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.

FAT55 Mountain Bike Marathon

I very nearly bailed out of the inaugural FAT55 mountain bike race in Oakridge, Oregon (aka OROR) yesterday. It was early in the race on an atypical rainy September morning and I was already struggling with both bike- and rider-induced challenges. I've always enjoyed racing but promise myself to keep it fun and not take it too seriously.

On this particular morning I was not having fun. And not just in the way that you don't have fun at mile 21 of a 26-mile marathon, but seriously not enjoying myself. The internal conversation went like this: "You know, I'm just not having fun here. And I really don't feel like riding my bike in the rain over wet roots and rocks all day." I decided I would finish out the current loop that would deposit me at the finish area mid-race. I would have had a decent workout and I would load up my stuff and go home. End of not having fun.

Then I exited a rocky, root-strewn section of trail and started a gravel road climb up to the Aubrey Mountain trail. I put on my iPod which I wisely programmed the day before with a solid playlist designed to encourage me uphill through the rain (the race-saving song turned out to be I'm Only Happy When It Rains by Garbage). Comforted by the knowledge that I was in this for the short haul, I pedaled determinedly up the relentless mile-and-a-half grade known as "The Wall." I whispered sweet nothings to my derailleur when I passed the poor bastard walking his single-speed.

I reached the junction to the Eugene-to-Crest and Aubrey Mountain trail sooner than I expected and was treated to a few sweet miles of well-structured singletrack. Now this is why I mountain bike! Winding along the side of the mountain, rolling through forest and meadows, then down, down, down. My tunes still spurring me on, I ripped down the trail and tore through the industrial park and into the midway aid station at Greenwaters Park. Somewhere along the way, I changed my mind about going home and decided to keep racing. I stayed at the aid station just long enough to switch Perpetuem bottles, refill the Cambelback, and apply fresh chamois cream. Eugene (a friend and the race organizer) yelled encouragement as I rode out of transition and across the footbridge toward Larison Creek and Larison Rock, the last two sections of the course.

Now I was really on fire, regaining lost ground from this morning as I pedaled furiously up the gentle gravel grade and settled into a steady pace on the steeper paved road. I passed several riders that I never saw again. Then I felt all alone as I made my way along the seemingly endless 8-mile gravel-road climb/traverse to the top of the Larison Creek trail. Periodically I would glimpse a brightly-colored jersey as it disappeared around the next corner and work steadily to catch up, then pass. Finally, feeling that the trail should surely be close, I began to falter both mentally and physically. I struggled to focus on the task at hand, to keep my upper body relaxed and not expend unneeded energy. When I really thought I might die, The trail appeared on my left.

The first bit was a smooth descent toward the creek, then the trail dropped and twisted furiously, combining tight switchbacks and wet roots to force me off my bike time and again. While dry roots can make for fun and interesting riding, wet roots are pure evil. They tend to snatch your wheel out from under you, slamming you hard to the ground. Weather-smoothed rocks are no better when rain-drenched. I rode cautiously and walked when I had any doubts about a successful outcome. I passed one rider and was passed by another. Then the trail smoothed out and I flew along the creek as it neared Hills Creek Reservoir, cornering through the lush forest and rolling gently up and down.

When I reached the paved road at trails end I felt confident in my position and knew I could reach the finish if I just kept moving. No need to kill myself by pushing hard. Instead of stopping to eat, I pedaled easily along the flat road and ate a small energy bar out of my mountain feed bag. Hardy volunteers pointed the way up the final, 4.5-mile climb to the Larison Rock trail which would deposit me at the finish line. It was raining steadily now and a miserable day to sit still for hours, marshaling slightly insane mountain bikers in the right direction.

I suppressed any feelings of shame about using my granny gear and engaged it to spin slowly uphill. The guy who passed me on Larison Creek was on the side of the road nursing a cramp. Another guy dawdled at the final aid station as I rode by. No stopping now. Must. Keep. Moving. Finish. Line. Near.

Cramp Guy passed me again. We agreed that there must be less than two miles to the summit. Maybe around the next bend? Or the next three or four. We kept going up. And up. If I didn't make the top in five more minutes, I would stop and stretch. Four minutes later, a rain-coated volunteer waved us into the trail for the descent. I thought I might be hallucinating.

I was so exhausted I could barely steer my bike. After a couple turns, I remembered that I had locked out both front and rear suspension for the climb. The trail was much more fun when I opened them up again. Then cold set in and shivering added to fatigue to make keeping my wheel on the trail a challenge. My glasses were wet, dirty, and steamy. I couldn't see through them, but without them things were blurry. Better to not see with glasses or not see without them? I kept them on, but slid them down my nose so I could peer over them. I told myself to just relax. I didn't have to ride fast, just keep riding.

After what is normally a super-fun, ripping-fast lark (but today was a miserable, cold, wet, slippery descent), I exited the trail for a brief stint of gravel road, then some fast, twisty trails back across the Middle Fork Willamette to the finish line. Feeling strong and anticipating hot food and warm clothes, I hammered in: 29th overall and second in my age group, good for my first ever prize money!

But the most exciting part of the weekend was the ongoing saga of the Cultus Lake Carjacker. Eugene was concerned that the race course would be impacted by the manhunt. The morning of the race, the local sheriff brought him a map of the area where the suspect was thought to be corralled. Later that night, we got word he had been shot and captured near the Fish Hatchery--which we rode through during the race!