Away for May!

A series of random events led to me escaping the misery of Portland's endless rain and cool weather for most of the month of May. Now that I'm home and tan and tired and one beer away from the dreaded muffin-top, I highly recommend this sort of escape for anyone who feels suppressed by the refusal of summer (or even spring) to arrive.

First, my one and only nephew was graduating high school in May in Georgia. My family didn't say so specifically, but I had a hunch that I better get my ass there. For a couple years the possibility of graduation seemed somewhat remote and this was rather a big deal. So last fall, in annual vacation bidding, I put in for the week with hopes of taking him on a trip as a present.

Sometime in March we got a phone call from our friends the Cattertons--they came from Wyoming last year to raft Hell's Canyon with us. They drew a permit for Utah's San Juan River and wanted us to come. Scott couldn't make it but I wasn't going to say no if at all possible. Launch date: May 30, just a week after the graduation and the tail end of the trip I would be taking my nephew on. I could foresee some logistical challenges getting from one place to the other in a timely manner and with appropriate gear, but figured I could make it happen.

Later in March, Scott was complaining about the weather and wishing we could go somewhere warmer for a few days. I suggested mountain biking in Moab and he immediately said yes. The only week that worked for both of us was the second week in May, two weeks before the graduation. Fortunately I had a lot of vacation time stored and with some creative schedule bidding at work, could make all this vacationing a reality!

We first left town on May 7 in a rented minivan, seats folded into the floor and loaded with mountain bikes, camping gear and dog. We spent the first night by the Alvord Desert hot springs, one of my favorite spots from my road trip last year. Then we drove all the way across Nevada and Utah in...you guessed it...pouring rain. Biblical, build-an-ark-quick kind of rain. So much for escaping the rain! We finally arrived in Green River, UT, near midnight with a forecast of rain the following day, so we sought shelter in a Comfort Inn.

The next morning, Moab's cafes and coffee shops were jam packed with cyclists hiding from crappy weather. We jumped on the opportunity to secure a campsite at Sand Flats near the Slickrock Trail where we sat in the car and waited out a mother of a rain storm before we could set up camp. But the weather was in an improving trend and would be mostly sunny and hot by the end of the week. We snuck in ride on Slickrock that afternoon despite a wind that could push you off the ridge if you let down your guard for a moment.


A neighbor moved in across the way from our campsite and stayed the whole week and then some. A retired fellow from Minnesota who spends as much time as possible traveling around, living in his truckbed camper, hiking, dirt biking, mountain biking and kayaking. I want to be him! He also became the social director of the campground, befriending everyone and hosting happy hours each evening.

Tuesday we drove north to the Sovereign Trail. Just as we pulled into the trailhead parking area, a deluge let loose, turning hard red dirt to a tacky mess. With another storm moving in, we exited the deteriorating dirt track and settled instead for Gemini Bridges. Although not as much fun to ride the sandy jeep road, the scenery was well worth it and we did stumble upon some single track we didn't know existed.

Wednesday we spent at Dead Horse Point State Park, hiking the rim trails with Tucker and exploring the short but super fun Intrepid mountain bike trail system. Thursday we made a more successful attempt at Sovereign, which turned out to be our favorite trail of the week with its rock ledges, steep slickrock descents and brilliant red Indian paintbrush. In an attempt to park Tucker in the shade, we turned into a remote BLM campsite with a big Cottonwood tree. Parked beside it was a lone Subaru with Wyoming County 11 plates and a mountain bike on top. It was our friend Jeff Parker from Cody whom we haven't seen for about 10 years!

With just one day left to ride, we splurged on a shuttle to the top of Kokopelli for the 30-mile, mostly downhill ride back to town via Kokopelli, LPS and Porcupine Rim trails. It was hot, so we left Tucker at day care before catching the shuttle for the epic ride.


We packed up camp Friday night, leaving just the tent for the morning so we could get an early start. Breakfast at the Jailhouse Cafe, then we would be on the road home. At breakfast, Scott discovered that Tucker had blood in his hear and upon closer inspection found a rather large slit through the skin inside his left ear, apparently acquired during a scrap with another campground dog the night before. So how to find a vet on a Saturday morning in Moab? There were only two listed on the web and only one with weekend hours. But the vet was out and only a tech. He cleaned the ear and suggested we see our vet when we got home--which resulted in stitches and a $500 bill to add to our vacation expenses. Ouch!

I admired Moab in the rear view mirror, a little sad to be leaving after such a great week of daily rides and warm sun. We planned to camp in eastern Oregon on the way home, but just west of Boise, the skies opened up again and the rain kept us from even wanting to get out of the car. We pushed through the 16-hour drive, getting home just after 1 am.

Middle of May and I'm already a bit tan and feeling fit!

More Running

It's amazing how great a run feels after a week off due to illness. The body is eager to move and the lungs appreciate the rush of fresh air. The flu kept me from doing much of anything last weekend and I've taken it easy all week, resisting my usual habit of pushing my body too far too fast and suffering a nasty relapse.

I'm on a long layover in Wenatchee, Washington and stepped out for a run in the park at the confluence of the Wenatchee and Columbia Rivers--one of my favorite places in our system. Warm sun broke through the morning clouds, taking the edge off the crisp air and reflecting softly off the calm water. It felt so good to be outside that I finished my 30-minute run and walked by the river, enjoying the ducks and my favorite sculpture: Coyote Leads the Salmon Up the River.

A Return to Running

Back in December, my friend Peg, formerly part of a core group of running partners in Cody, Wyoming, emailed me with plans for a running event to celebrate her 60th birthday. Although running used to be my main "thing," chronic back issues and straying interests have put seven years between me and my last marathon so I was not immediately enthused. But she had me at "Palm Springs" which was mentioned very soon after "February," traditionally a rather cool and damp time of year in Oregon.

Peg both enjoy the travel benefits available to us through our flight crew jobs, so getting there was no problem. Getting a third person to join us was. So we agreed to enter the half-marathon relay as a two-person team.

Freshly motivated by the race entry and a really fun (and muddy) night trail run with my friends Russ and Renee, I resolved to run more. Toward this end, I added a weekly 5- or 6-miler to my staple 3- or 4-mile run, and appreciated the fact that although my back injury bubbles under the surface, it remains largely at bay.

As the big day neared, we started making travel plans. Since I'm usually off Friday, Saturday and Sunday, I thought I might fly down Friday afternoon and make a weekend of it. Alas, my employer scheduled my annual Simulator Torture Session that Friday, on the heels of a long and hard work week. I got home late Friday night, utterly exhausted and unable to fathom getting up the next morning to catch a flight. So I breezed into town Saturday evening just in time to catch a quick dinner with Peg and get to bed early.

Ten marathons and too many smaller races to count taught me how to assemble my clothes the night before a race: neatly laid out, socks tucked into shoes, number pinned on shirt, water bottle, snack and accessories stowed in a plastic bag that our "support crew" (Peg's husband Tom and his cousins) would have handy at the relay exchange.

I felt a bit like a fraud at the start line, surrounded by runners who had trained hard for the race. Peg spent the previous week with a nasty cold and battles sciatica and we were taking the "fun" approach--no time goals, no pressure, just enjoy a day of supported running in the sun. On the way to the start line, we met a couple from a few hours north entered in the Sweetheart Division (it was the day before Valentine's Day) and he and I were running the first 5.5-mile leg. We started together and wished each other well before becoming separated in the eager crowd.

One of the things I used to enjoy most about marathons was making friends in the long middle miles. We might run together for a few, or just chat in passing, but always shared the comraderie of the event and being fellow runners. As I looked around for friendly faces, I noticed that nearly everyone had earphones in both ears. So I cranked up my iPod and turned to my good friends Guns'n Roses, Rush and Pearl Jam for support.

I struggled to find a comfortable pace, somewhat easy to warm up in the first mile but not slacking too much. I checked my watch at the mile marker: just over 9 minutes. Perfect. I picked it up a bit. A hill loomed at 2.5 and it came sooner than expected. Somehow I missed the 2-mile mark. Feeling strong, I tucked my head down and shortened my stride to push up the half-mile-long slope. I was breathing hard at the top, but a short down-hill corrected the problem.

I continued to push through a slight uphill. The time at mile 3 gave me an 8:30 average for miles 2 and 3. The course looped around to return down the same hill. I clocked the downhill mile in under 8 minutes and kept pushing to the relay zone at 5.5 or so. Not blazing fast, but solid given my fitness level and lack of real training.

Peg took over for a 3.5-mile loop. I gasped for air, stretched, drank a bottle of Recoverite, and hung out with Tom and the cousins in the sunshine. When Peg cruised back through the relay zone, I joined her for the final four miles of the race. We weren't running fast, but enjoyed catching up, checking out the scenery and soaking up the sun. In fact, I was a bit disappointed when we passed the 12 mile marker and suggested we slow down so I could savor the warm sun a little longer.

What a great way for Peg to turn 60!

Photo by Tom Hanson

Sundance Film Festival: Adventures in Standing in Line

Last weekend we took advantage of our flight benefits and my friends Zach and Monica who live in Park City, UT, to go to the Sundance Film Festival. Since I went two years ago, I kind of knew the drill--how to get around (not with a car--traffic and parking are a nightmare), how to see films without advance tickets, etc.

Let me just start by saying that this year's festival was a lot more crowded than the first one I attended, the result being that it was much more competitive to get into films. Zach pointed out that I was there for the Recession Festival. So here's the drill: if you didn't start the ticket purchase process months ago, you have to join the wait list to get in. Two hours prior to the start of the movie, volunteers hand out numbers to people in line. Then 30 minutes before the movie, you line back up in numerical order (if you're not there by the 30-minute cutoff, you have to join the back of the line no matter what number you hold). A few minutes before the start time, they start releasing seats to the wait list. A certain number of seats are previously held for pass holders, volunteers, and people associated with the film. If not all those are taken, of if ticket holders are not in their seats by 15 minutes prior to start time, they're fair game.

Friday got off to a bit of a rough start since I got home from work at 10:30 Thursday night and we were up at 4 to catch the early flight to SLC. But we both got seats and were on our way. We arrived at The Playground (although it's now Zach's full-time residence, not just a weekend/holiday destination)around noon. After lunch and settling in, we set off for an afternoon of wait listing.

The mid-afternoon shows we were interested in already had long wait list lines, so we hopped a free shuttle out to the Eccles Theater to try our luck at The Future. If you've ever heard of Miranda July or read her stories you probably already know what we discovered: she's weird. Very weird. Not necessarily in a good way. The movie had its funny parts early on, but settled into a slow-paced, increasingly trippy non-plot. The weirdness was exaggerated since July wrote, directed AND starred in the film.

Saturday was a total debacle. Had I not had a cold, I would have gone skiing in fresh snow with Z&M which would have made the whole day worth while. But I was not feeling well and certainly not like exerting myself at 7,400 feet with a stuffy head and clogged lungs. So we stood in lines. All day. And did not see a single film. We redeemed ourselves with a soak in the hot tub, a bottle of wine and a delivered pizza.

Sunday morning we actually had tickets to The Devil's Double, a partially fictionalized account of an Iraqi army lieutenant who is forced to become the body double of Saddam Hussein's eldest son. An intriguing and action-packed account starring Dominic Cooper, who did an amazing job of playing two diabolically opposed roles. The best part of Sundance is the post-film Q&A session with the director and actors that offers greater insights and leads to a better understanding of the film than if you just watched the movie and walked away. The producers are hoping to market this film based on the character story and not as just another Iraq war movie. I highly recommend seeing it if it comes to the big screen; if not, look for it on dvd.



Now savvy to the wait list system, Scott and I decided to see Morgan Spurlock's (the Supersize Me guy) latest, The Greatest Movie Ever Sold. We drove out to Kimball Junction's Redstone Theater, had lunch at a great Asian bistro where the fire alarm honked throughout our entire meal, then lined up for the wait list line two full hours before the wait list line would officially begin. I knew we were in when Rusty, the volunteer in charge of the wait list knew where Watkinsville, Georgia was. We were the first to arrive and he directed us to an area with tables and chairs where we could be comfortable for the next two hours. We settled in with magazine and Kindle, grateful to not be standing in a cold, drafty tent. Rusty made sure we were first in line and we were handed numbers 1 and 2. Spurlock did a clever job of illustrating the prevalence of marketing and product placement in films by securing funding for his documentary with marketing and product placement, all the while keeping the audience chuckling and not pissing off a single sponsor.

Crime After Crime, a heart-wrenching documentary about a woman serving a life sentence for her part in the death of her abusive boyfriend, brought home the level of corruption, political influence and injustice in our criminal justice system. Although we had tickets to this one, Scott opted out since it was a little too much like work for him. I thought it was very well done and I hope it inspires more states to adopt laws that allow the courts to revisit the cases of incarcerated victims of domestic violence. In the early '80s, evidence of abuse wasn't even admissible as part of a defense.

All in all, a great time was had. By the time we came home my cold had subsided and we were discussing plans to get on the ball and purchase tickets in advance for Sundance 2012, that is if Zach and Monica will be our gracious hosts again.

Adventures in Reading

I've loved to read ever since I can remember. But when I was a kid, I dug some pretty deep ruts with my book choices: the Buttons books from the elementary school library, then Beezus and Ramona--all of them. Then every Nancy Drew mystery I could get my hands on; I even collected them just to make sure I didn't miss one. By 7th grade, I was all about teen romances. Then Gothic romances in high school. Not much variety in there--I pretty much stuck with a single genre, even a single author if I could get away with it.

College didn't leave much time for pleasure reading, but luckily I discovered a wide range of fabulous books after graduation. When I worked in Yellowstone Park, I became fascinated by the history and geology of the region and read accordingly. The Lewis and Clark journals, books about Park history and politics, plus assorted fiction.

One day I was mystified when the pilot I was flying with said he didn't like to read. At all. Not magazines, not newspapers, and certainly not books. Wow. Another pilot friend is an avid reader. We often exchange book lists and sometimes books. But he refuses to read fiction. I think he's really missing out. For one thing, I firmly believe that genuine fiction--completely made up stuff--is hard to come by. People write what they know, so every book has an element of truth to it. For more on this, study the debate around Wallace Stegner's Angle of Repose.

This happens to be one of my favorite all-time novels and it won the Pulitzer Prize. But portions of the book--some say too many portions--came directly from the journals of the thinly disguised main character.

I also think Barbara Kingsolver's The Poisonwood Bible is one of the greatest books ever written and it, too, is loosely based on real-life experiences. The Big Rock Candy Mountain is another Wallace Stegner fave and it's semi-autobiographical. Since I largely missed out on the classics when I was young (too busy reading Nancy Drew), I've been trying to catch up on those. A couple of favorites: A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and The Grapes of Wrath. Although technically fictional, both offer realistic accounts of life during the Great Depression.

Now I'll read most anything I can get my hands on, although there are so many books that should be read in this lifetime it's hard to justify "bubble gum" books or things that just don't seem worthy. As much as I love book stores, they remind me that there are more good books than I can ever read--and more being published every day! Yesterday I made a rare book purchase (I usually borrow from the library or from friends): The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein and Kingsolver's latest, Lacuna. I hope they don't disappoint.

Winter Running

This is an oldie I found in a notebook from the Wyoming days. The memories came flooding back when I was in Calgary a couple days ago--minus 22F and fresh snow on the ground. Brrrr!

Outside the snow is falling in big, soft flakes. The flag hangs straight down the pole, unbuoyed by wind. At five minutes to 12, I pull my running clothes from my bottom desk drawer and slip quietly out of the office. My faithful running partner meets me at precisely noon and we trot off into the white abyss. For the first five minutes, we work to avoid cars and the hard-packed, slippery surface, but once we turn onto the golf course, the untracked snow is soft and powdery.

Here, on this soundless winter day, there are no disturbances, no other signs of life. The snow continues to fall, leaving fluffy white flakes in our hair and eyelashes. For 20 minutes we run in companiable silence, enjoying the quiet solitude after the past few days of vicious howling winds. Those runs were laborious, leaving us irritable and unsatisfied. But today we enjoy the peaceful calm afforded us by the still air and the steadily falling snow.

As we leave the golf course and reenter civilization, we begin to chat again, sharing the difficulties of our work days and the events of our love lives. We have no secrets between us; everything comes out on our daily noon runs.

Our shoes are wet, socks soggy from the sloppy roads leading back into town. Back at our starting point, we make snow angels on the lawn before heading back to our respective offices. Tomorrow the snow will be crusty and uneven, the streets icy.

But today was perfect.

Adventures in Politics

I generally keep my political views to myself. It keeps the peace in the family and among less like-minded friends and coworkers. But on occasion (twice, to be exact) I've been coerced into joining a campaign.

The first time was two years ago when I unexpectedly had some time on my hands and limited physical ability. I spent two or three days a week campaigning for a certain presidential candidate who may or may not have brought about the hoped-for change.

The second time was today. Apparently I'm now on a certain political party's calling list and they happened to call me when I was half-way through my second happy hour beer and was feeling more agreeable than usual. The caller was seeking volunteers for the campaign of a certain non-former-professional-sports-playing candidate for governor. For a moment I thought I was off the hook since the office is in the next county over. But they graciously found a more conveniently located post for me.

This morning, I had a twinge of buyer's remorse and almost called to cancel my shift, but thought better of it and decided to follow through with a loosely- and tipsily-made promise. So I pedaled my butt down to the campaign office where I followed hand-written signs and a line of tape up stairs, through a maze of phone banks, cubicles, whiteboards and frantic staffers, then down some stairs to my assigned volunteer post. I spent two hours in front of a computer, calling voters to persuade them to cast their ballot for our candidate.

Effective? Who knows. I personally hate campaign calls and don't think I've ever been swayed by one (at least not the way they wanted to sway me). But (if I remember to mail my own ballot in time) I feel I've done a civic duty and participated in the political process. I even met a few really neat people along the way and got to see the internal chaos of a late-state major campaign office.