Looking Out the Window at Work
This time when the rainy season came
a gray blanket, the sound of passing cars kicking up water
I felt old. Not tired, weary or spent. Not bored.
Rather, this: I'd been around a long time
knew the routine well now,
shifting into the depth of winter.
Shallow and unassuming, for the most part,
I concede, on the valley floor
where little pools and nothing slides.
But warm sunshine, here our raison d'etre,
was now gone, absent forever,
until it would be revelatory.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Not a Pretty Post
I've been suffering from abdominal pain for more than a week now, beginning mildly then becoming pretty intense the last 48 hours. The episode began a couple of days before the marathon; just a vague sense of things being slightly tight in the lower abdomen. It was such that it was easy to ignore. And on race day it never entered my mind; maybe it was gone. But on Monday it was back -- although, again, mildy. Of course, my quads were so destroyed by the race, I probably couldn't have noticed a little tummy ache. By Thursday my legs were fine but my gut was hurting. I woke up at 4 in the morning on Friday and couldn't sleep. Friday afternoon the constancy of the pain made it impossible to get any work done. I wasn't doubled over in pain, mind you. It was as though I had one big, full-abdomen -- from the ribs down to the groin -- cramp. Walking and moving around actually seemed to relieve the pain. Friday night was worse than Thursday, and today was worse than Friday. This evening, horrible. I don't have diarrhea, but I'm gassy (told you, not pretty stuff). I'm eating less, though I continue to have an appetite. BMs don't relieve the pain at all. Ginger ale helps a bit. Tums, nothing. I've had episodes like this before, but never lasting more than a couple of days. I think I may have a bit of irritable bowel syndrome. I think the stress of the marathon and some poor eating afterward might have pushed this to the degree it is happening. I think I may need to cut down on coffee -- green tea, here I come -- and alcohol. I'd also be curious to see how I'd do with less wheat and dairy. Whatever, if I'm not better by Monday, I'll go see the doc.
I've been suffering from abdominal pain for more than a week now, beginning mildly then becoming pretty intense the last 48 hours. The episode began a couple of days before the marathon; just a vague sense of things being slightly tight in the lower abdomen. It was such that it was easy to ignore. And on race day it never entered my mind; maybe it was gone. But on Monday it was back -- although, again, mildy. Of course, my quads were so destroyed by the race, I probably couldn't have noticed a little tummy ache. By Thursday my legs were fine but my gut was hurting. I woke up at 4 in the morning on Friday and couldn't sleep. Friday afternoon the constancy of the pain made it impossible to get any work done. I wasn't doubled over in pain, mind you. It was as though I had one big, full-abdomen -- from the ribs down to the groin -- cramp. Walking and moving around actually seemed to relieve the pain. Friday night was worse than Thursday, and today was worse than Friday. This evening, horrible. I don't have diarrhea, but I'm gassy (told you, not pretty stuff). I'm eating less, though I continue to have an appetite. BMs don't relieve the pain at all. Ginger ale helps a bit. Tums, nothing. I've had episodes like this before, but never lasting more than a couple of days. I think I may have a bit of irritable bowel syndrome. I think the stress of the marathon and some poor eating afterward might have pushed this to the degree it is happening. I think I may need to cut down on coffee -- green tea, here I come -- and alcohol. I'd also be curious to see how I'd do with less wheat and dairy. Whatever, if I'm not better by Monday, I'll go see the doc.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Rae Revealed
I didn't realize the California International Marathon folks had posted bios of all the pace leaders. So I've got more information on my guy Rae, beginning with, as you might have noticed, the fact that his name is spelled with an e, not a y. Sorry, Rae!
I've cut and pasted Rae's info below. As you can see, he's amazing. Not only has he done more than 130 ultramarathons, he holds the American record for a 100-mile road run, 12:12:19, set in 1989 at the Sri Chinmoy USA 100 Mile Championship (the run was done on single-mile loop course in Queens, NY). And in 1990 he set the American record for distance covered on a track in a 24-hour period -- 165.3 miles. All that, and from what I could tell, a heckuva nice guy, too.
Rae Clark
Home: Auburn, CA - Endurance Capital of the World
Age: 52
Occupation: Teacher/Coach
Date and name of first marathon: Mayor's Cup Marathon, San Francisco, 1978
Number of marathons completed: 154
Number of CIMs completed: 14
Marathon PR: 2:28:53
Marathon awards: 12 top finisher overall
Marathon finish of which you are most proud and why: my PR 2:28:53 at Las Vegas (1989) because I trained hard and it paid off. I felt strong the whole way.
Number of ultra marathons completed: 131
Ultra marathon awards: 30 top finisher overall
Ultra marathon finish of which you are most proud and why: SRI Chinmoy 100-Mile National Championship (NYC, 1989) and the 24-Hour Megan's Run. I set American Records at both events.
How many Boston Marathons? 5
Coaching experience: 11 years of track & field, 10 years of cross country both youth and high school
Other pacing experiences: I have paced dozens of runners to personal bests during the last 21 years. I've had a great time pacing the 3:20 group at the 2001 and 2002 CIMs, the 3:30 group at CIM 2003, and the 3:10 group at the 2004 CIM.
Other hobbies: backpacking, hiking, biking.
Anything else you think your Pace Group would like to know about you:
I have paced many individuals in the past and my CIM Pace Team Leader experiences have been so positive that I am looking forward doing it again this year!
I didn't realize the California International Marathon folks had posted bios of all the pace leaders. So I've got more information on my guy Rae, beginning with, as you might have noticed, the fact that his name is spelled with an e, not a y. Sorry, Rae!
I've cut and pasted Rae's info below. As you can see, he's amazing. Not only has he done more than 130 ultramarathons, he holds the American record for a 100-mile road run, 12:12:19, set in 1989 at the Sri Chinmoy USA 100 Mile Championship (the run was done on single-mile loop course in Queens, NY). And in 1990 he set the American record for distance covered on a track in a 24-hour period -- 165.3 miles. All that, and from what I could tell, a heckuva nice guy, too.
Rae Clark
Home: Auburn, CA - Endurance Capital of the World
Age: 52
Occupation: Teacher/Coach
Date and name of first marathon: Mayor's Cup Marathon, San Francisco, 1978
Number of marathons completed: 154
Number of CIMs completed: 14
Marathon PR: 2:28:53
Marathon awards: 12 top finisher overall
Marathon finish of which you are most proud and why: my PR 2:28:53 at Las Vegas (1989) because I trained hard and it paid off. I felt strong the whole way.
Number of ultra marathons completed: 131
Ultra marathon awards: 30 top finisher overall
Ultra marathon finish of which you are most proud and why: SRI Chinmoy 100-Mile National Championship (NYC, 1989) and the 24-Hour Megan's Run. I set American Records at both events.
How many Boston Marathons? 5
Coaching experience: 11 years of track & field, 10 years of cross country both youth and high school
Other pacing experiences: I have paced dozens of runners to personal bests during the last 21 years. I've had a great time pacing the 3:20 group at the 2001 and 2002 CIMs, the 3:30 group at CIM 2003, and the 3:10 group at the 2004 CIM.
Other hobbies: backpacking, hiking, biking.
Anything else you think your Pace Group would like to know about you:
I have paced many individuals in the past and my CIM Pace Team Leader experiences have been so positive that I am looking forward doing it again this year!
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Chasing Ray
I know why they do it. By making us get up at 4:30 a.m. and be on a bus to the start line by 5:15, and then beginning the race at 7 after we've stood out in the freezing cold for an hour, most of the time in line to use the typically inadequate number of portable toilets, race organizers can no doubt promise the cops and city officials the whole big stinking mess will vanish from their streets before nightfall. Still. Running 26.2 miles is pretty tough -- for me and for most non-Kenyans. If the race is being held April through October (we're restricting Pete's Law of Marathon Start Times to the northern hemisphere), by all means, start it early to avoid heat issues. But in December in Sacramento? Fat chance midday temperatures will peak higher than the mid-60s. So you start the race at 9 a.m. Most folks -- who also might be known as "paying customers" -- would end up running with temps in the 40s and 50s. Maybe a few people would plod the final, gruesome few miles with the temperature hovering around 63. Oh, the oppression! To me, this seems like a very good plan -- and even with a generous six-hour limit, it still leaves your course clear by 4 p.m.
But don't get the wrong idea. I loved the California International Marathon, begun in Folsom before sunrise and ended in the shadow of the state capitol with the sun very low in the southeastern sky indeed. I loved it in the way that this sort of thing is always loved by a me sort of person. (This sort of thing: a long, physically and psychologically challenging athletic event. A me sort of person: fairly fit and dedicated, but not especially gifted at the discipline.)
You get out there and you take your first step and you say to yourself, OK, one step closer to done. And you say that periodically but often for the next nearly four hours, maybe 6,000 more times. And in between you go a million places, pondering the (running) form of the woman up ahead in the black tights with fluorescent green shorts over them and a tight purple bib top with some red sports bra straps showing above the neckline; appreciating the subtle but helpful hand signal of the guy moving left in front of you to pass someone; noticing after eight miles of having a wet nose and finally wiping it dry that it felt better to have wiped it dry (with the $2 cotton gloves you bought at the expo the day before) ... the list could go on forever. I said your mind goes in a million places! Of course, most of those places are in the neighborhood of How You Are Doing. Also known as, the Pace Place.
Which is where Ray comes in. Ray was my pace guy. Maybe you didn't know this -- I only learned about it in the past few months -- but at a lot of the bigger marathons they recruit volunteers to run the race at a specified pace, allowing competitors gunning for a time to be pulled along to success and admiration among their peer group. Ray was the 3:30 pacer at CIM this morning. Ray looked like he was in his late 40s or early 50s. He was a little scruffy and ridiculously, perfectly suited for his job. The pace was easy for him to hold (easy for me to say) and he had big ol' biceps that made running the whole damn 26.2 while holding a stick with a red "3:30" sign atop it appear to be no great feat. This required keeping his carrying hand at shoulder level, which is hardly the way you want to run a marathon. Not to cast aspersions, but quite a few of the other pacers were not so diligent as Ray on this count.
Ray talked, though wisely he did not keep up a constant chatter. He talked about the course -- letting us know when hills would come and when we'd have a chance to coast a bit, always spinning whatever we were about to encounter in a believably positive direction. He celebrated the arrival of another mile marker and reminded us that it meant that we had one fewer miles to go than we did before (analogous to the step thing I talked about earlier, but a good bit more powerful). He talked about Boston -- a lot. Most of the 3:30 group were aiming to qualify for Boston; it's the time 45-49 year olds need to race in the world's most famous marathon. As we ran, Ray said, "This sign shouldn't say '3:30,' on it. It should say, 'Boston.' We are on the road to Boston." Ray was confident, though not obnoxiously so, that we would all make it.
For the first four miles I ran just a little bit in front of Ray, then alongside him for a while, then just a few steps behind him for a very long time. I came into the race not really trusting I could run a 3:30. I'd run only two previous marathons, with a best of 3:41 at Napa in March. I was worried the 3:30 pace -- 8:01/mile -- was quick for me. Going out at that pace, I wondered what would happen come Mile 15 or 18 or 23. I wondered if I'd make it, period, after stretching myself from the start.
Wondered. Ha. The word I should use is "feared." I was afraid -- but a part of me wanted to take on the fear. Ray made it a lot easier to do so. Through Folsom and Orangevale and Fair Oaks I told myself to stay with Ray as long as I could. At Mile 8, I said that would be the halfway mark, at least. At the halfway mark, I said Mile 16, at least. (My left knee was hurting terrifically then, but I concentrated on staying with Ray and I listened to Ray and the pain eventually subsided.) At 18, I said 20. Still I stuck. And then, at 21, Ray began to pull away. But of course Ray was running the same pace he had the entire race. It was his job, his duty. I, meanwhile, was fading.
In many ways, I felt good. I had been enjoying the race. The crowds were great. I wanted to be all cynical and dismissive of the spectators shouting nonsense like, "Looking great, 755," when I had snot dripping out of my nose and I was listing and pallid. But it was all great. There was the guy who looked like he just finished the swing shift at the steel factory -- imagine there were still factories in this country -- reading from the Sacramento Bee's list of the entrant numbers and names, calling out, "Way to go (pause to find the name) … Suzy!" "Uh … (pause) … James, you are so all over this race it isn't even funny!" There were old folks, young folks, rich folks, poor folks -- the whole darn beautiful tapestry dipped in a melting pot that is this great nation of ours, all of 'em out early, in the cold, to watch people run by them and shout words of appreciation and encouragement.
So I was having fun and I was with Ray and then came the fade. Yes, the fade. Not stomach trouble. Stomach was great. Head, too, was solid, no foggy-groggy where am I stuff. It was my quads. Tight, tight, tight. I ran as hard as I could -- it didn't hurt any more to run hard than it did to run easy, really. Only stopping would have made the pain go away. But 9-plus miles were all I could manage. I hit the Mile 21 sign at 2:48, an even 8 minute/mile pace. The next 5.2 miles took me 47:32, a 9:07 pace. Miles 22-24 were the toughest. You dream of it being over and embrace and push back and embrace and push back again the sense of deliverance you believe the end will bring. Yet somehow, even as you sink deeper into your own pain and the contemplation of it, the experience moves beyond you and you beyond it. You notice among the scattered spectators a little guy just barely old enough to stand teetering and falling, plop, and another maybe three years old doing two quick toddler sneezes. It brings up a mental image of your little boy and you wonder what he'll think when he's 43 and looks at Dad's silly collection of marathon and triathlon finishing medals. You endure DJs spinning tunes way, way too loud, and an indiesh band playing a song whose lyrics capture you for five or 10 or maybe 20 yards, who knows? The marathon is a weird sort of parade but better because the crowd is performing too. One time, a woman in the crowd tailed her running friend for about 100 yards shouting encouragement, offering gu, taking her cap, always coming up with one more thing just when you thought she had been left behind. She was really loud and the guy running next to me kept muttering quietly but with scary intensity, "Shut up! Shut up!" I understood his point, she was obnoxious. But she was beautiful, too, this the Wacky Friend who so much wanted to help.
I don't know. It was nothing special -- there are dozens of marathons like this around the country every year -- but it was, like life itself, spectacular.
Oh, my time: 3 hours, 35 minutes, 32 seconds, according to my Garmin and the chip.
I know why they do it. By making us get up at 4:30 a.m. and be on a bus to the start line by 5:15, and then beginning the race at 7 after we've stood out in the freezing cold for an hour, most of the time in line to use the typically inadequate number of portable toilets, race organizers can no doubt promise the cops and city officials the whole big stinking mess will vanish from their streets before nightfall. Still. Running 26.2 miles is pretty tough -- for me and for most non-Kenyans. If the race is being held April through October (we're restricting Pete's Law of Marathon Start Times to the northern hemisphere), by all means, start it early to avoid heat issues. But in December in Sacramento? Fat chance midday temperatures will peak higher than the mid-60s. So you start the race at 9 a.m. Most folks -- who also might be known as "paying customers" -- would end up running with temps in the 40s and 50s. Maybe a few people would plod the final, gruesome few miles with the temperature hovering around 63. Oh, the oppression! To me, this seems like a very good plan -- and even with a generous six-hour limit, it still leaves your course clear by 4 p.m.
But don't get the wrong idea. I loved the California International Marathon, begun in Folsom before sunrise and ended in the shadow of the state capitol with the sun very low in the southeastern sky indeed. I loved it in the way that this sort of thing is always loved by a me sort of person. (This sort of thing: a long, physically and psychologically challenging athletic event. A me sort of person: fairly fit and dedicated, but not especially gifted at the discipline.)
You get out there and you take your first step and you say to yourself, OK, one step closer to done. And you say that periodically but often for the next nearly four hours, maybe 6,000 more times. And in between you go a million places, pondering the (running) form of the woman up ahead in the black tights with fluorescent green shorts over them and a tight purple bib top with some red sports bra straps showing above the neckline; appreciating the subtle but helpful hand signal of the guy moving left in front of you to pass someone; noticing after eight miles of having a wet nose and finally wiping it dry that it felt better to have wiped it dry (with the $2 cotton gloves you bought at the expo the day before) ... the list could go on forever. I said your mind goes in a million places! Of course, most of those places are in the neighborhood of How You Are Doing. Also known as, the Pace Place.
Which is where Ray comes in. Ray was my pace guy. Maybe you didn't know this -- I only learned about it in the past few months -- but at a lot of the bigger marathons they recruit volunteers to run the race at a specified pace, allowing competitors gunning for a time to be pulled along to success and admiration among their peer group. Ray was the 3:30 pacer at CIM this morning. Ray looked like he was in his late 40s or early 50s. He was a little scruffy and ridiculously, perfectly suited for his job. The pace was easy for him to hold (easy for me to say) and he had big ol' biceps that made running the whole damn 26.2 while holding a stick with a red "3:30" sign atop it appear to be no great feat. This required keeping his carrying hand at shoulder level, which is hardly the way you want to run a marathon. Not to cast aspersions, but quite a few of the other pacers were not so diligent as Ray on this count.
Ray talked, though wisely he did not keep up a constant chatter. He talked about the course -- letting us know when hills would come and when we'd have a chance to coast a bit, always spinning whatever we were about to encounter in a believably positive direction. He celebrated the arrival of another mile marker and reminded us that it meant that we had one fewer miles to go than we did before (analogous to the step thing I talked about earlier, but a good bit more powerful). He talked about Boston -- a lot. Most of the 3:30 group were aiming to qualify for Boston; it's the time 45-49 year olds need to race in the world's most famous marathon. As we ran, Ray said, "This sign shouldn't say '3:30,' on it. It should say, 'Boston.' We are on the road to Boston." Ray was confident, though not obnoxiously so, that we would all make it.
For the first four miles I ran just a little bit in front of Ray, then alongside him for a while, then just a few steps behind him for a very long time. I came into the race not really trusting I could run a 3:30. I'd run only two previous marathons, with a best of 3:41 at Napa in March. I was worried the 3:30 pace -- 8:01/mile -- was quick for me. Going out at that pace, I wondered what would happen come Mile 15 or 18 or 23. I wondered if I'd make it, period, after stretching myself from the start.
Wondered. Ha. The word I should use is "feared." I was afraid -- but a part of me wanted to take on the fear. Ray made it a lot easier to do so. Through Folsom and Orangevale and Fair Oaks I told myself to stay with Ray as long as I could. At Mile 8, I said that would be the halfway mark, at least. At the halfway mark, I said Mile 16, at least. (My left knee was hurting terrifically then, but I concentrated on staying with Ray and I listened to Ray and the pain eventually subsided.) At 18, I said 20. Still I stuck. And then, at 21, Ray began to pull away. But of course Ray was running the same pace he had the entire race. It was his job, his duty. I, meanwhile, was fading.
In many ways, I felt good. I had been enjoying the race. The crowds were great. I wanted to be all cynical and dismissive of the spectators shouting nonsense like, "Looking great, 755," when I had snot dripping out of my nose and I was listing and pallid. But it was all great. There was the guy who looked like he just finished the swing shift at the steel factory -- imagine there were still factories in this country -- reading from the Sacramento Bee's list of the entrant numbers and names, calling out, "Way to go (pause to find the name) … Suzy!" "Uh … (pause) … James, you are so all over this race it isn't even funny!" There were old folks, young folks, rich folks, poor folks -- the whole darn beautiful tapestry dipped in a melting pot that is this great nation of ours, all of 'em out early, in the cold, to watch people run by them and shout words of appreciation and encouragement.
So I was having fun and I was with Ray and then came the fade. Yes, the fade. Not stomach trouble. Stomach was great. Head, too, was solid, no foggy-groggy where am I stuff. It was my quads. Tight, tight, tight. I ran as hard as I could -- it didn't hurt any more to run hard than it did to run easy, really. Only stopping would have made the pain go away. But 9-plus miles were all I could manage. I hit the Mile 21 sign at 2:48, an even 8 minute/mile pace. The next 5.2 miles took me 47:32, a 9:07 pace. Miles 22-24 were the toughest. You dream of it being over and embrace and push back and embrace and push back again the sense of deliverance you believe the end will bring. Yet somehow, even as you sink deeper into your own pain and the contemplation of it, the experience moves beyond you and you beyond it. You notice among the scattered spectators a little guy just barely old enough to stand teetering and falling, plop, and another maybe three years old doing two quick toddler sneezes. It brings up a mental image of your little boy and you wonder what he'll think when he's 43 and looks at Dad's silly collection of marathon and triathlon finishing medals. You endure DJs spinning tunes way, way too loud, and an indiesh band playing a song whose lyrics capture you for five or 10 or maybe 20 yards, who knows? The marathon is a weird sort of parade but better because the crowd is performing too. One time, a woman in the crowd tailed her running friend for about 100 yards shouting encouragement, offering gu, taking her cap, always coming up with one more thing just when you thought she had been left behind. She was really loud and the guy running next to me kept muttering quietly but with scary intensity, "Shut up! Shut up!" I understood his point, she was obnoxious. But she was beautiful, too, this the Wacky Friend who so much wanted to help.
I don't know. It was nothing special -- there are dozens of marathons like this around the country every year -- but it was, like life itself, spectacular.
Oh, my time: 3 hours, 35 minutes, 32 seconds, according to my Garmin and the chip.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
How I Celebrated
- Worked.
- Swam 43 laps (one for each year)
- Put hot water in the watch-the-coasts-disappear-due-to-global-warming mug that Anna gave me.
- Had a cookie that Karen gave me.
- Got burgers and fries from In-N-Out with Niko: Good burgers, but what was with that goofy cashier? I say to her, "Double-Double with the works, including fried onions; cheeseburger, no nothing, just bun, meat and cheese; and an order of fries." She rings it up and we've got a Double-Double, a cheeseburger, two fries, and a medium Coke! As we wait for our food, I see that EVERYONE picking up food is noticing an error in their order.
- Opened a bottle of 2001 Ridge Lytton Springs to accompany burger and fries (no, this wasn't a la Miles; we brought the food home). Beautiful Zinfandel, he said, pouring himself one more glass than was prudent on a work night.
- Chatted with Niko about global warming while sipping '01 Lytton Springs. Niko: "Wine is a good way to tell if there's global warming because if there's global warming the wine will taste different. I can't remember, are they better wines with global warming or not as good?"
- Worked.
- Swam 43 laps (one for each year)
- Put hot water in the watch-the-coasts-disappear-due-to-global-warming mug that Anna gave me.
- Had a cookie that Karen gave me.
- Got burgers and fries from In-N-Out with Niko: Good burgers, but what was with that goofy cashier? I say to her, "Double-Double with the works, including fried onions; cheeseburger, no nothing, just bun, meat and cheese; and an order of fries." She rings it up and we've got a Double-Double, a cheeseburger, two fries, and a medium Coke! As we wait for our food, I see that EVERYONE picking up food is noticing an error in their order.
- Opened a bottle of 2001 Ridge Lytton Springs to accompany burger and fries (no, this wasn't a la Miles; we brought the food home). Beautiful Zinfandel, he said, pouring himself one more glass than was prudent on a work night.
- Chatted with Niko about global warming while sipping '01 Lytton Springs. Niko: "Wine is a good way to tell if there's global warming because if there's global warming the wine will taste different. I can't remember, are they better wines with global warming or not as good?"
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Nevermind
A blog compiling corrections from newspapers around the country -- that would be fun. Maybe a project for the new year. Right now, there's this (stolen from L.A. Observed):
Correction o' the day, from the Daily News: "A story Friday misquoted Los Angeles school board member David Tokofsky in regard to a comment he made about Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa's push for authority over local schools. Tokofsky referred to the mayor's growing up in the City Terrace neighborhood rather than calling him a city terrorista.
A blog compiling corrections from newspapers around the country -- that would be fun. Maybe a project for the new year. Right now, there's this (stolen from L.A. Observed):
Correction o' the day, from the Daily News: "A story Friday misquoted Los Angeles school board member David Tokofsky in regard to a comment he made about Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa's push for authority over local schools. Tokofsky referred to the mayor's growing up in the City Terrace neighborhood rather than calling him a city terrorista.
Friday, November 25, 2005
Dumb Run
I was supposed to do 12 miles at a comfortable pace. I don't know what got into me. The first couple miles came in at 16 minutes, and I felt good. So I stuck with the 8 minutes/mile pace. Well, actually, I sped up a bit -- and what the heck, if you're going to run 12, why not go another mile (point one) and make it a half-marathon?
Because I finally downloaded the software I needed to upload my Garmin run data, I can give you all the details:
Lap 1 2.01 miles 16.01 7:59/mi
Lap 2 2.75 miles 21:58 7:58/mi
Lap 3 2.76 miles 21:34 7:48/mi
Lap 4 2.74 miles 21:14 7:44/mi
Lap 5 2.05 miles 15:10 7:24/mi
Lap 6 0.79 miles 05:33 7:00/mi
Total 13.10 miles 1:41:32 7:44/mi
Hopefully I'll recover from this slightly overboard effort by Sacto (Dec 4). Course, that said, it WAS fun, so what the hell.
I was supposed to do 12 miles at a comfortable pace. I don't know what got into me. The first couple miles came in at 16 minutes, and I felt good. So I stuck with the 8 minutes/mile pace. Well, actually, I sped up a bit -- and what the heck, if you're going to run 12, why not go another mile (point one) and make it a half-marathon?
Because I finally downloaded the software I needed to upload my Garmin run data, I can give you all the details:
Lap 1 2.01 miles 16.01 7:59/mi
Lap 2 2.75 miles 21:58 7:58/mi
Lap 3 2.76 miles 21:34 7:48/mi
Lap 4 2.74 miles 21:14 7:44/mi
Lap 5 2.05 miles 15:10 7:24/mi
Lap 6 0.79 miles 05:33 7:00/mi
Total 13.10 miles 1:41:32 7:44/mi
Hopefully I'll recover from this slightly overboard effort by Sacto (Dec 4). Course, that said, it WAS fun, so what the hell.
News of the Weird
Tri-Valley Herald neglects to properly apostrophize "It's" in a headline. Check it out.
Tri-Valley Herald neglects to properly apostrophize "It's" in a headline. Check it out.
Thursday, November 24, 2005
New Feature: Crap I'm Tired Of
I think I have a pretty high tolerance for crap and I've never thought it great fun to spend a lot of energy complaining about that which is, in the great scheme of things, unimportant, or which I can easily avoid or ignore. For instance, I'm not inclined to join in on all the Rachael Ray bashing that is all the rage these days. But perhaps not all clickies come with on-off or channel-changing buttons. Thank goodness I have one of the good ones. Anyway, criticizing nearly anything on Food Network these days is like using a fucking bazooka to shoot fish stuffed into a two-gallon bucket. Thank God for Alton Brown.
Some crap, however, is either harder to avoid or more damaging to the culture -- or both. Because I know you care, today I begin cataloguing them on this site.
Crap I'm Tired Of, Item 1:
Sleep Train commercials, especially those delivered by "news" anchors. I have a terrible habit, picked up from my father (always blame the parents), of listening to news and talk radio. Anyway, I don't mind the talk-show hosts delivering Sleep Train commercials. But news anchors? I suppose it didn't shock me when I heard the KGO afternoon duo selling out. I expected better from KCBS. News people are constantly amazed at the lack of respect they command these days. Well, uh, maybe the fact that you shill for a mattress company is part of the answer. And yeah, we KNOW they'll deliver the mattress that day if you order it buy noon AND they'll take away your old mattress for free.
(Related thought: Interesting marketing strategy by Sleep Train -- inundating radio. Or maybe I just fit their target demographic perfectly? Doesn't seem to matter where I go, Sleep Train is there: KFOG, KGO, KNBR, KSFO (I get perverse pleasure out of listening to freaky wingnut conservative wackos, which is a shamefully deficient explanation for why I ever tune it in, but it's true))....
I think I have a pretty high tolerance for crap and I've never thought it great fun to spend a lot of energy complaining about that which is, in the great scheme of things, unimportant, or which I can easily avoid or ignore. For instance, I'm not inclined to join in on all the Rachael Ray bashing that is all the rage these days. But perhaps not all clickies come with on-off or channel-changing buttons. Thank goodness I have one of the good ones. Anyway, criticizing nearly anything on Food Network these days is like using a fucking bazooka to shoot fish stuffed into a two-gallon bucket. Thank God for Alton Brown.
Some crap, however, is either harder to avoid or more damaging to the culture -- or both. Because I know you care, today I begin cataloguing them on this site.
Crap I'm Tired Of, Item 1:
Sleep Train commercials, especially those delivered by "news" anchors. I have a terrible habit, picked up from my father (always blame the parents), of listening to news and talk radio. Anyway, I don't mind the talk-show hosts delivering Sleep Train commercials. But news anchors? I suppose it didn't shock me when I heard the KGO afternoon duo selling out. I expected better from KCBS. News people are constantly amazed at the lack of respect they command these days. Well, uh, maybe the fact that you shill for a mattress company is part of the answer. And yeah, we KNOW they'll deliver the mattress that day if you order it buy noon AND they'll take away your old mattress for free.
(Related thought: Interesting marketing strategy by Sleep Train -- inundating radio. Or maybe I just fit their target demographic perfectly? Doesn't seem to matter where I go, Sleep Train is there: KFOG, KGO, KNBR, KSFO (I get perverse pleasure out of listening to freaky wingnut conservative wackos, which is a shamefully deficient explanation for why I ever tune it in, but it's true))....
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