at the Jerusalem Marathon<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We runners like to add importance and meaning to what others see as a simple, but at the same time painful and tedious method of exercise. My running friends and I half-joke about our Sunday services on the church of the trail, and speak quietly about transcending pain and finding peace after hours and hours of running. We talk about passion, and the spiritual journey of pushing beyond what we think is possible. That is what made the Jerusalem Marathon such a natural fit. I was fortunate enough to have received an invitation about 7 weeks ago to run the marathon, and what better place for a running pilgrimage than Jerusalem?<br />
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Before the run, we walked. We toured sites holy to millions, and I tried to get out of the way as the religious pilgrims walked where they believed Jesus walked with his cross, or prayed at a wall that is said to be so holy that when you pray there, your prayers are closest to God's ear.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pilgrims walk the Via Dolorosa</td></tr>
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All of the sites were beautiful, but one stuck out for me, and maybe it was the lack of sleep and a jet-lagged clouded brain, but as we toured the Tower of David that first night, and descended through thousands of years of history, I couldn't help but think about the task we were to set upon in a few days. Dig deep. That is what we do, and for some reason, some of us continue to dig, to scratch away the layers, searching for something, that next moment of clarity, that flow, that high that comes with a faster time, or a longer distance, or a greater challenge as we push through barriers of pain, as we dig deeper.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tower of David</td></tr>
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We descended through an old prison with rusty bars on the windows and graffiti on the walls, a Star of David scratched by a member of the Jewish resistance on the eve of 1947's War of Independence. The stairs led us down a stratified window to thousands of years of Jerusalem's history, from King Herod's water system, to the fortifications of the first temple from the 8th century BC. As we ascended the stairs and stood on top of the Tower of David that first night, overlooking the old city and the hills surrounding Jerusalem, I couldn’t contain my excitement. I haven’t wanted to run a road marathon in years, but I couldn’t wait to run around and through this city.<br />
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The run started easy, as most do. I probably went out faster than what I was trained for, and my brain wasn't quite ready for simple math...the conversion of kilometers to miles, so I wasn't 100% sure what my pace was until the halfway point where I realized I was going too fast. I talked to the runner next to me about marathons and times, and told him my goal was to break four. He looked at me and laughed, and told me I was running too fast. Let the digging commence.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Running through The Old City</td></tr>
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We were told that the marathon took advantage of Jerusalem's unique topography, which meant that there were a lot of hills. The hills weren't too long, but there were definitely a lot of them. There was also amazing crowd support. The music, from teenagers belting out one of my daughter's favorite songs, "Are You Mine" with all their heart to a couple of guys drumming and singing traditional Arabic music, was amazing and varied. There was always something to listen to or look at. Aside from the amazing views of Jerusalem from the hills, there were families lining the course, street performers, people in costumes on stilts, towering over the runners, and I will never forget running past the Jaffa Gate into The Old City.<br />
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I wasn't prepared to run a marathon, and it showed in the last 6 miles. That is where the digging started, and as the suffering set in on some of the hills, breaking me to a walk, I thought of the excavation at The Tower Of David. That is what we do, we strip away layer after layer of pain until we are down to the essentials, to the most basic instinct of "I must move forward," to the singular thought, finish. Towards the end of the marathon, every runner who passed me or who I passed (admittedly more of the former than the latter), had that bond, that cult of suffering, a shared purpose and common goal, and as we ran, overshadowed by this ancient city of holy sites, and relics, pushing through the pain together, turning the corner to the finish line, grabbing a small, plastic Israeli flag, the excavation complete. And, I got a Popsicle at the end.<br />
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<b>Things to do at the Jerusalem marathon</b><br />
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Be ready for hills, and by that I mean train for longer than 5 weeks.<br />
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Take a picture with some of the finest members of the Israeli Defense Force (they are friendlier than they look).<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I've never felt safer at a race</td></tr>
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At the top of the Haz Promenade, one of the last big climbs, you'll see a bunch of kids and families. These are schoolchildren and they'll go crazy if you run by and give them high fives.<br />
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Eat some dates and hummus at the aid stations (aid station sponsored by Adam Sandler's new movie, Don't Run With the Zohan).<br />
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Look around. You are running in one of the most interesting and historic cities on earth. Take in the beauty, the history and talk to the people who are running with you. They are proud of Jerusalem, as well they should be.<br />
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After the race, and the post-run beer, head to Mahane Yahuda Market and eat a sabich, then walk through the market stuffing down all the samples you can handle. You just ran a marathon, it's okay.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRjzdEuYuFGhiWnnn4AqwU9i60xV8QCYN-l6W6PHnP5cm2GkyH5SUGwqf-0Zby3cwwTfBg-Q9vyiNUY2EoSSoKT_w3HmYCEhC0CHfkd8MDbrMTMdBMz94_XKiPsbt595lsw6dZ9r7zw8s/s1600/IMG_4330.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRjzdEuYuFGhiWnnn4AqwU9i60xV8QCYN-l6W6PHnP5cm2GkyH5SUGwqf-0Zby3cwwTfBg-Q9vyiNUY2EoSSoKT_w3HmYCEhC0CHfkd8MDbrMTMdBMz94_XKiPsbt595lsw6dZ9r7zw8s/s1600/IMG_4330.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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Plan a recovery trip to The Dead Sea. Soak in the healing waters of the mineral baths (they smell like ass, but they do miracles for sore muscles), then cover yourself in mud and go float in the buoyant waters. You'll find out exactly where you chafed, but it's worth it.<br />
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Travel with a group. I was lucky enough to have been invited to go on this trip with a number of other writers, journalists, runners and photographers. We would absolutely be the most boring cast of MTV's The Real World Israel ever (there were no drunken hot-tub hookups), but runners know how to bond, and the seemingly endless meals, the talk of adventures, races, training and families filled the hours with nonstop laughter. It will be a trip that none of us will soon forget, and full of memories and bonds that will last a lifetime.<br />
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<b>5 things to not do on your trip to Israel</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Ask for a BRIEF summary of the Israeli and Arab conflict (expect to be there for awhile).<br />
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Pose like an immature 10-year-old on top of historic artifacts.<br />
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Try to find something to eat in Jerusalem after sunset on a Friday.<br />
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Expect to lose any weight, even after running a marathon. The food there is just too good.<br />
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And finally, don't expect to go to Jerusalem and not be moved by the experience. It is a special place, a holy place, and no matter what you believe, there is a feeling here of history, of destruction and creation, and of diverse people, with different beliefs, forced to coexist, because of the sacred meaning that this ancient city holds for them.
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<em class="markup--em markup--p-em">More info on the Jerusalem Marathon</em></div>
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<em class="markup--em markup--p-em"><br /></em></div>
<div class="graf--p" name="bead">
<a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="http://www.jerusalem-marathon.com/indexEn" href="http://www.jerusalem-marathon.com/indexEn">Jerusalem Marathon official site</a></div>
<div class="graf--p" name="bead">
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<div class="graf--p" name="cac2">
<em class="markup--em markup--p-em">Some other reports from my traveling companions</em></div>
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<em class="markup--em markup--p-em"><br /></em></div>
<div class="graf--p" name="76fd">
<a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="http://www.shutupandrun.net/2015/03/2015-jerusalem-marathon-race-report.html" href="http://www.shutupandrun.net/2015/03/2015-jerusalem-marathon-race-report.html">Beth from Shut Up and Run</a></div>
<div class="graf--p" name="49ec">
<a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="http://eatdrinkandbeskinny.com/" href="http://eatdrinkandbeskinny.com/">Teresa from Eat, Drink and Be Skinny</a></div>
<div class="graf--p" name="3ffc">
<a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="http://runhaven.com/2015/03/17/running-the-jerusalem-marathon/" href="http://runhaven.com/2015/03/17/running-the-jerusalem-marathon/">Adam from Run Haven</a></div>
<div class="graf--p" name="cd17">
<a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="http://dietitianontherun.com/2015/03/17/travel-running-jerusalem-12-marathon-2015/" href="http://dietitianontherun.com/2015/03/17/travel-running-jerusalem-12-marathon-2015/">Heather from Dietitian on the Run</a> (Jerusalem 1/2 Marathon Report)</div>
<div class="graf--p" name="dd6b">
<a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="http://www.themanual.com/food-and-drink/high-on-hops-jerusalem-craft-beer-evangelist/" href="http://www.themanual.com/food-and-drink/high-on-hops-jerusalem-craft-beer-evangelist/">Lee from The Manual</a> (Craft Beer in Jerusalem)</div>
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Disclosure: My trip was funded by the Israeli Tourism Board. All opinions are my own.</div>
Dirty Runninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11941067370886942981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4376658065276829001.post-82363358925584736002015-03-06T10:08:00.001-08:002015-03-06T10:08:52.050-08:00Couch to Marathon in 6 Weeks -- My Ill-Advised 6-Week Marathon Training Plan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There's a scene in <a href="http://youtu.be/pNZuJ8wvcNE" target="_blank">Something About Mary</a> where that psycho hitchhiker has a brilliant business idea -- 7 Minute Abs. You know, it's just like 8 Minute Abs, but better (and it's guaranteed). Well, I'm your psycho hitchhiker, and you can get rid of your 24- or 30-week marathon training programs, because I have a 6-week program that blows those out of the water.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheB3WMKcvAbpTk7eJmzbWFOr7aLlNhyfKqN7VC6IhyphenhyphenqoUupYgieGMasPiXWRdSYEGYLxb32QpSeeiyvKCygL_q4acvWgLTAufxU4DvFCShqrbyC2rU5hv3EppZ_6JwP3spve6awo5rQL8/s1600/7-minute-abs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheB3WMKcvAbpTk7eJmzbWFOr7aLlNhyfKqN7VC6IhyphenhyphenqoUupYgieGMasPiXWRdSYEGYLxb32QpSeeiyvKCygL_q4acvWgLTAufxU4DvFCShqrbyC2rU5hv3EppZ_6JwP3spve6awo5rQL8/s1600/7-minute-abs.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></div>
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First, a major disclaimer: this is not an ideal way to train for a marathon. In fact, this may lead to injury. But if you only have 6 weeks to get in shape to run a marathon, this plan just might work for you. Just don't expect to set any PRs.<br />
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Some backstory. Four weeks ago I received an email from the Jerusalem Ministry of Tourism inviting me to run the <a href="http://www.jerusalem-marathon.com/indexEn" target="_blank">Jerusalem Marathon</a>. The trip includes a tour of some of the major sights in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. I thought for a second, and just for a second about how tired and out of shape I had been feeling. I also thought about how the 10 extra Christmas/New Years pounds were starting to feel like permanent residents, not merely holiday visitors. After seeing the date of the Jerusalem Marathon, and how quickly it was approaching, I thought about how difficult it would be to get myself fit enough to complete a marathon in six weeks, but this was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and there was no way I was going to turn it down.<br />
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So, after sending a quick "of course I'll do it" email, I changed into some running clothes and started my six week plan. That day I went out and ran harder than I had in months, and it hurt. My previous running over the previous few months, really since my last race in May, 2014, had been leisurely 5 milers at my friend's dog's pace (which is a lot of stop and go, because the dog gets tired and pretends to pee every few minutes). I was running fairly regularly, so wasn't literally a "Couch to Marathon" situation, it was more like a lazy-ass-ex-ultra-runner-burnout-eating-and-drinking-too-much-to-run-more-than-five-miles to Marathon training program. Again, a big fat warning: use this plan at your own risk, don't expect to PR your marathon, but you may just get fit enough to finish your marathon with a smile.<br />
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The plan's coming, but first a word about...<br />
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<b>Strength and Mobility</b><br />
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This is the most important thing for me. I use a <a href="http://running.competitor.com/2013/12/injury-prevention/strength-training-circuit-for-distance-runners_47933" target="_blank">strength circuit plan from Competitor magazine</a>. I feel that it hits all the muscle groups, and if I do 2-3 sets, it really kicks my ass, and I start to feel stronger after a couple weeks. I also do the <a href="http://www.runnersworld.com/workouts/the-myrtl-routine" target="_blank">MYRTL mobility routine</a> after nearly every run. This keeps my hips from tightening up, and I can feel a difference in my flexibility when I do the routine regularly. I feel that both of these steps, along with using The Stick and the foam roller every night allowed me to increase the quantity and quality of my running while at the same time avoid injury, drop weight (at least 5 pounds so far), and increase my overall body strength.<br />
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Here's the <a href="https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/10J0Mu10926NMBQiSV_jo7q-Gkmwh0OWfDyaO2GH-lbI/edit?usp=sharing" target="_blank">6-Week Couch to Marathon Training Plan</a> (click the link, or check out the form below):<br />
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<iframe height="500" src="https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/10J0Mu10926NMBQiSV_jo7q-Gkmwh0OWfDyaO2GH-lbI/pubhtml?widget=true&headers=false" width="700"></iframe>
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Thanks for reading and check back in a couple weeks to see the results.</div>
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Dirty Runninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11941067370886942981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4376658065276829001.post-46210835641981178972015-02-20T11:29:00.000-08:002015-02-20T11:41:27.291-08:00Heading to the Holy Land and Other Upcoming Adventures<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I usually sit down in January and plan out a race and training schedule for the upcoming year. Not this year. I didn't really have any plans except for a vague desire to run the Wonderland Trail at some point this summer, but to be honest, it could wait until next year, or maybe the year after. My motivation has been low, and the lottery and race entrance process doesn't help. It's hard to plan a race a year in advance. I have problems planning what I'm going to do next week and trying to squeeze runs in between the multi-colored Google calendar boxes.<br />
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I have a love/hate relationship with racing. I love racing when I'm doing it, but I get bad anxiety in the weeks and months before a big race. I lose sleep, I dream about the race, I get grumpy and stressed, and it's not just the normal tapering blues. It sucks, but what's really crazy is that I generally have a good time at races, I talk to people on the trail, I hang out before and after, thank all the volunteers, not to mention all the self-discovery and the mental and physical lessons that come with a long race.<br />
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I've been running consistently, but not very much, just enough to be fun, and to stay within a 10 pound weight-gain threshold, but then all of these opportunities started to come at me. I have a hard time saying no, so when I received an email from the Jerusalem Ministry of Tourism offering a trip to the Holy Land to run the Jerusalem Marathon, I immediately emailed them back and said I'd love to. Well, first I let out a high pitch squeal, then I emailed them, then I realized that I would be running a marathon in 5 weeks. On the road. The last road marathon I ran was three years ago, and I didn't think I'd ever run another one, but here I am, putting together a 5-Week Couch to Marathon Plan.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOx0QsdQ1aAe1LP-DUZUj1YZenA2pesZJeQqY7iGY3ycxBIWJUZBUcMjIi_KWM4kvRPsXTOlkwbOkcBnov3hDd73OZ4P_1FSdwD2WvCdKXo910zSEVMK8XuwFI_QFSCmxTT7az6WS1F6I/s1600/19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOx0QsdQ1aAe1LP-DUZUj1YZenA2pesZJeQqY7iGY3ycxBIWJUZBUcMjIi_KWM4kvRPsXTOlkwbOkcBnov3hDd73OZ4P_1FSdwD2WvCdKXo910zSEVMK8XuwFI_QFSCmxTT7az6WS1F6I/s1600/19.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Who doesn't find religion at mile 22 of a marathon?</td></tr>
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Then, I got a message from a friend asking if I'd be interested in doing the High Sierra Trail in July, and of course I was, and I realized that that would be great training for a Wonderland Trail Loop in August or September, and what better use of all that fitness than the <a href="http://www.bigfoot200.com/bigfoot-120.html" target="_blank">Bigfoot 120</a> in October. I went back and forth on that one, and the marketing (read price increase) finally got me to click the bright green Submit button, so I'll be doing that in October.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9V6Phv2USWYQlpQh0izB5nrmhhuZE9XTlCKJ0Ezaw5_SoOf7lnZ-a2fmiiiHJw0GdilZK3hrPRCZAHeZtbthe0Oxdfd1w1MiPAWGu385LbAIHxWFWC1KnWPNz_aa0anfgbyn6uaZfXCk/s1600/05cef322e212edf3d9de19277ed88535.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9V6Phv2USWYQlpQh0izB5nrmhhuZE9XTlCKJ0Ezaw5_SoOf7lnZ-a2fmiiiHJw0GdilZK3hrPRCZAHeZtbthe0Oxdfd1w1MiPAWGu385LbAIHxWFWC1KnWPNz_aa0anfgbyn6uaZfXCk/s1600/05cef322e212edf3d9de19277ed88535.jpg" height="311" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">120 mile of singletrack through the mountains of Washington? Count me in.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I didn't set out to make a list of races and adventures, but I guess a list just kind of came to me, and I'll be racing, and I'll be nervous and anxious in the months leading up to each of these, but I'm sure that I'll love every step of the journey. Here is my unmotivated, not wanting to plan too far in advance, unambitious race list:</div>
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March: Jerusalem Marathon</div>
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May: Georgia running trip</div>
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July: High Sierra Trail</div>
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August or September: Wonderland Trail</div>
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October: Bigfoot 120</div>
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I love it when a plan comes together.<br />
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Dirty Runninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11941067370886942981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4376658065276829001.post-66846573758503790292015-01-19T09:36:00.000-08:002015-01-19T09:38:02.662-08:00The Trail Animals<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwZiIKRRGWj_TUpD1F0ni8VmtXhkUWi2AWNS39tyT6dMix3y-fVLpdFAg_lBxC_9WnXNtlY3Cwavf-doYvmHSJB2lpSxoWyivuzwm3RkWr3M8WcI4VYqQeZx3EQoLb6E-dKMZZnydj920/s1600/IMG_3842.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwZiIKRRGWj_TUpD1F0ni8VmtXhkUWi2AWNS39tyT6dMix3y-fVLpdFAg_lBxC_9WnXNtlY3Cwavf-doYvmHSJB2lpSxoWyivuzwm3RkWr3M8WcI4VYqQeZx3EQoLb6E-dKMZZnydj920/s1600/IMG_3842.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
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I usually try to conserve my energy before a group run. I’ll sit on the ground, tie and re-tie my shoes, and pretend to stretch. But this run was different, this was the first meeting of the Dirty Running Trail Animals, and this group would not abide the conservation of energy.<br />
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I started the group for my kids, because I can talk all day about how they need to put down the iPhones, turn off the TV and video games, and get out in nature, but I feel that it is somewhat my responsibility to provide the means. I invited some friends with kids the same age and let them know that we were going to get out, run a couple trail miles, climb a few hills, and catch the sunset at the top of the mountain. Double Peak isn’t really a mountain, but for the kids at the bottom of the hill, looking up to the top, it must have looked like one.<br />
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I wasn’t stretching on the side of the road when most of the kids started showing up, I was climbing up a random trail because my son wanted to see where it went. It wasn’t really even a trail, although I’m sure coyotes used it as one. We quickly climbed above the cars, and when I told him that it was time to turn, he did so begrudgingly.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR4cH8qywIORco7fJWixF523XAqBdpoJKf9Sdn0b8hZdeLWbuOcToBPoMbAEVjtUxiilNIJ8yQ4i1bG384tzdzo7nfAZbQ8yjKyjvOlfN6HWhwK-79Y_I-BQyoAnzpDnHhgJsjkvt8_ZY/s1600/IMG_3789.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR4cH8qywIORco7fJWixF523XAqBdpoJKf9Sdn0b8hZdeLWbuOcToBPoMbAEVjtUxiilNIJ8yQ4i1bG384tzdzo7nfAZbQ8yjKyjvOlfN6HWhwK-79Y_I-BQyoAnzpDnHhgJsjkvt8_ZY/s1600/IMG_3789.JPG" height="320" width="212" /></a></div>
The kids started rolling in, and by 4:00, there were over 20 of them itching to start. I gathered the kids together as the parents stood off to the side and told them the two rules: help each other out, and have fun. I gave them a short course overview…run up the hill, take a left on the Secret Trail, then a right on the Super Secret Trail, then up an even steeper trail where they would have to scale some rocks, then to the top where they could play on the playground and watch the sunset. After the sunset, we would run down the dirt path back to the cars.<br />
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Life balance sounds good on paper, all clean and seperate with equal percentages for work, play, family, and hobbies. I’ve never been one for balance, so I’m throwing in the towel on that. There is no life balance, just life, and I’m going to share it with family and friends whether they like it or not, and they don’t always like it. As we were leaving, I had to practically drag my teenage daughter out the door, threatening to confiscate her phone for the week if she didn’t join. It would have been much easier to let her stay at home and just take my younger kids who were dying to run, but as she stood at the top, arm around her younger sister’s waist as the setting sun painted the feathered clouds in red and orange…at that moment, I knew that we were all exactly where we needed to be.<br />
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As we ran down the wide and steep dirt path next to the road, I watched the kids, leaning forward into the downhill, still running on their toes without fear of falling, and the adults, yelling after them to slow, to be careful, leaning back on our heels because we know what happens when we trip or turn an ankle on the smallest bump in the trail. I could have kept yelling, but they weren’t going to stop or slow down. They had gravity on their side, wind rushing by their ears, and fearless hearts, running like animals to the night.<br />
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Thanks for reading.<br />
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Dirty Runninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11941067370886942981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4376658065276829001.post-36400029999276713032015-01-05T08:40:00.000-08:002015-01-05T17:46:00.342-08:00The Difficult Route<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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My youngest recently asked my wife where dreams come from and my wife told her that dreams are all the thoughts and feelings that we push down in our minds and when we dream, we get rid of these thoughts, kind of like taking out the trash. This conversation replayed in my head as I raced against the New Year’s Eve sunset in the uncharacteristic biting cold, struggling with sharp, short breaths in the frosty air, and wiping the tears that had suddenly welled up in my eyes. I forced myself to stop at a quiet point at the top of a climb and take in the ocean view, attempting to process the sadness of the last few months.<br />
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Writing usually helps, but I haven’t been doing much of that. The specifics are too personal to share, at least for now, but if I don’t get something out, If I don’t process these emotions, I’m worried that they will slowly build up, that they will somehow win.<br />
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I prefer the trail to the road, I prefer hills to flats, and I prefer dirty to clean. My favorite routes are winding, hilly, difficult, covered in rocks and branches that scrape and tear at my legs. These routes are challenging, but these are the ones I choose, over and over again, and I prefer them to the straight paths, the flat and boring routes.<br />
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One of my favorites is this offshoot trail near my house. It drops about a mile from the main trail on a steep downhill — a narrow, seldom used path covered with ankle-breaking rocks, roots and branches. It’s another mile uphill. It’s steep, but not steep enough to walk. And after all of this effort, all of these twists and turns, you rejoin the main trail about 30 yards from where you left it in the first place. You wind up in nearly the same spot, but dirtier, more tired, and sometimes a little bloodier than where you left in the first place.<br />
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One of the best books I've read in the last couple of years is <a href="http://amzn.to/1IdsRnD" target="_blank">Wild</a>. I just went to the movie with my wife, and the part that struck me when watching the movie was a piece of advice from Cheryl Strayed’s mother about putting yourself in the way of beauty.<br />
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My New Year’s Eve run included what so many of my runs do, a stop at the top of Double Peak. It was actually the second time I’d been up there that day. The first was to see the rare snow flurries in North County. The last time I saw snow here was in 1990, and I wanted my kids to see it, even if it wasn’t sticking on the ground, so we headed to the highest point in the area. I found myself there again on that busy New Year’s Eve, surrounded by people with the same idea, people who wanted to put themselves in the way of beauty, to experience the last sunset of the year. The sweat and cold were working against me, but I tried to wait, and I was mad at myself for not bringing my phone, because it was the last sunset of the year, and all I wanted to do was watch it with my family. I set off for home while the sun hovered above the Pacific Ocean.<br />
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The sun was 10 minutes from the horizon and I was 12 minutes from my house, so I pushed, tempoing the mile and a half home, navigating the darkening trails, and sprinting the last quarter mile, but by the time I opened the door and felt the comfort of the heated house, dinner on the stove and kids under blankets watching TV, the sun had fallen and the dark blue was turning black.<br />
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Every year for the last seven, I have organized a New Year’s Day hike slash run, and the run has grown in popularity over the years, so popular that I received a call from the ranger telling me that I would not be able to hold the run anymore. This was kind of a relief, because I really don’t like organizing these runs. They add stress to my life, and the anxiety always builds a few days out from the run and doesn’t let up until I have ordered a post-run beer at stone. I love seeing everyone, and I love sharing the trails with friends and family, but the ranger was right, the run had become too big for the trail. I canceled the run, but let people know that I would still be there at 10 am on New Year’s Day and nothing was stopping them from joining.<br />
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It was a magical day for me. I hiked with my family and some close friends to the top, then ran with my two youngest kids who insisted on running down the steep hill as I trailed them, trying hard to push the thoughts of twisted ankles, face plants, and scraped knees out of my head. They ran with joy, jumping off rocks, smiling, breathing hard, and laughing. This is what I wanted on New Year’s Eve, this is what made me sprint home, racing the sun in the hopes of sharing this moment with my family.<br />
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I told my kids about the scene from the movie, about putting yourself in the way of beauty, and that this year we are going to try to get out more, to camp, to see more sunsets, to surf, hike, play in the dirt, and to take the trail that doesn’t lead anywhere.<br />
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This is what I want running to be for me this year — no race goals, distance goals, or time goals. I want, no, I need to take those trails, the pointless, winding trails that will take me up and down steep hills, force me to resort to hands-on-knees hiking over rocks, through bushes, and bounding down hills with tears in my eyes, and child’s laughter in my heart because I know the trail is long, the way will be difficult, but it always leads me home.<br />
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Thanks for reading, and Happy New Year.<br />
<br /></div>
Dirty Runninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11941067370886942981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4376658065276829001.post-154355936566699462014-11-21T11:35:00.004-08:002014-11-21T11:35:55.838-08:00And If You Close Your Eyes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I’m feeling my age today. Maybe it’s because my baby girl turned 13. Maybe it’s because I took her to her first concert last night, and we had to be there two hours early so she and a friend could reserve their spot against the stage, front and center, as I looked on from the far less crowded parent’s section off to the side. Maybe it’s because I thought her cut-up shirt that showed her belly button was too short, or maybe it’s because I thought she was wearing too much make-up. Maybe it’s because I wasn’t in bed by my normal 9:00 PM, but instead hung out by the guarded tour bus parking lot, waiting in vain for the band to shake hands and take pictures with their fans, waiting until midnight when I finally convinced the girls that they’re just not coming. Or, maybe it’s because the music just wasn’t as good, the energy and the poetry weren’t quite as strong as they were when I was her age.<br />
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It doesn’t help that I’m slipping into live music-induced nostalgia, to a time when my life’s meaning depended on the next thing that came out of Kurt Cobain’s mouth. I remember showing up to the show two hours early to secure a spot crushed against the stage in a run-down club in Tijuana, seeing this underground band with a headache-inducing superfuzz sound and a promising name, Nirvana. This was before they were polished, this was when the Marshal stacks blared, the guitars wailed, and Cobain, screaming himself hoarse into the microphone, spoke to us with pure, raw emotion. We climbed onto the stage and dove into the pimply and angst-ridden crowd, riding the manic energy of our tribe.<br />
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I walked into the restroom last night and there were a couple of security guards briefing a paramedic who was about my age on the status of the 19-year-old in the stall. All I could see were khaki pants and blue vans kneeling on the piss-covered tile floor. I couldn’t see him draped over the toilet, but judging from the stench, I could only imagine that it wasn’t a pretty sight. “Stay with me, don’t pass out, we’re getting you a wheelchair, and we’re going to get you to an ambulance.” It sounded bad, and I wasn’t in the mood to see some 19-year-old kid have a heart attack and die because of the latest new lavender bath salts that kids are bathing in, or eating, or snorting, or whatever they do with spa products these days. The security guards looked alarmed as they told the paramedic that the boy had half a cup of vodka and some marijuana in his system, and that he was in bad shape. The paramedic looked at me and said “half a cup of vodka and some weed? They sure don’t make them like they used to.”<br />
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I occasionally caught glimpses of my daughter, hands raised, watery eyes with too much makeup fixed on Danny, or Billy, or Kevin as they looked into the audience, into the bright lights. In her mind, they were singing to her, and after the show she told me about all the times she made eye contact with Kevin, I think it was Kevin, and how it was the greatest night of her life, and how it touched her, and that I just wouldn’t understand how deep the connection was, I mean, eye contact, EYE CONTACT.<br />
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I stood with the other parents for most of the night, necks straining, trying to watch over our kids, to make sure they weren’t crushed, and to walk that fine line between hovering just enough to keep them safe, but still let them feel the independence. Not that I’m ready to let her drive to Tijuana with a friend, walk over the border, take an unmarked taxi to a smoke-filled club to see a couple of punk bands, but there are only so many first concerts, and I wanted her to remember this one, and not remember me standing behind her, glaring at the college boys who were walking around, trying to find a free spot next to a cute girl, and me whispering in the boy’s ear, “she’s 13, and I can break you.”<br />
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I moved towards the crowd for the encore, nodding my head to the one song that I knew, mouthing the profound chorus, “eh, eh, oh, eh, oh, eh, eh, oh, eh, oh, eh eh, oh, eh, oh, eh, eh, oh, eh, oh,” and jumping with the crowd’s energy, singing along as Kenny or Dan or Kevin held the mic to the audience and sang “If you close your eyes, does it almost feel like nothing changed at all? And if you close your eyes, does it almost feel like you've been here before?” And I could have sworn, at that moment, he was singing it only to me.<br />
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Dirty Runninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11941067370886942981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4376658065276829001.post-67668849987263661232014-10-31T16:10:00.000-07:002014-11-01T10:05:54.327-07:00Used<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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My Jeep is a gas-guzzling, earth-f%$#ing beast, and if there’s not going to be a zombie apocalypse anytime soon, I should probably prep it for craigslist and trade it in for something more sensible, but I just can’t bring myself to wash the layers of dirt off and bring the military-brown paint to a shine.<br />
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It’s not that I have a special place in my heart for poorly designed, American-made cars, but there are just too many memories in the cramped second and third row of seats, kids piling in, pushing against each other and against their own boredom on the way to Zion, falling asleep on each others’ shoulders and then waking up, seeing the ground covered in snow. The Jeep is scarred with small dents and scratches and melted surf wax on the roof, and the sour smell of old sweat, maybe from Joshua Tree a few years ago when we talked music and running after a long, hot day in the beautiful desert.<br />
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My shoes are old, too. They have covered hundreds of miles of trail, have holes on the tops and sides, and their permeating dirt makes every sock a slight shade of brown. The padding is worn out, and I’m starting to feel it in my knees and my hips, but these things tell stories, and it’s difficult to trade those stories for something clean, shiny, and perfect. New shoes and new cars will be bought (13 miles per gallon is just not sustainable) and new stories will be written, but it’s that first wear, or that first drive that brings to mind a posed family picture on the beach where everyone is wearing matching outfits and all the smiles are forced.<br />
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I remember when I tore the top of my shoes. It was an early morning run, and it was on a steep section of a rocky trail, and the side of my right foot connected with a sharp rock, and it hurt a little, but it was a long steep hill and I had momentum, and the rocks on the trail were the kind of rocks that had to be climbed or jumped on, and if I slowed, it would be a hobbled pace, so I just kept the feet moving, and I knew that in about ten minutes, I would see the view, the sunrise. It had to be earned, and if I stopped, I’d feel that at the end, and the colors wouldn't be as bright, and the lungs and the legs wouldn't feel as good without the struggle, the fire.<br />
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I’ll take the worn out shoes, the used, busted up and broken gear, the old car, and the ripped hat because that is where the stories are. It’s in the scars, the bruises, the scratches on my car, and the holes in my shoes. Those are honest. Those are real.<br />
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Dirty Runninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11941067370886942981noreply@blogger.com0