“The races that go perfectly smoothly
don’t teach you a damn thing. It’s when things go sideways
that you find a deeper level, look inward,
and build a mental toolbox for life.”
— jeff browning
—
Dear Bronco Billy:
You have never been one to back down from a challenge. I’m sending you all my stored-up juju in hopes you get your second wind and make yet another comeback in a prolific career. We need you.
This will make one hell of an addition to that mental toolbox.
Sincerely,
your fan gary
I seem to recognize your face
Haunting, familiar, yet I can’t seem to place it
Cannot find the candle of thought to light your name
— Edward Louis Severson III
—
When you run a nudge under 11 miles on a teeny indoor track, you have a lot of time to think. And remember. Things like this.
The date was January 26, 1974. The place was the San Angelo Holiday Inn. The weather was cold and windy, one of those icy West Texas days that the chamber of commerce neglects to mention in the brochures.
I was working as a dishwasher at the hotel. This was purely because Rhonda Hudson was working as a waitress there and would occasionally come into the kitchen to drop off her orders. You would have to be a lovestruck 17-year-old to appreciate this.
On this particular day, we were not in the kitchen. We were upstairs at the front of the hotel, watching through the large window as a highly anticipated tour bus pulled into the parking lot.
The brightly lit sign on the front said simply: “Porter Wagoner.”
As an aspiring hippie, I wasn’t much of a country music fan. But I had spent a good chunk of my misspent youth in Vancourt, Texas, population 6. Two of those folks were my grandparents.
Granddad ran the little combination country store/gas station/post office in the tiny farming community, so the young Smith Boys would hang out there, playing crocinole to the death and eating expired chocolate bars. It was many years later that I discovered Hershey bars weren’t supposed to be sickly white.
The coveted overnight stays with the grandparents meant camping out in their living room, roughly 20 feet from a nonstop serenade of 18-wheelers that roared by on the highway on a timetable not suited for kids. But these visits came with a price: Granddad’s TV shows.
We would watch Lawrence Welk, the Grand Ole Opry and Hee-Haw. Mostly, Granddad loved The Porter Wagoner Show. He was a country singer with a spectacular technicolor sequined suit, later to be appropriated by a little old band from Texas, and a sidekick named Dolly. We must have watched that show about once for every Hershey bar I ate there. A lot.
Several years had passed by the time that bus pulled up at the Holiday Inn, but it still felt like Santa arriving. We didn’t have many celebrities come through town, and I couldn’t recall ever seeing one this close. The tension mounted as the bus sat in the parking lot.
The doors opened. The band started piling out. There was Porter Wagoner, disappointingly dressed in civilian clothes.
And then, Dolly Parton.
She was angelic. I had a pang of remorse for feeling this way with Rhonda Hudson in such close proximity. She stepped off the bus, bundled up against the cold and wind. The blonde mane atop her head was part hair, part halo. It was magnificent.
And then it took off, flying across the parking lot.
It was only at this moment I realized it was a wig. I had been an idealistic youth, assuming that Minnie Pearl went around in real life wearing a hat with a price tag hanging off it, John Wayne was a cowboy, and Dolly Parton had the world’s most fantastic hair.
As it turned out, she did. And it was quite mobile.
Someone from the band was able to capture the wannabe chinchilla before it scurried across the county line, and she placed it back on her head at a slight angle. They continued into the Holiday Inn, which at the time was the swankiest spot in San Angelo, even if the dishwashing was sub-par.
I never saw her after that. I had to be content to stay with Rhonda Hudson, which in hindsight was quite unfortunate. Although I’m fairly certain that was Rhonda Hudson’s actual hair.
I read later that year that Dolly Parton had parted ways with Porter Wagoner to attempt a solo career. This seemed like a profoundly bad idea to me, given that she had a pretty sweet gig and a comfortable future. But I suppose you go wherever your hairpiece leads you.
Now and then I wonder what became of her. The music industry is such a brutal place. Two of the three guys in that little old band from Texas in Porter Wagoner suits died, you know.
Still, I hope things turned out OK. She seemed like she was well grounded, even if her hair was not. A lifetime of angelic work should be rewarded, whether she ever made it to stardom or not. There’s something to be said for working 9 to 5.
I hope heaven is a lot like Dollywood.
And maybe not too windy.
And then the Garmin buzzes, and your run is over.
See my lonely life unfold
I see it every day
See my lonely mind explode
Since I’ve gone away.
— vincent damon furnier
—
I arrive at the SCC fitness center to use the indoor track. My feet are a bit banged up, but my legs feel fine despite the weekend’s sufferfest, a testament to the Fit PA Fancy Pants Training Plan©.
The woman at the counter looks up and says, “Going for a run, right?”
Must’ve been the Freeda’s Run race shirt that gave me away. Or maybe because I’m a regular during the summer. Or possibly my biceps glaringly indicate that I’m not here for the weight machines.
“Yes,” I reply. I think I’ve mentioned my love of spontaneous conversation.
“Well, at least you’re running inside. You’d have to be crazy to run outside in this heat.”
“Yes,” I agree. “Yes, you would.”
Weren’t you there when the carousel burnt down?
The fire and confusion, the smoke and the sound
I swear you there when the carousel burnt down
We were all around.
— todd harry rundgren
—
The mission seemed simple enough. Say hello to Carlo the Hammer, and then run around in loops forever.
Little did I know.
How hard could it be? Sure, I hadn’t seen him in a few decades, but somehow I have managed to maintain my youthful charm over the years with virtually the same appearance as Third-Grade Gary. Surely he would be the same, yeah?
Just in case, I cheated. I asked the AI overlords to show me what he would look like after 30 years.
Other than being slightly dubious that he’s still wearing the same earring, I was confident. And so the day arrived.
I got there when the gates opened at 5 p.m. to get a good spot, which turned out to be between a deranged guy from Prescott who has been in the mountains a few kilos too long, and a 35-year-old woman with the unbound energy of a dalmatian puppy. This was her first ultra. She asked me for advice, given my appearance of being extremely old and therefore wise. I told her she should say hi every time she passed me on the course. This proved to be an unfortunate joke after the 350th time she came flying by. Damn kids. Stay off my lawn.
The rings charred and tarnished all over the ground
And our heads hung down
And we all left town
The next day
Where was Carlo? I was now On A Mission.
The loop is 500 meters, so I set out to walk around it before the race. This proved trickier than I had envisioned. I had to look closely at every person. This requires Eye Contact, which leads to “Hello,” which can trigger “Conversation.” Introverts do not like conversation. So I developed a head down, frowning, look like I’m searching for something, no not you, persona, with varying degrees of success.
A full loop led to no Carlo. But it was early. So I spent an hour at my little base camp, untangling my Christmas lights and swapping stories with my neighbors about Prescott vs. Georgia and Dr Pepper vs. Coke and Crown King vs. Whiskey Row. I was at the end of the loop next to the porta-pots to ensure that the aroma would prevent me from taking breaks. Surely Carlo would come by at some point, right?
But he did not.
And so I set out for another loop about a half hour before the start, thinking everyone would be here by now. So many faces. And none appeared to be his.
Imagine you’re going rim-to-rim-to-rim in the Grand Canyon. A friend has told you someone named Jordan is hiking there as well. So every time you come across a group of people, you ask “Is there a Jordan in this party?” Granted, nobody would ever do something this silly. Still, you can imagine the odds of success. Roughly the same as me finishing this race.
And nothing. No Carlo to be found. I may have seen Jordan, but he was in a party, so I didn’t want to disturb him.
The children all cried when the carousel burnt down
The old ladies sighed as the carousel burnt down
The rest of us lied as the carousel burnt down
And the flames did fly
And so we lined up for the race. I briefly wandered up to the front, where he would be, with about a minute to go. But who knows. Sunglasses and game faces. I hurried back to my starting spot, somewhere after the slowest person but before the dairy farm.
The race began.
I had barely started when the first runner passed me, already on his second loop. I was pretty sure it was him! Same body type, same running gait. He was wearing a baseball cap and nondescript shorts and shirt, so it was hard to tell. But then a couple of other fast guys came by. Maybe and possibly. They must have been running about a 7-minute clip, so there wasn’t much to see. But he had to be one of them, speedster that he is.
I ran the first few hours watching the results on the electronic board by the start-finish line. They had real-time updates, so I figured at some point his name would flash up before mine and I could see him in the distance. But nothing. The leaderboard isn’t really a leaderboard. It just shows the last lap and total distance whenever a runner comes across, so I had no idea how he was doing. I also never saw Jordan’s name, which is probably for the best, given that Buckeye is a long ways from the canyon and he would be quite lost.
And so we continued. For hours. I still couldn’t decide which gazelle was him.
And then. The turnaround.
The course changes directions every three hours, so I could see the faces of each runner as they came by. This was it.
Face face face face face face face face face face face face possibly Jordan face face face face face face face face face HI, NEIGHBOR! damn it’s that woman again face face face face face face face face face lost interest.
He HAD to be the guy I originally suspected was him. Still going incredibly fast. Too fast to get a good look at. But he was always a bit of an idiot, so this was his M.O. Not to be confused with Mo, who had opted out of the evening despite the lure of free hot dogs.
Curious as to my position in the field, I stopped at the car and checked the leaderboard on my phone. Which led me to see how far he had gone.
Which was: not at all.
There he was, at the bottom: DNS.
The pipes steamed and shrieked out a blazing goodbye
As the boiler died
And they melted down
The midway
What happened? No idea. Possibly because I posted about the race in advance, he was wary of the federales. The race info had said ICE would be provided, but I assumed that was a hot-weather thing rather than homeland security. Maybe it was the 107 degree start. If you’re a fast guy, that’s not the best weather for a hard effort.
Or maybe it has all been a hallucination. Maybe there was never a Carlo the Hammer at all. One of those ghost stories Grandpa tells at the base camp to an unsuspecting Georgian about to take her first step into the dark side.
Spirit crushed, I moseyed around for another nine hours or so until they started taking stuff down, which meant it was probably time to quit. An OK day. I beat the guy who doesn’t know I’m his arch-nemesis. The rookie finished strong. The guy in the van disappeared shortly after we stopped. I’m almost certain he was actually there. Jordan finished third in his age group, an amazing feat considering the vert still in his legs from the canyon.
Maybe some things aren’t meant to be. I’ve always thought memories are best left in that spot where you stored them, not to be disturbed.
Still, Marty Cortinas would agree it was ironic. I dreaded having to see him. I’m not a People Person. And now I’m left with a profound sadness that I didn’t. Not enough of a sadness that would cause me to look him up, given that we live just down the street from each other, but sadness nonetheless.
I hope I spot him again someday on the list of runners for an event I’m in, or possibly on the guest list for one of Jordan’s epic parties.
Yes, I’ll probably avoid him.
And we all left town the next day
And we all left town the next day
And we all left town the next day
And we all left town the next day
And we all left town
the next day
There are basically two kinds of runs in life.
Ones that feature luchadores and a moostachioed racing piñata and a sign pointing out that renowned slacker Jill has missed yet another race.
And ones that don’t.
If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen, the old saying goes.
I should have ordered takeout.
If you got the bullets, I got the time
You bring the bullets, I’ll bring the wine
You bring your bullets, I’ll bring my bat
I can tell you where it is
but I can’t tell you where it’s at.
— robert schneider
—
Of all the days to be without ice cream in the freezer.
11,819 calories? Seriously?
124 pancakes, here I come ..:
Makes it kind of special down in the core
And you’re dreaming of them Saturdays that came before
It’s found you stumbling
Stumbling onto the heart of Saturday night
— thomas alan waits
—
I’m shuffling around the little indoor track at SCC trying to think of a reason that the upcoming race won’t be a disaster. Nothing comes to mind.
It’s odd to start a race in the evening. Everything is out of whack. The morning ritual, the packing, the rhythm of the day. All you can do is wait.
Races are funny. I had talked myself out of the Aravaipa October thing yesterday. How can one company take over the world? I would do tomorrow’s race, and then that was that. No more Aravaipa. Except for Across the Years, of course. And, um, maybe Fat Ox. And possibly Crown King. But that was it, dammit. Boycott, baby, boycott!
And then today they posted that the October thing is open for registration, and they have created what may be The Coolest App in the History of Cool Apps so that the daily postings are on autopilot from Strava and you can plot your running streak and it is so fantastic that I couldn’t resist, and so I signed up.
I suppose boycotts are silly anyhow. We can’t change the world. The world doesn’t want to be changed. And it really IS an amazing app.
Oh, well. I am in the throes of my feud with Coach Ella anyhow. Might as well cheat on the side a bit.
I remember back when I was confident that I would be ready for this race. That was a long time ago. I guess we crank up the engine and see if this thing will shift out of second gear …
You gassed her up and you’re behind the wheel
With your arm around your sweet one in your Oldsmobile
Barreling down the boulevard
You’re looking for the heart of Saturday night
“Go be normal about ice cream flavors for once in your life.”
This one hurt. She’s only known me for two days.
This sort of thing never happened with Coach Bruce Denton.
Although I will admit chocolate is pretty damn exotic.
I know you’re stuck outside of Phoenix
I know all about the shape you’re in
Well, I say we’re going nowhere
That’s exactly where we’ve been
Oh, well
You never can tell
— the prophet brent babb
—
I’m still reading the book about these people on a death march. They have to keep going at a 15:00 mile pace or they are shot to death. It’s an OK book and I’m thinking about how much it resembles the races I find myself in these days.
And then.
I REALIZE THIS BOOK IS ABOUT ME!!!!!!!
At first I think maybe it’s a coincidence. But the protagonist is named Garraty. My name is Gary. Char, our beloved 90-year-old friend who knew me better than myself, always called me Rat, because I reminded her of the Pearls Before Swine antihero. I was never sure if that was meant as a compliment or not. Although her other pet name for me was Asshole, so draw your own conclusions.
Gary Rat. Garraty. Coincidence?
His thoughts mirror mine during these silly races.
He’s there, Garraty thought, sure he is. Where Stebbins said we’d go if we stuck with it long enough. How deep inside himself is he? Fathoms? Miles? Light-years? How deep and how dark? And the answer came back to him: too deep to see out. He’s hiding down there in the darkness and it’s too dark to see out.
That’s basically a description of the Dawaulter pain cave in a nutshell, the place where all ultra people fear and long to live.
It all points toward the race. The evil organizer of the Long Walk in the book is the Major. The evil organizer of the race this weekend is the Jamil. THEY HAVE BASICALLY THE SAME NAME if you scramble the letters and change a couple of them.
The Long Walk is in Maine. The Death March is in (Nardini) Manor. They give the Walkers water and creepy food out of tubes. Ditto the Saturday event.
But still. Just coincidence, right?
And then I notice. The Long Walkers each have a bib number. Garraty’s is Number 47.
With a mixture of curiosity and dread, I pull up the recently assigned bib numbers for this weekend’s race. And there it is.
Same name. Same bib number. I’m a goner for sure.
And just as the horrible realization starts to sink in, I get the message from the library.
Time’s running out! Expiring soon! In exactly two days. The day of the race!!!
Garraty leaned into the slope, feeling his grip on his respiration start to trickle away almost at once. Be panting like a dog at the top, he thought … and then thought, if I GET to the top. There was a protesting clamor rising in both legs. It started in his thighs and worked its way down. His legs were screaming at him that they simply weren’t going to do this shit any longer.
But you will, Garraty told them. You will or you will die.
I don’t care, his legs answered back. Don’t care if I do die, die do die.
How does Stephen King do this? He is describing my suffering in advance. I am now trapped in a horror story. Do I even bother with today’s run, knowing that I’ll never last the weekend anyhow? Should I just go out for a Medium Chocolate Frosty and say screw it?
Luckily, the Fit PA Fancy Pants Early Access Elite Training Plan©, now with lanolin, provides me with a coach for just such quandaries.
I ask Coach Ella what I should do.
She responds:
This is EXACTLY why everyone needs a coach, or a 90-year-old neighbor, who isn’t afraid to slap you around a little from time to time. Except maybe for the part where she says it’s funny I’m going to die.
And so I went to the little indoor track to avoid the heat. I hunkered down for the run, intent on staying under 15 minute miles to avoid being shot to death.
It felt fine. I had it.
And then:
15:04 pace. I’m a goner for sure. I might have already said that.
Downside: I miss Char.
Upside: Looks like I’ll be seeing her soon.
Starry, starry night
Paint your palette blue and gray
Look out on a summer’s day
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul
— Donald McLean III
—
The stars don’t care if you’re fast or slow. They’re just glad to have some company. Me too.
Can’t talk to a psycho
like a normal human being.
— Anne Decatur Danielewski
—
They are about 10 minutes away from a routine stay at the cabin, a small rock house at the end of a tiny dirt road. The opening movie credits roll over the obligatory shot of the mountain scenery. A Poe song plays on the radio, a cautionary tale of what lies ahead.
They are full of pizza and slightly tipsy from the wheat beer Jami had made them stop for. It put them behind schedule, but they owed her. Besides. Beer.
“Wouldn’t it be funny,” he asks, “if we ever came to the cabin and somebody was already there?” They both laugh, although it isn’t really funny at all. A combination of 8,000 feet elevation and High Desert Hefe.
Up the highway from them, an old red Toyota four-wheeler ambles along. Not unusual at all.
And then it turns at the scruffy county road where nobody turns. THEIR road.
Still, there are a lot of houses on the road and it isn’t THAT unusual. The only ominous signal is the radio switching to the “Friday the 13th” theme song. They fidget in their car seats and pretend not to notice.
And then.
The faded red truck turns off the highway onto THEIR road, the tiny path that leads to a dead end at the cabin. There is no reason anyone but them would take it.
They have just turned onto the 0.6 mile road when they see the truck park just in front of the cabin gate. The driver turns it sideways and sits.
They discuss possible scenarios as they drive nearer. Someone hoping the people who reserved the cabin won’t show up? Not likely. The place is too popular. Someone looking for a quiet place to have lunch? No one would drive so far for such mundane scenery when nearby panoramas beckon. Psycho killer intent on chopping them into pieces and having a barbecue? Clearly this is the only logical explanation.
The heroine of the movie, feeling emboldened because the heroine always survives to star in the sequel, pulls up next to the truck. A woman has just gotten out of it. What may be an escaped convict in a red prison jumpsuit, or possibly a large backpack, is in the passenger seat.
“Hello!” our heroine exclaims to the woman. “We are staying in this cabin!”
“Oh, there’s a cabin?” the woman asks as she stands 10 feet away from it.
“Yes,” the heroine says. She adds, “It’s just the two of us. We have no weapons, no self-defense skills, and an alarming amount of cash in unmarked bills in a bag in the back of the car. Have a nice day!”
The couple close the gate behind them and sit outside the cabin. What to do? The truck remains there. Quietly. Ominously. Why won’t it leave??? And then.
It slowly, almost imperceptibly, starts down the little road. They finally breathe a sigh of relief.
And then it stops. Halfway down the road. And does not move.
The heroine pulls out her binoculars, for what she says is bird-watching. But she reports that the woman has gotten out of the truck and is walking to the pasture. It’s too far away to see if she is carrying hacksawed body parts. This is a low-budget indie film, and there’s no money for a drone because the entire budget was blown on that Poe song used in the opening credits.
Finally, the woman gets back into the truck. And sits.
The couple can’t leave. The road is blocked. They can’t defend themselves, because they are sissies. They can’t have ice cream, because they have none. They can only sit, pretending not to be terrified. It’s not working.
And then. Finally. The truck begins to creep down the road. It gets to the intersection. One right turn and they will be safe.
But.
THE TRUCK KEEPS GOING STRAIGHT DOWN THE LITTLE ROAD ON THE OTHER SIDE TO A SMALL SPOT WITH A CLEAR VIEW OF THE CABIN, NEXT TO THE COWS FROM HELL!!!
The truck is facing them, a mile away, for no reason other than an obvious plot manipulation.
They are now in a full panic, remaining at the cabin only because they fear confronting the truck down the road, and a reluctance to abandon their bagels in the fridge.
With the movie audience beginning to lose interest, the male co-star, always the first to meet a horrific death early on in low-budget slasher films, dons his running attire and sets off to confront the driver. He is going to die later in the week in a death march anyhow and has nothing to lose.
And then.
The truck begins to move toward him. Slowly, menacingly, like that car in the Stephen King movie. Or possibly Herbie the Love Bug. Scary movies all look alike.
The truck pulls up next to him.
He pauses his Garmin.
Because getting killed shouldn’t count toward total time.
And the truck keeps going. Turns on to the county road, then onto the highway, then becomes just a faraway red dot on a green landscape.
He finishes his run, miffed that he’s still alive and will have one less excuse for Coach Bruce Denton.
They sit quietly, eating their bagels. The heroine seems to have forgotten about the whole incident. Cheery music plays in the background.
But soon, the sun will go down. The moon is on vacation. Then there will be only an ink blot of blackness. Them, in a tiny cabin, alone with no weapons other than a fly swatter left by the cabin hosts and a pair of foul-smelling trail shoes.
And they will watch the tiny road.
Fighting sleep, and ice cream depravation.
Waiting. Always waiting.
For the headlights to return.
“Anarchism is democracy taken seriously.”
— edward paul abbey
—
October 2022: The Smith Boys’ last trip to Big Bend. Sure, one of us was traveling in a cigar box, but that couldn’t stop him.
That was always our favorite place on the planet. Still is. Rick’s ashes were scattered into the wind there. I just took for granted that it would always be protected.
Despair can be deeper than the biggest canyon.
I guess a cigar box of memories will have to do.
How many times can you read The Monkey Wrench Gang and do nothing?
—
I ran at 7 p.m. today to see what the start of the race will be like. As it turns out, it will be dark. That’s EXACTLY why you have to do these simulation runs.
The late start caused another first in the Fit PA Fancy Pants Training Plan©: Coach Bruce Denton wrote early in the afternoon to scream at me about missing my run. I got a message asking if I was:
A. A lazy piece of cow poop.
B. Finally giving up and what took you so long.
C. Dead. Hope you bought that black suit.
The other people out on the Smoocha Mucha Lucha Lasso course tried not to stare at the elderly gentleman shuffling around in circles in the fading light while openly weeping. Oh, well. Canyons of despair and all that.
Much tapering ahead for the week. Let the goofing off begin, if running at 8,000 feet elevation can be considered goofing off. And I’m going to pretend that it can be. Maybe Coach Bruce Denton won’t notice. Bracing for another admonishment …
The iPhone takes fantastic photos of the moon if by “fantastic photo” you mean a barely noticeable smudge where a brilliant crescent otherwise would be.
“Walk or die, that’s the moral of this story. Simple as that. It’s not survival of the physically fittest, that’s where I went wrong when I let myself get into this. If it was, I’d have a fair chance. But there are weak men who can lift cars if their wives are pinned underneath. The brain, Garraty.” McVies’ voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper. “It isn’t man or God. It’s something … in the brain.”
— stephen edwin king, “the long walk”
—
When I was a kid, I once dropped a piano on my foot. It wasn’t as much fun as it looked on the Saturday morning cartoons. My foot was pinned under the piano, and I couldn’t even reach the keys to play mournful tunes while waiting for a rescue. It was not my favorite day.
We had been playing in the abandoned schoolhouse in Vancourt, where the grandparents lived. The piano had been pushed backwards against the wall, making it impossible to play. So I had the idea to pull it out. Which worked great except for the falling over and landing on me part.
I remember that sound when it landed. The Beatles would later go on to use that same chord at the end of A Day in the Life. No, I haven’t seen a royalty check.
My brother ran across the street to get Granddad, who was the proprietor of the tiny Vancourt Store (no idea how he came up with the name.) He came running over and lifted it off of me, one of those feats of strength that occur only in times of crisis or Seinfeld Festivus episodes.
How did he do it?
It’s all in the mind.
I thought about that day as I read The Long Walk in the wee hours of the morning. The premise of the book is that you keep walking 15 minute miles forever or they shoot you to death. Sort of like a Lazarus Lake event without the bugle and red wool hat. Isn’t that the essence of distace running?
What is it that makes us keep going in races? What is it that makes us stop? Physically, I think you can go on forever. It’s all in the mind.
I finished off a 60 mile week this morning. I’m up to four pieces of tape on my feet, a sure sign that things are coming together. If I could only tape up my head.
Last year, I dropped out of this race at 16 miles. I’m not even sure why. “Eventually you learn that the competition is against the little voice inside you that wants you to quit,” Dr. Sheehan said. It was hot. I was miserable. I didn’t see what the point of running around in circles all night was. The little voice won.
The race is Saturday. I have a new batch of store-bought iron in my veins and a decent number of miles in my legs. But what to do about the little voice?
I suppose we’ll find out. I’ve put in a bunch of miles in the heat lately, working on the art of turning off my brain. Run the mile you’re in. Accept things as they are. Don’t wonder why you’re doing this. Avoid falling pianos.
My Fit PA Fancy Paints Training Plan© points out that my training load is significantly exceeding my recovery capacity, requiring an immediate reduction in volume and intensity. I take that as I sign I must be doing something right. You can’t burst into flames without starting a fire, right?
And so, I head into race week tired and taped together and hoping nobody shoots me because I’m not able to keep up 15 minute miles in the heat. How am I going to do this?
Walk or die. That’s the moral of this story. It’s something … in the brain.
But maybe I’ll buy some more tape too. Just in case.
I can recall the sound of the wind
As it blew throught the trees and the trees would bend
I can recall the smell of the rain
On a hot summer night
Coming through the screen.
— mary chapin carpenter
—
I was meandering today through the Facebook posts of a former life when I saw him:
Third-Grade Gary.
Mrs. Swearingen was our teacher, and I think I was scared of her. I’m standing with a group of people who were my entire world at the time in what was a pretty great year. I thought it would last forever, and I would always know the words to the Crockett Elementary School Song.
Third grade in 1964 was a good time to be a kid. We had survived the whole JFK thing, and a Texas guy became president. We weren’t yet a target of the military draft. I was pretty excited about an album by a band that misspelled “beetles,” but I was more of a Beach Boys fan. We played baseball relentlessly, football because we were legally obligated to do do as Texas residents, and skated on boards with metal wheels that offered an open invitation to the emergency room.
And then I grew up.
Except I never really did.
I took Third-Grade Gary along on today’s run. We reminisced about the old days. He asked about whatever became of that Beatles band. He was in a pantomime group with mop top wigs and plywood guitars at the school talent show, so he was invested heavily. I told him they were pretty good until the bass player mysteriously died in a yellow submarine accident and nothing much ever happened after that. And Brian Wilson ended up in a sandbox in the living room. Third-Grade Gary was skeptical.
Where does that wide-eyed optimism of youth go? Endless horizons, mysteries around every corner, a world limited only by how far your Sting Ray bike would carry you.
We had a good run. He said it was a lot like the old days in West Texas. A scorching summer day, an icy water fountain, a small park with dogs and Frisbees. He politely settled into my pace as we made our little loops through time.
I told him about how we have watches now that do everything, phones that would baffle Dick Tracy, every song in the world at one’s fingertips. Except, of course, Kokomo. Nobody needs that. He wanted to know if they would play 45 rpm records. He had a collection he was worried about.
I didn’t tell him about what was down the road. How he would drop out of high school baseball because the coach would make the team run all the way around the football stadium followed by wind sprints, leaving young Gary to reject his Der Wienerschnitzel hot dogs outside the team locker room. I didn’t describe that first run from the grandparents’ house in Vancourt back to San Angelo, an unfathomable 20 miles. Or that first 18 mile race in Menard when he was just a kid and would line up with a small pack of hardcore runners. He would finish a distant last place, but they would wait and congratulate him like he had won the Olympics. Which, in a way, he had. About his first kiss and finding his true love and the people that would leave too soon.
Those aren’t my stories to tell. They’re his to discover, one bittersweet chapter at a time.
Mostly, we just talked. About life. About how we are both still terrified of flying monkeys. About how there is nothing better than an icy Dr Pepper after a hard outing. About why the Fit IPA Fancy Pants Training Plan© is making us go eight miles on what it bills as a short recovery day. About sliding into home plate after sprinting from third base even though the bases were loaded and the pitcher walked the batter, because those fields had red dirt and who would want to come home with a clean uniform. About living happily ever after, no matter how long ever after turns out to be.
And suddenly it made sense. I’m still Third-Grade Gary.
Funny how you can see a current photo of yourself and think there’s no way that’s you. But I see a third-grade photo of me and think, YES! I’m just a Cub Scout kerchief and a questionable haircut away from being back there.
And then he had to go. Something about homework or Surfer Girl or being polite about not wanting to hang out with an elderly gentleman. Just as I was about to offer him a beer.
Maybe the key isn’t to grow old gracefully.
Maybe the key is not to grow up at all.
In the words of Mr. Zimmerman,
I was so much older then
I’m younger than that now.
Have a good life, Third-Grade Gary. See you in 60 years or so.
Desperado, whoa, you ain’t gettin’ no younger
Your pain and your hunger, they’re drivin’ you home.
— Jeffrey “The Dude” Lebowski
—
Please look closely. This is the only known photo in existence of the elusive Carlo the Hammer.
I first encountered Carlo many years ago when we were in a downtown Mesa gang called the East Valley Tribbianis. We worked the neighborhood from First Avenue over to the Dairy Queen, at which point we would lose interest in gang stuff because Dairy Queen had sundaes, and it’s hard to look intimidating with chocolate syrup running down your gang shirt. (We were a poor gang. We couldn’t afford fancy gang jackets.)
We had us some times. Fighting off hobos, writing love letters to Eddie Vedder, occasionally putting out a newspaper or two. Back when newspapers were a thing.
And then our gang got obliterated by the Phoenix thugs, the Arizona Repubicos. Carlo, the shadowy linchpin of the gang, seemed to disappear.
I got busted for an unfortunate encounter with a dangling participle and served eight years or so at a minimum-security joint in South Texas before returning to Arizona and the scene of the crime.
Still, I figured I had seen the last of him.
And then.
A few years ago, I was standing across from a Wendy’s in Mesa, waiting for a friend who had flown in from New Jersey or New Mexico or Newfoundland — one of those “new” places — who was running in the local marathon. Just minding my own business on the side of the road at the 18-mile mark, wishing she would hurry up so I could happen to walk by the Wendy’s and happen to get a Medium Chocolate Frosty. (I no longer can eat Dairy Queen sundaes because of the emotional trauma.)
And then.
I saw a blur in the distance. A familiar figure, flashing by at maybe a 6:45 pace. Never slowing down. Never breaking stride. Never even looking over. But two words screamed, in that familiar voice:
“GAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRYYYYYYYY SSSSSMMMMIIIITTTTTHHHH!!!!!!!”
And he was gone.
On a mission to go under 3 hours and unable to stop? Still mad that I mentioned Eddie Vedder was a bit of a sissy boy? Or on the lam for some horrible crime I didn’t even know he had committed with the federales hot on his heels? I still don’t know. Desperados are like that.
Just a streak on the course, and I never saw him again.
And then.
I’m looking at the people entered in next weekend’s race. And there he is.
What do you say to someone you haven’t seen in a hundred years? Do you just pick up where you left off? Do you exchange index cards with a recap from the past few decades? Is it possible to avoid someone for 12 hours on a 500-meter track? Did I ever mention I’m a recluse?
We’re not getting any younger. I’m looking forward to seeing him, I think. I’m not good at that whole “Friends” thing. I was more of a Seinfeld guy.
Old Friends, they shine like diamonds
Old Friends, you can always call
Old Friends, Lord you can’t buy ’em
You know it’s Old Friends after all
Guy Clark used to sing that. And then he died. So I’m skeptical.
I don’t even know that I’ll recognize Carlo. That’s a mighty fuzzy photo.
But then I’m mighty fuzzy these days as well. We shall see. Maybe the aid station will have sundaes.
Oh, yeah. About today’s run. Funny story. When I was first setting up my wish list for Coach Bruce Denton©, I requested Wednesday and Thursday for the traditional ultra back-to-back long runs, with Friday as the third long run day when we eventually got to a point where one was needed. He interpreted that to mean “let’s start back-to-back-to-back long runs immediately and continue them until you die.” Which I actually like a lot. Except maybe for the dying part.
So today was day the third consecutive long run day. Afterwards, Coach Bruce Denton© expressed concern that my numbers seem to indicate I’m tired and what’s up with that. Well, duh. Maybe Coach Bruce Denton© needs a late-night visit from Carlo the Hammer.
But whatever. Carlo awaits. It’s a tiny track. I hope every time he passes me, which I estimate will be 794 times, he yells “GAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRYYYYYYYY SSSSSMMMMIIIITTTTTHHHH!!!!!!!”
This could be a fun day.
And then I will surely die.
I hope the Dude abides.
I do believe I’m headed home.
Hey mister, can’t you see
that I’m as dry as a bone.
— james vernon taylor
—
All you would ever need to know about Ann Trason: She asked the over 60s runners Facebook group if it would be OK for her to become a member.
I’m thinking, um, yeah, greatest ultrarunner of all time. I guess that would be OK.
Back in the land of mere mortals, day 2 of the backity-back-back was OK. Sunny and Hot. Weren’t they the duo who sang I’ve Got You Babe?
Remember the scene in The Graduate where the guy pulls Dustin Hoffman over and offers him career advice in a single word: “Plastics”? That’s me with salted caramel Rice Krispie Treats. Except salted caramel Rick Krispie Treats may be more than a single word.
Oh, well. Success is survival. I need that umbrella.
I like your mother
I like your brother
I like you
And you like me, too
We’ll get a preacher
I’ll buy a ring
We’ll hire a band
With an accordion
A violin
And a tenor who can sing
— randall stuart newman
—
Exactly 24 years ago today, for reasons that continue to escape me, Mo agreed to put up with me forever. I’m fairly certain she knew about the blister-popping duties when she signed on, so I’m holding her to it.
This photo was taken a few years before the wedding. No, she is no longer rocking the bangs. And I can’t recall if she struck the girl scout pledge pose when saying our vows. But still cute as a button. And buttons are pretty damn cute.
I thought I had a good life to that point, but it’s like when I was a kid and we finally got a color TV, seeing Dorothy land in Oz and realizing that life didn’t have to be black and white.
And they lived happily ever after. And still do.
After 24 years, you settle into familiar routines. I’m an idiot; she’s an artist. It makes for a great pairing, except the idiot stuff.
The best part: You can read each other’s minds.
For instance: I’m out today on the canal. It’s a hundred million degrees, and I have no water. I left it at the truck in the parking lot a half-mile away, thinking I would come back after one loop. But then I kept going. Loop after loop. Mile after mile. Dehydration after dehydration.
I’m thinking about the hiker who died last month after bragging about how only idiots can die while hiking. I keep flashing back to the part about me being an idiot.
Finally I’m at the point where I can make the turn and get back to the truck.
And so I go for another loop. See previous idiot comment.
I mentally write my obit as my life flashes before my eyes. Sadly, it’s in black and white, although I assume if I had watched long enough it would have switched to technicolor. Or a house would have landed on me.
Just then, the phone buzzes. It’s Mo, sending me a text.
And just like that, I’m saved. I drink a quart of icy Skratch in the shade on the side of the trail. Having learned my lesson, I stop for the day. OK, I continue for six more miles to get in the ruthless Bruce Denton’s requirement, but at least I feel bad about it.
The Hallmark movies make love out to be some grand thing, but really it’s not. It’s finding someone who somehow senses that you need something and is always there to save you. Someone who shows up on her bike in the parking lot, assumes the moron didn’t take water, finds him on the trail and gives him a lifesaving elixir and an anniversary smooch without punching him for being an idiot. Why does that idiot part keep coming up?
Also, she makes great brownies.
I still have no idea what she sees in ME, though.
I feel sorry for all the other guys in the world who don’t get to be the luckiest guy in the world because I somehow got that honor.
I just hope she never wises up.
Dammit. Now I’m going to have flying monkey nightmares tonight for sure …
You and me you and me, baby
You and me you and me you and me, baby
I think if I ruin this
That I know I can live with it
Nothing turns out like I pictured it
Maybe the emptiness is just a lesson in canvases
I think if I fail again
That I know you’re still listening
Maybe it’s all gonna turn out alright
And I know that it’s not, but I have to believe that it is
— julien rose baker
—
Today’s assignment is so simple. Run 4 easy miles. Just don’t do anything stupid. Like run on trails.
And so I find myself running on trails.
Because sometimes that whole mountains calling Muir on his cellphone thing becomes too much to ignore. Because it was a little cooler today. Because I live in a desert and sometimes need to remember. Just because.
Luckily, I extended my no-crash streak to one day. It was a fine way to start my new collaboration with Mr. Bruce Denton. Maybe he will understand in a way Coach Kim could not. Sometimes you just need a trail.
Writing about music is like dancing about architecture, the old saying goes. I think the same applies to explaining trail running.
Why drive a long way and then risk life and limb on an unforgiving path for the same training miles you could get on the familiar course just down the road? How do you describe that feeling of tip-toeing through the rocks while the chollas prepare to attack? The endless vistas with the Superstitions waving hello in the distance? The impossibly delicate blooms rising from unforgiving cacti? The absolute silence of the desert? Michael Murphey’s Desert Rat playing on repeat in your head?
I guess you just had to be there.
I was.
Sorry for the detour, Bruce. I’ll try harder to stick to the plan. I don’t want to ruin this.
But when the saguaros call, they deserve an answer. And I’m not good with appointments.
Maybe it’s all gonna turn out alright, this race, this training block, this life.
And I know that it’s not.
But I have to believe that it is.
—
It’s just that I talked to somebody again
That knows how to help me get better
Until then I should just try not to miss any more
Appointments
He wanted to impart some of the truths Bruce Denton had taught him, that you don‘t become a runner by winning a morning workout. The only true way is to marshal the ferocity of your ambition over the course of many days, weeks, months, and (if you could finally come to accept it) years. The Trial of Miles; Miles of Trials. How could he make them understand?
— john l. parker
—
Longtime readers will recall that I have been a loyal disciple of the Fit PA app and its famous Fit PA Fancy Pants Training Plan© since before the internet was invented and the founders had to drive over every Monday to drop off my schedule.
That ceaseless loyalty has finally paid off.
I have been under the able tutelage of Coach Kim Thayil up to this point. Although he is a fine guitarist and a presents a striking figure in a wool cap, he’s maybe not the world’s greatest authority as a running coach, given that he knows nothing about running, and Washington, can be a bit rainy, making him sort of a grouch.
But now because of my Fit PA Platinum Level Executive Deluxe Status, Now With Lanolin, I have been teamed up with perhaps The Greatest Coach in Running History:
Mr. Bruce Denton.
If you don’t know running, this will mean nothing to you. Why the hell are you reading this blog???
If you do know running, you will recognize Bruce Denton as the Olympic gold medalist in the definitive running tale, Once A Runner, who becomes Cassidy’s coach and mentor. He coaches Cassidy to a silver medal in the Olympic mile and later a spot on the Olympic marathon team which is thwarted by Jimmy Carter. Thus answering the question: What Would Jimmy Carter Do?
Or in other words, this is a Serious Coach.
I can’t stress how big of a deal this is. I carry with me at all times three books. One, of course, is Running & Being, because it’s basically the bible for people who are skeptical of how that whole ark thing could have worked and why a religion would say that gays won’t inherit the kingdom of god. That would seem to be a lousy inheritance anyhow.
But the other two are Once a Runner and Again to Carthage, the gospel according to Bruce Denton.
“Denton had never told Cassidy a single important thing that had not sooner or later turned out to be true,” Parker wrote.
And now he will be telling these important things to me as I live in his little virtual A-frame cabin, training in solitude in chase of an unlikely dream.
Many training programs offer bells and whistles. Only one can provide the coach of my dreams.
Thank you, Fit PA, for this opportunity. I solemnly vow that I will screw things up totally, and Bruce and I will not be on speaking terms by October 1.
The Trial of Miles; Miles of Trials.
I know The Secret.
“I want to be like the waves on the sea,
like the clouds in the wind,
but I’m not.”
— sandra cisneros
—
In sickness and in health, till death do you part.
I kept reminding Mo about that while she worked on my toe. She seemed to think the death part might be OK. But despite being almost as squeamish as me about this stuff, she is always there to patch me up. We keep a tab on the chocolate bill.
I had this theory about the little toe. It kept getting worse. I thought if I kept running in the same shoes day after day without doing anything, it might get better. This proved to be a False Theory.
It’s impossible to work on one’s pinky toe given that it’s hard to get to, especially when one is a sissy and afraid of pain. That’s where a loving wife comes in handy. Especially if the hand is holding a needle.
Things went OK until SHE JABBED THE NEEDLE INTO MY FREAKING TOE!!!! I jumped. Max the cat jumped. Mo jumped. The phone she was using as a surgical flashlight jumped. Somewhere, a geriatric David Lee Roth jumped, although only a couple of inches, and he had to be helped off the stage.
Still, it worked. A bit of quarter-inch tape, a pack of Lorna Doones and a swig of Campho-Phenique, and I was back on the road. Which, as it turns out, wasn’t a road at all.
Sometimes accidents lead to happy endings. I was on the Smoocha Mucha Lucha Lasso course when I took a wrong turn, which led to the canal.
I always somehow forget how perfect the canal is for running. 280 billion miles of dirt trail, interrupted only by Ominous Power Lines that the baby doc assures us won’t kill me. At least not any more than 99 degree outings.
Toxic mutant giant fish (think The Simpsons), bird parties, Serious Runners — they’re all here. Bonus: a sidewalk is included, just in case you miss pounding your knees. And it’s the same parking lot as the Lasso loop, so it’s still the home turf.
I’ve always wondered exactly how long one loop is. Today I found out.
Including the little Lasso extension, it is EXACTLY FIVE MILES.
This has dramatic implications for my running plans. I can use this loop as a starting point, running multiple loops with the car acting as an aid station. Actually I suppose it WILL be an aid station, so there will be no need to act. OK, maybe that wasn’t so dramatic.
It’s the best of both worlds, although I think that song was during the Sammy Hagar incarnation and therefore would elicit no leaping from Mr. Roth. This is the first Serious Week in the Fit PA Fancy Pants Training Plan©, and I’ve been wondering what would be the best route for longer miles. And here it is!
It’s got everything. Birds. Dirt. Water fountains. Bathrooms. Icee machines. A Smarty Pants vitamin dispenser at the turnaround. OK, there’s no Icee machine. or bathroom. Or water fountains. And the Smarty Pants dispenser is likely a hallucination. Did I mention it’s been hot here for the last three months or so? But there IS a lot of dirt, and the birds promise to discreetly look away when I pee in the bushes.
Today was remarkably slow, given that I feel great and keep hoping one day I’ll get even a little faster. And I DO have almost two weeks before the race, so plenty of time to build, peak and taper by then, right?
“I want to be like the waves on the sea, like the clouds in the wind, but I’m not.”
Such a beautiful sentiment. And I know that feeling too well.
If you can’t be the waves on the sea, be a turtle on the canal. The clouds won’t care.
Time to make some more blisters.
In sickness and in health, till death do us part …
“Sometimes, I think the only art
left for us is slowly peeling
the label off a beer bottle while somebody
tells you about a dream they had.”
— lynda jean barry
—
I’m having that dream again.
Actually it’s more of a nightmare. But really, it’s just a psychological thriller that falsely advertises as a slasher dream to lure in unsuspecting teens. Never trust dreams.
It’s dark outside, which is unlikely since I’m rarely out in the dark and there’s no reason I would be dreaming this. A Hindu temple is awash in bright lights. I find this odd, because Raksha Bandhan isn’t until August 27, and I have no idea what Raksha Bandhan is. He may have played sitar on a George Harrison song. Possibly “While My Sitar Gently Weeps.” How does one unfold one’s love anyhow?
They may reveal this secret at Raksha Bandhan, so I make a mental Post-it note to attend. Why was Raksha Bandhan able to go to shows despite being a single father with kids? He had a baby sitar. Probably best that I can never find my mental Post-it notes at the end of runs.
I’m running, but it’s not really running. It’s more of a slow shuffle, which seems odd because you’d think I would speed things up in dreams. I’m supposed to be running the road to the TV towers at South Mountain, but I’m not seeing a mountain. I do see a heavily tattooed man on a Sting Ray with a boom box. Maybe it’s dream symbolism? Likely not; he’s not playing George Harrison.
And so I try to run up an underpass to compensate. Many, many times. Why in a dream, where you could run literally anywhere, would you choose an underpass? I suppose it’s better than planning a vacation around running in sand, but still.
I repeat the up and down a billion times, which is actually only four times but it’s my dream so I can count however I want, before cracking up and heading in the other direction.
The moon punches out after a long night, and Mr. Sun makes his triumphant return. This is the first thing in the dream that has made sense. I like running in daylight. The healing rays rejuvenate me. This will not be so bad.
But it is.
I continue along on my dream sidewalk with the annoying people who purposely wake up in the early hours to avoid the heat, looking all smug with their little Running Outfits and Matching Canine Companions. People are the worst.
And then I see Mo.
She is on her bike. She says she locked herself out of the apartment, which is impossible because you can only lock the door with a key. She is not wearing a helmet despite being one concussion away from having a concussion. And she is wearing a bright yellow shirt as the sun is coming up.
I assume this is some sort of dream symbolism, or possibly an early start to celebrating Raksha Bandhan. She gets a key from the car and then vanishes down the trail. There’s something in the way she moves. But I don’t recall sitar being part of that song.
संपादक की टिप्पणी: हाँ, Fit PA हिंदी में उपलब्ध है।
I continue on, mentally writing excuses to Coach Kim, whom I had persuaded only yesterday to re-do my entire schedule for this weekly run that is not happening. Coach Kim is still annoyed that I accused him of destroying the world, so I’m thinking he will savor the “I told you so” moment.
I stumble through a few more loops, wishing I had a beer bottle from which to peel the label. Why doesn’t Tailwind come with peelable labels?
I give up at 9 miles. Running in the wee hours to avoid the heat of the day is a smashing success, if “smashing success” can be defined as “total and abject failure.” I make a mental note to re-visit “The Abject of My Affection.” I remember that as being a good book, although I’m not sure if it’s allowed under my newly adopted Hinduism.
I drive home. I sit down in my chair. Mo is somewhere in the room but I’m not sure where.
And then I wake up.
Mo is cooking eggs. The cats are ignoring me. The Hinduism is intriguing me. A mixture of reality, consciousness and liberation. A world where George Harrison got more than two songs per Beatles album.
The Hindu dream state, known as “swapna,” apparently is a significant concept in Hindu philosophy. It represents one of the three primary states of consciousness, alongside waking and deep sleep. That must be where I was. Or possibly a bus stop in Des Moines. I’ve never been to Des Moines, so I wouldn’t have recognized it.
What must it have been like for Ernie Pook when he was abandoned from the comeek? One day you’re the starring act, and the next it’s all about Marlys. What did he do to fill the time? Maybe he took a bus to Des Moines. Although I don’t recall seeing him there.
I eat my eggs while writing Coach Kim the Message of Shame, the implosion of today’s outing. He does not say I told you so. He is kind and adjusts the schedule to bring it a bit closer to reality, wherever that might be. Coach Kim is basically my mom except he doesn’t call me Rare Bear.
We will try again tomorrow. And the next day. Because what else can you do?
I eat a piece of toast and go back to sleep. Never trust dreams.
Doc Hopper: (appearing from behind a billboard showing
a bucket of “Doc Hopper’s French Fried Frog Legs”)
Ha-ha-ha-haaa! You got the picture, boy! You see what I mean?
Kermit the Frog, symbol of Doc Hopper’s French Fried Frog Legs!
Isn’t that splendid? Just splendid! Just take a look at it.”
Kermit: “All I can see are millions of frogs on tiny crutches.”
—
I ran today on the Just Another Happy Dog loop, a faithful reproduction of the Across the Years course. Mile and a half, clockwise, two water stops, flushies, sidewalk with a smattering of asphalt and dirt. Yes, asphalt and dirt can smatter.
This course has one thing the ATY doesn’t: An oasis.
The fountain sits in a shady spot next to the xeriscape garden, a beautiful interruption of the harsh desert. Birds hang out there; overheated patrons of the dog park next door jump to cool off; cyclists pause in the shade before launching back into battle. I splash my face and dip my hat on each lap. Heaven.
Using an AI search, I find that it was designed by landscape architect Christine Ten Eyck. “It represents a symbol of abundance and serves as a reminder of sustainability and water conservation in the desert,” the site says.
Circling the water on the rusty steel surface are the words: “The frog does not drink up the pond in which he lives.”
Why do so many people live in this place where nobody was meant to exist? Where 100 degree days are considered cool? Where water is a commodity that can’t possibly keep up with growth? Where sustainability is not sustainable at all?
I love the desert. The saguaro forests, the lizards that pause on the trail to decide whether you’re predator or idiot, the mountains looming on the horizon, the Rickie Lee Jones skies overhead. But at what cost?
I worry a lot (I’m a worrier) about AI and data centers and the unfathomable growth that eventually will surely kill us all, either from exhausted resources or an out-of-control cyber coup.
I think about this as I run past this fountain, the half-mile marker on the course. It sits atop a 6 million gallon water reservoir. Remember when 6 million gallons seemed like a lot?
I came home and spent some time with AI trying to see just how ominous things are. It’s funny because AI seems to feel like it’s ratting itself out. It says Arizona, which looks to become a major hub for data centers, is planning roughly five times as much data-center electrical capacity as it currently operates, while doing so in one of the most water-stressed states in the country.
My AI source (I have promised anonymity but his name rhymes with Rat Pee TV) says the data-center sector could be consuming FIVE BILLION gallons of water annually as the projects now under construction come online. He says data centers in the Phoenix area are now using 385 MILLION gallons of water a year, give or take an Evian bottle.
Or to put in in non-mathematical terms, we’re screwed.
I worry about AI in the same way that I worry about all the other ways I help to destroy the planet. My endless 2-liter Diet Coke bottle collection, my 30-minute drive in a fossil fuel vehicle to run up a mountain, my addiction to AAA batteries. Things I could do without, but do not.
Does it matter if I use AI? Is there any point in taking a stand when you would be the guy in Tiananmen Square planting himself in front of the tanks? Is an exercise in futility really an exercise at all? And if it is, why doesn’t Garmin record it?
The Fit PA Fancy Pants Training Plan© uses AI. As does pretty much everything else in my life at this point. Would it make a difference if I refused?
I guess not. Every facet of existence will be sucked into this abyss soon. Not much to do but start buying gallons of water and stashing them in the closet next to our toilet paper collection. (Note to self: Stockpile chocolate for Mo. She will be crabby when the world is ending and in need of a Hershey’s fix.)
I try to pin down Rat Pee TV on just how much water the conversation we are having is using. He takes on the persona of a Republican trying to pinpoint the current location of Mitch McConnell, before eventually deciding it’s likely much less than a bottle of water, as if that’s a triumph of sorts.
What to do? Edward Abbey would say blow the joint up. “Why is it that the destruction of something created by humans is called vandalism, yet the destruction of something created by God is called development?” he asked. But then he wanted to ban all vehicles at the Grand Canyon, and I’m too lazy to walk all the way in. Yay for the bulldozers plowing new roads in my beloved Big Bend. Assemble the Monkey Wrench Gang!
I always fancied myself as being a true believer, the person who would take a stand against the atrocities of the world in my words and action.
But these days, I’m a tired old man. I like Diet Coke a lot. And using AI to yell at me about running too slow is easier than having a conscience.
“The frog does not drink up the pond in which he lives,” the fountain tells me.
All I can see are millions of frogs on tiny crutches.
I suppose it’s only fitting that Coach Kim, the crux of my angst, gets the last word. And for less cost than a bottle of water!
“If I had a nickel for every time
I ate at Chili’s, I’d have three nickels.”
— hannah sherrod
—
Yin: Mo bonked in the heat during her bike ride and stopped at the Smoocha Mucha Lucha Lasso course to draw dogs instead. Ball Dog was out playing, although he didn’t have his ball, so I suppose he’s just Dog. He’s my current favorite dog on the course, and now we have clinical proof. I like the way she labeled “tongue out” so you know in which drawing his tongue is out.
Yang: She tucked two sharpened pencils into her bike shorts before she left. I can imagine the obit. She assures me that “death by Ticonderoga No. 2” is exactly the way she would want to go.
Otherwise, an odd day. After yesterday’s inability to get up to zone 2, today I found myself lingering in zone 4. I’m guessing the Quit Taking the Stupid Pill That Keeps Me Alive Because What’s the Point If I Can’t Run in Zone 2 and Avoid Coach Kim’s Evil Stink Eye was a success. And I’m not dead yet, so there’s that. But then I’m not packing a Ticonderoga No. 2.
Yin: Shoe switch seems to have worked. I reckon the Mount to Coast H1s will be the winner in the Jackrabbit Sweepstakes. I reckon saying I reckon will boost my Texas street cred. Y’all.
Yang: Only problem was a hot right pinky that threatened to lead to a case of CarmenToe©, but it turned out to be a false alarm. Sometimes I wonder if I should try the trend of “wearing socks,” but that would require actually wearing socks, which would require finding socks, which would require having socks. This is why quarter-inch adhesive tape was invented.
Yin: Two weeks until Jackrabbit and I still have no reason at all to think I can pull it off, which is my favorite kind of run. I have always wondered about people who go into events prepared and tapered and not having eaten at Chili’s the night before the run. “Adventure is the lack of preparation,” the old saying goes. At least I think it’s an old saying. I may have just made it up. But then I’m old. Just saying.
Yang: I have a cool dog drawing, my pinky toe still has skin on it, and I just saw that the Fit PA Fancy Pants Training Plan© offers a Chinese translation, so I can apologize to Coach Kim for blowing yesterday’s run and I won’t understand his admonishment. Plus this will make it easier for the Chinese AI thieves when they eventually find the secret blog and commence to pillaging.
Yin: They say it now costs 86 dollars to make a nickel these days, so three trips to Chili’s would be a big payday.
Yang: Chili’s apparently no longer has chili on the menu. Likely why Hannah Sherrod stopped going. Oh, well. It probably had beans, ruining its Texas street cred.
Always something …
Yin: Ian was kind enough to add temps.
Yang: 99 degrees is not chilly. Or chili.
Oh the feeling
When you’re reeling
You step lightly
thinking you’re number one
— joan anita barbara armatrading
—
I let Coach Kim down for the first time today.
I was supposed to run for an hour and a half in zone 2, but the Transplanted Monkey Heart would not cooperate. I suspect chimpanzees are lazy creatures, content to lie around in their monkey lairs while getting up only occasionally to fling monkey feces. Yes, I know chimps are not monkeys. Yes, I learned everything I know about chimpanzees from a Seinfeld episode. He started it.
For whatever reason, the heart wouldn’t rev up today. Maybe it’s time for another round of Quit Taking the Stupid Pill That Keeps Me Alive Because What’s the Point If I Can’t Run in Zone 2 and Avoid Coach Kim’s Evil Stink Eye. That would make an excellent T-shirt, although it would only be available in XL because of the space needed for all those words. I will consult my graphics department.
Maybe it was the ridiculous amount of dust in the air? (It’s like we live in a desert.) Maybe I’m subliminally too lazy to push a little more? Maybe it was the disturbing dream in which our plane was cut in two but continued to fly and a flight attendant was mortally wounded and I was recruited to make phone calls to her relatives to line up pet-sitting services for her dogs and she wanted potato soup and luckily there was a Schlotzsky’s in the back of the plane with a big tub of soup but the guy in charge got mad because i was using a spoon rather than the ladle to scoop out the soup and he banned me from the deli but I bought the entire vat of soup before he threw me out and took it back to the flight attendant who had already died before I could make the calls about the dogs and so I sat eating potato soup with a ladle until the plane crashed. This will fall into the category of “not particularly pleasant dreams.”
But as I recall, the soup was OK for airline soup. Although I learned everything I know about soup from a Seinfeld episode. Jambalaya …
Or.
Maybe it’s the shoes.
I’m having a hard time lately deciding on shoes. I’ve been running mostly in Altra Escalantes. Which brings up the whole zero drop discussion.
And a horrible confession: I CAN’T TELL THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A ZERO DROP SHOE AND A 6 MM DROP SHOE.
Maybe I can. These shoes always struck me as floppy, and not in a good way. But they’re light and airy and the white color scheme gives me the air of a befuddled orderly in a psychiatric hospital, which is EXACTLY the look I’m going for in my daily runs. But are they better or worse than the rest of the more conventional shoes in the closet?
Beats me. I guess the experiment continues. Back to Mount to Coast tomorrow and forget to take the pill. And stop at the local running store to see if they possibly have Potato Soup GU.
I’m truly sorry, Coach Kim. An 81 percent score for the day’s run in the Fit PA Fancy Pants Training Plan© fills me with shame, if not potato soup. This means I can’t finish the semester with a perfect 100% execution rate unless possibly I can stay after a run for extra credit one day. I’m still figuring out how the ICU works.
Oh, well. I guess it was unrealistic to have hoped for that anyhow. I have a lot of dream dogs I have to take care of now.
Tomorrow is a new day. A new shoe. A new opportunity to ponder the difference between potato soup and potato bisque.
I once found myself on a bicycle tour of the Pacific Coast with a guy named Michael Flores, who each day would pop out of his tent with a big smile and exclaim: “IT’S ANOTHER DAY TO EXCEL!!!!” That is the spirit I will carry forward with this plan.
Or maybe I’ll sleep in.
And anyhow, you can’t get lower than zero …
She looks just like a sparrow,
but she’s strong just like a wrestler
She kneads and pulls and climbs on top
It hurts, but I will try to take it
— jill susan sobule
—
I ran in the morning, so I’m going to the gym in the afternoon.
This can mean only one thing: The temptation to get in a second run.
The weights that I use are upstairs, next to the little indoor track. The little indoor track I love to run on. The little indoor track that is sure to suck me in for a few miles despite Coach Kim’s insistence that we stick to the schedule.
What to do?
I rummage around in the hall closet and find the most uncomfortable shoes I have. A pair of Nike Rival Waffle XC racing flats.
I hate these shoes so much.
I’m no good at buying running shoes. Well, actually I’m VERY good at buying running shoes. Just not any that I can actually wear without regrets. I tend to wake up in the morning with a strange pair of shoes in the bed, shoes I never would have bought if Running Warehouse didn’t run a happy hour special. Why, when I find a shoe I love, do I immediately try something completely different, a shoe where all the reviews agree these things are horrible and you should not waste your money. And then I do.
These shoes managed to offer everything I dislike. They’re too tight and too narrow. They’re a screaming shade of something that demands attention, when I’m longing to go unnoticed. The upper refused to compromise; the laces challenge you to make a knot. They feel like they cost 60 bucks, which they did, and are made for high school maniacs who don’t care.
I bought them on April 18, and have worn them for a grand total of 8.8 miles. This was my shoe of choice for the afternoon.
The yin: The strategy worked perfectly. I had no desire to run on the track. I also had no desire to walk from the car to the gym, or up the stairs, or from weight station to weight station. I also had no desire to go on living. I still desired a Medium Chocolate Frosty, but come on. It’s a Frosty.
The yang: I will walk with a limp for a week and am left with an unnatural yearning for waffles.
despite this, I’m OK with the weight sessions. I have had the Severe Lean for the past couple of races, and a better core is supposed to help. And Coach Kim may or may not have had a role in the unlikely demise of Mr. Chris Cornell, so I’m wary of crossing him.
And in Golden Gate Park
She’ll throw a Frisbee
She’ll bring a dog
And she’ll meet a boy
And they’ll fall in love
And she’ll feel so free
Still walk on his back
I wish Jill Sobule were still alive. I wish I had a Frosty. I wish I didn’t hate these shoes so, so much.
See you again next Monday, hated enemy torture device Nikes. It hurts, but I will try to take it.
I wish I knew it would be worth the weight.
Mostly, I wish you could get a Frosty in a waffle cone …
They knew that it was psychologically easier
to run a familiar course than a new one, so contrary
to the advice in the magazines and jogger manuals,
they seldom went exploring for changes of scenery.
— john l. parker, once a runner
—
A confession: I deviated from the Smoocha Mucha Lucha Lasso course today.
I was drawn in by the siren song of the longer course. It’s an out and back 3 miles, which seemed easier than dodging the sprinklers, a hazard of the morning ritual on the Lasso course.
But of course it wasn’t easier at all. I had to think.
The best part of running is the total switching off of the brain. Launching into autopilot and allowing the legs to go have fun while the mind ponders the implications of why we allowed the Strait of Hormuz to become an international disaster and why the Brady kids didn’t have a toilet in their bathroom.
The little loop is clockwise, meaning there are no intersections and no traffic hazards. It’s exactly like running on a track, if running on a track was in the opposite direction and the track was 0.39 miles per loop and made of concrete and the lane markers were just one yellow stripe down the middle and there was a puddle on the back stretch where the steeplechase hazard would otherwise be and there were no hurdles piled haphazardly in lane 8 and the track featured dogs who enjoyed jumping in front of you so that their leashes become a hilarious tripping device.
Lesson learned.
Today was the first truly easy day in the Ian and Carmen Ultraplan. It is a brilliant concept, although I wonder if when they were naming the system, they realized it would create the acronym ICU. Cue foreboding music.
I think I love the zone 1 day. It was just a snooze, other than being off course and an unexpected visit from Mr. Sun making things a little warmer than expected. But I can see how working hard to take it easy will make the back-to-back-to-backety-back more effective. If by “more effective” you mean “hoping for a quick death to get out of this.”
Another run in the bank, another popsicle in the belly. How did I ever doubt the post-run banana popsicle on a hot day? Gumbo is wise. Plus, it’s psychologically easier to eat a familiar popsicle than a new one. Never doubt Cassidy.
It’s only been a few days, but I can see this plan working. Same concept every week, same scenery every day, same little frozen bite of heaven waiting at every finish line.
I could be in the ICU for a long, long time.
“There are many things that seem impossible
only so long as one does not attempt them.”
— André Paul Guillaume Gide
–‘
What if I’m done?
I ran across Texas once in June because Eleanor Roosevelt told me I had to do it. Back then, I was bulletproof. Give me a pair of racing flats and a good excuse, and I’d take on anything.
When you’re young, the sky’s the limit. And there’s so much sky. Endless horizons, climbs that go on forever, always another challenge to be conquered. I thought it would never end.
I felt crappy today, hovering between tired and dead. Mo asked me how long I’ve felt like this. I said I wasn’t sure. Somewhere between all morning and the last 10 years. At some point do you just recalibrate and accept awful as the new normal?
Maybe I’m trying to do too much, or not trying to do enough. Or both.
I guess I’m not so much worried about the flying part. It’s the landing that’s scary.
I thought I knew the half of it,
I only knew the rest
And what if I forget how to land one day?
Jay Bennett (the other Jay) wrote that. I know how he felt. And then he died.
It’s easy to jump off of the building. Avoiding a Wile E. Coyote conclusion is the tricky part.
I have a desperate need to immerse myself in this insanity. I know it doesn’t make any sense, but neither does running in general. Suffering for something I will never be able to explain. Or understand.
“Guilt is the unlived life,” the prophet Sheehan said in Running & Being, the closest thing I’ll ever have to a bible. I live with the fear of letting my last few years skate by, a victim of caution and concern. The clock is ticking. There’s no pause button.
And so I’ll confer tomorrow with Coach Kim. He’ll make another joke about my impending obituary before confidently pushing me out the door on recovery runs that will increasingly take on the cadence of death marches, leading to death marches that take on the cadence of life. Monkeys banging on typewriters longing to make the stars weep and all that.
I will embrace the heat and the pain and the fear and the monotony and the knowledge that the third act is well underway, and the curtain is waiting.
And still, I will feel like a kid again. Could there by any activity more pure, more joyful, more perfect than the daily run?
I will run the mile I’m in. And the next one. And one more. Until one day I’m done.
These upcoming races seem so impossible. They always do.
I suppose that’s what draws me to them.
“You must do the thing you think you cannot do,” Eleanor said that day.
And so I shall.
I hope I remember how to land.
“Wow! A golden spatula! It’s even got my name on it!”
— SpongeBob
—
The Cute Chick was out riding her bike on the course today. I complimented her on her shirt, which looked suspiciously like mine.
“Thanks!” she said. “It’s sparkly. Like my effervescent personality!”
And then she drank all my soda.
There’s just something about that first day of the temperature dropping below 180 degrees. Clouds kept Mr. Sun from causing too much havoc. A slight breeze felt cool. COOL! And the miles were a breeze as well.
There were actually people out at the Smoocha Mucha Lucha Lasso course. The hilarious smush-face dog pushing his big red ball at 60 mph. Fast Woman doing intervals on the grass. Who came up with the idea that grass is easier to run on than the sidewalk? A latter-day hippie barefoot on the asphalt with his four-legged sidekick, a sure sign that the day was tolerable.
The four miles prescribed by Coach Kim for the Fit PA Fancy Pants Training Plan© were a joy. That sort of run that makes you wish you could do it every day, until you realize you CAN do it every day. What could be better? Maybe running in a sparkly shirt. But mine seems to be missing.
The plan is going by quickly. It seems like only yesterday that I started it. I made my rounds on the little 0.39 mile course, tried not to think about how close the Jackrabbit race is, and lamented that my soda had somehow disappeared. Maybe the worst of the summer heat is over. In a couple of months. Maybe Tailwind will come out with an effervescent flavor.
I hope the race offers golden spatulas for the finishers. Maybe it will even have my name on it. Ching sparkle sparkle indeed.
I’m looking at the river
But I’m thinking of the sea
Thinking of the sea
Thinking of the sea
I’m looking at the river
But I’m thinking of the sea
— randall stuart newman
—
Maybe it’s just a dream. Hard to say.
I’m standing on the edge of a river. Or maybe it’s the ocean. I’m with a couple of people I don’t know and niece the younger, before FiFi Dubois and Frida Pearl came along. We seem to be on a journey of some sort.
Kate, the niece, is smitten with a young man we are following. This leads us to a town square. And a memorial for Old Bob.
I have no idea who Old Bob is. He apparently is the beloved owner of a dusty bookstore in this little town. It’s got the vibe of the Van Gogh store in Van Horn, but with more water and less paint.
There’s a huge clock on the wall that doesn’t work, its hands frozen at 1:30. Remember when there was no a.m. or p.m.? The people here gather around it, amid rows and rows of musty books, the kind folks used to read before the internet came along.
Everyone has a story to share about Old Bob. He seems to have been a kind man, the kind of person you could come to when you needed summer reading or a sandwich or life advice.
And after everyone has spoken, I see Rick.
My older brother was the kind of gentle soul who was friends with everyone, from community leaders to storytellers to stray dogs. This apparently includes Old Bob.
Rick stands on a bench and tells stories about how Old Bob knew exactly which Elmer Kelton book he was trying to remember or the directions to that forgotten Boquillas border crossing, back before google maps took the magic out of navigation.
The people are entranced, laughing and crying and nodding and smiling as he delivers a eulogy that AI could never conjure up. They break into applause as he finishes.
And then we all head for lunch. Because mourning makes you hungry. Duh.
I walk with Kate, who seems to have lost interest in the object of her affection. She hangs on to me with her forefinger hooked into a small hole on the side of my Gramiccis. Her nails are bright orange. I have no idea why. I take her hand, but she shakes it off and goes back to clutching my shorts.
For a fleeting moment I feel like a real uncle, not just a make-believe one a thousand miles away.
We walk in silence to the ancient Land Cruiser, which appears to have made a triumphant return from its rusty slumber, and pile into the back seat.
Rick pulls into a parking lot that seems vaguely familiar. I know I’ve been here before, but can’t remember what it is. He says there’s a fantastic Mexican restaurant around the corner.
He lets us out of the jeep and says he’s going to park, but throws the old Toyota into four-wheel drive and begins driving up an endless set of stairs. I watch as my brother and the Land Cruiser slowly climb into the clouds.
And then Zuki, the terrorist cat, wakes me up.
What are dreams? What is real? Did Carlos Castaneda just make up Don Juan? Is there a separate reality on the other side? How could there NOT be?
I remember the Bloody Basin road where the saguaros turned into evil gnomes in the middle of the night. The Dupont Swamp where four days of nonstop canoeing led to a dazzling display of Christmas lights in the middle of the night on an abandoned river. The ghost car on a desolate I-10 coming home from the Guadalupes at 3 a.m.
Were they any less real than the monotony of Teslas veering through traffic on the freeway? Life is a movie; write your own ending, Kermit said. Never doubt a singing frog.
Today was the first day of the FitPAFPTP©. Three miles and change on the Smoocha Mucha Lucha Lasso course, my primary home for the next 21 weeks. I’m almost certain it was real. But so was saying goodbye to Old Bob.
I’m starting from scratch, aiming for some particularly stupid goals. Will I get there? There’s no pace like gnome.
Or maybe it’s just a dream. Hard to say.
Spoonman, come together with your hands
Save me, I’m together with your plan
— Christopher John Boyle
—
I’ve tried many running plans over the years. I suppose they’re all fine, if a bit redundant. Run, rest, race, blah blah blah. Yeah, I get it.
They’re all designed by earnest runners of varying degrees of expertise. Sure, I suppose runners know stuff about running and therefore could be fine coaches.
But I always wondered:
WHY AREN’T THERE ANY RUNNING PLANS THAT USE ROCK GUITARISTS AS COACHES?
After all, what do we listen to when we run? Rock. What are the trails in Arizona composed of? Rock. Who was the star in that awful jewel heist movie my wife made me watch last night? The Rock.
So what could be more perfect than a plan that features the guitarist for one of Seattle’s greatest grunge bands: Kim Thayil!!!
The Soundgarden Trifecta is my go-to playlist for hard runs. Badmotorfinger, Superunknown, Down on the Upside. Repeat as necessary. And it WILL be necessary.
I used to play a game called Ty Cobb Roulette, in which I would set out on a run with Soundgarden playing on shuffle. I would run until “Ty Cobb” came up. Sometimes five minutes, sometimes five hours. But always worth it. The perfect song to saw off parking meters by. Bonus: A hacksaw can be an effective weapon in a cow attack.
I recently came across a running app called Fit PA. The PA stands for Pugsley Addams, the precocious lad of Addams Family fame. That homage alone would have been enough for me to become a disciple. But as it turns out, one of the app’s creators plays guitar, and he had the brilliant idea to use guitarists as coaches. SOLD!!!
As luck would have it, I’ve been paired with Coach Kim Thayil, Soundgarden guitarist extraordinaire. Coincidence? Or magical garden gnomes left over from the Bloody Basin 100? Hard to tell. Gnomes are sneaky.
Downside: He knows NOTHING about running.
Upside: He knows EIGHT open tunings.
Life always seems to balance out just fine.
(Disclaimer: The app peeps don’t say that he’s THE rock god Kim Thayil. Officially, he’s just “Coach Kim.” But how many Kims are there in the world that aren’t crazy North Korean leaders or Kardashians? It MUST be him.)
I have a race on Dec. 28, and I’m using the app to create a plan to get me there. Coach Kim and I did the dance for a while about how many miles and back-to-back-to-back runs and weightlifting sessions and whether 25 miles a day every day in October is a good idea and zone 2 vs. quality and blah blah running stuff.
And then I mustered up the courage to ask THE question that would determine whether we would click as coach and runner:
What’s the best Soundarden song?
He came close to losing me. “Black Hole Sun.” zzzzzzz. Efficient but predictable. I began to doubt.
But then.
“Spoonman.” Possibly the greatest song ever written about a guy who plays spoons on the street. Possibly the ONLY song ever written about a guy who plays spoons on the street. We had bonded.
And so I’m setting set out on my journey. 21 weeks to oblivion. At least I’ll have a soundtrack to get me there. And a coach who said he “threw the idea of patterns and scales out the window” in his guitar playing. What’s not to love? Rules are for suckers. This philosophy will be perfect for the upcoming adventure.
Thanks, Ian and Carmen, for providing a coach who understands me. “I’m still an angry dude. I’m just older,” Mr. Thayil once said. That’s me as well.
Let’s do it, Coach Kim. I’m together with your plan. Spoons sold separately.
The Fit PA Fancy Pants Training Plan © starts tomorrow. Never doubt Pugsley Addams.
“It’s gotta be the shoes!”
— mars blackmon
—
I’m trying to break the 15-minute mile on the SCC track. Josh Kerr recently uncorked a 3:42.66 to shatter the world record, so 14:59 isn’t too much to ask, is it?
Apparently so.
Another 3.6 miles, still locked into 15:30s. Maybe it’s the shoes. I’m wearing the Escalante Racers, but they’re zero drop. Maybe my legs need a little dropping?
I mentally sort through the choices as I meander around the track. The Mount to Coasts don’t seem very fast. You would think the Hyper Speeds would be speedy, but mostly they’re hype. And I could break out the waffle trainers, which are undeniably fast but feel like my feet are in a vice, and not in a good way. Plus, I would want waffles. Mmmmmm. Waffles. Dammit.
Stupid shoes. Holding me back.
And then.
A distinguished gentleman passes me wearing Converse All Stars. He’s one of those old guys who shimmy at a 12 minute pace, flying along despite looking like he’s just out for a stroll. Which I suppose he is.
And I begin to think that, with apologies to Spike Lee, it might not be the shoes at all.
“Many can argue; not many converse,” Amos Bronson Alcott may or may not have said once. I have no idea who Amos Bronson Alcott was. Likely another alter ego of Spike Lee.
But you can’t argue with converse when a guy is sailing around the track in black high-tops. Mostly because you’ll never catch up to him.
Maybe I just suck.
Or possibly I need some Converse All-Stars.
Yeah, that one.
Never doubt Spike Lee.
There will come a time gigantic
Waves will crush the junk that I have saved
When the moon explodes or floats away
I’ll lose the souvenirs I made
La la la…
— Frederick Mark Linkous
—
Summer in Phoenix is like living in a pizza oven, except you don’t get pizza afterwards. When the low rarely drops below 90 and the high reaches a level that can’t be measured with conventional meteorological devices, running outside can be tricky.
We have a lot of dummies who go out on the trails undertrained and underhydrated in the dog days, leading to constant rescues that put first responders in peril. As a result, several of our most popular trails are closed when things get too toasty.
That’s an annoyance for those of us who have spent years acclimating and know how to take care of ourselves. Stan Fletcher said it best in his Instagram post in late June.
The bottom line: People who don’t know better ruin it for those of us who do.
So what’s left when Camelback and Piestewa are closed? The trusty trails of South Mountain, of course. Rugged, exposed, desolate. But not a problem for those of us who know our limits.
That’s where Stan went Saturday. The beloved National Trail. Ridiculously hot day, but he posted last month that when he hikes “I take 5-6 liters of water, depending on my rig. I’ve never felt the slightest bit faint or sick in any way.”
I’m with him. I’ve been out on the trails in the summer a bazillion times. Just a matter of listening to your body and pacing yourself. I think of running in the heat like altitude training in the desert. If you can get out there in 110 degrees, then October’s races are a breeze.
A hiker for 30 years, he set out at 5 a.m. His family lost contact with him that afternoon, and reported him missing.
A cyclist found Stan’s body Saturday evening alongside the trail. No official cause yet, but investigators said the circumstances appeared consistent with a heat-related or medical emergency. Richard “Stan” Fletcher was 61.
Today wasn’t quite as hot, thanks to an overnight thunderstorm. I walked fearlessly into the 100 degree heat, now with humidity in the mix, for my morning run.
Which was inside the cool climes of the SCC gym.
I guess Stan died doing what he loved, and there’s much to be said for that. But I’d rather put it off for 10 more years, or at least until the 12 hour run in Buckeye at the end of August. Surely the weather will be pleasant by then.
Mostly, I am reminded that things happen. You do your best, you roll the dice, you cross your fingers. I hope they have great trails wherever Stan is now.
And I hope that when you die, you get pizza afterwards.
I dreamed about killing you again last night
And it felt alright to me
— the prophet tweedy
—
The thought comes to me midway through the second mile:
I really, really, really want to kill the old British guy.
Is there a law against murder? Might there be a loophole because we’re on the Salt River Pima/Maricopa reservation? Surely they have no love for the white man, and this one is particularly white.
He’s in an annoying black and white vertical stripe oxford shirt, khaki shorts, hands clasped behind his back, moving at 2 mph. He’s talking loudly to a woman who appears enthralled by his high decibel monologue delivered in that Monty Python accent. AND HE INSISTS ON USING THE RUNNING LANE.
There are two signs posted on the little track. They say “Outside Lane for Running Only.” I’m not sure how that translates across the pond, but hopefully it’s something like “Outside Lane for Running Only Yes That Means You, You Pompous Bastard.”
I’m not even sure why this bothers me so much. Maybe if he carried a dead parrot. It’s not hard for me to move to the inside lane for a moment, and it’s not like I’m flying around the track anyhow. I’m not even sure my 3.5 miles at 15:30 pace qualifies as running. Perhaps I covet a black and white vertical stripe oxford shirt. All I know is it drives me insane.
And so I plot devious ways to kill him, passing the time as I meander around the tiny loops, pretending I’m Raymond Reddington, or possibly Pee-wee Herman before he got killed off. How could you kill off Pee-wee Herman? Old British Guy is going on my Blacklist.
It’s getting close to the Fit PA Fancy Training Plan © and it seems to be going well, if bickering over mileage with an AI coach who drains 100,000 gallons of water every time you challenge him can be considered going well. I’m not going to be around that long, and we have an emergency 5-gallon jug in the closet, so whatever.
What if the AI coach is right and I’m wrong? What if I can’t do this? Then what’s left? Walking in the outside lane, I suppose. I shall commence working on my accent.
And so another run is in the bank, the British guy is sadly undeterred, and I will dream about killing him again tonight. Or maybe his parrot.
And it’ll feel alright to me.
Tuan: So what have you been doing?
Bud: I told you, going to the wakes and funerals of strangers.
Tuan: How incredibly weird. Like “Harold and Maude.”
If memory serves, Maude took her own life at the end of the film.
Bud: Let’s hope I’m Harold.
Tuan: If not, maybe I can have your office chair?
—
My gym advertises itself as being “state of the art.”
My gym also uses a drawing of a 1965 Nokia phone with a little antenna on its signs on the track.
This sign drives me nuts every time I pass it. And because it’s a track built for garden gnomes, I pass it a lot. Like 38 times today alone. 3.4 miles at same ol’ 15:30 pace. Someday.
Oh, sure, the silly phone icon is annoying. And yes, EVERYONE except me on the track seems to be constantly using their phones. But that’s not the worst part.
AP STYLE SAYS CELLPHONE IS ONE WORD, PEOPLE!!! HAVE YOU NO RESPECT FOR AP STYLE???
Oh, well. My subscription ran out a long time ago anyhow.
I have been reading a book about an obituary writer who accidentally published his own obit. Hijinks ensued. Funny how all this stuff seems to come together. My love of “Harold and Maude,” my state-of-the-art AI coach who keeps pointing out that my fitness numbers would indicate that I’m dead, my half-hearted defense that I’m not. A Yusuf Islam refrain:
Trouble, oh trouble please be kind
I don’t want no fight
And I haven’t got a lot of time
I think I’m feeling better after the infusion (cue John Lennon singing “can’t get much worse”), so here goes nothing. Worst case scenario: A guy once wrote a touching obituary for me that’s somewhere on the old blog, so it should still be a fitting memorial. Although I increasingly realize there’s not much to memorialize. “He was a weird little man obsessed with AP style and an irrational fear of cows while running” and then pad it out with, um, huh. I guess that’s it.
Cue up the Cat Stevens soundtrack. Hit the play button.
I’ve seen your eyes
and I can see death’s disguise
Hangin’ on me
Hangin’ on me
Sing a song for Harold the Orphan
‘Cause there’s not much time for him now
He’s destined to be a veal cutlet
He’d rather just be a cow
— me
—
Easy 2 miles at the gym, if a feeling of impending death caused from the after-effects of iron infusion no. 2 can be considered easy. I vaguely remember thinking this was supposed to make me feel BETTER.
Hilariously enough, someone asked today on the ultrarunning subreddit what one should do when confronting cows in the wild.
Clearly, I have started a trend. Singing seemed to be a popular answer. I hope they enjoy the Harold the Orphan song.
.
Some dream of India, where their cousins are stars
But they don’t like the crowds, so they stay where they are
— john gorka
—
Can cows climb stairs?
I’m running on the little upstairs track at SCC when it hits me. What if?
There’s only one staircase. The track is three lanes wide, with no exit points. If they make it up here, I’m a goner for sure.
The worst part: I feel great after infusion no. 2, so they will be killing me just as a begin my dramatic comeback. Cows don’t care.
I once wrote a song about a cow named Harold who grew up on the farm, oblivious to the fact that he was destined to be a veal cutlet. I suppose this is payback.
Did I mention I felt great? Three miles, 15:30 pace. I’m slowly figuring out ways to trick Coach Benji, who has these crazy ideas about “moderation” and “avoiding certain death.” I’m guessing some sort of liability concern baked into the program. Little does he know.
First session of lifting weights was a rousing success. I soon will look like Charles Atlas, if Charles Atlas is a scrawny elderly gentleman with not a muscle to be found.
We hit 114 degrees today, so I’m counting the walk from the truck to the track as bonus heat training. Who thought it was a good idea to build civilization here? Probably cows.
Time for another visit to the countryside. I wonder if they make running cattle prods.
I just started reading “I See You’ve Called in Dead” by John Kenney. And this is how it begins.
—-
Damn cows. I TOLD you they’re killers!!!
Second iron infusion done. Walked a couple miles on the cow-free SCC track just to annoy the AI coach. No shark sightings. On with the show.
Carl Arrington: “What were the skies like when you were young?”
Rickie Lee Jones: “They went on forever — We lived in Arizona, and the skies always had little fluffy clouds in them … there were lots of stars at night. And when it would rain, it would all turn — it — They were beautiful, the most beautiful skies …”
—
The antelope family watches me from afar as I pull on my shoes for a 2 miler on the soaked path after last night’s deluge.
Mama bird gives me the stink eye as she waits for me to move away from their nest so the babies can have breakfast.
The sky, last night’s thunderstorm a memory, sparkles with a palette of blue shaded with a Rickie Lee Jones memory.
The thermometer reads 65 degrees, a glorious respite from the triple-digit torture of July in Phoenix. A view that looks like it needs to be framed.
The silence.
That perfect, prolonged silence where nothing in the world exists except us.
Mo sits atop the picnic table, drinking her second cup of coffee and gazing into the distance.
“I don’t think I could be any happier,” she says.
Never doubt Mo.
“He’s not bad. He was just doing his job.”
— lyle lovett, after his leg was smashed
by a bull in a pen of the family ranch.
—
I’ve probably seen the video too many times. Old guy, minding his own business, thrown 400 feet in the air by a bison in Yellowstone. He did nothing to provoke it other than wearing suspenders, which I suppose would warrant a friendly nudge toward fashion updating, but certainly not the rampage that ensued.
So I’m a little nervous going down the tiny dirt road. Middle of nowhere, nobody around for miles, no escape route to be had, and fearsome beasts in the distance.
Still, miles is miles, and I have to get some in for the new AI coach, whom I already despise. If I wanted to be bossed around by a faceless tyrant, I would have stayed in journalism. Oh sure, Mr. Remote Editor, it’s important to YOU that your city’s name be spelled correctly in 84 point type on the front page, but I’m juggling a lot of papers here. Yes, I’m wearing suspenders. Why do you ask?
I’m about a mile from the cabin when my blood turns cold. No I don’t know what that means, and I have no actual means of testing it.
A TREE HAS BEEN KNOCKED DOWN TO SLOW MY APPROACH TOWARD THE KILLER KOWS!!!
My mind races for reasons that the heinous herd up ahead might be plotting my demise.
The little metaphorical lightbulb appears over my head: that “Twister” movie!!!
I always howl with glee when Helen Hunt yells “We got cows!” as the poor bovine flies by on its way to oblivion, or possibly the Outback Steakhouse. Clearly it’s time for payback.
And then I see him up ahead.
A huge black bull is near the road waiting to pounce, in the same fashion as a panther waiting on dinner. He’s low to the ground, hiding in the high grass, as lean and mean as you can be when you spend the day sitting next to the food trough.
He masks his snarl, pretending to be totally oblivious to me, clearly waiting for me to turn my back so he can send me flying. Do they keep records for how high people go in these things? If you’re involved in a Guinness event is there actual Guiness to be had?
Another cow in the background may or may not be wielding an iPhone to record the event.
I react the only way I know how:
I scream like a little girl (sorry, little girls) and break into a world-record sprint.
Which lasts for about 100 yards until I remember we’re at 8,000 feet elevation, I’m not wearing track spikes, and I’m an extremely slow 70-year-old. I collapse in the dirt, lying on my back with my feet sticking up in the West Texas armadillo tradition. Cows respect these things.
Luckily, the bull seems to have lost interest when he saw I wasn’t wearing suspenders. The other cow snaps a photo that he will no doubt use to create an AI image of Trump and the FIFA chief photobombing us, and we part ways.
Finishing my stroll, I barricade the gate on the fence surrounding our little cabin. I sink into the chair on the porch while the poor bird who’s trying to build a nest (in July? Reincarnated journalist who could never make a deadline?) and pull up YouTube on my phone.
As the sun begins to fade, I spend the rest of the afternoon watching that “Twister” scene. Over and over and over again. I got your cows, pal.
I wonder if Outback Steakhouse delivers this far …
3 miles, 16:52 pace.
No cows were harmed in the making of this post.
May your hands always be busy
May your feet always be swift
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift
May your heart always be joyful
And may your song always be sung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young.
— the prophet dylan
—
yin:
2.7 miles today at 14:58 pace on the new plan. I wish you had been there.
Happy birthday,
Your dear and worthless brother
yang:
“If I knew a guy named Gary who had a birthday today, I would say that I hope he had a good day. If I knew that guy, I would tell him how privileged I am to be loved by him. I would tell him how happy and proud I am to be his friend.
“I just saying this as a hypothetical.”
Dynamitin’ depot, bricks are pourin’ down
Cost your reputation if they catch you hangin’ round
Ev’ry choice you look at serves but to confuse
Reckon you could call it the United States Blues
Oh baby, One more Saturday night
Un huh, One more Saturday night
— robert c. christie hunter
—
And then, in my darkest moment, a light came down from the heavens and said, “Hey try this new app for designing a Fancy Training Plan ©.”
OK, maybe the greatest revelation in my life would have been better spent on a plan for world peace or how to work Netflix, but epiphanies are where you find them.
And so I have a new training plan and a new pack of iron percolating in my veins. One more infusion, one more three days of living hell, one more Saturday night. Except it’s Sunday.
I only learned yesterday about One More Saturday Night and the fisticuffs Weir and Hunter had over the lyrics. I have led a sheltered life.
In an effort to return from a brief foray to hell, I ran today in the sheltered confines of the SCC track. 2 miles at 16:10 pace. I normally wouldn’t come here on a Sunday, because it’s soccer day at the Lasso loop and it makes for a spectator sport while running despite the heat, but Mo has been taking the whole death by running thing a bit more seriously for the past few days, and I was afraid she’d catch me.
Sundays are a different beast at the track. It’s only open for five hours, and every Serious Runner in North America appears to be getting in their long runs here. But that made for a spectator sport in itself. Maybe someday I’ll get back to where I can call myself a runner as well. Dramatic sigh.
And that’s where the Fancy Training Plan © comes in.
I am cautiously optimistic that this will work, in the same way I maintain hope for Mideast peace and Pancakes in a Jug. It’s a bit less optimistic (“more realistic”) than my previous iteration, and has a lot of colorful graphs. Who could doubt a training plan with colorful graphs.
So if I can just make it past the second infusion, and survive the three days after, and gradually build up some iron reserves again, and somehow remove the image of the little orange man trying to pose with the Spanish team at the awards ceremony, this might just work.
Or it might not.
Only one way to find out.
Reckon you could call it the United States Blues.
One more Saturday night.
On a Sunday …
p.s. dear Worker Power solicitor: standing at our door staring at us saying you will not leave until we agree to join your group might not be the most effective manner of soliciting members. If I wanted to be intimidated into political change I would’ve just bought a red hat. Maybe if you offered Pancakes in a Jug to new recruits?
I used to be young
I used to understand
I used to be strong as any man
— the prophet mcmurtry
—
If you run ultras, you know about ultrasignup.com. It’s the place where they sign you up for races while tacking on a hefty fee for themselves for no particular reason, and then list your results.
My first event was in 1992, and I’ve posted a lot of results since then. But in the 31 races I show up in there (I’ve run many more; this joint just lists races they’re affiliated with), I have always been proud that I have had only one DNF.
DNF stands for “did not finish,” shorthand for “I suck.” Hmmm. Maybe longhand, since I suck is actually shorter. Whatever.
And so it was with great shame that I saw last night’s concert has been added to the list.
Mo didn’t think I should go, which of course meant I HAD to go, since I’m a guy. Not a smart guy, mind you.
The show was at a tiny club, with 300 people jammed in, and enough oxygen for 200 of them. We were at the very front, standing in front of the PA and feeling like 16-year-olds again. Until the point where I felt like a 70-year-old.
To my credit, I made it OK through the opening act, BettySoo, who is a fine performer and has an old Gibson I would have tried to steal were I in any sort of shape to make a run for it. James joined her for three songs, so I had something in the bank when the brief intermission came up.
Standing packed into a small space might not have been the best idea for recovering. But I was determined. Until I wasn’t.
Even when the main event started, I knew I was done. That feeling you get when you’re cooked at mile 20 and the biggest climb is still ahead. I guess I felt alright except that my brain was increasingly fuzzy, I had a terrible headache, my heart was erratic, I ached all over, and I was having an increasingly difficult time maintaining the “standing upright” thing that concert protocol dictates.
After six songs, I told Mo I needed to go. She looked at me with a mix of concern and relief. I don’t think she’s much of a McMurtry fan. We shuffled out during the intro to Choktaw Bingo (We saw a sign that said “hitchhikers may be escaping inmates, but we didn’t see any so I guess the inmates caught them.” And that was that.
Six songs. The equivalent of dropping at 15 miles of a 50 miler. The walk of shame past the front door. The silence of the night in the parking lot with a hint of music still floating through the air. The shame of the DNF, unable to make it to the end. No concert T-shirt, the equivalent of a finisher’s medal.
But the next day, I’m not that bummed. Along with ruining everything else, the internet has destroyed the concert experience.
I’ve seen him playing live on YouTube a bazillion times. I’ve listened to the live version of the songs on Spotify until they have been burned into my brain. And because of setlist.fm, I already knew what songs he would be playing. So what’s the point? To confirm that he exists? To hear the same somgs played exactly the same way except at 100 decibels with a questionable sound mix?
What’s the point of real life when you can just enjoy it online?
And so there is is at the bottom of my ultrasignup list. July 17, 2026, DNF, 10 years after the Horseshoe Trail Run debacle. No, I don’t think he played at the Horseshoe Trail Run.
No run today. I appear to be dead. And I don’t want to risk a second consecutive DNF.
Still, I hope I get to see him again someday. I really want BettySoo’s guitar.
I see my father with his patience wearin’ thin
Sometimes it bothers me to look so much like him
There’s somethin’ hidin’ in that space beneath the stairs
I’d try to find it, but my memory won’t go there
— james lawrence mcmurtry
—
The facts as we know them:
■ I struggled through 3 miles on Thursday.
■ I died after 2 miles today.
By my calculations, if I continue this trend I will be at minus 30 miles by the time the next race comes around. At least I will be well rested.
I’m pretty excited about the infusion after-effect. It feels vaguely like death, although I’ve never actually died so I’m not sure how it feels. But there are squirrels banging on me with ball-peen hammers, and not in a good way. And I get to do it again next week. Yay!
I don’t want to move. Or think. Or stand upright. Which can mean only one thing:
James McMurtry.
Longtime readers will recall that I’ve been a McMurtry fan since the George H.W. Bush presidency, although I’m guessing they didn’t hang out that much. I was only a lukewarm fan of McMurtry’s dad, despite Rick’s devotion. But when I first heard McMurtry the Younger, I was instantly hooked.
The son of an author, he was able to write tiny three-minute novels. The kind of song that would make you think you truly knew the person and hate when it ended. A singer/songwriter that made me realize that the craft was its own art form. I have listened to his music in heavy rotation since, and failed miserably trying to follow his path.
BUT I’VE NEVER SEEN HIM IN CONCERT!!!!!!!
It’s crazy. He arrived in Austin not long after I moved west. He used to play regularly at the Continental Club in Austin when we were living in Corpus. But he played late nights after the main act, which meant he went on stage around midnight. Corpus was a two-hour drive home. I always meant to do it someday, but you know how it is with somedays.
And then.
We were driving home from San Angelo on a Saturday. Passing Threadgill’s, a food joint with a little outdoor stage, there was a sign. McMurtry. Tonight. In four hours. Mo and I sat in the parking lot, looking at each other. This was the chance. Tickets available. Great location. Perfect starry night. But we were tired, the road went on forever, and there would be other days.
And then there weren’t.
We moved back to Phoenix. And then COVID moved everywhere. And there were no shows.
And then. Finally.
He was coming to our favorite little venue.
I had tickets. I also had a severely compromised immune system because I was going through chemo. We masked up. We drove to downtown Phoenix. We stood in the parking lot behind the venue. I gave Mo the Sad Eye. She gave me the Stink Eye. We went home.
And now, finally, he’s here again. Seems to be in fine form on this tour, toting a band with him. Playing in a tiny bar we love. Tickets in hand. Playlist serenading me all day.
And I feel like I’m dead. Damn squirrels.
I’m thinking there is a god and he’s pissed off at me because my band in high school used my Southern Baptist church’s youth center to practice and there may or may not have been the smell of an illegal substance left in the air. WHY CAN’T I SEE THIS GUY?
What to do?
We once went to see Jill Sobule in Tempe. She was booked at a heavy metal bar, which seemed odd for a folk singer, but we dutifully went, tickets in hand. Two large gentlemen with a plethora of tattoos and tasteful leather ensembles stood outside the chain-link fence that served as the entrance to the club. Music from one of the opening bands, a fine group of lads who appeared to be torturing animals at an extremely high decibel level, played inside. The woman famous for the pop tune “I Kissed a Girl,” armed only with a Martin backpacking guitar, was going to follow this?
As it turns out, no. A blackboard at the door said simply “JILL SOBULE CANCELED.”
I was crushed. I’ve always desperately wanted to see her. This had been my chance. But, of course, there would be other times.
And then she burned up in a random house fire.
And so we will go to see James McMurtry. Because music, like running, sometimes requires suffering. Because heroes are where you find them, even if its in a tiny dive bar on the wrong side of town. Because I’m so tired of being so tired.
Maybe this is the thing I need to get back on track.
Or maybe we’ll stand in the parking lot and go home.
It happens.
—
The black dog and the wanderin’ boy
Don’t ever do any harm
Squirrels with ball-peen hammers, on the other hand …
It looks like sunny skies
Now that I know you’re alright
Time has left us
Older
And wiser
I know I am
— melissa manchester and carole bayer sager
—
OK, so the iron infusion wasn’t quite the 21st century version of Lucy Ricardo’s Vitameatavegimen. I mustered a 3-mile stroll at 15:58 pace while looking for the fire alarm box to shut down the gym. And then the nice mechanic said that what I thought was a free tire alignment would cost $1,800. And then the orange man started blabbering. And then I lost the will to live.
And then Jami called.
I’m not sure how she ended up in my life. We worked together back in the days when there were things called “newspapers.” I’m an antisocial person by nature, but she never took no for an answer. How do people become friends? If I knew that, I would probably have some. But somehow, she snuck in one day and never left.
There’s something about her. A joy, a curiosity, a smile that lets you know she’s up to something. A laugh and a heart of gold, an unwavering belief in fighting the good fight against all odds, a wisdom that looks past the world’s horror and finds hope. Someone you’re lucky to somehow stumble across in a little office in a bad part of town between deadlines and crappy cups of coffee.
Sure, she once tried to shave my head, but she took me to the first Olympic beach volleyball matches and didn’t make me duck down when Karch Kiraly would glance in our direction. Life always balances out.
Mostly, she made me laugh. And think. And care. A lot.
We eventually went our separate ways, as journalists always do, losing touch and stashing the memories into the archive box to become faded and brittle with time.
But she refused to let that happen.
She would call and text and meet up for holidays. She was the best man/maid of honor/photographer/witness when Mo and I got married, flying from San Francisco to Phoenix to Flagstaff for the weekend. She came to cheer at a 12-hour race in the Bay Area, and brought a sign (laminated!) to the Phoenix Sufferfest. No, I didn’t drink H20. You have to draw the line somewhere.
Mostly, I know she’s there for me. She has always been there. And I’m sure she always will be. Except maybe for George Clinton shows. Did I mention you have to draw the line somewhere?
The world is a funny place. Eight billion people and change. What are the odds of finding this one person who could put up with me for so many years? I’m so lucky I can call her my friend.
I, of course, would never admit any of this to her. I am a guy. Awkward sideways hugs and sheepish mutterings. But maybe she knows all the same.
Time has left us older. And wiser. I know I am.
Now if I could just get a modicum of iron back in my body so I could live up to that sign. Run! Run! Run! Run!
I wonder if Amazon has Vitameatavegimen …
If I leave you it doesn’t mean I love you any less
Keep me in your heart for awhile
— warren william zevon
—
I’m hooked up to a needle and a bag of stuff that looks like it’s straight out of a Bela Lugosi movie.
And all I can think about is Jenny.
If you ever want to confront mortality on its home court, spend some time at an infusion center that deals mostly with cancer patients. The hours of tedium as toxic chemicals are pumped into bodies that are already under so much stress. The blank stares of four hours of hoping against hope. Nurses who seem a little TOO kind. What do they know that we don’t?
I’m one of the lucky ones, just here to get my iron topped off, no signs of the vermin making a return appearance so far. But others in my little cubicle corner aren’t so lucky.
Cancer is such an awful disease. One minute you’re living your life, not thinking about much of anything. The next, you’re in an office being told you should watch the Hallmark Christmas in July series because you’re unlikely to make it long enough to celebrate in December.
We still don’t know where all my iron went, but there are worse things in the world. Things that begin with the words Stage 4 and Inoperable and Terminal.
I was talking with a nurse who was trying to find my vein with the ultrasound gizmo. I noted that the joint was pretty empty today and speculated that maybe they had finally found a cure.
He just sighed. So many variations, so little time. He said there are new breakthroughs and new immunotherapies all the time, but it’s a cruel moving target. Breakthroughs will come too late for the people here.
Maybe if we thought more about death, we’d be more inclined to do something about it. But nobody wants to think about dying.
Which makes me think about Jenny.
We saw her just a couple of weeks ago. She seemed fine, although I didn’t pay much attention. No reason to. She would always be around.
And now she’s not.
She died on my birthday. Her body just shut down. Bodies are so complicated. Life is so delicate. Death is so final.
Why is saying goodbye so hard? I guess it’s a good thing, because it means you loved them. Everybody in the clinic today has somebody. They will eventually be saying goodbye, some much too soon. I guess the moral is to tell people you love them today. You don’t know if there will be a tomorrow.
Enjoy every sandwich, Mr. Zevon said. Although I had leftover salmon.
No run today. Mo googled the after-effects of the infusion and that was that. She seems to think “no exercise allowed” means you shouldn’t exercise. Weird. So the triumphant return will have to wait a day. I guess that’s a small price to pay. Although I hope Medicare pays most of it.
Safe travels, Jenny. I’m sorry I didn’t pet you more when I saw you last. I hope I see you on the other side. Maybe save me a sandwich …
“If there was a god, I’d still have both nuts.”
— lance edward armstrong
—
We’re sitting in the oncologist’s office like we’ve done so many times before.
But this time, it feels different.
Mo stares anxiously at the door, pretending to be indifferent. She is a brilliant artist, but a lousy actor. She realizes that our entire future rests on the man who will be walking through the door any minute with the answer to a question both of us desperately want to know but dread finding out.
But first, a look back at yesterday.
I’m getting my blood drawn by some nice guy who is maybe 30 or so. Hard to say with the young whippersnappers these days.
As I sit in the too-high chair, wagging my feet, he notices my battered shoes.
“Are you a runner?” he asks.
Nothing good can come from a question like this. It generally requires “answers” and possibly “a conversation” and then all bets are off.
I mutter yes. Maybe that will be the end of it.
But no. He asks a curious question: “Which shoes do you run in? Brooks or Nikes?”
My mind races. It’s likely racing a 5K because we don’t have much time. He’s only aware of two shoe brands? How can I possibly answer this?
If I tell him the truth, that I run in Mount to Coast H1s, Escalante racers and an occasional guilty pleasure in the Asics Hyper Speeds, I will either embarrass him or be rejected as an idiot. Does he not realize there are a billion brands of shoes these days? And why Brooks? BROOKS? What to do? This calls for a diversion.
“Mostly, I just walk,” I say, brilliantly skirting the issue altogether.
He frowns and jabs the needle into the crook of my arm, missing the vein entirely. It’s not a pleasant sensation. I wonder if it was an accident.
“But when I run, I have a pair of Nike waffle trainers,” I hastily add.
He lights up. Nikes! Just as he suspected. He appears pleased.
(side note: I must admit that only recently did I learn that Flea from the Red Hot Chili Peppers got his name because he started out as a phlebotomist and shortened it to Flea because the full name is too hard to spell. That’s why rock stars are better off with names like Chad Smith. But I digress.)
I don’t mention that I took the Nikes out for exactly one run and hated them so much that they were immediately banished to the back of the closet. What’s important is that we have bonded. And that he finds a vein. Which he does.
He goes on to tell me that he runs in Nikes as well and his friend runs in Brooks and sucks and Air Jordans are a nice-looking shoe but you can’t play basketball in them because they make your feet hurt (which would likely come as a surprise to Michael Jordan) and sometimes he just wears Converse and isn’t sure if he likes basketball or running more and how the Freaking Hell can he talk so much when a blood draw only takes 30 seconds?
And that is how I found out I have no iron in my blood.
No idea if he rigged the test because he figured out I was wearing Altras so I had to be lying.
But that’s not why we’re here.
We’re waiting for the Baby Doc to arrive.
The 15 minutes of sitting in the little room is excruciating. It seems to be even worse for Mo than it is for me.
So it’s with a mixture of relief and panic when the doorknob slowly turns and he walks in.
As soon as we see him, we know the answer.
Which is this:
Pink.
The Baby Doc always wears a flashy bow tie. Mo likes to guess what color and has bet me a million dollars that it will be green today. I worry that she made a deal with him in advance, but apparently not.
It’s a tasteful pink with a white shirt. I am now rich beyond my wildest dreams, although the wildest dream I can remember recently involves working a news shift before realizing I was supposed to be doing the features section.
I plot how to use the cash to blackmail Mo into staying with me even though she is now married to a 70-year-old geezer. Yes, I am the Bill Belichick of ultrarunning.
But that’s probably burying the lede of the story. Which is this:
I also have a second pair of Nikes that I actually like. But the Chili Peppers bass player had already wrapped my arm up and sent me on my way before I could tell him.
This must be EXACTLY how Lance Armstrong felt when dealing with Dr. Ferrari, his doctor/drug dealer. A couple of bags of iron infusions are in my future. And I get to keep both nuts for now. What more could you ask for?
Maybe a slice of birthday cake and a jaunty hat, quickly appropriated by the Birthday Panda.
“Motivation can’t take you very far if you don’t have the legs,” Armstrong said. He didn’t mention the other stuff. But I know what he means. I start getting the other stuff tomorrow. Maybe the legs will follow.
4 miles on the indoor track after the ordeal today, still at 15:10 pace. It will be interesting to see what the same run feels like tomorrow when I’m wearing my Wile E. Coyote ACME rocket.
And yes, my worst fears about the cat scan results came true.
There was no cat at all.
I think I’ll wear the Nikes on tomorrow’s run out of principle. I hope I can find a pink tie.
Vive le Tour …
As the plane crashed down
He thought, “Well, isn’t this nice?”
— Alanis Nadine Morissette
—
The good news: I suppose magnets will not stick to me. Lordy, I hate a sticky magnet.
The bad news: I have no iron. Maybe I just misplaced it.
I tend to look at medical charts as if they were race elevation profiles. This one has quite the screamer of a finish.
On the bright side, this would explain why I’ve been feeling so crappy for the last month or so, and it’s fixable. Horse pill-sized iron supplements that taste like, well, iron supplements. This happened once before and it worked out fine.
But why is this happening? I don’t think we ever found a cause last time. Just slapped some crazy glue on the gaping wound and kept moving. Luckily I turn 70 tomorrow. Maybe we can run the clock out before it becomes serious. Or stock up on duct tape.
Another 4 miles on the indoor track at 15:05, continuing the march to sub-15s. No, I didn’t actually march. It felt OK, but that was when I was blissfully unaware of my anemia. I am now like a Swiss soccer player, writhing relentlessly in the wake of a phantom foul. Or something.
I see the doctor tomorrow. Will he tell me extreme distance running is a bad idea? Will I listen if he does? What’s the point of going on if you can’t go on?
I’m now blissfully to the point that if something bad is going on in my body, I don’t want to know. Just give me some Lorna Doones and leave me alone.
Beats me. Maybe the medical chart really IS an accurate portrayal of my fitness.
All downhill from here …
Well, I don’t wanna get bitter
I don’t wanna turn cruel
I don’t wanna get old
Before I have to
— jill susan sobule
—
Upside of running at the gym: All the old folks look just like me.
Downside: The membership card isn’t particularly tasty.
Longtime readers will recall my solemn vow to run outside today. But that was before the Lindsey Graham news.
He had just turned 71. I am on the precipice of 70. He had a bad heart. I have a bad heart. He ignored it. I pretend I’m OK. Even though I’m painfully aware I am not.
And so I grudgingly ran my laps today in the cool comfort of the little SCC track, pondering life and death and hate and forgiveness and how could you celebrate someone’s death, and how could you not? Life is complicated, I suppose. Death is pretty simple.
I’m always grappling with just how much I can get away with in pushing the transplanted monkey heart. Should I take the prescribed pills even though they make me into a zombie, and not in the Cranberries sense of the word? Should I run in the heat to get stronger and take a chance on my heart wonking out entirely? Should I give up? Ignore it? What exactly SHOULD I do?
I still have no idea.
Funny how loving someone can change your perspective. I don’t think I would worry about it at this point if it were just me. 70 is a fine quitting point; anything past that is purely a bonus. But I’d like to annoy Mo for a while longer, which requires staying alive. Also we just bought ice cream and I would hate to bow out before it’s gone. But mostly that first point.
I’m not sure where this is leading. They say exercise is good for an ailing heart, but excessive exercise is not. I’m not sure what is considered excessive and I don’t want to find out. So I’m guessing I’ll compromise. Don’t run outside when it’s over 100, drink more water, avoid trips to Ukraine, drink even more water, give serious thought about whether the 12 hour run at the end of August is such a great idea, live my life without selling my soul and kissing up to a wannabe dictator purely for political advantage.
Jill Sobule once wrote about not wanting to get old until she had to. And then she died in a house fire at 66 before she got the chance. I should add avoiding house fires to the list. You never know what the future holds. Ice cream, hopefully.
I’m sure I can abide by at least some of those resolutions, which will be a huge improvement over my new year’s resolutions, which I’ve forgotten entirely.
Four miles on the track today, 15:15 pace, heart still a-fibbing all over the place, thoughts of why the hell am I doing this mostly left behind on the back stretch. I’m sure they’ll know where to find me tomorrow.
This coming week: Another installment of Let’s Find Out If I Have Cancer, Let’s Celebrate Becoming a Septuagenarian (who came up with these names?), and let’s pile up a huge mileage total to pretend last month didn’t happen.
Also, no trips to Ukraine.
I don’t want to get old before I have to …
Some of them were dreamers
And some of them were fools
Who were making plans
and thinking of the future
— clyde jackson browne
—
You would think that when I’m running and it’s 105 degrees with a blaring sun (yes, the sun actually blares here), I would welcome getting wet.
You would be wrong.
I am OK with my shirt and shorts being totally soaked from the honest sweat of running in the heat. I love the occasional dousing of a monsoon storm that turns the park into a lake. And nothing beats the warm feeling of accidentally peeing yourself midway through a race.
But I hate hate hate getting nailed by sprinklers.
I run a bunch of loops in a park near home. It’s only four-tenths of a mile, so I can have a heart attack and still make it back to the car to finish off my icy Diet Coke before dying. The course circles two soccer fields with immaculate grass, a feat that in the desert can mean only one thing:
Water. Lots of water.
And so I find myself dodging sprinklers. Sometimes they’re already on when I begin; sometimes they lie in wait and come on only as I pass. They go for maybe a half hour, just long enough to flood the sidewalk and douse me 10 times or so.
We had a breeze today and I was wearing a singlet, so I became my own little air-conditioner, cooling off while I gradually dried out around the loop, only to be doused again. And again.
I loved it. And I hated it. And I loved it. And I hated it.
Why?
Why, when my heart is in overdrive and my cardiologist is sitting in the shade somewhere saying “I told you so,” do I not embrace getting wet to cool off? There’s an icy water fountain on the course. I have a big sponge. Relief is just a douse away.
But I don’t. Maybe it’s because I’ve always lived where it doesn’t rain much. Or maybe I’m a gremlin. I just can’t do it.
I gave up after 2 miles at 16:00 pace, which I considered a moral victory. I’m cracking up on the indoor track, even though nobody has ever squirted me there. I need to figure out how to survive running outside.
The past four weeks have been abysmal. I am running out of excuses for why the mileage hasn’t picked up after Hotfoot. Maybe tomorrow I can get in decent mileage. The Soccer Boys will demonstrate what the world cup would be like if fueled by Modelo and marijuana, so the sprinklers will take the day off. This could be my day. Making plans and thinking of the future. One soggy lap at a time.
On the bright side, today was Mo’s birthday. We had cake. A lot of cake. Way too much cake.
On the downside, the cake had sprinkles.
Always somethin’ …
Never give up, never slow down
Never grow old, never ever die young
— james vernon taylor
—
One of the questions I am most often asked on street corners and speakeasy establishments is whether I ever regret becoming a journalist when I could have had a lucrative career as a professional cake decorator.
The answer, of course, is an emphatic hell yes. But in my early years, there was still hope that cake decorating could become an Olympic sport, and I didn’t want to lose my eligibility by accepting money. Doesn’t the concept of amateur sports seem like a long, long time ago? Those were the days, my friend. I thought they’d never end.
But, of course, they did. Competitive cake decorating was ahead of its time, and working for newspapers meant free coffee, although a day or two old. And so I set aside my dream.
But I still put on an occasional show. Mo’s 30th birthday is tomorrow, so I decorated her cake for the occasion. OK, the icing and sprinkles were already there. But I added a hyper-realistic drawing of Max the Cat, along with what may be “MO” or possibly “ND,” an homage to Daniel “Rudy” Ruettiger.
Jackson Pollock died in the summer of 1956. I was born around the same time. I suppose we will never know if reincarnation is real, but it’s obvious that the cake mimics Mr. Pollock’s drip style. Which is mostly because I couldn’t figure out how to make the icing squirter squirt. Which is likely how the whole abstract impressionist movement began.
Which of course brings us to today’s run.
Another day on the indoor track, but I think I discovered the key to moving a little faster, which is this: Move a little faster.
Back to almost 15:00 pace for 4 miles, which puts me back where I’m supposed to be, at least in the abstract. Still a lot of a-fib, but I don’t think anybody had to use the paddles on me, so I’m calling it a success.
Never give up, never slow down. Never grow old, never ever die young. Best birthday song ever.
I’m so lucky to have Mo in my life. And she is so lucky to have an in-house cake decorator. Life always seems to work out just fine.
Let’s eat cake.
Now I’ve drunk a lot of wine and I’m feeling fine
Got to race some cat to bed
Oh, is there concrete all around or is it in my head?
— mr. david bowie
—
Theories abound on the secret to training for a multiday race on a loop course. Running a bunch (only as a last resort, of course), sleep deprivation practice, sodium and carb intake, blister preparation, incantations for the inevitable Hello Kitty demon that lurks on the back turn in the wee hours.
Today, I accidentally discovered what may be The Greatest Training Tool in the History of Mankind and Possibly Prehistoric Times If They Had Ultras Back Then And I’m Guessing They Did If They Were Being Chased by T-Rex. Oh, that Marc Bolan. He had a scary stare that turned all the young dudes into juvenile delinquent wrecks. But that’s a different post altogether.
Without further ado, the secret is:
Eating two hot dogs minutes before beginning your run.
I am no stranger to the occasional frankfurter along the course, whether as part of a buffet or a Rocky Horror Picture Show matinee. You’re trudging around the course, the folks at the food table give you the sad eyes that say do you know how hard we worked to make these, and you dutifully accept the little foil-wrapped beast with the same obligatory enthusiasm as Christmas fruitcake. Except for Gumbo’s fruitcake, which I like a lot and was actually a staple of last year’s six-day.
Then, a few laps later, you remember why you never see Walmsley downing them.
They tend to wreak havoc with your digestive tract, a cruel reminder of the “Never Try Anything in The Race That You Didn’t Try in Training” rule.
Which brings us to today. Mo came home from the pottery studio and needed to eat something so she would not get crabby and kill me. Not wanting to die, I joined her. And then we had another hot dog, because the Paula Poundstone Pop-Tart Rule must never be questioned. Yes, running has a lot of rules.
The hot dogs were swell, in a hot dog sort of way. Relishing the moment, I leaned back in my chair for an afternoon siesta, content to rub my belly and watch Reddington kill people for the next few hours, until Mo announced:
“Let’s go run.”
I am scared of Mo and wasn’t at all sure if she was past her Crabby and Kill Me stage, so off we went.
Mo, me and two hot dogs contentedly settling into their gastric airbnb.
I could make up some dramatic tale of how badly things went — stomach churning, tiny-handed dinosaurs and big-headed kitty dolls doing fartleks through my system, elderly walkers on the indoor track doing the Time Warp again.
But in reality, it went just fine. Maybe the movie adaptation will be more exciting.
Four miles at 16-minute pace, fueled entirely by a pre-race delicacy that would make Brent LeRoy proud.
Another hour of air-conditioned contentment on the indoor track as the great outdoors remain hot enough to cook a hot dog on the sidewalk. Another example of specificity in training. Yes, All The Young Dudes is on my 24-hour playlist.
Hey. I might be on to something. Maybe tomorrow will be an outdoor run/cookout.
I wonder if you can toast a Pop-Tart on the sidewalk …
“The best most of us can do is be a poet an hour a day.”
— dr. george sheehan
—
The thought occurred to me today at about the 58-minute mark.
What if an hour is all I have in me these days?
With temps in the upper 200s as the heat takes up its summer residency in the desert, I found myself in the last refuge of the desperate: the SCC indoor track. Eleven laps to a mile, turning the Garmin on and the brain off.
I managed a nudge under 16-minute miles for 4 miles, which is short of the Olympic qualifying standard but good enough for a podium finish at the 10 a.m. Geezer Dash. Although I suppose it doesn’t count as a race if nobody knows we’re racing but me.
The a-fib seems to be settling in for most of my strolls. It leaves me perpetually stuck in second gear, trudging along like a Vespa on an uphill. No, I’ve never ridden a Vespa on an uphill. You gotta work with me here.
Mo runs on a treadmill for an hour at the gym, so I’m pretty much locked in to that duration when we go together. But I’m always secretly relieved when I see her cooling down. Never once do I think, “My, that was easy. Let’s do it again!”
I have all these grand ambitions on the horizon, cruising effortlessly through endless miles, hour after hour after hour.
My imagination says yes. My heart seems to be saying an emphatic no.
It’s not like a stress fracture or an ITB flare-up. I can’t look down the road and say that it’s going to get better at some point. The beloved old Honda ran forever, until it didn’t. I wonder if NPR will tow me away when I eventually break down in the parking lot.
If your world revolves around running and you can’t run, then what? Maybe stop dreaming so big. Accept the limitations of living out the third act in slow motion and get in a few more matinees before the curtain call.
Life is short. Maybe my runs will be as well. And that’s OK.
Celebrate the hour, I suppose. “Every mile I run is my first,” Dr. Sheehan said. “Every hour on the roads a new beginning. Every day I put on my running clothes, I am born again.”
I love that feeling, standing at the starting line with a clean slate, a watch set at zero, a limitless horizon. THIS might be the perfect run.
And if not, there’s tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.
“The answer to the big questions in running is the same as the answer to the big questions in life: Do the best with what you’ve got,” Dr. Sheehan said.
If an hour is all my heart has, then an hour is enough. Poetry doesn’t have to be long.
Crank up the ancient Vespa. Uphill battles are the best.
“I’ll say God seems to have a kind of laid-back management style I’m not crazy about. I’m pretty much anti-death. God looks by all accounts to be pro-death. I’m not seeing how we can get together on this issue, he and I…”
— david foster wallace
—
Longtime readers will recall that many years ago I had an annual tradition of trying to kill myself on my birthday. Not so much that I was pro-death; I just desperately needed the noise in my head to turn off. Those were not my favorite years.
Luckily, I wasn’t good at it, because here I am.
So it’s ironic, even in the Marty Cortinas sense of the word, that I’ll find out on my birthday whether I have rejoined the Cancer Club, or will be allowed to sit on the sidelines for a while longer.
I was first diagnosed with lymphoma in 2008. I remember being excited about it because it’s a disease that already has its own running club, Team in Training. I never joined, given that it would require Talking to People, and wasn’t I suffering enough already?
I was lucky enough to find myself under the care of a brilliant oncologist who also was a hardcore bicyclist. We spent countless and very expensive hours talking running and cycling and how exactly glitter can become attached to your private parts at Burning Man and chemo combinations and survival statistics. And then one day, the cancer was gone.
Until it wasn’t.
I have a form of lymphoma that never really goes away. It just agrees to call a truce and lay low for a while.
Until it doesn’t.
And so maybe 10 years later we did the same mambo over again. This time it was a little more ominous, but the chemo was a lot more bad-ass, and so here I am, back in my pseudo remission, still celebrating slow runs and fast picnics.
Next week, I go in for another cat scan, which sadly doesn’t involve an actual feline. It seems like it hasn’t been very long since the last one, which is a bit worrisome. Does the Baby Doc, who took over when my trusty companion hung up his stethoscope and headed for the mountains of France, know something I don’t? He wears a bow tie, so he must be wise. But it’s a zillion degrees outside and the Mayo has air-conditioning and blueberry scones, so it will make for a fine afternoon.
Still, there’s something about that wait for results that is like watching Jaws when the John Williams soundtrack starts to build. Like the scariest cliffhanger of a medical show, but without the commercials. And I will find out on the occasion of Bastille Day, my 70th birthday. Vive le marmot!
“You’re going to die,” the cyclist doctor once assured me. “We’re all going to die. My job is to see that you die from something else.”
I’m hoping that something else is my monkey transplant heart. I would much prefer the sudden Caballo Blanco exit to a protracted, excruciating battle with microsopic rogue terrorists that stage a coup for reasons we still don’t understand.
I’ve already paid the entry fees to a couple of pricey races with no refund possibility, so I would like to live at least through the end of the year. Dying mid-race is a totally different conversation. Must pause Garmin Must pause Garmin. That would make a fine tattoo.
And so I moseyed 4 miles today on the Lasso course in a 110-degree heat that likely gave any cancer lurking inside me second thoughts about planning an extended visit. That’s my strategy for hanging on at this point. If it’s there, make it suffer. I’m pretty much anti-death, unless there’s a race with an unreasonable challenge.
And so the weird guy with the scythe invites himself back to the birthday party, all these years later. I find myself quoting a gifted writer who killed himself in despair, maybe not the best role model for the occasion. Surely he jested.
Mostly I want a birthday scone from the Mayo cafeteria. For the next 10 years. Then Mr. Cuervo and I can blow that candle out.
It’s just another day …
The dirty little secret they don’t tell you about running in the heat: 110 isn’t all that much worse than 105.
The other dirty little secret they don’t tell you about: 105 isn’t that much fun.
I am retired, knocking on the door of 70 years old and hoping someone answers. I have no particular responsibilities. I can run anytime, from the relative cool of the desert morning to the forgiving shade of sunset.
So, of course, here I am at 2 p.m., waiting for the hallucinations to set in.
Maybe it’s because I’m a creature of habit. As a newspaper copy editor, I always began my work shifts in the early afternoon. There’s just something about waking up late and reading the news while eating my oatmeal, then stalling for all I’m worth until cabin fever sits in and I eventually mosey out. Moseying is something 70-year-olds do, and next week I’ll be one of them.
I’m on the mad dog course, which has been turned into a miniature Autobahn, and not in a good way. I’m guessing my obit someday will mention something about an overzealous early teen on an e-bike. But that’s one of the many advantages of running when it’s unbearably hot: the riff-raff isn’t riff-raffing. I haven’t thought of what the other advantages are yet. Likely something to do with microwaving without needing a microwave.
Still, I love the heat. It’s an honest outing, this stroll that pretends to be a run. I rationalize my pace with the argument that six-day races require patience, not speed. I have patience.
The modified mad dog leads 2 1/2 miles to a blissful water fountain and a return trip. I’m not sure if I’ll eventually jettison the dog park in favor of this, the old sacred course with its ghosts and glory. But for today, we celebrate. Just me and a frisbee golfer and some ducks huddling in the shade while giving me a puzzled look about why I’m out here, and wouldn’t it just be easier to fly.
175 days lie between me and my certain demise. Still, making it to 70 isn’t so bad. When you read an obit and see someone died at 70, you don’t lament that they died before their time. You think “Well, that seems about right.”
I have enough shorts and shoes stockpiled that I’m certain I’ll never need to buy any more. But I’m certain I will. You can’t take it with you. But maybe I’ll take an extra pair of running shoes. Surely they have races in heaven. Or Iowa.
Just left foot, right foot, three breaths, two breaths, that same routine I’ve done for 40 years, give or take a 10k. 720 verses in my head of James Taylor singing about his dad’s walking in silent desperation. How did I listen to that song so many times without realizing?
I love this course, this routine, this life. A hypothetical destination.
Would he have wings to fly …
fast picnic 