The Year
Maybe I'll do one more competition this year. I'm contemplating the Death Valley Borax Marathon. I think I'll be well-enough recovered by then -- December 4 -- but most of the literature advises to wait several months before doing a second marathon. That would point me toward the Napa Valley Marathon, right here on my home turf.
Anyway, I set out to do more events this year and I did. Special thanks to Rebecca and Niko for being so cool about me taking the time to train and compete.
April
Millerton Lake (1.5K S, 40K B, 10K trail/road run)
Uvas (1K S, 18M B, 5M R)
May
Wildflower Half (2K S, 56M B, 13.1M R)
June
San Jose (1.5K S, 10K B, 10K R)
August
Half Vineman (2K S, 56M B, 13.1M R)
Tour of Napa Valley (100M bike ride)
October
Bizz Johnson Trail Marathon (26.2M R)
Saturday, October 16, 2004
Ralphing
Think Nader has faded away as a factor in presidential elections? We certainly haven't been hearing as much about him. And it doesn't appear as though he'll pull the 4 percent or so of the vote he did in 2000. But a recent New Republic piece by Ryan Lizza suggests Ralph could still do in the Dems (and give us four more years of Bush). Here's the key excerpt:
Despite the fact that he is registering barely 1 percent in national polls, Nader is indeed perfectly positioned to cost Kerry the election. Consider Kerry's current road to 270 electoral votes. The number of true toss-up states has dwindled to eleven: Florida, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Iowa, West Virginia, New Hampshire, Colorado, Nevada, and New Mexico. Nader is on the ballot in all of these states but Pennsylvania and Ohio, where his access is still the subject of litigation. Each of these states is close enough that Nader could make the difference, and the damage he could do to Kerry becomes more obvious when one looks at the combination of states Kerry is likely to need for victory. Assuming Bush wins Florida and Kerry wins Pennsylvania, Kerry must then win Ohio and some combination of three to five of the remaining eight small toss-up states. These eight states have two things in common: in each, the race is almost a dead heat, and, in each, Nader is polling between one and four points. In other words, Nader is doing best in the most closely contested states. For instance, an early October Gallup poll of registered voters in New Mexico showed Bush beating Kerry 47 to 46 percent, with Nader at 3 percent. An American Research Group poll in New Hampshire showed Bush and Kerry tied at 47 percent, with Nader at 1 percent. In Colorado, Gallup shows Bush and Kerry tied at 48 percent, with Nader at 2 percent. As pollster John Zogby noted in a recent analysis of his own numbers, "There is ... no doubt that Ralph Nader is hurting Kerry."
Think Nader has faded away as a factor in presidential elections? We certainly haven't been hearing as much about him. And it doesn't appear as though he'll pull the 4 percent or so of the vote he did in 2000. But a recent New Republic piece by Ryan Lizza suggests Ralph could still do in the Dems (and give us four more years of Bush). Here's the key excerpt:
Despite the fact that he is registering barely 1 percent in national polls, Nader is indeed perfectly positioned to cost Kerry the election. Consider Kerry's current road to 270 electoral votes. The number of true toss-up states has dwindled to eleven: Florida, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Iowa, West Virginia, New Hampshire, Colorado, Nevada, and New Mexico. Nader is on the ballot in all of these states but Pennsylvania and Ohio, where his access is still the subject of litigation. Each of these states is close enough that Nader could make the difference, and the damage he could do to Kerry becomes more obvious when one looks at the combination of states Kerry is likely to need for victory. Assuming Bush wins Florida and Kerry wins Pennsylvania, Kerry must then win Ohio and some combination of three to five of the remaining eight small toss-up states. These eight states have two things in common: in each, the race is almost a dead heat, and, in each, Nader is polling between one and four points. In other words, Nader is doing best in the most closely contested states. For instance, an early October Gallup poll of registered voters in New Mexico showed Bush beating Kerry 47 to 46 percent, with Nader at 3 percent. An American Research Group poll in New Hampshire showed Bush and Kerry tied at 47 percent, with Nader at 1 percent. In Colorado, Gallup shows Bush and Kerry tied at 48 percent, with Nader at 2 percent. As pollster John Zogby noted in a recent analysis of his own numbers, "There is ... no doubt that Ralph Nader is hurting Kerry."
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
Official Results
Everybody says it’s not about the time – it’s about having fun, or getting out, or staying fit. And in a way, that’s all true. Still, one of the best parts of doing races is studying the final results. The Bizz Johnson Trail Marathon results just arrived via email, and they show me with an official finishing time of 3:49:48. That placed me 10th among 28 finishers in the male 40-44 group, and 70th among 267 finishers overall. My per-mile pace was 8:47.
The winner? That would be Michael Fretz in 2:45:54. Other notable finishers: Allan Kerr, 12th overall in 3:14:07 (notable because the man is 61 years old); and Aaron Guerrero, three spots and two and half minutes behind. Aaron was born 45 years after Allan Kerr.
Everybody says it’s not about the time – it’s about having fun, or getting out, or staying fit. And in a way, that’s all true. Still, one of the best parts of doing races is studying the final results. The Bizz Johnson Trail Marathon results just arrived via email, and they show me with an official finishing time of 3:49:48. That placed me 10th among 28 finishers in the male 40-44 group, and 70th among 267 finishers overall. My per-mile pace was 8:47.
The winner? That would be Michael Fretz in 2:45:54. Other notable finishers: Allan Kerr, 12th overall in 3:14:07 (notable because the man is 61 years old); and Aaron Guerrero, three spots and two and half minutes behind. Aaron was born 45 years after Allan Kerr.
Monday, October 11, 2004
Running the Bizz
Well, it was pretty remarkable. I mean, there was nothing great about my performance -- I finished in just under 3 hours and 50 minutes, which is good for a first marathon, good for someone who has never run more than 16 miles, and good for running at altitude (between 4200 and 5600 feet in elevation). Good but not great. Great would have been sub-3:40.
What was remarkable about my first marathon -- the Bizz Johnson Trail Marathon -- was everything about it. Signing up less than two months before the race, quickly working a few long runs into the busy schedule, being careful not to destroy the knees in the process of getting ready. Not coming up with an excuse to bail -- and not being derailed by work or life. Then getting up there ... the five-hour drive from the Bay Area, the pre-race dinner with all these freaky and cool Western States veterans talking about 100-mile and 100K runs and shit. Waking at 5 on Race Day to get some coffee and food in me, and a dump out of me, before leaving the motel. The bus out of Susanville to the trailhead where we started: I love the conversations that pop up in the hours and minutes before a substantial endurance test. You see pretty far into people. I talked to an young guy from San Francisco who, beneath his cool, seemed to have a burning intensity; and an older woman from Seattle who was looking to do Ironman Canada in '06 and you knew she would. Then there was standing out in the woods in the 28-degree chill before the race began, waiting for the line to the Porta Potties to move, dammit, move already. And then running. Running and running and running. One down 25 to go. Two down 24 to go. Three down, 23 ... it's a long run. Of course, the mind is wandering all over the place while it happens. I must say, however, that I thought almost not at all about my soon-to-be ex-wife, who earlier this year unilaterally decided that her only way to happiness was to destroy our family. I'm tempted to say flat-out that I didn't think about her at all, because I can't remember doing so, but surely I must have. I don't know why my mind didn't go there. It always does on training runs. Maybe this was just too interesting in its own right. Sometimes it's hard not to see divorce and the overwhelming sense of loss and the bigness of the challenge ahead as "real life" -- you know, lots of "real life" going on, etc. But here, on Race Day, was a case of life overtaking life, and thank goodness for it.
About Mile 12 my knees began to hurt and I was going slower than I had anticipated. Beforehand I'd been thinking, oh, maybe an 8:15-8:30 pace. But I was closer to 9. Some serious doubt crept in: If was hurting at Mile 12 running 9-minute miles, what was going to happen at Mile 21?
Turns out I got faster. I hit the halfway mark about 1:57 and ran the second half in 1:53. The fact that we were losing about 80 feet of elevation each mile on the second half surely had something to do with it.
But I really believe the key for me was in accepting the pain and then letting it fade away. This mindset allowed me to just keep running. I wasn't tired. Aerobically and as far as my nutrition and hydration went, I was great, perfectly fine. The question was could I take the sharp joint and muscle pain. That appears to be what doing a marathon is all about, assuming you run at a comfortable pace.
So between miles 13 and 20 I tried to relax and cruise through it, enjoying the scenery as we hooked up with the Susan River and moved through the canyon it cuts in the Sierra. Not New England, certainly, but lots of brilliant yellow leaves alongside the river held between orange and brown walls. Every so often I'd approach another runner and that would give me the chance to fall into his (actually, more frequently, her) pace, think about how she was doing, imagine what she was feeling.
Things only became a little desperate around Mile 24. My big leg muscles were shooting off rockets of pain and were heavy as lead. But they had been performing the same action for so long, it's all they knew what to do, so they kept doing it: One foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other. Thank God the course -- a hard dirt/gravel road/trail all the way -- was smooth. If I had been required to vary from the sameness of the action, I'm sure I couldn't have kept running. A couple of times I sort of stumbled, after hitting a rock or something, and my leg muscles were so zapped, I almost crumbled to the ground.
But I kept running, never stopped and somehow, I stopped trying to fight or ignore or even embrace the pain, and simply brought it aboard as my companion. I got this idea in my head, crazy as this sounds, that this was why I was hear, on the far side of the Sierra, on the edge of the Great Basin: to run with pain.
By about Mile 23 it had become apparent that I might be able to beat 3:50, so that became my goal. At Mile 24 I was around 3:31, giving me 19 minutes to travel the last 2.2 miles. I tried to pick it up a bit. I figured if I hit Mile 25 by 3:39:30 I'd be in good shape. But at 3:39:30, there was no marker. A minute later, still no marker! I didn't think I was slowing down -- but maybe I was becoming so out of touch I just couldn't judge anymore?
No. There was no Mile 25 marker! This became apparent when I still hadn't hit it by 3:53 or so. Relieved and inspired, I gave it everything I had.
I finally got to Mile 26. Only a fifth of a mile to go. We crossed over the river one last time, went down a narrow trail hugging the side of the hill, then straight down into the finish at Hobo Camp, the trailhead just outside Susanville. A crowd of a few hundred was there and they cheered and said "Good job, great finish" (I finished hard, as always, but they say that to everyone). The clock was somewhere around 3:49:45 as I crossed. They stopped me, asked me how I was doing ("great," I said, and I was -- wasn't even breathing hard), and handed me my medal.
So now I've done a marathon. Twenty-four hours later, I'm not sure if it means nothing or everything.
Well, it was pretty remarkable. I mean, there was nothing great about my performance -- I finished in just under 3 hours and 50 minutes, which is good for a first marathon, good for someone who has never run more than 16 miles, and good for running at altitude (between 4200 and 5600 feet in elevation). Good but not great. Great would have been sub-3:40.
What was remarkable about my first marathon -- the Bizz Johnson Trail Marathon -- was everything about it. Signing up less than two months before the race, quickly working a few long runs into the busy schedule, being careful not to destroy the knees in the process of getting ready. Not coming up with an excuse to bail -- and not being derailed by work or life. Then getting up there ... the five-hour drive from the Bay Area, the pre-race dinner with all these freaky and cool Western States veterans talking about 100-mile and 100K runs and shit. Waking at 5 on Race Day to get some coffee and food in me, and a dump out of me, before leaving the motel. The bus out of Susanville to the trailhead where we started: I love the conversations that pop up in the hours and minutes before a substantial endurance test. You see pretty far into people. I talked to an young guy from San Francisco who, beneath his cool, seemed to have a burning intensity; and an older woman from Seattle who was looking to do Ironman Canada in '06 and you knew she would. Then there was standing out in the woods in the 28-degree chill before the race began, waiting for the line to the Porta Potties to move, dammit, move already. And then running. Running and running and running. One down 25 to go. Two down 24 to go. Three down, 23 ... it's a long run. Of course, the mind is wandering all over the place while it happens. I must say, however, that I thought almost not at all about my soon-to-be ex-wife, who earlier this year unilaterally decided that her only way to happiness was to destroy our family. I'm tempted to say flat-out that I didn't think about her at all, because I can't remember doing so, but surely I must have. I don't know why my mind didn't go there. It always does on training runs. Maybe this was just too interesting in its own right. Sometimes it's hard not to see divorce and the overwhelming sense of loss and the bigness of the challenge ahead as "real life" -- you know, lots of "real life" going on, etc. But here, on Race Day, was a case of life overtaking life, and thank goodness for it.
About Mile 12 my knees began to hurt and I was going slower than I had anticipated. Beforehand I'd been thinking, oh, maybe an 8:15-8:30 pace. But I was closer to 9. Some serious doubt crept in: If was hurting at Mile 12 running 9-minute miles, what was going to happen at Mile 21?
Turns out I got faster. I hit the halfway mark about 1:57 and ran the second half in 1:53. The fact that we were losing about 80 feet of elevation each mile on the second half surely had something to do with it.
But I really believe the key for me was in accepting the pain and then letting it fade away. This mindset allowed me to just keep running. I wasn't tired. Aerobically and as far as my nutrition and hydration went, I was great, perfectly fine. The question was could I take the sharp joint and muscle pain. That appears to be what doing a marathon is all about, assuming you run at a comfortable pace.
So between miles 13 and 20 I tried to relax and cruise through it, enjoying the scenery as we hooked up with the Susan River and moved through the canyon it cuts in the Sierra. Not New England, certainly, but lots of brilliant yellow leaves alongside the river held between orange and brown walls. Every so often I'd approach another runner and that would give me the chance to fall into his (actually, more frequently, her) pace, think about how she was doing, imagine what she was feeling.
Things only became a little desperate around Mile 24. My big leg muscles were shooting off rockets of pain and were heavy as lead. But they had been performing the same action for so long, it's all they knew what to do, so they kept doing it: One foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other. Thank God the course -- a hard dirt/gravel road/trail all the way -- was smooth. If I had been required to vary from the sameness of the action, I'm sure I couldn't have kept running. A couple of times I sort of stumbled, after hitting a rock or something, and my leg muscles were so zapped, I almost crumbled to the ground.
But I kept running, never stopped and somehow, I stopped trying to fight or ignore or even embrace the pain, and simply brought it aboard as my companion. I got this idea in my head, crazy as this sounds, that this was why I was hear, on the far side of the Sierra, on the edge of the Great Basin: to run with pain.
By about Mile 23 it had become apparent that I might be able to beat 3:50, so that became my goal. At Mile 24 I was around 3:31, giving me 19 minutes to travel the last 2.2 miles. I tried to pick it up a bit. I figured if I hit Mile 25 by 3:39:30 I'd be in good shape. But at 3:39:30, there was no marker. A minute later, still no marker! I didn't think I was slowing down -- but maybe I was becoming so out of touch I just couldn't judge anymore?
No. There was no Mile 25 marker! This became apparent when I still hadn't hit it by 3:53 or so. Relieved and inspired, I gave it everything I had.
I finally got to Mile 26. Only a fifth of a mile to go. We crossed over the river one last time, went down a narrow trail hugging the side of the hill, then straight down into the finish at Hobo Camp, the trailhead just outside Susanville. A crowd of a few hundred was there and they cheered and said "Good job, great finish" (I finished hard, as always, but they say that to everyone). The clock was somewhere around 3:49:45 as I crossed. They stopped me, asked me how I was doing ("great," I said, and I was -- wasn't even breathing hard), and handed me my medal.
So now I've done a marathon. Twenty-four hours later, I'm not sure if it means nothing or everything.
Sunday, October 10, 2004
Saturday, April 05, 2003
Sunday, January 26, 2003
Big Lessons
Before bed, Niko and I always hang out upstairs by ourselves for a while. I help him get dressed. We read or make a burrow for him to hide in. Tonight, just out of the bath, Niko plopped down on the big bed with a towel wrapped around him. He looked straight at me, his elbows on the bed, each hand on a cheek holding up his head, each eye as big as the harvest moon, and said, "Niko's doing a little thinking."
I asked him what he was thinking about.
"Baby"—that's our bird—"is old but not very old," he said.
I said that was right.
"Daddy," Niko said, "when is Baby going to die?"
I told him I didn't know, but that Baby was happy and healthy and he would probably live for a long, long time.
We talked more about Baby. About how he was 25 and parakeets can live to be 40, which means we have thousands and thousands of happy days to spend with Baby.
Then Niko asked about when Sammy, our cat, would die. I tried to explain that we don't know for sure, we can never know, but that most people and most animals get to live for a long time. Gradually, Niko asked about the most important people in his life—about his grandma Oonka, about me. Notably, there was one person he couldn't bring himself to ask about. Yep. Mommy.
We talked more about when people die and why they die. Then Niko said: "Somebody died. Somebody we like."
So I told him.
"Yes, Dorothy died. She was very old and after a long, full life, she died. We're all very sad that Dorothy died, but we're also happy that we get to have the memory of Dorothy, who was so nice and did so many great things for people."
Niko thought long and hard about all the things I was telling him this night, and he thought long and hard about this. He said, "Sombody else died. Somebody else who Mommy loves."
Mommy came upstairs just then, and Niko asked her what person who she loved had died. She said that Dorothy had and talked about Dorothy.
"Somebody else died, Mommy. Who else died who you loved?"
Rebecca said her Grandpa had, and she talked about how that made her sad, but she always felt happy that she had the memory of her wonderful Grandpa with her.
It was then that Niko began to cry. He was sitting in my lap. My eyes had filled with tears several minutes ago—for Dorothy and her friends and loved ones, for those of us who now missed Dorothy, and for Niko who now knew about death.
Now Niko was crying. "Curt is very sad," he said, referring to Dorothy's husband, who indeed is very sad. His sobs were gentle. We held him, touched him. Told him it was OK.
"Crying can help the sadness go away," I said after a while. I took a deep breath. "And a deep breath can help you relax." Niko took a deep breath. He yawned and rubbed his bleary eyes. It was time to go to bed.
Post script: The Napa Register published a very nice piece the day after Dorothy Searcy passed. You can read it here.
Before bed, Niko and I always hang out upstairs by ourselves for a while. I help him get dressed. We read or make a burrow for him to hide in. Tonight, just out of the bath, Niko plopped down on the big bed with a towel wrapped around him. He looked straight at me, his elbows on the bed, each hand on a cheek holding up his head, each eye as big as the harvest moon, and said, "Niko's doing a little thinking."
I asked him what he was thinking about.
"Baby"—that's our bird—"is old but not very old," he said.
I said that was right.
"Daddy," Niko said, "when is Baby going to die?"
I told him I didn't know, but that Baby was happy and healthy and he would probably live for a long, long time.
We talked more about Baby. About how he was 25 and parakeets can live to be 40, which means we have thousands and thousands of happy days to spend with Baby.
Then Niko asked about when Sammy, our cat, would die. I tried to explain that we don't know for sure, we can never know, but that most people and most animals get to live for a long time. Gradually, Niko asked about the most important people in his life—about his grandma Oonka, about me. Notably, there was one person he couldn't bring himself to ask about. Yep. Mommy.
We talked more about when people die and why they die. Then Niko said: "Somebody died. Somebody we like."
So I told him.
"Yes, Dorothy died. She was very old and after a long, full life, she died. We're all very sad that Dorothy died, but we're also happy that we get to have the memory of Dorothy, who was so nice and did so many great things for people."
Niko thought long and hard about all the things I was telling him this night, and he thought long and hard about this. He said, "Sombody else died. Somebody else who Mommy loves."
Mommy came upstairs just then, and Niko asked her what person who she loved had died. She said that Dorothy had and talked about Dorothy.
"Somebody else died, Mommy. Who else died who you loved?"
Rebecca said her Grandpa had, and she talked about how that made her sad, but she always felt happy that she had the memory of her wonderful Grandpa with her.
It was then that Niko began to cry. He was sitting in my lap. My eyes had filled with tears several minutes ago—for Dorothy and her friends and loved ones, for those of us who now missed Dorothy, and for Niko who now knew about death.
Now Niko was crying. "Curt is very sad," he said, referring to Dorothy's husband, who indeed is very sad. His sobs were gentle. We held him, touched him. Told him it was OK.
"Crying can help the sadness go away," I said after a while. I took a deep breath. "And a deep breath can help you relax." Niko took a deep breath. He yawned and rubbed his bleary eyes. It was time to go to bed.
Post script: The Napa Register published a very nice piece the day after Dorothy Searcy passed. You can read it here.
Thursday, January 16, 2003
1200 Jefferson Street
Yesterday was my last day at Balzac Communications. On Monday I'll start at Paterno Wines International. That'll be my third job in Napa, where we had moved exactly three years ago hoping to find a pot of gold at the end of wine.com's rainbow.
That really wasn't what it was all about, but I like to torture myself with the idea. Thought you'd strike it rich, eh buddy? Ha! Shoulda stayed up north… There's something awfully attractive about regret, isn't there? But in fact, one of the theories behind the move from Oregon back to California for the wine.com job was that if it didn't work out, I'd probably be set up for some interesting job in the wine industry. Which is precisely what happened.
Balzac was a great experience, but ever-so-slightly not the perfect place for me. At heart, I tend toward sullen, sensitive, impolite and sincere. Balzac is the opposite on all fronts. You really do have to be ready to chat. And joke. A solid 90 percent of the verbiage thrown around in large-group settings amounts to nonlethal darts. And whether you actually know or care about something doesn't matter because, after all, we're all PR professionals! It's not a matter of faking it. It's about doing it, having a take, being glib, being part of the party. All of which is perfectly reasonable and not that different from how the rest of mostly white, college-educated American culture comports itself. Or, in other words, yes, I know, I'm the weird one. Anyway, the point is that despite my great affection for pretty much everyone at Balzac, I always felt as though I were on the outside looking in. Now I move on.
Coming this weekend: Where I'm going
Yesterday was my last day at Balzac Communications. On Monday I'll start at Paterno Wines International. That'll be my third job in Napa, where we had moved exactly three years ago hoping to find a pot of gold at the end of wine.com's rainbow.
That really wasn't what it was all about, but I like to torture myself with the idea. Thought you'd strike it rich, eh buddy? Ha! Shoulda stayed up north… There's something awfully attractive about regret, isn't there? But in fact, one of the theories behind the move from Oregon back to California for the wine.com job was that if it didn't work out, I'd probably be set up for some interesting job in the wine industry. Which is precisely what happened.
Balzac was a great experience, but ever-so-slightly not the perfect place for me. At heart, I tend toward sullen, sensitive, impolite and sincere. Balzac is the opposite on all fronts. You really do have to be ready to chat. And joke. A solid 90 percent of the verbiage thrown around in large-group settings amounts to nonlethal darts. And whether you actually know or care about something doesn't matter because, after all, we're all PR professionals! It's not a matter of faking it. It's about doing it, having a take, being glib, being part of the party. All of which is perfectly reasonable and not that different from how the rest of mostly white, college-educated American culture comports itself. Or, in other words, yes, I know, I'm the weird one. Anyway, the point is that despite my great affection for pretty much everyone at Balzac, I always felt as though I were on the outside looking in. Now I move on.
Coming this weekend: Where I'm going
Thursday, January 02, 2003
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