running & life | mark bauman | bloomsburg pa

C'est bon...

2010-08-10T19:38:00.000-07:00

Louisiana is an interesting place. It's not a place I'd come to just for kicks. Sure it's nice enough, as are the people. But on balance, I don't know that I'd come down here just to hang out, or for a vacay (which I don't take anyway).

All the same, a few observations about life in Louisiana.

1. People don't go outside. To pass some time, I run quite a bit down here. Today, for example, the heat index was 110 or something like that. It's the kind of hot that induces sweat simply by standing outside, shaded or otherwise, enveloped by a sheath of heavy air. And so I find that when I run outside, the good folks down here are so unfamiliar with pedestrians that it's like I'm playing a perpetual game of Frogger, only one that King might write about. Combined with the curious looks, I find myself frequently dancing into the grass along side the roads, so as to avoid the 2000 pound missiles headed my way. What it all comes down to is this: People don't go outside down here, and certainly not to walk or run on the side of the road. It's just too damn not.

2. People lose their hats. Running gives me kind of a ground-level view of things, which I find to be really insightful especially when it's a new place. In Louisiana, people wear a lot of hats and I think many or even most of them eventually gather on the side of the road. Are people riding in cars with their heads sticking out of the window? Certainly not, because that would require opening the car window and losing that air conditioned comfort. In the end, I've no idea where all these hats are coming from. But if you've lost a hat, it's likely on the side of the road in Louisiana.

3. French is a big thing down here. The title of this little diddy - C'est Bon - happens to be an expression I first learned in 8th grade french. Basically translated, depending on how the speaker inflects: It's good (or) Is it good? Driving around the state, there's lots of evidence of the state's francophone roots. But other than street names or the "parish" idea, I didn't give it much thought. Til one evening, out in Cameron, Louisiana, my locally born and raised BP-counterpart-buddy turned to me and said: C'est bon? My reply: What? And so he repeated and then another guy, whom he had never met, echoed the quasi-question-statement: C'est bon....ah I know you're from around here. I then asked my friend for a little help, whereupon he explained about some French language and how that was all his grandmother spoke. People still speak it and it's still present in colloquial expressions used by lots of LA folks each day. Like a culture within a culture.

4. The accent is think and rich and pure bayou, at least how I might imagine it. I think the north has some "country" feel to it in parts. My rural PA friends will appreciate that. Down here does too, but it's a different kind of country. More like bayou country. Most prominent within this bayou country is this really cool "yes I was born and raised here proclamation" that is the Lousiana accent. Slow, ambling, lots of dis and dat and dere (D figures strongly). It's a bit mesmerizing really.

5. If I lived here I'd be the size of a house. People here eat well; I mean really well. But it's the kind of well that will generally limit your shelf life here on the big blue ball. But man does it taste good. Fried everything. Po boys. Etouffe. Jambalaya. I'm a bit concerned to check my cholesterol when I return.

6. Car seats are optional. Remember that 'street level view' I get? Another of its revelations is the number of youngsters I see riding pretty much anywhere in the car. Now, to be fair, infants are in the car seats. But any child that's about a year old and up is free to roam about in the cabin. They seem darn happy about it too.

So it's been fun and interesting and a bit perspective shifting. The reason I'm here sucks, quite frankly. This oil mess is just that, but I'm not really supposed to talk at length about it. I think like most things in life, you've got to look at the positives, and there are many that I've collected thus far on this trip. I've met some good people, decent, hard-working folk who are happy to talk to you about just about anything. I've seen some nice country, pancake-flat and seemingly endless. And I've eaten some good food, maybe even too much. Along the way I learned that I really like hot sauce - especially that Louisiana brand, all syrup-like and not too hot.

But I think most important of all is that I've learned, or maybe re-learned, that I really like being home. So, no offense Louisiana, but I really can't wait to get out of here.

Untitled

2010-06-03T10:57:00.000-07:00

I think I know what love is now. But I’m not going to pretend to try and write it here. It’s been elusive, I think, for me. Maybe for others too. Being loved, though, hasn’t been elusive. In fact, it’s been there for a while now. And it’s something I should appreciate more.

Like most things for me, it took a moment or an event or something or other for it to all click. Gus, my son, seems to be that click. Not on day one, or day two or day ten. But one of those gradual things that you don’t really know is there til it envelopes you. It’s pretty amazing and pretty wonderful and pretty intense all at the same time. I imagine it’s different for most folks, and that’s ok. So long as you experience your version of it. Now that I’m in the midst of it, I can’t really think of life without it. Funny how you don’t maybe know you’re in the dark if that’s all you know. That is until someone opens up the shades.

Enjoy the day.

65-656-11 | Links to Summer Readings

2009-05-18T10:26:00.000-07:00

Note to Students - Please read these in the order they appear, unless otherwise noted. If you have trouble accessing an article please email me right away so I can correct the issue.

MAY 21 - Case of Elizabeth Shin

Who Was Responsible For Elizabeth Shin? April, 2002

A Suicide and Its Aftermath: An MIT sophomore's death underscores the balancing act between students' privacy and administrators' obligations May 2002

Ferrum College Concedes 'Shared Responsibility' in a Student's Suicide August, 2003

Dismissed for Depression: More colleges are suspending students who appear to be suicidal March, 2006

In a Surprise Move, MIT Settles Closely Watched Student-Suicide Case April, 2006

MIT Settles With Family of Student Who Killed Herself September, 2006

Student Suicide and Colleges' Liability April, 2007

MAY 26 - Diversity in Higher Education

Diversity and Higher Education: Theory and Impact on Educational Outcomes Fall, 2002 (SKIM)

Regents of the University of California v. Bakke June, 1978

GRATZ V. BOLLINGER June, 2003

GRUTTER V. BOLLINGER June, 2003

Racial Diversity's Effect on Education Is a Myth March, 2003

The Court Has Granted Wide Deference to Colleges March, 2003

MAY 28 - In loco Parentis & Parental Involvement

Dixon v. Alabama 1961

Student rights associated with disciplinary and academic hearings and sanctions March, 2005

JUN 11 - Academic Freedom / Freedom of Speech

1940 Statement of Principles on Academic Freedom and Tenure 1940

The Roberts Court and Academic Freedom July, 2007

Colo. Regents Vote to Fire Ward Churchill July, 2006

As His Day in Court Arrives, Ward Churchill Is Depicted in Sharply Different Lights March, 2009

Ward Churchill Asks Judge to Make U. of Colorado Take Him Back May, 2009

JUN 18 - Title IX

NCES - Fast Facts

Grove City College v. Bell 1984 (SKIM)

Fresno State Grapples With a Spate of Sex-Discrimination Claims August, 2007

Rise in Fancy Academic Centers for Athletes Raises Questions of Fairness August, 2008

Backers of Title IX Hope Obama Will End 'Stalemate' Over Enforcement February, 2009

June 24 - At Risk Students

Towson U Gives Men With Low Grades a Chance at College

‘No One Rises to Low Expectations’

Advising At-Risk Students in College and University Settings

Baby Giraffes

2008-07-14T11:09:00.000-07:00

A few weeks back I officially accepted that I'm injured. Was a bit hard to do, but when I had trouble standing & walking & getting down stairs I had to come to terms that running was certainly out of the picture. So on June 20th I officially went on hiatus from my decidedly lackluster running career. It's a good thing, no doubt. But sitting around and getting rusty is not all that grand. Sure I could do other things but I think this was a good time (or a good excuse) to just lay low.

I don't get injured much, and for this I count myself lucky. The one and only ultra I ran saw me injured at the end - achilles it was. Inflamed and displeased at the stress I put on it during the 52 miles or so. For some absurd reason, I thought I could run through it. So two days later, I tried to run. Funny thing about running injuries: sometimes they hurt less when you run. In this way they can be rather deceptive. Such was the case with my achilles; it was also the case with my knee. The more I ran, the less it hurt. I got the notion, therefore, that I should simply just run everywhere and soon I'd be right as rain. Unfortunately, the increased blood flow to the ailing area provides temporary relief; but in the end, you basically pile damage on top of damage. The only real cure, I think, is to stop the stress and let the damn thing heal. Fortunately, an MRI revealed no bad news - just fluid in the knee. Something from which I can recover on my own. On a side note, what kind of fluid is actually in my knee? Shirley temples? Cranberry juice?

And so here I sit, typing away. At work, not working (but only briefly not working). My knee feels really good. So good that I can almost do the deep squat that's been eluding me for about 6 months. Why would I want to do a deep squat? Trying out for the Mets? I don't really know - all I do know is that I've used this as my yardstick for how badly my knee feels. I'd say I'm almost to 95%. I contemplate running but quite frankly I don't think I could bear another layoff. So I'm giving it another week or so. Then I'll take a few baby steps, much like the baby Giraffe stands on wobbly knees (how's that for a visual).

I have my sights set on Steamtown in October. This would be my third time. I have an affinity for the event, very down to earth, very Americana. I'd love to do it again. But with only two months and a few days to train, I'm not sure that's what I need even if everything is back to normal.

That's all for now; thanks for reading. And maybe I'll see you on the pavement in the near future.

Are Fishes Animals?

2008-06-17T14:25:00.000-07:00

As a devout reader of this blog, you are no doubt aware that I gave vegetarianism the old college try. The month of May was to encompass my animal free days. The short version: I did it. The long version: being a veg can be a pain in the butt (in a good way, mostly).

During this one month I have never thought about food as deeply. I read every label, considered every ingredient, looked over every shelf at Walmart (yes I shop at Walmart). It was a great challenge to find foods that were truly vegetarian. Some soups, for example, are in fact not. Vegetable soup, one might think, should fall in this category. But upon reading the back label, it's clearly made with either chicken broth or beef broth or emu broth or something otherwise from 4 legs.

But the most challenging part was lunch. For those who may not know, I work on a college campus. As part of my employment, I'm given a meal plan - a wonderful and generous perk. I've been going to the student cafeteria for about 13 years (17 if you count my student days). Often I would arrive for lunch, walking up and back examining the day's offerings. The ever-present salad bar was always an option. But I don't do rabbit food (doesn't make much sense, does it?). So I would often settle for a cheese sandwich with various accoutrements like beets, egg, onions and the like. I can't say they were great meals; but it made me realize just how challenging this can be.

I think what I missed most was protein. I have a friend who's a veg and I'd ask him how I could get more. "PB&J works" he'd reply. I'm sure it does. But I couldn't picture myself having PB&J 3 times a day. Although looking back it's clear that this became my go-to meal. Aside from this, I tried to eat eggs, cheese and some nuts from time to time. Truthfully, though, I think I really missed the boat on the protein. My running weakened a bit; and I'm still wondering if this lacking contributed to my poor marathon showing (see the BONK blog).

Enter FISHES! And shellfish. And all other things sea-dwelling. I liked not eating cow or chicken or pig or whatever. I feel good philosophically and physically. But two things became apparent to me. First, I really like sea critters. Can't fudge that one. And yes I live in a pretty land-locked area. But I can still get some frozen goods that are decent. Second, I really need protein. I feel strongly that nuts and eggs and whatever just isn't cutting it. Yes, I could do a shake or a protein bar or something. But in response to that I'd say take a look at my first point.

Therefore and thusly, I'm am now officially a "pescetarian." Seriously? Yup that's the label. Basically means someone who eats fish type stuff. Who knew there was an actual label out there? I sometimes envision the various "arians" (vegetarians, vegans, pescetarians etc) getting into turf wars over who's the most righteous.

Anyway, I'm not in to all that. But I do feel really good about this. So I'm going to give it a while. How long? Well that's hard to say. But long enough so I can really figure it out. I'm not going to lie either - sometimes walking by that grill gets the old chops watering with the smell of cow. Maybe I'll go back some day; for now, though, I'm swimming with the fishes.

See you on the pavement.

BONK!

2008-06-17T12:35:00.000-07:00

I've never bonked before. Sure I've hit the proverbial wall (some would say bonking and hitting the wall are one and the same), but I've always managed to get through it. On May 31st that all changed.

For those of you who may not know, bonking is a term that broadly describes any number of bad things that runners (among other folks) can experience. Often the bonk is related to one's nutrition, hydration, electrolyte balance, muscle fatigue and on and on. More on this subject, check out wikipedia's entry for bonkin g.

So I bonked. And there was no doubt about it. It was during my fifth marathon; this one a local affair, first time being held. It was nice, but really small. Although I like the more intimate events this one was downright lonely - at least for those going beyond the half marathon distance.

The first 13.1 miles went by quite nicely. Sure it was hot and humid; yes I was sweating a lot. I drank a bit, but in retrospect certainly not anywhere near what I should've. See I train without fluids or food. Part of it is practical - I don't like to carry packs and of course the teeny-tiny pocket stitched in the running shorts could maybe hold starburst at best. The other part is my stomach. I'm not going to further bore you, but I've not conquered the eating/drinking/running thing yet. One bite of the wrong food during a run and I'm done. It's like my kryptonite. For these reasons, I almost never eat or drink when I train. Clearly, this was the wrong strategy for this race.

After the first half, which I finished in 2hrs 7mins, I felt quite good. Looking back, I know I could've finished in 1hr 50+ minutes on the half if that was my end goal. But it was not and so I was pacing myself the best I knew how. Around mile 11 I picked up 2 first timers and ran with them til about mile 19. I usually prefer to run alone, but today I was enjoying the company. Conversation was easy and light.

Probably around mile 14 or so was when I first understood how much I was sweating. My shorts - they of the wicking variety - where drenched. So much so that drops were coming off. Head was drenched; shirt too. Normally this isn't that big of an issue. But the fundamental problem here is that I didn't replace anything. By mile 14 I had consumed maybe 2 cups of water, a sip of gatorade and about half a granola bar. Being the idiot that I can sometimes be, I continued in this vein til about mile 19 (minimal drinking and no food). It was then - as I crossed the bridge over the Susquehanna river - that my newly acquired running buddies began to pull away. Or, more accurately, that I began to fall behind. It wasn't my legs - they felt fairly fresh. But I just hit the wall with my energy level. And then the wall fell on top of me. And then I think some elephants or other similarly large animals did the happy dance on top of the wall, with me under it. Suffice it to say, that I never got through it, leaving the final 7 miles the longest of my lackluster running career.

I began searching out water and food as best I could; aid stations had fluid and some sickeningly sweet gatorade which my stomach can't handle. I had some gummi bears. Some kind gentleman seemed to be pacing myself and a few others in his Camry and would stop from time to time. From him I procured a couple bottles of water and a banana. Still nothing raised my energy level. I had been reduced to plodding. Looking back, I think it was probably too late.

And then the cramps happened. Not the kind where you run through it, try to shrug it off. Nope, these were the kind that will lock up the legs in a second and put you on the ground because your muscles refuse to work. They were in my calves specifically - both of them. The cramping forced me to reduce my stride length to a shuffle; attempting a longer stride would instantly bring pain, seizure of my calves and several near falls. I ran with these for probably the last 5 miles. Quite frankly, it sucked.

I crossed the finish line around 4hrs 50mins. Most everybody was packing up; I looked at the results later and found there were only 2 or 3 people behind me. I laid down, grateful to be off my feet. My calf muscles were quivery and spazzing - something they continued to do for 3 hours after I finished. I saw my running buddies from earlier - the first timers. They made it, I'm happy to say.

It seems clear to me, after doing some research and posting to an ultra list group, that I really screwed up my nutrition. Not enough fluids, not enough salt/electrolytes. Not enough calories. I basically allowed myself to get too depleted; and then I couldn't bring it back.

Although this event wasn't all that fun, I still have an affinity for the marathon. I'm glad I still covered the miles that day, difficult as it was; and I plan to do more (thinking Steamtown this fall). I don't really have some grand, life-altering piece of insight to share. But I did learn a lot about what I can and can't do. This event may have gotten the best of me, but I'll be back for more.

See you on the pavement.

Pavement, 101

2008-05-15T08:27:00.000-07:00

Apparently the start of my 35th year on this planet is also to mark the start of my old man stage. For whatever reason - genetics, most likely - I've reached a stage of rickety-ness (poor word, I know) that I've not experienced before. The night-time is always the best, especially when I wake up at 2am. I'm lucky to have handrails down both sides of my stairs; without them I would most certainly take a header down to the landing. It's my knees, you see. Sure I've had some aches in pains in years past. But these puppies throb constantly; it's a bone thing too, nothing that ice can really solve. Up until about a week ago, it was only my right knee. And it was that hollow sort of pain - the kind where it feels like someone punched you in the gut. Apparently my left knee was feeling the outsider, so a few days ago it started up with its own chorus of displeasure. Perhaps it's because of my increased mileage; or maybe it's because my shoes have been in service since October. But more likely, it's just stuff catching up. Problem is, I didn't think it would catch up til much later.

So on my way to work (about 8.5 miles), I gave some thought to the interaction between runner and driver. It's a topic that I consider quite a bit, since there seems to be no end to careless drivers, gleefully oblivious that there's actually someone on the road who is not encased in steel. With that, here is my advice that all drivers should consider as they approach a runner (or biker, or walker etc).

1. Don't honk. I'm sure you're intending your honk to be friendly, but lots of runners I know (myself included) go into a semi-trance, lulled there by the rhythm of one's run. I've been scared out of my scandalous running shorts on many occasions, compliments of a horn. What's worse, is this often leads the runner to change their attention away from the run, leaving plenty of room for a turned ankle, a trip or other such badness. If you must honk, wait until you pass the runner, throw a wave out the window and then honk. By the time you pass the runner (assuming you're coming from behind), he/she will likely realize it's you (yes we do look at every car that passes) and then a friendly honk/wave combo is quite nice.

2. Control your dog. This applies to drivers and fellow pedestrians. I love animals. Heck I even stopped eating them because I like them so much. But it's quite frustrating when a dog owner allows the canine to extend the leash across the entire path of the forthcoming runner. I've actually had to jump over dogs, whilst the clueless owner chuckles and offers a meek apology. So if you see a runner, bring your dog close to you til he/she passes. As a driver, if your canine is riding shotgun and you approach a runner from the front, can you guess what your pooch is going to do? That's right, hang his/her head out the window and bark holy hell. Can you guess what this does to the runner? That's right, it rips them out of their semi-trance just long enough to crap their shorts.

A final note on this: I run a lot in rural PA. There's lots of dogs out there - sometimes I think they run wild, like deer or turkey. It's very common for me to run by some random house whereupon a solo run becomes me and a pack of dogs (think Ceaser from Dog Whisperer). I had one dog follow me for a mile, as a I went back and forth trying to shake him. I became so concerned, that I ran all the way back to house that he came from. Still nothing. I started to run down the driveway and finally the owner opened the door and scolded the rather happy pup. Without a doubt, this dog would have kept running with me, all the way back to my cat-infested house. I've had dogs run out onto busy streets and stand there until I walk them back to their owner. Moral of the story: please keep your dog attached to your land in some form; because although they're lovely animals, I'd rather them remain your animals, and not become one with the pavement.

3. Move over. This seems simple, right? Most runners point into traffic (so basically they run on the left side of the road, as cars come towards them). As you approach a runner on the road, move towards the center of the road. You don't have to get completely in the other lane; just a little space would nice. It's amazing how many drivers don't move at all; some actually move toward the runner. What most drivers don't see or realize is that the runner often can't move to their left without going off the road completely or over the guardrail or into some ankle biting terrain. I've had drivers veer towards me; had drivers run me off the road; had passengers attempt to spit on me; expletives yelled at me (was it the shorts?); had cars turn into me; even had a car back up and challenge me to a fight (crazy!). We don't ask for much. And obviously we're not going to play chicken with a 2000 pound piece of steel. But just give it a thought next time.

-----------------------------------------

That's enough lamenting for now. Marathon coming up on May 31st - maybe you'll be out there. Oh, and it's a road race, so if you drive by, lay off the horn.

See you on the pavement.

He's a vegetarian, uh-oh

2008-05-02T06:51:00.000-07:00

May 1, 2008 was the day I became a vegetarian. For those clock watchers, you'll note that today, the day of this writing, is May 2. So I can't say I've done this for all that long. And truthfully, my goal is to only "become" a vegetarian for a month. After that? Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves. Time will tell.

I have to give credit to two things. Number one: not too long ago, during the winter months, I was running on the treadmill in the student rec center on the campus where I work. It was a cold, bleary-eyed, but otherwise normal morning. Funny thing about treadmills, you run forever but never actually go anywhere. And whilst you are stationary, you are required to regard that which is directly in front of you. Oh sure, once in a while, if you muster the courage, you can look left or right. But I know very few treadmill runners who haven't grabbed the oh-shit handlebar to avoid a fall after such a glance. In that you're required to look ahead, you're held captive to what's displayed on the wall-mounted flat screen. On this particular day it was good morning america, or a similar type program. And on this particular day some behind-the-scenes footage was shown of a slaughter-type place where they bring cows into a facility and unceremoniously kill them. Of course I've known that this sort of thing occurs. It's not like I eat a steak or piece of chicken and can't envision from whence it came. But on this particular day, the images were dreadful: it showed workers moving sick cows with a forklift; pushing them, lifting them up. All the while, the poor cows are crying or mooing or making other cow noises. It was positively pathetic - both for the cows, who were entirely helpless, and for the humans who would contribute to such disgraceful treatment of animals. To say that this affected me greatly would be an understatement.

So what's number two? My cats. Three of them, to be exact. No kidding. I know that we don't serve up cat for dinner; and it's rare that you see cats being prodded with a forklift (they are, after all, quite small). But what I do know is that my cats, stupid as this sounds, have taught me how great animals are. And that I probably don't want to eat them (animals in general - not cats - don't be gross).

Even though it's only day 2, I'm feeling pretty good about this decision. I'm not a crusader nor am I trying to save the world. I'm not going to wear birkenstocks or patchouli oil. Maybe I'll lower my blood pressure or finally drop those few extra pounds. But really, in the end, I'm just what seems right for me. And for the cows. And the chickens. I'll keep you posted.

Oh, and if you see me at a McDonalds, tackle me.

See you on the pavement.

A new start - please read first

2008-03-11T10:16:00.000-07:00

I'm a converted blogger. That's to say that I've actually been doing this sort of thing for quite a while. Even had my own domain and everything. But I've stopped; or at least taken a very long hiatus. And when my website took a crap, I didn't really do much about it. Enter blogspot.

So, should you decide to read or browse or whatever, know this:

1. Everything in the "March 2008" area represents old writing. How old? Well that's hard to say. But I'd guess that some go back to 2003. The most recent one is maybe 6 months old? So please read, but just know that it's not the most current of things.

2. Any images I post bear the text: markb.org. As you may have guessed, this was the name of my old domain. So if you see this, just disregard until I figure out if I want to re-doctor a few hundred images.

Otherwise, thanks for coming. I'm actually hoping that my 3 regular readers of markb.org might follow me here. And the equally exciting part is that I'm hooked into a pre-existing community of people. So perhaps I'll double my readership to 6? Maybe I'll even have a comment posted?

Stay tuned. Come back often. Say hello. Or just lurk. Whatever suits you.

Thanks for visiting.
Mark

Boots, benches and marriage

2008-03-11T10:15:00.000-07:00

On this random of days, I've decided to give some thought to the subject of marriage. Truthfully, it's been bouncing around my gray matter since July 31, 2004. Which also happens to be the day that I became married. Or got married. Or wound up married. I'm not quite sure of the appropriate verbage. But regardless, after 7+ years of dating or courtship or just general feet-dragging, it all came to an end.

But did it really? End, I mean. No of course not. In fact, being married is pretty darn fun. So as sort of a tribute to the last couple of years of married life, I thought I'd spin a tale. A tale of boots and benches.

I got engaged on a park bench down by the river. It was at the close of a short run that Kate and I did together. Funny thing is, we didn't start out together but somehow ended up running down Market Street, though on opposite sides. Well at least I was running; I think Kate is more of a fast walker.

Anyway, the odd thing about this moment is that I wasn't supposed to get engaged. Nope. Not on a bench. Not by the river. Not after a run. It was supposed to happen the day before. Except, well, to be honest, I forgot. Really, it just slipped my mind. Which of course must sound cold and callous but it's really not like that. See about a day before I had just returned from boot camp. Eight weeks of mostly boys, lots of sweat, weird smells and strange customs and courtesies. After eight weeks of this sort of thing, the mind tends to go into standby mode; you operate on a script of sorts, without much thought from one moment to the next. Upon being released, it took some time to shake this strangeness off. And herein lies the problem: I was going to ask the day after I came home. But I was still stricken with the boot camp mentality - still waking up at 6am, still marching wherever I went and still standing with my heels clicked together. Proposing was certainly not part of the script.

And so I forgot. I was at the drive-in, just outside of Danville PA. Enjoying myself immensely - the freedom, the phone call to my mom, the slightly stale popcorn that I enjoy so much that only the drive-in has. And it never entered my mind.

I don't quite remember when I realized that I forgot. Maybe it was that evening; or maybe it was early the next morning. But sure enough, I did realize my error. And what an error it was - an error of omission, really. Part of the forgetting was also remembering that I had written a letter to a Mr. Jesberg. Which just so happens to be Kate's dad. And I asked permission, you know, to get married. He, of course, approved (and who wouldn't?).

Regardless of when I remembered that I forgot, I recall going on that morning run. Because I was still on the military schedule, it was an early one. Maybe around 6 or 7am. Kate, initially reluctant, was apparently inspired by get-up-an-go. And so she got-up-and-went, chasing me down through the town a short while after I began.

After I stepped off my postage-stamp of a porch, my mind began to churn, thinking about this whole proposal thing. Maybe I should just skip it? Maybe I should just wait a little longer. I mean, it's only been 7.5 years. What's another few months? Another year?

In some weird twist of fate, we ended up on that road - Market Street. The one that splits the town basically in half. It's a pretty road, wide and lined with old houses and older trees. It's the one that leads to the park. And at the park we sat on the bench and looked out over the river. It was early and quiet and we were fairly well on our own except for maybe some ducks.

After some time passed, I blurted: "So you want to get married or what?"

That's really how it came out, word for word. Before I fully understood what I was about to say - before it registered that I'd even uttered them - the words were indeed hanging out there. Kate was clearly stunned. She looked at me, unsure of whether to imagine this as a joke or if that really was a clumsy version of a proposal.

"For real?" was her reply. "I don't have a ring or anything, I mean I just got home."

I figured after all these years, lacking a ring wouldn't stop the forward progress. It didn't. On the walk home, apparently I questioned whether marriage was right for me. But Kate, to her credit, took it in stride. Never flinched or doubted. Not quite sure why; I imagine I might've if the roles were switched.

And that brings us to today, married for a little over two years. It is fun. Darn fun. I imagine like most other things in life, much depends on those involved. I think Kate and I make a fine pair, mostly because I think I'm a little on the difficult side and mostly because I think Kate is on the forgiving side. I think too that much of life is about those seemingly unimportant choices that you make on any given Sunday. Choices that you think are irrelevant. But after looking back on things, you realize just how important they are. Imagine if Kate decided to stay in bed and not go for a run? It seemed irrelevant at the time, but yet it set in motion a chain of events that leads to me sitting here typing these thoughts.

Imagine.

See you on the pavement.

Running and mom (R&M 1)

2008-03-11T09:55:00.000-07:00

I haven't run for very long. Maybe the past 3-4 years. Even then, probably the past two years were the 'serious' years when I did road races and other events. Race is perhaps a bit tongue in cheek. I enter them. I finish them. Somewhere along the way I usually question why in the world I subject myself to such an experience. It ends with entering the chute and crossing the line. Short races are blissfully quick but more painful in the end. Longer races demonstrate where your limits are. Either way, they are challenging. But why do I run? I ask myself this question often, especially on the longer runs where all you have is your mind. I'm not a particularly good runner; I'm certainly not built to run fast. I'm not really even built to run far. Yet I return to the sport - indeed to the experience - almost daily. And I participate in events with fervor. The reasons are not noble. I do not run to reach some nirvana, to lose weight or to face fear. Quite simply, I run because I can.

Some years ago, I learned that my mother was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis, a particularly unkind degenerative disease of the central nervous system. Over time, I've watched my mother first struggle with her balance, then use a cane, then a walker and, more recently a wheelchair. Though I'm aware that variations of MS can be more vicious, I struggle to conceive of what those forms might resemble. True, my mother's vision has not faltered and her MS is largely confined to her lower body. Blessings in disguise, some might say. But this is my mother. How could something this awful, this bleak, happen to this beautiful woman? These and others are questions to which there are no answers.

And while my emotions have swayed significantly over the years, my mother provides the proverbial anchor. In my youth, I reacted to the injustice of her illness with anger and disbelief. As I aged - as I ran - I took on a more reflective posture. I knew I could not understand such things. I knew that this experience was one that had a learning moment. I simply needed to discover it. On those running days when I find myself struggling, I look to my mother. Though MS cripples her body it never cripples her spirit. Her vigor and enthusiasm for life is inspiring. I take this spirit with me on all my runs and throughout life. When I hit the 'running wall' - either on the road or elsewhere - it is her spirit that allows me to climb it.

My mother can't run. I run to honor her. I run for her. I think of her often on those longer paths and I think of her at the end of the shorter ones. More simply, though, I run because I can.

Life, reflected (R&M 2)

2008-03-11T09:54:00.000-07:00

So my mom is not doing so well. To be fair, tho, she is better now than the prior 15 or so days. She's been in the hospital. Stroke number two. And there is of course the little thing known as MS which has stolen her ability to walk. But I don't like to write about sad things. Its' not in my nature; and I prefer not to dwell on such topics. I visited my mom in a rehab center towards the end of her stay. She was sad to be there. And it was a depressing place. Many folks were there for the long haul. Or until their haul was over. Others were beyond any hope, simply existing day to day.

We went outside, me pushing the institutional wheelchair (her own is at least all black and somewhat cooler). I walked around the paved areas, pushing my mom in a comfortable way. We talked some. I told her about my upcoming marathon, work, school, other random topics. After a while we parked in the front of the building. We sat, enjoying each other's silent company the way old friends can do. I noticed the greenness of the grass and the trees; the way the wind blew; the white dots of cloud in the beautiful sky; a squirrel jumped through the grass. Everything was in focus. In our afflicted lives, this is as close to perfection as we could muster.

So what's the point? Well folks the point is we take too much for granted. It's been a long time since I've sat and looked around like that. I think that as people we don't spend near enough time doing good things. Things we can do; things we should do. Like thinking and listening and reflecting. We don't appreciate what we have until someone comes and steals it away. I'm not talking about grand, 'meaning of life' kind of stuff. I'm talking about the simple things. Like the greenness of grass. Or walking. Or being healthy. This is important stuff; things we should think about everyday. And a lot of this stuff is within our control. Eating well, being nice to people, wearing sunscreen, thinking, listening. But so often we choose to do things that are bad for us - choices that are ours to make. I would gladly give my mom a choice of being in a wheelchair or being able to walk. Which one do you think she would choose? Get my point?

In case you don't: we are fortunate to make many choices in life. Many times we know what the 'good' choices are. Yet we often choose otherwise. Maybe we should think twice about that. Because at some point there might not be a choice. There might be something that just is; something we can't control and simply have to deal with. Will you be ready? I don't know that my mom was. I don't know that any of us were. So until that time comes - and I sincerely hope that it does not, for anyone - do what you know is right. Do what's fair, what's healthy or what benefits everyone. Don't get so worked up over someone who stole your parking space or if your Internet isn't working. But most importantly, wear sunscreen.

Peace.

Epilogue (R&M 3)

2008-03-11T09:53:00.000-07:00

I look around her room. Strangely empty. Rearranged to mirror earlier, more stable times. My mom is no longer here. But of course she is here. In memories. In objects. Her smile is embedded in my mind. Her enjoyment of life; her spirit. Her strength, which far exceeded anything imaginable. I said my peace to her. A not so young man of few emotionally-laden words. We had an understanding. A connection. Not so much mother son. But more because we were cut from the same mold. I was the younger, male version of my mom. And as a result we connected. She knew my thoughts without them being spoken. But still I spoke. Words that in life remained unspoken. I believe strongly in actions over words. But there are times when words are all that matters. This was one of those times. And in her last days, with no food or water, she managed a brief tear; I of course had quite a few more. I knew I'd been heard.

In the end, when she couldn't talk or blink or move, she heard. Heard my words and understood them. I asked her to go in peace. To not be afraid. To know that she was the best mom. To know that she raised a great family. To know that she was loved. To know that I loved her. To know that I think about her everyday. She was special. I carry her with me always. And I think that, wherever she is, she sees me and walks with me. Yes, walks with me. Quietly, in the shadows. But very much there. I hope that I will rejoin her one day long in the future. And that we can talk about things. And sit down with some coffee - hers sickly sweet and mine black and bitter. About the only difference between us. And I could hear her laugh and see her smile again.
But until I rejoin her I hope that I can honor her. And that I can make her proud. Everyday. Her regard of my life was more important than most anything.

Folks, allow me a moment. Whatever your problems, fix them. Whatever your gripes, get over them. Whatever your conflicts, resolve them. Don't waste time on drama. Be someone who solves problems instead of creates them. Life is a treasure and it should be regarded fondly each day.

Do not waste the greatness before you.

Lessons from mom (R&M 4)

2008-03-11T09:52:00.000-07:00

It's been a little over a year since my mom passed away. As I sat in class the other day I thought back on everything; it seems incredibly distant. So like most college kids do, instead of paying attention I started to scribble some other things. Here's what I came up with:

Things I learned from my mom.
1. Always start the day. Raise the blinds; let the sunlight hit you in the face. Breathe the air. Take a look around. Enjoy everything, the little things, the big things, in their simplicity.

2. Eat Peeps. She was a big fan of the sugary-marshmellowly goodness that is a peep. Someone inevitably would gift wrap peeps on every holiday (who knew they made Christmas peeps?). But of course it's not just about peeps. You should enjoy life. If that means you eat a peep then that's what you do. Which brings me to my next lesson...

3. Keep it simple, keep it easy. Life is complex enough. Imagine the assembly required instructions written in languages that you don't quite grasp. There's no need to make it any more difficult for yourself. Keep things simple, know what you value and what's important. And don't lose perspective.

4. Be independent but value interdependence. Growing up I was an independent kid. Both parents worked. I became very self reliant. It's been a blessing and a curse and I think explains why Kate and I dated for 8+ years. In order for me to get married I need to move into the interdependent thing. It took a while but I'm there. It's important to connect with other people, to rely on them, to depend on them. I think this was a tough lesson for my mom. She was fiercely independent. But there came a time when this was no longer an option, where her connections with others became her life.

5. How you treat others (people and animals) matters more than most anything else. The waiter, the housekeeper in the hotel, the gas station attendant. How do you interact with these folks? Are you nice? Do you say hi? Do you look them in the eye? I watched my mom for many years, her genuine way of talking with the folks. People liked her because they knew she was sincere. And she liked people. It was infectious. But it was also insightful. It tells people who you are and what you're about. And it tells people that you care about them. What's more important than that?

----------------------------------------------------

There's more. Of course there's more. But it's only a three hours class.

See you on the pavement.

Dreams

2008-03-11T09:50:00.000-07:00

I dream about my mom all the time. Sometimes they are nonsensical dreams, like tonight. But often there are bits and pieces that do make sense. Like the setting. Or the words someone uses. Or how someone might be dressed. The other morning I laughed in my sleep. It was 6am. Kate was getting up for her day. And, seemingly from nowhere, I laughed. But in fact I was responding to something in my dream. It was a comment my dad said to my mom about a Christmas present she brought for herself. I don't recall it as ever being said in real life. But it obviously it struck me as sufficiently funny to warrant laughing aloud, while sleeping, which in turn caused me to stop sleeping.

Which brings me to tonight. Or, more accurately, this morning. It's 3:31 am, Saturday morning, April 23rd. It's raining outside and the air is damp and cold. In movies I often think rain is a symbol. The cleansing away of bad stuff. And then the dawn of a new day - usually sunny with a chirping bird or two thrown in for good measure. In real life I believe in symbols as well. When I'm in the commons (that's the cafeteria for you non-BU people), I believe that if the milk runs dry from the steel cow that I shouldn't get cereal. On some level I register this as a gentle push away from my thoughts of cereal and towards, for example, a cup of coffee. Silly enough, I suppose. But right now there are people in the mid-west worshiping a figure on the wall that has a rather vague resemblance to the Virgin Mary. Well if it means something to these folks then have at it. City workers have stated publicly that it's really no more than a stain caused by the winter salt and cinders. But still they worship. Perhaps someone will cut that piece of cement out of the wall and auction it on Ebay. Some enterprising woman did something along these lines with her piece of toast. It popped out of the toaster one day with an uncanny reference to the Virgin Mary, according to the seller. The current bid is $10.50.

Now I'm not looking down on people who see signs. I consider myself among them. And because of this these dreams have me confused. Prior to February, dreams were rare for me and the ones that actually had some discernable nugget of wisdom were essentially absent. Thinking about these surreal and fleeting moments was entirely unnecessary. Now I find myself in an unaccustomed position as I try to interpret my daily mind-dump. Usually I just wind up scratching my head. But I feel a cosmic sense of certainty that there is a message to be gleaned from these bits and pieces. Something I'm supposed to figure out. Not necessarily because someone put it there. But because, as people, we see symbols in most everything. Interpreting these symbols is important and insightful and gives meaning to what we do. I just wish it was more along the lines of whether there's any milk left.

It's now 3:53 am. I'm going to attempt to return to slumber.

See you in my dreams, Mom.

You are not alone

2008-03-11T09:49:00.000-07:00

I'm not talking about little green men or other alien-forms with overly large craniums and absurdly stick-like limbs with the requisite 3 toes and 3 fingers. I'm talking about other humans. There's lots of them. All around you. All the time.

From time to time we find ourselves in some other place; a zen-like non-earth place occupied solely by me. Or you. Or someone else. Regardless, it's our own individual place, complete with a no-one-else-but-me-can-be-here attitude. And it's righteous.

But see, it's not that simple. Because whilst we hover, drift, and float in our own oblivion, life goes on. Life continues. Why? Because that's what life does. It's really that simple. So my advice to you, to myself, is equally simple: don't float too long, because you might miss something really cool. And once it's gone…well, life just moves on.

Wasn't that blissfully short? And yet still packed with profound, life-altering goodness. And all for free.

See you on the pavement.

Marathon, revisited

2008-03-11T09:45:00.000-07:00

To give you some perspective: This was a brief philosophical piece about my thoughts on a second marathon, which I eventually did run in October 2002. That one was the Steamtown Marathon in Scranton PA. Not exactly what I was planning on, but great still. I think, though, that you might find some truth in this marathon stuff, again.

Here we go......

Please do not misunderstand, crossing the finish line was fantastic. But what made that part fantastic was all the time and energy and effort that allowed me to cross that finish line. It is these collective experiences that make the culmination of anything - be it a marathon or a college degree - that much sweeter. If we simply walked across a stage and received a degree without putting in the required years the degree itself would be valueless. This is what I use to frame most of my goals and, while it may not be right for everyone, I've come to appreciate this perspective.

And it is with this spirit that I contemplate my second marathon. So why so much thought? Because it is a process; a long one - at least for me. If I could simply strut across the finish line without a care then I'd do them all the time. Ahh, but it's that process that makes the entire experience so attractive.

This one is in New Jersey - my home state. In fact, it's in one of the best parts of NJ: the beach. Or if you're from NJ you would call it the shore, not the beach. Starts in Sandy Hook and goes south for 26.2 miles right along the ocean. I've driven the route many times and it's quite scenic and flat, both of which are good qualities for a four hour run.

Regardless of whether I do this run or another, I feel fairly confident that this is a process I want to experience again. Stay tuned for more details...

Niagra falls marathon

2008-03-11T09:40:00.001-07:00

They bused the marathon runners out to some obscure portion of Canada. Of course it all seemed obscure to me since it's another country. All I remember while sitting on the bus is that this trip was taking quite a long time. And that I'd be running the distance back. It was dark and a bit dreary; a bit of rain here and there but nothing too dramatic. Upon arrival at the starting area - almost a full two hours early - the runners were to wait in some tented staging area. Cold, wet and intermittently rainy as the conditions were, most runners were jovial enough.

As the time for the start approached, and after many trips to the earth's urinal, I heard the unmistakable sound of serious rain. Any other time I would have enjoyed the rain; it's really quite soothing. But for some reason the idea of running the next 26.2 miles in what was amounting to be a heavy downpour was less than exciting. Actually, to be truthful, I found it amazingly funny. Here I was some in some random Canadian locale about to run for the next several hours in Cold, Windy weather and now, just for a bit of extra spice, let's throw in the rain. Why not.

And with that, myself and over a thousand others graced the starting line, already soaked but strangely excited about the prospects. Now the hardcore runners were of course in the first wave at the line. They essentially sprint the entire course; more power to them. Myself and the majority of others are more in the 'comfortable pace' category.

And so with this we began the run, winding through some rural Canadian development, eventually working our way onto a business district road, through a Niagara parks area then down the river that flows into the Niagara falls. 26.2 miles in all; scenic and interesting, quite flat but entirely challenging. Runners are cool people; they are nice and supportive of each other as were the Canadian and other folks who lined the streets to cheer us on like some Olympic event.

I learned a lot about myself that day; much of what we do in life is mental; it's psychological. I was entirely convinced that I could do this thing; the challenge was, however, choosing to actually do it. Sounds simple and perhaps even rather obvious but there's a significant difference between knowing you're capable of something and actually doing it.

Oh, and as for my two goals: 1. I did finish the marathon with a total time somewhere around 4 hours and 11 minutes. 2. Yes I did run the entire time; no walking, not even for the drink areas. I thought if I began to walk I wouldn't stop. Granted I didn't set any land speed records but I ran for the duration. But don't think I wasn't tempted!

So that's my story; I have lots of other insights into the entire experience and the running culture, being the budding ethnographer that I am. I will however save these for more appropriate mediums. And, just so you don't forget, you're still welcome to contribute to the charity.

One last thing: If you'd like to check out the standings, follow this link. I'm number 547.

Horses & life

2008-03-11T09:40:00.000-07:00

So I'm in this pool in Marengo, Iowa. Up on the poolhouse is the obligatory sign stating the various and sundry rules for us swimmers. Along with the no running, no talking to the guards is the ubiquitous "No horseplay." I believe it was even in italics, so as to emphasize the seriousness of this point.

Sometime the next day, while biking in the Middle of Nowhere, Iowa, I saw horses. Running through the field, as it were. They seemed to be positively gleeful. And I thought, '...clearly, these are horses playing. And it really doesn't seem that bad. Certainly it's not dangerous and it actually appears quite fun.'

It was then that I realized the enormity of my discovery. Pools across the country - the world even - would need to re-evaluate their stance on horseplay, going so far as to even encourage their slippery customers to engage in the activity.

Imagine.

See you on the pavement.

Fitness, sort of

2008-03-11T09:32:00.000-07:00

These are my thoughts. I'm not a doctor nor do I play one (except when I was a little kid, but that's for another time). I'm not Anthony Robbins or Steven Covey. So take this writing for what you will. I have a lot to say on this subject; if you read it all you should get a sticker.

I was most definitely an athlete in high school; not a jock, but an athlete. Soccer in the fall, baseball in the spring and summer. I did well; I enjoyed sport. Then I went to college where I majored in ordering really greasy food at 1am followed closely by an extensive period of sleep. This was a recipe for disaster as I - and many of my college mates - would readily attest. And it was during college I entered into my rollercoaster period, venturing through intermittent lapses of shapliness and roundness.

Oh man how I loved the food; and doesn't it always seem that the best tasting food is the worst physically? Right, anything with bacon is great. A pat of butter on any food elevates it immensely. Now I was fortunate too in that I never really got out of control. Though I was clearly out of shape I was able to pull it back in if I really worked at it. In this way, I've always counted myself lucky. But regardless, it continued to be a see-saw phenomenon. Periods of fitness followed by generally longer periods of blah.

About a year ago (this was probably 2001) I finally awakened. Not in the sense that I was born again; but rather in the sense that I began to evaluate what was important to me. And those things included feeling good about myself, sticking around for those I cared about - and those who cared about me. Maybe having kids some day, though I need to master plants and small rodents first. What really happened, though, is that I had a fundamental shift in how I approached life.

So I re-evaluated and made being fit important. I think it was always important in an intellectual sense. But 'thinking' it was important was clearly not working. I had to translate that to action. So I began. Slowly, but consistently. Running and strength training. Four times a week, then five and sometimes six. I remember doing my first three mile run, thinking how pleased with myself I was. Read the marathon stuff and you'll see where I'm at now.

Strength training was the same way; I remember starting on the incline bench doing three sets of ten with 25 pound dumbells. Now I do three sets of ten with sixty pounders. It is an amazing feeling.

But that's how it was for me. Little steps that, over time, really became something huge. And now I love it. I feel as if something is missing if I can't do it for more than a day. I make time. Which, as an aside, is my favorite excuse. The 'I just don't have time for it.' It just doesn't cut the mustard (and I really dislike mustard). If it's important then you make time. Just like anything else in one's life. How many 'Survivor' junkies are out there? Somehow watching the hour each week fits into an apparently hectic schedule. You make time. Get up earlier in the day; go to bed later in the day. Don't take a nap. Do some exercises during your lunch break. Whatever you have to do. Like Nike says, 'Just Do It.' I agree.

Exercise is not sufficient. For me, changing my diet and my eating habits was crucial. Perhaps my biggest challenge was changing how much I ate in one sitting. Buffets, formerly my dearest friends, were now my enemies. I drastically reduced my per meal intake which proved to be important. Equally important, though, is that I changed what I ate. The most significant reduction was fat grams; I also cut down on the carbs - not huge, just a reduction. I increased my intake of fresh veggies; and I learned how to cook all this stuff so that it tastes good witout using lots of the traditional things cooks use to make food appealing.

But I do not starve myself. I eat. And when I splurge you best step aside. But these things are in moderation. And when combined with consistent exercise, it all balances. I started this escapade weighing in around 210 pounds and am down to 180. I fluctuate a bit, but that's about my average weight.

My goal was never to become a toothpick; I simply don't have the build. I wanted to get healthy. And I feel that I've accomplished this; but like many other sweet things in life, being healthy is a process, not an end in and of itself. And so I work on this every day. It's become a part of me and a part of how I live my life. I want to stick around and enjoy things. Being healthy doesn't necessarily mean skinny. It means eating right and being active. That's different for everyone. I didn't use the 'zone' thing or the 'atkins' thing or jump on the South Beach bandwagon, though I've read a lot about them. I did what was right for me which I learned through trial and error.

Almost done , I swear. Here's what worked - and still works - for me:

:: Exercise. OK, not much insight here. But consider this. It's not just about cardio stuff. Strength training is really important. This doesn't mean you need to start raising pythons in your arms. Just balance the two types of exercise. Maybe 30 minutes of each. Running is good, but hard on the body. Try the elliptical or the stair climber; good workout, no pounding.

:: Vary your exercise. Don't do the same thing over and over; your body will get bored. You'll get bored. If you run, change your routes. Maybe one day do the bike and one day do the elliptical. Do hills one day and sprints the next. Regardless, change is good.

:: Set goals. SO important. Not huge goals. I'm not Atlas here. But goals you can achieve. And when you achieve them set more goals. The first running goal I ever had was the marathon. It wasn't until I actually had this goal that my running really began to take shape and develop. Such a great difference. Now my goal is an ultramarathon. More on this in the near future.

:: Eat right. Fresh veggies; skim milk; less sugar. Healthy stuff can taste good, it just takes a little getting used to. Cook for yourself and keep food as whole as possible. The more processed your food is the less healthy.

:: Chill out on the carbs. Hey carbs are great if you use them. If you don't use them they turn to sugar which eventually turns to fat which is eventually stored etc etc. So much good food has carbs - and lots of them. Just watch your intake and burn them when you can. Also consider eating carbs earlier in the day (breakfast and lunch) and maybe skip them at dinner. This way your body can use this fuel throughout the day and you won't sleep on them overnight. Also, if you're seriously into cardio work then you'll need carbs - just make sure they are the good kinds and not from Wonderbread.

:: Chill out on the fat grams. I lowered this drastically. No cheese on my sandwhiches (or mayo for that matter). Very little butter, oils etc. Again, just watch your intake. Some fat is good (i.e. olive oil, nuts etc) but not three big-macs worth.

:: Re-prioritize things. Health is not just about doing things and being active and eating bean sprouts. It requiries, in my opinion, a long lasting, mental commitment. Being healthy should be important for everyone. I understand that eating really crappy food tastes great and feels good. But you know what....running 20 miles feels completely amazing. No food can replace that.

:: Focus on the long term. If you're goal is to get fit by this weekend I've got some news for you. Cognitively, think long term; consider a fundamental change in your attitude towards health. Any financial investor worth his or her salt will tell you the same thing about money. If you're trying to get rich by tomorrow then think again.

Now...I'm not trying to sell inspirational tapes nor am I looking for a pat on the back. But damn, I feel good. This health thing can really impact one's entire life. I have more energy; my clothes fit better. I like the fact that I can pick up and run 12 miles. That's some cool stuff. Get on the bus.

Ultra what?

2008-03-11T09:31:00.001-07:00

Goal directed behavior. It's a psychological idea used, I think, to describe rats as they seek the ever-illusive lever. Til they figure out the darn lever actually gives them food. Then it's all over and gluttony prevails. To be honest, I did go to graduate school for psychology but I could be making all of that up. Anyway.....

So I've been doing this goal directed behavior stuff for quite a while now. No, I'm not referring to playing with rats (though I do own two hamsters, a bunny and a guinea pig). I mean really working towards something. And it's close. The anticipation, the idea that the culmination of this work is nearing. A while ago it was some far off idea, something that just popped into my head, almost laughable. More recently I thought seriously about it and began actually working towards it, though half-committed at best. And now that things are around the corner, I'm fully focused. Excited. Nervous. A bit worried. But generally positive about things to come.

By the way, if you have no idea what I'm writing about, I suggest you take a look at my previous essay on UltraRunning (link on right).

Onward!

This past weekend (July 18 or so) I finished the Lehigh River Run. Now truthfully, this is a relay: teams of five all run different legs. Except there's this small group of maybe 40 or so people who run the whole darn thing. About 23 miles. The Iron division. Pretty Cool. They treat us really well. I've done the race before. It's a trailway between Allentown PA and Easton PA, well marked, nice people and good times for all. This year it rained, which generally is a welcome relief to the heat. However, it kills your feet, turning them into some pruny biology suspended-in-animation specimen (see pic below, not quite sure why you'd want to see it, but it's there). I had about reached my running limit on my saturated socks and New Balance 707s. Any further would've required a change similar to the Nascar pits but somehow less exciting.

I don't really remember the first time I finished, it being 2 or 3 years ago. It was somewhere around 3hrs 45mins...nothing to design a t-shirt over. This year I finished in something like 3hrs 28mins. Still not going to make a t-shirt about it but a nice improvement

Perhaps my biggest running challenge is learning to take in calories and hydrate while I run. I've been...um...challenged by a rather sensitive stomach. So here's how I look at food before and during a run:

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Mark + pretty much any food + lots of bouncing and shaking due to running long distance = really bad stuff. If you can't conjure up the requisite imagery to interpret the 'really bad stuff' part then I'm not really sure I can help you.

---------------------------------------------

But taking in calories while running long distances is critical. Those who don't will eventually expend what they have and likely BONK or DNF (did not finish). Both are unpleasant experiences. On this particular run, I estimate that I burned between 2300 and 2500 calories. And over the course of those miles I took in 0 calories. Needless to say, at the end of the run I was feeling quite depleted though I was able to finish strong. At the finish I attacked anything with sugar, downing 40 ounces of powerade, 32 ounces of Gatorade and 3 slices of pizza. After I got home, I ordered general tso's chicken with pork fried rice (my post long run favorite) and an entire pint of Starbuck's Java Chip ice-cream. I'd say I made up the calorie deficit.

Problem is if I want to get any better at distances I have to work on this while I'm running and not simply gorge myself post-race. I was terrified. Seriously. Look at the equation above. I mean this is serious stuff. I tend to run in completely barren areas. Sure there's lots of wooded areas but it's not like there's an aid station just waiting for me to saunter by. But I knew I had to tackle this monster to run well and strong the entire time. And if I was ever to reach my August goal I'd have to figure this out.

Saturday, July 23 was the day. I decided I would make a serious effort to take in calories while I ran. I loaded up my camelbak with 4 granola bars and enough cash to order a couple pizzas and off I went. I wasn't really sure how far I was going. And with the Lehigh run 6 days behind me I didn't really know how my legs or feet would feel about my decision to go long.

First leg to Danville PA, about 8 miles. I stopped at a gas station to drop the kids off at the pool (figure it out) and purchased a mountain dew and a bottle of stupidly expensive what's-likely-from-the-tap water. I learned about Dew from some books - packs a lot of calories and gives you some needed sugar. I filled up my camelbak with the water, took a few swigs of dew and off I went. Not too brilliant on my part. See apparently soda is carbonated; I must've missed that memo. So about a mile later I had a hard-as-a-rock bottle of dew ready to pop its screw top. I stopped, uncorked the volcano and let it run all over my hand. What else could I do? I drank the remainder and continued running. Lesson learned: consume carbonated beverages before running.

So now I'm running to Catawissa PA on some absurdly unused road. I have an empty bottle of dew (I really don't like running with anything in my hands) and my nipple starts to hurt. The right one, to be exact. I thought I had properly lubed up with Body Glide pre-run but obviously I missed this guy. Now before you begin to think that I'm some sicko to bring this up, it's well known in running circles that nipples will readily chafe on garments, causing serious pain and sometimes bleeding. Just stand at the finish line of any marathon and you'll see people cross over with trickles of blood coming down the front of their shirt. It's from the nips. Let's move past this odd running quirk.

With more than half the run to go I needed to do something. I took off my tank and attempted to tie it around my waist. Too short. Plus the idea of running topless really doesn't appeal to me. I could see the reports on the news later that Saskwatch was spotted (I'm a bit hairy). So I took the washcloth I had tucked into my camelbak strap and tied the two tank shoulder pieces together so they formed one piece of fabric between my pecs. Probably looked like I just got off the set from To Wong Fu, Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar (I hope you know what this is otherwise the joke is lost). But it worked and since I was running in the middle of nowhere I figured I was safe.

About 12 or so miles in I decided to have my first food item. True I had taken in about 100 calories with the dew but I needed to really understand how things impact me. So I ate a granola bar. It was like chewing sand. I think when normal people chew they produce saliva and that sort of helps lubricate things so food goes down smoothly. Well apparently I didn't have any to spare. Must've sweated everything out. So I'd take a bite of the granola and then grab a mouthful of water and attempt to swallow this delicacy en-masse as if it were some type of super energy pill. Let's just say I'm done experimenting with granola and switching to gummi bears.

So I made it to Catawissa in decent shape. Ran off route to a gas station for more insanely-overpriced-water-that-I-could-get-for free-out-of-some-guy's-hose. Figured I'd give Gatorade a go. I like their commercials.

It's positively comical to approach the clerk's counter in running garb (which is just shy of full nudity), completely saturated with sweat (which includes rivers of the stuff pouring off your face) and attempt to hand over some form of payment. Without fail, clerks shrink back from your extended hand while sweat droplets fall on the counter. It's as if you're carrying some awful virus with no known cure. I smile but it doesn't really change anything. The clerk at the Catawissa sip-and-go said, quite insightfully, "...wow, you're really sweaty." Profound.

So I pounded the Gatorade (24 ounces). In between gulps I read the nutrition label - potassium, sodium, calories, sugar. Seemed good to me. I filled up my camelbak with water-that-should-come-in-a-gold-bottle and began walking back towards Bloomsburg. Once situated, I took off. Well my version of taking off.

I eventually worked my way back to Bloom and home. 26 miles overall. I'm not sure I learned a whole lot, except maybe the following:

1. Don't do really long runs unless you have a crew person (i.e. Kate). I mean if War of the Worlds was happening on my lawn I would consider hitting the road solo for a lengthy journey. But otherwise, I'd rather have someone who can check in with me every so often. If nothing else it breaks the monotony.

2. I'm leaving my phone at home. The only call I received was at the Danville gas station where I was in the commode doing my thing.

3. LUBE! Seriously this is totally important. I mean if you're out there, miles from home, not properly lubed and you start to have some friction....stick out your thumb and hope somebody nice comes along.

4. The first long run I did this season I think was April. It was sunny and I had ZERO SPF on. Nothing. Nada. I was running away from the sun so the backs of my legs and the top of my shaved head were fried. I felt funky all next day and called off from work. I now use SPF45, the only level stronger being a full body condom.

5. People look at me weird. Is it me? Have they never seen a runner before? Do I look that pathetic? Do they think I just escaped? It keeps things entertaining but I'm always wondering if someone's going to stop someday....

---------------------------------------------

A year ago, after long runs, I'd ask anyone within ear shot "...can someone please explain to me why I just did this?" I generally wasn't a pleasant person after crossing the line. But things are different now. I ran Lehigh and felt good the next day. Six days later I ran 26 miles and still felt decent. So we'll see how 60 miles feels. Somehow I doubt I'll be as chippur.

See you on the pavement.

UltraRunning

2008-03-11T09:31:00.000-07:00

I've been running quite a lot lately, often morning and evening. All runs allow me gobs of time for reflection. Occasionally I'll find myself not paying as much attention to the cars, stepping in ditches and other such less than focused behavior. Aside from the pitfalls, the reflection time is actually when I do much of my writing - though most of that material never makes it to this or any other venue. Carrying a pen and paper is simply not part of the borderline nude compulsory running attire.

Anyway, I often think about the physical limits of people. I'm incredibly impressed with folks like Lance Armstrong and elite marathoners. These folks are true endurance athletes. I'm not even remotely in their category, and few people are. I've only run three marathons, which is really nothing to write home about. They've been good experiences; fun, interesting, insightful. Lots of good and nice people - ordinary people, really, which is what makes the marathon so compelling. I truly enjoy meeting everyday folks and the marathon has lots of them.

But as I contemplate my next big run I realize that completing another marathon will lack fulfillment for me (as an aside, I plan on running more marathons, but they will no longer be my end goal). It's not that it's easy - because it's not. I suppose I'm just curious as to where my particular limits are.

With this in mind I've decided to make the switch to UltraRunning. What is this, you ask? What a perfect question.UltraRunning, technically, is any amount of running beyond a marathon (26.2 miles). Now, also technically, this would mean a 26.3 mile run would qualify. I guess that's true but it sorta misses the idea. As far as I've learned, most 'UltraMarathons' are of three varieties: 50K (about 32 miles), 50 miles, or 100 miles. Many of the annual Ultras are held either partially or entirely on trails and over mountainous terrain which makes things even more interesting.

The really groovy thing about UltraRunning, as far as I can figure, is that it's simply about finishing. Sure there are some elites working on personal records (PRs) but most of the UltraRunning culture seems firmly rooted in the mantra "to complete is to win" (Ok I made that specific mantra up, but you get the idea). I've never considered myself a speed runner. I sometimes run 5Ks (3.1 miles) and the real speed demons are like broomsticks with legs - long legs at that. I just don't have the build. And to be honest, I enjoy long runs because I get to see stuff - trees and animals (dead ones, mostly). I admit I've had a passing interest in UltraRunning over the past year or so.

Then I read an article in Runners World - no more than a blurb really - about Dean Karnazes. What an amazing endurance athlete (check out his site if you'd like to learn more). When his book came out maybe 6 months later I was thrilled, purchased it on amazon and read it in two days. Amazing guy, amazing things. But I wasn't totally hooked yet. I was close, but not completely behind the idea of UltraRunning for me. Until I followed Dean's book with a compilation of personal accounts with the UltraMarathon. Here were my ordinary folks. The people that I enjoyed being around. Full time workers, people with families, hobbies, pets whatever. And they ran a lot. All the time, in fact. Training runs were 30 miles. How cool is that. It was this book that pushed me over the edge and allowed me to personally commit to this goal.

So with this in mind, I formally declare my first UltraRunning event. For me, once I put a goal out there, in the public, then it's for real. Until then I can still cancel, disappointing only myself. But once public, it's a go. Sometime in August - likely the first weekend. It will be 60 miles and run on part of the Delaware River Mule Trail. I will come in first. I will also come in last. I will set the race record. This is mostly because it's all my idea and no one else is running it. So I will own it. Come see me on the finish line 12 or so hours later. I'm sure I'll be chippur.

Once this one is under my belt, I'll re-evaluate my UltraRunning idea, deciding if it's a fleeting thought or a more permanent fixture. But until then, I'll keep logging the miles. I'm also looking for a training partner. Anyone want to go for a run?

All runs, this one included, are for mom.

A cup of coffee & 52.4 miles

2008-03-11T09:30:00.000-07:00

For those of you not properly current with my running endeavors, it might help to take a quick look at some past writings. Consider, for example, UltraRunning, a fun little number about my detours into this subculture of distance running. Or you might want to review Running and Mom (parts 1 thru 4) which is one of those thoughtful pieces that provides deep insight into my personal motivations. Or you could simply skip right to this one. It's likely what I would do.

August 6. A fine Saturday morning which began with a less than fine cup of coffee. Kate is the standard morning coffee brewer. And in Bloomsburg things ordinarily turn out quite nice. For some reason - perhaps the mineral content, air quality, who knows? - things don't often work out so well in her native Chalfont PA. This morning was no exception. One sign of an impending bad cup of Joe is when you can see the bottom of the cup, a characteristic more likely found in tea than a good strong brew. I gave it a whirl and my first sip confirmed my fears: weak. This may seem like not such a big deal. But you must understand, I was only 120 or so minutes from embarking on the longest run I've ever tried. I had a set of steps I needed to go through to adequately prepare - a ritual if you will. Things I do on all of my longer runs. Coffee was the first step. And if this didn't go well I was concerned that this might be a sign for a long day. So we re-brewed with a sizable increase in grounds, hoping for a stronger result. Stronger was certainly the outcome, as the beverage was likely more suited for a two stroke engine than my 4am slowly pumping vascular system.

(It seems that there are still mules on the mule trail; this one in particular I had to dodge as I was headed south and it was most definitely headed north)

A bit of backstory will help set the scene. A few days before my arrival, a nice woman from a charitable organization informed me that the mule path was out of commission. Closed, to be more precise. Major flooding had washed out significant sections of the path. The good folks at DCNR closed the path for reasons of safety. And I'm sure that was a fine decision. Pictures all over the web confirmed that the trail was less than hospitable. But I'd been planning this for months now and I wasn't going to be derailed because some pieces of the trail were less than perfect. Indeed, the day before, I drove along several miles of the trail and deemed it suitable for running (to be honest I would've deemed 3 feet of water suitable).

Onward. We drive the 40 or so minutes to the head of the Delaware River mule/canal path (Easton PA). The goal, as you may recall, was to run the entire path - Easton to Bristol. Roughly 60 miles. Arriving in Easton at around 7am immediatley lifts my spirits: the trail seems quite intact. You see the woman who so politely informed me of the trail's closure said there were signs posted everywhere indicating its status. I looked around. No signs. Seems good to me. Kate and I pause for a few moments to snap some photos, I weigh myself (about 190 pounds clothed), rub on some bodyglide and then I start running. 100 yards down the trail is a fallen tree, laying across the path. Certainly can't jump it. I have to stop completely and crawl underneath. So would be the beginning of a rather challenging day.

Millions of spiders spun millions of webs across the trails overnight. I break through them endlessly. They are everywhere - eyes, mouth, legs. I give up trying to pull them off my body. The first 30 or so minutes I spend talking to myself. Or, rather, to my mom. It's not something I do on a regular basis so please don't be alarmed. But it's comforting in a way and helps me focus on why I'm here. But eventually I drift off. I think that most long distance runners reach a point where they're in tune with the world only as much as they need to be. The rest of the brain is off somewhere else, perhaps on a beach or back in bed. Regardless, this is a welcome defense mechanism and helps to shield me from the trials that lay before me.

It generally takes me a while to warm up, usually at least 30 minutes. And I almost never run in the morning as the cold (even 70 degrees cold) doesn't much work for me. So it's about 60 minutes before I'm starting to feel loose and limber. This is compounded by the fact that, in many parts of my path, there is no path. It's simply gone. Replaced with countless beautiful river rocks, smooth as glass. Running over these would mean an instant turned ankle, if not worse. Walking even presents challenges. But I make it through these rather lengthy portions only to be greeted by sticker bushes higher than my head and thick enough so I can't see more than two feet in any direction. The only choice is to go through, at a quickened pace so as to minimize the time I'm exposed to these things. Breaking free on the other side is blissful but my legs are cut badly; the cuts mix with the sweat and cause a lovely stinging sensation. All this by mile 10. What a great beginning.

I meet up with Kate at roughly mile 11. She's driving the sag wagon stocked full of sugary snacks, water, gatorade and other such amenities.

My legs are scratched more than anything I've ever endured as a little kid playing in the woods. To try to ease the sting and itchiness of it all, I rub bodyglide all over them (far right image). I refuel with mountain dew, water and few handfuls of M&Ms. Most of this stuff I'm just trying based on what I've read. I've only ever eaten M&Ms as a gluttonous snack. Now I'm shoveling them in. The important thing, as I understand it, is replacing the calories and fluid lost. Sometimes you can do both - as in the case of mountain dew which is packed with a couple hundred calories and is deliciously sweet. Makes sense. But truthfully I've never had this challenge before. The three marathons I've run (26.2 miles) never required me to take more than a few sips of water. All my caloric and fluid intake happened after the run, not during (usually in the form of General Tso's Chicken).

Properly refueled, I head out. Kate and I agree to meet at mile 15 where I'll change to a fresh pair of sneaks. The current pair are basically trashed due to the wet ground, mud and fun-loving sticker bushes.

At this point, I'm feeling fairly strong. I've not reached marathon distance, but I've crossed this mile threshold before so I have some comparison. I lube up, apply some generous sunscreen, shovel down M&Ms, follow it with a mountain dew, topped off with some water. And then I'm off. Like a turtle. Mile 20 image below.

Ok a brief moment about pace here. I'm not fast. I may endure, but I don't do it with any speed. Or grace for that matter. Truly my only focus is to get from A to B. So at mile 21 I was hovering around 4 hours. Bear in mind there was a good bit of walking at the north end of the trail and a few other rest stops. Flash Gordon, it's not. But all in all I'm pleased with my progress. More importantly, though, I'm pleased that I want to continue making progress. But this, of course, would all change.

And mile 30. Still feeling and going strong.

And here comes the wall. Mile 36. Like a ton of bricks. This is truly unchartered water for me, so I'm clueless as to how to handle the feeling. I've read about it and so I'm at least not terribly surprised. Something about sugar peaks and crashes, feeling really out of it etc etc. The picture below tells the story.

There doesn't seem to be anything scientific about getting out of it - you just have to push through. This was my brief mistake as the break I was taking felt too good. Running again felt too unlikely. So I sat there. Perhaps 20 minutes or so. Thinking things over. Alternating between stopping for good and starting up again. I knew I didn't want it to end in some restaurant parking lot in New Hope PA. So I finally got up and starting walking. The trail, as it turns out, was eventually blocked off by a new townhouse/office complex. Not quite sure how they are allowed to regulate a public area, but regulate they did. I

I finally found a way to break into the complex and get back onto the trail where I start running. It's slow, but at least I'm running. I wish I could tell you that I had a miraculous break through. Or that I began sprinting the next twenty miles like it happens in the movies. But really it was about one foot in front of the other. Sometimes I shuffled, sometimes I picked it up a bit. I had stretches where I walked a minute then ran a minute. It was unbelievably challenging. But once I got through that 36 mile hump - the lowest of the low points - I felt pretty good mentally. Physically, though, I eventually reached a point where I could barely lift my legs to take a stride. Walking was fine but movement much beyond that was failing. During this last phase I asked Kate to meet me every two miles. I could keep my self moving forward, knowing that every time I saw Kate I was two miles closer to the finish. Advil was my friend.

This time, at mile 50, I literally hit the wall. Running on the path in Morrisville PA presented me with a challenge I knew I couldn't overcome. Someone had taken the initiative to cement between the ground (path) and the bridge overhead. The path ended here, in this cement wall. At least for me. Sure I could've waded into the canal, crossed under the bridge, and came out the other side. But I really didn't know how deep it was and I just didn't know if I could hack a swim at this point. Why not simply cross over top of the road and come down the other side? Seems logical, except for the minor irritation of a tall chainlink fence bordering all means of egress. So instead I sat down. It's really all I wanted to do anyway. Slowly I came to a squat; I imagined that I could hear the muscle fibers tearing. It was excruciating but I managed, after which I fell back on my ass. It felt great to sit down. So great, in fact, that I really didn't know if I could get back up. This wall was my end. It was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. I sat on the path thinking about my next move. Getting up was less than pleasant, but I managed. I asked Kate to meet me at the gas station on the corner, motioning that I'd have to double-back along the trail. Some minutes later I make it to the gas station. Consume some dew, eat some M&Ms, and place a call to Kate's mom asking her to pick up some general tso's (can't forget this).

But I'm feeling like this is the wrong place to finish. 50 miles is good. I'm happy. I didn't start expecting to finish or not to finish; I just wanted to see how I'd do. So I'm not disappointed that I'm not going to see 60 miles. I've learned a lot. My next long run will be done much smarter (and without refined sugars). So I do some quick math and come up with the double marathon solution of 52.4 miles. I have Kate pace it out in the car and slowly reach the end point. And it's all for the better as I'm barely even running at this point, my legs feeling like cement.
It ended on some lonely residential stretch of pavement in Nowheresville PA. How fitting, since that's where I log most of my training miles. It was serene and calm and entirely uneventful. There were no ribbons to cross or bands to blare. But, I suppose in some off-handed way, I was the winner.

That's a wrap. See you on the pavement.

The tally:
:: 12 hours (more or less) in total
:: 10+ pounds lost
:: 52.4 miles
:: Approximately 5500 calories burned
:: At least 12 advil taken
:: 2 pairs of shoes
:: 2 sticks of body glide
:: About 8 mountain dews
:: About 1 gallon of gatorade
:: About 8 bottles of water
:: 1 order of General Tso's Chicken

Growing up, growing old

2008-03-11T09:25:00.000-07:00

Recently I've noticed something in the mirror. Something to give me pause. Nothing overly alarming - simply noteworthy I suppose. Sort of like you'd notice a new business going up in town 6 months after the old business went bust.

Now normally I'm greeted in the morning by what I've determined is the only evidence of my one-quarter Sicilian: that loveable and thoroughly dense pelt of stark black chest hair. It's been a common sight since my early high school years. And while most small children cower from me on the boardwalk, I've actually become quite comfortable with the facade.

But this morning was a bit different. Staring back at me, dead center of my chest, was a gray hair. Normally I'd attempt to explain away which-one-of-these-is-not-like-the-other type hairs as red (my 25% Irish) or perhaps a shade of blonde (no old-world connections, likely just sun exposure). But in this instance there was no disputing it: the lone deviant hair was clearly gray. So this little gem has gotten me to thinking about aging and what it all means. I don't really intend to answer any of those deep questions. But I think a few observations on the subject are in order.

1. You know you start getting older when you begin sentences with "...you know, when I was younger..." (or some other similar pronouncement of historic reference). To be truthful, I do this fairly often. It's the campus, you see. New students come here. I sometimes impart a kernel of history. But it reminds me of the growing age gap between new students and, well, me. Which brings me to point 2.

2. Those of you who plan to work in education will, in time, notice that the age gap never ceases. The students you work with always remain constant. Conversely your age goes up by a factor of 1 each year. Initially this seems to work out just fine. You sort of move from the 'brother' (or sister) stage to the 'older brother' stage to the 'father-figure' stage. I really don't want to think about any stages that might lurk beyond. Luckily I'm firmly entrenched in the 'older-brother' stage but I can see the next one off in the distance somewhere. Looming.

3. I think also with age comes 'contemplation' or some other similarly heady word that attempts to convey the idea of thoughtful reflection. It's one of those things where you try to figure out where you're at in life and how you feel about it. Hopefully you're happy. If not, change it up. Either way, don't waste too much time on the contemplation part if there's some things out of whack. Figure it out then fix it. Just my 2 cents.

4. I really don't want to get overly preachy. But...I couldn't help one public service announcement. Be healthy. It's really that simple. Sure General Tso's tastes great (special combination with pork fried rice and the egg roll that I actually prefer to wait after it's been refridgerated to eat). And sure laying on the couch is easier than, say, moving around. But you only get a limited slice of time. I'll grant you that being healthy isn't necessarily a guarantee of longevity but it's about as close as we can get without a fountain.

---------------------------------------------------------

I've got more to say (no surprise there), but I promised myself I'd arbitrarily stick with 4 points. But I'm going to give you this last one for free. It's sort of my take on all things life-related. I call it the bowling alley theory.

So a group of you go bowling. It's not something you do with any regularity. But it seemed fun and the shoes are on the cool side. Maybe it's even Rock-n-Bowl night where they kill the lights and play 80's hair bands and power ballads. Anyway, you're into the first game. All five rotating. Roll the ball. Get the ball back. Roll the ball. Get it back. It's fun. Really it is. Most people thoroughly enjoy the first game. I certainly do.

BUT, the key to life - and this is really what it's all about - is that you need to leave after that first game. Keep those wasn't-that-a-good-time memories intact. Why? Well if you proceed to the second game, which seems like a completely normal thing to do, you will eventually come to not have any of those 'wasn't-that-a-good-time' memories. These will be replaced with thoughts of 'wow my fingers really hurt...I might have a blister' or '...it's really smoky in here and my eyes hurt...' or, perhpas the worst of all '...I'm bored.' You see at some point we cross a threshold where fun becomes un-fun. And all people want to do is go home. The key to life is recognizing - anticipating - when this will come. And skipping out before it gets there.

As a hint, this doesn't just apply to bowling.

See you on the pavement.

PG1 / East Rutherford NJ

2008-03-11T09:12:00.000-07:00

Anciticipation was overwhelming. I'd waited about 10 years to see PG again live. Sure he released music since his last true 'record.' A couple musical scores; some work on the Millenium Dome in England. But he hadn't released a true studio, lyrical album since 1992's 'Us'. His latest effort titled 'Up' (do you see a pattern here?) is instense. Many have characterized it as anything but 'up.' And indeed there are some dark tones to some of the tracks. PG himself describes some of the music as dealing with death. Whereas in other cultures, death is spoken about more freely and with comfort. In Western cultures, death is generally feared or at least stuffed into some dark corner we prefer not to visit.

'Up,' the album, is an amazing work. And though I admit I'm a PG zealot, I convey these positive sentiments after first disliking the album. Well, perhaps dislike is not the best word. But it took a while for me to really digest. PG's work, as with all other efforts, is unique. Rarely does he fall into patterns, preferring instead to strike out into new musical landscapes. And so 'Up' does just that. It is startingly fresh and new and innovative. World, ethnic influences are infused throughout the work; PG himself does not succumb to 'poppy' styles or radio friendly tunes. Rather he creates what he wants, without apology. And it works. Powerfully. But not, make no mistake, on the first listen. This is a record that requires thought and refelction to truly understand and, well, to dig. I dig it. Immensely.

On to the show. The date finally arrives. The drive to NJ was miserable. It is, after all, my home state. Each time I return, I'm reminded why I can't stay for long periods. People need to chill out. Everyone seems in such a hurry to go somewhere. Even on this particular evening - with the rain absolutely painted across my windshield - people were flying. We made it though. I think we were second in the parking lot. A bit anxious? Slightly.

We hung out in the lot til about 7pm, listening to some PG tunes. Eventually we lined up at the door and were allowed entry. Cattle-like, we processed throught the two open doors into the venue. I went right up to the first alley to look at the stage. Smack it the middle; a perfectly round disk. Amazing structures above and around it that would certainly have something to do with the production.

We assumed our rightful position on the floor, about 20 or so rows back. Good seats - probably not the best but I wasn't overly concerned at that moment. I felt like a school kid with a first crush. I don't idolize anyone. I might admire a few folks here and there but I've never rasied anyone to theistic levels. That is, until I got into PG. His music is amazing; its voice goes beyond lyrics and music.

Blind Boys of Alabama opened, peforming a tremendous, if not brief, set of gospel music. Their voices are powerful and rich. Everyone in attendance was treated to their glorious signing.
PG begins around 915pm. Just him and his piano, belting out 'Here Comes the Flood.' A great and tender tune that really shows his vocal ability. And proves - immediately - to any skeptics that his slightly advanced years has only improved his vocal abilities. The remainder of the show mixes old tunes and new, alternating between high-energy and sit-down-and-listen type music. PG has not lost a step. He and his band seem to truly enjoy themselves on stage. The crowd in NJ was decent. Not the best I've seen, but decent still. His last song, 'Father, Son' is incredibly touching. It's hard for me to stay unemotional when I hear this song, especially when I think of my father and the wonderful influences he's had on my life (more on this later).

The point of this - or any of the essays about these shows - is not to present blow-by-blow details or recount the setlist. If you're truly interested in this information, there are plenty of reviews available all over the web or on PG's site.

Rather, the point of this exercise - like many exercises - is to attempt to examine and understand what I learned. And I did learn. Seems odd, right? Learning from a rock concert. But I did, after some time of geniune reflection.

Ever been on a date with someone? It's a natural human tendency to compare that individual with other dates you've been on. Similar to when the DOC jabs at your knee with that rubber triangle. The reflex just happens. Such was the case with this first show. It was good. Notice I didn't say 'great.' But it was good. The problem I had was that I could not help but compare this show to the last PG show I attended, some 10 years prior during his 'Secret World' tour. Those shows were amazing. PG pulled out all the stops. They were, in all ways, theater and not just some rock concert with four chords and a beat. This was my fundamentally unfair blockage: I kept comparing this show to those in the past. And nothing can ever compare to those shows 10 years ago. So in comparison, this NJ was good. But it didn't rise to the level of the others.
And so here's my point, and it took some time for me to understand this. Each tour - each show for that matter - must be regarded in and of itself. Much like on that date, when you go out with a new person. It's inherently unfair to compare that person to anyone else. They are unique and deserve to be considered as such. And so too with this concert. It was a fundamentally different show. Theatrical? Yup. But there was clearly more focus on the music and on PG and his band enjoying themselves. And in this regard, my friends, he and his fellow musicians excelled.

PG2 / Philadelphia PA

2008-03-11T09:09:00.000-07:00

'So tired, of all this travelling.' So goes a line in PG's song 'Sky Blue.' Couldn't be more appropriate. After driving about 5 hours round trip to the first show in NJ, we do it all over again the next night for the Philadelphia show. Once again, we arrive quite early. Take some pics, tour the outside of the stadium, spy the tour buses and trucks.

This seems like the most appropriate time to review that which carries the cargo to and from these venues: my car. 1996 olds achieva (or as some call it the under-achieva). It's a beaut, with only 113,000 or so miles. A few dings and bumps and scratches throughout. Perhaps the most infamous aspect of this highway cruiser is the ubiquitous 'low coolant' light that constantly adorns the dashboard. A couple months back this light made its first appearance followed shortly by a large puddle underneath the front of my car. Clearly a leak. Since that time I've been filling my radiator with a 50/50 mixture of coolant and water and storing bottles of same throughout the car. What first began with weekly refills soon lessened to daily refills. What's more, when the coolant is low it impacts the car's internal heating system. Meaning that the 30 degree outside temp is the same as the car's cabin temp - crank the dial all the way to the red but the interior won't heat up til you add more juice. Aside from this inconvenience, my car performed like a true champ.

I saw PG twice in Philly almost ten years ago and once about 13 years ago. It was this first show, with my sister, that really solidified my appreciation for the man and his music. During that show he performed a tune called 'Lay Your Hands On Me' and, at its culmination, fell back into the crowd. Oh sure big deal; every rocker does this. That may be true in the 1990s but PG first started this little trend in about 1982 on the 'Security' tour.

So Philly is a special place for me. It's where much of this all began. And I've also thought the Philly fans truly appreciated his music. Tonight was no exception. The show was noticeably better than the first, though the setlist was the same. The band was tighter, smoother and altogether sharper. The crowd, perhaps elevated by their history with PG, was very enthusiastic. Seats for this show were first level off the floor, providing me with a different perspective than the prior evening. From this vantage point, I was able to see the overall lighting effects. I was also able to gain a deeper appreciation for where PG was trying to go with the show. Something a little more cosmic, a little more undefined. Each song, though presented individually, adds to a broader story that PG is trying to relay. Much of this has to do with birth and death and, well, growing up - hence the tour's name. Some of the story deals with the mystical such as the role of the moon in our physical and emotional world. How there is 'more than this,' beyond that which we can see and touch and hear. Philly allowed me to go deeper than NJ. Much like his records, it was on the second go around that I began to hear that which was previously only a whisper. It was also during this night that I began to realize that this was its own show. As such, it deserved to be regarded individually. Tempted though I may be to compare, I resisted and viewed the show on its own merits. And you know, this was a very good show. Entertaining, meaningful, thoughtful, energetic. I truly enjoyed myself.

As an aside...

Doesn't it always seem that when your bladder is screaming the loudest you are unable to find an appropriate receptacle? Or perhaps that receptacle is unusually grotesque? Such was the case upon the show's conclusion. My faithful traveler and I left the arena. I, in my childish hopes, ventured out to the tour bus area, hoping to catch a glimpse of The Man. Soon enough, both our bladders cried out for release. No problem, I thought. When we entered the venue there was an entire row of Port-o-Johns. Well, shoving all logic to the floor, each of these was locked. Except one. And can't you just picture what hundreds - perhaps even thousands - of fans would do to one Port-o-John? Well, when you have to go....

PG3 / New York City

2008-03-11T09:08:00.001-07:00

'My ghost likes to travel...' is a line in a PG tune called 'Growing Up.' So true. This little jaunt began on a Sunday with NJ, continued Monday with Philly then proceeded to Thursday and New York City. And did I mention that on Tuesday I went to my class out at Penn State, effectively making Wednesday my only travel-free day? And did I also mention that I work? Small details, really. But if there is one thing that I firmly believe in it's that you must seize rare opportunities. PG is 52. This album - 'Up' - was released about 10 years after his last one. At his current pace, this would mean he'd be in his early 60's for his next tour. I'm thinking the same thing: not gonna happen. Solution? Take full advantage of the here and now, because the future, my friends, is quite uncertain. It is in this spirit that I first purchased all these tickets. And I don't regret it one bit.

NYC. The garden. Truly a great venue, though it reeks of years of cheap beer, spilled helter skelter. Great crowd. Great show. Arguably the best of the four I attended. One of the reasons for this assertion is that my new traveler (my other traveler could not attend this evening) and I were upgraded to about 12 rows from the stage. Our initial tickets were first level, pretty good from where I was sitting. But I wasn't going to argue. The usher approached me with her query. I replied, quiet candidly, that I have been following PG since Sunday; that I'd spent tons of money on these shows; and that she best give me the money tickets in her pile and show me some love because I was supremely deserving. She laughed and promptly hooked us up. Seats were the best of the shows.

A wonderful experience. I really enjoyed the NYC show. Aside from being a bit road weary, I felt much energy on this night. I was really getting into the groove; really understanding what PG was going for. Really beginning to appreciate the show on its own. And I left this performance with a deep appreciation of this guy. This random guy that I'm dropping quite a bit cash on, following around the eastern seaboard. All around me fans were marvelling at the show. The music, the production, the lights, the effects. The folks next to me flew from Miami FLA just to see the show.

And the urination stories continue...

Doesn't it always seem that when you must urinate - when it absolutely must happen - there's no hope in sight? Myself and my new traveler were stuck in traffic, a few miles out of the Lincoln tunnel. The achieva idling happily, no low coolant light yet displayed (though I would have to refill to make the trek home). I was positively pained by the need to pee. Completely debilitated. I approached, inch by inch, the ever-present green highway sign that read 'last exit in NJ.' I took it. It was Weehawken. Ever heard of it? Well I thought that having the word 'Wee' in the name was strangely ironic. I hoped, blindly, that some place would come to my relief. A few miles off the main drag I was able to pull into a grocery store strip with some other shops. Parked the car and exited. I couldn't stand up. Literally. I could not stand to my full height. I had to walk to the McDonalds partially crouched. Attempts to walk normally were immediately crushed by pain. I swear I was in the john for 90 seconds. Too much information?? Well it's my website...
And the show goes on.

PG4 / Washington DC

2008-03-11T09:06:00.000-07:00

The last night for me. My faithful traveler back with me for this last event. We arrived in DC on Saturday and stayed in a hotel right in the downtown. With the show not til Sunday night we had some time to relax, take in the sights and enjoy the city. Low coolant? Nope. Strangely, nope. It was so strange to me that I remarked to my faithful traveler that the Low Coolant seems to be improving. Of course that was the wrong thing to say; Sunday morning, as if on cue, there was a large, pinkish puddle gathering under my car. Lovely. But not to fear, plenty of mixture in my car.

On the way to DC, we approached a truck with the logo 'Truck n Roll' on the back. My faithful traveler noticed this and remarked that this was the same logo on some of the trucks used to haul PG's stuff. We took a few pics (coming soon) and then I pulled up along side the rig - at 65 mph. In my back, driver's side window, I have a promotional placard that has the 'Up' album cover and PG's name and some other highly recognizable PG images. I asked my faithful traveler to pull this off the window and shove it out her passenger window, towards the truck. Always indulging my slightly odd suggestions, she agreed. The truck driver, though initially confused, gave an enthusiastic thumbs up. I followed suit. A cool moment indeed.

DC was really great, but oddly empty for a weekend. Restaurants were half full at most during Saturday dinner hours. Had a nice meal. Checked out Sunday morning at 12noon then had several hours to shear before the show. We toured around the capital for a while; saw lots of monuments. DC is a very nice place. Clean. Safe. Comfortable. Friendly. But what was more important is that I developed the first etchings of appreciation for this country's history. Some of it is ugly; some of it is wonderful. Regardless, it's all part of our national culture, history and heritage. And while I've been in college for a while, I can't say that I know all that much about this country's history. I felt an urge to know more; to understand where we came from and how we came to be. It was at this moment that I decided to begin this journey, slowly but certainly. Books, of course, are always my guide in these sorts of things. My father, no doubt, will assist me for I've always admired his grasp of our history. More on this later perhaps...

The most powerful piece of this visit to Washington was at the Vietnam war memorial. At the bottom of one of the memorial sections, a little more than halfway along, was a rubbing of a name. Can't say that I remember the name. What I can say quite clearly is that moment meant something to me. It clarified things for me. Without sounding hokey or corny, it was moving.
And the show. Floor seats. Probably second best to MSG. Good crowd; good energy. I myself was tired. I admit it. Four shows. Seven days. Probably 1500 miles in total? Then walking around DC all day. My energy level definitely rose during the show but that drive home was one of the toughest. The highlight of the show came at the end. During the first three shows I learned where PG enters, exits the stage and at what times. I also realized that the folks in the DC arena weren't too rough on moving around (some venues don't want you standing in the aisle).
Knowing this information, I decided to try and make this show memorable. When PG came out, I was there. Just wanted one handshake. Didn't get it. Band came out. Nothing. Left after the first set. Nothing. Second set. Nothing. Then, finally, as he was walking off after the final song I reached out and we hit hands. Totally warm and dry; I'd be up there dripping buckets. It was a great moment and made that show unique for me. A wonderful way to end.

On being a man

2008-03-11T09:05:00.000-07:00

Recently we had a semi-blizzard. Eighteen or so inches of the white stuff. I was home in NJ, along with my brother and father. Roads were a mess, many businesses were closed. It was clearly a day and evening to be spent indoors.

I cannot, of course, accept this fate. You see, as a man, I am required to venture out into the snow - at it's peak, no less, in white-out conditions - and drive. There's no real reason, of course. It's simply to see if I can do it. Man and machine, confronting the elements. Oh and look - tire tracks! Likely from some other man who passed through this road earlier on the same quest for manly validation. Clearly the best course of action would be to place my tires in the aforementioned tracks in the road. Unacceptable. I blaze my own path, righteous in my manliness. And when drifts of snow are available, I actually swerve into them. There's actually a part of me that wants to get stuck, simply to see if I can get unstuck, using the classic (and very manly) ninestep process:

(1) Put car in 1st gear.
(2) Press accelerator to the floor; where possible, press accelerator through the floor
(3) Quickly slam car into reverse
(4) Repeat step two
(5) Repeat all steps until unstuck
(6) Under no circumstances should anyone be called or notified of being stuck
(7) Once unstuck, assuming that is the outcome (if not, go to step 9), brag incessently about the conditions and the peril involved in getting unstuck
(8) Under no circumstances admit that you were the cause of getting stuck
(9) If you can't get unstuck, I can't help you. You see, getting unstuck is part of the manly coursework; it's one of those rites of passage that national geographic is always talking about.

Ok rewind. Before I go out, I need a reason. I can't simply claim 'manly validation' and have peole nod in understanding. While home, you must understand, my 31 years are reduced by to about 18. The hurdle is my father.

Food. That's it. Food. He can get behind that reason. Heck anybody can support food. It is, after all, one of those primal needs found in all humans. Yes but what food establishment would be open when there's a foot and half already down with more falling? Chinese! Awesome. Bo-Bo Kitchen is always open. Nothing stops these Iron-Chefs. They rock and their chinese food is the best, period. Ok, good. But a solo flight is unlikely to get approval. Brother! Yes, that's it. I'll ask Alan. He agrees without hesitation; doesn't even bat an eye. He gets it; he knows.

Giddy, we present the plan. No good. Neither of us are surprised. But there is strength in numbers and much to our father's displeasure, we push forward and assert our need for Chinese food, right then and there, in the middle of a storm that has crippled several states. And so out we go. During our quest for pork fried rice, we decide a movie would do famously. Detour to west coast video (or some other dvd mega mart that I can't quite recall). Open! Score! Movie selection: sponge bob square pants or Anacondas part 19. We leave, despondent.

But no worries, Chinese food is near. We didn't even order ahead. That's living on the edge. We arrive and the place is hopping! Well, as much as a place with two booths and a small table can hop. But man that kitchen is fired up, the woks are glowing red. The aromas of Asian cuisine permeates everything. There's no other smell quite like a Chinese restaurant. It's intoxicating. Arriving home after a successful journey. Bro and I chat about about mom and other things. A good trip. Safe. Fun. Manly.

And the Chinese food was excellent.

This is a positive thinking zone

2008-03-11T09:04:00.000-07:00

So I'm reading the inaugural Fall 2004 edition of the BU student newspaper. For about 1300 students this is their first introduction; for others, it's the weekly paper of interest. Over the years things have changed, as things often do. And The Voice is no exception. Layout, color, content, writers, editors have all flowed with the times. One area - the editorials - have not. They are largely negative. That's not to say writing about such things is invalid. Nor is it to say that the writing itself is poor. Exposing problems and areas of concern is the hallmark of many journalistic outlets - from student newspapers to major networks. However, the seemingly unending negative slant to these articles skirts the larger picture: BU is a pretty good place to be. Are there areas in need of improvement? Sure. But I'd challenge any fair-minded folk to inform me of an organization not in need of improvement. We have great students, excellent leaders, beautiful facilities. I'd even go so far as to say the food is rather decent. I've spent over 13 years here now. I'm proud of that time. I've met some great people and generated lasting relationships (including, I should add, my recent wife). The memories I have - and hope to continue generating - are priceless.

I'd like to refrain from too much soapboxing...but as the sole owner and writer for this site I suppose this is my forum. In the modern world there are countless problems with which to grapple. Problems needing real solutions from uniquely insightful people - the exact people that BU students will become as they progress through their college years. My suggestion: focus on this stuff. It's more important, more critical. When the food at the commons or the right to attend beer parties is placed above such things it makes us smaller as people. But beyond that, it clouds all the wonderful things around us. BU is a good place. In fact, it's a beautiful place. Complete with faults and problems and things we need to fix. See the good in everything, even when you really have to work to find it. Smile more often. Be positive. And, of course, keep it real.

Always read the signs

2008-03-11T09:03:00.000-07:00

I urinated in the ladies room tonight.

Ok it's not that simple. I know I try to be all deep and thoughtful in my writing here on this site. But tonight just needs to be recorded. No it's not deep. Or thoughtful. But it is pretty darn funny.
So I'm at the Wachovia Center watching Sarah Brightman. Never heard of her. Nice pipes. It was Kate's idea. Anyway, at the end of the 2.5 hour show, most humans must visit the facilities. I was one of them. As we're walking toward the exit, I notice the 'women' sign, adorned with the lady in the skirt so as not to be confusing. I continue walking, assuming, as many would, that the next sign would indicate men. I rounded a bend and saw 'men.' What I didn't see were the letters 'WO' in front of the 'MEN.' Oddly, neither did Kate.

So in I go. First thing I notice is that every stall door - except one - is closed. And there's not a soul standing at the sinks, washing their hands, checking their look in the mirror. No one. Second thing I notice: no urinals. Odd. Not completely strange but certainly out of the norm. So I walk the length of the restroom til I arrive at the other entrance / exit (which just so happens to be the first entrance I saw with the 'women' sign adorned with the skirted figure. I, of course, was oblivious to all of this). After walking the length of the restroom, and finding no urinals, I decided this must be a stall-only type place. Now granted, I've not encountered one of these stall-only places for men before. I did find it strange. But apparently not strange enough to leave. I return to the first stall - still the only unoccupied stall - and proceed to do my business. Being male, and being in the military, I find it wholly unnecessary to close the stall door when all I'm doing is urinating. Thus, the stall door stays open and I proceed. During the event, I begin thinking - actually I think what I was doing is piecing together all the clues, looking at them as one picture, rather than individual pieces.

Towards the end of my business I start to become quite concerned that I am in fact in the ladies room. Just about finished now. I turn around. Two ladies. Right there. Large as life. Looking right at me. Very nice of me to have left the stall door open. I know I said something. I really don't recall but I'm certain it was nothing brilliant. I zip. Turn around and walk out. I pause at the entrance and look to my right. Sure enough: 'women' with the skirted figure. And there's Kate. It finally hits her - the whole thing. She is positively hysterical. I've never seen anyone laugh that hard for so long; she actually had to stop and sit down in the parking lot to continue her fit. I, of course, joined in once I was clear of the police that, luckily for me, were standing right there as I, a male, left the female facilities. Fortunately, I was not cuffed. Or night-sticked. The few ladies that realized my error - and it was obviously an error as evidenced by my mortified expression and the fact that I wasn't looking up stalls - found the entire thing to be quite amusing as well. Glad I could assist with their entertainment.

By the way, the concert was decent.

USCG (CG 1)

2008-03-11T08:21:00.000-07:00

They required an essay as to why I wanted to be part of the USCG. I found that a bit unusual; but I liked it. No other branch required it, making those apps easier but perhaps less insightful. Anyway, I like to write so I crafted a dandy. But then I learned that I hand to hand-write this litte gem. Sometimes I wish I wasn't so long-winded. Here we go.....This is the essay that I submitted along with my application materials. I had to hand write this. With black pen. Not blue. Black.

It is almost 11 years in the making, but my decision to serve in the United States military was finally made. Ebbing and flowing over time as this idea did, the need to serve finally stuck about one year ago. Unfortunately, my age and circumstances had changed significantly during the same period. As I learned more about serving in the military it became apparent that my window, though closing, was still available. I met with other branches with unsatisfactory results. These obstacles allowed me to pause and reflect on what I truly wanted to do with my time in the military. I knew firmly that I wanted to perform in some policing/security/law enforcement capacity; furthermore, I realized that I had a longing to be on the water. Growing up in New Jersey afforded me the opportunity to frequent the bays and ocean. I remember going to Point Pleasant and walking by the Coast Guard station there, staring in awe at the vessels and crew in port. I remember wanting to be a part of that experience. And so these somewhat obscure memories returned and my decision became quite clear.

Serving my country is something that I've come to realize is my responsibility. There are those that cannot serve; there are those that would not serve. And so it is up to the able and willing to fill this necessary void. Recent months have demonstrated that these able and willing people are dedicated, highly trained and committed to their duty and to the United States. I believe that I am - that I can be - one of these people as well. I have the will and the desire to serve. More specifically, I want to take an active role in the protection of our country, its waterways and its people. I am willing to be involved in all manner of Coast Guard activity, for it is not the exact task set before me. Rather, it is the simple desire and ability to serve others that drives my interest.

I recently mentioned my intention to enter the Coast Guard to some classmates. We had a presentation scheduled and I explained that I might not be able to make it due to my intake processing. The six or so people in the group were at first surprised, not knowing of my interest. After this initial emotion, they all thanked me. For what, I asked, I'm not even in the service yet? For serving - or for wanting and attempting to serve - for protecting our shores, they collective stated. It was a moment of immense pride for me. It solidified all the reasons and rationales I've used for entering the military. In that one moment, I knew this was the right decision. I am proud that, after 11 years of thought, I've decided to finally commit to this experience. I expect to be challenged and maybe frustrated along the way. But I also expect to be extremely proud both of my service and the service of others. I am fully dedicated and committed to seeing this through to the end. The US Coast Guard can expect, and will receive, the very best that I have to offer.

Basic mark (CG 2)

2008-03-11T08:20:00.000-07:00

I can't even say that I know what to write. There is so much material; so much content from the past two months that a true beginning, middle and ending seems almost unattainable. Sure chronologically those points in time existed, but I'm not sure that following them will accurately depict the experience. I suppose I'll just write and see what comes out. Read on....

Basic training in the Coast Guard is about stress in all forms - physically, mentally, emotionally. More importantly, it's about how you react to stress. Do you crumble? Do you struggle but perservere? Because in some microcosmic form, the stress in boot camp is like the stress in the field. Law enforcement, vessel boardings, search and rescue and all the other Coast Guard missions involve serious levels of stress. And if you can't hack it in the artificial basic training environment then you certainly won't make it in a real life scenario.

That being said, basic training brought me to some of the lowest points I've ever experienced. The first two weeks leveled me; I constantly questioned my decision to join. This is something I've wanted to do for 12 years, but maybe at 30 I should've just let it pass. A missed opportunity. Something to look back and say 'well, maybe in my next life.' But I've never really been satisfied with being potentially regretful. So join I did; but in those first two weeks, negative, self-defeating thoughts ruled my cortex. I have a great life, a great job, solid education. By all accounts I'm very happy. What exactly, then, was I doing here - out of my comfort zone, following orders like some drone, doing 'push-ups forever?'

Those first two weeks were the toughest. I tell people that if someone had offered me a get-out-of-jail-free card I would've seriously considered it. Looking back, though, I realize that's the whole point. You must come through that low period - or periods - and rise above them to truly tackle this basic training monster. And I did. I would even go so far to say that the last two weeks of boot camp were fun, enjoyable and filled with personal pride. Graduating on July 4th was one of the most amazing moments of my life. Standing in uniform, in front of family and friends; saluting my uncle who presented me with my certificate. It was a true sense of accomplishment and I wouldn't trade it for anything. It was a crazy time - but it was a good time, in an odd back-handed sort of way.

Probably the best part of basic training were the excellent people that made up my company (Golf company, that is). They were solid young men and women. No war mongers; nobody who was in it to kill. They broke the military stereotypes. These were just good people who wanted good jobs (or a career), a chance to serve their country, an opportunity to support their family in some cases. I can honestly say that I would be proud to serve with any of them. They are all fine sailors and will make great contributions to the USCG. Golf company began as a group of 50 or so individuals; for a while we each did our own thing. Little to no teamwork. As we advanced in weeks we realized that there was no room for individuality. That to survive we'd need to work as a team. Once we figured this out, training became more like 'fair winds and following seas.' Sure we still had a few bumps after that - resulting in many push ups amongst other things - but teamwork was the key.

I could tell you lots of crazy stories about basic training -
:: like the time someone spit on the regiment and a very pissed-off chief made the recruit scoop it up in his hand and show it to his company commander
:: or how we had to carry a pen in our left sock at all times
:: or how we couldn't be out of uniform except when in the head (bathroom)
:: having as little as one button undone means you're out of uniform
:: or how I ironed about 25 shirts every night
:: or how someone would always fart in formation which is of course dramatically funny which is of course unacceptable while in formation
:: or how we basically were not allowed to talk

But that doesn't really translate well in words. It's just something you have to experience. Ever have someone tell you a story and then follow it with 'I guess you had to be there..?' Same concept. So just believe me when I say it was crazy 8 weeks, filled with both wild and funny times, great people and lots of memories. I'm proud that I did this. I'm proud that I followed through with this after 12 years of consideration.

Most importantly, though, I'm proud to serve my country.

USCG, one more time (CG 3)

2008-03-11T08:19:00.001-07:00

It was years in the making - 11 to be exact. But as of May 12, 2003 sometime around 2pm I will be an official member of the United States Coast Guard. Once I cleared the physical, the process leading to this point was remarkably fast. The physical, though, was a true test of hoop jumping and perserverance. Initially disqualified outright for declaring a kidney stone, I decided that result was not sufficient. Here I was at 29, finally deciding to do this, and because I passed a stone about 3 years earlier, that chance was being taken away from me. Now I think honesty is the best way to go, but at that moment part of me wished that I'd accidentally forgotten to declare that little tidbit of information.

So I wrote my recruiter asking if there was any possible way for a second opinion. I wound up sending her all my documentation. I also made an impassioned plea for my doctors to write a little note on my behalf, declaring my health and fitness. One of them did. I certainly need to thank him.

The original disqualification rating was pulled and I was allowed to 'test.' Excellent. Progress. I was therefore to meet my recruiter Wednesday afternoon for testing (ASVAB) and then all day Thusday would be spent doing physical testing (the whole process is called MEPS). It was a cool couple of days. All branches of the service were present with the clear numerical majority belonging to the Army. And why not - they throw tons of money at their recruits. To an 18 year old this can be a nice incentive. I met a lot of nice folks, from all walks of life, all ages, ethnic backgrounds and reasons for joining. Stereotypes were shattered. There were no war mongers. I just met a bunch of people that wanted to serve, wanted some direction or wanted a job. All valid reasons.

I scored well on my ASVAB, which I liken to the military version of the SAT. And I did well on the physical. Good vision, good hearing, even made the weight cut off (which disqualified others). But those darn kidney stones. The military docs wouldn't let me pass until I had a new x-ray of my kidney/bladder area to determine if more stones were present. So on my way back from MEPS that Thursday my recruiter calls me and informs me I've been scheduled for a medical consult the following Monday. The message was cell-phone choppy but I heard some vague reference to 4o'clock. Called her back and 4o'clock turned out to be 4am. That means I have to leave good 'ole BU around 12am to get to Philly by 4am. And did I mention that amazingly enough there are no bathrooms in Philly for someone with a full bladder at 3am? Every gas station miraculously didn't have a commode. Where do the employees go? I was positively crippled with pain. So each gas station I go into, I buy something. I figure that's a fair trade. Here I am at 3am driving all around Cottman AVE in Philly PA with a half-dozen newspapers in my car that I will never read in desperate search for a bathroom. Finally, a kind man at the 7-11 lets me use the employee rest room. I think he knew what my deal was when I purchased a newspaper that was 2 days old. He looked at me, saw the pained expression on my face, and I commented 'I know it's 2 days old. I don't care. I just need to use the can.' He smiled, accepted my $.60 and pointed to the head.

I arrive back at Fort Dix NJ at 5am after following the USCG recruiting van to the base. This whole process is an exercise in 'hurry up and wait.' And so I did. From start to finish I was there for about 9 hours. For one x-ray.

Mind you, for the past month I'd been drinking Cranberry juice and water like it was my job. And I positively hate Cranberry juice. I mean that stuff is so incredibly tart I can't fathom how anyone could possibily drink it straight. I did some math one time and figured that I had consumed 128 ounces of Cranberry juice in a two day period. See I learned from my Doc that Cranberry juice is good stuff if you have stones. Don't know why; didn't really care why. So I drank this stuff like it was my job. I really have no idea if this actually works. All I know is that the picture came back clear and that meant I was in. I was happy but a bit nervous at the same time. This was the moment of truth. Everything I'd been working for. I hadn't signed anything. I could still back out. The thought was quickly erased. This was an 11 year old bug and I intended to see it through.

So this was my first introduction to the military was quite interesting. It is qualitatively counter to the culture in which I currently reside - education. In my world, time is a general idea, shaving is only a thought and jeans are standard attire. In the military, you turn corners at a right angle, shine your shoes every day and begin at 4am. The contrast was striking. I found myself beginning to stand up straight, being more intentionally courteous, saying 'yes' instead of 'yeah.' And I wasn't even officially in the military yet.

On May 12, 2003 I will swear in to the USCG and essentially begin basic training. Two months in Cape May NJ. And I think I graduate on July 4. Cool.

I'm excited and proud to begin serving my country. I was a little concerned as to how others might perceive this decision. I'm known as a fairly mild guy on campus. I'm laid back, entirely casual and don't stick to formal rules all that much. But I've been humbled by the great support and words of encouragement from everyone - family, friends, students and colleagues are all behind me. And I think in a very real way that's what this is all about. Helping out. Sure I have to shave my head and face (scary thought). But in the end, I'm just trying to give back to a good country filled with great people.

Keep it real.....

Brown's a nice color

2008-03-11T08:10:00.000-07:00

Alton Brown. Who would've ever thought that I would travel about 6 hours, round trip, to see a chef cook; and then wait another two hours for him to sign the cover of my (his) book. If asked this question when I was 18, I would have scoffed at the notion that, someday, that person might be me. And so it was. Shortly after my return from Baco Raton FLA, feeling weary and cringing at the thought of more driving (I had driven to and from FLA), I commenced the journey. To say that I almost did not go would be understating the truth. I was essentially not going. Though I had looked forward to this moment for months, the long hours in the car to and from FLA had left me road weary. As I was talking to my faithful traveler - who's always up for more travels - I had a moment of gestalt-like insight. Of course I was going. I had to go. I'd been planning this for months. I knew the timing was going to be bad - knew that before I even left for FLA. The fact of the matter is some things only happen once in a great while. And if we don't take advantage of those opportunities we wind up kicking ourselves in our collective rears. And so I went.
It was a dark and stormy night. No really, it was. Read show 1 of my peter gabriel road diaries and you'll see why this seems to happen to me. Anyway, we finally made it - about three hours one way. Back to my old stomping ground - NJ. I remembered then why I could not return to NJ for any extended period of time. Everyone's in a rush to get somewhere. I swear that most people are just going out for a quart of milk. But in that short time, they make 8 cell phone calls, drive with their hands off the wheel more than on and honk, curse and flip as if it's some sporting event.

Alas, we arrive. Early. Plenty of time for good seats. Probably us two and maybe 40 other folks there. Alton is a self described geek. As I look around I see a lot of folks, myself included, that are just plain quirky. We're a fun bunch. Spirited. And happy. Happy that our teacher and mentor will be arriving soon. None of us really know what to expect. And as we theorize about various cooking this-n-thats, the entire store slowly fills up. I look behind me as we close in on the TIME and realize there must be 400 or so people there.

Alton arrives. Black chef's jacket. Nice. Hair everywhere. Cool. And he is in command of the entire production. He does not miss a beat. His diction and speaking abilities are superb. His wit as sharp as a Cutco. He peforms for about 70 minutes. I think I learned something. But really I was totally mesmerized by him. I had this weird, giddy smile on my face the entire time. It was like that old fairy tale - the one where if you make a face and someone slaps on the back that face is frozen. I think someone slapped me on the back that evening. And I found myself enjoying - savoring - every moment of that experience. When the line formed for the book signing, pretty much everyone got in order. Lemmings. I stood by his table. For me, the thrill was watching him interact with others. He was truly humble, thankful and gracious. He stayed and took his time with everyone; signed every last book; took every picture requested. It was a great night, very pure and very fun. And I'm grateful that I took that opportunity.

A conversation with Bob

2008-03-11T08:07:00.000-07:00

Mark (Q): So Bob, what's with the human name?
Bob (A): What? That's my name? That's so lame. Who's idea was it to name me Bob? Mark: Well it was mine. Bob: Yours? And that's the most exciting thing you could come up with, Mr. PHD candidate? No wonder no lady bunnies ever come around.

Mark (Q): Wait why are you just realizing now that your name is Bob?
Bob (A): I've been ignoring you. I thought Bob was like your roommate or something.

Mark (Q): That explains a lot. Ok well can you help me understand why you grunt? To my knowledge, bunnies are supposed to be cuddly little critters. You grunt. You charge. You bite. Sometimes all three at once. What's the deal? Are you angry?
Bob (A): That bad-bunny image is really a façade. On the inside, I long to be cuddled just like lots of other bunnies. But to be honest sometimes you really aggravate me. So I grunt. And charge. And sometimes I bite. But really it's just a sign of affection. You've gotten quite good at avoiding the bite, I might add.

Mark (Q): Thank you. It took me a while. You actually drew blood once on my leg.
Bob (A): So did Moo! I thought you were an apple.

Mark (Q): Let's not bring her into it. And Moo didn't draw blood on my leg it was on my finger.
Bob (A): Whatever.

Mark (Q): Ok perhaps some more interesting questions. What do you think of your living quarters?
Bob (A): The bathroom? Well it's a little weird. And it took some adjusting. How many other animals live in a bathroom? After a while I realized it was a good gig. Spacious. Rent free. The fact that you and that LADY do laundry in here like every day gets a little annoying. But all in all it's tons better than a 10 gallon fish tank.

Mark (Q): Speaking of the fish tank, how did you end up in Bloomsburg?
Bob (A): That's a great question. To be honest, I really have no clue. It's not the most happening place around. And I ended up in Agway. Can you imagine AGWAY in BLOOMSBURG? I shared a 10 gallon PRISON CELL with two other bunnies. All boys, I might add. But when you're a pet you get shipped anywhere. And really the first 10 or so weeks I was more worried about my eye.

Mark (Q): Yes tell the folks what happened with your eye.
Bob (A): Well I don't really know that anything happened. I mean when you're one of 12 bunnies in a litter there's bound to be one of us with a problem. Mine was my left eye. It didn't really open for a while. The nice people at Agway (I never bit any of them) helped me out. But they didn't think anyone was going to take me because I was a one-eye. But then the LADY showed up. And she seemed to actually want me because I had one gunky eye. That was nice. Then I bit her.

Mark (Q): So what's the status of the eye now?
Bob (A): Well it's totally open and I can see more or less ok. I still like people to come at me from the right. Makes it easier to charge.

Mark (Q): Right, that's great. I'll keep that in mind. So any hobbies?
Bob (A): Hobbies? What like crocheting? I'm a bunny. My life consists of eating, drinking, jumping and, from time to time, biting. I like to sit on the second shelf in the bathroom. It's not much but it's my life.

Mark (Q): Did you know that Moo the guinea pig lived above you?
Bob (A): I did hear some whistling once in a while (who knew guinea pigs made noise?) I never knew for sure that she was up there. I can't jump that high. Probably a good thing because this whole "being a male bunny with no other bunnies in sight" idea gets a little unexciting after a while.

Mark (Q): What a lovely image. Well moving along. I hear you eat just about anything. True?
Bob (A): Well I do eat a lot of weird things. I like brown leaves. And peanut butter captain crunch. And I like fruit and nut bars (they're organic and on the healthy side). Lettuce is good but don't stand between me and the litter box. Oh and M&Ms rock. But you and the LADY only let me have one even though you have a gi-normous bag like every other day.

Mark (Q): Why do you circle around the legs of us humans?
Bob (A): You really don't know?
Mark (A): Um no. Well I mean someone told me once what it's supposed to mean. But how can a human really know?
Bob (Q): Wait let me guess, the Internet said it means that I want to hump. That about right?
Mark (A): Well yes something along those lines.
Bob (A): Don't flatter yourself. I think you're food. Or maybe bringing me food. Plain and simple.

Mark (Q); Well that's much more comforting. What about that little incident when we had another bunny come and visit. Do you recall?
Bob (A): Right. Oscar. Umm well you see it had been a long time since I'd seen another bunny.

Mark: As I remember we had to separate you almost immediately.
Bob: Right can we move on to something else?

Mark (A): Sure well I only really have one more question. Any chance you'll get your toenails clipped this century?
Bob (Q): Tell me about it. You could poke an eye out with these things. Have the LADY do it. I like her. I promise I won't bite. But maybe she should wear some thick gloves.

Mark: Bob it's been fun. Really. You're a gem. Weird. But a gem. Maybe like a Zircon kind of gem. But still a gem of some sort, provided you don't look too closely.
Bob: Thanks. Can I get an M&M?

Viva, Las Vegas

2008-03-11T08:00:00.002-07:00

Actually, if not for my mother the three of us would not have traveled. She was the impetus - the spark, if you will - that suggested the adventure. Though, for both my faithful traveler and myself one does not need to beg company.

I admit that I didn't know what to expect. I'd seen things on TV and just about everyone I met has apparently gone to Vegas at some point or another. Here's a little experiment - tell someone that you're going to LV (true or not is irrelevant). See just how many people have gone out there. It truly is amazing. And not one person - not one - had a bad thing to say about it. Part of my concern was the same issue I have with movies like Titanic and other events of similar magnitude. Everyone hypes it. Then, when the moment of truth arrives, when it's time to put up or shut up, what happens? It's a dissappointment. Humans very naturally elevate their expectations when other humans speak highly of something. I attempted, therefore, to remain as neutral as possible.

I don't like flying. I know this now. It had been some time since my last lift off from ground, not counting the hot-air balloon flight I took in summer 2002. I don't mind the take off or landing part. It's the sitting that kills me. Four hours or so cramped in a 'spacious' seat with the lady in front of you reclined all the way into your lap. You could give that person a temple massage if you wanted to make friends.

Arrive at the LV airport. First symbol indicating we're in LV are the slots. Right in the airport. A hole bullpen full of these buggers just calling out your name. Picked up our rental car, drove to 'the strip' to our hotel - Paris. This is one nice place. Every effort is made so that you feel like you're in Paris. Now, I've never been to Paris, France - the real Paris. But I've seen a picture or two and I've watched the Tour De France on TV. It really looked and felt like you were in France. I'd recommend it to anyone.

We had some events planned, but much of our time was spent wandering, which is something the three of us do quite well. In our five day stay we covered many miles up and down the strip. Though Paris is located pretty much smack in the middle, there are sights to see for several blocks in each direction. Many of the sights are the individual casinos which are rather elaborate as one attempts to out-do the other. Each has a show or two and some other attractions designed to lure passersby.

And of course there's the gambling. Now, I'm not rich. And I positively stink at math. But I love blackjack. I can stand by that table for hours and watch. These people are doing math in their heads like some human texas instrument. And when that ACE gets thrown down? Forget it. I need a pencil and paper to figure things out. I did actually sit down at a table a couple times. Won some. Lost some. And, as usual, I left feeling I should have just donated the money to charity. Anyway, the three of us realized quite quickly that we're not too swift in the gambling arena so we switched to nickel slots. And we did pretty well. Only problem is that winning 1000 nickels is about enough for dinner at Burger King. But it was fun and in the end my faithful traveler and I gained some green whilst my mother happily donated hers to the casino.

Saw three shows - Blue Man Group (awesome, go see this one), Mystere (a cirque do soleil production, very cool), and Jubilee (one of the standard LV productions with naked people that shouldn't be naked).

Las Vegas is an interesting city. Lots of rich things going on - people, cars, jewelry, furs. But about a block of the strip is like the mean streets. While maybe not classified as poor it certainly is flirting with the label. Atlantic city is the same way, there's this huge clash between money and no money. You feel safe on the strip, but one block off and you don't. Karl Marx and his buddy Engels would've enjoyed the experience.

Culturally, LV is fascinating. There is a tremendous mix of people; many languages can be heard throughout the city. And the people are really nice, which surprised all three of us. There was not a time when we had a bad experience with some random stranger. Lots of politness and thank-you's etc. Even the folks passing out the porn flyers on the street were polite (i'm not even going to explain this one - you'll just have to go to LV).

So in the end it was a great experience. Lots of fun, good bonding time and we won some nickels which'll come in handy for the parking meters.

A day in the life of

2008-03-11T08:00:00.001-07:00

I feel privileged that I can say that I love what I do.

Currently I work in two areas at Bloomsburg. The first is in residence life department where I work as a residence director - currently in Lycoming Hall. I actually live in the building, right off the lobby. My mom affectionately calls my apartment a "room" - which conjurs up visions of cheap posters and oddly placed, year-round holiday lights more reminiscent of my undergraduate years. I think she figures that all the other students live in a room, her son must as well.

In that I live where I work, I'm rather involved in student's lives - good grades and bad, relationships, roommate conflicts, and quite a few other things. I'm proud that I have an opportunity to have a positive impact on college students. Living in provides a unique venue to have this impact, although that hours are a bit challenging at times.

The second "half" of my job is in the Student Standards department where I am the assistant director. A simplified explanation is if a student violates university policy or otherwise maintains inappropriate conduct, I need to address it. This part of my work is incredibly challenging and rewarding; the opportunity to work with people who maybe need a bit of guidance or assistance is amazingly gratifying and something that I hope to continue for many years.

I remember reading a while ago that you should find what you love to do and then figure out a way to get paid for it. For me this happened in the reverse order: student life/residence life/working with people seemed to find me, repeatedly and kept bugging me til I figured out that this is what I truly enjoy. Pretty cool...