tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-177825692024-03-13T02:01:13.351-06:00Poking and PeakingPoker and mountain climbing. The only thing that goes better with cards is queso and frozen lemonade.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08837529956827141862noreply@blogger.comBlogger678125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17782569.post-32138763170766238752014-01-25T20:46:00.000-07:002014-01-25T20:46:02.048-07:00Thanks<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Many times, during a run, I find myself talking to my body.<br />
I am not talking to myself. I am talking to the vessel carrying me across the path.<br />
I have had that kind of relationship with my body for years, decades, really, since I began climbing mountains and trying to find a way to work through the altitude sickness and reach the top. I treat my body as if it has a conscience. It works for me. If it makes me look a little New Agey, well, that's OK.<br />
But before Arizona a week ago, since the Chicago Marathon in October, I'd been in a spat with my body. Cramps ravaged me in Chicago despite a wonderful first half, and I was pissed at it. This wasn't rational, but spats rarely are, even to the point where I refused to acknowledge that I pushed it too hard, too fast. I refused to acknowledge, in other words, that the fight was mostly my fault.<br />
As a result, for the first time since I began running in 2005, I found myself having to push myself to get outside. I almost fell into a depression, and I probably would have, if depression wasn't a selfish luxury that my busy Dad life can't afford. I ran out of habit, or to get my golden retriever puppy out, or a way to escape the house for a half hour or so. I didn't run out of joy. And when I ran, I was silent. I didn't talk to my body at all. I was alone.<br />
I even faked it on Twitter occasionally, tweeting that I was recovered from the marathon, ready to go, blah blah blah.<br />
I now understand what was wrong. Something really is wrong. I've downplayed it a bit on Facebook and Twitter, but I'm dealing with a doozy here, and yet it's a doozy that doesn't sound like it should be a doozy. It sounds like something your 94-year-old grandfather should be battling.<br />
My sinuses are a mess.<br />
Years ago, I'd get a sinus infection with every cold. If you haven't had one, try pouring rubber cement and a razor blade in your nose, then do a lap around the track 20 times wearing a sweater. The Netti Pot took care of the chronic problem for a few years. But I got a cold in late August, while training for the marathon. Then the flood hit, and I worked two weeks into one, most of it under rain and in sewage and rivers, and all of it was emotionally draining. Did I keep training? Of course I did.<br />
The sinus infection that came probably as a result hasn't gone away. In fact, after a brief time when I thought the drugs had worked, the infection's gotten worse.<br />
There's been some pain, a near-constant stuffy head and a general feeling of being run down, like all I can do once my kids go to bed on most nights is go to bed after them. I have seen a specialist, and I'm getting a CT scan in a couple weeks. I wouldn't be surprised if surgery wasn't next.<br />
The only thing that kept me running was Arizona. I was going to run the Rock and Roll Half on Jan. 19, and if I was going to travel to a place to run a race, I wasn't going to suck at it. I may not PR, and the chances of me even turning in a decent race were pretty slim, I thought, but I would not suck. That would be a waste of time and money and my Get Out Of Jail free card from the spouse.<br />
At times, running sucked. My sinuses weren't draining, so all that poison went down my throat, not out of my nose. Fun. So at the start of every run, I choked to the point of nearly puking for at least two miles. After one especially tough run, I was on my knees for 10 minutes, spitting and coughing, at a park while others stared.<br />
Three weeks before Arizona, though, just in the nick of time, my body seemed to rally. I could breathe. My legs, unburdened with speed workouts, seemed bouncy. My attitude improved. So did my outlook on running. I put in some good miles, and I even began to enjoy them.<br />
This led me to the morning of the race. I was in the first corral, the badass corral, having no idea whether I belonged to be there. I always tell people to be thankful before the start of a race. It had been a tough few weeks, and I chose, instead, to wait to see what happened.<br />
At mile 3, when I passed my running partner, I turned to her and said "today's going to be a good day."<br />
I tell people to be thankful because you don't know when some shit's gonna go down and you won't be able to run any longer. One of my closest friends is going through that now. My partner, one of the toughest people I know, had some recurring back problems that day, even though she still finished strong. You just don't know.<br />
This ending isn't perfect. I've felt pretty lousy the last couple of days, and I won't feel myself until doctors fix what's wrong. That could take another two months, and that may be best-case. But until then, I'll think back to that day in Arizona, when I ran my second-best half ever, at 1:36, and I thanked my body many times for responding the way it did.<br />
I thanked my body as I talked to it continually throughout the race. And when I did, it felt to me like old friends sharing a pot of coffee.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08837529956827141862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17782569.post-32385824932049608492013-10-14T17:26:00.003-06:002013-10-14T17:26:43.512-06:00Chicago Marathon<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I first started running, a marathon seemed like an impossible feat. But if you did it, if you somehow managed to run 26 miles, your time didn't matter. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That changed when I started running them. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As with any other race, it was never enough to finish. I had to beat them. I'm not exactly proud of that. But it was what attracted me to running in the first place. Every year I saw progress. That progress was intoxicating. I measured that progress by my times.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My first marathon didn't go well. I cramped up to the point where I couldn't run after mile 20. I had to do better, and next year, I did. I ran the whole way, with no cramping, and finished well. I began to think I could do even better. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Last year, I ran a small marathon in South Carolina with some good friends. It was a wonderful experience. I ran a solid time, even PRd by a minute, but I believed it could have been so much better. Cramping, again, slowed me down. I didn't feel too bad about it, but there was an asterisk next to it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That's why I targeted the Chicago Marathon. I thought I was finally ready to run fast and hard for a long time, just like I did in my half marathons. I wanted that perfect race. I even dreamed of qualifying for Boston.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Boston Marathon is the crown jewel of marathons. I thought it about it a lot. I wondered how good it would feel to cross the finish line, and this is embarrassing to say, post on Facebook and see the accolades pour in. I wanted to shock people. I wanted to shock myself. I especially wanted to shock all those people who picked on me when I was much younger for, among other things, being a lousy athlete. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I didn't approach the Chicago Marathon to qualify for Boston. But I wasn't afraid of trying. I told myself I would run what felt good, but that I would also push it. I knew, going in, that it was risky to run a hard first half, given what happened in South Carolina last year. But I wanted to try it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I tried not to obsess about it. I was still a father, and a husband, and a guy with a job. For the most part, I didn't. I would think about it late at night, when everyone else was asleep. Or when I'd go on one of my frequent training runs. Everything seemed to point to a great marathon. My six half marathons all went well this year, and I PRd three times. I knew the course was usually cool and flat almost the whole way. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I really, honestly thought I was ready. I was wrong.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But this is not a sob story about another failed attempt at a perfect marathon. It is an examination of the human spirit - not my own - and how a little kindness can ease a painful situation and leave you with a smile on your face.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">• • •</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Marathons bring out the best in people, but I always thought it was the runners who benefitted, not the people watching. When the cramps hit in my first, other runners stopped to share pretzels, bananas and their drinks. A marathon, if you hadn't guessed by now, is unpredictable, and all you can do is plan for the worst and pray for the best. These runners had planned for the worst, meticulously, in fact, and at mile 20, when the worst was probably yet to come, they crumpled up and threw that planning and caution in the trash to help a fellow runner who they didn't know. Marathoners bond over the grueling training and distance of the race, and they cheer each other when they pass, talk about their plans and offer words of encouragement about their training.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I changed my mind a little bit about spectators after Boston, when it was the spectators, not the runners, who felt most of the bombs' wrath, and yet many others stepped forward to help the runners after the explosions. There were stories about neighbors bringing out water and juice and fruit for the trapped runners who wouldn't get to finish.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So I was excited to run Chicago because I'd never been in a race that attracted a lot of spectators. Chicago, I was told, had spectators three deep, all 26 miles of the course, for a total of 1.7 million. It seemed almost impossible to comprehend. Surely, I thought, those people had to be passive. There were 45,000 running the race. Wouldn't your hands hurt from clapping so much?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">• • • </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was a cool morning, almost too perfect, when me and a friend strolled out of our hotel to walk the mile to the race. It was dark, but I could sense the anticipation of the other runners as they swept past me. I was not the only one, it seemed, who had high hopes for the race. My friends, three of them who traveled with me, had the same high hopes. Everyone does before a race. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By that point, I was already blown away by the enormity of it all. The race expo was big. HUGE. There were booths from every major apparel and shoe company. Hal Higdon, whose plan I followed for my marathons, was there. The walkway had to be the size of at least a football field, if not two, and it went five rows deep. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The city, too, was massive. Think about the fact that I liked Denver, and enjoyed Denver, but considered Denver too big for my tastes. Chicago seemed three times as large as Denver. It probably is. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I walked around the city with wide eyes, trying, at first, to avoid contact with anyone who came in my way. I had assumed that people in large cities were hurried, busy and, well, a little rude. Again, I'm not proud of that, but that was the mid-sized city in me. My fears seemed justified, too, when the first desk clerk at the hotel hissed at our request for a late check-out to grab a quick shower after the race. Too many people, she said, would want one.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I began to change my mind when strangers would look us over while waiting for a light at the street corner, then smile and ask if we were running. They didn't have to ask about the race. Just "are you running?" When we said yes, they would tell us good luck.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So my fears about Chicago had dissipated as we walked toward the race. But as the race began, I would be pleasantly surprised. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Almost euphorically so.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">• • • </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I felt good as the race began, but I always feel good the first few miles of a marathon. It's a deadly trap. I told myself, over and over, to slow down, and so I was careful about sticking to my plan. But even my plan was aggressive, and I was happy to realize it felt good. As soon as two years ago, my pace would have PRd my half by four minutes. But it had been two years. Again, I thought I was ready for it. I was barely breathing hard as my pace crept down to 7:35 per mile. I felt elated. Maybe this would be THE race.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By the time I crossed the halfway mark at 1:41, I was a little concerned. If I stopped now, I thought, I'd be tired. I'd consider that a pretty good race. I might even have a hard time making it back to my hotel without limping a touch. But I was confident, too, that I had run smart.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The thing was, yes, I ran well, and yes, I felt elated, but my stomach was a little crampy. I began to walk through the aid stations to try to get more fluids in my body, but that seemed to make it worse, and I was having trouble breathing. It was as if someone had inflated a balloon in my mid-section. Well, I thought, I'd just have to back off on fluids and nutrition for a bit. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, that works in a half. I've ran whole halves without eating or drinking a damn thing. A marathon is two halves. And this would be a tale of two of them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My calves began to twitch at mile 16. I knew that wasn't good. I changed my running style a bit, and it seemed to work, for a while, anyway. I threw down a 7:50 mile and prayed I'd be OK. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Prayers don't work in a marathon. I'm sorry if that offends your religious nature. But they don't.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By mile 18, the road sloped down a touch, into a short tunnel, and when I came out the other side, my hamstring began tightening. OK, OK, I whispered to it, gently. We'll take it easy. But my hamstring froze, and I couldn't move my right leg. I was helpless. Pain radiated down my leg and into my foot. I felt like the tin man without his oil can.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A police officer approached me. "Are you OK?" he asked. "Yes," I said, and it was the truth. I was positive, lucid and had energy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I just couldn't move.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Cramps?" the officer said.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Yeah," I said. "This is the marathon for you."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Well," he said, "if you need me to support you, you just lean on my shoulder and let me know, OK?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I almost began tearing up. Here was an officer who had a lot on his mind, like, you know, terrorism. Chicago was the biggest race since Boston. It was a natural target. And there's always crowd control. But he seemed more worried about me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That's when I looked around me, and I saw a group of about 50 all cheering for me. "YOU GOT THIS COLORADO" many yelled, referring to my tank top with the Colorado flag out front. I smiled and gave a little wave, and they nearly burst my eardrums.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I"d never experienced anything like it in my life. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I began to walk, to work out the cramp, but I had no hopes at that point of my best race. I knew I'd have to play cat and mouse with the cramps. I could run, but it would only be for a while, and then I'd have to stop to ward them off again. I hoped I could still run, say, 3:30 or 3:35. It seemed realistic. I'd only have to run a half slower than any time I'd run in five years.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I continued to walk, and then I jogged a bit and took a look around. The spectators were roaring at this point. It was almost unnerving. They were shaking signs, hilarious ones at that, stuff that read "You've done dumber things drunk."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A mile later, when I had to walk again, a spectator reached out to pat me on the back. Her hand lingered on my shoulder. "It's OK hun," she said. "It's a long way to the finish. You take your time."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That's when it hit me. These people were not only here to cheer me on. They were here to will me to the end. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At that point, I dropped all my natural defenses and hesitations and let them wash over me. I gave thumbs up, high fives and cheered right along with them, even when I had to frequently walk. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I had a smile on my face the whole time. But more than that, even when it was apparent I'd just miss the four-hour mark, a landmark that most marathoners consider a goal, I just shrugged my shoulders. I ran the last mile the whole way, even when I had to grit my teeth through it, and I didn't do it for myself. I did it for them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The people who didn't know me did something amazing. They made me not care, at least not too much, about my time. They forced me to understand what a cool thing it is to be able to run a marathon in a big city. I preach all the time to my friends to be grateful for what they can do before they start a race. Chicago made me follow my own advice.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Later, dozens of people passed us on the street, and they continued to lift me up. Far too many congratulated us. I thanked them as best I could. But I prefer to think about when I crossed the finish line.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I didn't cheer, raise my arms or clap. I simply turned around and blew them all a kiss, before I turned around, joined the hundreds crowding around me, and reveled at how comfortable I was in their masses.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08837529956827141862noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17782569.post-15686814366857231802013-10-06T13:32:00.000-06:002013-10-06T19:39:32.334-06:00Helloween Show, Oct. 2<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sometimes, something happens that blows your mind. If your mind printed a newspaper, the headline would be 80-point type. Yet it would probably only sell one copy on the newsstand because no one else seems to care.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Granted, it doesn't happen too often. The marathon's world record was broken recently, and I thought that was awesome, and while I realize this was probably not front page news in most people's Brain Bugle, my Twitter feed was full of people saying, at least, "huh, look at that."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But it did happen to me many months ago. That's when Helloween announced they were coming to Denver.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Helloween, as you probably guessed, is a metal band. But they're a fascinating one, and they've always been one of my absolute favorites. They also almost never come to the U.S.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Helloween came out as one of the leaders of the speed metal movement of the mid-80s, and for a while, they almost made it as big as the Big Four (Anthrax, Slayer, Metallica, Megadeth). They were a faster version of Iron Maiden. They were also weird. Their first big album featured a 13-minute opus, "Halloween," and it was titled "Keeper of the Seven Keys, Part I." What the hell? The title made it seem like a soundtrack for a "Dungeons and Dragons" movie. Yet I bought it because I read a review comparing them to Iron Maiden, and as a huge Maiden fan, that was enough back then. I was in high school. It's not like I had a girlfriend to spend the money on.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That name didn't help either. Helloween sounds like a demonic, thrashing band with a vocalist who swallowed a broken bottle. It is exactly the opposite. In fact, I can't think of a goofier band in metal. One of their biggest hits was "Dr. Stein." "Dr. Stein grows funny creatures, lets them run into the night. They become great rock musicians and their time is right." That sounds like a nursery rhyme, doesn't it? I think the band thought Helloween was a funny, ironic name that would make people laugh, but I have a feeling it scared more people off than made them laugh.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Anyway, this is already more than you wanted to know, but Helloween released Part II a couple years later. Both albums, in my mind, were metal masterpieces, a perfect blend of melody, whismy, terrific musicianship, songwriting and soaring vocals. The band had a hit, "I Want Out," from the album, in addition to "Dr. Stein," and MTV put them in heavy rotation on "Headbanger's Ball," which was big in the late 80s. By that point, Helloween was a top-5 band for me, just behind Iron Maiden and Metallica, and I desperately wanted to see them in concert. Only, as I said, the German band never came to America much.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then Helloween fell apart. They released two albums after, and both of them emphasized even goofier lyrics and more of a commercial sound, and both were just terrible. Awful. I've never known a band to be so good, and then so bad. Yes, many bands come out with good debuts and fade away, but those bands were usually just enjoyable, not as epic as Helloween. It was as if Steely Dan decided to become a polka band.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So I gave up on them. Years later, I heard they got a new lead singer and were still putting out albums. I bought a couple and was underwhelmed, despite showing some promise with one, "The Dark Ride." So I gave up on them again. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm not sure why I bought "Gambling With The Devil," Helloween's 2007 album. I can't remember. I guess I heard from the two or three other people I know who like Helloween that it was really good. And there was a basis for that. Helloween had a stable lineup and was releasing fast, hard and heavy songs again. Their lead singer had been with them a long time and had turned into not only a good vocalist but a good songwriter as well. The band's core was still there.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I loved the record. And the next, "7 Sinners," was nearly as good. When Helloween released its next in January, "Straight Out of Hell," I bought it without question, and I can name a handful of bands I'll purchase without hearing the album. Helloween is back in my top 5.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So a band with a revamped lineup has had two periods of releasing outstanding albums, including its current one.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So you can see why I geeked out. You can see why I'm geeking out now.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">* * *</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No one else would go with me to the show. I had a couple friends, some WPBT buddies, of course, who would go, but Colorado is too far. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Helloween, as stated, is from Germany, and papers are a problem to tour for more than a few days. That's why you won't see them all over the U.S. I think the last time they made it out to Colorado was in 2003.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The other problem, as stated, is most, if not almost all, people don't share my infatuation with them. Helloween is a little too much for even my metal-loving friends back here. I'd argue less than 1,000 in Denver or northern Colorado ever owned one of their albums, and that was probably 20 years ago. I was worried that the band might think the trip wasn't even worth the trouble.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My fears seemed realized when I arrived at The Gothic in Englewood, after an hour drive from Greeley. There were 20 waiting in line, a half-hour before the show. Oh man. Would the band even get 100?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Three bands were opening. To show how things have changed from high school, this annoyed me because I really wanted to see Helloween and get home to bed. I also wore earplugs. Like I said, things have changed. I'm old now.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Even with my worries about getting to bed at a decent hour, I was pleasantly surprised to see Cellador on the bill as well. No, I'm not going to write 750 words on Cellador. The band is a part of the melodic speed metal resurgence and sounds a lot like late-80s Helloween. They played five songs, including one, "Leaving All Behind," that sometimes makes my 5K race playlists. They're fast, like Dragonforce, and kind of annoying like them too. But they're also great musicians, and I enjoyed their brief set.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The first band was local and horrible, and the third seemed to take all the bad qualities of Five Finger Death Punch and blend them together without bringing any of the good.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Helloween hit the stage at 9:30 p.m. after "For Those About To Rock" blasted over the soundsystem (awesome) and opened with "Eagle Fly Free," the opening track to part II. I was immediately enthralled. I wouldn't have been surprised if Helloween had ignored the late 80s. Even if that was the band's heyday, the breakup with their lead singer wasn't good, and there was a lot of strife at that time. So I was thrilled that I was getting to hear some of the songs I adored in high school live for the first time. Andi Deris couldn't hit the highest notes, but the band ripped through it, which was impressive for a bunch of older guys, as the song's HARD. Dani Loble's drumming was especially impressive, as Helloween couldn't perform the song live for years because they couldn't find a drummer who could pull it off. Loble had no trouble. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I glanced around from my perch in the balcony, where I could sit and yet was practically on top of the band, and noticed I wasn't the only one enthralled. Suddenly the place seemed alive and full of maybe 300 people.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Helloween, as I expected, didn't scowl or drink blood or sacrifice goats the way their name implies. In fact, they avoided all the cliches. They didn't bang their heads in that way that makes their hair fly. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Instead, Sascha Gerstner spent most of his time playing a game with bassist Markus Grobkopf, where he would toss a pic at the feet of Markus, and he tried to kick it into the audience. Michael Weikath looked bored until he made goofy faces to us in the balconies.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This show was no frills. Not much dry ice smoke, minimum lighting, that sort of thing. I always found that stuff distracting anyway unless Iron Maiden was doing it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Helloween then went right into "Nabataea," the first track off its latest, another fast, difficult song, and they crushed it. After a few more tracks from their latest, Loble launched into a drum solo that was, as they usually are, too long and too cliched to keep my interest.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I perked right up when I heard "I'm Alive" when the band came back out. "I'm Alive" is the title track to "Keeper of the Seven Keys part I." I used to listen to it in high school when I was depressed, which was more often than I'd like to admit, and the lyrics always perked me up a bit. It's a catchy, inspirational song, and it was fun to hear it 20 years later.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After that, the band played a terrific mix of old and new hits. They played a track from "The Dark Ride and a couple new ones and a couple classics, including "Future World" and "Dr. Stein." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Those last two were encores. The band did two encores, and I know they are a concert tradition, but I've never been a fan. We shouldn't have to beg the band to come out, and on the second, we had to wait more than five minutes. Did one of the guys have to take a shit? Just get out there and play the songs. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Are You Metal," one of the band's best, wiped away any annoyance I had (and let's be honest, I was probably cranky because it was past my bedtime and I knew I had an hour's drive ahead of me). There were other tracks I wanted to hear that I knew weren't going to be played, but after that, I was satisfied. I got my money's worth, I thought. I heard what I could reasonably expect to hear. There's no better feeling when you know a concert's winding down.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">* * * </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I did a little people watching while I let the crowd thin out. This is what amazes me about metal fans. It's pretty rare to see another or talk to another metal fan outside of a show. Hey, the music's abrasive, loud and hard to follow. I get it. It's even rarer to see a metal fan who is pronounced about being a metal fan, like someone with long hair or wearing a black concert T-shirt or headbanging in public. It's not like we're ashamed of it. But metal has to be the only music that seems to demand an identity as well as a preference for shredding guitars. You could argue that for hip-hop, too, but it's far too popular now. It attracts too wide a demographic. Dave Matthews fans are some of the most passionate in the world, one of the few bands that inspires the kind of loyalty that metal fans display, and yet, they look like everyone else too. Metal fans, when they are being metal fans, look like metal fans. They do not look like accountants going to Katy Perry. They stand out in huge crowds. They look like Al Can't Hang. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, most of them do, anyway. I am a massive exception. In the throng attending the show, there was a guy who wore one of those Vegas-type button-down shirts and had short hair, and there was a guy who wore a bow tie, a pink button-down shirt and jeans the color of a 50-year-old woman who had a lifetime membership to a tanning salon (that guy, by the way, had to know what he was doing). And then there was me. I wore a Dream Theater long-sleeved, long-underwear looking concert shirt, but my short hair, thin jawline and nervous expression just can't pull off the metal look. I've even tried to have long hair, but it curls in several wrong ways and tends to frizz more than kick ass. I had to settle for a mullet with an earring in high school, and if I wore that now, I'd look creepy, not badass. I am far too Kohl's and not nearly enough Spencer's. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My point, though it is drifting, is that although these people stand out in society, at a small show that only a tiny portion of the population would ever attend, we're all together. I stand out at these shows, but in society, I blend, probably far too much. There was a sea of black glorifying Masterplan and Gamma Ray and Slayer (of course) from both the guys and the girls. Long hair, tattoos, piercings, you name it. I loved it. I loved it because they share a love for metal, and knowing that makes me feel less weird about being so passionate about a form of music that most people find scary.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It turns out I wasn't the only one excited about Helloween coming to Colorado. I just had to wait to stand with them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNUAEtjD9o2rgBDne7gSUeeR7kM0jz5E14_GA93BhyphenhyphenB-1ReWPw2CCihoffm73s6nUZhyZlhRgaKTyxev3skzm2Nu_2oaTzwc6zQS_mlilvrdkOrmGNO1rTnN5AqLzalJ5UsR5ZEw/s1600/IMG_6274.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNUAEtjD9o2rgBDne7gSUeeR7kM0jz5E14_GA93BhyphenhyphenB-1ReWPw2CCihoffm73s6nUZhyZlhRgaKTyxev3skzm2Nu_2oaTzwc6zQS_mlilvrdkOrmGNO1rTnN5AqLzalJ5UsR5ZEw/s320/IMG_6274.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
<br />
Starter list:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here's a starter list of albums, with key tracks, in case you're actually interested in Helloween after reading this screed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
• "Walls of Jericho" — "Ride The Sky," "Guardians" and "How Many Tears." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(Look for "Judas" and "Starlight," a couple rare tracks, on iTunes as well).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">• "Keeper of the Seven Keys" Part I — "I'm Alive," "Future World" and "Halloween."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">• "Keeper of the Seven Keys" Part II — "I Want Out," "Eagle Fly Free," "Save Us," "March of Time" and "Keeper of the Seven Keys."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">• "The Dark Ride" — "Mr. Torture," "The Dark Ride," "If I Could Fly," "Salvation" and "We Damn The Night."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">• "Gambling With The Devil" — "Paint a New World," "Kill It" and "Bells of the Seven Hells"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">• "7 Sinners" — "Are You Metal?," "Where The Sinners Go."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">• "Straight Out Of Hell" — "Nabataea," "Burning Sun," "Waiting for the Thunder" and "Church Breaks Down."</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08837529956827141862noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17782569.post-88838013213907299562013-04-17T07:15:00.001-06:002013-04-17T07:15:55.276-06:00Cheering out the ugly<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's not often, but there have been times, during a race, when I wasn't sure I was going to make it.<br />
It happened more often earlier in my running "career" than it has of late. I've learned a few things.<br />
I've learned how to enjoy running more, and I've learned that with that enjoyment comes pain. If you think about it, lots of fun stuff hurts, and that goes for things that are bad for you and good for you.<br />
I learned how to deal with the pain by repeating mantras, falling in love with lowering my times and pushing myself far beyond what the guy in my 20s thought was possible. But there was something else I learned too. I learned how to accept encouragement.<br />
I once thought I should be able to get through whatever was thrown at me on my own. You can get through life that way, but only if life is fairly easy. My life was pretty easy until I started running.<br />
Running brings the pain. I've never been as miserable as I've been during a bad race, even on my worst days of mountaineering. I've fantasized about many things in my life, many wonderful things, and yet nothing left me as longing as much as deep, easy breathing, a calm stomach and toes without blisters when I'm in the throes of a tough race. Yes, there are times when you feel superhuman, and those times are why you run, because more often than not, you feel inhuman.<br />
You want nothing more than to be done. And then you look up and see someone you usually don't know smiling at you. Holding a funny sign for you. Clapping for you. Cheering for you.<br />
This is why God made spectators.<br />
Sometimes they say stupid things. I've heard "you're almost there" two miles from the finish, which is fine, unless you're running a marathon and your legs are cramping. But many times they don't. They say "you're looking strong" or "nice work" or, best of all, they just yell and cheer and clap.<br />
It always amazes me. Running, unless you love it, is not a spectator friendly sport. I agree with the signs: It really is the worst parade ever. Besides, we runners can be an annoying bunch. We talk too much about it, or at least I do. We post about it too much, too, or at least I do. There's a joke that surfaces on Twitter occasionally, and every time I see it, I laugh a knowing laugh. Unfortunately I'm paraphrasing, but here goes: How will you know when someone is training for a marathon? Don't worry. They'll tell you.<br />
Yet I wrote a <a href="http://www.greeleytribune.com/news/6126811-113/race-boston-steve-marathon" target="_blank">story</a> that ran in today's paper about four runners who ran Monday's Boston Marathon, and all of them said, without a doubt, the spectators were wonderful. I've heard that from others as well. It's one of many reasons why, one day, I want to run there.<br />
Monday, as you know, was a terrible day. It was one of the worst I've had, and while I wasn't there, I had close friends there, including one who is a training partner, someone I run with pretty often. A few friends and I had no idea if she was safe for almost an hour after we learned the bombs went off.<br />
The Boston Marathon is one of my favorite days of the year. It's a lifetime goal. It's simply special. Someone could not have hurt me more, at least not symbolically, by attacking it.<br />
And yet when I talked to those runners today for my story, they talked a little bit about the bombing. They talked a lot more about the crowds.<br />
I thought about that, and many times, those same crowds cheering me and my fellow runners lifted me up too during a race. Sometimes they even brought me out of the darkness.<br />
I've been cheered by friends, and there's no doubt it means a little more. But during a painful race, there isn't that much distinction between the cheers from a friend or a stranger. It all helps. It's all wonderful.<br />
There's been lots of brave talk about not letting terrorism defeat us, and I agree with all that, but you know, this shook me pretty hard. It probably did you too. Monday we all may have felt a little bit like we weren't going to make it. Maybe you still feel that way.<br />
I'm already feeling a little better, though, and here's why. I've been lifted by this country's reaction to our running community. People wore race shirts to work, and they talked about our runners' spirit in stories and tweets and posts. It's been wonderful. The last time a huge news event clashed with a race, it was New York, and runners were treated like pariahs in some ways. That marathon created divisive debate. Boston seems to be healing a lot more old wounds, even if an attack opened some new ones.<br />
It makes me think we can all lift each other, still, despite lately feeling the exact opposite about our country. A pat on the back, a smile, even a little hoo-rah can go a long way. All that can get us through the day. They can get us through the next mile.<br />
Those runners I interviewed did mention how loud, how angry, the explosion was. But they kept going back to those cheers. Those wonderful cheers. They simply must have been louder than the bomb.<br />
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08837529956827141862noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17782569.post-70676649633474438342013-03-24T07:42:00.000-06:002013-03-24T07:42:24.631-06:00Voices <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The kickball hung in the air, and I stationed myself under it. I had one thing going for me. No one was paying attention.<br />
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I caught it, slapping my arms against the grooved rubber, and gave a glance to first to keep the runner honest. Then I rolled it back to the pitcher.</div>
<div>
"Did you see THAT?" one of the kids yelled.</div>
<div>
He said it in surprise, like he figured there was no way I'd have a chance to complete even a routine play. I let it go, just like I let the other thousands of derogatory comments go before them. By then, all those comments had taken root.</div>
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"He's right," I thought to myself. "I was lucky. I'm just glad no one was paying attention."</div>
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• • • </div>
<div>
By the time I reached seventh grade, my place had been well established. I was a bottom feeder, someone the crows sought out when they needed to nibble on some roadkill. Part of that, of course, meant that the bullies assumed I was not an athlete, and that, because I was sort of a loser, that I was lucky to be able to walk through the hallways without tripping. </div>
<div>
This was the 1980s, when bands were macho (even the hair metal bands who put on lipstick and used hairspray leered at hot chicks in 97.3 percent of their videos), movies like Rambo and Rocky and Red Dawn killed the box office and bullies could call us "fags" without worrying about a sensitivity meeting with the principal. Sports, and the ability to play them, ruled my junior high school. There wasn't much room for individualism, and no group hung together to encourage it. There was no perk to being a wallflower. I was in band. I was a good player, too. The only people who cared were other band people. Not many of us fit in.</div>
<div>
Here's the thing. It may not seem like it, but I'm over it.<br />
I had a good time in high school, and I had enough friends in college that I could even be considered kinda popular. I blossomed like the second half of an ABC afterschool special.<br />
Besides, they were right, in a way. I'm not a natural athlete. I've never swung a club, but I doubt I could ever hit a fairway. I'll never dunk. I'll never return a kick for a touchdown. I'm not sure I could even catch the football. I played basketball in a rec league with the newspaper, and my only flaw was I couldn't run and dribble at the same time. I played soccer as a kid and, well, um, same thing.<br />
So I'm over it.<br />
Just not completely.</div>
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<br />
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• • • </div>
</div>
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When I first turned to running, I did it to stay in shape for the mountains. I chose the mountains because they weren't really a sport. They were an activity. They were scenic, and I loved them for the simple fact that I wasn't much different from my golden retriever: I loved to be outside.<br />
I moved out to Colorado to be close to them after years of spending almost every day of my vacation from the Salina, Kan. paper every summer climbing them with my father. When I did make the move, I spent five years doing something only a few thousand have achieved. I climbed all 54 14ers in the state.<br />
I fell in love with them in junior high school for another reason. My taunters weren't around when I was climbing them. And my climbing partners, even my father, were much older and knew nothing about the emotional battering I absorbed in school. They simply encouraged me. They even said things like how they wished they had my ability to climb rock.<br />
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</div>
I've talked about my running journey before. I've talked about it enough. It was, initially, a way to keep in shape for the mountains, but I got hooked on it, and I became a runner.<br />
It was, at times, hard to wrap my head around that transformation. Running was not only a sport, it was one of the hardest, and remember, I had been convinced that I was not an athlete. That famous T-shirt is right: My sport is your sport's punishment. It hurts in so many different ways. It burns and aches and fatigues. I had to start using an inhaler for exercise-induced asthma: Even with all the mountain climbing, I never knew I had it until I started running.<br />
It fit me, though, because determination mattered, not skill, and the peaks taught me how to be determined. Running is tough, but it is also generous. It gives you back what you put into it.<br />
Running also meant I began hanging around people who possibly would have made fun of me in junior high school. They were definitely athletes, real studs, some of them. When I went to my 20th high school reunion, I spent as much time with the guys on the cross-country team as my old friends, even though I had exchanged maybe a half-dozen words with them when I went to school.<br />
Some had even come out to race the Pikes Peak Ascent, they told me, and though they did better than me — my school's cross-country team was a state champion — we all laughed over stories about wanting to puke as the trail climbed above 12,000 feet.<br />
I took it a step further when I began to offer a few tips. I recently wrote about that <a href="http://pokingandpeaking.blogspot.com/2012/12/walk-with-me.html" target="_blank">here</a>. It turned out to be one of the more amazing and encouraging experiences of my life.<br />
The running's gotten better every year, despite me turning 41. And I think I know one reason why.<br />
We have a local running club here. We like to think it's pretty special, but you probably have one like it at your running store. Anyway, more than 25 gather once a week to run intervals together. Intervals are what we do to remind ourselves how much running can hurt. I guess they help you improve, too. Anyway, there are always new people, but it's a pretty loyal group, and there are many who still run who were there years before I joined them in 2005.<br />
Many are great runners, people who have qualified for the Boston Marathon or run 50-mile races or won their age groups in big races.<br />
I love the group because these are great athletes, and as such, they don't like being passed. They will challenge you. They will push you. But they will also tell you when you're doing well, and you know they're not bullshitting you.<br />
These first two weeks, I know my running is going better than ever because I'm passing some of the better runners in the group. At first I thought it was because I was just pushing it a little harder than I should. But it's felt good. It feels like I'm flying, and it's easier than it should be.<br />
It's not just the training. That's part of it to be sure. I've worked hard. But it's their voices in my head as I pass them, or as they work to keep up with me: Nice. You're looking FAST. Strong work.<br />
Last week, after one interval, I overheard one running talking about me, and it reminded me of the kickball years: "Did you see THAT?" Then she smiled at me.<br />
People can tear you down and make you believe in your limitations. They want to set your ceilings for you because that way you can't rise above them. You can believe in those ceilings for your whole life. It's hard to completely shake them.<br />
But there are others out there who want to lift you up.<br />
It's taken me a long time to figure out that those voices are the ones you should listen to.<br />
It's taken me my whole life, really, but I have started to believe them.<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08837529956827141862noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17782569.post-58732998670899131752013-02-28T10:10:00.000-07:002013-02-28T10:10:15.195-07:00Rock You To Hell (and 24 of the other greatest metal songs of all time)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Growing up in high school, I was not a U2 guy, even when everyone else was ga-ga over The Joshua Tree.<br />
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I distinctly remember sitting in the band room before school and arguing, vehemently, about why Helloween was a better band than U2. (No, I didn't get many dates in high school.)</div>
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The thing is, I still believe that, and I'm a reasonably normal human being these days. I just believe that heavy metal is probably the greatest popular music ever created. </div>
<div>
If you agree, you can keep reading. If you don't, you can keep reading, too, if you're looking to expand your horizons. If you think that's just about the funniest thing you've ever heard, you can keep reading, too, only keep your U2 comments to yourself. Here's 25 of the best heavy metal songs ever.</div>
<div>
Just like last time — and I'm not gonna link it since all you have to do is scroll down like a few feet to see my last entry — there are some rules:</div>
<div>
• I tried to include only one song per group. This was difficult, since honestly I could fill a list of 25 with Metallica, Iron Maiden and, yes, Helloween, but that's not the idea. The idea is to give some pretty great bands their due, and maybe get you to download one or two on iTunes. I had no trouble finding 25 signature songs.</div>
<div>
• This is a heavy metal list, so I stayed away from hair metal songs or groups I've previously mentioned in the last list. I plan on doing a thrash list, since that genre holds a special place in my heart, so RELAX SLAYER/ANTHRAX/ETC FANS I WILL GET TO YOU I PROMISE.<br />
• Almost all of these songs are 20 years old. That's sad to me. My last list, the thrash list, will have some new (NOT Nu) metal in it, but in terms of good heavy metal, power metal, whatever, it's just not made much any longer. There are some good bands out there, such as Hammerfall, but they're not producing classics.</div>
<div>
• This is MY list, so it's not like some Hall of Fame list of the Greatest Metal Songs Of All Time. It's a geeky, fun list and a chance for me to write about some bands I've loved, OK? These aren't in order either. </div>
<div>
• Seriously, relax, Slayer fans. I know that's hard for you.</div>
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Here we go:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
<b>• "I'm Alive" — Helloween</b></div>
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Metal bands sure have some stupid band names. Savatage? Leatherwolf? Megadeth? Really? But no name probably misrepresented itself more than Helloween. People snickered in a sort of scared way when I named them among my favorite bands in high school. HELL-o-ween? Can't you just hear SNL's church lady? SATAN? </div>
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Yet Helloween never did take itself too seriously. WAY less seriously than many other heavy metal bands, especially those that leaned to the speed metal side (Slayer, for instance, could not find a spoonful of irony in itself despite the fact that the guitarist wore a wristband with spikes long enough to barbecue a turkey).</div>
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No, Helloween was funny. They wrote about Charlie Brown and a prince who couldn't get it up and "Dr. Stein," a scientist who let his funny creatures run into the night. They also wrote this inspiring number. It's the first song I heard from Helloween, an album I bought simply because it got good reviews and there was an advertisement in Hit Parader that made them sound like an Iron Maiden-type band. Their goofiness, just like Anthrax's, never took away from the fact that this band could shred and yet include more catchy melodies than Def Leppard. </div>
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There haven't been many more consistent metal bands in the last 25 years than Helloween. Their last three albums, starting from the mid-2000s, were all outstanding, and I can't even say that about Iron Maiden. </div>
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P.S. I'm making three exceptions to my thrash metal list. Iron Maiden, Metallica and Helloween all could be considered speed or thrash metal bands in one form or another, but in many ways they are also heavy metal bands. Besides, they are so great they deserve to be on two lists.</div>
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<b>• "Future World" — Pretty Maids</b></div>
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Remember what I said about stupid band names? </div>
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Anyway, Pretty Maids was even stranger than its name. Their lead singer had two voices, a silky classic rock-kind of voice that was nothing special, and some sort of growl that sounded like Joey Tempest of Europe trying to act tough. He shifted from one to another depending on how aggressive the music was behind him. Somehow it worked, especially on this song, because his vocals matched it perfectly. You had a great piano riff, then a guitar, then piano again, and all together, this mess became a great song, one of my favorites of all time. Their whole album, "Future World," was really pretty good, and against all odds, they had a great song, "Savage Heart," on their next album.</div>
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This is exactly the kind of band that would crack non-metal fans up, but you guys thought Erasure was a great group, so that makes us even.</div>
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<b>• "Electric Eye" — Judas Priest</b></div>
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Yes, I know "You Got Another Thing Comin'" is a great song. I agree. Yet I love the tone this song sets for "Screaming For Vengeance," Priest's best album (even better than the fantastic "British Steel") and easily one of the best metal albums of all time. "Electric Eye" is fast and hard and driving and ominous, especially with that majestic opener (which the band, for some reason, called "The Hellion" but really is just an extension of this track). "Riding on the Wind" follows, which is a great running song and one of my favorites, too. God this band had some great songs. Why isn't Priest in the Hall of Fame again? Well, at least Depeche Mode isn't either. </div>
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<b>• "Rising Force" — Yngwie Malmsteen</b></div>
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I really wanted to put "You Don't Remember, I'll Never Forget" on here, and if you want to switch the two songs around, I'm cool with that. But this is the best track from what I consider to be Yngwie's best album. He had actual songs on this album and an actual singer, Joe Lynn Turner from Rainbow (who was not Rainbow's best singer but still was OK), rather than just an excuse to play scales like really, really fast over and over. To be honest, even "You Don't Remember" is that. I always had a soft spot for guitarists who could play really fast, and so Yngwie makes this list even if he's the Dave Kingman of metal.</div>
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<b>• "We Must Carry On" - Chastain</b><br />
Speaking of flashy guitarists, welcome to my favorite of the 80s. I don't know if I would put him there any longer, but as I said, in high school, I had a serious crush on guitarists who could rip it. I loved instrumental albums too, and so I listened to Tony MacAlpine and Joe Satriani as well as Yngwie. I discovered David T. Chastain by chance.<br />
I bought a ton of tapes in high school, and sometimes I would buy an album because it was in the metal section at Musicland and I liked the cover. That's seriously all it took. That's why I bought this Chastain tape, and I remember popping it in and being blown away.<br />
Chastain, as it turns out, had one of the most aggressive vocalists for a power metal band at the time. A lot of it was screaming, the kind Hetfield did in his "Ride the Lightning" days. It took me a year after wearing out this album, "The 7th of Never," to figure out the vocalist was, in fact, female. She was fantastic and probably responsible for my love for female metal vocalists even to this day (Doro Pesch was another reason).<br />
David T. had another band, CJSS, which was more of a hair metal band, though it was still far heavier than Poison or White Lion. I preferred Chastain because it was almost thrash but not quite and David T. played about as fast and almost as well as even the flashiest guitarists. He also put out a few mediocre instrumental records. I went back in Chastain's catalouge, as was my habit if I loved a record, and found that Chastain put out two other great records. If you want, head to iTunes. I'd also recommend the songs "There Will Be Justice," "Voice of the Cult," "One Day To Live," "Black Knight" and anything off the 7th of Never, including the title track. These songs, surprisingly, have aged well and could hold their own against many of the modern metal bands.<br />
Had you even heard of Chastain? I'm curious.<br />
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<b>• "Shot in the Dark" — Ozzy</b><br />
Was Ozzy a hair metal group or a heavy metal group? I'm not sure. But I didn't give Ozzy his due last time, and so I figure I need to mention him here. "Crazy Train" is too overplayed for me to recommend it any longer, despite its brilliance, and so I'm going with one of Ozzy's lesser-known but still great hits. This one is catchy, far catchier than most of the hair metal hits, and yet it's heavier, too.<br />
It's too bad Ozzy is seen as this goofy guy now, the way most people see Stevie Wonder, or at least those who don't know his earlier catalogue. In this case, it's Ozzy's fault, as the drugs have punched too many holes in his brain. Yet Ozzy, like Stevie, was a badass at his peak and a talented one at that.<br />
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<b>• "Rise or Fall" — Leatherwolf</b><br />
Leatherwolf sounded like a tough metal band. It's a WOLF. In LEATHER. RAWR! But they were a gimmick. They had three guitars. THREE! Wow! Triple the POWER.<br />
OK, seriously. It was a little weird, but it worked, especially since they could really play. Their sound wasn't as crunchy, and it was painfully obvious that at times they just got in each other's way, which was inevitable. But they could also sing, and this was one of those huge, vocal tunes that made them sound like a choir (Metal really has serious roots in classical and opera music), in the "Flight of Icarus" vein. Leatherwolf had a much better career than it deserved. Its follow-up album was solid, too, and in some ways heavier and more consistent than its self-titled debut. They still release songs today, but they're not worth buying, save for one, "Behind The Gun." Unfortunately I don't see them on iTunes, and Amazon sells their CDs for about, oh, $50 for an import. I did love my Leatherwolf, but it's not worth that.<br />
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<b>• "The Trooper" — Iron Maiden</b><br />
A half-dozen Iron Maiden songs could, and really should, make this list. "Hallowed By Thy Name." "Aces High." "Two Minutes To Midnight." "Moonchild." "Wasted Years." On and on and on, as Bruce himself has sang once or twice. "The Trooper" may not even be my favorite track on "Piece of Mind," and "Powerslave" is probably my favorite album by Iron Maiden. But this song is so iconic. And it's the first Iron Maiden song I heard that made me reconsider the band, which I had ignored for some time in high school (I always thought they were a little weird before I realized how amazing they are). Iron Maiden is my second favorite band of all time. If they don't make the Hall of Fame I'm gonna be pissed, and yet I get this feeling that they won't. I don't think enough people took them seriously enough, which is a shame. Iron Maiden probably was hurt by the heavy metal label more than most, if not THE most, since they had one of the best singers in history and really, really great players and longevity and influence. All the pieces are there. I guess people just can't look beyond Eddie.<br />
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<b>• "Bring Me To Life" — Evanescence</b><br />
Remember what I said about female metal vocalists? I know this song probably doesn't deserve to be on the list, and I'll probably take some crap for it, but this is not just a great song, it's a classic. Amy Lee has a powerful voice, one of the best I've heard, male or female, and this song is far heavier than many of the pop metal classics. I think it qualifies, despite the fact that it is a tad overwrought and dramatic.<br />
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<b>• "Rock You To Hell" — Grim Reaper</b><br />
Grim Reaper was a goofy metal band known for one minor (very minor) hit, "See You In Hell," before they released this album. The vocalist, Steve Grimmett, sang in a high pitch, as if he was in a hair band, only it had an edge to it, like a wolf's howl. And the guitarist, Nick Bowcott, was actually a great player. So they were good. And then this album hit the shelves. Wow. The album just DESTROYED my speakers. RCA probably wondered what the hell hit them. Great production turned this into one of the heaviest records that wasn't thrash in the 80s, and this song is probably the best of the bunch, although three or four others come close. It compares well with today's metal too. Give it a try.<br />
Grimmett later sang for Onslaught, a middling speed metal band that got lucky enough to hire him, and as a result, the one album with him as a frontman turned out to be a great one. You'll see a song from that record on my next list.<br />
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<b>• "Enter Sandman" — Metallica</b><br />
There are two Metallicas. There's pre-Black album and post-Black album. I seem to be one of the few who loves both. I prefer pre-Black, of course, like most hardcore metal fans, but the Black album is one of the better metal albums of all time, and this song is one of the best tunes. Great, crunchy, catchy riff from a band that still manages to be heavier than any other mainstream rock act in America.<br />
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<b>• "Hall of the Mountain King" — Savatage</b><br />
Savatage had two lead singers, and both were great, but I prefer the Jon Olivia era, though the song "Edge of Thorns" almost made the list. Why? Well, this album and its title track are classics, the perfecg balance of heavy crunch and melody. Savatage wasn't afraid of the fact that metal bands owe a lot to classical music, and the real "Hall of the Mountain King" plays on guitar as a perfect lead-in to this song, which contains one of the best metal riffs you'll ever hear. This album also had "24 Hours Ago" and "Strange Wings," and the later on band also recorded the classic "Gutter Ballet" and "When The Crowds Are Gone" and the interesting concept album "Streets" before Olivia left.<br />
Fun Fact: Savatage's song based on "Carol of the Bells," Christmas Eve/Sarajevo, on its concept album "Dead Winter Dead," is that song you hear all the time at Christmas by the Trans-Siberian Orchestra.<br />
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<b>• "March of the Saint" — Armored Saint</b><br />
Before John Bush became Anthrax's lead singer for a time, he led this band (and I believe he does again), and while Bush was overrated and underrated as a metal singer at the same time, his band did produce this whopper, a hard-driving, somewhat underground metal classic. I almost put Anthrax's "Only" here because I wanted a song sang by Bush, but this one wins out, and like others on this list, holds up well today.<br />
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<b>• "Pull Me Under" — Dream Theater</b><br />
Picking my favorite Dream Theater song is really hard. When Dream Theater releases a new album, I'll buy it, no questions asked, and I can say that about only a handful of groups. I love their technical yet melodic songs, even if some are 18 minutes or longer, and their last two albums were outstanding. I have so many other favorites — "In the Name of God," "Panic Attack," "Nightmare To Remember," "Lines in the Sand," plus the whole Metropolis concept album — that picking this one seems almost unfair. It's the band's only real hit, and it's also their least complicated number, something a lot of bands could have done, which you can't say about many other of their songs. But it's also their catchiest and was the reason I discovered Dream Theater, as I heard it on Headbanger's Ball one night.<br />
I would honestly want to hang out with Dream Theater one day, and it would be in the studio, not backstage, to see their sheet music and watch them play it. I guess Dream Theater brings out the band geek in me.<br />
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<b>• "Eyes of a Stranger" — Queensryche</b><br />
Yes, I like "Queen of the Ryche" as well as anyone, but Queensryche had only one truly great album, and it's so great it's one of the best ever, and so I wanted to honor "Operation: Mindcrime," and this is probably the group's best song anyway. Geoff Tate wails on this, and I doubt any other vocalist could have done this song justice, given the highs and lows a singer has to tackle for it to work as well as it does. I refuse to put "Silent Lucidity" on here since it's a great song but also a Pink Floyd ripoff and it's been way, way overplayed.<br />
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<b>• "Rainbow in the Dark" — Dio</b><br />
Speaking of epic vocalists...<br />
I could put 15 Dio songs on here, and a few from his work with Black Sabbath, and no one would blame me for it. Dio would have been a great thrash vocalist, a great hair metal singer and a great hard rock singer, but he did his best work on the kind of grandiose heavy metal songs like the one here. I'm picking this one because it's off his best album, "Holy Diver," and I think it's the best example of how Dio wasn't afraid to use melody almost on a pop music level (this song, after all, has keyboards as a main instrument, not just for flourishes). But he also turned those songs into metal classics because of his fantastic, soaring and sandpaper voice. Dio really needs to be in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. The metal world misses him.<br />
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<b>• "Chop Suey!" — System of a Down</b><br />
System of a Down is one of the few modern metal bands that would fit in fine with many of the bands listed here, and yet they don't sound like any other band I've ever heard. At times speed metal, melodic Nu metal and good 'ole hard rock, this song represents them more than any other, though it may not even be their best. All of their albums were excellent, and Serj, one of the better metal vocalists in recent times, had a nice solo career as well.<br />
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<b>• "Rusty Cage" — Soundgarden</b><br />
I don't hate the grunge era as much as most hardcore metal fans. There was some great music made, and much of it was harder and more ferocious than most of the hair metal era. Nirvana and Pearl Jam were two of my (obvious) favorites, but I can't put them in the metal category, not really even close. Alice in Chains comes closer, and so does Stone Temple Pilots, if for no other reason than Scott Weiland teamed up with Slash and the Guns guys to make a great Velvet Revolver record. But I can't do it. I like the bands, but I can't do it.<br />
Soundgarden, though, seems to fit, and this song, which seems born to inspire, not depress me, hangs just fine with the others in this group. Chris Cornell was a badass singer before he cheesed out. The grunge era was not good for metal, but it did produce some good music.<br />
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<b>• "Badlands" — Metal Church</b><br />
If there was one band that seemed to straddle the line between heavy metal and thrash better than any other, it was Metal Church. The band toured with speed and thrash metal bands, played it (very) occasionally and never recorded a sappy love ballad (in fact much of its subject matter was as thought-provoking or disturbing, depending on who you were, as other thrash bands). But Metal Church was at its core a heavy metal band, not a one-dimensional thrash band. As a result, it released some pretty brilliant albums. The band, like Savatage, didn't lose a step and may have gained a couple when it lost its original lead singer, David Wayne, who was good, for the great Mike Howe. I chose this song because it's catchy, hard and complex, much like the rest of its excellent work.<br />
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<b>• "Am I Evil?" — Diamond Head/Metallica</b><br />
Metallica's remake of this classic is probably why I started to truly love Metallica. I thought they wrote it until I read some interviews about their influences and they mentioned this band called Diamond Head. The original is just as good, though I don't think it's better.<br />
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<b>• "Painted Skies" — Crimson Glory</b><br />
If you can get past the terrible name (which shouldn't be too much of a problem given half the band names on this list) and the fact that the lead singer sounds like a much cheesier version of Geoff Tate, Crimson Glory put out a KILLER album called "Transcendence." The album had this song on it as well as "Lonely," and I honestly had a hard time deciding which one to put on here.<br />
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• <b>"War Pigs" — Black Sabbath</b> gets on here by default. I probably should put Led Zep on here too but I don't consider them heavy metal per se, just a killer hard rock band, maybe the best band of all time. Black Sabbath, though, is probably the first true metal band and remains an influence for most bands today. Doom Metal, Black Metal, Speed Metal, Heavy Metal and, yes, even hair metal owe their left nuts to Black Sabbath. I think this is their best song but there are many others that could have made the list, both with Ozzy or Dio.<br />
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• <b>"Highway to Hell" — AC/DC</b><br />
AC/DC made the hair metal list, but I never really considered them a hair band, just the song I chose. So I'll put them on here, too, with their finest track, though about 20 others could have made it (including a close second, "Long Way To The Top," because they were ballsy enough to use bagpipes). Probably the only band to have lasted as long as they did without really changing one lick of who they were or their sound. This band, like Slayer, never really experimented, but it's proof of the "If it ain't broke, don't fix it" cliche. Quite frankly other bands should have followed that lead (ahem, Metallica).<br />
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<b>• "Sober" — Tool</b><br />
Tool's probably the only band that emerged out of the NuMetal/Grunge era that most metal fans respect and even like. Tool seems to attract a different audience. You probably wouldn't find many casual Tool fans at a Slayer concert. But you might find a Slayer fan at a Tool concert. I'm a big Tool fan, both for the musicianship — drummer Danny Carey is one of the best in history, and Maynard's vocals are top-notch — and for the long, complex songs with great lyrics. The album that carries this song is my favorite, though "Aenima" almost made this list for its funny yet fierce lyrics and gut-punching music. Plus no other band sounded like Tool, and that's truly amazing.<br />
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<b>• "In The Fallout" — Fifth Angel</b><br />
Fifth Angel probably had no real shot at big commercial success, given its power metal preference, but that's a big reason I liked this band. Ken Mary, the drummer for Chastain, was the drummer here, too, and Ted Pilot's vocals were as good as many bands. This song was my favorite. The lyrics helped feed my apocalyptic fetish as well.<br />
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<b>• "Death to All But Metal" — Steel Panther</b><br />
No explanation needed.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08837529956827141862noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17782569.post-46851160598408024982013-01-18T21:47:00.000-07:002013-01-18T21:47:20.456-07:00A member of the hair nation picks the best songs ever<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Hair metal is a loose term, as loose as the women in your average hair metal video (this kind of wit is prevalent throughout this blog, so pat yourself on the back, wise reader, for choosing to read this).<br />
But it's a term that usually garners at least a giggle from those who remember back in the day. These are the same giggles reserved for skyrocketing bangs, mullets, pink suit jackets with the sleeves rolled up, hoop earrings and thinking "Knight Rider" was a great show.<br />
Hair metal deserves better. I'm here to give it to you. We shouldn't have to be embarrassed about it. Take me. I have some culture in my music tastes. I've played Beethoven, Tchaikovsky and Mozart in symphony orchestras and Miles Davis in jazz bands. I've listened to many of the kings and queens of jazz and own many of their records. I have the box sets of Stevie Wonder, Steely Dan and Led Zeppelin.<br />
And yet I'm an unabashed fan of metal. Metal forever and metal for life and whatnot. That includes hair metal, which, despite its wild success at its peak, probably gets teased more than any other era of music except perhaps disco. And as a result I expect exactly two people to read this until the end, including me.<br />
But here you go. The top 25 hair metal songs of all time.<br />
I did have to leave out Hall Of Fame bands such as Iron Maiden, Dio, Dream Theater, Helloween, Queensryche, Metallica, Grim Reaper, Armored Saint, Judas Priest, Chastain (obscure band but one of my favorites, probably worth a blog post at some point) and Savatage because they're not really hair metal. They're not glam metal. They're not even hard rock. They are metal, and even if I preferred those bands growing up, that's not the point of this post. If there's any point to this post at all.<br />
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I tried not to repeat bands. That probably means leaving out a lot of great songs, but I was able to find a signature hit, at least in my opinion, from many key bands from the Spandex Era.</div>
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I also didn't put them in order. Maybe I should, but just to make this list is an honor. About as big an honor as a Grammy, I'm pretty sure.<br />
Speaking of Grammy, er, grammar, I have made the bands plural even though a band is a single entity. It's much easier to read that way. I apologize in advance.</div>
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Let's get to it:</div>
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•<b> "Live Wire" By Motley Crue</b> — Motley Crue was the first hard rock/metal/hair metal band I ever got into. My neighborhood kid friends brought me a tape one day, and I listened to it with a sense of wonder, excitement and fear. The tape was "Shout at the Devil." It seemed kinda evil, and I remember, late at night, becoming a little scared at what bringing this group into my life could mean (I was, unfortunately, kind of a deep kid who overthought far too many things. You MAY be able to see the resemblance to the adult me now.) In fairness, I was in like fifth grade, and this group at the time had just opened for Ozzy Osbourne, who bit the heads off doves and bats and drank their blood like lemonade (at least that's what I heard). My parents didn't take us to church, but that pentagram and the lyrics "Shout at the DEVIL" still made me worry that I was going to want to sacrifice small, cute animals after listening to the tape.</div>
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Of course, I also remember thinking Metallica, when I first heard "Ride The Lightning," was just various recordings of coyotes. Fortunately I got over my pansy ways. Motley Crue was my first step.</div>
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I discovered "Live Wire" later, when you fall in love with a band and check out its older albums. Motley Crue has had many great songs. The first track off their first album remains their best, especially the remix that helped take out some of the sludgy production of the original.</div>
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Shit, this may be a long post. That was a lot of description.</div>
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• <b>"Foolin'" By Def Leppard</b> — Def Leppard's "Pyromania" was one of my first hair metal albums, after the Crue's "Shout at the Devil." I got it in a six-pack of tapes I got from those music clubs that gave you 12 for a penny if you agreed to buy six more at regular (inflated) prices and sacrifice small, cute animals. My other tapes were The Police, Duran Duran and a bunch I can't remember, so you can see where my mindset was at the time. I think "Pyromania" is a nearly perfect hard rock album, and it's by far Def Leppard's best. Def Leppard was at one time a band that sounded like AC/DC, only with catchier melodies and a better singer, and it's a shame that they castrated themselves a bit with "Hysteria," a fine record with far too many ballads and the most overplayed song in history, "Pour Some Sugar on Me." The fact that I've heard that song approximately 40 billion times and my parents' radio station (KUDL, pronounced "cuddle") could play it because it was soft enough and catchy enough not to offend the menopause crowd and yet hard enough to make the station seem "edgy" eliminates the song from my top 25. It was hard to pick between "Photograph" and "Rock of Ages" and this one, but I remember adoring this song when I was younger, and so it wins, even if the other two songs are probably better.<br />
Yep, this post will be long. Sorry.</div>
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• <b>"You Shook Me (All Night Long) By AC/DC — </b>The OTHER most overplayed song in history, besides "Sweet Home Alabama," and there are many other AC/DC tracks I personally like better, including "Hells Bells," "Highway to Hell" and "It's A Long Way To The Top," but I believed this was the one song I could not leave off the list regardless of my personal feelings for it. It's proof that "hair metal" is a loose term because these guys were pretty much the OPPOSITE of a hair metal band. They were ugly guys who dressed like factory workers, save for Angus, who wore a schoolboy outfit that would probably get him arrested if he went anywhere but a concert hall. Yet this song helped kick off the catchy, radio-friendly-yet-hard-edged hair metal era because of its wild success. Basically every band tried to copy it. The band also featured a smoking hot blonde in the video. I can STILL see her riding that mechanical horse. </div>
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As an aside, KISS' "Rock and Roll All Nite," which compares favorably with this song in many ways (classic band, overplayed song loved by everyone, catchy as hell), is NOT on the list. It's a great song, but it's really not from the era. And the hair metal era, which boosted the careers of many older bands that actually got their start in the 70s (such as the Scorpions, Van Halen, Sammy Hagar, AC/DC and perhaps even Judas Priest and Iron Maiden) almost destroyed KISS. The band took off its makeup and made mostly forgettable records filled with songs like "Crazy Crazy Nights" and "God Gave Rock and Roll To You" that really sounded like a desperate uncle trying to fit in at one of his nephew's fun parties. Still...</div>
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• <b>"Heaven's On Fire" By KISS</b> — This song was a glorious exception. It's my favorite song by KISS, and I really do love KISS. It's stupid as hell but even catchier.</div>
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• <b>"We're Not Gonna Take It" By Twisted Sister</b> — I was trying to think of perhaps the worst hair metal band in the era simply in terms of ability. I came up with Krokus, Danger Danger and Britney Fox, but I still think Twisted Sister was probably the worst. "Stay Hungry" sounds as if it was played by a bunch of fifth-graders. And yet it's not only a good record, it's a classic. Why? The power of songwriting. Dee Snider was simply a great songwriter. He wrote "I Wanna Rock" and "Stay Hungry" and "The Price," and he wrote this insanely catchy number too, filled with attitude and one of the best choruses ever for a rock song. My DAD liked this one for God's sake. Dee was also a great metal singer. He didn't resort to the "balls in a vice" falsetto that so many other singers had to abuse to fit in. They had a good look, and their videos were hilarious. They didn't take themselves too seriously, a lesson I wish more metal bands learned.<br />
• <b>"Rock Me" by Great White </b>— A nightclub fire, as horrible as it was, shouldn't mean we overlook this band. Yes, Great White was a ripoff of many better classic rock bands, and yes this song took pieces of a half-dozen Led Zeppelin songs and glued them together, but that still makes for a great song. This band was a bit more no-nonsense than most in the era and would have fit comfortably in the 70s. It has a solid greatest-hits collection, including three off "Once Bitten," the band's biggest album, and that's far more than most hair metal bands. I also liked "Desert Moon" a lot.<br />
• <b>"Rock You Like A Hurricane" by The Scorpions</b> — The Scorpions are proof that hair metal or pop metal could be really good if a great band played it and wrote it. The Scorpions didn't need the hair metal era to be popular, though there's no doubt they benefitted from it, and here's exhibit A: This song is one of the best songs of the 80s, with perhaps the best opening riff of all the hair metal songs. It's so simple, too: Da-da-da, dudu, dududa, dadaaa. It's also heavier than you remember, and the video is almost kinda scary, not just the band writhing around a hot girl. The centerpiece from "Love At First Sting," a classic album. The Scorpions weren't flashy, attractive guys, but they had at least a dozen great songs, were a great live band (they were the best, I thought, when I saw "Monsters of Rock" with Van Halen and Metallica) and deserve a spot in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.<br />
• <b>"Out of Love" by Blue Murder </b>— Who? Yeah, I know. Blue Murder was a trio led by John Sykes, who actually played guitar on Whitesnake's monster album, not the pretty boys in the videos. This album shows just what a good guitarist (and singer) he was, and it, quite frankly, rocked. This is a sappy ballad, but it's probably my favorite hair ballad ("Still Loving You" and "Home Sweet Home" are the only ones that come close; I really wasn't much of a fan of ballads). This band put out two albums (that I know of), but the self-titled one, the debut, is still worth owning.<br />
• <b>"Modern Day Cowboy" by Tesla</b> — Tesla opened for Def Leppard on the Hysteria tour, and it was one of those glorious, rare times when I got my socks knocked off by a band I didn't know. They kicked Leppard's butt, and I bought the album the next day. It's still one of my favorites, and it ranks up there with "Appetite for Destruction" as a debut album by a hard rock band. This is the best track on an album full of great ones, including "Little Suzy" and "Comin' Atcha Live".<br />
• <b>"Down Deep Into The Pain" by Stevie Vai</b> — Marginal hair metal, but Vai played on Whitesnake's "Slip of the Tongue" and David Lee Roth's debut and therefore had a big role in the hair metal era. This is Devin Townsend's debut as well, as far as I can tell, and he's a big name in metal today. I always liked Vai's "The Audience Is Listening" too.<br />
• <b>"Lights of Heaven" by Joe Satriani</b> — Speaking of instrumental guitarists, here's the best, ever. He performed in this era, so I put him here. Satriani is famous for "Surfing with the Alien," but I think the album that spawned this track is better, and this is his best song.<br />
•<b> "Wild Child" by W.A.S.P. </b>— I love W.A.S.P. Blackie Lawless was a strange dude, almost too strange, as the band's antics and acting as Tipper Gore's thorn overshadowed the fact that Lawless not only had a terrific metal voice, he wrote a TON of catchy, hard tunes. This is my favorite track, but there are many other great ones, including a song, "Helldorado," that the band released in 1999 (!).<br />
•<b> "Panama" by Van Halen</b> — One of my best friends who enjoys this kind of music and is probably the biggest Rush fan ever says Van Halen was a hair band. I have passionately disagreed, but I'll give him this point: "1984" was basically a hair metal album, and so I've included what I think was the best track here. Man, "1984" was a great album: "Jump," "Hot For Teacher," "I'll Wait" and this song. Was "1984" Van Halen's best album? I think so.<br />
• <b>"Cherry Pie" by Warrant </b>— I was not a fan of Warrant, just like I wasn't a fan of many of the marginal glam hair bands that played pop metal more watered down than a free casino drink. But Warrant redeemed itself with this outrageous, horrible hunk of cheese that just happens to feature one of the catchiest choruses in the history of hair metal. One of the best videos, too. I mean, at one point, the band hoses down the incredibly hot blonde. You know, cause she's SO HOT. Get it? I thought you might.<br />
P.S. I just watched the video. Yeah, it holds up even less than I thought. I really didn't think that was cool at one point, did I?<br />
• <b>"In My Dreams" by Dokken</b> — If you overlook the fact that magazines loved to focus on the fact that George Lynch and Don Dokken hated each other, and if you maybe ignore the fact that Don Dokken had the personality of a moldy sponge, you'd be left with a pretty damn good hair metal band. Dokken was a terrible live band. You really could see why the guys hated each other, as there was no chemistry at all. Don, who I think was a lot older than he let on, came out for Dokken's Monsters of Rock gig, the same one I saw in Kansas City, and said "Hey, I smell some DOOOOOBAGE," and it went downhill from there.<br />
Even so, Jeff Pilson, the bass player, could sing, Don had a good hair metal voice and Lynch could really play. They also wrote some great songs. They would have a nice greatest hits collection. "Kiss of Death" is a close second.<br />
• <b>"Youth Gone Wild" by Skid Row</b> — Skid Row holds a special spot somewhere in my cold metal heart not only for this killer, killer, killer song but for the fact that the band was set up to have a nice, long, cheesy career. The opening track of their debut was "Big Guns," a song about a woman's...never mind. Anyway, the band followed up with a second album, and it was the heaviest I'd ever heard from a supposed hair metal band. Seriously, some pretty fierce power metal bands couldn't match that guitar crunch, and Bach could always scream with the best of them. I'm convinced it destroyed their career, but I admire them for sticking to their roots and not putting out a featherweight product because that's what the label (and unfortunately probably the public) wanted.<br />
• <b>"The Final Countdown" by Europe </b>— Abused by many sports teams now, this song featured the best keyboard riff in a hair metal song, like, ever. It's a good example of a riff really acting as the chorus, since there wasn't much of a chorus. They just sang the song's name over that sweet riff a few times. It worked, just as it did for "Layla." Unbelievably, Europe, not a great band by any stretch, did have another great song, this one on their first album, called "Wings of Tomorrow." Check it out.<br />
• "<b>All We Are" by Warlock</b> — Warlock was heavier than most hair metal bands, but I still count it because the video for this song is candy-corn corny. Here's a secret: I really have a thing for metal chicks, and Doro was the metalist chickiest of all. Her pipes were as amazing as her blonde hair that went down to her waist.<br />
• <b>"Addicted to that Rush" by Mr. Big</b> — Mr. Big hit it big with "Be With You," a pretty awful hair metal ballad that sounded like a ripoff of "More Than Words," Extreme's big one (which is a much better song, but it won't make this list either). But this song leads off their lesser-known debut album, and it's a shredder, something Racer X might have played (and I just looked it up, and sure enough, the band's guitarist, Paul Gilbert, played in it). Mr. Big also had Billy Sheehan and therefore had more chops in the cushions of their couch than even most power metal bands.<br />
• <b>"Cryin' in the Rain" by Whitesnake — </b>I was a bigger fan of Whitesnake than the band probably deserved, though David Coverdale could really sing, and they had some good songs even before the monster self-titled album was released ("Slide It In," "Slow 'N' Easy" and "Love Ain't No Stranger" are three of the best). Yes, this album had many whoppers, but I always thought "Still of the Night" was too much of a Zep rip-off, and I never really forgave Whitesnake for releasing a remixed, poppier version of "Here I Go Again." So this is my pick, which features an incredible solo by John Sykes and some tour-de-force vocals from Coverdale. I really would have liked to have seen Tawny slither (see what I did there?) to this one. Whitesnake gets a lot of derision these days, and I have two theories as to why. The first is simple: The band name sucks. The second, I think, comes from the fact that many people love to make fun of this era, as I've said before. I can't blame them. This era, like Disco, really makes you wonder what the fuck we were all thinking. But like Disco, this era put out a lot of great music that's unfairly judged because of all the costumes and hair and overall silliness. Whitesnake absorbs quite a bit of that today because they weren't quite Bon Jovi, Def Leppard, Guns and Roses or Motley Crue, bands that people still love today without shame. But Whitesnake was bigger than most other bands such as Quiet Riot, Cinderella and probably even Ratt. They already were a fairly established band when "Whitesnake" was released, and that album sold millions and was huge. HUGE. So people remember them as much as Def Leppard, but they don't carry the same nostalgia as Leppard does and therefore people don't mind throwing darts their way. Whitesnake is probably the Village People of the hair metal era. We can be honest, though: Rudy Sarzo probably didn't need to lick the neck of his guitar in those videos quite that much either.<br />
P.S. After Tawny kinda wigged out and beat up her baseball husband, it took away a bit of the luster of her on that car, didn't it? Bowling For Soup's "1985" video nailed the parody.<br />
• <b>"Sweet Child O' Mine" by Guns and Roses </b>— I honestly couldn't decide between this one and "Welcome to the Jungle" and "Paradise City" and "Rocket Queen" and...I think you get the point. What an amazing album. It still holds up today: Pull out the CD (oh don't lie, you do TOO still have it) and give it a whirl. I chose this song because Slash's solo is one of the best on any song, ever. Slash was hair metal's Jimmie Page, a guitarist who could play solos that matched the songs rather than tossing some fast scales and tricks around for 30 seconds.<br />
• <b>"Cum On Feel The Noize" by Quiet Riot</b> — Yeah, it's a cover, but really, does anyone associate Slade with this song? (Slade had a big hit of its own. Remember "Run Runaway"? I do.) Quiet Riot proved it could write their own song with "Metal Health," but this by far their best single. Even the verses sounded as good as the chorus. I remember seeing them on the TV show "Solid Gold," and to their credit, they actually chose to play their song live, rather than just lip synch it like 95 percent of all the other groups.<br />
• <b>"You Give Love A Bad Name" by Bon Jovi </b>— I didn't really get Bon Jovi, even if I thought "Runaway" was a good song. Bon Jovi seemed like a bunch of pretty boys that had zero good songs (besides "Runaway"), and yet all these girls wore their shirts and thought Jon Bon Jovi was dreamy. Then I heard this song and instantly loved it, and I could not BELIEVE it was Bon Jovi. So I sighed, bought the album, popped in the cassette and...wow, ticked off the hits, one by one. Sure enough, "Livin' On A Prayer," "Wanted Dead or Alive" and "Never Say Goodbye" (yuck) followed. Classic record. Easily one of the best from the era, and eventually that alone will put this band in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame one day. I was sorely tempted to put "Livin' On A Prayer" in this list too but I wanted to follow my rule.<br />
I find it interesting that this band still seems to have major credibility. I realize Motley Crue and Def Leppard still tour, but I don't think there's any doubt that most people who go to those shows are there to see them sing their classic hits. Most other hair metal bands only tour small clubs or package themselves with other hair metal bands to land bigger concerts. But Bon Jovi is still seen as more than a nostalgia act and draws big crowds on its own. It had a big hit, "It's My Life," many years after this era (even though the song sounded like it came from the band's hair metal days).<br />
• <b>"Prime Mover" by Zodiac Mindwarp</b> — What a name, right? Sometimes a band that has no business even making a record drinks some really good gin or smokes a magic mushroom and writes an incredible song that is far catchier than it should be. This is that song, a messy masterpiece that even manages to avoid many of the trappings of the hair metal era and therefore could honestly be on the radio today without too many giggles.<br />
• <b>"Round and Round" by Ratt </b>— If you forced me to pick a favorite song out of this whole list, this might be it. There's some serious nostalgia here, as this was the first hair metal song that truly hooked me after I discovered Motley Crue and became more comfortable with listening to heavy metal, and the video STILL cracks me up. But it's still an incredible riff, terrific chorus and a great duel guitar solo. Perfect song. Ratt, like W.A.S.P., was a touch underrated. They had almost as good a catalogue as Def Leppard. Seriously. "Lay It Down" is another monster, and there are a dozen others, like "Way Cool Jr.," "Wanted Man" and "You're In Love." But Ratt never had one of those sappy ballads that drew in the girls, and the guys in the band had a bit of a creepy look to them. It seemed to me only the more serious hardcore metal chicks (and I dated a couple) really liked Ratt, whereas everyone, even the cheerleaders, liked Def Leppard.<br />
Whatever. That's what made me like Ratt even more.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08837529956827141862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17782569.post-62847762174351088462012-12-11T07:32:00.001-07:002012-12-11T10:08:19.292-07:00Walk With Me<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I suggested the last thing you would think of when you think of Las Vegas.<br />
I suggested a hike in the desert.<br />
<br />
Everybody walks in Vegas, but that's only to get from one fantasyland to another, not the scrubby reality of cacti, a blistering wind and enough rocks to stub your toe with every step. And yet on Facebook for the #WPBT, I said there was a hike I'd like to check out, the Oak Creek Loop in the Red Rock Canyon.<br />
<br />
The fact that I would suggest this surprised no one, even if I wouldn't have suggested it a few years ago for fear of not fitting in.<br />
The fact that almost 20 people wanted to tag along shouldn't have surprised me either.<br />
That's just the way it's gone the last year.<br />
• • •<br />
I was just reading over the post from my first #WPBT trip. That was in 2007. In 2007, we had no hash tag, we went by our poker names and we all set the world, or at least the IP, on fire. I went because I loved poker, I wanted to meet a bunch of people whose writing I admired and I thought it would be fun. I also went for a much bigger reason: I wanted to change.<br />
<br />
I was not the kind of person who could plop himself in the middle of a group of 100 and feel comfortable. I never had been able to light up a room. I preferred to stay in the shadows. I wanted to let loose a little bit. I even had this weird desire to fit in.<br />
Did it work?<br />
<br />
Read on. It's long, I know. But so's the journey.<br />
• • •<br />
When Bad Blood contacted me a couple years ago for some advice on running, I remember feeling excited about the chance to finally get to pay it forward. John Drohan is now a good friend, someone who understands me as well as anyone, but back then, he was just one of my favorites from the WPBT because we shared two common interests besides poker: working out and heavy metal.<br />
I hate the term pay it forward, but it applies here because of my own journey with running.<br />
Here's my backstory (this works better if you start playing Journey's "Don't Stop Believing" in your head):<br />
<br />
Back in 2005, I knew nothing about running. I was working on a story, one of my favorite ones ever, about a runner who wanted to continue his streak of running in all the Bolder Boulders despite a rare form of blood cancer. I went to his intervals practice. Some of the runners knew me a little bit from my articles about climbing 14ers — active people are active people in all respects — and they said it was fine if I watched, and it was OK if I talked to them, but to get a true sense of the story, I needed to run with them. I did. I thought it was stupid to run for only, say, six minutes at a time, hard and fast. But by the end of the workout, even though I was climbing 14ers every weekend, I was whipped. I loved the fact that it was hard. I went back the next week.<br />
<br />
When the story ran, I came back, shy and unsure, which is always my mojo, and I began to warm up on the track, careful not to talk to anyone, almost hoping they wouldn't notice me. One of the runners pulled up beside me after a bit and asked me if I was now a member of the group. I guess, I answered. Well, she said, it's nice to have you here.<br />
<br />
Those same runners waited for me to catch up on our Wednesday night runs around Greeley in the cold winters once intervals were over for the season. They answered my questions about shoes, tempo runs, and whatever the hell a "long" run was (they all seemed long to me).<br />
Running is now a lifestyle for me, in the same way that climbing 14ers was before I finished them and could no longer afford the time away as much because of my kids. My time running outside keeps me sane. Literally, I'm pretty sure. I have those people to thank for it.<br />
• • •<br />
So Bad Blood - I still like to call him that - wrote me about a bet he made, something about running a 10K in 48 minutes or so. I told him what the group told me many years ago. Tempo runs, intervals, and a long run. I was happy to do it, not knowing where it would lead. I found myself enjoying the coaching, such as it was. And because he was a hard worker, I knew my efforts would not go to waste.<br />
My instincts are not always right. They were there.<br />
• • •<br />
This will sound very silly, but back then, for my first WPBT, the one without the hash tag, I thought of some people as rock stars. Silly, yes, but it made sense if you knew who I was. I was, and remain, a professional writer, and some of these people could really write. Some had really successful blogs, like Iggy and Pauly, and many others got paid to write, and yet some wrote for the hell of it and were better than me. And even some others wrote even though they never thought they could write, but they did, on their blogs, and they were STILL better writers than me. I admired all of them.<br />
<br />
Plus you heard stories. Their names get bantered around. It sort of reminded me of high school, how some people had status. I was never really one of those people in school. I also guess I never did get over that. I won't go into details, but let's just say, mean people suck.<br />
<br />
One of the people who I thought of in that inner circle was Otis. He had the I Am Legend stories of mischief — he once ate Keno crayons on a bet for hundreds of dollars — and he was a terrific writer. I thought he wasn't like me in many ways, but then again, no one at the WPBT was. That's why I liked them.<br />
(Let's be honest: A WPBT with a bunch of people like me wouldn't really be that much fun).<br />
• • •<br />
Bad Blood enjoyed running. I thought he might, and he didn't want to give it up after he killed his 10K. He liked the training and seeing how it paid off. My instincts were right: He was a lot like me. He later decided to try a half marathon, and I sent him a plan and stayed in touch with him when he had questions. He killed the half, too, of course.<br />
As it turns out, his friends, the G-Vegas crew, began to notice.<br />
<br />
I can't tell you what possessed them to get the idea to run the Vegas Half Marathon. Maybe they'd all run out of crazy things to do in Vegas, and this was something new. All I know is, Bad Blood and maybe me prodded Otis and later G-Rob and Doc and Marty to give it a shot.<br />
I felt self-conscious when Otis began exchanging e-mails with Blood and I. That sounds silly, as I said, but it's the truth. As it turns out, I was wrong about him. Otis was a lot like me in a lot of ways too.<br />
He had doubts. He had many, in fact, about wanting to do the half marathon, even after a successful mud run with Blood and the crew. He wasn't sure he could do the training, if he had time for it or if his body would hold up.<br />
<br />
When you get down to it, aren't all doubts the same? I knew all about doubts. We exchanged many e-mails, but I didn't offer as much advice as I did the reassurance that he could do it. I knew how much that meant too. I needed to reassured many times in my life. As much as I hate to admit it, I still do.<br />
• • •<br />
I remember walking through the Aria with Otis walking beside me. Part of me was wishing on a good race for him and the rest of the crew, but I was also getting ready to feel pain and even some misery, and more importantly, getting ready to enjoy it. And then I saw a group of WPBT folks waiting to cheer us on.<br />
<br />
I find running fascinating, but let's face it, many people aren't me. It can be pretty boring. People can appreciate the pure, electric power it takes to sprint 100 meters, but rarely do they have the patience to watch a marathon.<br />
So I was a little stunned that people who came to party in Vegas were ready to watch us race. I can't honestly think of anything more boring than watching a race, and in Vegas there's about a billion things that are more fun to do. And yet these people were coming to watch us.<br />
<br />
I knew they weren't there to see me, not really. They were there to celebrate Otis' transformation and see this new sport that Blood had fully embraced. But it still felt good.<br />
When Blood, after the race at a private poker game, told me, "You're one of us now," I agreed with him.<br />
<br />
It took far more for me to agree with him, because of who I am, than for him to say it. I felt like I was stepping out of a shadow, and the light felt pretty good.<br />
• • •<br />
I honestly thought that would be the end of it. I figured Blood and I would continue to talk about running, and in fact I already knew that he was planning to run his first full marathon, something only I knew at first. I figured maybe Otis would run another race or two.<br />
<br />
I didn't understand what was happening until I made plans to come out to South Carolina in October for Mastodon weekend, and I didn't truly grasp it until I got there. I knew that a couple people were running the half marathon, but these were people who had run before (Grange) or were such good athletes that they'd handle it with ease (Drizz).<br />
Many of my old favorites from the WPBT were there. Only they were running. Huh? Yep.<br />
Some ran the 5K, and some ran the half marathon. I was running the marathon. I initially entered it because it was a cheap marathon, and it was time to do another. But part of me wanted to be there for Blood, as this would be that first marathon for him. And part of me wanted to show all these beginners what was possible.<br />
<br />
The whole weekend, rather than talk about how many shots they'd done the night before or what craps game they'd played, many talked about running. Yes, we played poker until 3 a.m. the first night, and yes, some drank heavily. Things hadn't changed completely. But come Saturday, they all lined up to run their events. The night before, Otis cut things off at a party at his house at 9 P.M. 9 p.m.!<br />
It was a wonderful and yet odd weekend for me in many ways.<br />
Many times I heard thanks that weekend for inspiring them. I usually just said your welcome, but that's because I honestly didn't know what else to say. Otis gave a generous speech thanking me, in part, for teaching him how to run.<br />
<br />
You could take this whole post as a big, bloated humblebrag, and if you do, you are rolling your eyes into your cerebrum at this point. As I said, this is a personal journey. But I hope this doesn't sound like false modesty. It was wonderful to hear those words from Otis. And it was even better to hear it individually from so many others. By the end of the weekend, it was as if I was some guru, and I tried like hell to not let it go to my head. My ego, to be blunt, did not need the extra calories.<br />
But I don't think I'm the one who inspired them. I'm certain that Blood's initial hard work inspired G-Vegas to get involved, and then Otis' pull with the WPBT, and his successful first half marathon, is what inspired 25 or so to try something new, exciting and difficult.<br />
<br />
Beyond that, I think the sport inspired them. I think their own will inspired them. I think we are getting older, and at our age, you begin to look for new adventures, and I think that inspired them as well.<br />
I also know, most of all, they all inspired each other because I was inspired by them. I always run for my family, and my inner circle of friends here who I've trained with for thousands of miles. But at mile 21, when the first cramps hit, and I knew my body, worn out from all those hills, not only wasn't going to match the pace I had hoped to achieve, I was going to be lucky to get in without walking. I thought about all those people who had pushed themselves beyond what they thought was possible. I knew they were waiting for me. I even felt them rooting for me. That's why I continued to run and just prayed my legs wouldn't explode, even if they felt like that was a real possibility.<br />
<br />
I wish I could have seen them finish. Instead, I'm left with two images. The first is obvious, and that's my first pupil, Bad Blood, the one who really started it all, finishing his first marathon, with his son running him in. Awesome.<br />
The second was hearing the cheer as they announced my name as I entered the stadium, and then running by the lot of them and giving them more than a few dorky fist pumps.<br />
It was, aside from my wife surprising me at the end of my first marathon, the best greeting I'll ever get at the finish line. I was glad I had a good walk back to reach them once I crossed the line.<br />
I didn't want anyone to see me tearing up.<br />
• • •<br />
The wonderful weekend at Mastodon came with a price, and one of them was a much more mellow WPBT than we've ever seen. There were more noteables not there than those who did attend. Pauly wasn't there. StB wasn't there. Speaker wasn't there. Iggy. Falstaff. Al. Change100. Betty. My G-Vegas crew from last year, save for Marty, who I saw for all of five minutes before the tournament. Dawn Summers. Heather. Kat. The list goes on.<br />
<br />
And yet, Mastodon stuck with me in so many ways, even if most of the participants weren't there. I played poker with a sense of aggression I hadn't found before. As a result, I took fifth in the tournament. Getting premium hands most of the afternoon and evening helped (let's be honest, it's a big reason why I went deep), but I also absorbed three horrible beats near the end that probably cost me from winning the whole thing. Yes, I actually had a shot to win, which still boggles my mind. I paid for my hotel room and my flight with my winnings from the four days. I'm even itching to play online again (that won't last).<br />
<br />
I also misplaced the aggression. I ran the race, rather poorly, as it turns out, despite some sign wavers that saved my tired butt at the end. I PRd my 10K and my 10-mile split was better than last year's huge PR, but then some fierce winds and my weakened spirit from going out too fast made me run a 30-minute 5K, and I finished in 1:44. I was disappointed at the end even if I did finish 600 or so out of 22,000 runners.<br />
As always, I had a great time with some constant, close friends. I don't like naming people because they know who they are, and I inevitably leave some people out. This isn't really meant to be a trip report. No one wants to read those any longer.<br />
<br />
What this is, instead, is an ode to a hike, and how 20 or so people wanted to spend some precious Vegas time with me in the wilderness. When I posted the hike on Facebook, it seemed like a crazy idea. Then again, having a bunch of initial degenerates buy into the idea that running a 5K, a half marathon or, hell, a full marathon was a good idea seems crazy too. What's even crazier is almost everyone on the hike weren't the ones who ran at Mastodon.<br />
I came to my first WPBT event with the idea of maybe being a different person, at least for a weekend. That's why everyone goes to Vegas, right? But I wanted it to carry over. I wanted to change who I was, at least a bit.<br />
<br />
And yet, it seems to me, this group of people who I've come to know over the years responded to me the most when I shared what was most important to me. When I showed them exactly who I really was, well, some could not relate to it, but all of them not only respected it, they seemed to like it.<br />
I can't really inspire anyone to climb a mountain, hike a trail in the desert or run a race. You have to do that yourself. But maybe you can read my story, and I can inspire you to show the world your true self. It's hard to do that. It's even painful. I'm still learning. But lace up your tattered sneakers, and we can walk the rocky path together.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08837529956827141862noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17782569.post-84572296962166293472012-10-26T08:16:00.001-06:002012-10-26T08:16:35.796-06:00Music Marathon <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Here's the music I'm listening to during the marathon.</div>
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I'll explain a little bit more later, but generally, I put in healthy doses of heavy metal. I like it because it's my favorite music, and ultimately your music race mix should simply have your favorites. But it's also hard-driving, inspirational music that keeps my energy flowing. I find it almost impossible to lack energy when there's a fast, hard song crashing through my ears.</div>
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I also like music that carries a memory with it, to give my mind a break from the journey I'm on, and even if I am a fan of heavy metal, I like to mix it up with the occasional softer song. Not only does that give me some time away from someone yelling at me, it makes the good stuff sound that much harder when the assault begins again.</div>
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So here's a little explanation of a few of my songs:</div>
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• "Lose Yourself" is a tradition. I like the beginning…"If you had one shot, one opportunity…would you capture it, or let it slip?" I see every race as an opportunity, and it's up to me to capture it. This song gets me into that mindset.</div>
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• Tim Coons is a friend, and this song will help calm me because this race scares the shit out of me. It'll be the first time I push it hard on a marathon, my third. Also, you may notice that I've got a few calmer songs in the beginning. This will help slow me down, which is crucial at the beginning of a race, when all I want to do is run hard and fast. The beginning of a race is not the time to run hard and fast.</div>
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• I heard "The Crazy Ones" right before I went to sleep before my 22-miler and thought it was perfect. </div>
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Check it out.</div>
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• Arch Enemy makes the most appearances on this mix, I believe. That band packs a punch, and I'll need that.</div>
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• "Under and Over It" is a suggestion, a great one, from Bad Blood. So is "Spiral."</div>
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• "Where the Streets Have No Name" was the opening song to a movie I made about the twins' first year. So even something simple like that can bring back a good memory of when we found out we were having twins. It's no accident that this is song 36, when I think the pain will be at the worst. The finish line is still far away, and yet you've also ran even longer. Two songs down is "Soar," which is a song I used for my son's ending song in his movie.</div>
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• I'll blast out the last couple miles with the help of As I Lay Dying, a metal band who put out easily one of my favorite albums this year.</div>
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If you want any of these songs for your mix, come find me. I'm still waiting for a couple songs from Bad Blood myself. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08837529956827141862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17782569.post-34881476890913191802012-09-23T20:30:00.003-06:002012-09-23T20:30:51.931-06:00Hungry for Heaven<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
As I was swimming through mile 16, I looked up into the trees, desperate for anything to take my mind off the agony of de feet, and I saw a bird.<br />
It was a big bird, and it peered down at us, with an expression that was hard to read. I glanced at my dog and looked back at the bird. For a moment, I thought it was sizing up my companion. But I decided against that after a bit. The bird wasn't looking at my dog. It was looking at me.<br />
Well, that was appropriate, I thought. My face was probably red, and I was moving like a wounded coyote and moaning like a kicked cat. The energy chew in my cheek had turned to sandpaper.<br />
As I got closer, preparing to shuffle underneath the branches where it perched, I still couldn't tell if it was an eagle or a hawk. As the sun baked my pride, my thoughts turned darker. I guessed it was a vulture.<br />
It knew, as they always do, that it probably wouldn't be long now.<br />
• • •<br />
I had the day off, and I figured it was the perfect time to get my 21-mile run out of the way. That's honestly how I approached it. Let's just get this little training run out of the way, I thought, like it was an errand.<br />
I knew it would be a little warmer than usual, as I had to drop off my son at school before I started, which would force me to start at 9 a.m., about three hours after my usual time. Which is why I filled an extra two 8-ounce bottles. For my dog. I'd be fine, I thought. I was a lot more worried about her. She didn't do well in warm weather.<br />
When I started, I didn't expect to feel great. It was my sixth day of running, and I'd pushed it hard on many of them. There was a 12-miler in there, a couple aggressive pace runs, an 800s interval workout and a tempo run. This would be my biggest week, as I'd planned on running nearly 60 miles. Training for a marathon is never easy, and I had some special goals planned for this one.<br />
Even so, I'd yet to have a bad training run. They're fairly common, but I felt great throughout this whole cycle. Two weeks ago, my last mile on my 21-miler was fast. So, sure, I thought of this 21-miler as just another run, something I needed to do before I'd come home and enjoy the rest of the day.<br />
I still don't know if I got cocky, or if the fact that all my other runs had gone well simply tricked me into thinking that all I needed to do was strap on my shoes and the magic would happen.<br />
I didn't even consider that 9 a.m. was considerably different than 6 a.m. I didn't consider that maybe I should make sure I drank before I left. I had a cup of coffee, my usual, and a couple swallows of Gatorade before I headed out. When it's 6 a.m., and the temperature was 45 degrees, where 90 percent of my runs took place, you can do that. When it's 9 a.m. and already 75 degrees?<br />
I knew I was in trouble before mile 6.<br />
I didn't want to acknowledge it. There are dark periods in many runs. But this time it felt different.<br />
It felt like I was swimming. Treading water is more like it.<br />
I knew a water fountain was waiting for me at mile 14, and so, I kept going. I needed the miles. You can't cheat your long run and hope to do well in a marathon. I decided to suck it up. It'll pass, I thought.<br />
I'd be miserable for more than two hours, and at one point, underneath that bird, I honestly did wonder if I'd make it home. If I start shivering, I thought, I'll call 9-1-1.<br />
• • •<br />
I lined up Saturday at the starting line of the Rock and Roll Half Marathon in Denver with a plan that'd I'd never had before in a race: To back off when it hurt too much.<br />
I don't want to sound like a hard-nosed, egotistical badass, but almost always, when it hurts in a race, I know I'm doing my job. Races are really fun, but they are supposed to be hard, too. Races are times when you blow out your engine. It's a chance to look under the hood and see what you can do.<br />
But the schedule, the advanced plan by Hal Higdon, called for a pace run. A pace run is a run at your planned marathon pace. They're supposed to be hard, but not too hard. They're not tempo runs, intervals or fartleks, and they're certainly not races.<br />
Thursday left me warn out. But truth be told, I was a little shaken by it too. It took me four hours to finish those 21 miles, and I had to walk several times, and I was grateful to be home, almost to the point of crying. I guzzled a large cup of chocolate milk and went to bed for an hour, uncaring that my sheets were sticking to my skin, and then I rose, like a vampire at midnight, and drank many cups of water. Despite the almost constant intake, I didn't pee until 7 p.m. that night.<br />
The run made me feel like a rookie and an old man at the same time.<br />
So at the urging of my running partners, I decided to run a little easier. I'd pace it, sure, but when it got a little too hard - race hard - I would back off.<br />
The race went quickly, and I felt great most of the time. I ran a Colorado PR (altitude), at 1:39, with plenty left in the tank.<br />
There are times even a veteran like me will doubt the training, your body and your will to do great things.<br />
The little pick-me-ups like Saturday's race are a good reminder of that. I'll try to remember those gifts every time I have a good run. Those dark times are always lurking if you don't recognize them, respect them and, sometimes, run a little faster under their shadows as they gaze down upon you and wonder when you'll give up for good.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08837529956827141862noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17782569.post-78531973080843112192012-09-10T08:55:00.003-06:002012-09-10T08:55:45.540-06:00The edge<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It was a beautiful spot. The east ridge of Pacific Peak touched the edge of the Earth, the lush tundra called to us below and we were surrounded by giants, including the 14er Quandary, whose summit was dotted with dozens of tiny climbers.<br />
<div>
I have always loved the beauty of the mountains. I'll never tire of it. I've seen things many others haven't.<br />
<div>
But this time, I wasn't taking any of it in. I was scrambling up the side of Pacific, in full escape mode, hoping and, yes, praying, that the darkening clouds above us held off.</div>
<div>
Just a half hour ago, my climbing partner made a good, smart decision. She looked at the time, 9:45 a.m., did some quick calculations, and realized we still had a couple hours to go before we'd be done with the jagged ridge before us. She suggested we stop there given the way the weather felt. And then she made a bad one: The side of that hill looks pretty good, she said. Let's do it. And then I made the worst decision of all: I agreed. Even though I could not see the bottom of the hill, I agreed. </div>
<div>
Sometimes you get lucky. Sometimes the hill runs out all the way to the soft, green tundra, to safety, and you get to climb another day. This day, on a summer day in early August near Breckenridge, the ski resort, we were not lucky. Instead, we got what climbers call "cliffed." The way down looked like a broken leg. The way back up looked only slightly better. The rocks were loose and sharp, and our legs were heavy. But we had no choice. We went back up. </div>
<div>
Then I took a look around and realized that even if we hurried, we'd find ourselves near the crest of a ridge just as the clouds would gather themselves into a storm. Or not. If, you know, we were lucky.</div>
<div>
As we scrambled hard to the ridge, our breathing decaying into ragged gasps, I paused to remind my partner that the odds of a lighting strike, however frightening, were small. Many more times, people panic, I said, and then they take a tumble. </div>
<div>
So relax, I told her. We'll get through this.</div>
<div>
And then I started swearing and tried to believe it.</div>
<div>
• • •</div>
<div>
Two days before, I had led a group up Longs Peak. Longs is one of Colorado's most iconic mountains, in a state stuffed with them, a peak underrated in its difficulty only because of the number of people who climb it every year. </div>
<div>
And yet I had a great day up mountain. The years I'd put into running, to the point where I'd sacrificed a good portion of my days on the peaks, were paying off, and if I allowed myself to become cocky, I'd call the trip up easy. It wasn't, of course, because the last time I got cocky on a peak, years ago, I tripped and was less than three feet from falling to a messy death. Really, the day wasn't easy by any stretch, with 12 hours of climbing and hiking, many of them above 13,000 feet. But it was easier than ever before. The group I led up was prepared, responsive and calm, and at age 40, I was in the best shape in my life.<br />
That feeling was short-lived.</div>
</div>
<div>
When I woke up the next morning, my knee hurt. I shrugged it off, but it did worry me a bit because of the source of the pain. Many years ago, my worst climbing accident by far snagged me in the middle of a avalanche of car-sized boulders. I got lucky. I not only survived but didn't get nearly as messed up as I should have. But I DID get beat up, and part of the injuries was an ever-so-slight tear of my ACL. </div>
<div>
Doctors said as long as I kept my legs strong, it should be OK.</div>
<div>
I kept my legs strong, and it was OK. But now, more than a decade later, the pain in my knee was a reminder that I was getting older, and it was possible I wasn't going to be able to push it as hard as I once did. I once climbed seven peaks in a week. Pacific was two days away. If I could do seven in a week, surely I could do two, even if that was eight years ago.</div>
<div>
• • • </div>
<div>
Once I finished the 14ers, I knew the days of climbing 10-20 peaks a year were behind me. That was in 2005, and that's also the year Jayden was born. He would cut into the time it took to climb. The twins, born two years later, would reduce it to a pittance. This wasn't something that was done to me, however. It was a choice, and I was OK with it. </div>
<div>
I didn't want to be away that much, and climbing a mountain takes at least a full day and usually the edges of the morning and the night. Not only that, climbing was dangerous. I didn't want to leave my kids without a father. So I compromised. I told myself that at least one tough, exposed peak a year was OK. In fact I made myself do it. I didn't want to lose sight of who I was. But I would leave many for a day when the kids were on their own.</div>
<div>
The transition was easier than I thought because ironically, in 2005, I discovered running.</div>
<div>
Almost every story of someone who became a runner later in his life starts with "I hated running." And yeah, I hated running, but not as much as others do at the start. I was fit when I started with an intervals group. I was a climber. I was out practically every weekend. I worked out all the time. So I didn't hate running. I just didn't see the point.<br />
But there was a point. Running was a way for me to stay active and stay competitive, to set goals and achieve them, to wear me out and enjoy the feeling of accomplishment, only I didn't have to be away from my family for so long to do it. </div>
<div>
• • • </div>
<div>
I was supposed to do my second gnarly peak of the year, this time up Ice Mountain, a peak I'd wanted to climb for years. I was really looking forward to it. It was exposed, with some tough climbing, in a beautiful spot.</div>
<div>
Even so, I thought hard about it as we tried to escape Pawnee's east ridge. My knee hurt again, and this time it wasn't just a dull ache, as I needed a couple Advil to calm it down. I didn't know if we were getting down, and my kids went through my head. Plus I had this marathon coming up.</div>
<div>
Now I wondered what the point was of mountaineering. </div>
<div>
We scrambled to just below the ridge on a diagonal line, out of breath, and I glanced down at the slope again. This time it looked much friendlier. I could see more of the route, and it looked like it might go all the way down to the tundra. We couldn't see a trail, but I could see a big lake, and guessed that the trail home would probably circle the lake.</div>
<div>
The sky was dark, and we decided to go for it.</div>
<div>
As we approached the bottom of the slope, my sense of dread got fainter, and sure enough, not only did the slope drop into the tundra, we found the trail by the lake.</div>
<div>
We got lucky.</div>
<div>
I thought that thoughts of canceling Ice Mountain would fade, too, with every step on the much safer trail. But they didn't. </div>
<div>
What's more important to you, I thought. </div>
<div>
I chose the marathon. I called her a couple weeks later and canceled. </div>
<div>
I'd done this unofficially for years, but it hit me when I finished the conversation that I was choosing running over mountaineering.</div>
<div>
For now.</div>
<div>
• • •</div>
<div>
One thing that's made that stark choice easier is the fact that I've actually hiked more than I have in years. Only many the hikes have been with my kids. So I've traveled a lot of paths that I used to scoff at. For many years, these smaller hikes were not the destination. They were a place to have breakfast on my way to greater things. </div>
<div>
So? So I've really enjoyed these hikes too. Saturday's hike was to one of my favorite spots in all of Colorado, Isabelle Lake. It's really beautiful. Sometimes I forgot to notice that.</div>
<div>
In fairness to the mountains, I haven't raced a ton this summer either. The marathon's taken a priority over everything, not just mountaineering. It should. It's a marathon, and running about 50 miles a week is tough to squeeze on your and in a life schedule that includes kids and work. Philosophically this eases my mind. I'm not just a runner. I'm still a mountaineer.<br />
The mountains were such a part of my life for many years that I can't, and won't, let them go completely.</div>
<div>
Yet here's what I've discovered. Running is giving me some gifts that I didn't know it could. In fact, more of the same gifts that mountaineering always gave me.<br />
I'm seeing things many others haven't.<br />
Sunday, on a 10-miler with my dog, at 6:30 a.m., I was on a trail shrouded by early-morning fog. It was crisp. Smoke curled from the river 100 yards away. And on that river, a great blue heron took off into the sky, climbing until it touched the edge of the Earth.</div>
<div>
I took it all in for just a moment. And then I went on down the path. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08837529956827141862noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17782569.post-39602836072205571632012-07-08T20:48:00.003-06:002012-07-08T20:48:36.337-06:00Into The Fire<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
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We lined up, all of us, shuffling around in our brightly colored racing flats a few feet from the white line. No one wanted to be the first to toe it.</div>
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No one wanted to be the first one to jump into the fire.</div>
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It was July 4, at 6:50 a.m., minutes before the Lenexa Freedom Run. I've run this race for the last three years. You have an option of doing a 10K or a 5K. I've avoided the 5K in the past. This would be the first time I planned to go for it.</div>
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Though 5Ks should be a part of any runner's racing plan, I generally avoid them. If you do them right, running a 5K is akin to bathing in the flames of hell. 10Ks are less painful. I actually prefer half marathons. </div>
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This year, it would feel like hell for another reason as well. A heat wave had swallowed my home state of Colorado for much of June, torching what seemed like half of it, and decided to follow us across to my homeland of Kansas for my annual summer trip. As soon as we arrived on June 29, temperatures hit triple digits every day, and coupled with the humidity, made it downright dangerous to be outside for too long. </div>
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As I stepped outside Dad's porch at 5:45 a.m. on July 4 to make the drive to the start, I honestly wished the race was scheduled to go off at 6 a.m., which shows how much running has changed me but also shows the power of the heat. The sun was just beginning to peak over the horizon and would need at least an hour to gather enough muscle to start frying the landscape again. It was the only respite I'd get, and I knew it. Even then, the temperature was almost 80 degrees.</div>
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In Colorado, even on our 100-degree days, it's cool enough in the morning to make our runs pleasant, or at least not miserable. But Kansas, like the rest of the country hampered by humidity, cooler morning temperatures are a luxury.</div>
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As I finally toed the line, along with my fellow racers, lining up at slot marked for 6:30-pace runners (which would give me a PR), beads of sweat already started to pool on my forehead.</div>
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I read in Runner's World earlier that week about an interesting study that suggests the heat really is in your head. Bikers who cycled on stationary bikes in 78 degrees outperformed bikers who were forced to work in 89 degrees in a controlled gym. But when scientists tricked the bikers through a faulty temperature gauge that made them believe it was 78, rather than 89, there was no drop off in performance.</div>
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A 5K is painful, but I could probably pretend it wasn't as bad as it felt, especially for just 20 minutes.</div>
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It wouldn't kill me. It wouldn't even injure me.</div>
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It would just hurt.</div>
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The gun went off. The crowd of runner moved me forward, almost pushing me into the flames.</div>
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• • • </div>
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It's miserable when it's 100 degrees, humidity or no humidity, until you hit up a swimming pool. Then it's the most awesome temperature in the world. The water feels like a bath, and when you get out, your balls don't hide in your stomach. The pavement burns a bit (like fire), but that only makes the water sweeter.</div>
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So we didn't go to the zoo, or a park with a bunch of rides, or even a lake in Kansas this year. We went swimming. Every day.</div>
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When we visited Salina, which is not only where Kate's grandmother lives but where I worked for my first job, I was flabbergasted at the city's new pool. It's not really a pool. It's many pools. With five slides, including one called the "toilet bowl" that tosses you around a huge whirlpool that, well, kinda makes you feel like a large turd being flushed into the pipes. There was a high dive, a lazy river that led into a wave pool and a kiddie pool. </div>
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Oh, yeah, there was a place to swim too.</div>
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I hate "back in my day" posts, but back in my day, we had a neighborhood pool, and it was really cool because it had a diving board AND a small slide. They also played music over some loudspeakers. Fancy. We were lucky.</div>
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So take a peek inside the mind of a human being, or maybe just an American, as we left Salina's pool. Mom's neighborhood pool seemed weak by comparison. No diving board. No slide even. In fact, later that week at my Dad's, in one of the well-off neighborhood pools, I found myself feeling disappointed because that pool "only" had two monster slides and a smaller lazy river. </div>
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• • • </div>
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I kept peeking at my GPS, which I've told myself not to do during races. I now believe it's better to run by feel, by effort, rather than by pace because that way you aren't limiting yourself. There's no way I run 1:37 in the Vegas half marathon if I stared at my GPS because I would have held back.</div>
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But I was at sea level and didn't want to start too fast. When my breathing was labored enough for a 5K and I saw my pace was 6:30 after a half mile, I was disappointed and reassured at the same time.</div>
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I was disappointed because I thought I had a shot at a 19-minute 5K. My pace would need to be around 6:15-6:20 for that. But a slight headwind, which felt great even if it slowed me down, just wasn't going to allow that. This was not going to be the perfect day I'd need. I probably should have known that. It WAS 80 degrees at the start.</div>
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But I was also reassured because my 5K PR is 20:40, and that's a 6:40 pace. Keep it here, I told myself as I started to pass groups of runners, and you'll be really happy with your race.</div>
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A half-mile later, I was already waist-deep in the fire, and I reminded myself to relax.</div>
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I kept shaking my hands out, telling myself not to clinch them. I smiled. I tried to steal deeper breaths every fifth breath so it didn't feel like I was gasping for air all the time. The more I relaxed against the pain, the more I could stave off the panic and the vice that always seems to creep over my chest, as if I'm wearing a corset. </div>
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I'm in another place during the most intense races. The music I carefully selected to help me run faster — in this case, fast, hard heavy metal — floated through my ears, as if I could hear it in an elevator (which would be funny actually). I didn't really see my other runners, just felt them, through elbows or their ragged breath. I tried to hitch a ride with them, but I usually wound up passing them or, near the end, they found another gear that I didn't have.</div>
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About a half-mile to the end was the hardest, as it always is because it's supposed to be. But I had to claw up two steep hills, and the sun had started its dirty work, roasting the pavement even at 7:15. My legs had no bounce. Hold on, I told myself. Just hold on. Somewhere from space, "Spiral" from Nightrage told me to run faster as I saw the finish. </div>
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The finish line is always more relief than jubilation, but that's especially true in a 5K. And as I crossed it, my face felt like boiling water, and I tried not to collapse, walking in stumbles away from the line so other runners could get through. Easing yourself from the fire is almost as hard as throwing yourself into it, and I walked around in small shuffles, desperately trying to calm my breathing and my scorched throat. I grabbed a bottle of water, though I had no plans to drink it yet, and wiped puddles of sweat from my eyes.</div>
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I thought my time was 20:40, which matched my PR, so I was somewhat pleased as I waited in line for a computerized printout of my results and where I'd placed. I talked with a guy who passed me at the very end who I'd pegged at 50. Turns out he was 65. Sigh. Then I got my printout and looked at my time.</div>
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20:29. I had a new PR. Turns out the clock was the gun, not my chip time. Sweet. I smiled a bit but only a bit. I had survived the fire. This time, I even seemed to welcome it.</div>
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• • •</div>
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The rain fell hard a few days later, like we were stuck under a waterfall, from outside our Goodland, KS hotel window at 3:30 a.m. Temperatures had dipped into the 70s, bringing storms and cool air.</div>
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I ran a couple days later after the race on a trail that winds through woods and across fields and wetlands. It's one of my favorite things to do in Kansas, and yet it was 91 degrees by the time I finished, and I felt at the end like a flank steak. </div>
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We drove home in clouds. The air conditioning isn't even on in our house tonight.</div>
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It feels like such a relief. </div>
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I need a break from the fire. It's the only way to get strong enough to go back in one day.</div>
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08837529956827141862noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17782569.post-89843668014912570352012-06-17T09:23:00.000-06:002012-06-17T09:23:32.088-06:00Mount Evans Ascent<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I'll admit it. The Mount Evans Ascent made me nervous.<br />
When I head into races any longer, I'm rarely nervous. I know that if I run well, and I should, it will turn out well. There's always a question as to how I'll feel, like whether my bitchy stomach will act up, but really, there aren't many other variables. There's a few hills, and you wonder about the weather, but it never changes much.<br />
As predictable as those races are, that's how unpredictable Mount Evans would be.<br />
First, Mount Evans is, of course, a mountain, and the weather on mountains is, um, unstable. Generally the mornings are nice, and the race would start at 7:30 a.m. But you just don't know. The wind is always a threat and will come even on nice, sunny days. It's hard not to take it personally. Some of my friends said last year during the race the winds were 50 mph. Steady. And a storm can hit you, literally, out of the blue. I've been in nasty storms that came 15 minutes after a bright, bluebird day.<br />
Second, Mount Evans is, of course, a high mountain, more than 14,250 feet. The air is a tad thinner up there. I had no idea how I'd do that high. I hadn't been that high in at least a year, maybe two. When I did the Pikes Peak Ascent two years ago, I was doing great until I got to 12,000 feet and got sick. It was entirely possible that that would happen again, and there wasn't much I could do to prevent it, other than train at high altitudes, and my family life wouldn't allow that. What's even more frustrating is my vast, past experience meant nothing. Altitude doesn't carry over.<br />
Third, the race was 14.5 miles, and you gain 4,000 feet. I'd thought I'd trained well for the constant barrage of hills that would surely come, but I didn't know. That many hills can not only wear you down, they can be discouraging. I was determined to not let them get me down, but after 11 miles of them, I didn't know how I'd do.<br />
But I needed this race. I really needed it. Kate found something she needed to do every night when I got home from work this week, which meant chaos after a long day. Friday, Jayden's swim meet that was supposed to take two hours took, no shinola, eight, and Kate was volunteering at it, which left me with all three kids all day, on a day I wasn't expecting it, most of it at a pool, which, I know, poor me, but there wasn't much to do, and so the girls were bored and expecting me to entertain them while I kept an eye on Jayden. When I went to bed at 7:30 p.m. that in anticipation of the 3 a.m. alarm, I fell asleep right away.<br />
For the race, I set my goals at a modest 3 hours because some tough runners who I knew had done that before, and that would probably put me in the middle of the pack.<br />
I was fine being in the middle of this pack. When I got to the start of the race, it was pretty apparent this was not a 5K. After a two-hour drive, I arrived at 5:45 a.m., and the woman next to me got out of her car to get her packet. She had on a "Pikes Peak Marathon" finisher's jacket, the other big mountain race in Colorado. The woman who parked to the left of me had an "Ultrarunners do it better" bumper sticker on her window. Sure, there were a few spoiled weekend warriors who had no idea what they were up against — one of them wouldn't use a campground bathroom because "it was too rank for me" — but it looked to me like most of the runners had either run a race much longer than a marathon, finished an Ironman or won their age groups in mountain races. I'm no slouch. But holy hell. My mountaineering experience was about the only thing I had going for me, and I've run up, maybe, three of the more than 200 ascents.<br />
I swallowed hard and reminded myself to enjoy the competition, rather than be afraid of it, when the gun went off, and I started in the back but passed a bunch of people right away and settled in the middle of the pack of 400 runners or so (I think it was 400). I also told myself to go slow and attack the hills as they come, not to look far ahead to see what was waiting for me.<br />
This race is all on the asphalt road that leads to 300 feet of the summit of Evans. Pikes Peak and Evans are the only 14ers that allow you to drive to the top. Pikes Peak even has a gift store at the summit and a train that leads to the top as well. Quick funny story: When I climbed Pikes for the first time, just before I walked into the gift store, sweaty and dirty, a woman looked me over and gasped when I told her what I'd done.<br />
"You know you can drive up, right?" she said. She was serious.<br />
This was the first race in a long time I didn't bring a GPS. Maybe in years. I knew my pace would be far slower than I was used to, and I didn't want that to freak me out. This race was about effort and feel a lot more than sticking to a pace. I did bring a watch, but that was the only way I'd know how long I'd been out there.<br />
Right away, I felt good, which was encouraging, given that we started — started — at 10,600 feet. I was breathing a little hard on my way to the bathroom before the race, let alone running up a steep hill.<br />
Ah, the hills. I knew there would be a lot, but they really never ended. You were never rewarded with a downhill after the uphill. Just more uphill. I somehow managed to run the whole way the first 8 miles and was comfortable. When I was through with mile 9, my attitude was good and I felt really good. My time was 1:30, and I almost allowed myself to dream big. Maybe not only three hours was a possibility, maybe 2:45 was.<br />
It's funny how you forget during a race what's really going on. Sometimes it's OK to forget what you're capable of, as I ran a huge PR in Vegas because I didn't let what I'd done in the past dictate would I could do then. But I laughed at myself as I ran on one of the very few flat stretches into the third aid station. I was hitting probably 8-minute miles at 12,500+ feet, and I felt great. I could do anything!<br />
Um, no, you can't.<br />
The hill after the flat stretch was a long one, steep and unforgiving, almost mean, and I took my first walk break about halfway through it, following the lead of others. It felt wonderful to walk a bit and catch my breath, and I wonder if it was a mistake to dig myself deep out of the pain like that because once you do, it's hard to go back. To be honest, I never did go back as far as I needed to get 2:45.<br />
As I ran up the final section of the hill, someone passed me and said, "13,000 feet baby."<br />
13,000 feet had arrived, and I knew running full-time wasn't going to happen any longer. It wasn't the hills, though my calves were starting to really ache, and I worried they would cramp up on me. It wasn't the distance. It was the thin air. By this time, the oxygen was about half of what you'll get at sea level. Greeley is 5,000 feet, so I was a little ready. A little. But I wasn't going to be able to climb a big hill without walking a bit to catch back my breath.<br />
Breathing in thin air is like eating a magic cheeseburger, one that never really fills you up, only it's not as much as the cheeseburger. You take a big gulp, a desperate gulp sometimes, and you never feel that click in your throat that tells you its time to breathe again. Your body's reaction is, naturally, WTF, so you breathe again, maybe a little more ragged, and your heart works harder to get whatever oxygen you're taking in to the body. It's as painful as it sounds.<br />
I never gave up on the idea of running those last two-three miles, but as I continued to climb, my body wouldn't allow it. By the time I got past 13,600, I'd have to pick a rock and tell myself I would run to the rock about 50 yards away, then I could catch my breath again. I wasn't alone: In fact, by this point, I didn't see anyone running the entire time. Those people, the few they are, were already done and probably collecting their age group medals.<br />
In the last mile, most of it inching to 14,000, I did more walking than running. When I did run more than 25 yards, I would get dizzy, like I'd guzzled a whiskey shot, and I'd have to walk again. It was frustrating, but I knew the altitude would get me eventually without preparing for it more<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; clear: right; color: black; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;">I did finish strong, charging up the last two switchbacks, probably in the faint hope that I'd finish under 3 hours. I didn't. 3:03. I'll take i</span>t </span>Sure enough, I finished pretty much in the middle of the pack. Maybe the top third, actually. 173/465 entrants. I ran into an old ultra running friend who finished seconds ahead of me, and we scrambled up to the very top of Evans' summit. We saw dark clouds. Remember what I said about the weather? By the time we ran back down and got in the line for the shuttle, the temperature had dropped 35 degrees, we could hear thunder, and it started to snow. The storm hit in 15 minutes, tops. When another runner said he had room in his car, I jumped at the open seat. I think 75 runners had to drop out or didn't finish.</div>
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I'm tired now. I'll sleep well tonight. Physically I'm beat. Friday wore me out mentally, bad, after the tough week. I'm feeling refreshed now. I know it seems sometimes like I'm this motivated runner and climber, but honestly, I really need it or else I'd go insane. Worse, I'd be a terrible father (and yes, you can be insane and be a good parent; in fact I think it's partially required) who would show a lot less patience than I already do. Nothing else renews me like a good, hard effort, and if it's up a mountain, or outside, with some good scenery, even better. Beaches don't even come close.<br />
Sometimes I wish they did.<br />
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<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08837529956827141862noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17782569.post-28561412759350605102012-05-28T21:37:00.003-06:002012-05-28T21:37:41.587-06:00The Exorcist<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I did not get into running because it looked fun. I know I talk about it a lot now, and the love affair I have with it is stronger than ever, but when I started, back in 2004, it was not out of love.<div>
My son was going to be born soon, and I knew I faced a crossroads in my life. To be blunt, parts of my life would have to change. A lot of parents face this. Thankfully, my choices were the kind I could make myself, rather than something I'd have to change out of necessity. I didn't have any nasty habits to kick. But I'd have to give up some things.</div>
<div>
I hate to say it, but music, at least playing it, was easier. After a long career playing it, I was ready to give it up. I could keep my appreciation for it. I could keep writing about it. I could, of course, keep discovering it and listening to it and have it be a big part of my life. But I could no longer play in a band.</div>
<div>
I had to give up late nights playing video games. I hate to say this too, but that was a little tougher. In fact I never did give them up completely. Damn you, Angry Birds. </div>
<div>
I also realized that my days of climbing a lot of peaks were over. That hurt. Even knowing that I wouldn't have to give them completely, and that, one day, I'd even share them with my kids, it hurt. But climbing takes a lot of time. There was one summer, an especially dry one, when I was chasing all 54 14ers, and with such a limited window to climb them, say, two months, I worked hard to get as many as I could. I was gone basically every weekend. But for some reason, there was one weekend I stayed home, and as we walked out of a movie, my wife said, "It's nice to spend a Saturday with you." </div>
<div>
Oops.</div>
<div>
Despite that, she didn't care because I was home the rest of the year, but she WOULD care, soon, with a baby around. </div>
<div>
Well, I was willing to not only limit my trips, especially after I climbed all the 14ers, but really chop down the dangerous ones as well. In fact, with a kid around, a dangerous peak didn't feel exhilarating as much any longer. At times, it just felt foolhardy.</div>
<div>
The only problem? I'd need a challenge.</div>
<div>
I don't know why I need something in my life like running. We introverted, type A people need goals, I guess. This isn't bragging. It's almost a vice. Everyone deals with their shit differently. Some use drugs, some use women, and some use gambling. I was lucky that it was mountains. That it was goals. Believe me, with my obsessive personality, it could have gone to some pretty dark corners.</div>
<div>
I was searching a bit, once Jayden was born, for that something. That probably explains how I got into poker. It also probably explains how, when I was working on a story about a runner, I wandered into his intervals group to get a feel for a part of his life that meant so much to him that he was willing to risk his health to run the Bolder/Boulder despite his blood cancer. And as it turns out, I ran intervals that night with people who were a lot like me. And that may explain why I kept coming back, even after the story ran, and when someone asked me if I was in the group for good, I said yes, without really even knowing what I was getting into.</div>
<div>
I knew and I didn't know. I knew this was what I was looking for. What I didn't know was the battle I was about to enter. It was a war I would fight within myself. I really wasn't prepared for it either.</div>
<div>
• • • </div>
<div>
If there's one race that I have a love/hate relationship with, it's the Bolder/Boulder. The race always falls on Memorial Day, and really it's the race that started my relationship with running. </div>
<div>
It's also the race that exposed my weakness the most.</div>
<div>
The Bolder/Boulder is not the longest race I do, but it may be the toughest every year. It's a fun race, with belly dancers and bands and people in costumes and qualified waves of only a few hundred at a time to calm the crowds of 50,000 runners and an awesome finish into CU's stadium. It's also above a mile high with relentless hills, and it's a 10K, which means you have to run hard up those hills for a long time, for six miles. In a half marathon, you have the luxury of taking it easy on the hills because you can make up the time later, but a 10K offers no such freedom if you want a good time. It's always a painful race.</div>
<div>
But a lot of these runners do it, and so, so did I. The Bolder/Boulder, after all, represented what kept me coming back to running. Every year, I improved my time there by a minute. That was progress, in black and white, right in front of me. </div>
<div>
And every year, I paid for it dearly.</div>
<div>
Years of mountaineering had prepared me for the exhaustion of running, for pushing yourself much farther than you think you can go and for the discipline of it. But it didn't prepare me for the intensity. When you run, you throw yourself into a fire. Your heart feels like it's going to explode, and you can't breathe, and yet you have to keep going or else you wreck your time and your race.</div>
<div>
When the gun to my wave popped, I was always filled with a sense of dread. Here we go, I thought. Into the flames. And for the next 50 minutes, give or take a few, it was all I could do to stay in them.</div>
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• • •</div>
<div>
Mile 1 always went fine. It was downhill. But by the end of Mile 1, because I hadn't learned how to run a race yet, I was a little more spent than I should have been. This is the slow death. By mile 3, it would catch up to me, probably as I was climbing one of those little bastard hills that just keep coming at you, around every corner. </div>
<div>
At this time, the whispers in my head started. It took me a few years to find a word for them. </div>
<div>
I call them the trolls.</div>
<div>
They aren't demons. There's some good intentions behind them. Running that hard is painful, and truth be told, I'm not sure it's all that great for you. Recovering from a race takes days or weeks. Hell, after my first marathon, it took me a whole SUMMER to recover. The trolls whisper at you to slow down because they're trying to save you from the fire.</div>
<div>
But wait, I would tell them. I can't slow down. I've worked hard for this! I've trained. I've spent hours dipping my toes in the flames. Sure, I'm waist deep now, but...</div>
<div>
Yeah, you're over your head, actually, the trolls would answer. I'm not asking for much. Just walk a touch to get your breath back. Just dip your toes in again. </div>
<div>
I'd fight this fight at every race, back and forth, arguing with myself, but the Bolder Boulder was an extended fight, 12 rounds, Ali versus Frazier. To be honest, when I would run in that stadium and cross the line, I'd feel two things: Shocked that I actually PRd, given how painful it was, and pure relief that it was over. </div>
<div>
I never felt elation. That came later, to be sure, but the rest of that day, I honestly wondered if I would ever do it again. In fact, I thought about quitting twice after Bolder/Boulders. </div>
<div>
Running wasn't fun. It was something I was doing because I made some wonderful friends in it, and I needed that challenge in my life. And I was addicted to the progress. Because of who I am. I needed it.</div>
<div>
That's why I wasn't bragging earlier. It was something I had to do, like drugs, rather than something I truly enjoyed and wanted. I also felt trapped. I'd worked so hard that quitting would mean losing all that work.</div>
<div>
And then I read an article by Kara Goucher, who is now one of my heroes. She talked about the very thing that I battled. She talked about her battle with the trolls during her racing career. Goucher is immensely talented, the kind of runner I'll never be, a gap, in fact, that was equal to Peyton Manning and a high school quarterback. </div>
<div>
And yet she was struggling with the very thing I was battling. </div>
<div>
And not only that, she found a way to beat them.</div>
<div>
• • • </div>
<div>
I won't go into the article because that's not really the point here. The point isn't how she beat them. It's that she COULD beat them. Running was a painful thing, and the mental struggles were so embedded in it, I just figured they were a part of it, sort of like the kind of hits Manning has to take from linebackers to throw a touchdown. </div>
<div>
In fact, Goucher's technique, to recite a word over and over that encouraged her, didn't really work for me. I used a word, "Fight," for a while, and it decayed the trolls, but it didn't banish them. </div>
<div>
What I did, instead, was start to question the purpose of them. If they weren't going to help me during a race, why did I keep them around? </div>
<div>
Why didn't I, in other words, go tell them to fuck themselves when they started cropping up? </div>
<div>
So that's what I started to do. I told them, whenever they would whisper in my ear, that they were no longer welcome. </div>
<div>
I exorcised them.</div>
<div>
This was harder than I'm making it sound. It took years to find something that worked for me. I'll share a few things that helped me, briefly, knowing that you'll have to find your own:</div>
<div>
• I learned to start a race slow, slower, in fact, than my goal pace. I used to start faster than my goal pace, sometimes by 30 seconds per mile, and so inevitably I'd get gassed, and a gassed body is a prime host for trolls. </div>
<div>
• I learned to run a race with an even effort. This doesn't mean an even pace. It means when I was running up those goddam hills of the Bolder/Boulder, my pace was slower. But my effort was the same. When I was rewarded with a downhill, I'd run faster than my goal pace because it was easier. </div>
<div>
• I learned to smile during a race. This really works. If you're smiling, you relax, and when you relax, the pain just isn't as bad. Try it sometime. </div>
<div>
• I also learned to stay positive. As cheesy as this sounds — and believe me, I'm rolling my eyes as I type this, as it sounds SO Mister Rodgers — I tell myself I can do this, good job, see that hill wasn't so bad, etc. I replace the negative trolls with, um, positive angels, I guess. </div>
<div>
• Truth be told, I got a lot better as a runner. So my pain tolerance increased for it, and I got to a point where I could run a long, long way without it hurting. Running is truly rewarding because it gives you back what you put into it. I can't think of anything else like this. Not even your kids. Maybe your dog. </div>
<div>
• I also put LOTS of heavy metal in my race mixes. The trolls, apparently, are afraid of a lot of yelling and loud guitars. Someone asked me once how I can stand to have someone yelling at me during a race. They're not yelling at me. They're yelling with me. The trolls don't stand much of a chance.</div>
<div>
• • • </div>
<div>
I write this blog today, another incredibly long, rambling post, because I ran the Bolder/Boulder in 46:06. That's yet another minute PR, and that's more than four minutes faster than when I began running it seriously in 2006. That may not sound like a lot, and I suppose it isn't. But it's a lifetime in the running world. It's a lifetime for me.</div>
<div>
But it's not the time that gets me so excited.</div>
<div>
The trolls are just a faint whisper now, like a lost child in a deep cave. I barely heard them at all today even as I ran as hard as I ever have. </div>
<div>
This isn't a war that will end. I haven't conquered them completely. I'll be honest. I had a pacer today. I wonder if my trolls were silenced by his encouragement. I don't think so, but I can't say for sure. I still avoid 5Ks, because a 5K is 20 minutes of hell. And I dodged the mile run last Wednesday. I still hate the mile. It's only six minutes or less, and yet the trolls are not only a whisper in those six minutes, they are a chorus.</div>
<div>
And when I crossed the line today, I felt relief once again, just like I always do. I even collapsed a bit. But I got up. I smiled, got a drink of water, then met my friends to laugh about our time spent in the fire.</div>
<div>
Today's race made me realize something. I don't need the trolls any longer because the fire's been good to me. I don't want to be saved from it any longer. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08837529956827141862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17782569.post-1809640024367512202012-04-19T12:55:00.000-06:002012-04-19T12:55:56.117-06:00The disconnect between the movie reviewer and the one review is for<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I just watched "The Tree of Life." I think I was supposed to really like it. That's what the movie reviewers say. I wanted to like it. It had artists shots of nature and lots of classical music and Brad Pitt, and I'm a Brad Pitt fan, who is, strangely, an underrated actor because of his looks and ability to date the world's most beautiful women.<br />
But I have a confession. I didn't get "The Tree of Life." In fact, I think I hated it.<br />
I was supposed to like it because movie reviewers told me I should. If you go by Rotten Tomatoes, 85 percent of the critics liked it. It was on the Top 10 lists of many critics I trust, including my favorite, Peter Travers of Rolling Stone. He even makes fun of people like me, apparently, who want silly things like some semblance of a story or dialogue that isn't whispered like I'm engaged in some sort of creepy pillow talk with the actors.<br />
"Artistic ambition is a bitch," Travers writes in his three-and-a-half-stars review of the movie. "Mainstream audiences yawn you off."<br />
OK, so reviewers liked a movie and I didn't. It happens. But then I watched "The Future" yesterday. This movie wasn't as highly praised as "The Tree of Life." I don't think it made many top-10 lists. Yet more than 70 percent liked it. Many top critics liked it too. And that movie SUCKED. It was bizzare for all the wrong reasons, and by the end, I hated the characters so much, I was rooting for zombies to attack them, and that reminded me of the second season of "The Walking Dead," and then I became angry and folded laundry. Folding laundry when you're angry is never a good idea. You get a little too pissed off when you can't find a matching sock.<br />
And it hit me that movie reviewers never seem to review movies for their readers. They seem to review them for other reviewers.<br />
I believe I can say this because I am a movie snob. I'm not, as Travers seems to think, "the mainstream audience." In fact, I think I probably watch movies in the same way reviewers watch them. I look for depth of story, originality, real characters, great dialogue and writing and artistic, inventive direction. I try to watch all the movies on reviewers' top-10 lists. I usually like them.<br />
I hate the Twilight movies without even watching them and any Michael Bay movie. My soul weeps when Transformers makes trillions of dollars. I, like most critics, believe a lot of mainstream movies suck.<br />
I watch well-reviewed movies almost exclusively and prefer deep, thought-provoking ones the most.<br />
I've had this conversation with my wife many times:<br />
"Hey, do you want to watch this movie with me?"<br />
"Is it one of your weird movies?"<br />
"Um....maybe."<br />
"No."<br />
So why am I writing this screed because I didn't like a couple of experimental films? Isn't that a bit much? No. It's actually a symptom of a much larger problem.<br />
I rely on movie reviewers to tell me what's good. I have three small kids. I have lots of other things to do. I run. I work. Sometimes I play with the kids and the dog. I can't just "go to a movie" most of the time. So when I see something like "The Future," I've not only seen a bad movie, I've lost two, precious, jewel-encrusted hours of free time.<br />
I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one who has a busy life. I'm pretty sure, in fact, others get angry too when they see a lousy movie.<br />
Now I don't always need reviewers to pick my movies for me. I knew I'd love "The Descendants." Alexander Payne? Sold. I'll watch anything by Pixar. The new Batman movie? I'm there. I'll see "The Artist" because it won Best Picture, and if I hate it, I can blame the Academy, which is cool by me.<br />
And in fairness to reviewers, my trust in them is well put. I put "Take Shelter" in my Netflix cue because it got great ratings, and I loved it. I saw "Phoebe in Wonderland" and wound up buying it as an all-time favorite. I discovered Payne this way. I doubt I would have heard of any of those movies otherwise.<br />
Lately, though, my trust seems misplaced. I was on the fence about "Tree of Life." I'm not a Terrence Malick fan after the disaster that was "The Thin Red Line." But so many critics raved about it. Travers, for instance. So, OK. I rented it.<br />
Movie reviewers, in other words, are getting it wrong perhaps more than they should, at least this year and last. And I think I know why.<br />
It's their job to sit through movies all week, every week. They don't get to avoid the Twilight films like I do. They have to see them. They have to see Transformers. They have to watch all those horrible romances and torture-porn flicks and reboots and remakes and mindless children's crap like "Happy Feet Two."<br />
Last year, sequels made up one-fifth of the nationwide releases, according to Box Office Mojo. That doesn't include reboots, remakes or swill like "Jack and Jill." Not all sequels are bad. But even Pixar made "Cars II," and that was Pixar's only bad movie ever. When Pixar can't deliver, you know you're having a bad year.<br />
Eddie Murphy once joked about sex and how a woman controls our minds with it. She will make us wait forever, he said, until she finally gives in, and you think it's the best ever.<br />
If you're starving, Murphy said, in a paraphrase here, and someone gives you a Saltine, you're going to think it's a Ritz.<br />
If I were a movie critic, in other words, I'd like "The Tree of Life" too. In fact, I'd LOVE it. A movie with its own artistic vision? One that doesn't have vampires that look like GQ cover models who just gave a pint too much of blood? One that has some semblance of originality? Something different from most of the crap being shoveled my way? And it isn't a sequel, and it's ambitious? Sold. Three-and-a-half stars.<br />
I'd probably even somehow like "The Future." The movie was awful, but at least it was an attempt to be original.<br />
I probably wouldn't even care that those movies were difficult to watch, weren't enjoyable or actually kind of sucked too. They were different, didn't feature aliens blowing something up and had some decent acting. They were original. They were ambitious, even if those ambitions fell short. Sold.<br />
So why don't I follow the same theory? I don't have to sit through movies all day. I don't have the time for it either. I get to watch what I consider the good stuff. When a movie sucks, then, it stands out even more. Critics are far too used to sitting through swill, and it's clouding their vision for the rest of us.<br />
I kind wanted to be a movie critic, but lately I've reconsidered that job. Wesley Morris of the Boston Globe just won a Pulitzer for his movie reviews. In one of his essays that won, he reviewed "The Tree of Life." He wrote that the vision was lovely but not easy to understand. He sort of liked it for its originality but also seemed to wonder if it really was a good movie.<br />
Morris earned that damned prize.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08837529956827141862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17782569.post-56757801617636055572012-04-16T19:29:00.000-06:002012-04-16T19:29:59.777-06:00Operation Tonsils<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Hospitals still give me the creeps, the kind that raise goosebumps on your arms, and that, like many things, can be traced to my childhood.<br />
<div>Every year for a number of years, since I was small, I had to have tubes put in my ears so they would drain properly. It was a 10-minute procedure. I had this done five times. I always got sick from the anesthetic.<br />
But the reason I think I'm still afraid of hospitals isn't because of the tubes. Not one of those operations traumatized me nearly as much as the time I got my tonsils out.</div><div>I was 5, and I think the gas mask was the worst of it. They strapped me down to the bed, which was really a cage with sheets, and held the mask over my face as they wheeled me into a room filled with stern faces, alien-bright lights and a lot of cold steel. Now, remember, I was 5, and as far as I knew, they were going to do all kinds of horrible experiments on me, the kind I did to one of my teddy bears a couple months ago, because no one had told me any different. No one explained anything to me, in fact. That book I got explaining the surgery and how I was going to get to eat dump trucks full of ice cream after it was over? LIES. So I fought. Nurses, back then, were all sized to be NFL linebackers, and they were about as mean, and they sat on me and held me down, scowling at my tears. Then they put the mask over my face, again, and a thorny python wrapped a dizzy body around me. </div><div>"I feel funny!" I screamed, and one of the doctors laughed, which sounded evil at the time, and this horrible blackness swept over my eyes, as if I was being thrown into a pit.</div><div>When I woke up, kicking and hollering, because, remember, I was being tortured when I fell asleep, I cried for Mommy, and one of the linebackers came over, grabbed my legs and strapped my arms to the bars on the side of the bed. Then I noticed my throat felt as if it had been torn out. </div><div>Then I threw up blood that night.</div><div>Needless to say, when we learned Jayden's tonsils looked to doctors like the size of beach balls - some of the biggest ones he's ever seen, one told us later - I was dreading the day they would have to come out.</div><div>That day was last week.</div><div>Jayden was in tears as I pulled in the garage from an eight-mile run with our new dog. I told him I would meet him there. I needed to shower. I also didn't need him to see me. I would pull it together in the shower, I told myself, and put on a brave face for him. But now wasn't a good time.</div><div>• • • </div><div>When I walked into his waiting room a half-hour later, he was dressed in blue spaceman scrubs, which looked cozy, and watching Elmo on a TV that came with the bed, which looked like a bed, not a cage with sheets.</div><div>Elmo?</div><div>And yet his emotions were the same as mine 35 years ago.</div><div>"Daddy," he said. "I'm scared."</div><div>Well, I'm glad you can tell them that, I said. It's OK to be scared.</div><div>Three times, a nurse, a doctor and the guy putting Jayden to sleep came in and explained what was going to happen. Apparently medical people have figured out that most kids, just like most adults, do better when they know what's going to happen to them.<br />
They've also figured out Elmo helps as well.</div><div>Sleepytime Doc came in later, heard that Jayden was nervous, as he told everyone, and said he could give Jayden something for that. Jayden said sure. Doc brought back a cherry-flavored liquid. Jayden gulped it down because, hey, it looked good, and it WAS good, and five minutes later, he was loopy, like he'd had a few too many shots. Jayden, apparently, is a happy drunk.</div><div>The doc wouldn't tell me what it was. I don't blame him. I could make a killing on the street. Give me that before a marathon, and I'm qualifying for Boston.</div><div>Then a nurse came in two minutes later and had Jayden try on the mask. Ah, the dreaded mask, I thought to myself. There's no sugarcoating this. </div><div>Jayden took a sniff.</div><div>"Yum," he said.</div><div>Yum?</div><div>"Yeah," the nurse said. "The gas smells like Skittles."</div><div>Skittles?</div><div>Are you kidding me?</div><div>I turned to Jayden and used a cliche. I rarely use them. But this time it was appropriate.</div><div>"Jayden," I said, as I hopped off the bed, right before they wheeled him away, "this is not your father's tonsil operation."</div><div>• • •</div><div>They called me in a half-hour later, one of the very few times that Jayden's wanted me over Mommy, and Jayden was in bed with an orange popsicle in his mouth. It was his second one already. He was not strapped down. His nurse didn't look like an NFL linebacker. She looked a little plump, a little cute and very sweet.</div><div>"You'll see some blood on his hands or face. Don't let that worry you," a nurse said.</div><div>"Cool," I said.</div><div>I'm big on battle scars. I always liked to bring home a small gash after climbing a mountain. We called them souvenirs. Besides, there had to be something from this operation that made me squirm.</div><div>After his third popsicle, the nurse told Jayden she could move him to another room. There was a TV in there. He could watch a movie. They had "The Incredibles." She offered him a slushy. Blue.</div><div>"I have a secret recipe," she said.</div><div>Of course she did.</div><div>• • • </div><div>Lest you think I was hoping my son would suffer, of course I didn't want that. But HOLY COW I couldn't help but feel a little, well, jealous of how much better the experience was. It made me feel proud that our country actually has evolved in some areas. We CAN make improvements on procedures and things other than cell phones. Technology does have a purpose beyond Angry Birds. But it also made me feel old. My operation seemed like from another time, like it was back during World War II or something.</div><div>That was, until we brought him home.</div><div>We've been up every night at least a couple times since that night. The third night, when we moved him back to his room from our bed, he woke up screaming and shaking the pain was so bad. We haven't been up this consistently in the middle of the night since the girls had their first birthday.<br />
Just the last couple of nights have been better. When he does get up, it's briefly, and after some medicine, he goes back to sleep. He doesn't demand slushees around the clock now. His scabs appear to be healing a bit. But if I ever did get tired of his whining and was tempted to tell him to suck it up a bit, all I had to do was look at the gaping holes in the back of his throat.<br />
• • •</div><div>Technology has helped us as well as Jayden. We have a ice treats machine that I relentlessly teased my wife for buying a year ago — it seemed to me to be like a salad shooter, an appliance invented just because our basic needs were so met that we think we need something that can fire a radish across the kitchen — that's now, I think, the best thing we've ever bought. It makes one of those slushys in two minutes, and when it's 2:30 a.m. and your boy is hollering from the pain upstairs, it's a lifesaver. I wish they had one for breast milk about five years ago. It would have saved us a lot of sleep.<br />
He's spent a lot of time on his Nintendo DS. Super Mario, like Coedine, tends to numb the pain.<br />
I don't remember much beyond the hospital after my tonsil operation, but I do remember that first night. Dad stayed up with me most of the night as I tried to cry my pain and sickness away.<br />
Despite the cushy parts, this hasn't been easy. We've made about a billion of those slushees now. Jayden is so sensitive that he wants one of us to sit next to him at night at all times, especially when it's time for him to go to bed. He's been nasty and sad and sometimes he's still been our first baby despite the fact that he's 6.<br />
He needs us now.</div><div>Technology will never replace parenting. At least I hope not. If Jayden doesn't have to go through these rough patches with his own kids I'll be jealous again. Only I'll also be a little sad for him.<br />
<br />
</div><div><br />
</div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08837529956827141862noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17782569.post-32139274144647627682012-03-25T21:37:00.000-06:002012-03-25T21:37:36.214-06:00The canine line<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I had to wait until I was in junior high school to get my first dog. I guess I had shamed my parents enough by then.<br />
He was worth the long wait.<br />
He had the name of millions. Sparky. But — and I say this unabashedly, even when I know how corny it sounds — he really was one of a kind.<br />
I did have a dog when I was much younger, two, actually, but both wound up not working out too well. I don't remember the first, a beagle that, my parents told me later, jumped all over me ruthlessly. That dog was built for the field, not a home with a toddler, and he was gone a year later. The second was Max, and Max was great to me, but as it turns out, too great, as he bit a few other children to protect me or his ball. I do remember that. We gave him away too.<br />
So looking back, I can't blame my parents for making me settle for a hamster.<br />
As it turns out, my parents probably congratulated themselves on their brilliant coup, for the hamster was a good pet. The first one anyway. I named him George, and save for two "Escape From Alcatraz"-like jailbreaks —he'd learned how to do pull-ups on the cage and yank himself over the top, so if you left the lid open, you were screwed —he was Hamster of the Year two years in a row. He loved to be held, ate carrots in my lap and rarely peed on my leg, despite the fact that I had him out most of the day. I don't think you can ask much more of a hamster than that. My brother had similar luck with his first. I think her name was Sadie.<br />
Those were high standards, I'll admit, and rather than even attempt to try to match them, the next few hamsters owned by me and my brother failed miserably. One passed the pet store test, but when we brought her home, liked to crawl in my hand and bite me like my palm was a piece of steak. Another HISSED at us. And a few just died of some strange disease the pet stores called "wet-tail."<br />
I remember the last time, on my third replacement for George, when it died, when my parents finally gave into my tears as I pleaded for a dog. I was going through a bad stretch in my life, perhaps my worst. Junior high school was no joke. I was teased and needed therapy for depression. Seriously. Rather than put me on medication, they gave in and got us a dog.<br />
That's all I needed.<br />
• • •<br />
It wasn't just us. Everyone loved Sparky.<br />
He was a beautiful dog, for one thing, a miniature version of Lassie, and in our society, beauty always helps. But just as there are sweet supermodels, sometimes personality is not only a bonus, it's the reason you love. Sparky lived in a world where most of us, including me, aren't allowed. It was a world where everyone was someone to be trusted and enjoyed rather than feared. That was unusual for a sheltie, but his past was clean, and since we got him as a puppy, we kept it that way.<br />
We had next-door neighbors with a lifelong friend of mine who loved shelties, and if one ever came over, Sparky barked until he or she took them over to their house for a visit. Later, when I brought him to Greeley after I grew up (sorta), he wandered from apartment to apartment on his good days. He loved playing tug-o-war with his sock, and I'm already going too long about it. You can read more about him in this <a href="http://www.greeleytribune.com/article/20120305/NEWS/703059951&parentprofile=search" target="_blank">column</a> I wrote for the Greeley Tribune, but don't click on it just yet. Sparky is only kind of the point, and the subject of the column may jar you a bit.<br />
He lived 15 years, and when I finally had to let him go after his kidneys shut down, I waited a long time to get another dog. That wasn't necessarily by design. I had a cat, a wonderful stray I called GK who was like a dog that meowed.<br />
(On a side note, cats may have to rethink their position on this planet because as much as I love them —GK saw to that —the best compliment I can give a cat is that it's like a dog).<br />
When I met Kate, she had cruel allergies that would not let her have a cat, and she tried her heart out, but in a close call, right down to inches on the tape, I had to give GK up to a great home.<br />
(On another side note, I knew I made the right choice when they contacted me just recently to tell me about her death after what we think was her 17 years of life. They acted as I did with Sparky, waiting until her pain was too much, which told me all I needed to know. She had cat buddies and a constant lap, which was all she needed).<br />
At this point I knew myself. Another hamster wasn't going to cut it. We went to the shelter looking for a husky.<br />
And what we got was Denali.<br />
• • •<br />
Sometimes you find a dog, and sometimes, dogs find you. That's how we got Denali. He was a golden retriever mix with raggy, yellow fur, but he nabbed us with his tail. It wouldn't stop wagging. Later it was his eyes and sweet, needy personality. He was the dog who taught us to be parents.<br />
Now you can click on the column.<br />
Yeah.<br />
I know now why there are a dozen ghost shows on TV, and why many of them are popular. I swear I can still hear his tags around the house. The habits have stayed with me, too. I reach for his snout when I open the door after work. I wait by the back door and call his name before I leave for the day. I hear a jingle and wonder what he's getting into.<br />
Kate told me she wanted to wait to get another dog, probably past July, and I agreed with her.<br />
But sometimes you find a dog, and sometimes, dogs find you.<br />
After the column ran to a predictable cascade of letters and messages, one caught my eye. It was from a recent but trusted friend telling me about her dog. She was fighting, being attacked really, by their other, older dog. They got her in November.<br />
Everything about her sounded great. She was an Australian shepherd mix, calm and loving but active, which meant I could both run and snuggle with her. She was great with small kids, scrawny but a good size, a chewer but only on her own toys. She was good on a leash. She was well trained. She liked other dogs and did well at the dog park. She would need exercise, but anyone who knows me - and I know you do if you've made it this far - knows that isn't a problem.<br />
I'm a firm believer in shelter dogs. I will always adopt. They got her from the shelter. But I also know, from our experience with Denali, that many of those dogs are unpredictable at first, with unknown histories, and with our family, that was not only a bit dangerous, it was foolhardy.<br />
Here was a chance we may not have again for a while.<br />
Kate, at first, didn't want anything to do with it, and I didn't blame her. I felt guilty for asking so soon after Denali. How could we replace him? But I went to see her, and she was everything we thought.<br />
I knew Kate had softened her thoughts after she asked for a picture. Then she asked if we could change the name.<br />
We picked her up today.<br />
Say hi to Ranae.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfrPE_Y-PYhGuCiiJ_V8P3Dj8eDvs44oTvO8wg71SyUumwx6KdDSfD2gIjYC2vb-VB7VAlWgY0ajQt-uVY1a8bDZLbjj_onpivw3TjqtSVPuS0lT6Fqns1RMIcQmCf5e4y8MUFGQ/s1600/IMG_1558.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfrPE_Y-PYhGuCiiJ_V8P3Dj8eDvs44oTvO8wg71SyUumwx6KdDSfD2gIjYC2vb-VB7VAlWgY0ajQt-uVY1a8bDZLbjj_onpivw3TjqtSVPuS0lT6Fqns1RMIcQmCf5e4y8MUFGQ/s320/IMG_1558.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
It may take a while before we feel the same love for her that we did for Denali or I did for Sparky. But that's OK. Sometimes a dog finds you if you let it happen. Maybe something else was guiding this. The hand of Dog, if you will.<br />
On that note, despite my belief in some sort of higher power, I'm honestly not sure if there's a heaven. But I'm open to the idea because where else would Sparky and Denali be now? Just before we put Denali down, before I told him I loved him and thanked him for 11 incredible years, I told him about Sparky.<br />
Sparky loved everyone, I told him, and he'll love you. You two need to find each other and play. Maybe one day, Ranae and I will see you both again.<br />
<br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08837529956827141862noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17782569.post-51417213156624695422012-02-11T11:15:00.000-07:002012-02-11T11:15:01.232-07:00Livin Long After Midnight<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">My longtime running partner canceled on me. I was a runner without a weekend run.<br />
I knew of one other group going out on a Saturday morning. When I thought about joining, I laughed it off.<br />
There wasn't one in the group who wasn't a friend. I'd run with all of them before. I liked all of them. But many of the rest of my running peeps, including me, looked at them with a combination of bewilderment, awe and a little fear, the same way frat boys might look at the guy who can bong five beers in a minute. They were my friends, yes, but these peeps were hardcore. They were all kinds of crazy. They partied.<br />
They were fast. They started their runs at 4:30 a.m. They wouldn't let anything in the weather stop them.<br />
I could match them on the weather — I have not run on the treadmill once this winter, despite many single-digit or snowy days — but I wasn't sure about the pace, and 4:30 a.m.??? I'd get up that early for a trip up a mountain, a baby or maybe a race.<br />
And yet, I couldn't shake the thought. It was early, but it's fun to run different routes, with different people. And, to be honest, I wanted to see if I could do it.<br />
So that's why I turned off my alarm clock at 3:55 a.m. I was already up, in anticipation of the extra-early wake-up that was going to jolt me out of happyland. I left the pillow and the warm sheets and my sleeping wife, and I looked out the bedroom window just before I started getting dressed.<br />
Snow fell in chunks. The streets were white. Our clock inside the house said it was barely 10 degrees.<br />
Last night, the wind was howling. I wasn't thrilled about the morning snow, the frost in the air or the fact that the sun wouldn't come up until we were done, but I'd take all that over a gusty gale.<br />
I flipped on the coffee, spread peanut butter and honey over my toast and grabbed a couple Gatorades. I breathed deep. Time to go.<br />
* * *<br />
After the race in Vegas, I fell into a slump. It took almost as long to recover from the half as it did my full this year. I felt sluggish and shitty and not even remotely excited about running. My ass hurt on every run. I got the flu and after felt as if I was running with a knife in my chest thanks to an acid reflux flare-up. I skipped the traditional Super Bowl 5K.<br />
I kept running because I am loathe to stop an activity for fear of losing what I've worked so hard to gain. And it was the only real way to see many of my closest peeps. And I still enjoyed it, even if it sucked. I'd been through bad stretches before, and I was encouraged because this snap started because I ran hard in Vegas, maybe harder than I'd ever ran before, and the result was proof: Seven minutes faster than last year's PR half in Denver.<br />
But out of nowhere, almost, this week I felt great. I had a good tempo run, stomping all over the damn hill at mile 3. I ran 12 quarter-miles on Wednesday in 1:36 or less, with the last four the fastest. So I told myself I could hang with this crazy, wild crowd, at least this week, and the snow actually gave me even more confidence. It evened the playing field, throwing a layer of slick under the cheetahs' paws. And running in shitty weather was practically my speciality, a leftover from my days as a hardass mountain climber.<br />
We got little reminders all through the first hour that this was, well, different. Flakes slapped at our eyelids and occasionally stung our pupils, but despite was Corey Hart said, we could not wear sunglasses, even if technically it was just really early in the morning. When we ran up hills, runners either begged for traction or, as in my case, wore spikes that gripped the road but beat up our feet. At least one runner fell, hard, and because of her scouting report, I barely dodged a pothole that would have thrown me to the snow as well. When I ate a gel, it was cold and hard, like choking down a slug.<br />
Conversations were sparse even if they were frequent. The snow, the hazy cold and the dark felt like we were running down a dream, as if we were contained in our effort, in the ache and the breathing and the simpleness of it, and though I knew where we were at all times, it all felt different, too.<br />
We picked up new partners an hour later, and when we stopped to gather them into the group, my mind left the zone for a moment and dreamed about the car and a shower and food. I put my head down and tried to focus on the run again. Thoughts like that are dangerous.<br />
Even so, they are also delicious when you can feel the end. My watch was close to two hours, just under 13 miles, and so me and a couple others peeled off from the group of badasses and made our way back. Heat, a shower and my family were waiting at home. They probably weren't even up yet.<br />
I got back in the car. I was so cold I left the face mask on the whole drive home, and the car never seemed to heat up. But I reached down and turned on Judas Priest's greatest hits on the CD player. One of my favorites, the band's biggest hit, "You've Got Another Thing Comin'," started blasting over the speakers.<br />
Rob Halford sang the first line. "One life I'm gonna live it up." And as my car slid on the snow and I wiped frozen snot off my face, I sang with him.<br />
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08837529956827141862noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17782569.post-68547699890819749952012-02-03T17:40:00.002-07:002012-02-03T17:40:26.257-07:00A letter to my twin girls<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">It's a tradition to write a Valentine's Day letter to the pre-schoolers at the place where my girls attend.<br />
Here is what I wrote to them:<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dear Andie and Allie - </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We have tried not to lump you in with each other. We sing "Happy Birthday" twice on your special day. We don't make you wear the same clothes. We don't even buy you the same toys at Christmas, even at the risk of a fight later on. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">But we're writing this letter to both of you, rather than each of you, because the point of this letter is for both of you.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The reason we have tried to treat you like two daughters, rather than a unit, is because you are individuals. Fiercely so, sometimes, as we saw with many tantrums last year. Allie is gentle and careful and Andie attacks the world with the spirit of a wildland fire. Allie, you like Hello Kitty, a tribute to your middle name, Katherine, after Mommy, because we call you "Allie Cat." Andie, you like fairies such as Tinkerbell, the kind of characters who have the same energy and wonder about the world as you.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">There will be many people who will try to assign you roles because you are twins. Allie will be The Dancer, and Andie will be The Athlete. Allie will be the dainty one, and Andie will be the Tomboy. People like categories. But the best thing about you two is even though you were born at the same time, and you even carry the same genes, like you were scooped from the same bowl of ice cream, you really are individuals. You are as different as your DNA is the same.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">It's OK to be proud of being a twin. We love it. We brag about you all the time, and we've learned a lot ourselves. On the few occasions you let us pick your outfits out, sometimes we like to dress you two alike. And though we say we're sorry when we mistake you for your sister, which you always correct before we finish the sentence, we also think it's funny. Stand up for each other. Be as close when you graduate high school as you are now in pre-school. Love each other.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">But never, ever forget you are your own person. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We don't think you will. In fact, we already feel sorry for the people who think otherwise.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We love you,</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Mommy and Daddy</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08837529956827141862noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17782569.post-27711698975256497102012-01-18T21:45:00.001-07:002012-01-18T21:53:02.422-07:00When you're out there, you're family<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I've said it before. I'll say it again. I'm not an athlete.<br />
I slouch so much, I wonder if my future job will be ringing church bells.<br />
I can't dribble down a basketball court and run at the same time. My shot is a heave, even at the free throw line.<br />
I can run down a football field, as long as I hold the ball out in front of me, meaning a mosquito could cause me to fumble. I can catch, too, as long as it's a pitch. I can defend, as long as there's no such thing as pass interference, as grabbing the shirt and hanging on for dear life is my only move.<br />
I dance worse than the members of Genesis. I've never tried hockey because I can't skate. I've never swung a golf club, and it's my goal in life to never do so. I was always picked last in kickball. I "roped" too much in tetherball. I was good in volleyball until I got out of high school and I learned the nets were higher than my forehead. Bummer. Because, you guessed it, I can't jump.<br />
Sure, I can climb mountains, pretty well, in fact, even if I've tried to perform open heart surgery on myself many times while learning how to self arrest on snow. But if you want to know the truth, mountain climbing, even at my somewhat advanced level, is full of guys like me, introverted, introspective, semi-geeky types who love mountaineering simply because it gives us a chance to get our grrr on. When I climbed Mount Rainier with the guiding group RMI many years ago, our group of 24 had, I believe, 21 engineers. Seriously. When I said I was a writer, everyone looked up and stared at me, like I was the guy with bottle-coke glasses stepping into a biker bar. In this case, I suppose, it was the opposite.<br />
Somehow, despite all this, I love sports. I love the NFL, sorta love baseball, kinda love hockey and the NBA and dearly love my Kansas Jayhawks and college basketball. When Kansas destroyed Baylor Monday night, I felt a buzz, as if I was drunk off a good lager. Some of my best memories are playing in the basketball band and going to the Final Four with the team and leaving Allen Field House with my ears ringing not from the trumpets but from the crowd.<br />
Yet because I can't do the things they can, the athletes look like a circus act. The circus, if it's not one of those stupid ones that make animals do tricks, is designed to entertain you with acts that seem impossible. And it's not much different when I watch, say, Thomas Robinson grab a basketball with one hand on an alley-oop and <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hIa2sPE5cHI" target="_blank">flush it</a> through the cord. Go ahead and watch it. I'll wait.<br />
You back? Wow, right? Only there's NO WAY I could do that. I probably couldn't catch an alley pop with one hand with my feet planted firmly on the ground.<br />
I know what you're saying. Not many can do that, Dan. True. But many of you have played sports. So you know what they're feeling. You may not dunk like Robinson, but you know the smell of the court, the sweat off your eyes, the sticky blisters on your feet. How a ball sounds on the hardwood.<br />
Your spikes have stabbed at the grass. You've crushed a ball down the left field line. You've scored a goal in soccer.<br />
I had no idea what it was like to watch athletes and relate to them in any way.<br />
Until I watched the Olympic Marathon Trials Saturday.<br />
Now look, don't get me wrong. Anyone who ran the marathon in Houston Saturday was an athlete, and a serious one at that. Their VO2 maxes are off the charts, their resting heart rates are probably in the 40s, if not lower, and their bodies, as far as I could tell, were so lean, fat was an anti-matter. They were built to survive a zombie takeover.<br />
These guys, and gals, were basically sprinting for 26 miles.<br />
I can't relate to that.<br />
And yet, I knew what they were feeling.<br />
I'm a runner too.<br />
I could see Deena Kastor, one of my heroes, straining at mile 8, and I knew the pace would be too much for her proud, 38-year-old body. Sure enough, she fell off the pace almost right away. I think she finished seventh or eighth. It reminded me of a half marathon in Moab, when my partners were blazing into a strong headwind, and I tried to hold on to their pace for as long as I could, but I knew I'd have to let them go.<br />
I could see Abdi Abdirahman pumping his arms and waving to the crowd, and my wife asked me why he was raising the roof. "He's not," I said. "He's trying to draw some energy from them."<br />
That told me he was struggling a bit, and sure enough, at mile 21, his legs stiffened, his arms pumped like a machine about to break, and his feet seemed to flop forward. That reminded me of my last mile in Vegas, when a crash could wreck my beautiful PR and all I needed to do was just hold on and run. All Abdirahman needed to do was hold the brutal pace of 5-minute miles, faster than I've ever run a mile, like, ever. EVER. And he would make the Olympics.<br />
I'd been there many times. My goal was not the Olympics, or even to win the race. But many times I've been there, just trying to hold on until the end, dreaming about nothing but not feeling that pain any longer.<br />
I love running for many reasons, and I've talked about them plenty in earlier posts. I think one of the best reasons for me is I now know what athletes are feeling during a big event. It adds to the enjoyment of it. I know what it means to run a 2:09 marathon, the times the top three had to run to qualify for the games, even if I'll never run that fast (my last marathon, which I was very proud of, was a 3:43).<br />
Heck, I KNOW an elite runner. She's ran with us many times. She ran in the trials Saturday. She's Wendy Thomas. She finished 12th at 2:34, and four years ago, she would have finished seventh. It's pretty incredible. There's no ceiling for her, either, and some are saying she has a shot at the Olympics in four years. Yowza. I followed up on her performance in my <a href="http://www.greeleytribune.com/ARTICLE/20120116/NEWS/701169979/1002/RSS" target="_blank">column</a> Tuesday.<br />
Yep. I feel what elite athletes are feeling now.<br />
And now I run with a bunch of athletes. I'm in a group. We all met Wednesday for drinks to celebrate the performance of Wendy and others I run with regularly who ran Sunday and qualified for the Boston Marathon.<br />
I left feeling like I was part of a family.<br />
A family of athletes.<br />
It makes me think that maybe, just maybe, I'm one myself now.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08837529956827141862noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17782569.post-10194942457857427762012-01-06T20:59:00.000-07:002012-01-06T20:59:28.713-07:00Addicted to disconnection<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">My wife looked at me funny when I asked her where she was at gymnastics.<br />
We were on the second shift of gymnastics. My son was done, and it was the girls' turn. I was doing what I was told, as usual, and waiting for Jayden to put his clothes on so I could take him home. I missed Kate taking the girls in, so I gathered up Jayden, who was protesting that he wanted to be with Mom, and put him in the car.<br />
"What do you mean?" she said later when I asked her why I missed her. "I talked to you. You answered. Allie came up to say hi."<br />
I might as well have been sleepwalking.<br />
Only I wasn't asleep.<br />
I was looking at my iPhone.<br />
To my credit, I was reading a story, a long, narrative story, the kind that makes me a better writer. But I can't just say I'm devoted to my craft. I'm really devoted to the phone. Sometimes, I wonder, more than my kids.<br />
My iPhone is my favorite thing now. It has Angry Birds, e-mail, texting, Twitter, Facebook, Words With Friends and lots of other things to keep me from talking to anyone, even my family.<br />
Lots of <a href="http://www.webmd.com/balance/features/addicted-your-smartphone-what-to-do">articles</a> have come out in the last year about the addictive nature of smartphones, one of the more obvious things to cover in the last couple of years. Anytime I'm in a waiting area, or in a place where humans might actually interact with each other, two out of every three people are buried in their phones. I'm no different. I probably spend more time on my phone than I do read a book, read the paper or, sadly, play with my kids.<br />
My wife even used it in a fight later. You're never here, she said. You're here, but you're not HERE.<br />
She's right. I would love to blame it on the culture. It's easy to think that if others are looking at their phone, it's OK for you to do it too. That IS part of the problem. But it's not all of the problem.<br />
Most of the problem is that I'm an introvert.<br />
My iPhone broke a few days ago. The LED light wouldn't go off. I tried a lot of different solutions, but my last straw before taking it back to the Apple store was a Restore.<br />
I did a restore on the iPhone, and I laughed when I did it. Usually the iPhone restores me.<br />
Introverts crave time alone. That's what restores us. And when you're a parent of young children, that time is so limited. It's by far the hardest thing for me now. I probably need three hours a night to myself after work and baths and dinner. I get, maybe, an hour. Sometimes it's less, especially now that Jayden, 6, continually goes out of his room for drinks, snacks, begging to sleep in our bed, ask to watch me play Super Mario Bros. again, etc.<br />
Given that, I snatch whatever time to myself I can get, and burying my nose in my phone actually disconnects me enough to give me that feeling of being alone. It's pretty frightening, actually, how lost I can get in it. I can have someone talk to me, and I can answer, without even knowing they are there, apparently. I wonder if my iPhone actually plugged a wire into me that night at gymnastics, forcing me to answer, so I would continue to play it.<br />
That's only science fiction talking. Then again, a decade ago, a device that would play music, games, text, e-mail, surf the Internet, post a tweet, Facebook, take pictures and play movies probably seemed like science fiction too.<br />
My New Year's Resolution is to spend more time with my kids and my wife. I'm always around. But now I need to be AROUND.<br />
Every time it buzzes, I fight an itch. Playing Hot Wheels with the kids, so far, has scratched it.<br />
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P.S. You probably noticed some changes I made to the blog. I'm tempted to change the address in my blog, too, but I don't want to lose the audience I've built here. Regardless, I'm finally acknowledging that the focus of this blog has shifted, and rather than quit, I'd like to keep it going. If you'd like a link, let me know, as I tried to eliminate most of you who haven't written in a while.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08837529956827141862noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17782569.post-83142170785166267442011-12-26T13:50:00.000-07:002011-12-26T13:50:03.492-07:00The joy of treks<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Oh, how I looked forward to the week off.<br />
Every year I take a week off from running. It's my bye week. It's a week to heal chronic aches, like that barking hamstring you've been reading about, and that's how I justify it to myself. But really, it's as much as a break from my mind as it is my body. Probably more so.<br />
I don't do anything halfway. Rather than just climb some of the more interesting 14,000-foot peaks in Colorado, I had to climb them all. Rather than just play Angry Birds, I have to get three stars on every level. I have never not finished a book, even when I hated it halfway through. I don't just play cards. I play poker.<br />
I know. It sounds like bragging, doesn't it? But I'm also obsessed about goals. That's a blessing and also a curse. Because many times I forget to do something just for fun. I'm almost incapable of it.<br />
I think it's pretty obvious now that I love running. I think anyone who reads this blog has seen it. I'll miss it terribly when I can't do it any longer. But again, it's not something I can do just for fun.<br />
There's a whole industry built on people like me. Hell, Garmin makes a living off us. The company manufactures GPS devices that tell us, down to the second, what pace we're running and just how far we're running, too, down to the foot.<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Races market themselves on courses where you have a good chance to achieve a "PR." A PR, which, by the way, is what I did in Vegas, is the serious runner's ultimate goal. It means you've improved. It means all that work is paying off. It means you've justified it!</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">There's also a reason races give out medals.*</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">*On a side note, there are certain things you just don't do, unless you want to be known as a goob, knob or, honestly, complete dork. You don't wear the race shirt to the race, and you DEFINITELY don't wear the finisher's medal the next day. I saw a couple wearing their medals around the Aria the day after the Vegas race, and they looked like complete douchebags, even the female, and it's rare when females achieve that status. It's like calling trips a "set" in poker.</div><div>Magazines like Runner's World and gurus like Hal Higdon teach us that every run should have a PURPOSE. A serious intent. A reason. You do tempo runs and speed workouts and long runs.</div><br />
<br />
You don't just go out for a run when you're a serious runner. Well, that's not exactly true. But when you do, we call those "easy" runs.<br />
That's right. Marathon plans, or plans for any race, really, have "easy" runs built into them. Fun runs, in other words, scheduled out with your 20-milers. Does anyone else see the irony in that?<br />
Races are fun, really fun. But I always have one bought and paid for, staring me down on the calendar, to keep me motivated. I've got a half marathon signed up for late SEPTEMBER.<br />
You're getting the idea, right? Rather than just run, I follow a plan and stick to it with the regimen of a general.<br />
Well, usually.<br />
The thing is, I learned something about myself when I took that week off.<br />
Those first four days, I felt great. I slept in before work. My hamstring didn't ache when I sat at my desk. I got a lot of things done around the house. I read a book in just a few days. I took long, hot showers. I pussyfooted. I read the whole newspaper. When you stop working out, you discover your body doesn't hurt and all this extra free time. It's tempting to quit for good.<br />
It was tempting until day five. That's when the blahs came along.<br />
I don't have another word for it. I felt sluggish. Crappy. I didn't sleep well. I felt wound up and tired at the same time. My back started to hurt. I was edgy, even cranky. I wanted to eat a lot of bad food. I craved sugar and salt and chips. It was almost as if...yeah, almost as if I was feeling my 40 years. I felt old, dammit.<br />
I was almost downright thrilled to be lacing up my shoes that Monday, even if it was 6:30 a.m. and I didn't get to bed until 11:15 p.m. When I went out, it was 15 degrees, and my fingers hurt from the cold, and I felt as if I had a tractor tire roped to me. I couldn't run anywhere near my normal pace, and when I did, I was panting like a unshaved sheepdog in summer.<br />
That sucked, I thought that morning, as I tore off my clothes, in a hurry once again, to get a quick shower before work. Why do I do it? Why did I feel so badly that I needed to do it?<br />
A couple hours later, I had my answer. The blahs were gone.<br />
Yes, my hamstring ached a bit, and I was yawning a bit, but I also suddenly had a lot more energy. I wanted to sing at my body electric. I felt myself again.<br />
Now before you think running comes naturally to me, like I'm some sort of gazelle or something who just needs to move, trust me, it doesn't. It took three weeks, thanks to the half marathon and that week break, before a run felt good again. Most of the time during a run I felt like shit (sorry but there's no other word for it), and sometimes I whined my sorry ass, waaa waaa waaa all the way home.<br />
Running can be a struggle, but it gives me something that nothing else can. It gives me life in my old bones. I really DO need it.<br />
I still wear my Garmin most of the time, and even when I don't, during those "easy" runs, I could probably tell you how fast I'm going. I'm still following a schedule in my head. I'm planning on going for a tempo run tomorrow. Most runs still have a purpose.<br />
But not always. I'm trying to change that, and after that week off, I'm more determined than ever.<br />
Christmas Day, I got up with the kids, early of course, which was fine, and opened presents and played with them and assembled their toys, which was great. Then I had an hour. I don't normally run Sundays. It's my scheduled day off. But I gave Kate that look, and she asked how far I was going to go.<br />
It turned out to be five through my favorite park in Greeley. The sun was out, the air was cold and warm at the same time, and the snow crunching beneath my feet accompanied the music through my ears.<br />
It was nice to be outside. Even more than that, it was fun.<br />
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08837529956827141862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17782569.post-76133592880891034652011-12-11T11:12:00.000-07:002011-12-11T11:12:41.151-07:00Bright Lights, Big Post<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><i>Warning: This post is long. I won't apologize for it, but I don't expect you to read it. If you want, you could divide it up to before race day and after, though I think you'll miss the theme if you do. I don't even have it in the headline.</i><br />
<i>Enjoy. I guess.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
My life feels like it began after I had kids.<br />
<div>This is a cliche turned on its head (you see what I did there?) because it's not meant to be a caption for "The Family Circus." My life feels that way because of the way it seems to be rushing by without me getting so much as a glimpse of it. Time flies when you're having fun. It flies even more when you're too busy to have it.</div><div>When Jayden was born six years ago, I began to notice that whole chunks out of the year just seemed to vanish. I distinctly remember three things. Finishing the 14ers, the first time I played online poker for money and Jayden's birth. The rest, even when Kate told me she was pregnant, is a smear. And then life seemed to get smooshed into globs of seasons without any kind of a calendar to mark it. It was hot, then cold, only we were inside most of the time, changing diapers and collapsing into bed. Vacations were the same every year, a trip to Kansas to see Kate's grandmother and my parents. We'd put the tree up at Christmas. Then we would take it down.</div><div>The girls were born a couple years later, and I'll be damned if I can recall much of anything in that first year. I remember being tired.</div><div>Time, by then, was indistinguishable. Songs I loved felt like they were released just weeks ago, and someone had to tell me it was a couple years ago. Metallica's "Death Magnetic," my favorite recent album, came out in 2008. That's a high school career ago.</div><div>My high school career, those four years in high school, still feel like 20 to me. I can tell you what albums came out then and what I was doing every month in my life. I can point out the grocery store that let us buy beer and the other that almost had us arrested. I know all the movies.<br />
I was busy then, too, almost as busy as I am now. But I marked my life with moments. There were so many moments. There were moments in my life that I'll remember forever.</div><div>I love my kids dearly, but when you're a parent, at least in the first six years I've done it, I've found myself so bent on surviving them, and life, and all the crap that comes in between, that it's easy to forget to have moments.<br />
There are a ton of milestones, but most of them are your kids', not your own, other than their births. And if you don't have anything to write down anything significant on the calendar, how do you know when it's time to turn the page?</div><div>Which is the longest lede you'll ever read from me, in perhaps the longest blog post I'll ever write.<br />
Other than a few times in my life, say, Jayden's first day of Kindergarten or my first marathon, I had run out of moments. The #wpbt started to feel that way as well. Even those special trips sort of blurred together. And then I decided to run the Vegas Half Marathon.</div><div>Well, we did.</div><div>That's kind of the point.</div><div>• • • </div><div>It's hard to explain what the #wpbt is to people, and so I treat it like Fight Club. You know the first rule of Fight Club, right? I followed it.<br />
My life is so different back home. I don't drink much, play poker much or even stay up past 10 p.m. much. When I had a 40th birthday surprise party, I didn't get drunk, to the crushing disappointment of one of my best friends.</div><div>I also find it hard to explain to people why running has taken over my life. I hated it for so many years. I always thought it was because I had to shave my mountain climbing down to a nub after the kids were born, and I needed something to keep me motivated to stay active. But I've thought about this trip a lot the last few days, and I've come to two conclusions why both things mean a lot to me.</div><div>The first is the milestones.</div><div>The second is the people.</div><div>• • •</div><div>Sure, the roads were snowpacked Thursday morning, even icy in spots, but the thought of my plane being cancelled never occurred to me until I heard it announced over the loudspeaker in the small airport in Fort Collins.</div><div>Running's taught me more than anything else how to deal with adversity. Climbing laid the groundwork, but when you're running, adversity is only a few steps behind. Cramps, side stitches, unplanned trips to the bathroom, hunger, thirst, cold, heat, dogs, wild animals, your balance, your sense of direction, nausea, black ice, injuries, 5 a.m. wake-ups, bad food, your GPS, a leaky Gatorade bottle, other runners and even your very breath (really, especially that) all conspire to screw you over, probably when you least expect it.<br />
Whatever running hasn't taught me how to handle, being a parent takes care of the rest, like dealing with puke and poop or a bad night's sleep.<br />
So I can handle just about any situation, and I was handling it. I was handling it like a motherfucker as I shuffled back to my car, until I heard the message that another flight wouldn't be available until Friday evening.<br />
I was going to miss half the fun after not being at #wpbt last year.</div><div>I was instantly, totally crushed.<br />
I said so on Twitter.</div><div>Then I started getting tweets back.</div><div>I had to pull over my car to read and respond to all of them.</div><div>They were offers to get me on another one-way flight using their miles.<br />
I can think on my feet when I'm a reporter, a runner or a climber, but in the rest of my life, I'm a planner. </div><div>It took me a moment to gather my thoughts.<br />
I didn't know how I'd get home, and I wasn't sure if I'd get a refund from this flight, and if I didn't, I'd have to suck it up and go Friday night. My head was swimming. Did I have time to get to Denver's airport? Could I still make it that Thursday night? Was it worth it? How much more money would it cost me?</div><div>A small voice whispered to me. This is like the race you are about to run.</div><div>I was home maybe five minutes. I called the airline and (woot!) and got a refund. I was packed, my bag was in the car, and I was ready to go.<br />
April's offer was the best. With her 25,000 miles, she could get me off the ground at 3 p.m. </div><div>Book it! I Tweeted, as I was on my way to the airport, in the car, with Christmas music blasting through the speakers. </div><div>She did. </div><div>First Class.<br />
For $75.</div><div>It wasn't lost on me that this reminded me of two other times when people did something completely selfless and unexpected that required a sacrifice, and both those other times involved the same sense of community I got from climbing and get now from running. Once was just after the time a decade ago when I got trapped in a rock avalanche and barely escaped with my life. I was beaten up, bloodied and a bit broken, and I had a long way to go. Eight miles. A quarter-mile into the hike, someone offered me his hiking poles. I turned them down at first, until my Dad chased the guy down after I stumbled down the trail a couple times. I could not have made it without them. We returned them a week later.<br />
The second was during my first marathon, and I was at mile 20 when I got hit by severe cramps. People gave me their bananas, pretzels and drinks. I made it across.<br />
In both cases, these were adventures that people planned far in advance, and they brought that food and drink (and the poles) in case something bad happened to them. Instead, they risked their own well being to give them to me.<br />
April took time out of her day and gave me a shitload of airline miles just so I could get there Thursday night and have dinner with some bloggers.</div><div>I bought her meal that night.</div><div>• • •</div><div>By now you're wondering why I decided to run the race. Or, most likely, you no longer care and have moved on to Angry Birds. I don't blame you.</div><div>Still with me? Wow.</div><div>A couple years ago (oh man, I'm REALLY trying your patience now, aren't I, I mean, how much exposition can one blog have), John, aka Bad Blood, wrote me, wondering how he could run a 10K in 48 minutes. It was for a bet. Rob, aka Gordon, aka um, G-Rob, was losing a bunch of weight, and Blood bet him some pounds against his time. </div><div>I knew Blood a bit, mostly because we both liked music that scared most people, but I was happy to help because, well, I love talking about running, probably way too much. So I put him on a plan, taught him how to run speed work and tempo runs, and he crushed the race. It was really fun. So when he wanted to do a half marathon, I helped him with that, too, and it turned out to be really, really fun. He got hooked on the running, and I got hooked on the help. We stayed in touch throughout the years.<br />
When Rock and Roll sent me an e-mail stating that the race would be held that night, I registered, not knowing, or caring, how it would work with #wpbt. I had a feeling John would want to do it too. He did.</div><div>Only he had a surprise. Others were interested too.</div><div>They were only interested at first. Brad, aka Otis, seemed especially nervous about it. I knew Brad a bit, too, as I had met him during a trip two years ago, while Steel Panther blasted in the background, and he was kind of a legend among the #wpbt, and he was a pretty darn good writer and was really supportive of my own writing, which, of course, meant a lot because I tend to write long, rambling sentences with a lot of commas.</div><div>So, OK. I wrote him an email, explaining that a half marathon really, truly, honestly wasn't as hard as it sounded. At least the training wasn't. You didn't have to run all day, every day, while whipping yourself like a monk. Really, for what you get out of the race, it's a pretty good deal.</div><div>John just told Brad to pull his head out of his ass and sign up.</div><div>I'm not sure what worked more.<br />
G-Rob, fresh off losing 100 pounds, which would leave me weighing about as much as my 6-year-old, and Doc signed up as well. We had a group.</div><div>I volunteered to help right away just like I helped John. Part of me likes being the guru. But mostly I do it because I remembered when I first started running, and so many great runners, people who were destroying me in races, turning in times I never thought I'd run, helped me. They waited for me on group runs, talked to me about different ways to run and introduced me to the concept of runs having a purpose, not just strapping on shoes and getting out there. I remembered that, and I thought it was time to pay them back by (sigh, I hate this expression) paying it forward to others.</div><div>The e-mails among our group started back in the summer. They didn't stop until it was time for the race. They meant far more than I thought they would when they started.</div><div>• • •</div><div>No, I'm not breaking this into parts. Deal with it.</div><div>• • •</div><div>As excited as I was for the race, I felt conflicted when I got there Thursday night. I was eating with Astin, Heather, April, Dawn, Ryan and later Michelle.<br />
(By the way, I liked how we sort of ditched the nicknames for the most part this year and called each other by our real names. I occasionally referred to them if I needed them or wanted them, aka Bad Blood is such a badass name that it fit before we headed out to the race. But for the most part people went by their actual names. It was time).<br />
The food was fantastic, but I chose not to drink, and I worried about eating too much greasy or fried pickings. It was like that most of the weekend. Vegas is usually the one place I don't have to be on guard all the time, and yet I had to be. I focused on eating rice, pasta, breads, pancakes and fruit and not drinking, in addition to drinking a lot of water.<br />
The race doesn't happen until you hit the starting line, but really, it begins a few days before, when you load your body with carbs, try not to eat anything that will screw with your stomach on race day and try to get rest. You also probably shouldn't drink a lot.<br />
What helped was not only were my running partners following the same program, but many of the rest of us bloggers were too. This time seemed far mellower than any other. I even saw AlCan'tHang sober a few times. I preferred it that way. We're all older now, and it's nice to act like it a little bit. There were no wheelchair stories, and as disappointing as that was, acting like adults does mean sacrificing a little fun.<br />
So Thursday and Friday were fun, but they involved poker (with Jordan and Carol, mostly, which was awesome). Then Otis came to town Friday afternoon. You all know the story by now. I'll let him tell the bulk of it. But his father died suddenly earlier that week.<br />
I'd already written him off for the most part, though a part of me, selfishly, really wanted him there. We all did.<br />
Otis/Brad had really embraced running, and I got as much joy out of coaching him than anyone I've ever helped. He was thankful, of course, but more than that, I could see what it did for him spiritually. I told him for weeks as he got on the program that running really would become enjoyable, and one day, after those many weeks, I got an email from him, explaining how he'd finally had that day. Running, the outdoors and mountain climbing are much more to me than a way to exercise, and finally Brad felt that way too.<br />
I hoped he was going to go, but our group let him make that decision.<br />
He sent us an email that he was coming when I was on my way to the airport.<br />
We spent Friday night, after an appearance at the mellow blogger mixed game, at the Monte Carlo poker room. It's a run-down place, close to the opposite of the Aria poker room.<br />
It was exactly what we needed.<br />
John arrived late that night.<br />
It was good to have our group together.<br />
• • •<br />
You won't find many details of the nights here. I"m not afraid to share them, of course, as they were fairly tame, especially by Vegas standards, but this post is long enough, and there were some special times that don't need to make the Internet. We had a wonderful pasta dinner Saturday, the night before the race, picked by Brad, where we reflected on our training and the guys surprised me by buying me dinner. I was so touched I forgot to say no.<br />
The place was located next to the Palms, and we played a wild game (one of several that weekend, and those wild games meant me picking my spots while they splashed around a lot of chips), and I'll just say two words: Jose Canseco (the guy's kinda a whiner at the table).<br />
That Saturday was especially mellow: We picked up our number for the race, played the tournament and cheered Brad's min-cash before we went to the runner's Expo that night and then dinner.<br />
We got in fairly late but slept until 10 a.m. Sunday. After a pancake breakfast, we decided the best thing to do was play a little poker to take our mind off what we were facing.<br />
I'd never run a night race before, especially not something as ardrous as a half. I grabbed a large Gatorade to drink over the afternoon with Brad. At the last second, he picked up a couple black pens.<br />
When I sat at the poker table, I instantly pulled off two huge bluffs and was betting like a maniac. In other words, I was playing exactly like I usually DON'T play. What was going on? I didn't even realize what I was doing until someone whispered, "I'm gonna get this wild guy." I laughed to myself and snapped out of it.<br />
I'm an aggressive runner, and just a few hours before the race, I was ready to tear it up. I was in running mode.<br />
I switched that off for the moment and settled into my usual careful play, and soon enough, I looked over at Bad Blood, and he nodded at me. I smiled and my mind began to travel down a darkening tunnel. I love it when my brain does that on its own and I don't have to force it. It usually means I'm going to have a good race. Pain, nausea and weariness can't penetrate that zone.<br />
We got up to go to our rooms. It was time to get ready.<br />
• • •<br />
Before the race almost makes racing worth it on its own. The anticipation is incredible if you let it be that way. If you don't let the nerves and doubts take over. Your stomach rumbles, your tapered legs tingle and your lips snarl.<br />
I told the guys during our incredible dinner the night before that I go over in my head what Kansas' coach Bill Self said to his troops the night before the Final Four, when we eventually went on to win the title in 2008. It sounds cheesy, but when you're going through something like a long race, cheesy works. In this case it's a pretty simple statement, not a Gipper cheer.<br />
"You can't hope good things happen tonight," he said. "You expect them to."<br />
There are always things in a race you can't train for. Maybe there's stomach problems, weather, injuries, other runners and the crappy unknown, like a small piece of broken pavement that's just big enough to trip you. But what I've found, and really love, about running is if you do the training, it pays off in a race. It really rewards you with the time you put into it. Many sports aren't necessarily like that. Football and baseball rely too much on the circumstances. Even mountain climbing, my first love, isn't that way because the weather and the altitude play such huge roles in whether you make your goal or not.<br />
So if you do the training, it's foolish to hope good things happen during a race. You should expect them to.<br />
You may want to skip this next part. It's a race report and will include my thoughts on my time during the run. You may find this the most interesting part of the blog. But I doubt it.<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">• • • </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Brad and I were silent as we got dressed for the race, which I took as a good sign. It meant he was sure of what he was wearing, carrying and using for the race. That's the first step to keeping your nerves under control.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I was most worried about Brad. G-Rob seemed to be as self-assured about the race as he is about everything else in his life, including his hair. He wasn't cocky by any stretch, but he seemed to know he would run relatively slow but also that he would finish. Bad Blood looked sharp and was going to run well and fast, and I knew he knew how to focus (in fact, there was an outside chance he would beat me, I thought). Doc was exactly like G-Rob and had already run a half earlier that year.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">But I not only expected Brad to be emotional before the race, I thought he might push it a little hard and let the moment overtake him. I was hoping he'd run an even, fun race where he didn't have to walk. Running an even race is harder than it sounds. I've rarely done it.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I had concerns about myself, too, namely whether my bitchy hamstring would hold up. I expected it to hurt. I just didn't want it to prevent me from running. I didn't know if the crowds would hold me back a bit. And I really wanted to PR, but a lot has to go right. We'd been up late every night even if we got a good night's sleep.<br />
The bloggers wished us well, and OhCaptain took over photo, which was sweet, but I was already in a zone. I allowed one smile for Iggy, who shouted my old blogger name as we left. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">After the promised shuttles didn't deliver, we started walking to the starting line. I tried to look out for my runners as best I could, but I failed miserably as a coach in this spot. We were rushed, as were 25,000 other runners, it seemed, and so it was crowded, and I would like to blame the race officials for that, and I can and will, but ultimately it's up to you to get to the race in enough time. I barely got us there before the start, and Blood didn't even get to check his bag. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">All this robbed us somewhat of the electricity before a big race. It was still there, but a good portion of it went to worry and concern of us reaching the starting line. It's the one thing I still regret about the way things went.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I had planned a small speech for them for days, but I also had to pee, bad, and I saw some bushes to the side. It would be my only chance among the crowds. I pulled in my runners and said to them to not start too fast, have fun and remind themselves how thankful they should be before the start of the race to be there. Then I gave them a hug. It was too fast of a goodbye.<br />
I dashed off to the bushes, hoping an officer wouldn't see me. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I was now on my own. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I entered corral 2 and was immediately thankful for it. Even the runners corral 3 were bunched together like cattle in the pens, but they let us spread out, and there weren't very many runners. I knew right away that I wouldn't get trapped behind a crowd, and that thought relaxed me.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I'll admit that I was annoyed at first when Mike McCready from Pearl Jam began to play our national anthem. I use the song as a final way to get focused before what's facing me. It helps remind ME how lucky I am to be at the line. But I shook off the irritation after the first few notes. I mean, look at where I was. I was in VEGAS, about to run the strip at NIGHT, and the guitarist from PEARL JAM, one of my favorite bands, was there, tearing it up. If I have one flaw, it's that sometimes, I forget to have fun. I told myself this, above all other things, would be really, really fun.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">So when I crossed the line, and my chip beeped, and I was off, I held back that first mile, running at a conservative pace of 7:45. It would be the only mile that I didn't run by feel. I held back and held back, almost to frustration, because that's when I have my best races, when I let my body ease into it. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I was pleasantly surprised at how amazing it was, even better than I thought, to run the strip. Seeing the lights of Vegas in the middle of the strip makes you realize how overwhelming, and, yeah, beautiful in an obnoxious way, it all is. And the PEOPLE. There were so many people watching us and cheering for us like we were athletes, like we mattered. I've never had half that many spectators. Many people called for my Colorado shirt, and I loved it.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Iron Maiden wrote about the loneliness of the long distance runner because it IS lonely. You are there, in your head, with your doubts and your courage. Sometimes a little cheer goes a long way to quieting those fears, even from people you don't know.<br />
And yet, a lot of people I DO know who where there.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I was silently thrilled, even flabbergasted, at how the #wpbt embraced the race. Not only did they volunteer to talk to us about it (which is dangerous since I might keep you for a while), they seemed generally interested in what we had to say. A good chunk of the group showed up for it, and though I didn't see them, I looked for them as the miles got tougher, and knowing they were probably out there helped in ways I can't explain. I love running, but I also know it's not a spectator sport. I would imagine watching a bunch of runners stream by is probably about as exciting as watching someone play live poker without the hole cards. But they showed up, shook our hands after, and Pauly even told me he had fun being out there. I wonder what he was on. I may want it next year. Drizz packed us beers! Beers!</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Anyway, once I got to mile two and saw the Bellagio on my left, I threw off the shackles and decided to let my body tell me what I could run. I was looking for a pace that was just beyond comfortably hard. A half marathon is a long way, so I couldn't run completely balls out, like I do many times in a 5K, and yet it's still a race. I settled on a pace that left me breathing hard, but not gasping, and that got my legs moving, not straining. It would hurt, bad, to trip, but the motions felt relaxed yet quick. It's probably the same pace I would use if I were dashing away from a pack of zombies.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I looked at my watch. That pace was 7:15 per mile.<br />
That's over 8 miles an hour if you're scoring at home.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Shit. Really?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I knew I'd run faster. The elevation in Vegas isn't sea level, but it's not 5,000 feet, either. And it's the flattest course I'll run, so I knew I wouldn't bonk on a hill. Still. It was a little scary to see that pace. I have run races too fast at first, and by the end, you're so miserable, you want to burn your shoes. My 10K split was the second-fastest 10K I've ever run. Even in this year, by far the greatest I've had running, I ran two 10Ks that weren't as fast.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Fuck it, I thought. I know I can finish. I know I can run below 1:45 (I ran 1:40 a month ago in Denver, which was a PR). I know that if I get back to mile 10, I"ll have the Vegas lights to lead me home.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I took a deep breath. And then I ran.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">• • • </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">By mile 7 and 8, as we darted through the darker areas of downtown Vegas, both in lighting and in humanity, I felt tired, and my chest tightened a bit, but I felt all right, mostly thanks to the incredible, 40-degree weather most of the night. The pace, regardless, was torrid for me and would put me close to a crash. I resolved to do what I could to avoid it. I ripped open a Powerbar gel and gulped it down and hoped for an aid station to take away the taste. I took a salt pill. I did find a station, got pissed when they didn't seem to have any sports drink and tried to focus on the next step. I needed that dark tunnel in my mind back. Arch Enemy came over the iPod. That's what I needed. "Battery low," it chirped at me. Oh please don't give out, I said to it.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I got caught up in a group as we swerved the corners, and I fought for space with some dude who refused to move over an inch so I wouldn't have to hop the curb. He gashed my wrist with an elbow and got an elbow in the ribs in return. I can be a polite runner, but if someone tries to cut me off, it's Braveheart time. I would never shove a runner - that's like ramming a car on the highway - but I will throw elbows. He got the message and backed off. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">It turns out I ran a 6:59 mile at this point. It would be my fastest. Things got harder after that. I managed to stay around 7:20 or so, which makes me happy, but probably the toughest thing about a half marathon is also the most obvious: You have to keep running, hard, after you've put on some serious miles. Even at mile 11, when I had the strip back and the bright lights, I knew I was fading. I also knew at this point that I had a shot at 1:37 and didn't want to blow it, and even a pace of, say, 8:30, an aggressive pace for two-thirds of the runners out there, would blow it. I was straining, and my legs felt like a stuffed animal being pulled in a fight between a brother and sister. The only good news was my hamstring wasn't bothering me any longer, which probably was because I was too tired to care.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I apologize I didn't see the bloggers cheering on the sideline. I was trying so hard not to see anything but the lights and the finish line. I was hurting by that point, just trying to hard to seal away 1:37 and knowing I could crash at any moment. I was floating around a 7:35-7:40 pace and was afraid I could not hold even that much longer.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">And then I saw the finish line.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I stepped across.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I didn't celebrate when I finished. I bent over and slowly walked over to grab a foil wrap. I grabbed a water and a drink and tried to breathe. Everyone around me was dead, too, barely able to walk or breathe. It felt good to me to be with them. We WORKED. We nodded at each other or patted each other's shoulder on the way to the exit out of the chute. We'd worked against, and with, each other most of the way. I spent a little time at the trash can, with a coin flip's chance of puking, and then the nausea went away and then I felt a tap on my back. He was the guy I fought at the corner. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Good run, he said. You too, I said.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I waited, far too long, for Blood but knew I'd missed him, and then later Otis and the others. I looked for the bloggers. I finally shivered so hard someone came over and asked me if I needed a doctor, and so I went inside Mandalay to warm up and catch the shuttle. I waited inside there, too, for a long time, but I finally rode the bus home.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I pressed my nose against the glass when I saw an In and Out Burger.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">• • • </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I made it up to my room without seeing anyone, which was the plan since I needed to decompress, stretch and become myself again. After touching base via my phone with Blood and Brad, knowing the others wouldn't be far behind, I stripped off my sticky clothes and took a shower. The warm water felt like heaven. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I was just about to leave the room, texting my running friends back home anxious to hear my time, when I heard the door open and Brad came through.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">We hugged each other, unabashedly, and then Brad talked like one of my kids for 10 minutes straight. I knew exactly what he was feeling, but it was so rewarding to see it from someone else and know that I helped him get there. It's that crack-like, addicting feeling of accomplishment. Ultimately it's why we run. It was an emotional run for him, as I thought, but it also seemed to be a great, fun experience too.<br />
And he ran the whole way.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I came back down and got warm greetings from Blood, who crushed the race, and many other bloggers, which felt great. I was almost embarrassed at how much everyone cared. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">We had to eat in the food court, and plans didn't exactly go like we had hoped, but they never do. We ate, played some table games (I broke my Pai Gow cherry; that game is fun) and then, finally, had a private poker game at the Monte Carlo. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Brad called it an epilogue in an email to us. As usual, he found a great word for it. Though I like to think of that game, the race, really the whole weekend, as something else.<br />
I think, for once, I've got an even better word than Brad for it.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I'm calling it a moment.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> </div></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08837529956827141862noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17782569.post-39733414412674202282011-11-08T22:16:00.001-07:002011-11-08T22:23:49.467-07:0040 minutes to 40<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">"You Get What You Give" - New Radicals<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>Just before I opened the door, my lips twisted into a curve. I turned on the iPod for inspiration, and the New Radicals went first. </div><div>I dread, and enjoy, the tempo runs more than any other except a race. They are short but intense runs that resemble races in many ways except in the most extremes of discomfort. They are weekly. They are on Mondays, two days after a long run of a dozen miles or more, and like Mondays in many other ways, the body rejects the fact that the weekend is over, and it's time to go back to work.</div><div>Complicating things was, of course, Colorado. Colorado is a wonderful state to live in, until we start to turn away from the sun. Then it's still lovely, but it's also unpredictable and, at times, a nasty son of a bitch. A few days before Halloween, we got 14 inches of snow. And then, because Mother Nature apparently has a mischievous or cruel sense of humor, depending on who you are, we got another 10 a week later, just as the last snowflake had melted from our previous fluke storm.</div><div>Snow means cold, of course, and this was about as jarring a transition as you can get from Colorado's beautiful, even erotic, fall weather. Just a few weeks ago I raced in crisp, cool air, with just enough of a nip, like a really good bowl of ice cream. Sorry, beach lovers, but fall in Colorado is paradise. And then, just like that, it was the Gulag.</div><div>My first breath goes down wrong, and I start to cough in jagged spurts, my lungs rejecting the icy air in pissed-off disbelief. The tips of my fingers are narcotic. My cheeks are anything but rosy. My eyelashes start to frost.</div><div>Look, I tell my body. I don't like this either. But we've got a job to do. The New Radicals said so. You Get What You Give.</div><div>I begin my run up my neighborhood road. I've been up it probably 500 times. Many times I'd thought about what I had to do that day. Since it was probably a Monday, I'd also think about what I'd have to write. Today, I had to concentrate. Today I'd be looking for ice.</div><div><br />
</div><div>"Virus" - Bjork</div><div><br />
</div><div>OK, a song about need. If there's any run I need, it's probably the tempo run. The easy runs are for recovery and reflection, and the long runs give me endurance, and the speed work gives me, um, speed. But the tempo runs give me everything. My mile splits, if I didn't slip on a patch of ice, would probably read 8:15 (warm up), 7:20, 7:15, 7:25 (damn hill), 7:13. Or something like that. But not too far from that something. Tempo runs are about holding an uncomfortable, but not brutal (i.e. racing) speed. You could speed up, but you'd like to slow down.</div><div>As always, my legs, still a little grumpy from the miles I'd piled on it two days before, aren't ever really excited to be cutting through the air so aggressively. Aging does that to you. After so long, and I've been active, if not always a runner, for two decades, the will to give in starts to fade.</div><div>Doesn't it? </div><div>I crack into my first mile at 7:10. My breath jumps out of my mouth. I can see the cloud before it scurries away to make room for the next. This is why I need tempo runs. As a weekly reminder that I can still do this. And the work it takes to stay there.</div><div><br />
</div><div>"Steppin' Out" - Joe Jackson</div><div><br />
</div><div>An oldie but a goodie, this song found its way into my weekly running mix for this line:</div><div>"We are young but getting old before our time; we'll leave the TV and the radio behind."</div><div>This line is so appropriate this week.</div><div>I wonder if Jackson wrote the song today, he'd include a smartphone?</div><div><br />
</div><div>"Dancing Queen" - ABBA</div><div><br />
</div><div>Note to self: "Dancing Queen" is probably not a good song to include in a running mix. It's definitely not a good song to listen to as I start to head up The Hill. </div><div>Skip.</div><div><br />
</div><div>"Embrace The Gutter" - The Autumn Offering</div><div>Ah, that's better.</div><div>Embrace the nasty in your life, then make it your ally. Make it make you better. This is what I think about as the steepest part of the run looms before me, and my breathing starts to hurt.</div><div>Breathe, dammit, breathe. </div><div><br />
</div><div>"My Will Be Done" - Unearth</div><div>Someone asked me once why I listen to heavy metal. How can you run with someone yelling at you like that, she asked.</div><div>"Now I strive to find my own way</div><div>My Will be Done</div><div>Work these hands until they bleed</div><div>My Will be Done"</div><div>They aren't yelling at me. They're yelling with me.</div><div>I've just crested the hill. I'll recover. I'm pretty sure.<br />
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I turn 40 tomorrow, though it's likely today when you're reading this. And runs like this one give me the confidence to face it. I don't need a sports car, a cheerleader or a gold chain. I have my feet, my fitness and the attitude both give me. As I sprint toward my driveway, "I'm gonna learn how to love you," Susan Tedeschi sings in my ear, and oh, I'm so nearly there.<br />
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</div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08837529956827141862noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17782569.post-29005420728828371562011-10-09T19:30:00.001-06:002011-10-09T19:39:25.789-06:00The Joy of Racing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">The air was a little painful. We Coloradans call it "crisp," but really, it was ice cold, the air in meat lockers. It was far too cold, at the very least, for shorts and a tank top, even with gloves and arm warmers. And yet, as we made our way out into it, with the sun lingering in bed, refusing to help, I smiled.<br />
Hell yes it was cold. We could see our breath and the breath of those around us. Later, after the gun, we'd see the breath of thousands of runners, even if they were as far away as a trip to first base.<br />
But the butterflies were swarming my stomach, and I had an empty bladder, which is far more reassuring than it probably should be, and I felt good. I felt really good. There were no aches, and after a season of racing and running, when aches occupy your morning coffee, that was a gift. I thought back to last night, during my last pee before bed, when a spark shot through my bloodstream. I felt good, and I was ready, and I said on Twitter and Facebook that I was an idling engine just waiting to be gunned.<br />
If this sounds cocky, I won't deny it, except to say that days when you feel like this as a runner are rare, so numbingly, sadly rare. Most of the time I enjoy my training runs, but only after I peel off the scabs of a couple dreary miles and my body creaks itself awake. Not every race feels this good, either, but races bring out the best in you. It's a chance to gun that engine. It's a chance to show yourself what you can do.<br />
I love these chances, and I love those butterflies, and I love the electric anticipation both those elements combine to create. Fit people everywhere are crackling with energy. The corral is full of people who get it. And after a day of rain, sleet and wind, we had a clear sky and cold air, the kind that would feel good, incredible even, like clouds kissing your skin, once we got this underway.<br />
I was warm. It wasn't until I heard the Star Spangled Banner, and I reminded myself how fortunate I was to be there, something I always do before a race, that I noticed something springing up on my arms.<br />
Goosebumps.<br />
* * *<br />
Races are exciting for their unpredictability. I knew I'd feel good, and I also knew that I'd finish, and I figured I'd probably set a PR. I was shooting for 1:42, which I'd have to run my miles in 7:45 to get. I also knew, though, that that was probably pushing it, given that last year's time was 1:44, and that was also a PR, and that's, honestly, pretty darn good, at least for me.<br />
What I didn't know was how it would go.<br />
A half marathon is a long way, and as much as I love that because a race like that is an adventure, not a short, hurried event that ends before it really begins, well, a lot can happen. So I took it easier at first, settling in my first three miles at a 7:50 pace. We went by Coors Field, home of the Rockies, and through downtown Denver. I said hi to a few friends, looking around and smiled. A cramp hit my side, but I wasn't worried about it, as the pace didn't feel labored. It was almost easy. It passed after a half mile.<br />
My first test came at mile 4, a steep but short hill that gassed me last year. I reminded myself that races were about even effort, not an even pace, and I told myself I didn't want look at my watch as I crept up the incline. It was over and I had my breath with me. Good.<br />
I glanced down at my watch again and noticed I was hitting 7:30. Even a year ago, that was a pace I'd run in 10Ks, which are half as long as a half marathon. But I told myself it felt good, and I also told myself to run on feel, not what my watch was telling me.<br />
In a race, you are constantly assessing how you feel, what you're facing and how far you've got to go. So far, despite an aching hamstring that I prayed would hang with me, I was feeling good. As long as my breathing wasn't too labored, I knew I could stick with it.<br />
* * *<br />
You are running with hundreds of others around you, even at my pace, but racing is also lonely. You're in your head, and no one wants to talk, as they need the air. Me either. Other than a word of encouragement to a girl who wore a ballet outfit that matched a girls' whom I passed at mile 2, telling her her partner looked strong, I said nothing to nobody.<br />
So I was ready, more than I wanted to admit, for mile 8, when you run an out and back. This lets you see all the runners ahead of, and then, later, the runners behind you. Many from my running group were doing this event, and so were my running partners. One clapped at me as he wooshed by. Then I heard my name. And I saw two others. And I yelled a word at them. And I found a running partner and then the other. We slapped hands. By the time I turned the corner and made my way back to mile 9, my heart was full again, and I turned back to my music.<br />
* * *<br />
Around mile 10 is the danger point in half marathons. I think doing a marathon helped with this, but it's around this time when you start to think about the end. And if you think about it too much, you start to crave it. The end, after all, means walking, food, friends, that feeling of accomplishment, cheers and the joy of being done. But even if you're running fast, the end is 24 minutes away. That's an episode of "Phineas and Ferb." That's half of "Breaking Bad" or Van Halen's "1984." It's longer than my 5Ks. It's no time to be thinking about the end. So I told myself not to think about the end.<br />
My timing was perfect. The hills were approaching.<br />
The Denver course is a great one, but near its end, a brutal stretch of long, somewhat steep hills await. The reward is worth it, a downhill finish that begs to be stormtroopered, but those hills aren't easy. Even effort, I told myself, not even pace. Enjoy passing other runners. Don't gas yourself. Do these, and you're done. Do these, and the fun begins.<br />
Well, the hills came and went. I crested them and started running hard, as hard as I would in a 5K. I pointed my nose downhill and enjoyed the ride. I was stunned when I saw the clock right before the finish.<br />
I shivered against the cold not long after I finished. I think it was the cold, but it did remind me of a lab puppy who wiggled with pleasure during a game of fetch, who moved with the kind of electricity that comes from knowing that all is right with the world.<br />
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Postscript: I ran 1:40:25, which was a PR by four minutes. I finished 450 or so out of about 9,000 runners.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08837529956827141862noreply@blogger.com0