Taster Spoon

Is it really stealthy if it's all over the Internet?

Man!  The holidays, right??

Last week was the annual Beer Mile.  Inexplicably, I was not last.  Then again, I thought there was a PowderPuff division (2 beers only) again this year, but was mistaken.  I actually got denied a high five.  I made up for it at the pizza party after, though.

Because it requires the organizer to borrow a school track, the Beer Mile is typically the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, when school is out, everything is deserted, and nobody gets in trouble.  This year the organizer responded to considerable grumbling from all those who had to travel elsewhere for the holiday and scheduled it the week following.  It was held at a high school track where the organizer was able to persuade someone to both shut off the lights and leave the gate open so we could be appropriately secretive.

Ace was under the impression that this is a costume-wearing event.  As the results will show, however, his understanding was not  universal. 

Clearly, some take the event more seriously than others.  The winner, who drank 4 beers and ran 1600 meters in 6:42, was wearing track spikes. 

As we were driving home, we spied, off the highway, through the trees, what looked like a regular Santa's Village - holiday lights and blinking sculptures.  So we exited and drove around trying to find it.  Finally, we found a Santa Clara Park District installation: Vasona Park's Fantasy of Lights!  Entry fee was $10, but we were having such a good time, we didn't balk.  As we were about to drive in, the guy in the ranger station handed us what looked like 3-D glasses. 

"These are for the lights?" I asked.

"Yes."

Ace and I each gamely put on a pair, and sure enough, the glasses had what I can only describe as prismatic lenses that shattered each point of light into a halo of figures.  Specifically, I saw circles of angels everywhere - thousands of them!  And as you nod your head up and down, the angels flap their wings.  It was strange and wonderful.  (Note to self: keep 3-D angel glasses near deathbed.)

See if you can find the flaw in this reasoning:

Children love Christmas.

Children love dinosaurs.

Therefore, dinosaurs wear Santa hats.

Ace's glasses did not offer him visions of a multitude of heavenly hosts.  He saw thousands of dinosaurs in Santa hats.

The next night was my firm's holiday party, held at what I can only describe as Jay Leno's garage.  It was like a big warehouse where private owners store their classic cars, but which one can rent out for parties.  I thought it was weird to pay for the privilege of looking at other people's stuff.  I guess that's not so different from the Art Institute, though. 

Then we were up early for the latter two thirds of the Stealthman.  A friend in the triathlon community - Lorraine - celebrated his 40th birthday by doing an entire Ironman (2.4 mile swim, 112 mile bike, 26.2 mile run), in Hawaii, solo.  That is to say, he did it on his own time, self-supported, alone.  And called it LorraineMan.  (Except that Lorraine is obviously not his real name so it sounds better with his real name.)

So last year another triathlete friend celebrated turning 40 by having the Stealthman.  He and a group of friends showed up at a local pool and swam 40 x 100m.  Then they rode their bikes for 40 miles.  Then I think they ran for 40k.  Cities around here are very annoying about getting permits for organized events, charity bike rides and whatnot - hence, Stealthman. 

Doughnuts also figure heavily in the event, though I believe there already is a Tour de Donut out there. 

This year, because of the office party, Ace and I begged off on the 41 x 100 m swim at 6 am on Saturday, and instead joined the 40 k bike ride.  I've ridden my bike once this year, on Bike to Work Day, and as Rad observed on Saturday, I was ready to sell my bike by about mile 12.  I'll take his advice for next year: two pairs of padded shorts.  Then I joined the more-reasonable run, that was 41 x 400 m, or 10.1 miles up and down Black Mountain.  That part was really pleasant - Rancho San Antonio was beautiful, chilly and dry.  I had three doughnuts.

We went to the house of friends who made bacon and turned it into a BLT salad event that was ingenious and also delicious; then we went to the housewarming of a new friend who lives in one of those gorgeous apartments at 101 Alma; then we went to the almost-midnight Christmas mass for students at Stanford, because Ace likes to hear the Brassworks quintet and sing carols at the end.

Our sleep schedule, so helpfully set to Chicago time last week, has relapsed to a late night habit that makes me feel bad every morning.  Sometimes I wonder whether I should just give in.

Everyone's a critic

Over dinner Ace asked me whether I'd seen his Facebook status update, and I said that I couldn't recall specifically except that it was really long.

He reminded me that it was directed at the fact that fully 50% of our mutual friends' updates had had something to do with the 49ers.  This was true, and we both expressed surprise that anyone we knew actually followed football.

Ace does try to keep apprised of mainstream sports for watercooler purposes and to keep his Man Cred, and this is a good thing.  For instance, he turned on the last MLB American League Championship game just in time for me to see the last out and immediately send a "Sorry, dude" text to J.P. Lightning - to which he responded right away.  I'm a rotten correspondent and an oblivious friend, so the rare occasion when I can recognize a significant event makes me feel great.

So I asked the in-house expert: "What's with all the interest in the 49ers?  Are they loveable losers like the Cubbies?"

He said: "They're not loveable."

Out of My League

 I never would have imagined I'd ever become jaded about awards ceremonies. 

   

Early on in Ace's and my relationship, I was startled to discover that a triathlon takes a whole lot more time out of the weekend for speedy people than for the rest of us - because they must wait around until the whole thing wraps up so they can get their medal or plaque.  And in the beginning, I was tickled. 

  

I felt like a special person just attending the awards ceremonies, and paid careful attention to looking casual and comfortable there, lolling around on the grass, so bored, like, of course, this is totally my crowd, when in fact it is nothing like my crowd.  I have hierarchy issues and am not one to so much as make eye contact with my betters. 

 

It's a funny thing, sport, the way it puts the talent and the wanna-bes into separate social spheres for what are mainly practical reasons.  For instance, I may get along well with a fast cyclist, but I'd never meet them, because we ride at different speeds and would have no opportunity to talk.  Whereas I think Ace conducts a lot of his socializing with certain people over the course of long bike rides and runs, and develops a set of fast friends through proximity as much as anything.

 

When I swam with the Masters set at Stanford, those of us in the slow lanes used to joke that the fast people had no idea who we were because they never looked South.  This is mainly because the whiteboard on which the workout was posted (and the coach) were positioned next to Lane 1 (on the North side of the pool) so the 1:25 people had no reason to ever look down across the rest of us, bobbing and straining to hear the joke.  We knew who THEY were, but they had no idea who we were.

There's also the factor that there's probably a lot more attrition among slower people, perhaps less dedication (maybe it's less inherently rewarding to consistently bring up the rear, maybe they have too much else going on in their life), a lot more people coming and going, and so the community of the slow is necessarily less tightly knit. 

So I don't mean to suggest that fast people are snobs (which, no question, some are), but only to say that there is clearly an 'in' group, and that dating Ace has, for me, been an odd experiment in athletic social climbing.  Suddenly I found myself sharing the joke (I had thought it was a joke but it actually wasn't) that someone had signed up for San Jose mainly because they were out of olive oil.  And as pleased with myself as I was to do Boston and those national and world championships last year - they had the important secondary effect of making me feel a lot more comfortable around Ace's peers, like I was good enough in my own right to talk to them - to make eye contact.   

And there's some chicken-and-egg aspect to it, as well.  I got that roll-down spot to Clearwater in 2006 because I had tagged along to an awards ceremony with Ace - I got it just because nobody better qualified in my age group was there to claim it.

 

I took a step back from triathlon this year for a couple of reasons, one, I really wasn't enjoying it as much as I had.  The looming events that had once provided really helpful and positive motivation to exercise had morphed into pressure that made me feel constantly inadequate.   And two, let's face it, I wanted to go out on a high note, and 2007 was really an amazing year for me.  (On paper, anyway.  In terms of accomplishment and self-discipline I'm more proud of my first Ironman.)

I've discovered this year that I've lost my sense of awe with respect to the fast people.  I've learned that being fast is a product of both natural aptitude and hard work, and that one can make up for a lack of the other to a surprising degree.  So people's finishing times doesn't actually tell you that much about them, about how well-rounded they are, or about how full their lives are.

I realized I was in a different place when we were talking to a friend after the race and he remarked that he came in second.  I had no idea whether he was looking for congratulation or commiseration.  And I was neither impressed nor sympathetic, because I realized that the statement contained no meaningful information.

Anyway, I watched Ace finish up his "season" (he had done two races this year) by competing at Treasure Island Saturday.  It was an entertaining race to watch, because, I don't mind telling you, he trained very little.  He runs about 5-10 miles a week with Run Club, he rides his bike for a couple of hours on Saturday mornings if it's not raining, and he joins me at the pool on Sunday mornings if we manage to wake up in time.  The big joke this past week was that he was 'tapering,' because he missed one of the runs.  

On race morning, we nearly overslept as Ace hit his snooze button in his sleep until at one point I groggily said, "Don't you have a race today?"  He raced his car up against surprisingly dense traffic for a Saturday morning, and fifteen minutes before his group was set to be in the water he had yet to register. 

The announcer called out his name a few time at the start of his wave as a force to be reckoned with (because he had won last year) and Ace had the grace to wave sheepishly.  I watched the first lap of the swim, saw him round the buoy and pause to sit up and look around in surprise that he was in the lead.  As I angled the camera for his first lap of the bike, I chuckled as he passed me, asking, "how many laps?"  Of course I told him the wrong number (thankfully he clarified with someone better informed).  And then I was looking the wrong way when he ran past me on the final lap of the run.  The announcer called him out again, because, to both our surprise, he won. 

The organizers set the awards ceremony for some five hours after he finished.  We killed time as much as we could - snacking and napping and getting free ten minute massages, but come on.  After a couple hours Ace said we could skip it.  I felt bad.  I didn't have big plans, I could nap some more, it seemed ungrateful to bail on receiving a medal.  But I was also irritated by the inconsiderate planning.   Making people give up their entire day?   To wait three hours in the rain?

Supposedly he'll get it in the mail.

Summer Sailstice

Ace and I completed our Basic Keelboat course. 

There's a written and a practical test to get certified.  We both passed our written, both failed the practical.  The great thing about OSCS is that you get to go back for as many refreshers as it takes to pass the practical - for free!  So failure was actually a good thing - an excuse to go sailing that many more times before you're on your own and have to shell out for your own charter.

So Ace signed up for a refresher Saturday; there was room for only one person.  I figured I'd get informal experience by volunteering when someone on the sailing club bulletin board advertised that they were seeking crew members for a race on Saturday.  I warned that I had minimal experience, but could do what I was told and serve sandwiches.  They took me on.

It was a lovely, hot day.  Every weekend lesson so far has been a study in long underwear, wool sweaters and foul weather gear.  On Saturday, I didn't even change from my shorts to blue jeans.

Unfortunately, there was also no wind, making the trek to the race start a very slow process.  We saw fellow competitors fire up their engine and pass us by, slowly.  Their skipper laughed at us languishing with sagging sails and shouted, "Need a tow?"

We laughed, but then considered the offer, given the price of gas these days.

The people on the boat who knew what they were doing were quite capable sailors, crossing us over the start line right as the gun shot; hoisting and dropping the spinnaker in seconds.  I proved to be all but useless.  Though I understood my instructions, my experience on a 24-foot training boat just didn't help me here.  On this big, old-fashioned Farallon Clipper, I simply didn't have the strength or even the weight to pull the sheets when instructed, and needed the help of someone bigger, every time.  I know there's a winch and everything, but I simply couldn't wind the winch as quickly as a man could hand-over-hand.

So the experience was a bit demoralizing, and I was frustrated and feeling like deadweight.

But every person was friendly and pretended to be appreciative...and then this week I got this great recap from the guy who'd put the request on the bulletin board.  (Anything to avoid writing a blog post!  Also, it's very salty.)  I'll include some of the few pictures I took - none from the race, we were too busy.  Mostly I was fascinated by going under the new Bay Bridge. (Those of you not from here will remember that the Bay Bridge is the double decker bridge - on the left, below - that collapsed in the Loma Prieta earthquake.)

  

We left the Berkeley Marina around 10 am, headed out the harbor break water and turned left at the first (and only) navigable break in the ruins of the Berkeley pier.
 
Something you can NOT do in an OCSC charter.  But Jack, the owner of Echo, Farallon Clipper #12 has been sailing Echo for more than 15 years now, and has made the passage into the area south of the pier many, many times.
 
Once clear of the pier, John and Evan hauled away at the genoa halyard, and with Linda, Ann, and Robert in the cockpit to grapple with hauling in the sheet, that huge foresail captured the light air and added to its shoulder to heave the sloop southward towards the bay bridge.

 
Young Evan sang the entire lyrics to “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown” as he and John relaxed on deck and ignored the efforts of the others to navigate through the moored barges and bay bridge construction constriction.

 
 
Past the bridge, John went below to fall asleep as the wind died and Jack ‘pushed the button’ on the iron sail. 
 
He woke up in heaven.
 
It seems like heaven to me - flat water, warm winds around 8-12 kts, and a large fleet of sailboats dancing around the starting line – and a wonderful group of people to share the experience with.
 
Jack handled the helm, Robert, Ann and Linda the cockpit, Evan the running backstays, and John as lookout, the group got a front row seat to the start of the first division. 
 
With a little confusion, Linda attempted to figure out what course flag was flying as Jack judged the start perfectly, crossing the line right on the gun, to windward of the middle of the pack.
 
But a Farallon Clipper is no match for modern racing boats, and we were quickly buried, with the rest of the fleet casting a wind shadow, and we went our own way on port tack.
 
Searching the horizon for the windward mark, we made our way up the middle of the windward leg of the course, staying away from the patch of light air to the northwest.
 
Many, many boats from the previous two divisions are bearing down on us with colorful spinnakers flying.  “Look at the spinnaker with the Skull and Cross Bones!” Wow! the Beneteau 40 ‘White Fang’ was looking good with Geoff Love, one of the Wednesday Night Sailors on board.  Later I learned that they had the same trouble with the course flags and sailed the wrong one.  Catching the finish gun, but having to drop out of the race.
 
Racing to windward on the bay in 12-15 kt winds, in shirtsleeves? (Ann was in shorts!) Unheard of!  But true.  While the rest of the Bay Area sweated, we had a cool, light breeze making the whole thing exceptionally pleasant.

 
We turned the corner at the windward mark, bore off on a close reach as John and Evan got the spinnaker pole on the mast and up in the air.  Heaving on the halyards, they both got that glorious sail up in short order, and the massive genoa down on the deck.
 
Off we went, following what we thought was the fleet, towards the south east, around a anchored tanker, to what looked like the leeward mark.
 
Robert played the spinnaker like he’d been doing it all his life.  Out with the sheet, let the luff curl, then in with the sheet, over and over and over again.
 
Jack let the pole forward so John could ‘pull the pin’ on the guy, and the spinnaker cracks to leeward to luff its heart out.
 
Jack reminding John that the halyard he just took off the winch is the . . . John’s mistake is a little obvious as he catches himself before being launched into outer space by the main halyard.
 
After that, the takedown went smoothly, John lowering the correct halyard at that point, Ann and Linda gathering the spinnaker in their arms, and shoving its many square feet of cloth into the hatch.
 
Evan and John get the pole down, then hoist the genoa once more.
 
And we are off to the windward mark, as the realization hits that the ‘gate’ marks are over there . . .
 
We are on the wrong course with about a dozen other boats.
 
Jack reminds us that racing is just ‘Sailing with a Purpose’, and we decide to follow the other boats around ‘our’ course, and ignore the ‘Division K’ course, what ever that was.
 
John goes below and packs the spinnaker back in the turtle (it never fits the same way it does on the dock).  Linda goes below to help him keep the edges on the correct side.
 
John’s sweating bullets (from the heat – it was actually HOT below deck) and Linda remarks the canvas bag really does look like a two legged turtle with the head and clews sticking out from the sides as John finished putting the ‘shell’ on it.
 
It was all downhill from there as we swept around the windward mark once again, John gets all the correct halyard(s) this time as the spinnaker goes up, the genoa goes down, and the main stays where it is supposed to be.
 
We find the correct leeward ‘gate’ this time, and take the gun at the finish (we are the first boat in our division to cross the finish line. 
 
After a radio discussion with the committee boat, we determine that we sailed the wrong course as we thought, and disqualify ourselves.
 
The reach back to Berkeley was as delightful as the rest of the day and Robert takes the helm to sail us back through the gap in the pier around 5 pm.  Evan’s not going to be late for his date that evening.
 
We all give him some advice for it.  The crew (with a lot of experience) feels that you don’t ever want to impress your date by doing something for their benefit.  You can only truly find love by being yourself.
 
The surest way is to take them sailing, if they go out on another date, you’ve got it made!
 
We all remark on Ann’s sunburned legs, she’s smiling, not feeling any pain!
 
What a beautiful day!

Stanford and the City

A handful of girls and a couple of guys got together last night to watch SATC.  I'm not going to give anything away, VU, so you don't have to turn away. This was that rare occasion when I actually see a movie in the theater, while it's still fairly current.  I went, not because I was expecting it to be "big screen worthy," i.e. full of special effects or landscape shots, but because I liked the idea of being caught up in the cultural moment.  I missed the show while it was on TV (behind the curve, also didn't have fancy cable), and caught up largely by borrowing DVDs from the Palo Alto library, that summer two years when I was "on sabbatical."  So I didn't even see the seasons in order, and still have a lot of plot holes.  I also went because I feel like my life here in the Silicon Valley is lacking somewhat in friends of the female persuasion.  So I'm trying to be more friendly with the ladies.

I settled into my seat at the last minute, having climbed over two women of a certain age who were now next to me.  After the lights went down, I heard one of them sniffing and crying over the previews.  And as the title screens came up, I heard a *crinkle, crinkle* and smelled a waft of chocolate.  I looked over to see her cuddling a big bag of chocolate covered pretzels.  I smiled, and was glad to see that I was about to enjoy this cultural moment alongside its precise target audience.  (They gave it two thumbs up.) 

In other news, I've been meaning to start swimming again each day this week, and haven't, because each day I've also intended to introduce myself to a partner who just joined our firm in the hopes of getting work from him.  This is a conflict, because I wanted to make a professional first impression, which in my book means a suit and heels and full face of makeup.  Full makeup, however, makes lunch time swimming impossible, because of the mascara running and so forth.  No way am I bringing remover.  (What's my problem?)  So I've been getting all gussied up, but each time I go by his office, he's never in. 

So today it's Friday, and most of the people at the movie last night knew one another via Stanford Masters swimming (it's how I knew the people I knew), and basically convinced me I really need to get back there.  So I threw up my hands re the new partner, dressed in a firm T-shirt and jeans this morning - and at lunchtime, I went to the pool!  And it was great.

All of the coaches are great, but Tim is my particular favorite, for the simple reason that he starts each practice with a joke.  He has a new joke every day.  Maybe as part of my (still in development) get-fit scheme I should share with you the joke, so that you can keep tabs on whether I attended.

A USC student walks into the library, and says, "I'd like a hamburger please."

The librarian says, "I beg your pardon?"

The USC student says, "I'D LIKE A HAMBURGER PLEASE."

The librarian says, "I'm sorry, but this is a library."

The USC student says, "Oh."  He cups his hands around his mouth, and whispers,

"I'd like a hamburger please."

I laughed.  I always laugh.  He usually gets groans or stony silence, and this time he justified the lack of reaction by saying the joke was ruined by the helicopter going overhead.  I suspect part of the distraction may actually have been the very attractive athlete behind Tim who was removing his Speedo, under the limited coverage of a rather short towel.  The guy in question was obviously unself-conscious; it was pretty clear that he was changing right there mainly so he could hear the joke.

Anyway, it seemed somehow apropros that there was a half naked man decorating my SATC-inspired return to the pool.  For his own part, Tim greeted my return warmly, and said he thought maybe I'd "moved abroad."  Yeah, I get it, it's been awhile.

I didn't bother with makeup afterwards, since it wouldn't do much to combat the deep rings my goggles leave around my eyes for four or five hours, and it seems I forgot to bring a hair brush to the pool, so I'm a wet, tangled, blotchy mess.  Oh, and I forgot deoderant.  On the upside, I finally met that new partner. 

Six Minute Abs

So it was probably inevitable that, after pooh-poohing the 'exercise your way to fitness in just fifteen minutes a day,' I would come to realize that fifteen minutes a day is actually way more exercise than I'm getting on my own.  Sure, I go for a run once or twice a week, and for a while there I was picking up a racket to hit balls (until I realized I was actually on a handball court and gradually got squeezed off by the regulars).  But I don't do anything with regularity, so bike-to-work day was unexpectedly brutal, and I went to the hilly Monday Run Club run this week and found myself huffing and puffing (it's not even that hilly). 

When it comes to things like falling behind at run club, I make like I'm just enjoying the view or the conversation or whatever and it doesn't bother me, but I'd be lying if I said it wasn't a little disturbing.  Reading about Heather's 360 mile bike ride to Santa Barbara last weekend blew me away - it was as if she said she'd bicycled to the moon!  How far I've come since the days when I trained for Ironmans!  Wha happened?

I don't mean to suggest that I regret suspending my triathlon enthusiasm for (at least) this year - I was kind of burned out and not enjoying it so much, and I can't believe how much time I suddenly have!  An unplanned Saturday or Sunday is still such a pleasure.  As you know, I'm gardening and reading and taking Japanese lessons and learning how to sail and visiting friends and going out in the evenings and planning camping trips - I love it!  But the cost to my fitness is very, very real.

So I swallowed my pride and my skepticism and, when the office was looking for 'teams' to do their Fit Quick challenge (everybody does 15 minutes a day, gathering points for their team, to eventually win some prize after a month or two), put my name in.  Served me right that all the teams were full.

I don't need them!  I can do 15 minutes a day on my own! 

Except that I can't.  I went to RealAge and printed out their twenty minute workout - it's a strength training program using either free weights or those elastic bands.  I figured I'd do it every day that I wasn't doing something else.  I went to the gym that day and it took me forty minutes.  (Because you're in the free weight room where it's 90% dudes, you feel kinda foolish with your silly little magazine workout and your 10 pound dumbells, but, whatever.)

I have yet to do it a second time.  I even printed out the rubber band version and packed it and a brand new set of rubber bands when I went to L.A....but never got around to it.  Seriously?  Heather's riding hundreds of miles the very same weekend I can't be bothered to pull a rubber band out of my suitcase for twenty minutes?  Weak.

So you can imagine my delight when I came across this ad in the magazine on the flight back home from Los Angeles.

(You can perhaps also imagine my pique when Ace told me he tore something out of the magazine for me on his flight home from his own Memorial Day weekend trip - and it was the same ad.)

Unfortunately, I do not have $14,615 to spend on a medieval torture device, so I will have to slog it out for the nine extra minutes each day.  And yet it seems so beyond me! 

I'm trying to use Gretchen's exercise motivators, like "exercise on Monday to set the tone for the week" and I'm trying come up with some kind of accountability system.  But my sporty friends around here don't need me to motivate - they have their own races and clubs and training programs to keep them motivated.  And we're not really on the same page anyway - I'm purposely trying to avoid that degree of obsession.  Exercisefriends.com has been a good resource in the past - I've found several great running and riding partners.  But they were all one-offs, and took a lot of coordination since we didn't know one another.

I think what I need is a virtual buddy to keep me on track.  Would anybody out there like to be my virtual exercise partner?  We could do the Real Age exercise thing, or even the Quick Fit thing.  Or we could make up something else entirely.  I'm dyin' out here!

While I'm at it, I need somebody to get me up early in the morning. 

Give me a break

At three p.m. this afternoon, my firm is having a guy come in to, apparently, show us how to get fit and lose weight in a 15 minute no-sweat workout.

Too good to be true?  This "Quick Fit" guy will show us how, "in no more time than a coffee break...pack[ ] in aerobic activity, strengthening exercises, and stretches." 

I looked up the guy, and his marketing campaign reminds me of the campaign Heineken conducted when it was new to this country, in which their guy went into bars and, rather than trying to pitch the beer, he instead purported to be a customer and loudly requested Heineken.  He did this often and enthusiastically enough that saloons started carrying it.  In the same way, this Quick Fit guy apparently visits companies and goes around pretending his services were invited by a phantom employee until his constant inquiries generate actual interest in his pitch.  Give the man credit for chutzpah.

I question his assertion that "Exercise, like money in the bank, is cumulative.  It all adds up."   Actually, no.  Stop weight training, and you lose 20% of your strength in two weeks.  Endurance is similar, that's why Ace got into trouble with his IT band when he abruptly restarted long-run training in time for Boston, after taking a month off.  I can tell you first hand that, however fit I may have been last year when I did that 70.3 World Championship, all the swimming I did last year helped me not at all this weekend when I jumped in the pool and was winded after 50 meters.  I'm just saying.

But the basic gist of this guy's pitch is, "Hey, 15 minutes is better than NO minutes!"  And I have to agree with that.  If committing to only fifteen minutes is what it takes to motivate and to establish a habit, then I'm all for it. But this promise that you can not sweat your way to actual cardiovascular and muscular fitness  in fifteen minutes seems a little overblown. 

Actually, you know whom he reminds me of?  This guy.

To borrow a phrase from Barack Obama: "Look."   

I am all in favor of companies offering mechanisms and incentives to encourage fitter employees.  The workers are happier, of course, but the companies are happier too, because fitter employees are (supposedly) more productive, and insurance costs may be lowered. 

But here's the thing.  Ever since my firm announced its move to a newly-renovated building, colleagues and I have been lobbying our office to install a shower.   This would enable employees to ride bikes to work, walk or run at lunchtime, or even squeeze in a sport at the end of the day and return to work, while still maintaining our professional dress and odor standards.  Our request was denied for lack of infrastructure.  (Huh?  It was a new building.)  The call was renewed when we expanded to another floor, which had an unused storage room placed immediately adjacent to and between the bathrooms.  Again, we were denied, for lack of infrastructure.

But let it not be said that the firm won't spend money on its employees' health.  Somebody clearly sees fit to spend money hiring minimal-effort gurus to come in and persuade us that sweating is unneccessary. 

How very convenient, since we have no shower.

Tasterspoon 1, Boston 1

You know what was nice about running Boston this year?  I got tons of e-mails and text messages all weekend long.  I didn't even know that many people were aware I was racing.

You know what was weird about Boston?

The snipers on the rooftop as we waited for our wave to start.

You know what was the best thing about Boston this year?

Staying at J.P. Lightning's place, which has a huge shower with side jets that hose you down all over like a car wash. 

I can't think of anywhere I'd rather have been after the race.

But about the race:

It was really, really hard for a really, really long time. 

I did my long runs for the past couple months, but I did them slowly, and I really didn't do much in between, and I didn't train to keep any kind of pace.  I was just going in order to convince myself that last year's Boston wasn't a total fluke, so I kind of thought I would just dawdle and actually enjoy the experience this time. 

But I also thought, as I started, well, why don't I just run at qualifying pace (3:40) and see how long I can hang on?  At the expo we got these free little wristbands that tell you how quickly to run each mile based on your goal (and what your cumulative time should be as you pass each mile marker).

By the half way point, I had a minute in the bank, which was great.  It wasn't too much that I feared I'd gone out too fast, but I knew it would be a valuable buffer. 

But as the second half wore on, I'd be missing the per-mile pace by five seconds, ten seconds, fifteen seconds...I could see it slipping away, and there was really nothing I could do about it.  I tried harder, I stayed focused, but didn't seem to reclaim any lost ground.  My buffer disappeared.  It occurred to me to just give up and trot the rest of the way in at a more comfortable pace, slapping high fives with the thousands of kiddies lining the course and chatting with my fellow runners, but I kind of felt like, I've run this hard for, whatever, 19 miles, I might as well do the very best I can for the next seven.

And then I remembered that they actually allow you 59 seconds extra for qualifying.  So really, I just had to do 3:40:59.  That was a nice reminder for a few miles, but I saw that slip away, too.  It was so hard.  It was so, so hard.

As I had about two miles left I predicted a finish of about two minutes over.  And I thought, that's just fine.  That's really close, and not bad at all for the kind of training I did.  I kept hustling, and it sucked so bad, and I stopped looking at my watch, but I was pretty okay with coming in at 3:42.

So in the last quarter mile, you come around this corner onto the last straightaway to the finish, and the finish is SO far away.  The finish is a huge arch...and because it's so huge, it seems like it's closer than it is.  So you're running and running, and it's not getting any closer.  But finally I did get close enough and, weirdly, the clock on the arch indicated that I was at, like, 3:40:39 - I had twenty seconds to get my butt over the line!  So I just poured it on.  I don't know where it came from, but I FLEW in the last fifty yards or so, and passed dozens of people like they were standing still.

And I truly didn't know what my time was.  I hoped, but not excessively so.  I didn't have anything staked on it; I didn't really want to do that again, after all.  But...it would be nice.

Long story short, after collecting my stuff, my cell phone rang and it was Ace and he read me my time off the internet - 3:41 flat.  HA!  I had missed re-qualifying by a single second.

I actually couldn't think of a better outcome.  It was close enough that I felt like I belonged there - like the first one wasn't a fluke - but I definitely missed the cutoff, so I didn't feel any pressure to come do it another year just because I'd qualified.  I was free!

It's easy in such a case to think about all the things you might have done differently over the previous three and a half hours, twenty-six miles, to make up that second.  Slapped fewer little kids' hands?  Skipped the bathroom stop?  Taken one less sip of Gatorade?  Not run over to get that kiss from the Welleseley girl?  Not made the extra effort to wave when, improbably, J.P. Lightning hollered your name as you ran past him at at mile 24?  Registered the need to sprint to the finish just a moment sooner?

But then Ace thought of something.  Between now and the next Boston marathon, I will age up into the next grouping - whose qualifying time is 3:45. 

So I'm a little unclear.  For qualifying purposes, I don't know whether it's the age you are when you attempt to qualify that matters, or the age you'll be at Boston the next time.  But it doesn't really matter to me.  I had such a great time (the whole weekend) that I find myself open to the possibility of going back...but it wouldn't bother me at all if I didn't make the cut.  Heck, I can always go to Boston without having to run a marathon. 

City of a Thousand Bridges

What the...PSYCHE!  Don't worry, I won't talk about vegetables this week, even though it was a really good haul last week, with a couple kinds of fruit.  And I made a really nice cole slaw that you totally wish you could have the recipe for.  Too bad!  I've gotten several complaints about the boringness of the veggie posts, so I guess those guys ruined it for everyone.   

Instead, let's talk about my weekend in Boston...I've never spent a better one.  I went to college in western Massachusetts and was never a big fan of the city when I'd come to visit for a debate tournament or whatever; I'm not sure why.  It was like all the students everywhere bugged me or something.  But anything I might have said before,  I take it all back.  The City of a Thousand Bridges is now the City of a Thousand Good Memories.

I flew there all day on Saturday, in a rear middle seat that reclined about 2 degrees. 

I thought it was just mine, but it was everybody's seat.  The flight attendants knew; they didn't even bother asking people to bring them "back" to vertical when it was time to land.

J.P. Lightning, fresh out of a winning Red Sox game, met me on Saturday night, and proceeded to chauffeur me around town all weekend.  He showed me the wicked sweet crepe shop in his neighborhood for breakfast, then headed downtown. 

On the way, we passed the fanciest 7-Eleven I've ever seen.

J.P. patiently escorted me to pick up my race number and eat free snacks at the expo.

The peanut butter and jelly station:

I got Katherine Switzer's autograph - on my race number.  The line for that was crazy long, and we realized it's because she was making genuine conversation with every single person.

With a cool "insider's" touch, she had the presence of mind to sign it upside down so I could see her encouragement on Monday when I looked down at my shirt.  It was a sweet inscription, something along the lines of, "WTF, it's Boston.  Run already."

 

We also got Rick and Dick Hoyt's autograph!  I highly recommend you watch one of the YouTube things on them, if you don't already know who they are. 

I guess Lance ran on Monday, and there was a Livestrong booth, but I don't know whether he appeared at the Expo.  Getting his autograph would have meant interacting with a legend, but getting Switzer's was like meeting a hero, and getting Hoyt's...whew.  That was like getting the autograph of an angel.

After the expo, JP took me to Castle Island to walk around.  We saw some of the local fauna.

Then we went to a bar to sit in front of its open windows and simultaneously enjoy sunshine, the Sox game, and spicy chicken lettuce wraps.  And a beer.  I had already determined I was just there to enjoy the race this time, you know? 

(It was a light beer.)

The weather compared to last year was night and day.  Last year, there was snow on the side of the road,  hail falling from the sky and incredible winds.

 

This year, this was the view in Boston's Public Garden.

 

The race was Monday, and on Tuesday I wobbled around the garden and Boston Commons with all the other wooden-legged participants.

I stumbled through maybe half a mile of the Freedom Trail, then gave up and bought a doughnut so I could sit down.

As a cap to the weekend, I betook myself of a Free Hug.   Watch that video, too, if you haven't seen it.

Besides Beans

I'm going to Boston this weekend, and have three half-days of free time on Sunday morning, Monday afternoon and Tuesday morning.  I'm going to monopolize my fine host on the weekend if he'll let me, but Tuesday I'm on my lonesome.

What do you recommend I do?

[ed. ]  Ooh boy, Monday looks like a "good day for a run!"

And P.S., good luck to everybody doing Ironman China!  (The countdown clock on the website makes me nervous.)

Oh no!  The weather looks much worse in China!