Poking and Peaking

When you're out there, you're family

2012-01-18T21:45:00.001-07:00

I've said it before. I'll say it again. I'm not an athlete.
I slouch so much, I wonder if my future job will be ringing church bells.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 flush it through the cord. Go ahead and watch it. I'll wait.
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.
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.
Your spikes have stabbed at the grass. You've crushed a ball down the left field line. You've scored a goal in soccer.
I had no idea what it was like to watch athletes and relate to them in any way.
Until I watched the Olympic Marathon Trials Saturday.
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.
These guys, and gals, were basically sprinting for 26 miles.
I can't relate to that.
And yet, I knew what they were feeling.
I'm a runner too.
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.
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."
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.
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.
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).
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 column Tuesday.
Yep. I feel what elite athletes are feeling now.
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.
I left feeling like I was part of a family.
A family of athletes.
It makes me think that maybe, just maybe, I'm one myself now.

Addicted to disconnection

2012-01-06T20:59:00.000-07:00

My wife looked at me funny when I asked her where she was at gymnastics.
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.
"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."
I might as well have been sleepwalking.
Only I wasn't asleep.
I was looking at my iPhone.
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.
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.
Lots of articles 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.
My wife even used it in a fight later. You're never here, she said. You're here, but you're not HERE.
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.
Most of the problem is that I'm an introvert.
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.
I did a restore on the iPhone, and I laughed when I did it. Usually the iPhone restores me.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Every time it buzzes, I fight an itch. Playing Hot Wheels with the kids, so far, has scratched it.

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.

The joy of treks

2011-12-26T13:50:00.000-07:00

Oh, how I looked forward to the week off.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.

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!

There's also a reason races give out medals.*

*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.

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.

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.
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?
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.
You're getting the idea, right? Rather than just run, I follow a plan and stick to it with the regimen of a general.
Well, usually.
The thing is, I learned something about myself when I took that week off.
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.
It was tempting until day five. That's when the blahs came along.
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.
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.
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?
A couple hours later, I had my answer. The blahs were gone.
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.
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.
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.
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.
But not always. I'm trying to change that, and after that week off, I'm more determined than ever.
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.
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.
It was nice to be outside. Even more than that, it was fun.

Bright Lights, Big Post

2011-12-11T11:12:00.000-07:00

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.
Enjoy. I guess.

My life feels like it began after I had kids.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.
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.

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.
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?

Which is the longest lede you'll ever read from me, in perhaps the longest blog post I'll ever write.
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.

Well, we did.

That's kind of the point.

• • •

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.
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.

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.

The first is the milestones.

The second is the people.

• • •

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.

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.
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.
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.
I was going to miss half the fun after not being at #wpbt last year.

I was instantly, totally crushed.
I said so on Twitter.

Then I started getting tweets back.

I had to pull over my car to read and respond to all of them.

They were offers to get me on another one-way flight using their miles.
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.

It took me a moment to gather my thoughts.
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?

A small voice whispered to me. This is like the race you are about to run.

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.
April's offer was the best. With her 25,000 miles, she could get me off the ground at 3 p.m.

Book it! I Tweeted, as I was on my way to the airport, in the car, with Christmas music blasting through the speakers.

She did.

First Class.
For $75.

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.
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.
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.
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.

I bought her meal that night.

• • •

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.

Still with me? Wow.

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.

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.
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.

Only he had a surprise. Others were interested too.

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.

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.

John just told Brad to pull his head out of his ass and sign up.

I'm not sure what worked more.
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.

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.

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.

• • •

No, I'm not breaking this into parts. Deal with it.

• • •

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.
(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).
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.
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.
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.
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.
I'd already written him off for the most part, though a part of me, selfishly, really wanted him there. We all did.
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.
I hoped he was going to go, but our group let him make that decision.
He sent us an email that he was coming when I was on my way to the airport.
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.
It was exactly what we needed.
John arrived late that night.
It was good to have our group together.
• • •
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.
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).
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
We got up to go to our rooms. It was time to get ready.
• • •
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.
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.
"You can't hope good things happen tonight," he said. "You expect them to."
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.
So if you do the training, it's foolish to hope good things happen during a race. You should expect them to.
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.

• • •

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.

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.

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.

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.
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.

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.

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.

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.
I dashed off to the bushes, hoping an officer wouldn't see me.

I was now on my own.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.
And yet, a lot of people I DO know who where there.

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!

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.

I looked at my watch. That pace was 7:15 per mile.
That's over 8 miles an hour if you're scoring at home.

Shit. Really?

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.

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.

I took a deep breath. And then I ran.

• • •

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.

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.

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.

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.

And then I saw the finish line.

I stepped across.

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.

Good run, he said. You too, I said.

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.

I pressed my nose against the glass when I saw an In and Out Burger.

• • •

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.

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.

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.
And he ran the whole way.

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.

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.

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.
I think, for once, I've got an even better word than Brad for it.

I'm calling it a moment.

40 minutes to 40

2011-11-08T22:16:00.001-07:00

"You Get What You Give" - New Radicals

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"Virus" - Bjork

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.

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.

Doesn't it?

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.

"Steppin' Out" - Joe Jackson

An oldie but a goodie, this song found its way into my weekly running mix for this line:

"We are young but getting old before our time; we'll leave the TV and the radio behind."

This line is so appropriate this week.

I wonder if Jackson wrote the song today, he'd include a smartphone?

"Dancing Queen" - ABBA

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.

Skip.

"Embrace The Gutter" - The Autumn Offering

Ah, that's better.

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.

Breathe, dammit, breathe.

"My Will Be Done" - Unearth

Someone asked me once why I listen to heavy metal. How can you run with someone yelling at you like that, she asked.

"Now I strive to find my own way

My Will be Done

Work these hands until they bleed

My Will be Done"

They aren't yelling at me. They're yelling with me.

I've just crested the hill. I'll recover. I'm pretty sure.

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.

The Joy of Racing

2011-10-09T19:30:00.001-06:00

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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Goosebumps.
* * *
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.
What I didn't know was how it would go.
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.
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.
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.
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.
* * *
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.
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.
* * *
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.
My timing was perfect. The hills were approaching.
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.
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.
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.

Postscript: I ran 1:40:25, which was a PR by four minutes. I finished 450 or so out of about 9,000 runners.

Surprise, surprise: Social media is ruining the surprise

2011-09-29T16:26:00.000-06:00

One reason we watch movies is for the hook. Another is the characters. But let's face it: The most fun is the surprise.
It doesn't happen too often, though, does it? In fact, it hasn't happened at all for me in a few years. I don't know if it ever will again.
There's so much out there to spoil the surprise. Spoilers lurk in Twitter, Facebook and e-mail, let alone the office water cooler. Hell it was hard enough not to hear about any major shock BEFORE social media. Homer Simpson, after all, spoiled one of the best (see below), and that was in 1983, before cell phones were just a twinkle in your eye.
Those who make movies don't seem to care about the surprise. They care about shock value, sure, but that usually translates into getting to see someone's skin peeled off or something equally gruesome or maybe lots of fecal jokes.
Shock = money.
The reason I'm partly blaming social media is because pulling off a surprise is nearly impossible anyway. How many can you remember? I will list five below. I call them the five best, but to be honest they are the only five I recall. It takes brilliant, Breaking-Bad-type writing, sturdy plot building and incredible acting. It has to get an increasingly cynical public because we're mostly fed fast-food remakes and retread "thrillers" (I'm one of them if you couldn't tell) to completely buy into a plot, then shift it and come up with a twist so amazing it blows our minds.
So let's say a movie actually does this, against all odds, the kind Phil Collins sang about. Well, come on. Our hype machines are just begging for some grease given today's entertainment climate. We'd Tweet, Facebook and text it to death. And even if any of us didn't give it away, again, Against All Odds, the rest of us would go to the movie expecting a surprise. And when you're expecting a surprise, you're not nearly as surprised when it happens. Talk to M. Night Shyamalan about that one.

My top five movie surprises of all time. I doubt these will shock you. You see what I did there?
1. "The Empire Strikes Back" — Oh, come on, admit it, you gasped, and gasped HARD, when Darth Vader told Luke he was his father. I still remember the theater recoiling in horror. Even Dad, who could tell us what would happen at the end of a movie within the first five minutes, didn't sniff that one out. That surprise also kind of made every other Star Wars movie sucky, or at least not as good as "Empire," but man was that a fun one. The only problem? No way would it work today. Our cynicism wouldn't let us buy into it, and the surprise would last about five minutes after the movie came out.
2. "The Usual Suspects" — This doesn't come until the very end, but that just makes it one of the best endings, ever, to a movie. And it manages to pull off a fun surprise twice. You actually think someone else is Keyser Soze before you find out someone ELSE is Soze.
3. "The Sixth Sense" — I wonder if M. Night's career would have been better had he NOT made this movie. Granted it's probably one of the best movies ever made in the last 20 years, and wow did that ending throw me. You too. Admit it. No, you did NOT know Bruce Willis was really dead. But this movie haunted him throughout his career. He became the "surprise" guy, and that kind of magic only happens once in a director's life. By the time "The Village" came out the act had grown so tired that he seemed to just give up and made some horrible, horrible pictures after that.
4. "The Crying Game" — Hey, I thought he looked female, too, although I remember my mother whispering to me right before the twist "She doesn't have much of a chest." It's gotta be the only time a non-porno film had a shot of a penis be so central to the plot.
5. "Fight Club" — The thing I loved about this, just like "The Sixth Sense," is the surprise was like a delicious cherry on the sundae. We didn't need the surprise for it to be a terrific movie. Yet you add in the surprise and it's an absolute classic. One of the most underrated films of all the time.

Bonuses: Oh, how I wish I was in the theater when that creature popped out of the guy's stomach in "Alien." My uncle was and he said it was one of the biggest shocks of his life. And "Psycho" practically invented the surprise twist, although I saw it coming because of far too many references to Norman and his mother before I caught it on TV when I was 12.

The ridge

2011-09-21T15:53:00.000-06:00

My name is Pokerpeaker. My screen name. Anyway, I'm an addict.

I just can't completely give up ridges.

I have written about the line I walk between being a father and being a mountaineer many times, and quite frankly, you're sick of hearing about it. Hey, me too. But it's on my mind every summer, especially when my friends start talking about their adventures.

One friend who I've taken under my wing started them this year, just like she did last year. If I once pushed her to tackle all the 14ers, she's the one who now pushes me to keep climbing.

I saw this ridge last year, she told me over noodles. You would love it.

I probably would, I said.

It's only Class 3, she said, and my ears perked up. It looked solid. It also looked FUN.

Truth be told, she had me at "ridge."

The conclusion I've reached whenever I ponder something like whether I should be climbing again is that I can still climb. I can't, or I won't, your choice, give up my time in the peaks completely. I've reduced it, sure, no doubt, but even if I get out and do one wild, fun thing, I know I'm still me. It's probably much like the dad who goes out to Vegas with his friends once a year.

Since I was 15, alpine climbing, not just simple hiking, was what fascinated me. My time spent above treeline was always my favorite part of the day. Those hikes through the forest? Boring. Walking on tundra to a summit? Eh. Scrambling over boulders and exposed terrain on a ridge? Yeah, that's the ticket.

Just last week, I had the opportunity to climb Ice Mountain with that same friend. It's something I've wanted to do for years. I already attempted it once but the damn lightning got in the way. It's honestly something I WOULD have knocked off years ago if it wasn't for those meddlin' kids.

But I cancelled the trip. Snow came a little early this year to the peaks, although September is always a crapshoot anyway. And I can't climb a Class 3 route with ice and snow on it.

A proper balance means taking educated, necessary and filtered risks to climb a tough route, and not doing it very often. It does not mean being even remotely reckless. I probably could have climbed Ice Mountain anyway, and I probably would have eight years ago. I can't any longer.

So this year I'm left with thoughts of balancing along a ridge to Father Dyer Peak, a high 13er near Breckenridge. We scrambled, walked across ledges where a slip would mean certain death and sniffed the blue sky many times.

We did it on a clear day, on a clean, solid route, and when it wasn't clear any longer, we went down, forgoing a third peak in the process.

It was safe.

It wasn't reckless.

But I can see why addicts keep doing what they do. Because, man, it was FUN.

Moonlight Sonata

2011-09-11T21:41:00.000-06:00

It's been a strange 9/11 for me this year. I've written today about what many others were doing to mark the anniversary. I really had no idea what to do myself.
I found it hard to mark the day because to me it represents everything that's gone wrong since the attacks. Rather than use the opportunity to come together as a country, we're further apart. We are more paranoid, angrier and poorer. We are in two wars that don't look to have any kind of an end. Sept. 11 was a horrible day, and we are far worse as a country as a result. Why would anyone want to mark that?
This resonated with me in many ways, and so I do not want to repeat any of it, even though I already have. I can't help it.
Yet 9/11 IS a big part of our history, like it or not, and I can't forget it. I would have to mark it somehow.
I thought of a way early this evening.
There are so many, many things I do not like about our country. I hate our squirming politics, our selfish health care, our arrogance, our pandering to the rich, our refusal to even look at what needs to be fixed and our overindulgence.
But there is one thing I love, and that is our ability to be ourselves.
Individuality is not only allowed, it's encouraged, even celebrated. Politicians who appear fresh and free-thinking are the ones who are celebrated, at least initially, which explains why the crazier candidates get a foothold before (usually) saner minds prevail. We wear costumes to running races. Innovators like Steve Jobs are treated like Jesus when they are close to death.
You could argue the opposite of course. Airport security makes us take off our clothes before we can board a plane, and the entertainment business prefers movies that are reheated rather than created, and bands and blogs and tweets all seem to run together. But come on. The fact that we HAVE all these things, even the chance to go anywhere we want on a plane, is proof enough.
I'm many things, a writer, a father, a musician and a lover of words, movies, creativity, dogs and cats, music (especially the hard stuff), and most of all, I'm an active person. Climbing, hiking, biking, taking risks and, of course, running are all a big part of my life.
There was a full moon Sunday night.
It was probably risky to run in the park, on a trail, in the dark, with only the silver light of the moon to guide my footsteps. It was also magic.
Five miles about did it. I thought about those who died and those who had died since to protect our country.
I ran tired, a little worn out from my 14-miler the day before. But I also fast. I ran hard. Most of all, I ran free.

The Adjustment Bureau

2011-08-12T16:35:00.001-06:00

The way that your heart beats makes all the difference
In learning to live
Here before me is my soul
I'm learning to live
I won't give up
Till I've no more to give

— Dream Theater, "Learning to Live"

I had a free day from the kids. In the summer, that meant a chance at a long mountain run.
But a half hour before I needed to go to bed to make the early wake up that was certain to follow, I still didn't know what I wanted to do.
I had a good idea. I wanted to do Mount Audubon, a 13,223-foot mountain in the Indian Peaks, a gorgeous area less than two hours from my house.
Something held me back. I should say someone. The old me.
I knew my times in the mountains would be cut when I had kids. I was all right with that. After years of climbing 20 peaks every summer, in my chase for the 14ers and nabbing as much as I could in Rocky Mountain National Park and the Indian Peaks, I was ready for a change. It was easy to get burned out by the time fall rolled around. It would be nice to focus on running, a new sport for me, and, hey, I'd still get out there, right?
Well, sure. But to say this has been an adjustment would be a sorry understatement. Jayden is 6 and the girls are 4, and yet my time in the peaks hasn't increased with their ages, as I thought it would, it's decreased.
Therefore, this time was valuable, like poker chips, and the old me didn't like picking Audubon.
The old me was an advanced climber, and boring Audubon, with a trail all the way to the top, a relatively short hike to get to its summit, was not worth my time. I'd done it a few times already too. The old me was a peak snob. The old me COULD be. I could do traverses that took two days. Scrambles. Tough stuff.
Yet I am learning to adjust. The thing is, I had some freelance work to do, and the kids would be home that afternoon, along with my wife, and I wanted to be there for them.
Aubudon would let me run it, for a morning, and it was close. It fits the new me.
So I ran Audubon. The mountain was challenging enough, making the run more difficult than I thought it would be. The weather was gorgeous and so was the mountain. I made the summit. Then I ran back down. It was three hours of bliss.
I listened to Dream Theater on the way up, one of my favorite metal bands. The song "Learning to Live" echoed through my ears as I walked across Aububon's summit and signed the register with my kids' names.

The Funk of a family trip

2011-08-08T16:26:00.000-06:00

It only took about an hour for the funk to latch on to our clothes like a leech.
The camping stink.
Our first camping trip as a family was officially underway.
As you might have guessed by now, time in the mountains is important to me. I want it to be important to my kids too. Our efforts seem to be working. The girls, at their tender age, ask to climb mountains. The boy, with Kindergarten approaching, asks to go to the mountains every week.
The mountains, to these young minds, means anything with trees and without a McDonald's within 100 yards, but we're starting small. Still, Friday we'd head up to Rocky Mountain National Park, and that counts as a full-fledged day in the mountains. The thin air made our Kansas friends, silly flatlanders that they are, breathe heavy even during a simple walk.
I bought a six-person tent, a camping bed/air mattress/princess pad and a rechargeable pump to blow it up. I booked a reservation for a campsite in the park with a cushy bathroom, running water, a place to wash your dishes and a large tent pad. There was a picnic bench at each site. And a firepit.
I'm not used to such luxuries. My camping trips were out of necessity, a tent at 11,000 feet to break up a particularly tough 14er or a place to stay when the drive was almost a full day. Car camping, as we called it, was heaven. I usually had to pack in, which meant water pumped from a river, not a faucet I could just turn on, and dinner was boiled water in a pouch with freeze-dried food. A pillow was a tiny thing I could fit into my pack. My clothes were what I had on.
Kate, bless her, did this kind of camping with me as well, though she's moved on. She does agree with me, bless her, that camping should be done in a tent and not a huge vehicle that works off a rumbling generator all night, though she probably agrees because we can't afford anything but a tent. I'm more on principle: You have to rough it a bit in order to rough it.
I camped with Jayden last year, so I knew he was up for anything. We weren't sure about the girls. Last year, when they threw a fit if their milk wasn't topped off the moment they asked for it, we would have laughed, tearfully, at the idea of a camping trip. But they've chilled out. The 4s are much better than the 3s.
So, having no idea if the tent would actually set up (I still like to gamble a bit even if online poker is now akin to selling meth to grade schoolers), we set out, got to the site, sat on the bench and, yes, the tent set up. Our Kansas friends, however, camping veterans they are, had to bail me out for the air beds/princess pads, a necessity for Kate's blanching at most things roughing it. I didn't see the valves in the box. They had extras. Once the pads were plumped, the kids and Kate staked their spots. I was left with my camping mattresses and a sleeping bag. That's OK. At least there was running water and peanut butter pie.
The smell set in soon after.
I can't explain it. I've slept in many tents, sleeping bags and in all kinds of areas, and yet the smell is the same. You can't imitate it. It's not what Kate calls "mountain stink" from a hiking trip or race stink from running. It's not shoe stink or old leather stink or underwear stink. It's sort of like BO wrapped in tarp and smoked in campfire.
Man. Those campfires. That was the only bummer for me. I did, I have to admit, like the bathroom and the running water and the picnic bench and the pie on ice.
But one of my favorite parts of being in the mountains is the sweet smell of pine and clean in the air, and the campground smelled like a campfire. Every spot among the hundreds had to have a campfire going. And here's the thing. Why? We cooked our hot dogs. Fine. We roasted marshmallows with a neighbor. Cool. But you don't need a raging campfire so you can showcase your mediocre guitar skills to your stoned mates, as a guy I named "Jack Johnson" did until the quiet hour crept in at 10 p.m.
After a brief battle for Mommy turf, which was expected, the girls settled down and went right to sleep. They're already veterans. But Jayden, as usual, was a maniac.
"Daddy, can I see if it's darker out now?" he asked me 20 times as 9 p.m. melted into 10 p.m.
Finally, I agreed to it. We walked outside together. The campfire smell had faded into the black of night. We looked at the stars. I agreed they were pretty cool.

Connected in disconnect

2011-07-28T16:09:00.000-06:00

Jayden was only 6, but he was already showing signs of addiction.
We thought about "Intervention." Instead, Kate had him color three strips of paper.
They were his tickets.
They were tickets to anything electronic.
He needed them.
Before the tickets, his morning could be full of cartoons, or sometimes I'd have to pry my cell phone from his warm, sweaty hands.
NO! ANGRY BIRDS! he'd yell, as if I'd yanked the needle from his arm just before the heroin was delivered. When I got home, rather than a hug, I'd be greeted with, "Can I do your phone?"
In between, maybe he'd do the computer, such as a NickJr. website or a pbskids.org site.
We knew it was bad. But here's the sad part. The dangerous part. I thought it was also nice.
It kept him occupied, and a quiet, occupied young kid = quiet, occupied parent actually doing something for himself or herself.
Like, you know, playing with my iPhone.
Still, the girls keep themselves occupied by using their imaginations. They play with each other, with themselves, with toys.
Jayden relied on us for his entertainment. It was like he had forgotten how to play. To be a kid. To go outside and run around and poke bugs.

What was worse was we are not freaky parents who wondered why our babies weren't crawling at three months, but we had contemplated looking into ADHD for Jayden. He could not hold still, even telling us, at one point, "I want to but I can't." Kate had to ask him 10 times to put on his shoes.

When we instituted the rule, meaning a half hour plugged into something electronic, he gave us a ticket. And we noticed something almost right away.

He was focused.
Now he would sit with us and do homework. He wanted to read more books. He wanted to go outside more (even if the weenie does come right back in because of mosquitoes and 95-degree air).
He is in our face more.
A focused Jayden means I have to be Dad more. He makes me put my iPhone away. The iPhone is one of the best things that's happened to me in the last few months. It's also one of the worst.
I'm not alone. CNN just did a story on people who obsessively check their smart phones. The study said, on average, people checked their smartphones an average of 34 times a day. That's 34 times a day! A day!
My nose was in my smartphone so often that my kids sometimes would say, "Daddy!" to pull my attention away from it. When I wasn't checking it, I was playing Angry Birds or Tiny Wings or Words With Friends.
Jayden comes by it rightly. A diversion like that is like a trough of queso and chips to someone on a diet.
Disconnect is my biggest problem as a father and a husband. It's a serious weakness.
I need people for my job, and yet people drain me, and when I get home, I'm desperate for a recharge (much like my iPhone at the end of the day). Burying my face in my phone is a recharge. My family bears the brunt of that.
So I've tried to be better about it. I talk to the girls, play with the kids and wrestle with them at nights now. I still play my phone too. I wish it weren't an effort to interact. But it's the way I am.
Jayden really needed those tickets.
Turns out I did too.

The longest mile

2011-07-14T11:45:00.000-06:00

"How much can you know about yourself, you've never been in a fight?"

— Tyler Durden, "Fight Club."

How much do you really know about yourself, after all, if you've never fought something? It seems like an arrogant question because the person asking it surely DOES know the struggle and wants nothing more than to tell you about it. But the reason I'm asking it is it's the exact question I asked myself three minutes before the start of the mile. And I am going to tell you about my own struggle, at the risk of sounding like that arrogant bastard, because you need to hear it.

You need to hear it because many times the person wielding the question is NOT arrogant. At least he or she is not nearly as arrogant as you might think when they ask that question. And the reason they want to tell you about the struggle is because they are proud, and because they want to possibly inspire you, but mostly, they want you to relate to them because everyone struggles, in relationships, at your job, at parenting.

And I know all this because I am that person.

• • •

I have blogged about my running quite a bit. You've read about half marathons, trail runs, runs up mountains, tough 10Ks, 5Ks and even a couple marathons. And I will tell you, right now, nothing tells me more about myself than the mile.

It's the mile, just a mile, that challenges me the most. It's by far the hardest thing I do during a season. When I tell people I'd rather run a half marathon, they don't believe me. Seriously. I'm not kidding. Because an hour and 45 minutes of mild suffering is far more agreeable to me than four minutes of pure hell.

If you do them right*, races don't get easier as they go down in distance. They get harder.

* When I say "right," I mean as a runner who trains hard and takes it fairly seriously, like me. I would never do anything but encourage anyone who enters a race, even if you do a 5K twice a year because you want to ease the guilt of overeating before the 4th of July or Thanksgiving. I want everyone to lead active lives, and, to be blunt, I can't talk down to you anyway because there are runners out there who make me look like a squeaking mouse.

Those races get harder, at least they do for me, because there's no reason to hold back in a 5K. It's three miles. That means running hard, really hard, in fact. Some people find this fun. I do. Now. But when I started, the intensity of running was the hardest adjustment for me. I'd climbed more than 150 peaks and repeated more than a few, but I'd never felt the lung-burning misery I do during a 5K. It took me years to banish the trolls, the ones constantly telling me to slow down, from my brain. One reason I've improved so much this year is because the trolls are quieter.

I'd mostly gotten over my secret hatred of intense races that made me miserable.

The mile was my last hurdle.

• • •

I texted one of my running partners two hours before the race.

"I'm trying to look forward to this tonight," I said, "and not dread it. Failing!"

Dread will kill you before a race. If you already believe it will hurt, how can you banish the trolls when it's actually hurting? You can't. And yet I couldn't shake the dread. I KNEW how much the mile would hurt.

The mile, as you've probably guessed, is as close to a sprint as you can manage for a mile. If 5Ks hurt, the mile REALLY hurts. In the last half mile, you can barely breathe, your legs turn to lead, and your heart booms like a bass drum. Your throat burns. I went to the doctor a few years ago and discovered I had a touch of exercise-induced asthma and acid reflux. I use an inhaler only before a tough race, and I take a mild form of medication for the reflux. Both have helped immensely. But the burn, the fire, really, still visits me for the mile. Only for the mile.

• • •

Positive, I told myself. Think positive. Smile during your run. Think positive. My goal was to go under 6 minutes. I'd only done it once, two years ago, and by the skin of my teeth, at 5:58. Still, I'd run well this year. If I didn't go under 6, it would be a disappointment. Positive. Positive. Positive!

"30 seconds," our coach said.

Shit.

Go.

The first minute, when I would still be able to think clearly, was crucial this time, I thought. I told myself to stay with one of my running partners. She's smart and won't go out too fast.

I've gotten much better about gassing myself before the finish line. It's one reason why I enjoy the races more. But in the mile, it's hard not to go out too fast because it's balls out from the start, and seconds count. There's no room for a bad quarter. So I tried to hold back and run hard at the same time. It's harder than it sounds.

As we turned the first corner, a steep downhill awaited me, and I was already panting and fighting the trolls.

The trolls really come from deep inside your brain, and what your brain says to you is, "You sure?" You sure you want to do this? After all, it IS hard, and the risk for injury is pretty high, as even a slip would probably mean some serious road rash, and you are maxing your heart rate, which isn't good for you for long. I tried to think of excuses for me to quit. I couldn't think of any. So I relied on bargains to quiet the trolls.

I know this hurts, I said to myself. But this is downhill, so let your legs carry you and relax. I have long legs. It's my only athletic gift. I tried to use it as I ran downhill, but I started really breathing hard, and this is when the dread starts to settle in, because you know it's not getting any better, and probably it will get worse.

The third quarter is always the toughest. You aren't close to being done, and yet the furnace is really burning at this point. It was all I could do to breathe. It's actually kind of scary at this point because your heart feels like it might explode and the air scalds your lungs. I once got an EKG during a physical because I was worried about the pain I felt during the hardest runs. The inhaler helped with that. But that's also just the way it is. I also began to see tiny pink stars, which would be cool if I was at a Pink Floyd concert and not killing myself.

I slowed a bit on this quarter, I know I did, and so I started searching for people to pace me. Pretend you've got a rope attaching you to the person, I told myself. It's a neat trick because it works.

The third quarter ended, thankfully, and it was time for the stretch home. At this point I was so miserable that I made another bargain with myself. I told myself I would dog it if my time was just OK.

I glanced at my wrist. 4:15.

Do NOT slow down, I told myself. You're going to PR if you keep it up.

It helped, but I needed something more. I began to listen to the others around me.

• • •

The collective breathing sounded like the wind that rattled my windows the night during an angry thunderstorm, and I recalled a talk I had with others before the start.

Some runners close to me in ability asked me if I was going to run the first wave of faster runners or the wave of runners that were just over a 6-minute mile. I was going to run the first, I said, because I thought I could go under 6.

And it was then that I was honest. I wanted to get it out of the way, I said. I didn't want to go second because I didn't want to dread it any longer.

Yeah, they said. Me too.

Others were going through exactly what I was going through, I told myself. They were hurting, barely able to breathe, even probably fighting their own trolls. Everyone was going through a period of discovery, about how much they could suffer and still fight to the end. That seems obvious, and yet, when you're suffering, you really do feel as if you're on an island. No one could possibly be as miserable as me right now, you think. It's not true. There are many out there. And that's why it's not an arrogant question to ask how much you really know of yourself if you've never been in a fight because those who DO fight are scared before it. We are nervous. We don't want to feel the pain and the misery and we don't relish the battle. In fact, as soon as it starts, we really just want it to be over.

I dug deep, way deep, even as I wished for it to end, and ran as hard as I could. It was not as fast as some. It was faster than others. At that point, it didn't matter. I heard my time, "5:48," as I approached the line. I knew something about myself. This was my own fight. And finally, I was winning.

Home

2011-07-11T14:17:00.000-06:00

I started obsessing about the barbecue a good three weeks before I made the trip out to Kansas.
I don't think I'm alone in missing the little things when I think about home. Home, for me, is Kansas. It's where I grew up. It's where I went to school. It's where I worked my first job. It's where I said I would always stay, until I left.
I always come home for a week every year. My excuse is so my parents can see the grandkids. That is true. But the real reason is much simpler. I need my fix.
That means barbecue, Tippin's French Silk pie, running on a trail through the woods, catching lightning bugs and even sort of liking the strange stuff, like that film of humidity that stays on your skin at the end of the day.
Part of that comes from the fact that my parents are divorced. It is what it is. It was better for the both of them. I love seeing them, and they are great to my kids. That still leaves me visiting semi-strange neighborhoods rather than the one I lived in as a kid. I rarely get to see it anymore. I didn't this year.
I got lost, for instance, on one of my runs at Dad's. I took a wrong turn, and that turn forced me to run eight miles a day after a PR in a 10K.
(Quick brag: That 10K was a PR by two minutes. Sea level is really nice, but I think the stifling humidity cuts that advantage in half by the end of the race. The base training I've enjoying from the marathon just keeps paying off).
So, with my childhood home gone — something that isn't uncommon among us almost-40-year-olds — I have to hang onto the little things.
That means flying insects that flash like traffic lights when it gets dark.
Lightning bugs are fascinating to me, even if, really, all they are doing is saying LOOK AT MY BUTT! NO LOOK AT MY BUTT! I'LL DOUBLE BLINK YOUR BUTT TO THE GROUND! The kids had a ball snatching them up and putting them in a jar.
I watched them for hours in Kansas, but we don't have them in Colorado, at least not in Greeley. I miss the calls of the cicadas, but I miss the lightning bugs a lot more. I let them go once the kids went to bed. I can't keep beauty like that locked up.
I went to Kansas determined not to overeat. One thing that struck me on this trip was how easy it is to eat too much every day. I'm hardly overweight, and I'm not on a diet. But I have to watch what I eat every day, just like all of you.
It was a constant battle. And part of that reason is the French Silk.
When you order French Silk anywhere else, you get a mushy, pudding pie, which is sort of like comparing Schlitz to a Fat Tire. Tippin's French Silk is a buttery, milk chocolate masterpiece. There's nothing else like it. I don't really even like pie all that much.
Tippins was a restaurant with several locations, but it eventually went out of business, as the market for fancier versions of truck-stop food wasn't strong, and the pies were't enough to keep it going. Now Tippins sells pies out of a grocery store chain (or the chain bought it, I'm not really sure) for $12 a pop.
I had a piece of French Silk every night after dinner, and obviously, if I did that every night, I'd probably be at least ten pounds past my racing weight. I'd have a ponch, even with all the miles I run. And then I'd probably want a snack every night, like I had at my parents, and I'd eat more candied walnuts and much extra-large lunches and....
And I found myself having to really balance all that out with breakfasts of grapefruit and little else and other lunches of salads and fruits. It's SO easy to go overboard. I can see why this country is so fat. Calories are accessible, and most people don't run them off.
I don't think I overate on this trip, but I did gain a couple pounds, and I ran 30 miles that week in a sauna. So easy.
But then again, I may have gained all that weight Friday. Friday was Gates day. In my completely professional and totally unbiased opinion, Kansas City and the surrounding area serves the best barbecue in the world.
You have to pick your alliances early on. There are four or five major brands here. I used to be a KC Masterpiece guy, but in the last few years, I've turned to Gates. It's spicier than I want, but the meat is So Fucking Good. Smokey good. Imagine tender, smoked meat drenched in sugar, spice and molasses. You get the idea.
I ran 12 that day through that trail through the trees, and I ate a small bran muffin for breakfast and three servings of fruit for lunch, and then we went to a big pool all day. My body was ready for calories.
I ate most of a short end of ribs, probably 20oz of beans, most of an order of burnt ends, a serving of sausage, a few fries and probably something else. It's by far the most food I've eaten since, well, probably since the last time I had Gates, a year ago. If I could have injected it into my veins, I would have.
Alas, eventually, the meal has to end.
My body, or the stomach, anyway, seemed to realize how special this was, as I got away with this bender. No issues (I do not need to elaborate, I'm pretty sure) and just some mild heartburn that I extinguished with some Tums. Perhaps the humidity helped me sweat it through my pores.
Ah, the humidity. I said I may have missed it. I did miss it for a few minutes. Then my next thought was, "OMGOMGOMG HOW DO YOU STAND IT?" I felt like a hot dog dunked in water and then thrown into the Joey Chestnut furnace. At my race I dumped two cups of water over my head and ran through a sprinkler. On my "lost" run my shirt was soaked through. After I ran 12 through the trees I believe I lost five pounds in water weight. And every time it started before 7 a.m. Brutal.
On our last day, when we stayed at a cheap hotel in Goodland, KS, dark clouds loomed in the distance, and a kid at the hotel's pool from Minnesota kept staring at them in worry. They're nothing, I told him. Don't worry.
Oops.
A couple hours later, a thick mass of green-tinted, pissed-off vapor gathered over our hotel roof and spit out lightning like raindrops. Then the sirens went off.
I even miss the thunderstorms, the ragers that we just don't get back home. But the kids freaked on us, despite me telling them I'd been through dozens, if not hundreds, of tornado warnings with nary a scratch. This storm wasn't even that bad, with some driving rain, strong winds and a lot of thunder but no hail, really strong winds or, you know, a funnel. I'm not sure why the sirens went off. Maybe for old times' sake.
I stared out the window as the rain settled down, and, even if I miss it, I was grateful this was a fun event, an unusual thing, something we do once a year, like eat BBQ or catch lightning bugs.
The things you miss, I've found, seem to lead you back to the places we are lucky enough to now call home.

Did Pixar really make a bad movie?

2011-06-24T19:05:00.001-06:00

I'll be honest. I was not looking forward to seeing "Cars II" as much as I had the last few Pixar movies. And it broke my heart.
As I grow into an increasingly cynical guy about to turn 40, Pixar was one of the few things that kept me believing. If you are cynical, or even struggling against it, like me, it's hard to like the movie business. There's Michael Bay, reboots, remakes, unoriginal ideas, Twilight movies, sequels and increasingly bad horror movies that believe buckets of blood can make up for a bag of twists.
But then there was Pixar, and in the summer, no less, when most of the sludge was served to us in a trough full of special effects and inane dialogue, we got brilliance. We got terrific storytelling, great characters and heartfelt, honest moments. I cried away my cynicism at the end of "Wall-E," "Up" and "Toy Story 3." In fact, I thought those three movies were some of the best movies I'd seen, and "Toy Story 3" was my favorite movie last year.
And what was even better was EVERYONE went to see them. Pixar is one of the few great success stories, a wonderful product that is actually endorsed by the public. That combination is rarer than you think. For every Adele, there's two Katy Perrys.
It got to the point where I believed Pixar was incapable of making a bad movie. It made me believe. Going to the new Pixar movie is a summer tradition, like running a 4th of July race.
Alas. Brilliant white light eventually dims. Maybe that's the lesson of "Cars II."
I just got back from the theater, and I'm trying, really hard, not to bash the crap out of it. I mean, Rolling Stone's Peter Travers, who is not only my favorite movie writer but a guy I agree with more than anyone else, gave it three-and-a-half stars, and one thing I love about him is he always forms his own opinion, rather than jump on the back of other reviewers and reheat what everyone's saying. So he saw that same brilliance that we all saw in "Wall-E."
What Travers does is impressive because it's HARD not to let the buzz influence our opinions of something. Word of mouth is the most powerful advertising in the entertainment business. That's how movies like "Little Miss Sunshine" become smash hits. And I had not heard many good things about "Cars II."
I honestly wondered if reviewers were either falling for the new story, i.e. Pixar Made A Sucky Movie! or ready to knock Pixar off its perch. We love it when greatness falters because, well, it brings it back to our levels. When something is THAT great, all the time, well, you begin to wonder why YOU can't be great all the time, and let's face it, that's an uncomfortable feeling, and we Americans, more than anything else, like that comfortable feeling of feeling good about ourselves.
So I went in with an open mind. I'm still trying to keep it. I owe Pixar that much, at least.
(Actually, I have repaid Pixar for its greatness and inspiration in thousands spent on the company's annoying merchandise. It's inevitable when you have three small children and the characters are so very, cheek-pinching cute. Ironically, "Cars" was by far the most criminal at this. McQueen is printed on T-shirts, bedsheets, underwear, frosted cookies, a dumpyard of toys, swimsuits, floaties, kickboards, countless food items, watches, CDs, DVDs and I don't have all day to list the rest. And that's just in our house. I would not be stunned to find Cars on tampons).
So here's my quickie: The movie isn't really all that bad. It doesn't hold up to the past movies. It's probably the worst Pixar movie ever, save for "A Bugs Life," which I had wiped from my memory with one of them Total Recall machines. In fact it almost doesn't deserve to carry the label.
But it's not "Hop," not by a longshot. It's even better than some reasonably cute kids movies I've seen in the last six months, like "Rio" or "Megamind." Part of the problem of being Pixar is the movies are almost TOO good. People think "Led Zeppelin III" is a bad album for the same reason.
In fact, I walked out of the movie, and Jayden, my 6 year old son, was grinning ear to ear. Did you like it, we asked him, and he nodded.
OK then.
No, what worries me more is "Cars II" honestly seemed far more like a normal movie than I've ever seen from Pixar. In other words, it was a sequel, and it didn't seem all that imaginative or well-thought-out or even planned in any way. It seemed like a summer movie that featured friendly, well-known characters, lots of cool special effects (the movie does LOOK incredible), an easy, wild, plot and lots of explosions (!!!).
Sequels aren't always bad. Remember what I said about "Toy Story 3"? (And "Toy Story 2" was just as good). And neither are fun summer movies. Hey, I loved "Speed." I loved "The Dark Knight." I loved "Inception."
Instead, "Cars II" honestly was the kind of movie that made me so cynical about movies. And it didn't seem like a simple misstep. John Lasseter, the head of Pixar and one of my top three people I'd kill cute, fluffy bunnies to invite for dinner, co-directed it. Yikes. And what's even worse, before "Cars II," Pixar showed a "Toy Story" short. I love the shorts as much as the movies. They are when Pixar seems to stretch its considerable creative limits even further. They are imaginative and brilliant and everything the movie business is mostly not. But this movie was something Pixar can find in its office trashcans. I'd be surprised if it took more thought than a working lunch over Burger King.
The fact that Pixar made both scares me to death. I need magic in my life. I suppose I can't have it all the time. But I live in a world where it's drying up. If I can't count on Pixar once a year, well, maybe I'll just have to join the crowd who believes Katy Perry is actually good.

Like father, like son, like father

2011-06-12T17:19:00.000-06:00

Jayden picked at his oatmeal early Saturday morning as usual, looking at food as he usually does, as a pain in the ass that kept him from Nick Jr. or the computer or, in this case, his first triathlon.
"I don't want this. I'm full," Jayden said.
This is the game we play every day. None of our kids want to eat. So we're used to it. We try different weapons against it all the time, and none of them work very well. We try time outs, threats (NO Nick Jr. until you eat) and the "just a couple more bites" plea. We've even used the starving kids in Africa line. Or maybe it's China, which, if Jayden knew what the economy was like over there, he'd also know I was full of crap.
But he's still 5, so sometimes he buys it, and usually, he doesn't. We usually sigh and save the food for later, knowing there will probably never be another later.
But Saturday, I tried a different tactic.
"You know, Jayden," I said. "Whenever I have a big race, I have to eat a good breakfast. I need my strength. I need the energy. I need to be strong. You'll need to be strong too."
He looked at me. He considered what I said. And then he ate the rest in big, heaping gulps.
• • •
I stared out into the open water a couple weeks ago just a couple hours after one of the fastest 10Ks of my life. I felt good about my Boulder/Bolder PR, really good, actually, considering how the marathon had sapped my speed for a month. But this was no time for pats on the back. Three of my friends were in the water, waiting for me.
"Come on, dear, you've got to get in," Sarah said. "Get your ass in here."
The water was cold. I knew it was cold. My running partner jumped in the lake and gasped involuntarily.
I am not a swimmer. I am a floater. But for the second year in a row, I would be entering the Greeley Triathlon, and part of the deal is, of course, a swim. And this swim's in open water, meaning you don't get the luxury of touching the bottom, let alone a friendly pool. It can be scary for anyone who isn't used to it.
I was not used to it.
My wetsuit - actually, a borrowed suit - was on tight. My cap was ready. I just needed to find the courage.
• • •
Jayden had a confession as we rode to the Greeley Kids Triathlon Saturday, the day before my own Greeley Triathlon (rated R, for adults only, for strong language).
"Daddy," he said. "I'm scared."
"It's OK to be scared," I said. "I was scared a couple weeks ago when I swam in the lake."
Jayden considered what I said. Then he strapped his goggles over his head and waited for his turn in the pool.
• • •
I jumped in the water, and the cold gut-punched me, numbing my toes and making me sputter. But I'll be honest, lest you think I'm being overdramatic. It felt good after a bit. After that last, miserable mile of the Bolder/Boulder, when the sun came out and hot air swirled around my cheeks and sweat ran into my eyes, a cold bath was exactly what I needed.
It always gets better, I said to myself, as Brenda stayed me to give me a few pointers and, uh, make sure I didn't drown.
I'm not a natural athlete. Yeah, I know, I do all this stuff, so shut up. But really I'm not. I may have more endurance and energy than most people, and I may even have some kind of VO2 advantage. But the skill sports flummox me. I can't really play football. I can't even dribble a basketball and run down a court. And swimming is a skill sport if I've ever seen one.
My left arm flopped around like Nemo's special fin. When I turned my head to breathe, I usually swallowed more water than air. And I'd start swimming by plopping my head in the water and kicking first, as if I was starting up a rusty fishing boat.
My goal was to make it to an island and back. That was maybe 300-400 yards.
I was out of breath after the first 25.
• • •
Jayden had to hurry to the start and jump in just after the race started. That was my fault. He can't stand still for more than a minute (show me a 5-year-old who can, in his defense), and so he was playing in a park 100 yards away when I noticed the tots were gathering for the mini-triathlon.
He jumped in the water, swam halfway and looked at me. I shouted at him to go, and he grinned and turned on his motor.
Jayden's already a pretty good swimmer. I think he has his mother's genes. He loves the water. And something surprised me about him. He climbed out of the pool and ran to the transition area.
He knew he was in a race.
In fact, he began yelling at me almost right away to dry him off and get his shoes on.
• • •
Today, Sunday if you're reading this at work, I lined up with 100 other guys, many who looked at home in their wetsuits. I fidgeted in my seal's skin, scratching at the zipper and trying to breathe through the tight fit. I joked about how much I sucked to hide my nerves and lower my expectations of the race. It's what I do.
One other thing I do, and this one is more serious, is I remind myself to race myself. That's the only way I survived going to all those track sessions at first with people who could place in their age groups at will in every race. I tried to PR every race and didn't worry about the applause showering over them when their race times were announced before we killed ourselves at intervals.
When I crossed the line faster than I had before, inside, I heard cheering.
So when I looked around, I saw most of those guys had obviously swam, possibly for years, and so of course they were better than me. I'd have to make it up on the run if I could. That, at least, thanks to a lot of hard work, I can do pretty well.
• • •
Jayden hopped on his bike and burned down the course, passing any kid he could, which, thanks to my terrible transition skills, wasn't very many (hell, I was yelling at myself at the end). Then he hopped off and sprinted the quarter-mile run. I ran with him and told him to chase down the kid in front of him. His face turned red, then purple, but he ran harder.
He finished, breathing hard, crispy air, and looked at me with a question in his eyes: Why did I just do that?
Then they draped a medal around his neck.
He wore the medal the rest of the day and showed it to his babysitter as soon as he ran out of our mini-van that night. He kept showing it to me, too.
I told him I was proud.
• • •
I remember my father taking me on hikes and getting me up my first few peaks. It was something we did together. Despite an background that favored music and band over athletics (something I'm still proud of, by the way), I eventually became only one of less than 2,000 people to climb all the 14ers. The mountaineering eventually led to the running because, hey, I could climb, couldn't I? And the running led to the triathlon and the swimming because, hey, I could run, couldn't I?
Dad opened the door by me watching him and wanting to do what he did.
I sputtered and panicked a couple times and thrashed around, but I eventually did get through the swim. My bike was pretty mediocre, which was better than my swim, and the 5K went well. But I knew it would. I finished in the middle of the pack, maybe even a little lower. I did not finish last in my age group, like I did last year. I knocked six minutes off last year's time.
Mostly, I did it.
I didn't wear my medal all day. But I really wanted to.

The battle of the birds, angry or otherwise

2011-05-29T19:24:00.000-06:00

There's a disturbing, salacious temptation I've battled lately as a father.
Part of me wants to let my kids play video games all day.
That's not exactly true of the girls, though they are as quiet as mice, too, when they sit at the computer and play games from online sites like Nick Jr. and Disney Jr.
(The Jr. part strikes me as funny; is there an adult version of the Disney Channel? And does it involve Silvermist, one of Tinker Bell's buddies? Cause I totally have a crush on her.)
But there's no consequence when the girls are told to leave the computer. They go and play, like a 4-year-old should, with Barbies or some plastic crap they got at McDonald's.
Jayden unleashes fury.
Now Jayden is a force of nature anyway. He's a soon-to-be-6-year-old who wears his heart on the outside, usually stitched to a Lighting McQueen shirt. He reacts and overacts, so much so that he should have no problems getting his own news talk show when he's older.
And when I (finally) do put down Angry Birds or Words with Friends and yank him away from the screen, he fusses and fumes and starts hounding us to watch TV. My wife the other day said she wishes he had an off switch.
Only when I suggest that we, say, go for a walk, or go ride our bike on a nature trail outside of Greeley, he always agrees.
Jayden loves the outdoors and nature and animals. He would spend every day at the zoo. Whenever he sees a creek (or a 'crick' as some of you say), he inches forward despite my protests until he's deep in the mud. He's always asking me what kind of bird or bug that is, and when he sees a snake, whether it's at the zoo, in person or in a picture, he says, "Daddy I think you're gonna have to come see this. Look. Your favorite."
He is, in other words, exactly like me.
I struggle to maintain a balance between the electronic and the ethereal, which, in my case, means the outdoors. I love video games too. Technology is great because it's cheap entertainment (Angry Birds: 99 cents), portable and In The Comfort Of Your Own Home! Yet the outdoors renews me in a way that Angry Birds cannot. Those moments when all the pigs die as if I've dropped a hydrogen bomb on their asses are all too fleeting. There are no fleeting moments when I'm running or hiking or biking along the trail. It just IS.
The trouble, of course, is that getting out there takes energy, and that's not only true when you're running or hiking. It takes more energy than ever for two reasons.
The first is these places are harder and harder to find. It's already been written by several million that when I was a kid, we had creeks and woodsy areas within a bullfrog's jump of my backyard. But it's TRUE. It hits me. It hit me when I was reading a simple children's book to Jayden the other night, "Crawdad Creek." The book talks in clover-scented-Lysol language about a place behind a girl's house where wildlife was abundant, where crawdads paddled in creeks and deer frolicked in the meadows (dammit, now I'm doing it). Jayden constantly interrupts me whenever I read it to him, and I think it's because he's fascinated with a place like this. He's never really seen one. He's seen dozens of parks, even special neighborhood ones with neat places to see wildlife, but he's not seen a true, wild place close to his home, where he could go and explore anytime he wanted. They do not exist, at least where I live, and I fear that's not only because of Colorado's arid climate. They're getting swallowed up by us. They're getting fenced and plowed and purchased.
So I have to find these places, or at least places that are (currently) protected, and I have to gather him in a car and get him the right clothes and teach him AGAIN to tie his shoes and wrestle his bike in the back and get him some juice and have a snack ready and put on sunscreen and then watch him constantly (and that's just if it's him and not the girls). And then we have to drive there.
The second reason? Well, I have to initiate it, since he still really can't do a whole lot on his own. He can ride his bike like a champ, probably for 10 miles if I let him, but he can't go 100 yards without me having to remind him to watch where he's going before he runs into a fence post. He can say a river is beautiful, but I have to catch him from leaning too far over the rickety bridge so he doesn't fall in. He can walk 100 miles, but I have to walk 100 more to make sure he's safe.
It's easier to let him spend that time playing Angry Birds. It's fun for me too. I like Angry Birds. And raising the kids takes so much energy. The temptation is there to let him drown in video games. He would if I let him.

Saturday's ride along the trail near Greeley

But that's one world. He deserves both. So do the girls. So do I. And every day, it seems, I'm clawing my way out of the temptation to give in, exhausted but loving the sun when it finally falls on my face.

The Grind

2011-05-21T21:10:00.000-06:00

Kate left for Vegas Friday, and as I'm sitting here, worn down to my bone marrow, I'm filled with regrets.
Mostly they involve the many times I raised my voice at my three kids today.
Or the times I tuned them out to play with my iPhone.
Or the missed opportunities to play with them.
The thing is, these happen every day. They're unavoidable as a parent with three small children. At least they are with me.
But the regrets are magnified when I'm flying solo with the kids, and especially over an extended period, like when my wife takes her nearly annual vacation to Vegas.
She's earned the trip. That's not what this is about. Any father should watch his kids alone for a few days, for the perspective, the time alone with them and the chance to play both roles of Mommy and Daddy. They're different roles, and you don't realize how important the other role is until it's gone.
I just wish I was better at both.
I was looking forward to this weekend. I really was. I had some activities planned to chew up most of the hours, and they were fun things, like going to the library, eating at Red Robin and going to a state park to see bald eagles. OK, it's not Vegas, but it wasn't like we were going to be cooped up in the house watching "Wow Wow Wubzy."
But MAN. Holy Cow. Did you ever see "Jon and Kate Plus 8" before they both turned into attention-starved media whores? When they were actually ragged parents wishing they had three arms or maybe a clone (or two) of themselves? That's been me the last couple of days. When you don't have someone else here to cushion the demands, they not only pile up like cinder blocks, they swarm you like an angry cloud of buzzing mosquitoes. And that's appropriate, since my kids really do drain me like those little bloodsuckers. They drain my energy, my desire to keep my patience with them and my resolve to be a good Dad. It is not just the never-ending demands for juice, snacks and entertainment (especially my precious iPhone, my only real sanity from the cacophony), it is the constant pull for my time. I have almost pissed my pants three times in the last two days because I didn't have a moment to relieve myself. And when I'm not cleaning up their aftermaths from their wild adventures tearing up the house or soothing those demands to a dull roar, I'm answering inane questions about why I'm using a blue sponge (and millions others like it) to wipe up their apple juice.
I don't know. I wonder if my kids are wilder than most — I think they do have more energy than most, and they could very well get that from me — or if it's just that having the twins basically hosed us from any prayer for a pinch of peace. It's not so much the number of kids that makes it hard, although that's certainly part of it. It's the INTENSITY. The girls are 4, and Jayden is 5, and though they can do many more things on their own, it's utterly amazing what they still need done. I have to watch them constantly, and there's already been a few times when one's simply disappeared momentarily, leading me to believe that it will be no small feat just to have all three of them here when Kate returns. I don't have to dress them, but I do need to tie their shoes, wipe their asses and mouths and wash their hands. They can't get any food or drinks on their own, and, well, I suppose they COULD, but I'd just be wiping up after that disaster, or bringing in a power hose.
If it sounds exhausting, well, it is. I took them to a state park today to see those eagles, and we got home at 2:30 p.m. I was done. Done. I'd had a great time with them, spent time with them, read them books, showed them birds, challenged them to hike a half-mile each way, made sure they weren't dead and fed them lunch.
Only they aren't my grandkids. They're my kids. It doesn't stop at 2:30 p.m. no matter how bone-weary you are. So when Andie threw a huge-ass fit, I sent her to her room, and when she kept going out, I yelled at her to stay in or she would get a spanking. When Jayden came in and demanded snacks, by the third snack, when I was trying to sit down for a couple minutes, I snapped at him to wait for dinner, and when he started whining, I snarled at him not to test me. When Allie came in seeking comfort because she'd fallen, I briefly kissed her elbow and gave her a quick hug because the movie I was making for Kate, showing her what she'd missed while she was away, apparently was more important.
All of this leads me to believe two things. One, I'm going to be a really KICKASS grandfather.
And two, I'm not a good Dad because I think it affects me more than other parents. I'm an introvert, probably to an extreme level, and as a result, I find people tiring. Exhausting. The only thing that recharges me is time alone. That means I bury myself in my iPhone when my kids are inviting me to play, and it also means my patience is short when they are doing something to try it, which is nearly all of the time.
I'll probably be on fumes tomorrow morning, too, since Jayden will most likely wake me up at 6 a.m. when he crawls into bed with me and starts thumping me in the ribs with his monster feet (another gift from my genes).
I do not hit my kids, spank my kids or even rarely grab them too hard. I do not scream at them. They are happy, well-adjusted, cute little shits who make me proud. I love them, obviously, because, well, I'm not killing myself like this everyday for a BFF.
But I also wish I wasn't this way. I really do. I wish playtime came naturally for me. I wish I drew energy from my kids the way they draw energy from me. I wish I cherished these times because I know they won't last forever.
They really won't. And I hope, I even pray, that when I look back on them, I remember the good times, without any regret.

Colorado Marathon

2011-05-04T21:49:00.000-06:00

It was 3:45 a.m. Sunday. My nose felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton after a fight. The air nipped at my bare legs. And my stomach had been tied into Boy Scout knots.
"I don't think I've ever been more nervous before a race," I said.
I"m always nervous before a race. I love the way the nerves crackle on my skin. It's delicious. The only thing I do not love is the uncertainty. And if there's one race defined by uncertainty, it's a marathon.
You can train well. You can eat carbs, avoid fatty or fried foods and even avoid sugar. You can sleep like RipVanWinkle. You can lose weight. You can save new shoes and then put just the right amount on them so they're broken in and fresh at the same time. You can taper and rest and avoid injuries.
I did all those things last year.
And it still ended badly.
Given the uncertainty of 26.2 miles, when I would run farther than a few days' worth of my commute to work, you don't want anything to potentially fuck things up. And yet, when you finally allow your body to rest, little tweaks here and there haunt you. Is my ankle hurt? Why does my knee feel that way? My (fill in the blank) never hurt before! And then you begin to notice that your son is sniffling. Is that a sniffle? It's definitely a sniffle. Wait. He's really sniffling now.
Fuck.
Sure enough, four days before the marathon, I came down with a cold.
• • •
When I finished last year's marathon, it was with a mixture of pride, anger and frustration.
I had no idea what to feel in the weeks that followed.
Last year was my first, and I was running a great race until severe cramps hit at mile 20. I had to walk the rest of the course and finished at 4:17.
I knew several things. I knew it was my first marathon and that I finished it. I knew that maybe 1 percent of the population ever finishes a marathon. I knew that I was lucky to be able to finish one, blessed, even, to have recovered in time to have at least finished and to have a body that allows me to do things like marathons in the first place. I even knew that 4:17 was not really that bad of a time, especially for a first.
And all I knew was all that made me feel like a spoiled brat for being disappointed.
I was disappointed. I was crushed, actually. I didn't feel good about the race. I felt stupid, like there was probably something I could have done about those cramps and didn't research enough or pay enough attention to all the advice my knowledgeable friends gave me. I felt embarrassed that everyone was so excited for my first marathon and I turned in such a weird result — a time that required a long explanation about what happened — that it tainted any joy someone would feel for me at a finish. I even felt screwed, yes screwed, that 20 weeks of the hardest training of my life, a body free from injury and a great race up until those 20 miles were being flushed away by some mysterious aliment like cramps.
There really was no one good answer as to why they happened.
And I'd have to wait a year to find out.
Kate wasn't happy, at least not initially, when I told her I was doing the marathon again. Why, she said. I had an answer. I wanted to see if I could do better. I would not chase the perfect marathon as so many runners do, especially those trying to qualify for Boston. But I wanted to try it at least one more time. I wanted to see if I could figure it out.
What I really wanted was another chance. I honestly thought I had a good race in me, that a race without cramps would be something I could be proud of. I knew this because of the utter frustration I felt at the end. When those cramps hit, I wanted to run. I was ready to run. I had the energy, the spirit and the drive. I just didn't have the legs. I hope this doesn't sound naive, or even idiotic, but I felt disabled. When I did run, my legs would seize on me within seconds. It wasn't that I wanted to walk. It was that I had no choice.
• • •
I tried not to think too much as the bus took us up the Poudre Canyon. Thinking, though, is all I do.
It seemed that the medicine was working. My nose felt roto-rootered. I felt like I had some energy. I ate my bagel with peanut butter. I drank my Gatorade. I choked down half a banana.
I joked with my friends. I froze with them as we got dumped off the bus. I waited in line with them for a chance at the port-a-potty. I wished them luck before the start of the race. I gave them all a hug and held them tight.
I told myself it was going to be OK.
I tried to believe it.
• • •
I came into this marathon determined to solve the uncertainty. Most of the plan was to bludgeon it into a mere speck of doubt. Did I cramp because I didn't get enough electrolytes? OK. I would carry a hand bottle, drink two 20oz bottles of Gatorade, take a salt pill once an hour and stop at EVERY aid station and drink at least a cup. I would down nearly another 32oz of water before the bus ride up. I would take two gels, and when I figured two wasn't enough, I searched the road for a third, knowing that a runner probably dropped one along the way. Yep. I snatched it up. Every man for himself. I gobbled a package of Sport Beans as well.
If I had to pee, and I did, three times, I found a tree. This marathon was down a canyon next to a river for 17 miles. It's not an urban race. Peeing in public behind a tree is okay. Even the chicks were doing it.
As the miles flew by — and they really do, it's amazing how time gets away from you when you run and there's a beautiful river gathering its muscle from snowmelt for the coming rafting season and a good metal song is pounding through your eardrums — I constantly evaluated myself.
Why are my legs tired? It's only been 12 miles. Well, you just ran 12 miles. Downhill. At an 8:35 pace. Oh, yeah, I guess that makes sense. And it was about this time, halfway through the marathon, that I began to gain some confidence. I went over the words Kate wrote in a card she left for me before the race. One foot in front of the other. Run hard. You've worked hard for this. You've got it!
Stop being such a PUSSY, Dan. And that's when I knew my old self, the mountaineer, was crawling back. You've got a cold? OK, blow a few snot rockets on the way (just make sure you look over your shoulder first). You're tired? Embrace it. You're hurting? What did you think would happen over 26 miles? A tickle?
We ran out of the canyon and, at mile 17, finally saw spectators. A gentleman popped out his headphones as I passed him and we were about a quarter-mile from the first cheers. Nice day, he said. I agreed. We talked a bit. Then I put in my headphones as we passed through the tunnel of people. Some friends were waiting for me. I refilled my bottle, dumped my gloves and arm warmers (ew, they said, gross) and put on my sunglasses. I was still wary. But I was confident too.
• • •
There's a hill at mile 19. It's a long bitch, a half-mile, and it inspires many runners to walk. I was ready for it. I loved it.
Hill climbing is one of my few strengths. I think it's the only gift mountaineering gave me for running. I look at a hill as an opportunity to pass people. But in this case, it was finally a chance to use a different muscle, and I flew up. I passed a blind runner who I'd been tracking since the race started. Before you think I'm an asshole, I treated him like a competitor. He was fast, just out of reach, and I wanted to see if I could catch him. I did, near the top of the hill. His guide was far away, and he was breathing hard, so I said to him, "this bitch is almost over," and he laughed and said thanks.
As I crested the hill, I looked down at my Garmin and had a decision to make.
My pace flashed 8:01.
I'd backed off the whole day, sticking to my planned pace of 8:30 miles. But I felt so good. It felt easy and natural. And I knew I'd put enough time in the bank that if I had to walk even a tiny bit or slow down at the end, I'd still get under 4 hours, which was my ultimate goal anyway. I'd stashed away a goal of 3:45, but that was on my best day, a perfect day.
The day I was having.
• • •
The next six miles, a 10K, will sound easy. It was not easy. It never is. But when I crossed the spot just before the road ends and the last, final six begins on a bike path, the spot where I cramped up last year, I was pretty sure it wasn't going to happen, and I told myself I would not hit the wall.
Runner's World had an article recently about the wall, and I found one piece of it fascinating. It stated that runners who were worried or thought they might hit the wall did, in fact, hit the wall. What does that tell you? It told me that the wall is a mental barrier, not a physical one, and that if I trained well, ate well and drank enough to pee all over the course, the wall would not exist.
I did not hit the wall as I ran the final six, cheering back at the spectators, running with a friend who met to pace me in. My legs hurt. They hurt today. My toe was purple. I'll probably lose the nail. My breathing was labored. I still sound like an old blues singer, as my throat was rubbed raw by the air.
I was smiling through it all. I was so happy to feel all of that, as I ran, not walked, on legs that wanted to move, baby, move.
I'm still smiling today. 3:43. I honestly don't know if I'll ever stop.

Tapering Madness

2011-04-24T17:50:00.001-06:00

For weeks, maybe even months, I looked forward to this week.
Now I just need to get through it.
The marathon's Sunday, a week away as I'm writing this, and that means this week, I do practically nothing.
I run three easy miles Monday, three Tuesday, run four quarters Wednesday and rest until the day before, when I run a couple. That nothing might still be something for you, and if so, I'm not trying to offend. Trust me, after a marathon plan, it's nothing. At peak, I ran 50 miles a week, many of them hard, with a 10-miler and a 20 on back-to-back days.
Oh, there were so many days when I looked forward to this week. Most of the moments came in the morning, when my alarm buzzed and I rose my bitchy body out of bed to put on my running clothes in the dark. Up until mid-March, I put on several layers and looked forward to running in single digits, with frozen cheeks and frosty eyelashes. I had several days when the temperature couldn't even hit zero, and one day, it was, I shit you not, -25.
I had terrific training partners by my side, the routes were great and the training went surprisingly well. I was not only never hurt, I never even got a twinge or the normal aches and pains you can expect during a marathon training plan.
Still, it was a grind, and with any grind, after a while, you look forward to it ending.
Now I just need to get through the taper.
Yes, a taper is not only an excuse to take time off, it's a mandatory edict from your "coach" (halhigdon.com) to rest. It's wonderful. And yet, it's not. It's not at all.
If you're a thinker - and that would describe me to a hilt, and probably a fault - then something like a taper will drive you nuts.
I'm not as bad as some of my training partners, especially the ones who completed the Ironman back in November. One already sent me a plan that included another day of running. She just couldn't follow the plan, despite the common knowledge that the rest, the chance for your body to heal, does you more good than any run this week. Another follows the plan but goes certifiably batshit.
I enjoy the rest, and yet, I start to feel anxious, like cockroaches are crawling through my skin, by Wednesday. I honestly wonder if meth addicts feel this way when they're in search of a hit. Training is not only reassuring, since you're doing what you're supposed to be doing to get stronger, it's also soothing, as there's nothing like a good endorphins rush when you're in the shower after a cold run.
Finally, the wife just got through a cold, and my 6 year old son now has one. Now every time I blow my nose or feel a tickle in my throat I'm convinced I'm coming down with something. I've had to run races through sinus infections, the flu and cramps. I do not want to run 26 with any of those.
I got into this marathon because last year's didn't turn out the way I wanted. I wanted a better finish. One without cramps at the end. One strong, like I know I'm capable of.
The rest will help me get there. All I have to do is make it through it.

Why I care (and why I don't) that online poker is poofed

2011-04-17T20:28:00.000-06:00

I have to admit something. This is no longer a poker blog. You've probably guessed that by now, if you still bother to read any longer. And, as you may have guessed, I haven't played online poker for months.
The reasons vary. The games got too tight even for my taste at the levels I preferred to play, and I found it harder and harder to find any fish at all. As a result, the margin of my profits slimmed considerably, and so it also became harder and harder to shake off the bad beats, as they were inevitably cutting into what little profit I could eke out.
As you all also know, I've got three kids, and my free time is valuable, and a huge chunk of that already is devoted to training. It just didn't seem worth it to spend time playing a game that made me irritable for the hourly rate of a factory worker in Cambodia, especially when I get more brain food from reading, writing and, ahem, playing Angry Birds.
But I'm still mourning the loss of online poker, at least for now. Here are some reasons why, along with some other reasons why I really don't.
Why I care
• I don't like the loss of any freedoms, and this strips me of my ability to find a poker game when I want to play.
• I'll miss you guys. I still look back on those old Mookie matches with the kind of glee I normally reserve for shows like "The Walking Dead." And along those lines, there are some really great writers, people I look up to, now out of work. That sucks. The world needs good writers.
• I still watch poker on TV. And let's be honest. It's probably gone. Maybe High Stakes Poker survives, as well as the World Series of Poker, but even those telecasts are in danger of at least being whittled down, I fear.
Why I don't
• It'll be back. The Vegas casinos are drooling, I'm sure, at the potential revenue, and it's entirely possible those sites will be filled with the kind of fish we used to catch in 2005. Probably not. But a guy can dream. And I wouldn't mind using those player points for things like free rooms instead of a mouse pad or stress ball.
• There are better things to do. Like, you know, play Angry Birds. Lord help me. Poker was less frustrating at times.
• I prefer live play. I love the table, the cards, the surly douchebags — er, characters — that crowd the table. Plus the players are a lot worse.

The last 20

2011-04-10T18:59:00.000-06:00

I ran down the steep hill near the country road and thought about turning right to head back home. But I looked at my GPS and wasn't sure I would have enough to get to 10 miles.
I needed the 10, according to the marathon plan, and I wanted all of it, given that this was the last big weekend before I would start to taper. You gain more in the last mile than you do in the first nine. So I didn't want to leave it, and yet, I also didn't want to run around the block twice to get whatever leftovers I'd need. Making up miles at the end of a run, when your route is finished, is like waiting until 6 a.m. to open Christmas presents, and then your parents walking in your room at 5:59 a.m. and telling you you'll have to wait until 7 a.m.
I wondered what to do.
Then I saw the tree and smiled.
The tree was a marker six or seven years ago. When I began running, I would park my car at the nearby Poudre Learning Center and take off down the Poudre Trail. At the tree, I'd stop and turn around.
The run was, maybe, 20 minutes.
It was enough back then.
It was almost more than enough.
This is not an inspirational story. I didn't have a disease. I wasn't overweight. I was even, by all accounts, in shape, a mountain climber. But I could barely run three miles. I was out of breath as soon as I began. I flopped around like a penguin. I didn't even enjoy it very much.
Yet I always made it out to the tree and back.
Today I got up with the wind blowing. I knew it would be cold and maybe even rainy as the ground was wet. I peeked out my window and wrinkled my nose. This was exactly the kind of day I used to skip. But I had 20 miles to do today. Again, it was my last big day. The 20s are more important than any other run in a marathon plan. They reassure you, more than anything, that it IS possible to cover 26 miles and run for four hours.
Running a marathon is not magic. It merely means doing the miles.
So Saturday I was putting in my last 10 before the 20 the next day. I like running these miles at race pace. It trains you to feel what the pace you want to run, so you're not staring at your stopwatch at the race. You're worried about your hydration, other runners, that spot between your thighs that is starting to chafe, your rumbling tummy (is it hungry, about to explode, or just distressed), your nipples falling off, the heat, the location of the next aid station and how far you've got to go before this fucking thing is over. You don't need to worry about your pace.
Plus it makes you a bit tired for the next day's 20. That's what you want. That's the only way to try to mimic what the last six feels like during the marathon.
I'm paying for the weekend now. I'm tired. It hurts a bit to get up. My feet are pissed.
But I like that feeling. I'll sleep well tonight. Part of the reason was Saturday I did run out to the tree again. As it turns out, I didn't need it at all. I went over by a mile.
From that intersection, it was about a half-mile to the tree.
I didn't need that mile for my training
It may be crucial for the race.

Sleeping in Salina

2011-04-04T21:21:00.000-06:00

Whenever Kate wanted to visit her grandmother, I would drive through Salina with only one thought on my mind.

"Thank GOD I'm out of this place."

It was a mean thought. I'll admit it. Especially for a Kansas boy, someone who grew up in the suburbs of Kansas City but understood that it was towns like Salina that pieced most of his beloved state together like a puzzle. Salina, in fact, was a corner piece, the largest city between the state capitol, Topeka, and Denver. You may have stopped for lunch there on a road trip.

But in my mind, mean was justified.

A dozen years ago, I lost my job at the Salina paper. It was a good job, or so I thought at the time, and it broke my heart to be forced from a job I enjoyed, even if it was my fault.

Salina was an adjustment at first, when I started there in 1994, with its small-town feel, population of only 40,000 and three or four females my age. The most popular restaurant in town was an Applebee's. Yet I found my way, making friends all kinds of ages, throwing myself into training for my summer mountain climbing trip and diving into Salina's surprisingly rich art scene, playing in the symphony and acting in Shakespeare plays that packed its downtown park.

Well, I had to leave all that, plus a girl I truly cared for (I managed to find one of the three), and as with any breakup, there were some bad feelings. This time the breakup was with the town. A few years later, I came back to visit Kate's grandmother (in one of the many coincidences that somehow let you know you've found the right person, Kate's mom grew up in Salina), and I blamed Salina for the bad feelings.

I had moved on by then. I somehow landed on my feet and found an even better job, in a place that was made for me, a city, Greeley, that combined Kansas' small-town feel with an hour's drive from the mountains. I took full advantage, eventually climbing all 54 of the state's 14,000-foot peaks, snowshoeing and skiing with abandon. I was in heaven, and I wondered, of course, what the hell I'd ever seen in Salina in the first place. THIS was the place where I wanted to live the rest of my life? Ha. In a snobby, snooty sort of way, I dismissed Salina and quite frankly dreaded going back. One year I simply refused to go, disappointing Kate more than I realized, and on many others I selfishly treated it like a pit stop before I could visit my parents in the suburbs that I truly called my second home.

This time, however, I agreed to a four-day trip for Kate. I've tried not to be so selfish with my own time - it's a constant struggle that I'll always fight - and Kate's pretty patient about my running and climbing adventures, even if they've been reduced. So I agreed to go. Plus Kate's grandmother is 88. She's doing well. Really well, actually. But that age, right or wrong, is always associated with "you never know."

Maybe because of that open(er) mind, or maybe because I was so emotionally and mentally drained from working on that story about Delaney (see last post), I was not dreading the trip. I think, deep down, I knew it would be exactly what I needed.

We arrived at grandma's Friday afternoon, and I jumped out and threw on my running clothes with Kate's blessing. Nothing cures an 8-hour car ride with three little kids more than a run, and six miles was on the marathon plan anyway. I googled a map on where to run in Salina and found some parks. I mapped out my own route that would take me to two parks and was on my way.

One of the things I love most about running is it helps you get to know the places you live. Towns truly do all look alike these days, thanks to corporate chains. There's the McDonald's. There's the Starbucks (and the other and the other). There's the Conoco gas station. There's the Applebee's. It's hard to tell one town from the other, unless you visit the nooks, and many of those nooks are in their parks.

Parks CAN look the same, but those friendliest to running generally don't. Rather than dig up the land, throw some sand down around it and plunk down plastic playground equipment, most cities now leave a couple spots that embrace the cities' natural landscape features and, other than carving out a couple trails, simply let the land BE. There are a couple places like this in Greeley, and they are my favorite places to run.

My route on the first day took me to two of these places, and one of them immediately brought a smile. It was Indian Rock, and its scrubby, rocky trails that jutted up and screamed down gave me the perfect place to train for my summer mountain climbing trips when I lived in Salina. I'd throw on a backpack and speed walk the trails for a good hour almost every day. This time I ran them, twice, and loved every second.

The next day, for my 12 miles (it was, thank God, a down week in the plan), I found a flood control ditch and ran it as far as it would go. By the time it was there and back, I only had 10 miles on my GPS. One of the challenging things about training for a marathon is finding good places to give you all the damn miles you need for a long run. I didn't care. Good enough, I thought.

There are nooks in a town, and then there are the tourist spots. Tourist spots are, of course, almost always cheesy and meant to draw you in so you'll help the local economy, but they're also usually quaint and give the towns a uniqueness that not even another McDonald's can quash.

In this case, we visited a zoo, the Rolling Hills. We saw the mall's tank with monster fish inside (that's always a hit with the kids). We wished for fireflies - Colorado doesn't have them - but knew it was too early.

We also ate. Vacations, for me, are vacations from everything except my training plans, and that includes my somewhat strict diet. We hit up the local BBQ joint, got shakes from the local burger joint and ate at Brookville. Brookville is a museum, only you eat there. It's a place where they serve real, authentic fried chicken dinners, the kind they used to serve after church 80 years ago (the waitresses even wear out-time outfits). That's all they serve. You get mashed potatoes and gravy, creamed corn, biscuits, fried chicken, lemonade, cottage cheese, and….sorry. I'll stop. It's goooooooooood.

There is also the strong Kansas wind, which infected two of my four runs, including today's which was cold enough to sting my chest as I stubbornly ran into it. But no place is perfect.

Last night I visited a good friend for an hour, and after I left, I drove up the road and by my first apartment, the first place I lived by myself, with my first real job. I wasn't sorry to see it in my rear-view mirror, but I waved good-bye with a touch of nostalgia.

I hopped into bed after, and Kate thanked me for coming back to Salina.

"There's a lot of good memories here," she said.

"For me too," I said, and slept well.

Story I'll try to never forget

2011-03-27T08:18:00.000-06:00

Thursday we went to see Princesses on Ice. It's exactly the kind of show that, even two months ago, would make me roll my eyes, slump in my seat, maybe even scowl a bit.

I was happy to take my kids. I'm the one who sought out the tickets. My girls, like an estimated 87.3 percent of 3-year-old girls in America, are into Disney's Princess factory now, and so I thought they would love it.

(My 5-year-old son wasn't so sure. I thought he would love it, but he asked me before we got in the car, "Are there going to be other boys there watching? I reassured him that there probably were going to be other boys there. I saw one of them about his age walking to the doors. I pointed him out. I'm glad I saw one early on. There WERE boys there, but let's just say at the break that the line for the boys' bathroom to the girls line was like comparing the New York Marathon's to Idaho's Potato Run).

(I really don't know if Idaho has a potato run, but it probably does, and if it does, you can probably assume it's less than the NY Marathon. Sorry, where was I?)

So sure, I'm always happy to take my kids to crap like this. But that's how I saw it. As events to endure, not necessarily to enjoy. We take hits like this all the time as parents. We have to watch Care Bears in the car and Wonder Pets at home, even though I'd rather be watching Breaking Bad and The Walking Dead or, this time of year, college basketball (Go Kansas!). Occasionally you get lucky and a new Pixar movie comes out. Most of the time, you are sacrificing your own thirst for something enriching for your children's sake.

And then I met Delaney Wadsworth.

• • •

Delaney was a 3-year-old girl from a nearby town where I lived with a brain tumor. She was exceedingly popular. She would have been head cheerleader and homecoming queen for sure later in her life. Her Facebook page was followed by 35,000 people at last count, or twice the population of the town where she lived.

Yet I stayed away from any kind of a story, even though I'm usually the one at the Greeley Tribune who does them. The human interest beat, they call it, though I prefer to approach it as the kinds of challenges we all face and how normal people beat them or at least cope with them.

Journalism is full of what we call — rather cynically, I know — diseased kid stories. I did approach our photographer earlier in the year and ask if maybe we should be doing it. He said he didn't want to do yet another story on that and watch a kid die. I agreed with him and left it alone.

Only, after meeting the parents for another story, a friendship they struck up with another family who lost their 18-year-old girl to the same very rare brain tumor Delaney had, I was impressed with Jason and Brenna's approach. They had decided not to treat her illness. They weren't selfishly trying to pump her full of chemotherapy just to keep her around a little longer. They were choosing to fill her remaining days with activities, like raising baby goats and going to Disney World, instead of hospital visits.

I saw this as a story about life rather than death. I ignored it for a few days, then finally listened to my urging instincts and approached my editor, who initially had the same reaction I did until I told him about my angle.

Granted, this kind of tumor, DIPG, leaves little hope that any treatment would work, anyway, so their decision was a little easier. A little. At least at first. Ironically, just as Jason and Brenna said they would welcome me into their lives, they got the news that Delaney had less than two months to live unless they did a round of radiation on her. That miserable treatment might give her another month.

I spent as much time as I could without ignoring my other duties at The Tribune, my family or wearing down their patience (which, to my amazement, was infinite, at least with me and our photographers).

I am proud of the package as a whole, the photos, the video I made and the story. I think it's important.

It also killed me. When I would see Delaney, I would see the faces of my 3-year-old girls. I saw pain in Jason and Brenna's eyes that hit me like shots to the kidney every time I interviewed them. I knew in some way, at least much more than I used to, what they were feeling. I was there the day Delaney slipped into a coma. It was heartbreaking and traumatic not just for the parents but for me. I was a wreck the rest of the day.

I in no way pretended to believe that I was suffering anywhere close to what Jason and Brenna were feeling. But it did hurt me.

It changed me a bit too.

• • •

The story, of course, is a sad one. Gut wrenching at times, in fact. But there's hope in it, I hope, as well. I won't give away too much. You'll just have to read it.

Still, what hurt me more than Delaney's death was the little moments. There was a day when Delaney wanted to go swimming. They took her, of course. I talked to Jason about it later.

"For a while," he wrote me back, "it almost felt normal."

Everyday, little fun moments, the kind that parents, including me, especially me, not only take for granted but view as necessarily trials to kill the days and wear them out, were rare treasures to Jason and Brenna as Delaney weakened. They did their best to do those things every day, but eventually, those moments became less frequent, until they completely disappeared.

It made me think that life is not only trips to Disney World or contained in fun things that we like to do as adults, like Vegas. It is, in fact, in trips to the pool, which I'm planning to do as soon as I finish this post. It is in the moments that we look on things to endure, like a Princesses on Ice night out with the girls and Jayden, when we walk past 75 souvenir booths (seriously) and lemonade stands and pizza spots all meant to make our kids beg and stay up too late and then wake up at 5 a.m. to run 10 miles and spend the rest of the day tired and yawning.

I am beginning to understand that a bit more thanks to Delaney. And during the performance, when Snow White came out to the pre-recorded dialogue and canned music, the smile on my face was almost as big as the girls'.

http://www.greeleytribune.com/article/20110326/NEWS/703279997/1051&ParentProfile=1001

Canyonlands Half Marathon

2011-03-19T19:33:00.001-06:00

I felt a tickle inside my belly as I walked to the bus that would take us up the Canyonlands in Moab, Utah.
It is only a tickle I feel before a race. It's the buzz of anticipation, excitement and nerves all in one. I haven't been single in a long time, but I would imagine the only thing that would bring on that package would be a first date.
Saturday's race was, in a sense, a first date. I've wanted to do this race for three years, but it's so popular, you apply and hope. I applied with a group of five of my best friends. They run. But you probably guessed that.
Well, we got in, celebrated and took off Friday morning for Utah. I'd never been to Moab despite the fact that it's one of the outdoors destinations in the world. That's sort of like a poker player ignoring Las Vegas. That's why I wanted to do this course. It's down the Canyonlands.
I had been looking forward to this, in other words, for three years. The sights were some of the best I'd seen on a run, ever. I was with my running partners. I had never felt better in my life.
It should have been a classic run.
But early on, I knew I was in trouble.
• • •
Denial is a powerful drug. When you're running, it's a steroid.
Looking back on today's race, I didn't really feel good after mile one. I didn't have the bounce in my step. I didn't feel fresh. I felt winded almost the whole time, even after we slowed a touch from the 7:30 pace.
We hovered around there for the next few miles, and I kept telling myself that I felt great. Really great. Awesome. So good. I was fine. I could keep up with my two closest training partners. This pace was pretty damn aggressive, yes, given that my best pace for a half marathon in October - when I PRd, by the way - was 7:59. But I had never felt so good. My training was great.
I was fine.
Only I wasn't.
I don't like to make too many excuses. The weather is always a part of a run. But a gusty, brutal headwind kept us chilly before the race and slowed us down once it started.
I didn't want it to bother me. But after a while, it was like someone pushing me back. Or like trying to run through molasses. It definitely affected me.
I kept up with them until mile seven, which was far too long to be running at a pace that was may, honestly, be too fast for me even on the best days. I still think I can run that, and soon, but not this week.
Here's the thing. Training is good for you. But when you're training for, say, I dunno, a marathon, and you've run back-to-back 50-mile weeks, and those included 19-mile and 20-mile runs, well, you're tired.
That's just it. I felt tired.
When you do start too fast, the miles after that, even when you do back off, in a word, suck. You feel worn down, like you have the flu, and slow, like your shoes are in cement, and just pain miserable, like you hate running and all you want to be is done.
I tried, many times, to quiet the troll in my head that was telling me to walk or slow down, and I eventually bargained with it. I would slow down, a little, even from my usual 8-minute-mile pace for half marathons, as long as I didn't have to walk much, and we'd get through this together.
I tried to enjoy the race as much as I could. The scenery was still beautiful, even if, after a while, it was mocking me.
That beautiful scenery, however, makes me feel OK about today's race. I had fun. It was a great experience. I loved it.
Perhaps the next time, I'll try to enjoy it.

The crest of the hill

2011-03-13T20:45:00.000-06:00

How can I be feeling this confident, this good, this cocky, even, about the marathon training?
Two 20-mile runs are still on the schedule, and the race is two months away. That's a lot of opportunity to get hurt.
But I still think the worst is over.
The worst was over Saturday, when I finished my first 20-miler.
This 20, after all, came after last week's 19 still on my legs. I ran 47 miles last week and ran 49 this week.
This won't mean as much to you, but I ran this week's 20 at a 9-minute pace, which is pretty aggressive, and yet, I felt good the whole time. Maybe it was the good company, staying hydrated or just the warmth of spring.
You tend to get used to being uncomfortable when you're training for a marathon in the dead of a Colorado winter. Stinging cheeks, frozen snot, frosty eyelashes, numb toes and bitter thighs are all common. Too common, really. So when I walked out Friday morning, for my 10-miler the day before the 20, in shorts, and though it felt good, I didn't feel joy. I felt dazed. It was probably what the bear feels after emerging from his den. My body felt light because it wasn't weighed down by heavy clothes. My body felt free and warm. It felt wonderful.
Ironically, Saturday's 20 was much easier than that 10. And that was encouraging and confusing at the same time.
Running can still be unpredictable, even when you prepare and train and know what to wear and how to sleep and, most of all, what to avoid. You can do everything right and feel like crap and do everything wrong and feel great.
So the worst is over. I feel great to be done with the toughest two weeks of the plan. But I know that there's no guarantees.
And no room to be cocky.

Angry Birds

2011-03-10T19:12:00.000-07:00

Angry Birds

All A-Twitter

2011-03-02T20:54:00.000-07:00

Well, we're a snarky bunch, aren't we?
Do you remember anything about Sunday's Oscars besides who won? Let me guess. You remember how much it sucked, right?
That's mostly what I remember too. But I don't remember the forgettable show. I remember the comments I made DURING the Oscars.
Here's a quick summary:
Anne Hathaway sucked. James Franco sucked. OMG THEY SUCK!
Only a lot snarkier and more clever and funny.
The thing is, looking back over those tweets, they weren't nearly as clever as I thought at the time.
This is the danger of social networking.
You can now release any random thought. And when you let them out of the cage, sometimes they bite back.
E-mail was the first to cause these problems. I tend to be a little, ahem, reactionary sometimes, and if I felt overworked, which is pretty common at a small newspaper and also for me cause I'm a bit of a stress bug, I'd spark off sometimes. I guarantee you if I had to say those things in person, I simply wouldn't. No email would have saved me a couple closed-door meetings.
Less serious, of course, is what twitter and Facebook are doing to us. It's turning us into a bunch of overtly clever, snarky, snippy smartasses.
Yes, Hathaway and Franco sucked Sunday. They were flippant, unfunny and unfocused.
Unfortunately I wasn't much better.

A hard road ahead, Part II

2011-02-23T12:59:00.000-07:00

Sure enough, the miles took hold.
Don't you just love the day before a cold or flu or stomach bug takes hold? You can feel it coming, in a way. Your nose tickles. Your ears seem to wiggle when you run. You're tired, and not in that blissful, I-just-ran-15 sort of way. It's more feeling like you're just worn down, like after five days of heavy drinking.
Well, the crud hit, but it didn't hit hard, and after these last few days, I feel like I'm in a boxing match with a toddler. But the match never ends. Eventually, even punches from a toddler have to hurt if you're in the ring long enough, and I've fought this, whatever it is, for almost a week now.
Of course, I probably WOULD have fought it off long ago, if I wasn't running every day, and especially if I hadn't of run 8 and then 17 miles when I felt it coming on. That's what I meant by the miles taking hold. It stretches out illnesses, keeps you tired and a bit worn down and makes you a little sorer than normal.
Running is hard enough. When I wake up, it shouldn't take me a half-hour to clear the crap from my nose and chest, get my bearings and feel halfway like a human being before I go out for a run.
On most days, I've still ran and ran well. When I get out there, the cold wimpers in the corner, afraid to challenge the beast. But when I'm done, and my immune system takes a bit of a hit, the cold strikes back and waits for the evening, when I finally go to bed at, say, 9:30 p.m. and makes pus all night.
Today I ran intervals, some 800s, and they were terrible. I've felt strong lately but not today. I felt weak, worn down and completely unmotivated to run hard and fast. I hated every second of them. I quit early.
Last year I was sick more often than I wasn't while training for the marathon. I truly hope I've dodged most of those bullets. I think I have. But then again, the 20-milers start next week, and I'll just have to see how the miles take hold.

A hard road ahead

2011-02-14T14:24:00.000-07:00

In these last few weeks, I felt as good as I've ever felt in my life.
I dropped five-six pounds, and thought I didn't necessarily need to lose the weight, I felt light, almost springy, when I ran.
I had no lingering injuries. When you're a runner, aches and pains are a part of your life (that's probably true for lots of sports). But my troublesome hamstrings felt loose and free. My back didn't bitch. Hell I hadn't had as much as a blister in months.
As a result, I was running faster than ever. I PRd by a stupid amount in November and just PRd again at altitude in a 5K a couple weeks ago at the Super Bowl Run (and I keep those records separate because altitude makes such a big difference; running at sea level is a pure treat, something I rarely get, sort of like a Ghirardelli sundae in Vegas). At that Super Bowl Run, I ran 21:25, and it was almost effortless, like it was suddenly EASY to run the second-fastest race I've ever run in my life and float along at a 6:53 pace.
Well, those days are over.
Training for the marathon started in earnest this week.
I've been on the plan since Jan. 1, but it's a long plan, 18 weeks, and so the first third of it wasn't really much different than what I'd done most of the year. The long runs didn't go beyond a dozen miles, and I can run 12 these days without being tired at all. I didn't eclipse 35 miles a week. I wasn't doing speed work every week, and breaks from those torture sessions always leave me refreshed.
Well, this week I ran 43 miles. Friday we ran 8 at marathon pace (which I hope this year to be 8:30 per mile), and Saturday we ran 16 miles. I felt OK after those 16 - good, even - but it wasn't easy, and Sunday, when I got up, those familiar aches and pains were back. My 3-mile run that day, just to loosen up, was brutal.
It's going to be this way for a while. Weeks, actually. I've got 8 to do Thursday and 17 Friday, then Saturday will give me a much-needed day off. I don't have many tough runs the rest of this week until then - I just have 6 tomorrow and 3 on Wednesday - so that will help, but I would imagine by the time I'm done with Friday's run, I'll be ready to stash my shoes in the closet and never see them again.
Fortunately I do have a down week coming after that, but just as quickly, I've got a 19-miler and then the dreaded 20 a week later.
Running a marathon is pretty damn hard, but putting in the miles and, therefore, putting up with all the aches and pains that accompany them is the toughest part, I think. In fact completing a training plan without getting hurt is an accomplishment in its own right. It almost killed me last year. I got sick several times, was going to bed by 9 p.m. some nights and rarely drank. I faithfully did the 20s and enjoyed them, but it seemed to take me the whole week to recover from them, and I relied heavily on those fallback weeks in order to do so.
Now my back hurts a bit, and I'm as tight as a yo-yo string, and even today, when I pulled off a hard tempo run, it was tougher than it should have been.
When you cross the finish line in a marathon, the race is when you cover the distance. But now, when the training is at its toughest, is when you earn it.

Cocoon

2011-02-07T16:54:00.000-07:00

The wind rattled against the car doors as I pulled into the parking lot and shut the engine off. I pulled my hat over my exposed ears as tightly as I could, trying in vain to reach every inch of exposed flesh that I knew would suffer against the icy wind.
I know many who can handle the cold. I'm one of them. I know a few others who not only can deal with the cold but enjoy it. Sometimes that's me too. But I don't know anyone who likes the wind. It is an insistent, nagging, even painful reminder of winter's chill. And I hate the wind.
You would think I'd get used to the wind, with as many mountains as I've climbed, given that a day above treeline without it is rare, almost unheard of. But I never do. Getting used to the wind, in my mind, is like getting used to traffic. Even if you could, would you really want to accept it as just a fact of life?
On days like these, getting out of the car and running - in this case running a race, a 5K - is the toughest part of the run. I've said it before, and that's a fairly common mantra among runners. And yet I think I struggle with it even more than most.
I do not like leaving my cocoon of comfort.
Now one of the things I truly love about situations like these, about running and mountaineering in crappy weather, is it makes you appreciate your cocoons more than most. You just don't take a hot shower for granted after you've been out in a bluster that's rated at 0 degrees.
The thing is, I REALLY like my hot showers. It's going to be tough when the kids get older because I hog as much hot water as a teenager, my normally environmentally conscious mind be dammed. I like my bed and its cozy flannel sheets. I even like my car, with (currently) Mastodon blasting through the speakers and the heater on high.
I am a wuss at heart, in other words, so the wuss side of me is in constant combat with my tougher badass side. Only, as you might expect, the wuss side is, well, a wuss, so he loses to the badass side all the time.
He does eventually, anyway. He hangs on like the entrenched Japanese (that may not be the most PC comparison but I just saw "The Pacific" and believe me, it's an apt one), whispering to me to stay in the car and maybe just go home and forget this stupid race because it's windy and cold and running 5Ks the way they are supposed to be run hurts.
The wuss whispers to me during the race, too, for me to slow down, just relax and enjoy it, why even bother running this hard in a stupid little event before the Super Bowl. I used to call this the troll, but I've learned to silence the troll for the most part, and now that is just a tiny little voice suggesting it every once in a while rather than insisting. Now it's the wuss.
The wuss is what keeps me from being better, getting out there and achieving PRs, like the one I ran Sunday (21:25 for a non-sea-level 5K). It's a constant struggle, but I'm learning to enjoy leaving my cocoon, spreading my wings and flying.

127 Hours and the search for adventure

2011-01-31T14:40:00.000-07:00

When I had to leave my home state of Kansas more than a decade ago, I chose Colorado for my fresh start.
Well, of course I did. That place meant more to me than any other place, even, by that point, Kansas.
It was the place where I felt most alive.
The need to feel alive is an urge I could never truly explain to people. I still struggle with that. But when people ask me why I feel that need these days, I'll just steer them to "127 Hours," the Aron Ralston movie.
Most everyone knows who he is these days, but if you don't, I'll put it crudely: He's the guy who cut off his arm to save his life. Oh, I can hear you saying. THAT guy.
A movie about that experience, I'll admit, sounds boring and horrific at the same time. His arm was trapped by a boulder, so you're watching a guy whose arm was trapped by a boulder. No car explosions, no shootings and, more seriously, no real climbing scenes either.
So why is it so riveting? Well, for one, the movie does a great job of showing you what he's up against, with its sweeping views of the vast landscape that's swallowed him whole. You can't even hear his screams a few feet beyond the constricting walls that have him pinned. The obvious tension comes from the fact that it's not hard to figure out he's on his own, and the only way he's going to make it out is by cutting off his arm. The natural question, of course, that comes from that is wondering if you could do it.
But by showing you that vast landscape, it also shows you, at least for me, WHY Ralston is so mesmerized by it. It shows why he's out there. I'm pretty sure that if someone told him there was a risk of him getting trapped by a boulder, he'd be out there anyway. In fact I know that.
I'm out there, after all.
I've written about this before, but in 1999, my first year of my fresh start, I was scrambling down some giant boulders in a steep rockfield when they moved and then went. It's the first time in my life I saw death - I even yelled "Oh God!" just like in the movies - and I rolled with the rocks. I somehow stopped myself after the third flip. I was beaten and bloodied, pretty badly, and had to walk with a cane for a few weeks, but 17 hours later I made it back to the trailhead with my father.
Just four years later, I was traversing on a ridge between two 14ers in the toughest climb of my life when I got a touch cocky and jumped every so slightly down from a ledge. A rock spilled out from under me and I rolled like drying laundry to what surely would be my death, 2,000 feet down to sharp rocks, when I managed to wrap my leg around a boulder three feet, or one more roll, from the end.
That climb lasted another 16 hours, and it's one of the five most memorable things I've ever done, out of more than 200 adventures. It was terrifying at times, but I loved it. Less than an hour after I was killed on that climb, I was loving it.
That's just the hold those special places can have over you.
Ironically, the movie, too, shows just how amazing those places are even if 90 percent of it is about his desperate need to escape it.
The beginning of the movie is a frantic, MTV-like montage, one of Danny Boyle's signatures (he uses the same technique to perfection in the Oscar-winner "Slumdog Millionare"), and as you struggle to keep up, you get a sense of what Ralston is trying to escape. All those lights. All that action. All the noise, noise, noise. Yet the city, for all its cacophony, supplies us with everything we need, ten thousand times over. Fresh, clean water out of the tap. Contact with others. Taco Bells. Leaving all that behind is a risk even if it's also fun. That's one of the best things about the peaks: They make you appreciate the simple creature comforts that we take for granted. By the end, Ralston is so desperate for water, he drinks his own urine. I just filled my water bottle after I wrote that. That line made me pretty thirsty.
You need to leave that comfort every once in a while, I believe, and Ralston seems to believe, in order to discover yourself. The movie seems to say that, too, and I can't see how anyone couldn't leave "127 Hours" without feeling the same way.
Ralston still climbs. He still gets out there. He, just like me, appreciates the risks a bit more now.
It's an incredible survival story. But it's much more than that. I took it as a movie that finally shows what it means to be alive.

Two products, one problem

2011-01-18T11:09:00.000-07:00

Two products have caught my attention lately. One of them may just be downright disreputable about what it claims. The other is completely honest about what it is.
So guess which one is a poor reflection of our society?
Power Balance recently admitted that, well, its bracelets really don't improve balance, strength or flexibility, at least not as much as it claimed, or, actually, there's really no scientific evidence at all that it does anything.
In a stroke of marketing genius, the company not only admitted that but has since used it in its commercials, saying that its Admits that its products have been worn during the World Series, blah blah blah.
So it sort of lied about its product, just like many companies do about their products. That's what some call "creative marketing" and what the rest of us call "lies." Dannon yogurt was recently fined $21 million for its "exaggerated" health claims.
On the other hand, Forever Lazy is completely honest about what it is. I really have no way to describe it other than to call it a Onesie for adults.
Yep. It even has a flap in the back so you don't have to decide between going through the incredibly difficult process of unzipping your fleece cocoon or shitting yourself.
If you've ever read "The Lorax," and if not, why not, a Forever Lazy looks exactly like a Thneed.
Forever Lazy does not claim to give you energy, make you a better person, give you bigger tits or ripped abs, make you thinner or even make you look sharp, sexy or sensual. No. In fact, it seems to encourage the OPPOSITE of any of these traits. It says one of the things you can do in it is "raid the refrigerator," and the commercial shows a guy with enough food in his arms to feed Idaho. It shows many people napping in their chairs, many others watching TV and all of them looking slovenly.
It makes me wonder if it comes with nacho cheese stains already built in.
Now I suppose in a way this is an admirable trait. Too many times we're faced with misleading marketing ploys that continually fill our heads with false promises that buying their products will make us thinner, better looking and general animalistic tigers to the opposite sex (or to the same sex if that's the way you swing, who am I to judge). All this really does is, one, make people rich because there many, many sad people in the world, and two, make those people sadder, because the ads remind us that we're not in the small percentile of people who belong on magazine covers.
But Forever Lazy just tells us that buying our product gives us permission to be lazy have the body shape of a rotting pumpkin and never, ever try to do anything to improve it.
So what's the better product here? In fact, what product do I own?
Well, if you read this blog, you've probably already guessed. I have a Power Balance bracelet. I will never, ever buy a Forever Lazy. In fact, if I ever see someone with one on, I will make fun of them.
My reaction to the Power Balance story was, honestly, who cares? Here's why. Being active is difficult. Yes, it hurts. Running hurts. But much more than that, it's a tough mental exercise to get out and stay fit. It means, for me at least, getting up early six days a week (even on weekends), dressing for at least 15 minutes, going out in fingertip-numbing cold and trying not to slip on the ice while I run. I do this so I can run races where I feel like my lungs have caught fire and a hippo is sitting on my chest and my legs scream at me to stop.
I can honestly see why people don't do it.
But when I feel like I want to quit, I look at my Power Balance. A friend, an incredible runner who just may make the Olympics one day, gave it to me, and when I look at it, I think of her and all the work she's doing, and that makes me think of my other friends who are out there, fighting the same battle I fight every day, and that puts me in my place. If they can do it, well, so can I.
I don't really care if the Power Balance is actually helping me with my balance or making me a better runner. I just THINK it is, and that's far more important to me than actual results.
When I look at a Forever Lazy, I just see our country getting fatter. I see us not caring about ourselves. I see us eventually looking like a bunch of elephant seals, lounging around in our heavy fatsuits, trying to remember what it was like to run or even walk.
And the danger is I think a Forever Lazy sends the same message that the Power Balance bracelet sends. "If they can do it, so can I."
What would you rather be inspired by?

Come Together

2011-01-10T18:23:00.000-07:00

Probably the worst part about being a parent of 3-year-old twin girls and a 5-year-old is...well, let's be honest, there are lots of things.

But the worst, I think, anyway, is the fights.

A 3-year-old, at least in my experience, is pretty much on the verge of a screaming tantrum anyway. They are the aftershock of an earthquake. They are an eggshell with a crack. They are the next Windows operating system. Any slight fault and there's a crash.

Like, you know, when you want something and your sister (or, occasionally, your brother) has it. This is because:

1. The toy is some crappy little thing he/she got in a McDonald's Happy Meal and therefore it is the most awesome thing ever created. Even better than the Hope Diamond. Who doesn't want the Hope Diamond or the toy equivalent to that?

2. He/She grabbed it from you. You find this very upsetting, like someone just killed that new puppy you got for Christmas.

3. You were playing with it, but then you got distracted, like from those drug-induced hazes on Yo Gabba Gabba, and so you dropped the toy. When someone else picked it up, it was like he/she just broke a treaty and you recommended immediate nuclear retaliation.

Fights, which, as I've hinted, are usually over crap like that, getting to sit with Mom (leaving Dad with the unhappy leftovers, but that's another blog post) or, very occasionally, either what to watch on TV or not being quiet enough to pass the hearing test of a Bordie Collie when a favorite TV program is on.

Fights result in screaming, more screaming, incredibly loud screaming, then considerable effort on our part to break it up, so they don't kill each other, even when you secretly wish they would just get it over with so you could go back to a time when your house was actually quiet. In the past, our efforts meant yelling at one kid to stop it, then the other kid to stop it, then putting one kid who hit the other kid in time out, then more screaming because said kid is now in time out (which is not the peaceful Alice in Wonderland that SuperNannyQueen or whatever the fuck her name is would have you believe), then stomping and grinding the thing they were fighting over into a very fine dust that could be sold as a stimulant (actually I'm making that last one up, that's more of a fantasy of mine).

It's probably no coincidence, then, that in the last few years, as I've been thrown deeper into the parenting well, that I've grown more and more cynical about politics.

Quite frankly, after being around my toddlers for these last few years, I'm finding it harder and harder to tell the difference.

I would love to say that the Tea Partiers and the right-wingers and all these angry conservatives are responsible for this. I do think to a degree that's true. But it's everyone, and I can say that with confidence because the Tea Party used our anger to its utmost advantage in these last elections and nearly swept every cowering Democrat away. So without all that smoke pouring from our ears because the economy didn't improve the instant Obama and his Democrats took office, well, stirring us up doesn't really work.

But I have to tell you, I really wonder if it's gone too far. You know what I'm referring to now. Jared Loughner found it fit to open fire on a crowd, killing six and injuring 14, because Rep. Gabrielle Giffords was in the middle of it.

I wasn't sure what to think of the shooting. I don't really completely buy the sheriff's argument that the political crap, and that's really what it all is, let's be honest, caused the shooting. I tend to think that "disturbed" people like Loughner, as he's been described in the no-shit statement of the year, will eventually shoot a bunch of people because they're disturbed, not because they listen to talk radio. Millions of kids were bullied, including me, before we had Columbine. If this happened in a post office, we'd be talking with very serious faces about how the postal service stamp increase may cause people to go nuts, and then, when there was enough distance, stand-up comedians would have a field day with the word "postal."

But believe me it did make me wonder.

Perhaps that's because I'm in the media myself, and we media love to think after big events like this and then write (or the opposite), and if you think I'm any different, I (along with the copy desk chief) decided to run a piece just like that on Page 1 today of the Greeley Tribune.

But perhaps that's also because I'm a political cynic, and I'm really trying hard not to be. I don't want to be that way as an adult because I don't want to be that way as a parent.

It's hard for me, after all these years, to combat the burnout that I feel from all these squabbles. Things are to the point now where they (my kids, not the politicians) are super cute and affectionate and love their Daddy, God Bless their tiny souls, and I don't want the fact that they scream in the highest pitches over plastic shit made in China to take away from that.

Strangely enough, we've gotten better at managing these fights, and that's because we - er, mostly I, as Kate knew this from the start - that managing the chaos means compromise and not yelling at them to knock it the hell off.

I know. It sounds like a lecture now, doesn't it? A letter from Dear Abby. A lesson at the end of "Blues Clues." Yeah. I know. We've heard it many times.

But are we listening? I'm not sure. I would say no. We seem to have gotten to the point where we enjoy the yelling more than the compromise. Those shows get higher ratings. We'd rather accuse and get angry and hurl insults at each other because I'm a Republican and you're a Democrat and we're all for cutting the deficit as long as it doesn't affect ME.

It's still hard to believe that someone would assume that the next step from all that would be bullets. But it's not as hard as it should be.

We've managed to soothe hundreds of tantrums of 3-year-olds. I can deal with them. But I have yet to figure out adults. Who is more mature? The jury's out. Show me.

Frosty Peak(er)

2011-01-01T21:09:00.000-07:00

There are, honestly, very few times when I question why I'm out running. Running is hardly heaven at times, but it's very rarely hell.

Still, Friday, on New Year's Eve, with a fantastic dinner, a nice night with the wife (including an anticipated movie, "Black Swan," that we'd see in an actual theater) and a late-night poker tournament with friends waiting for me that night, I sat in my car as the wind threatened to topple it over and exchanged text messages with a running partner.

This guy was a three-time Ironman finisher. He'd battled high blood pressure, problems with his medication, back problems, issues with his legs and a recent sinus operation. And even he wondered why I was going to run outside.

It was snowing sideways, the temperature was lower than the age of my toddlers, and strong winds dipped the chill down to -23.

I was not sold on the idea just yet either. When another running buddy, my last hope, really, for company, a guy who does ultramarathons, including a few 100-mile races in his past, and therefore enjoys suffering, didn't show, I was left hoping I had enough hair metal on my iPod to keep me focused.

But I had faced worse. I think. Maybe. And I wore long underwear under my running tights and five layers up top and a neck warmer and a hat and a face protector. And so, the inconvenience I would surely face to take all that off and hit a treadmill, a torture device strictly designed and modified with the sole purpose of boring you to death, won out over common sense. I strapped snow spikes on my shoes.

"I'm going out," I texted him.

Just before I opened the door my phone beeped.

"Have fun," he wrote back.

• • •

The hardest part of a run is getting out the door to go for the run. Seriously. It's not the hills, the exhaustion or the weather. It's getting your butt off the couch and doing it.

That's true 98.7 percent of the time, but about a mile into Friday's run, I really thought about turning around. I had reached that rare point in my training when I wondered why I was out doing it.

I wore runner's gloves, which, despite me wearing layers that gave me a coat thicker than a polar bear's, was doing nothing to protect my hands. These gloves have gotten me through many single-digit days, but the difference between a -20 windchill and a 0-degree windchill is the difference between 75 and 95. That's the difference between a day you spend on the porch and a day you spend inside with the air conditioner struggling to keep up. Every time the wind gusted, it hurt, and I cocooned my fingers inside my palm.

"OK," I thought to myself as I started up an icy, snowpacked hill. "I'm charging this hill. If I don't warm up, and my fingers don't feel better, screw it, I'm bailing."

No one would blame me for that. Hey, I tried. I honestly began to look forward to the car again.

But as I topped the hill, I did, in fact, start to warm up, and I had to smile. OK, fine, I thought. I'll keep going.

You see, I ran outside mostly for the same reason I climb mountains or wanted to do the marathon. I wanted to see if I could do it. I wanted to see if my body and my mind would respond to the challenge. I was curious more than anything. Sure enough, once again, both were responding. I honestly feel sorry for those who don't ever push either one to face seriously difficult circumstances. We really have some incredible equipment, far better than even an iPad.

The gusts of wind, along with the 6-8 inches of snow, had turned my normal running routes into chaos, so I did what I could to stick to the sidewalks and the roads. Normally that's a run meant to pound my joints on painful concrete surfaces, but the snow was good for one thing, and that was a nice cushion. The spikes worked beautifully to keep me from slipping.

The wind was at my back as I headed for a park while dodging slippery cars, so I was somewhat warm. Warm-ish anyway. I wasn't in danger of hypothermia. When I went for a drink, my sports beverage had only frozen a little bit, turning it into a tasty but brain-freezing slurpee. When I went for a bite, my Sports Beans were hard but malleable. My iPod continued to work. Hey, what was I worried about?

Then I turned into the wind.

Oh, yeah. That.

• • •

I knew the neighborhood, my old neighborhood where Kate and I bought our first house, actually, was only a temporary reprieve against the frostbiting wind, but I didn't care. You don't care about reprieves when you're in pain. You just want it to end.

I was tired at this point, but that's always the point of a long run, and I knew the snow and ice and cold would make me worker harder than normal. My pace slowed, but I knew, too, that that wasn't just because I was fading. I really didn't want to hit the wind, and yet, I had to to get home. Fortunately it wouldn't be that long, for a mile at the most.

But man. Man oh man. When I did hit headstrong into the wind, I knew right away what few pieces of skin I had left exposed. A thin strip on my forehead that my hat could not cover. A piece of ear. A sliver of my wrist. The wind blasted over them, and the pain was bad, but the numbing sensation, like a shot of narcotics, was worse. I knew I needed to get to the car soon or I'd possibly have some serious, painful thawing to do.

One last hill. When you're tired, hills test you in ways the last mile of a fast 5K can't touch, and the wind was pushing me back, like a bully, trying to prevent me from reaching the relative safety of my car.

I snarled, picked up the pace and bounced around like a bunny when I reached the occasional drift.

Downhill. A tree. The car.

Home.

People like to make resolutions. I'm all for it too. I cheer the people who crowd the gym, though the resolutionists, as I call them, rarely make it into March. I don't really make them, except for one. I resolve to continue to live my life, and that means not letting anything, even a polar blast that turns the wind into razor blades, keep me from my goals of being a good Dad, a good husband, a good friend and, yes, a good runner.

It's something I'll continue to remind myself of now that winter has finally visited Colorado. Tomorrow, in less than 12 hours actually, I start training for the marathon again, come what may.

An imperfect Christmas

2010-12-24T20:23:00.000-07:00

The day started with some whining, as it usually does, quieted by bacon on the stove and sugared cereal in their bowls. An hour later, we dropped off our 3-year-old twins and our 5-year-old boy at the daycare place in the gym. It was empty, as if we were the only parents audacious enough to do such a thing on Christmas Eve.
When we got home, there was one fit, then another, and then I burned the queso a bit as I fixed it for tonight's taco dinner at Kate's parents.
The kids took forever to get their shoes on, as they usually do, and halfway through the slog down the Interstate, the girls had to pee, which forced me to stop at a packed gas station full of chain stores, impatient shoppers and barely enough concrete to cover it all. A sign barred me from making the easy left turn back on the highway.
As we pulled in, a horribly cheesy song played on the radio. What happened to Jingle Bells, I mumbled. It was 55 degrees outside and the grass was the color of graham crackers. A dusting earlier that week had melted into the cracks of the sidewalks and driveways.
I stubbed my toe on the porch as I struggled to get inside with the boxes full of stuff for all the kids. Toys from China, most of it.
Dinner was good. Mexican food for Christmas. My queso was a hit.
Paper flew everywhere a half-hour later. The kids attacked their gifts like a swarm of piranha on a caribou. My son complained that he didn't get as much as the girls. We assured him he did. He refused to believe us.
My present was thoughtful but possibly too small. A receipt is floating around somewhere, maybe.
On the way home, a twin screamed half the time, then fell asleep. She's still awake as Santa taps his foot.
It's not a Hallmark card. It's real. It's an imperfect Christmas. And those are the ones worth remembering.

The feeling sorry-a-go-round

2010-12-15T11:45:00.000-07:00

One thing I've noticed as a poker player, a member of the workforce and, most of all, as a parent, is how easy it is to feel sorry for yourself.
It's something I constantly battle. I've done much better in the last couple of years. I'm a better poker player because I don't let suckouts bother me as much. I'm a better worker because I've accepted the fact that my boss is trying to get stories accomplished, not screw me over with a heavy load (EVERYONE has a heavy load in the newspaper business these days).
But I still struggle with it as a parent.
I struggle after weekends like the last, when everyone else was having fun out in Vegas and I was at home with three little ones. It seems like on weekends when I'm already internally bitching, mourning all the fun stuff and life experiences and friends I have to miss because I'm a parent, the kids act the worst. It's possible that my tolerance is lower at those points then it should be, but it's also possible that the kids were, at times, whiny, loud little brats who got us up at 6 a.m. Saturday AND Sunday.
When I tweeted something like, Toddlers: All the exhaustion of Vegas and none of the debauchery, I really meant it. It was an exhausting weekend, as it always is, and if you have the AUDACITY to go out with friends and get home at the late late late late late hour of, um, 11:30 p.m., there's no recovering from it because sure enough, here come the kids at 6 a.m.
Never mind that getting them up at 6:30 a.m. on some weekdays is like trying to rouse a bear from hibernation and getting nearly the same reaction once they are sort of awake.
I have reminded myself over and over that I wanted to be a parent. But the feeling sorry still comes from the fact that the twins were not planned, they were a surprise, and this surprise was a life-changing doozy, the kind that happens after, say, you catch your hand in a garbage disposal. Yes, it's better than it was, but it's still hard, almost impossibly hard at times, the kind of hard that comes when you're on mile 23 of a marathon, only for us, it's almost every day.
The other issue, of course, is feeling sorry is catching. You've seen it as a poker player: Opponents whine about catching second bests, about not catching at all or about other players catching against them. It's easy, probably too easy, to fall into that line of thinking, that the world must be against you, or at least the poker Gods, if you don't hit with A-K every time and if someone's 37 percenter does hit.
Therefore, it's easy, probably too easy, to whine right along with your spouse and begin to have contests about who has it worse, about who got up at night while the other cleaned the kitchen for the 37th time in a row.
I have done well at letting things go, but it's so easy to fall back into the pattern, like those who work hard to lose weight, then put it back on.
This is my struggle. It's a vice I just can't let go.
I'd prefer cheesecake and nachos.

Poker: Your Guide to Life

2010-12-09T11:45:00.000-07:00

Poker is no longer an obsession. It's barely even a pastime any longer. It's just something I love to do.
I can't tell you how freeing that is.
There are many ways I love to pass the time, one of the sad and wonderful things about having children is it forces you to make severe choices about your life (and I know there are many other things that probably compare to children, such as a busy job, a demanding girlfriend or heavy drinking). Even when I was married, I didn't have such handcuffs. If I wanted to play video games, I could. If I wanted to climb mountains every weekend, I did. If I wanted to, say, play several hours of poker every night, I did.
In that glorious past, I had enough free time to do maybe two or three things every night. I could play two hours of poker, then watch a movie and maybe even read an hour before I went to bed. So because I run and hit the gym, which I'm going to do, now I'm lucky if I get to do one of those things every night if I still want my eight hours of sleep, which my lifestyle as a runner somewhat demands.
Well, a year ago, I took a hard look at what I was choosing to do with my time. And I didn't like it. I wasn't reading books any longer. I was barely watching movies. No, what I was doing was watching sports, playing video games and, of course, playing a lot of online poker.
None of that was making me a better writer, or even a better person. Online poker was almost boring, in fact, and if it wasn't for Omaha I would have yanked my money out of there already. Video games were extremely fun, but again, they're not helping me write. And I'm going to watch my Jayhawks.
So I quit the video games, and, one day, I decided not to play online poker. And then the next I didn't play, and then the next, and fairly soon, it was weeks without playing, and now it's been a few months.
And I don't miss it.
This is an incredibly long introduction to Sunday's trip to Black Hawk to play a long, extended session with one of my best friends. We'll call him "Donovan."
I remember voting for a measure that would increase the betting limits to $100 per bet in Colorado. Before the betting limits was $5, so the max any game could bet was $5, meaning they were the most donkey-filled games you could ever imagine and people were usually winning pots with 8-2 suited. You would basically get a hand, close your eyes and bet $5 to the river and hope you didn't get sucked out on. You've played 2-4 limit poker before. Yeah. It was like that.
Well, the measure was approved by voters two years ago, and I remember being really excited and thrilled that we would essentially have 1-2 NLHE in Colorado.
And I didn't make it up there. At all, in fact, until Sunday.
Having kids also means I've had to choose what days I take to do what I want, and training for a marathon last year (and something I'm doing again soon) meant not really getting a chance to take a full day to play poker without the threat of divorce.
(It also means taking one road trip a year, and helping some of my best friends do their first Ironman in Arizona was more important than going to Vegas for the WPBT. Sigh.)
So I was really excited at the chance to see Donovan, who had to move away for a job. But I also was excited to play poker again. It had been a while.
And now I had nothing to prove.
This is why approaching the game this way is incredibly freeing. I don't feel the need to build a bankroll (even when I still keep a little money set aside for poker) or make badass plays or go against the best players and BE CHAMPION OF THE WORLD one day.
I just think it's fun to play.
Given that, I brought $300 to Black Hawk and had no concerns if I lost it. It was entertainment, not a chance to make money.
That didn't mean I threw around money like candy at a parade. I quickly discerned at the table that the players were a little better than $5 poker but not much better, and so playing tight-agressive, with a bit more raising preflop to keep them unbalanced, was going to either earn me money or get me sucked out on.
I don't have many hands for you because, to be honest, I got my fair share of good ones, and I didn't get sucked out on. When that happens, you don't have to be good, you just have to be solid.
The hand that got me started on the right path, after about $50-$60 in losses in the first couple of hours, was QQ in early position. I had four callers of course to my $12 raise, and we saw a flop of J-3-8 rainbow. I'm first to act, and I check to see what others are going to do (it's a dry board). A guy on the button, a loose player who had just won a monster pot by cracking a player's AA with 5-2 sooted bet $30. It's folded back to me and I call. I check to him again on the J turn, because the pot's fairly large now and the J worries me a bit. He bets $50. I count out my chips. If I call it'll leave me with another $50. So it's shove or fold. The fact that another J comes means he may not have one. Plus I don't like the way he's staring me down. I shove and he insta-folds. I don't love the way I played the hand, but it did allow me to put pressure on him rather than me betting and him shoving on me and putting the pressure point on me. Anyway, that gets me past my $200 buy-in.
I had several huge hands, including winning a huge pot when I flopped a full house with 6-6 (the only hand the whole night I think I really slowplayed), but one other hand was really big, even if I think it played itself.
I have J-Q suited and I call a small raise to $7. So do five others, and the flop comes 8-9-10. Not bad. But there's two spades out there, and while I know this is not Omaha, I'm first to act and I don't want anyone drawing out on me, so I bet $30. The guy to my left raises me another $100, the maximum, remember, he can bet.
Predictably the other three fold, one of them mumbling about having to fold his flush draw, and it gets back to me.
Well, that's a nice pot, and I'm happy with it now, given the way the board looks. If he has a set I'm ahead, and if he has a flush draw I'm way ahead. I"m not fucking around, in other words, and I raise him back another $100. This leaves me $29 behind, but I have to follow the rules. He just calls.
OK, so an 8 falls on the turn. This does not make me happy, not in the least, but I'm obviously committed, so I put in my $29 and he calls and turns over....9-10. Whew. I essentially double up to $500.
When I'm up, I'm usually a lot more patient with my hands, and in the middle of the session several times I lay down top pair/good kicker to decent players in multi-multi-way pots. I'm almost always right, and even when I can't see if I am, I don't care. It costs me, at the most, $25 to lay a hand down, and I've already seen far too many people at our table blow their stacks with similar hands.
By the end of the night, the predictable douchebag sits at our table, which is another reason why I don't love poker as much as I once did. Only the douchebag was a woman. Can a douchebag be a woman? That would make her LITERALLY a douchebag, huh?
Anyway, she was snippy and all that, but my favorite part was when she was coaching/imploring the fish at the table to play better (despite her own mediocre play). Why do people continue to do this?
I left at midnight for my long drive home up $520. That's my best win ever.
I have lately approached running and other activities of mine as hobbies, that these things are supposed to be fun, and so far it seems to be working.
Apparently it's not just a good way to approach poker. It's a good way to approach life.

Breathe deep against the gathering gloom

2010-11-30T16:03:00.001-07:00

You may not believe this. In fact you won't believe it. But for a long time, I really hated running.
OK. That's not really true. I actually hated racing.
I ran half marathons and eventually the marathon for several reasons - the main one being it's much more of an adventure that way - but one of the reasons, in fact perhaps the overriding reason, was I hated the pain of the shorter distances.
I only sort of liked 10Ks and honestly could not stand 5Ks.
I would do my best to avoid them when I could, and when I couldn't, when the inevitable Fourth of July or Thanksgiving race came around, I would run them with a sense of dread.
I approached the races the way you would approach a session with the Pit of Despair in the Princess Bride. I tried to block out the pain, putting myself in another place, and hoping (praying) that the aggressive metal would help me get my grr on.
Sometimes it worked. Other times it didn't. But always it was miserable. I remember asking my wife, "Am I really supposed to suffer THAT badly during a race?"
I did find some things that helped. I bought lighter shoes just for races, got a Garmin GPS to keep me honest and started taking medication for acid reflux, so my throat doesn't catch fire every time I run hard.
All that helped some. But the bigger issue was every time the gun went off, I felt trapped, like I was a prisoner being forced to run by wardens for sport.
As crazy as that sounds, in a sense, it was true. I have competitive, badass friends - as you saw in my previous post, I just got back from helping a few of them complete the Ironman - and when I raced, I felt a responsibility to run as hard as I could to not only keep up with them but not let them down. And they were justifying those fears without even realizing what they were doing, as every time I had a bad race (a race, by the way, that still beat 80 percent of the field but one I nor they were happy with at all), they would ask what went wrong, what happened, what I could do better next time. They weren't the only ones. I run an intervals track group on Wednesdays, and the coach of that track group would rightfully wonder about my times in a race, even if, he, too, didn't mean to be critical.
It's great to have badass friends. It pushes me to be much, much better than I ever thought I'd be. But there can be some pressure there. There was an episode of The Simpsons once where Marge feels pressure to keep up with some new, well-moneyed friends from the country club, and I felt what she was feeling, from an athletic sense.
It's so ironic, too, because I've never considered myself an athlete. Dribbling down a basketball court is challenging for me. I loved softball, mostly because I can't hit a baseball. Anything I did, whether it was bench pressing 300 pounds, climbing all the 14ers in Colorado or running a 6-minute mile, was because of hard work, not any kind of athletic gifts.
Still, I was feeling good this fall. After completing a marathon with a disappointing ending, I was running well, even if my results didn't always show it, and I knew I was due for a breakthrough. I ran 1:44 in a half marathon in October, a PR, and finished fifth in another trail half marathon two weeks earlier.
I had not really run a 5K all year, and I thought I had a good race in me in Arizona. I just had to do it.
And then, during a session of intervals with some tough friends (I usually finish near the end), we ran sections of 800 meters on a new track. The new track was significant because I didn't know where the splits were. I really wasn't even sure about the finish line. I would just have to run.
So I ran.
And I hit the 800 in right around 3 minutes.
That time's significant because that's the pace I would run for a mile. In the past that would hurt. But I just ran. And when I hit that time, I wasn't too gassed. Yeah, it hurt, but I didn't have to quit. I finished four more 800s and ran those pretty well too.
It's amazing what you can do when you don't know you're not supposed to be doing it, I tweeted.
So I approached that Arizona race with a different attitude. I was limiting myself. That night, my friends were encouraging, telling me it was a flat course, in cool weather, at sea level. But rather than let that put pressure on myself, I relaxed and just told them we would see how it would work out.
When the gun went off, I chanted my word, another mental exercise that I wrote about in the last post.
And I relaxed and found people to pace off. And I didn't look at my watch. I've said all that before.
But mostly I ran for fun.
It's fun, mostly, because what I've realized is pushing yourself isn't torture. Sure, it hurts, but letting go of the pressures we put on ourselves, whether its because of what we perceive from our friends or our leaders, is freeing, and pain is only temporary.
As proof, Thursday at that annual Thanksgiving race, where it all began six years ago, it was bitter cold, and I was still stiff from Saturday's race, and my feet were numb and I was stressed from getting Thanksgiving dinner together. But I smiled before the start, and I ran, and I ran 22:10, my best time at the event ever, despite a tough, hilly first mile that left me gassed right from the start. I finished 9th out of 119 in my age group for my first top-10 finish at such a large event.
And it was fun.
Pain really is only temporary. That race hurt for a while. Then it got better.
It always does.
When you're in the fire, breathe deep, my friends. Soon enough, it'll start to cool.

Cracking the iron ceiling

2010-11-20T15:41:00.000-07:00

I am somewhat of a technical runner. Before a race, I've got so many wires coming out of me, you might think I've just left a hospital.
Ipod. Heart-rate monitor. And most of all, my GPS Garmin.
I love the Garmin. It tells me how far I've gone, how long I've run and how fast I'm going. It tells me this if I'm in Kansas, at home in Greeley, Colo., and if, like today, I'm in Tempe, Ariz. for the Ironman.
Now, no, I'm not doing an Ironman. Believe it or not, I am not insane. I know my limitations, and the Ironman is a bit beyond that. If you're scoring at home, it's a 2.4-mile swim (and I really don't swim very well), a 112-mile bike (and not only do I not have a bike I could ride beyond 20 miles, I've never ridden more than 65 miles in one sitting) and then you run a marathon (and yes, I've run a marathon, but I was shattered for a couple weeks after and didn't do, say, a full day's worth of hard exercise before I ran it).
Still, I am out here for some very dear running partners who have inspired me just about as much as anyone in my life who CAN do all those things, and they are capable of all those things. The Ironman is a big fucking deal, and I'm out here to soothe nerves, run errands and just be there.
So I am also, however, not above a little bit of selfishness, and since I am giving up my annual Vegas trip to be here (yeah, I know, sorry), I wanted to do something for myself.
Ah. The Ironman 5K. Perfect!
Now I'm not entirely crazy about 5Ks. I'd much rather run like an 8-mile trail adventure or something like that, and I've already got a Turkey Trot to run Thursday. But whatever. So I'm leaving the condo at 6 a.m. for a two-mile run to the start. It's a perfect warm-up to the start. It's a little chilly, so I've got my arm warmers on. I've also got some metal cranking in my ears. Both do the job.
The Ironman 5K is not a huge race, not like the event itself, but it is a pretty cool little event, and we'll get to run part of the course and finish where my friends will finish later.
I have a goal of 21:30. That would be a PR, and a nice one, too, as I've only broken 22 minutes once.
Tuscon is not sea level, but it is 1,500 feet, and that, folks, ain't 5,000.
In the last couple of months, I've had what you might call a mental breakthrough. I think I've detailed my head issues here a bit, mostly with my battles with the troll, that little monster who tells you to slow down, and I've had some bad races this summer partly because of them. But I also think I've made a couple changes to the way I'm approaching races, and they're paying off.
The first is to find a word that resonates with you. When you are suffering most during training, go to that word. It's given me a serious weapon in races. Mine is "fight." I said it a lot today.
The second is to ask myself why I race. Is it to suffer? Yeah, a bit. Is it to feel good about my accomplishment later? Yeah, definitely, that's addicting. But is it mostly because you enjoy it?
Yeah.
I had to come to terms with that. I wasn't out there to prove anything to anybody. I was out there to enjoy myself and run as hard as I could. Knowing that relaxes me. In the past I would try to build myself up and block out the pain as much as I could. That doesn't work for me. It just makes me tense. Now I just try to embrace the pain and, yes, enjoy it.
So when the gun went off, and the 5K quickly descended into a chaotic dash to the end, as it always does, I embraced it and looked for someone to pace off. That's another little thing I've done. I've found someone to pull me along.
Only my first mile was 6:25. Holy sheet. If I was in Colorado, that would scare me. I can run that time in a mile without really thinking about it, but running that, and then finishing a 5K, is a different deal.
But I felt good.
Pretty darn good actually.
So I decided to unplug. I hardly looked at the Garmin the rest of the race.
And when I no longer worried about my time, I ran the best ever.
20:40. That's a PR of more than a minute. Now, sure, the elevation made a difference. But so did my attitude, and so did relying on myself, and not a watch, to tell me how fast to go.
The Garmin is an awesome tool. I love it. But it's a ceiling. It forced limitations on me.
I'll still use it. I just may not listen to it anymore.

One Day In Your Life

2010-11-10T10:17:00.000-07:00

I'm not a curmudgeon. I'm not a crank. I'm (barely) not old enough to fit those profiles.
Yet I really didn't want anyone to make a big deal out of my birthday.
It was my 39th. So, really, who cares. I'm all for blowing out my 40th. That's a big milestone and deserves a celebration for making it this far without contracting some major disease, weighing 400 pounds or being thrown in jail. But 39? Eh.
Plus I was in a bit of a funk. Sometimes I get those. Does everyone? I'm not sure. My funks get to swirl around feeling like I'm getting screwed over at work because I have (what I think) is too much work. My funks tend to muck up feelings of unworthiness. My funks tend to splatter around frustration at my running, at not getting faster.
Funks are never warranted. I don't have any more work than anyone else in our short-staffed newsroom. And I'm running fine, better than ever, in fact, and clearly, if I really do want to be faster, I either need to lose a couple pounds and run my intervals harder or just be patient because I think a breakthrough is coming.
Those feelings of unworthiness are hard to shake though, and though I could clearly point to many people in my life, feeling a bit out of touch with them only makes it worse when you think about them. It was my fault, I thought, not others, for my unexplained loneliness.
Then I curse myself for feeling like a baby, as I clearly enjoy being alone, and it goes round and round into a big, boring monologue that no one can learn from. Let's just throw in some worries about the future and maybe I needed some meds.
Funks, though, are minor. It's not like I was even remotely seriously depressed or even sad. A good run wiped those feelings away most of the time, at least for a few hours. But still. I was in a lull.
So my birthday rolled around. I got up at 4:30 a.m. to run with a good friend who I hadn't seen in months. I normally would laugh at 4:30 a.m. for just a six-mile run (yes, even me), but, hell, it was my birthday. I figured I should enjoy it as much as possible.
And one of the runners pulled out a small cake that looked like a mountain. Pretty cool.
Then I signed on to Facebook, and holy cow. I probably got close to 100 birthday wishes. Pretty cool.
When I pulled in my garage that night, my girls swarmed over my car with balloons. Then Jayden poked his head out the door. "Happy Birthday Daddy," he said. They sang to me. VERY cool.
I don't really like pick-me-ups or special things done for me. I'm not like this needy person who likes constant reassurance about my state in people's lives.
But today, as I write this, the funk is gone.
Everyone, maybe even me, needs a special day. Thank God for birthdays.

What I'm Doing (instead of playing poker)

2010-11-03T13:34:00.000-06:00

I had no idea how much of a time sucker poker was until I stopped playing it.
It was not a conscious decision to stop playing. I still have money in my accounts. I still watch it on TV. I played it the other night in a fun home game and didn't want to leave after several hours.
But I'll be honest: I'm tired of the game. The easy pickings seem to be gone, and even in Rush Poker, I'm stuck trying to fleece a bunch of players who are every bit as tight as me, and a good majority of them are better, even at the modest limits I play.
But this sounds like whining. That's not the point of this post.
The point is to show you what I'm doing with my time.
• Writing - I know, writing is SO 2006. No one really blogs any longer, which breaks my heart, since I loved how blogs were encouraging people to write. There are a LOT of great writers out there, especially those who never thought they would be writers at all.
I'm still determined to update this blog at least once a week. I think the writing on this space is good for me.
But I'm also doing something else. For years one of my best friends has tried to get me to do the November Novel Writing Month. Well, I had a baby, and then I had baby twins, and then all those kids sapped most of time, and I thought there was no way I could write 50,000 words (fictional, no less) in a month.
But to be honest, I also thought it was a waste of time. When you're a professional writer, as I am (can't you tell?), writing is a joy, but it's also a job, and writing should have a purpose. Why should I spend hours a night to write something that will most likely never be read by anyone?
Well, I cheated a bit. I call it the twin handicap. I had a whole weekend to myself in mid-October, which these days is something like being the silly rabbit and stumbling upon a whole barrel of Trix. So I decided to spend three hours to see if I could crank out part of a story that was haunting my brain.
Well, 5,500 words later, I knew I was in this year.
I've now got 20,000 under my belt, and yeah, it's going to be with an asterik, but I'm going to finish.
I have discovered that purpose in this as well.
It's fun.

• Reading - I've read many books, knocking down my stack of "to-dos" to almost nothing. I haven't read like that in years.
Here were three of my favorites in the last few months:
1. Lit - Mary Karr writes with lush yet blistering prose about her alcoholism. I give this book my greatest complement: It made me a better writer.

2. Born to Run - I know what you're saying if you've read this blog at all in the last year. Well, DUH. But this book is wonderfully written and fascinating. I dare to say you'd like it even if you think people like me - and the people he writes about in this book - are completely nuts. It might even make you buy a pair of running shoes. Or ditch them and run barefoot.

3. Lost Vegas - Pauly's best writing in one book, so you don't have to store your laptop on a shelf. What's not to like? I read this in three days, even with my kids demanding juice boxes in between pages. Don't worry, I did get them some. Eventually.

• Watching movies - I've worked through my NetFlix queue on a good pace, even pausing to watch seasons 1 and 2 of Breaking Bad (um, you can release season 3 like right now please kthxbye). I went on a little horror fix, watching five Zombie movies and a vampire flick that did not involve teenagers gazing into each other's eyes, and, oh, Saw VI. I believe it has scarred me for life, or at least until I watch those herky-jerky claymation Christmas specials.
Here's a couple highlights from my recent movie orgy.

1. Dead Snow - The best zombie flick was not made by Romero. This is a German film about Nazi zombies, a chainsaw and sex in an outhouse, and really, what else do you need? How about the best opening scene I've seen from a horror movie in a long time.

2. Jennifer's Body - One of my favorite writers, Diablo Cody, and one of my favorite hotties, Megan Fox, combine to make an underrated horror film.

These two are not terrific movies, but they are good horror movies, and since most horror movies just really suck (when "Paranormal Activity," a good flick, is seen as a masterpiece you know the genre needs some work), that's enough.

Halloween is over so I can return to my usual serious, thought-provoking dramas that most of the public rightfully hates.
Here's one, and it was my favorite film of this year. Yes, it's subtle and slow, but it's also wonderful. Just awesome.
3. Phoebe in Wonderland.

What are you doing besides play poker these days?

Sympathy for our devils

2010-10-26T16:08:00.000-06:00

I am not a foodie.
I like your fancy foods as well as anyone, but dropping a car payment on a meal is not my cup of tea, or $20 sniffer of brandy. I can't afford it.
Food's never really been a big part of my life.
Then why, oh why, do I have more and more days when I can't stop thinking about it?
Sunday night I got home from my weekly night shift and almost had to put a lock on the fridge to prevent me from eating a plate of nachos, ice cream and cookies.
It's an ever-increasing battle. I want to eat more than I burn off.
I shake my head at what I ate in college. I used to consume small pizzas for dinner, boxed pasta for lunch and maybe some breakfast. Fruits and vegetables weren't really a priority. Yet my weight stayed the same.
I was lucky, and I really didn't realize how lucky I was until I hit my early 30s. I remember trying on a pair of Dockers one day (because that's how I roll beeotch) and having trouble snapping the button.
It would be insulting to those who battle their weight to say that I battled it as well. But even as my diet had evolved over time, including servings of fruits and, yes, even veggies with every meal, that was the first time I realized that how much I ate actually could affect what I weighed.
Fortunately, that summer, I started running, and my college weight, about 180 pounds, returned to me with little effort.
Only now I'm almost 40. Almost! And now that I'm a fairly serious runner, trying to set PRs, I'm as restrictive in my intake as I've ever been in my life.
And it's shed some light on our obesity problem. There is a general consensus that 75 percent of us will be overweight in the next 20 years. That's three-fourths of the population. That's pretty slovenly. If this were the old days, the Vikings could work us over pretty well because I doubt most of us could get off the couch to fight.
But this is not the old days, and that's precisely the problem. Here's my ultra-amazing-scientific discovery thanks to my own diet: It's HARD not to be fat.
As a country, we work pretty hard. Most of the day. Sometimes more. Many of us adults have offspring, too. We struggle with this, and we don't even have a commute.
That means you either need to study, learn and read how to prepare quick, easy and healthy meals or spend whatever free time you can muster on cooking said meals.
Is that all? That's not all. Temptation is around every corner.
Seriously, sometimes I feel like a heroin addict with easy access to clean needles and a cheap high on every corner. When you're trying to watch what you eat, that's exactly what fast food restaurants look like. And our grocery stores are full - stuffed, if you can excuse the pun - of high-fat, high-salt crap.
There are whole AISLES dedicated to calories, and all of it looks pretty good.
If you do have offspring, as we do, said offspring likes to have cookies and candy and sweets around the house. Yes, you can limit what they eat - and we do, pretty strictly, I think, to the point where the kids consider frozen blueberries and yogurt a treat - but you're probably not in the business of completely taking sugar out of your kids' lives. I STILL remember the resentment I felt because my parents would not let me have sugar cereal, and even today, I have trouble not putting Fruity Pebbles in my cart because of that.
And our society seems to believe in having food around at all times. How many snacks and sweets are just....around at your work? Or has vending machines? Even a cup of coffee can be full of calories.
I can't imagine being on a diet with all that temptation floating around. Those who actually do lose weight must have the willpower of Ghandi.
Is that all? Well, no, of course not. Most of us spend all day at our desks. I do. That's not gonna help you shed pounds. So exercise is the thing. And, yeah, as many of you know, I've got that down.
Yes, I do, but I run 35-50 miles a week, some of it pretty fast, and spend a couple hours a week lifting. And I still have to watch my diet. So is the 20 minutes many spend on the Stairmaster really enough? Well, it's definitely better than nothing, but not really. And most of us do nothing, mostly because we don't know how to get started, and when we do get started, we generally overdo it, find out it hurts and stop.
There are solutions to all of these problems. I know that. I'm proof of that actually. But it's not only a struggle just to get started on them, it's a constant, evolving struggle. Let's say, for instance, I get hurt. I've been really lucky. I haven't been hurt in my five years of running. But it's probably inevitable at some point. When I do, will I exercise as hard if I have to give up running for six months? No. No way.
I used to look at fat people with a mild form of disgust. I could never understand why someone would do that to themselves. But I've since become a parent, become older and struggled with my own diet.
I'm not fighting the same fight as many of you. But I am fighting it. And it's harder than it should be.
I wound up having some of that ice cream Sunday night. I couldn't fight the temptation.
But I punished myself the next day with a hard tempo run. And then I thanked my own fortune that I had the opportunity to do it.

Denver Half Marathon

2010-10-18T16:57:00.000-06:00

The time just sang in my head. 1:41. It was like the gold that drove men to chase metal in the mountains.
I had my eyes set on a PR, and not just any PR, but a personal best of almost four minutes.
It was, of course, very aggressive, and probably not within my reach. But I didn't care. I was going to go for it.
The plan, Sunday, was to hang with my training partner as long as I could. It's something I've worked on this year in my race. It's OK to let people pull you. Someone as fiercely independent as me always believed that I should rely on my own fire rather than let someone else stoke it for me. But that's not only stubborn, it's a little foolish. The best runners pace off others. Going at it alone, in fact, is considered foolish until the end.
OK, but I knew it was going to be tough, if not almost impossible. I'd had a tough year. Even though I'd done many races, including a marathon, the Pikes Peak Ascent and the recent trail half, none of them seemed to go particularly well. I had cramps in the marathon, nausea in the ascent and wilting heat in the trail half marathon.
A PR is like fool's gold. All courses are different, and I was getting too wrapped up in times this year. So I decided to enjoy this one. But enjoyment, for me, is going after a goal and attacking it. Maybe that's a little sick of me. It's probably more than a little sad.
It's also who I am.
• • •
We got in the elevator to head down to the starting line from the hotel and were joined by a mother and what looked like her two older daughters. I was struck by the different cultures that exist even in the running world.
They had on sweats and jackets. We had on shorts and a tank top with arm warmers and a light pair of gloves.
The message was obvious. They were hoping to finish. We were hoping for a PR. They were hoping for a good time. We were hoping for a good time. They're probably happier people, I said to my partners.
We slipped into the second wave (out of many) and waited.
I love those last few minutes before a race. Runners bounce up and down like kangaroos. They stretch. They shake their hands. They snuggle up against each other against the chill, and no one files a sexual discrimination suit. They listen to music. They hug good luck and give strangers fist bumps. And then the Star Spangled Banner starts.
You don't really realize what a beautiful anthem we have until you hear it moments before you are preparing yourself for pain and suffering and fun all at once. I always remind myself how fortunate I am to be there during this time, and that's meaningful on so many different levels. And then, almost right away, the gun goes off and the stampede starts.
I was worried about the 1,000 people ahead of me, but they moved forward quickly. I'm not an elite runner, not really, but I am fairly fast, and it's amazing to me to see so many people moving as quickly as me in a long race. It's heartening, actually, and a good balance to the constant, depressing news about our obesity rates. There are SOME people who still care about their bodies, I thought to myself, and wished all the other fellow runners behind me good luck for they were there, too, even if they were not as fast, and hoped the ones kicking my butt already wished the same for me.
The race went fine. It was a good day and I was moving quickly without much effort. The temperature, probably 40 at the start, helped a ton, as I would not have to stress about drinking a lot of fluid. I still haven't really got that, and if that sounds stupid, run for a mile at a fairly hard pace, then grab a cup of Gatorade, keep running and try to drink it.
The trouble - there's always trouble, isn't there - came at mile 4 or 5, when we crested a big hill. The hills came like paper cuts, and by the time that big hill hit, I was bleeding oxygen and unable to catch my breath. I can handle that for a while, even all 6 miles of a 10K, but I thought to myself that I still had 7 or 8 miles to go. And that's when I made the painful decision to let them go.
It was tough, but I knew it was a stretch, and honestly, I don't know if I'm a 1:41 runner. Not yet. I may never get there, and that's OK if not. I have improved every year.
Still, these are thoughts that don't come to you when you're in the heat of a run. I was discouraged, and any sense of discouragement is deadly when you're trying to run hard because all your body wants to do is quit.
Still, I looked at my watch and this time, the tough part of me won the mental battle against the Troll and told me to relax, settle down, have fun and, oh, by the way, YOU CAN STILL PR.
Oh. That's right. I wasn't dead or even bonking from the aggressive pace. I was just out of breath. It was a cool day, with a great atmosphere, and I had friends along the course all day.
So I looked for someone else to pace off. I traded positions with a couple people all day, but they didn't seem right. The metal in my head helped, but I still needed some motivation. I found it on the back of a T-shirt on the back of a 20-something guy.
"You'd better dig deep because you're falling behind," the T-shirt said.
Really?
Seriously?
I battled waves of nausea - I almost puked twice - and the occasional cramp as I pushed on, but they always were just waves, not tide pools (huh?), and I kept the T-shirt in my sights.
I passed him at mile 12.
Still, I knew it would be close after I plodded up a mile-long hill. I was proud not to have to walk this year, but a hill a mile long is always a killer when you are close to red-lining it anyway.
I was needing a fast, last mile, and I didn't know if I had it in me. I inched up to a 7:30 pace, a half-minute past my normal pace of 8-min miles, and hoped for the downhill to take me.
That's when I saw three of my good running friends, friends who are way faster than me, heading up the hill.
And I knew, when they settled by my side, that I was going to be carried to the finish.
It's unreal how much that helps, and my pace crept up to 7 minutes per mile and beyond. I was flying, and I felt OK. I was ready for the finish.
The last tenth of a mile is always the easiest and the hardest in a race, and it was almost as if the racing Gods were screwing with me, as the course was a bit long. Still, I sprinted in at the end and crossed the line a minute ahead of my best time.
That's 1:44:32, or a 7:59 pace, if you're scoring at home.
It's a good finish - 600th or so out of 9,000 runners - but it's nothing to brag too much about. Some of my friends are now invited to elite races. My running partners finished in the teens in their age groups. I was 87th out of about 600.
But this was my race, my good race, and the feeling you get from it, the good feeling, is overwhelming the soreness I'm feeling today.
Well, now it is, anyway. The aches, I'm afraid, may start winning here tonight.

Beta Challenged

2010-10-12T20:42:00.000-06:00

We didn't go for the tropicals, the ones with the sharp fins and the striped bodies in three or four colors. Or the fish in Finding Nemo's tank. Or even the goldfish.
Those fish, we were told, required care. Salted water. Fancy food. Perfect temperatures. They were sensitive. They were not for the fish challenged.
We needed a beta, we were told.
Betas were easy, we were told. They could survive in all conditions. Sure, you could only have one in a tank, which was a bummer, but our tank was more of a trailer than a home anyway. It wasn't made for a school. It was made to be on top of my son's dresser so he could gaze lovingly into it and see the wonder of life.
And so we got a beta. And, yeah, he was pretty easy. Jayden named him Nemo, which, I thought, was pretty appropriate. Nemo was red. He was kind of pretty actually and pretty easy-going too (probably, truth be told, the most mellow in our family).
After about a year, he was looking a little gray. Well, the sad truth is, the life of a fish, while exciting, vivacious and thrilling, is not long. Fish believe it's better to burn out than fade away, and Nemo, sadly, faded away for good.
Jayden was sad. Then he asked if he could get another fish. Well, sure, we said. After all, by this time, we were fish experts. We kept a beta alive for a year! We were great fish parents!
Now we were cocky as all get out.
So we got another beta.
And he died in a month.
Oops. OK. Well that didn't go quite as well. But, you know, we went to a corporate pet store, and surely those places have some bad fish, sort of like the occasional pack of Chicken McNuggets that make you sick. It happens.
So we got another fish.
A beta.
This one was beautiful. He was pearl white, with a rainbow tail that seemed to change color every time it caught the light.
I found him floating in the water, his skin like ash, his tail green as pea soup, after two days.
OK, well, I felt bad about that one. So we cleaned the tank and scrubbed the rocks like volunteers at an oil spill and I changed the filter pad, and we got a new fish for the shiny, almost-new-like tank, and we put the fish in there after the water was conditioned, and he died two hours after we put him in the tank.
We had been exchanging the fish at the pet store - there's a two-week guarantee, apparently - but at this point Kate did not take the corpse back or else they might think we were dipping the poor creatures in Clorox or watching them flop around on the sink while we laughed like Jack Nicholson poking his head through a splintered door.
We waited a week or so, then went to the other corporate pet store. Our faces weren't on the wall yet at that place, and we bought another beta (half price, score!).
And it died in three weeks.
Seriously?
So we went back to the other store again, and they looked at my wife funny but gave her and Jayden another fish, and Brewster V (or is it VI, let me count, gimmie a second, OK, yeah, Brewster V) was home. I kept suggesting to Jayden that perhaps Brewster wasn't that great a name. Nemo worked pretty well. But he kept naming it Brewster. I think he's a little stubborn. I'm not sure where he gets that.
ANYWAY, the fish lasted a couple months, but sure enough, he was looking gray and then he died.
When my wife asked the fish guy at the pet store what was going on - maybe something we should have asked a few fishes ago - he asked how much I was feeding them.
As it turns out, I maybe, might, possibly have been overfeeding them a tad.
It turns out that fish are like most Americans. They can overeat.
Ooops.
Now I felt bad. Really bad. Sure, I doubt I killed all of them, but I no doubt killed some. And so I thought we were done with fish for a bit. I cleaned out the tank, dumped the rocks and let things chill.
Then my wife came home on Sunday with frogs.
That's right. Frogs. And shrimp.
The frogs, I thought, were a good idea. A change of pace. Surely we could not kill frogs as much as fish. Plus Kate bought shrimp, and shrimp were a great idea because they would eat the extra food on the bottom. Just, you know, in case I overfed them.
So I went in today, just to check on them. The frogs seemed fine. The shrimp seemed fine.
When I got home today, Kate had a plastic bag.
One frog was fine.
But it was time for another exchange.
We're on our third frog in two days now, and you have to wonder if, at some point, we're like the little girl in Finding Nemo. The one all the other fish were scared of. Maybe I'll wander in the pet store in a week or two. It is Halloween, after all, and everyone, even fish and frogs, deserve a good scare.

Blue Sky Half Marathon

2010-10-05T15:30:00.000-06:00

It's a strange thing to look forward to a race.
I doubt if you asked an evil king's prisoners if they were looking forward to the day, you'd rarely get a yes, even on Fried Rat Day. No one looks forward to, say, the torture rack, do they?
And yet, despite me being a tiny bit facetious, racing really CAN be torture.
Now, sure, you could be one of those 5K runners who enjoys a nice jog through the crisp morning air during your city's annual Turkey Trot (and yes, I'm pretty sure your city has one of those). Hey, I love the Turkey Trot too. But that's not racing, and I'm not a casual joggers. I train too hard for that, and besides, I'm anal and competitive and kind of a jerk. Those qualities aren't the kind that fit with runners who like to high-five spectators.
It's funny, too, because I'm not out to win. I would be, if I had better lungs, legs and 15 years off my body. But I am out to beat my own time. I compete with myself, and I'm not happy when I leave a race unless I've given myself a good fight.
Even so, despite all that, I looked forward to the Blue Sky Half Marathon, even when I knew I would suffer.
This race, even if you do want to just jog it, demands suffering. It's not a turkey trot. In some ways, it's hell.
It's a half marathon (or a full, if you're really a sick fuck) on a dirt, somewhat rocky trail that climbs over a few giant hills and many small ones. If the big hills sap most of your energy, the smaller ones greedily snap up what's left. There's one aid station, about halfway through the course, so you carry your own fluid. It's dusty and there's always another hill to climb or dash down, even when it's almost over.
It's also beautiful, gorgeous, even, run by a small crew of volunteers who want others to love trail running as much as they do. They yell your name when they see you - they have to check your name off a list so they know you're not out there, lost or dying of a rattlesnake bite - and their personalized encouragement is nice to hear as you're trying to bust through the seventh circle of runner's hell. I did the race last year on a lark, just another half to do before the more "important" races, like the Denver Half, and I loved it so much that I swore I would do it again and take it more seriously.
After a couple months of long runs, the Pikes Peak Ascent, a few climbs and some trail running, I did, indeed, believe I was ready for it.
And as I started the race, it felt like I was right. I didn't feel great. Finding the magic on race day this year just doesn't seem to be in the cards. But I didn't feel horrible, either, and after the first two miles over somewhat flat terrain, I felt good about my pace, my stomach and my legs. I felt ready to fly even as I took it carefully, trying to reserve my mojo for the hills that were coming.
I didn't have any music with me - it's not allowed on a single-track trail marathon - so I would have to rely on my spirit, and not a screaming metal god, to get me going.
When the hills hit, I attacked them a bit at a time, telling myself that I would walk if I had to, but also that I would try to avoid walking as much as I possibly could. It's a tough balance. Walk too much and you lose your rhythm. Walk too little, and you go into oxygen deprivation, and then you're walking whether you want to or not.
I was thrilled, then, when I topped out around 6 miles, without walking at all and facing down the first big challenge and heading for the aid station.
And then the sun came out.
The temperature threatened to creep up beyond 80 degrees even before the sun hid for a while behind the clouds. The clouds did their best, but they could not hold off the sun's punishing rays forever, and sure enough, just as I began the toughest climb of the day, they came out and started baking my shoulders.
This is when I made my biggest mistake, my only real mistake, actually. I romped up those hills as best I could, crashed down the back side of the hills and even passed a few people as I charged up the road that led me back to the trail home. But I finished off my bottles, and then, when they asked me if I needed more drink, I said no.
Stupid.
As I made my way back over the big hill and headed for home, I had three miles left to go. Three miles seems like such a short way to me. It's a lark, a 25-minute run, and that's if I take it easy. I was still on pace to run two hours, or at least break last year's time by at least five minutes, and I didn't want to take the time to get fluid, even with someone right there with her pitcher.
Around mile 11, I knew I had made a big mistake. Around mile 12, I started shivering, even though I was hot, not cold. I'm no medical expert, but shivering, I knew, could not be good.
This was the time to dig deep and keep running, even if it wasn't as fast as I had hoped. Last year I finished off the race running 8-minute miles, but last year was cool, almost cold, and I didn't sweat much. By the time I reached mile 12, my hat was soaked and my brow was salty.
But the difference between this race, and others, was my attitude. I've worked on my attitude a lot this year. They tell you to think of a word to say, over and over, during the tough moments, a word you can draw on when you need to push past the pain and go to work. My word, not surprisingly, is "fight."
Fight against the trolls in your head telling you to quit. Fight against the doubts in your head. Fight against your mistakes, even if they are stupid ones, like not drinking enough on a hot day. Fight against that heat. Fight against my own past, when I was picked on others for not being athletic and believing them even when I was.
Fight against all that. And when you go out with the intent of crossing a finish line, go kill it.

Misery really does love company

2010-09-30T16:14:00.000-06:00

Last week as we attended Oktoberfest (or whatever the spelling is that reflects beer, brats and lots of inflatable kiddie stuff) in downtown Greeley, I ran into one of my running friends. He, like many of them, is mellow, happy and generally one of the nicer guys I've met. He is, in fact, pretty much the opposite of me. He's also one of the guys I try to emulate in my own personality, but most of the time I fail miserably.
He's also one of the few runners I know who has young children, just like me, and so I enjoy talking to him because he can actually relate to what it's like to feel as if your energy is constantly being squeezed like water out of a washcloth.
As we waited in line with my kids for their turn on the big inflatable slide, I was hoping my girls or Jayden would remain in the calm, satisfied state we were currently enjoying. They seem to have trouble holding this serene state for longer than three minutes, but nonetheless, I prayed they would keep it up.
No one, after all, enjoys dealing with a whinefest in front of your friends, and I'm as guilty as anyone about wondering what others must think of my skills as a parent. I don't lay awake at night worrying about that - I'm far too tired for that - but I do get embarrassed when my child, or children, as it usually goes, throws a fit in front of people. Especially in front of my friends. Especially in front of said friends who are typically easy-going, mellow, nice people who surely don't have the same problems with their children.
Only I was surprised, even shocked, when his boy, who was probably 6 or 7, kept whistling. It was a shrill, high-pitched call, if you will. It was annoying. It was exactly the kind of thing my kids would do, if they knew how to whistle.
"Don't you hate it," my friend said, obviously embarrassed, "when your kid is in a funk all day and you can't do anything about it?"
Um, yes, I do. That seems to happen just about every day, actually.
And then it hit me.
All parents go through what I go through.
I'm not alone.
And I'm sorry to say, it felt good to know that.
• • •
What is it about misery that makes us want others to go through it?
Well, if you're a parent, the biggest fear, other than your child getting hurt, some strange illness or maybe getting eaten by crocodiles, is fucking them up. It's easy to constantly question what you're doing as a parent. What TV show are you letting them watch? What are you feeding them? When do they go to bed? What are they wearing? What tantrums do you acknowledge, and how do you deal with them?
These days, it's much easier to question yourself, too, because of all the damn advice other parents love to offer on places like Facebook, Twitter and those hundreds of self-help Web sites, not to mention Dr. Phil and Oprah and social circles with real, live friends you talk to without typing in something on your cell phone.
It seems like parents trip over each other to talk about how perfect they are.
No one has made me question our own happy home than the twins turning 3.
3 is a hellish number. The holy trinity seems to be the only good thing associated with that number, and that's certainly true when you talk about the age of your toddlers. We hear all about the terrible twos, but that, I think, is a result of clever alliteration more than the truth. The terrible twos really aren't all that terrible. But 3? 3, my friend, sucks.
I can't remember a morning when we weren't dealing with at least one fit, probably because they can't find their Barbie or car or shoes, and if they can't find them, they're fighting over them. Or maybe it's that they want juice. Or a certain kind of cereal. Or they're just in a crappy mood and want to assert themselves, which is 93.2 percent of the time. Nighttime generally is the same way. Hush, you, on telling me they're probably tired. I know. That doesn't make the screaming any easier to take.
These tantrums are multiplied with twins, and they're even tripled, I'd say, because at least a third of their tantrums are a direct result of each other. One has a toy that the other is convinced is hers. One is wearing a blue shirt and the other one wanted to wear it. One wants to sit with Mommy while the other is forced, horrors upon horrors, to sit with Daddy.
To be blunt, I'm so, so burned out on it all, and it's by far my biggest challenge as a parent. Because not only do the tantrums make you feel constantly exhausted, they make you feel walked upon. Trampled upon, actually, like a desperate high school student in need of a date for homecoming.
I wish it weren't so, because 3 is also such a cute, cute age. It's uber cute, actually. Every day they say something that makes me laugh, and laugh hard, as cracked-corny as that sounds.
But to watch all that cuteness get warped and eventually possessed by a demon makes you want to stop it, and that means picking your battles and, many times, giving in. You don't want milk? OK, I'll get juice, because you just don't want to put up with 45 minutes of hellish screaming otherwise.
So you worry. You worry if you are raising spoiled brats. You wonder if other, more controlled, more thoughtful parents who let things roll off their backs could calmly explain why milk is important, and their 3-year-olds look at them with doe eyes and stop crying, drink their milk and then go on to become doctors and win pulitzer prizes while you picture your girls becoming, say, Paris Hilton.
At least I worry.
So maybe that's all I need is confirmation. I don't need to know I'm doing a good job. I need to know others, even the ones who seem perfect, really aren't.
Maybe that's shallow of me. But I'll worry about that in a couple years, when my girls are well past 3, and I have the energy.

Conflicted fun

2010-09-20T10:08:00.000-06:00

I was asking myself what the last day of my life would be like.
I wondered Saturday morning if that day would be the day.
I never thought about death before I had kids when I went mountain climbing. I don't think that's because I never considered the possibility. I think that's because there was no real consequence if it happened.
Even after I got married, I figured Kate could find another guy. She was young, beautiful and without issues. Those women are rare. She'd be fine.
I valued my life. I wasn't cavalier about it in the least. Ten years ago, when a bunch of large rocks swept under my feet, threatened to swallow me under their granite and bashed into me, I fought for my life, flipping through the air to stop myself and walking 17 hours after I was hurt to get help from the hospital. When, four years later, I slipped and rolled toward a ledge, I desperately looked for a rock to wrap my leg around and found it.
But I knew, deep down, that if I did indeed die, I'd die doing something I loved and that it was my choice to put myself in danger to do it.
Thing is, these days, when I prepare to do something like Saturday's Little Pawnee-Pawnee traverse, I know I'm no longer making a choice for myself but for my family.
And I still don't know if it's fair.

• • •
The day looked to be another glorious one in the mountains. At least that's what weather.com said. I saw something completely different.
I saw a sullen sky that spit droplets of water on my climbing partner's windshield as she swept down the highway. Hmm. Lighting is always the biggest concern, and days like the one the clouds were predicting rarely produced lighting. But on a route like the one were planning to tackle, the rain is almost as bad because it soaks the rock, and wet rock is slick rock. If it was raining when we got to the trail, the hike would be over before it started.
But as we got higher, the sky got clearer, and by the time we reached the trailhead and parked, the sun and blue sky were pushing us to go on. In fact it looked like exactly the kind of day you need to do a long, dangerous traverse like the one that faced us.

• • •
Rules, like the one I discussed above (1. Never climb a tough route in the rain) helps salve my guilt over doing something dangerous when I've got twin 3 year-old girls, a 5-year-old boy and a haggard wife, but only some. It helps because you can convince yourself you're being smart, and when most climbers die when they're not being smart. Climbers die when they go off the route, don't stick with their plans, push their luck with the weather, forget to bring the right equipment or make a thousand other fairly easy mistakes that seem small and yet can turn really bad too quickly. It's happened this year. It happens every year.
In fact, it's easy to convince a guilty mind that EVERY death is because of some error that, of course, you would never make. But believe that and you're lying to yourself in the way addicts lie to themselves about just needing one last hit, or one last fling, or one last bet. A young guy died this year on the Maroon Bells when a rock hit him, causing him to fall. Another climber was severely hurt just this year on the very traverse we'd be attempting that day. In both those instances, no real mistakes were made by the climbers. They just got hurt, or killed, doing what they loved.

• • •
The day started out with some map reading, trying to find the best route up the mountain before we could start our climb of the ridge. Despite 200 climbing trips, this is still one of my biggest weaknesses. This time probably still took longer than it really should. It's a little tricky because the start isn't an obvious, jutting peak you can identify through any photos, and there was two alternative routes, neither one which stuck out or looked all that promising. You could either wander through a forest until you reached a grassy ridge or take a more direct route through cranky bushes and a growling boulderfield. We chose the second option.
Once we reached the ridge, it started easily enough, with some easy class 3 climbing. If you don't know, class 2 means walking off a trail, and class 3 or above means you'll need to use your hands as well as your feet. Class 4 is essentially hard class 3 climbing that's usually exposed, meaning a fall could hurt or even kill you.
I wish sometimes that I didn't love hard, class 4 routes as much as I do. But as we started into the trickiest part of the day, an exposed downclimb that many prefer to use a rope on, my voice shook a bit. I was afraid, of course, but the shaking, I have to admit, came from something.
Adrenaline.
I was pumped.

• • •
I'm not a junkie. Not really. I'm not the maniac I used to be, when I was doing 20 peaks a year, some of them difficult, even dangerous. I'd look at a weekend at home during the summer as a wasted opportunity. I climbed three peaks this year because I needed to be home more than usual this summer, and I honestly didn't miss it as much as I thought I would. Running is a good challenge for me now, and it seems to fulfill that other side of me. The side that needs some sort of adventure or goal. Maybe even a touch of pain.
But that other side needs a trip like Saturday's once a year. I still wish I didn't. But as we scampered across ledges and climbed our hearts out, I was giddy, like a teenager in love. It was just so much FUN. It's fun to get scratched by the rock and fun to have your foot graze open air and fun to be out there. Just out in the open. It's fun to accomplish a cool feat. It's fun to solve the puzzle of a route and use your whole body and be throughly exhausted. It's fun to see such beauty and rely on yourself.
And, yes, it's fun to go through something dangerous and make it through unscathed. I have felt a much deeper fear, too, now that the consequences of me getting hurt or killed is much more severe. Occasionally, that fear brings me to tears, as it did last year on what I consider to be the toughest 14er in the state.

I know if I die climbing, it's an incredibly selfish act, perhaps the most selfish act ever. It leaves my kids without a father, and even if someone else stepped in, it could scar them for life. And I'm taking a chance that that could happen. It's a small chance. I never felt like Saturday was beyond my abilities. But even a chance is also selfish.

I have a response for the conflict. Climbing is a part of me and has been since I was 13. So how can I teach my kids how to live if I can't feel alive?

But that's an easy statement. And so it's not really an answer. It's just something I say to soothe my nerves before I throw on my backpack and head out into the wild.

Hello darkness and my old friend

2010-09-12T19:56:00.002-06:00

When I was 13, the mountain you heard about more than any other was Longs Peak.
We were on our fifth or sixth trip to Estes Park by then, where we'd stay at the YMCA of the Rockies, and my interest in the mountains was just starting to percolate. My parents had already been bitten by the bug, though at that point it was more like a nibble.
Since we were on our fifth or sixth time on our summer vacation there from Kansas, I think, more than anything, my parents were looking for something to DO. We'd already been tourists, driving Trail Ridge Road, eating fudge in downtown Estes Park (and buying a Tee Shirt) and walking around Bear Lake in Rocky Mountain National Park, where the parking lot is so full these days that a park 'n' ride just to GET to the lake regularly fills up on the weekends, forcing cars to prowl about like sharks for an open spot.
Hey, I'm guessing we thought. What about all these mountains surrounding the Y-Camp and the little cabins where we stayed?
The YMCA offered a hiking program. You'd get a schedule at the beginning of the week, and every hike was graded just like it was a school. The pansy ones, usually attended by overweight, huffing, red-faced tourists and were usually something like looking for wildflowers, were rated F. Only a few got an A, and As were a big deal. Before the hikemasters would even let you go on an A hike, you had to pass a C hike, and even the C hikes would probably kill the red-faced tourists, or at least make them sweat out a good portion of the grease that consistently ran through their bloodstream.
Longs Peak was the ultimate A.
It's the tallest mountain in Rocky Mountain National Park. It's also an awesome site, home to an east face that will take your breath away if its 14,259 feet doesn't first. That east face is adored by rock climbers and gazed at by mountaineers like me with awe every time we see it. If there's a picture of a mountain that looks like a mountain SHOULD look like, well, this is one of them.
The thing is, the keyhole route, Longs' most popular route, doesn't even sniff the east face, and it's STILL a classic route, easily one of the best climbs in Colorado and one of its most challenging. It's 15 miles, almost 5,000 feet of elevation gain, and the last mile-and-a-half is over exposed, sometimes tricky scrambling. Most of it is above treeline, too, meaning a 2 a.m. start is not only recommended, it's mandatory.
People have figured this out, of course, and for decades, the keyhole route is probably the most popular route in Colorado. The 14ers, peaks above 14,000 feet, have become somewhat of a cult sensation in the last 15-20 years or so, and yet, Longs is still one of the most climbed peaks in Colorado and quite possibly the most climbed, despite the fact that I consider it one of the harder ones.
When my father tried it the first time, we came back from a horseback riding trip to find him wrapped in a triple-thick layer of blankets and his feet in hot water. The winds apparently were strong enough to blow him off the trail and pin him behind the rocks. When my mother tried it the first time, she made it, but fell from sheer exhaustion with a few miles to go and looked as if she'd been dragged by a mule when I found her back in the cabin.
Naturally, this made me want to try it.
Longs was so popular, the sign-up list usually filled up as soon as it was released by the YMCA staff. The hikemasters hated Longs because so many unprepared people wanted to do it to taste its glory. This mountain, after all, was the weekend warrior's Everest, a chance for desk workers and parents to get a somewhat dangerous adventure in and be back in time for Kentucky Fried Chicken and a shower. People erased names to get on the list. Others lied about their fitness and experience. Fights broke out.
All this hid the fact that Longs is, of course, a dangerous day. Usually at least one dies a year, and two have died this year, with a third death feared the very day I'm writing this. Others are hurt. It's not an amusement park ride, even if it tends to draw the same crowds.
So when my Dad and me, at 14, went down to the meeting place at midnight, we hadn't signed up for the list, but we hoped they would take pity on a father and his son on his last day in Estes Park hoping for a day together.
The hikemasters, who usually God-like graduate students or wise, older Colorado residents who tended to look at you like the way a rock star would look at a Hannah Montana fan, grumbled but allowed me to go along.
That day contributed to my love for the mountains as much as any other. I have since climbed it 16 times, and Sunday I led a group of rookies up Longs for the eighth time. We started in the dark, like always, and ended as dusk threatened to spill across the now-renovated parking lot.
It started out nasty, with a chilling wind that may have resembled what my Dad faced his first time up Longs. But the wind died down, the sun came out, and Longs, once again, welcomed me to its summit after I sacrificed a bit of blood and a lot more energy.
I'm sore today and was a little crankier this morning than usual. But that's OK. I'm showing others the way to a new passion. If they don't follow through on it, at least for one day they get to experience mine.

Summer Shocker

2010-09-07T15:06:00.000-06:00

Well, the girls are exhausting us again, especially my wife, but me, too.
They're not sleeping well at night, and since they are 3, they have figured out that enough screaming and general crappiness in the attitude department will get them a trip to our bed, where they thrash around like weasels on black coffee.
I was thinking the other day how having small children is like having a chronic disease. It sounds really horrible to say that, given that there's not much positive about having a disease and there's PLENTY positive about having children (seriously, there is).
But when you go through a stretch like this, you're tired all the time, going to bed early, struggling in the middle of the night and spending far too much time on things that kinda suck, like tantrums, trying to get the kids to eat dinner and watching "Dora The Explorer."
Plus you don't get to leave the house very often. When you do, like my brilliant idea to go for a walk Sunday morning with the girls and their scooters, it starts well but turns into a pain-in-the-ass fest, like everything else. Whining from one twin or another gets louder and louder.
We've got a couple more years of this, which is discouraging, to say the least. Parents insist I will miss these days. I keep insisting I won't. Rather, I miss my days in the mountains. I'm finally getting one Saturday, and I can't tell you how excited it makes me.
For one day, at least, I'll be healthy again.

Goat + Metal = Culture

2010-08-29T20:17:00.000-06:00

I had no real reason to be nervous.
At least that's what I told myself as I headed to a death metal festival and goat roast in my town of Greeley.
Every metal concert I've attended, Megadeth, Metallica, Iron Maiden, Motley Crue, etc., etc., etc., was full of nice people. In fact, the only shows I've run into douchebags were concerts OTHER than metal shows. These people know how to take care of their aggression. They use music, not their fellow humans, for that.
Plus I was a metal guy. I mean, sure, I lacked a lot of the quantities, such as the long hair, a wardrobe of black T-shirts or tight ripped jeans. But that had as much to do with, well, a life, and a job, and a family, more than it did a personality. I loved the music and will always love it, and I wasn't just some dude who called himself a metal fan because I own a copy of Metallica's Black Album. I liked a lot of the newer bands, kept up with the older ones (I am liking Maiden's new release) and actually preferred the harder stuff, not just quasi-hard-rock bands like Linkin Park or the hair metal of the 80s.
Still, I was 38, and I was alone, and I changed out of my black Metallica T-shirt at the last second because it looked like I was trying too hard to fit in and settled on my usual "Colorado Outdoors Middle-Class Dad" look. You've seen it at the blogger gatherings. Thanks for not laughing.
I'll admit it, though, as I walked into the small Crabtree Brewery and Into The Pit (which, incidentally, is one of my favorite Testament songs), that I was instantly taken aback.
Out of the 250 or so standing around or waiting for the roasted goat, I was probably one of a half-dozen who was not wearing a black T-shirt, and almost all of them advertised a band named after some sort of impaling, scene in "Hostel" or, yes, a demonic ritual (though not as many as you think).
There were a few more girls than I expected, meaning there were girls there. They wore black T-shirts too, though a couple obviously there with their boyfriends wore mall outfits. There was the standard mosh pit, though most, probably worn down by the 2 p.m. start, just stood around and nodded their heads to the frantic drum beats, as if they were buzzed by the goat or dark beer with 11 percent alcohol (no shiola, and it was goood).
I hardly recognized any of the bands on those shirts. Not one person knew who I was, and that's unusual, too, given that I'm usually recognized by someone in a large crowd because my face is in the newspaper all the time. And I expected the music to be hardcore and rough around the edges, but this sounded like low, angry growls over a hyperactive beat, the kind of sound you'd hear from demons and a billion mosquitoes.
I felt completely out of place. I rarely feel that way. Maybe at really rich parties, right-wing, religious gatherings or country music concerts. That's about it.
I didn't expect to feel so strange. Again, I've been to metal shows. I wrote about this show, and I was excited about it and irritated when people expressed concerns about hosting metal music and a goat roast. I wrote in the article that they were serving goats, not sacrificing them, and most of the meal was intended to be a joke about the way people perceive death metal. It's not like we ripped off pieces of the goat with our teeth or sucked out the eyes from the heads stabbed on stakes. They looked like chunks of barbecued beef and, quite frankly, were pretty damn good (and this comes from a barbecue critic given that I'm a Kansas City native).
But, I have to admit, I could understand those feelings of dread as I stood in line for my goat. I was a little nervous myself. I wanted to yell "I like metal, I really do" to somehow clear my name. It's not like I couldn't take care of myself if I needed to - it looked to me that I could either outrun or outmuscle almost of all them - but I did wonder if I fought with one, I would fight with them all, as if they were a flock of vampires, crows or black wolves that would pounce without hesitation against unknown blood.
Still, I've been trained to enter uncomfortable situations and make people trust me, and so I grabbed my goat and my beer, found a seat and chowed down, enjoying the delicious people watching around me.
Sure enough, the guy in charge of the festival found me and thanked me for the story. He also admitted to me he liked Phil Collins. See? People eventually trust me. I could probably ensure his death with that kind of information.
Later, I was thrashing out to one of the two bands I really came to see, Allegaeon.
I wrote about the bass player, a Greeley guy, and it turns out the guys were just signed to Metal Blade Records.
I've grown to like the rough vocals that accompany much of today's metal music. I still prefer cleaner singing, and I like it better when the rough vocals have a clean chorus, but I appreciate some of the best and more unique growlers in the business. It just took me a while. Hey, a long time ago, I know of a certain junior high student who thought Metallica was only screaming.
Anyway, so Allegaeon, just like most of the bands, feature those vocals, so most of you may not like it. But the guys can PLAY, and I have always loved technical music, the kind played by Dream Theater, Helloween or Iron Maiden. I continue to make the case that metal musicians are the finest in the business, possibly equaled only by classical or jazz players (and this form of music owes a great debt to classical music and avant garde jazz), and a band like Allegaeon shows why. I know at least one person who might like them. Check em out, Blood .
I loved it, and the band that followed, led by another Greeley guy, Cryogen, was nearly as good.
When that set ended, I left, satisfied, full of goat and good, aggressive music. It was time to go home and be a Dad, a runner and a kind of geeky guy who wanted to revisit an old favorite video game, Myth.
There are some cultures that you may appreciate and even feel a kinship with, but ultimately, you just don't belong. But you don't have to belong to a culture to appreciate it, even sometimes hang around the edges for a couple hours before you slip back into the shadows.
I'll be back next year.

Pikes Peak Ascent

2010-08-22T09:17:00.000-06:00

I thought it strange that the woman sang "America The Beautiful" instead of our national anthem before the race.

Then I remembered where I was.

I was at the Pikes Peak Ascent, in Manitou Springs, which is just outside of Colorado Springs. If there's one mountain you probably know in Colorado, it's Pikes Peak. And the Ascent is, simply, a race up the peak.

Only it's really not quite that simple. The song they sing before the race isn't the only different thing about it. (And the reason for "America The Beautiful"? Well, the songwriter, Katharine Lee Bates, jotted down the beginnings of the song on the summit of Pikes Peak. But you probably remember that from your fifth grade music class). It's one of the most unique runs in the world.

It goes up the Barr Trail all the way up the mountain, which makes it about 13.5 miles. That's an elevation gain of nearly 8,000 feet. I can't really put into perspective what that means. But I can try. Longs Peak, one of Colorado's more famous mountains and one of the tougher climbs, gains just under 5,000.

So it's long, steep and on a trail. And three miles of it are above treeline.

For some reason, I wanted to do it.

There are many good reasons actually. I love Pikes Peak because it's one of the more unique mountains in the country. It's a tourist trap. More than 500,000 visit the summit every year, most of them from people who drive or ride the train to the top. There's a gift store on the summit. There's even a camp in the middle of the trail where you can buy Gatorade and snacks. You might think this takes away from the experience but actually it adds to it: It's the only place I can buy a much-needed Mountain Dew after I've climbed a mountain.
I'd heard all about how great the race is from friends (and not to jump ahead but it was really great, maybe the best supported race I've ran, the volunteers were simply awesome).
But the main reason is it made me nervous.

There aren't many things that make me nervous much any longer. I know how to tackle some of the toughest mountains. I've run a marathon. I'm raising twins for God's sake. But I hadn't done anything like this, and that, I thought, was cool. I'd hiked Pikes twice but I had no real idea what to expect, despite advice (and good advice at that) from friends and the website.

So I listened to "America the Beautiful" with my eyes closed, trying to get into that frame of mind I always do before a race, meaning I not only expect to suffer, I want to enjoy it. There's just something about pushing yourself hard, much beyond what you think you can do, that I find satisfying. I realize others get the same satisfaction from beating "Guitar Hero." Sometimes, honestly, I'm jealous of those people.

When the gun went off, I went out hard. At least I think I did. I actually ran much slower than I would if I were doing a normal half marathon, not one that I hoped to run in four hours. But looking back, it was probably too hard. Spectators who lined the streets yelled at us almost right away to "slow down, slow down!" I ignored them, of course. I was running 11-minute miles! That's slower than even my training runs. It was my first mistake, and it's possible it was my most costly.

As the street seemed to turn into a 90-degree angle, I decided to stop pushing it so hard and walk it. Matt Carpenter, one of the best runners of this event, a local legend, really, says the same thing, to walk the steeper sections and run when the opportunity presents itself (in other worlds, when the trail isn't fucking steep).

OK. Well. I waited for it to get flatter. And I walked hard. And waited. It was not getting flatter. Three miles into the race, my time was on target for under four hours, but my legs were starting to tire a bit, already. That's what makes this race so damn tough, I guess, is the enormity of it.

At the dinner the night before, Bart Yasso, Runner's World's Chief Running Officer, said he thought this "half marathon" took the effort of a marathon, something I dismissed because, quite frankly, I'd already hiked it twice, and it was tough, but it didn't kill me. I even led a group of newbies up one year, and they did fine.

I shouldn't have dismissed it because that dinner the night before was filled with amazing people. There were Ironman finishers and ultramarathoners (many who had ran 50 or 100-mile races) and extreme mountain climbers. A marathon was expected of you. Just to qualify for this race you had to run a half marathon in 2:10 (which honestly didn't strike me as that hard, but that's still not something just anyone can do). I honestly was instantly intimidated by the crew. What the hell did I get myself into, I thought, and I had to text some of my friends to calm me down. They reminded me I had a cool achievement, someone who's climbed all 54 14ers in Colorado, and sure, that's cool, but quite honestly that has more to do with persistence than real athletic ability, and the list of people who have done that continues to grow.

As I continued up the trail, it finally flattened out, and I was able to run a bit. I loved this more than anything else during the day. It wasn't too high, too steep or too punishing. My joy was also short-lived, and the heat was a big reason.

At the start of the day, I wore a tank top and shorts. That's all I needed. That's nice but it's not good news for me. I discovered during the marathon that I sweat out a lot of salt, and eventually that can cause cramping. It's not a coincidence, I've discovered, that my best days come when it's cool.

By the time I climbed close to 10,000 feet, about halfway through the race, my legs were beginning to show signs of cramping. I was basically screwed if what happened to me during the marathon happened then. This wasn't a race you just "drop out" of if things go wrong. Remember, it's on a mountain. You either go back down or head on up. And the cutoff time at the top was 6:30. I was still on track to run four hours, but if my legs cramped up, there was no way I was going to make the cutoff.

So I took one of my sodium pills - one of my new solutions to this issue - and guzzled my Gatorade. I actually took four eight-ounce bottles up the peak with a fuel belt with me to drink in addition to whatever I could manage to take at the aid stations. I drank as much as I could then.

And then the last issue came.

The altitude has always been a worry for me. I've climbed almost 200 peaks, but at least some of those times I've gotten sick. And that same sick feeling in my stomach came almost instantly.

That started a long and torturous balancing act between making sure I ate enough and drank enough to keep the cramps at bay but not too much to make me puke. Starting then, I was nauseated most of the time, and yet I had to keep eating and drinking. I even had to choke down a banana for the potassium. It's honestly I wonder I kept it down.

That was my race the rest of the day. I wasn't able to run much, though I could occasionally, and by the time I reached the brutal, hot stretch that takes you from treeline to the top of the world, by far the steepest part of the day, I was shot, and I still had three miles to go.

Needless to say, I didn't exactly dominate that last part. I didn't even think about running. Walking it was hard enough, and every step I took only brought me into thinner air.

One thing I always try to tell myself, however, was my fellow racers feel the same thing, and there was carnage all over the peak at this point, with people stopping every few feet to stretch or just sit with their face in their hands.

I reminded myself to keep moving. There have been many days on the peak when I start to get into a pattern of resting, then moving, then resting, and I couldn't do that in this case, even if all I really wanted to do, as I tried to keep my sickness, panting and cramps under control, was just sit on a rock for an hour.

The finish line did get there. I got my medal and my finisher's shirt. And then I got choked up.

Today was about setting aside a lot of crap thrown my way and finishing what I started.

Sometimes that's enough.

P.S. If you are curious, I finished in 5:15, which put me in the middle of the pack, though pretty far down in my age group and in males overall. And yes, I got "chicked" a LOT today. :)

Dear Asian Porn Spammers

2010-08-19T11:26:00.000-06:00

I really, really appreciate the opportunity to see some of your girls. However, this blog is rated PG-13 (which means I'd better start watching my language), and I do not want people clicking on my comments section in the hopes of getting a rubout or two.
I'd prefer they expect whining about my kids, thinly veiled bragging about my latest adventure, VERY occasional poker stories, stuff about metal or high horse pontifications.
Therefore, I'm now moderating the comments. If you are NOT an Asian porn spammer/slapper, then rest assured your comment will be displayed pronto, even if you say something nasty about me. Heck, in certain instances, ESPECIALLY if you say something nasty about me.
If you ARE a spammer, rest assured that not only will your comments be obliterated into tiny pieces and shot into space, I will track you down and feed you to my pool of rabid vampire bats, hungry alligators and eviscerating pirana-like fish. Then I'll let my den of boa constrictors finish up the scraps. And I'll save your eyes for the velociraptors. Then I'll crucify and finally burn the last tiny tiny tiny pieces.
Nobody wants that. Especially you.

Love and sloppy kisses,
Pokerpeaker

Who's that guy?

2010-08-09T09:47:00.006-06:00

As we were driving up to Rocky Mountain National Park Friday, on our way to a lake visited by hundreds of thousands every year, it hit me.

I was that guy.

I was the guy with a family driving up with his kids in a mini-van to visit a lake that required no hiking to get to so I could walk with thousands of others and enjoy the "wilderness." I was fighting traffic, hunting for parking spaces and hoping to see an elk.

I used to make so much fun of that guy.

I even looked down on him.

I may have given you the wrong idea with my last post. It implied that I've struck an easy balance between my need for adventure and my responsibilities as a Dad and husband. I haven't. In fact, this summer, I've struggled with it a lot.

I knew that my time in the mountains being a badass would be severely limited once I had kids. I was OK with that. I had climbed all of the 14ers and many peaks in Rocky Mountain National Park. I didn't need to get out 20 times a year. In fact, I didn't want to.

But this year, the getting out has been, well, next to nothing. I've climbed once this year. Once. And while part of that is definitely my fault, the result of trips to Maui and Kansas, part of it is because I find, more and more, that my weekends are getting sucked away by the kids.

It's exactly the thing I feared most when we discussed having children.

I didn't want to become that guy.

And now I am.

• • •

There's something about being a mountaineer. It's not really a hobby. It's more of a lifestyle. It's a belief that the sacrifices you make to do it, and that includes time, energy, money, your own body and even, sometimes, friendships, are all worth the spiritual experiences you get out of it.

If it sounds like a religion, it really is. It's the closest thing I have to one.

Neglecting this part of my life could not come at a worse time because I need the inner peace. Outwardly, I'm not getting any of it. The girls are 3. I have decided that if 1 is the loneliest number, then 3 is the shittiest. We can count on tantrums daily because even if one is content, the other probably isn't. 3 is a combination of will, ear-splitting screams and countless thrashing over nothing. Kate woke me up just a few days ago during one of them, a tornado-like tantrum from a twin who wanted to sleep in our bed, and I wrestled for an hour with her, until, at 3 a.m., she decided to go to bed.

They are very cute right now, but so are kittens before they tear up your favorite chair.

This is exactly why I took up running, and I love running, far more than I ever thought I would. It satisfies my competitive side, which, I'm sorry to say, is a reason I climb mountains, and running the marathon was one of the most challenging things I've ever done, and that's exactly what I loved about it.

But I have so many memories of being out there, and in the summer, they're much more intense because that's the time I did them by far the most. It's probably the difference between Widespread Panic, which strikes me as sort of dull, and Widespread Panic on rainbow-colored pills. Summer is when I'm high on those rainbows.

Of course, uppers would not be complete without downers, and so those emotions are accompanied by guilt for even having the audacity to feel this way. My wife needed me this summer. She had hernia surgery, and I stayed home to help her with our little demons as they had to accept the fact that mommy could not pick them up any longer. She's really the one making the sacrifice. The hernia was a direct result of carrying the twins. I'm pretty certain she'd trade with me, as this surgery was the start of a long, painful road to get her body back, while I carved mine into a machine capable of running 26 miles.

Still, I am a firm believer that life is what you make it. It's up to you to experience it. So I really concentrated on enjoying the time with my family in the national park. And maybe the mountains sent me a sign for my patience.

In Sprague Lake, as I bumped into tourists complaining about the half-mile hike around the lake and tried not to roll my eyes, one of my friends said a magic world.

Moose.

I've been out, easily, more than 200 times, many times miles and miles from the trailhead, into places few people visit a year, where I'd probably have to cut off my arm and eat it if I got stuck. I've seen thousands of elk and deer. But I have seen three moose in my life. Total.

This moose, therefore, was a special. And since I'm being a bit granola here, I took it as a sign.

You can't experience things like this unless you get out there. That's why I've always made the mountains a part of my life. But maybe it's OK that many of my experiences are different now. My kids were thrilled to see such a huge creature. So was I. Those experiences are still cool.

Like any conflict, though, there's no easy solution. I'm still torn. I still feel like I'm losing a part of who I am.

Next week, for just a moment, I'll flirt with my former life. I'm running the Pikes Peak Ascent. It's a run - yes, a run - up Pikes Peak. It's a grueling, bloody event from 6,000 feet to above 14,000 on one of the most famous mountains in America. I've hiked it twice, but obviously this is different. I'm nervous about it and excited at the same time. It's the same kind of uneasy, wonderful feeling I used to get staring down a knife ridge.

I'd missed those butterflies.

Right now flirtations are what I have. Maybe I'll accept that standing on the summit of Pikes Peak, as I'll finally have a chance to leave a part of me on the mountain. It's the part of me who isn't OK with scrambling along a half-mile hike alongside tourists. And for one glorious weekend, they're not allowed.

Two sides of my story

2010-07-28T14:16:00.003-06:00

I've had an exhausting and renewing week, and if those two seem at odds, then in a way, so were the two activities. I think both show the constant teeter-tottering between what I call my two lives.

It had been such a long day. I went to KISS the day before at the Cheyenne Frontier Days and got four hours of sleep before I got up to run 13 miles as part of my training for the Pikes Peak Ascent. Now I was falling asleep in a tent while my 5-year-old tried to keep me awake.

Jayden and I headed up for his first-ever, long-promised camping trip that Saturday. He passed last year’s test, in the backyard, despite clouds of mosquitoes and battles with a couple piles of dog poop in the backyard.

I took him up Alberta Falls in Rocky Mountain National Park before the camping trip. I think it's the perfect hike for kids Jayden's age. The waterfall is pretty awesome and yet the hike is only two miles.

The only problem is I’m not exactly alone in that thinking. In fact, from the looks of things, about 5 million others agree, or at least they did that Saturday in late July. The park was so full of people that not only were the Bear Lake and Glacier Gorge parking lots closed, the huge Park ‘N’ Ride that gives you shuttle bus access to both points was full as well. Wow.

He scampered up the trail like one of the many ground squirrels we saw, stopping only to stare, fascinated, into one of the streams along the trail or beg me to feed the squirrels. It didn't help that many other, shall we say, less qualified outdoorsy folks were giving the creatures peanuts by hand. It just doesn't seem to be enough for these people to see beautiful sights. Nah, they've just gotta fuck with nature. I tried not to let it piss me off. Getting on a high horse was not what this day was about, since, as a journalist, it's about that a lot.

I can see why some thought the place was there for their personal kicks and figured it was more like a Disneyland than a national park since it was just as crowded, even when most people won't hike a quarter-mile beyond the trailhead. I'll never complain too much about crowds, though, as this usually means there will be more people to fight for the wilderness if it gets threatened by "progress."

After some much-needed pizza and a long drive - or it seemed pretty long after the day - we made it up to the campsite, set up the tent and had a snack before bed.

It took him a while to settle down. It took me considerably less time. But as the sun went down, a full moon went up, bathing the landscape in a silver light that helped calm his nerves about sleeping in the dark.

I woke up with a start around 11 p.m., turned my head and saw Jayden snoring and clutching his Cars flashlight.

I knew I would not sleep that soundly the rest of the night. This may surprise people, but I've never really slept well in a tent. But I snuggled in my pillow with a smile on my face.

Thursday my alarm buzzed at 4 a.m. This, I thought, was actually early.

I usually expect to get up much earlier for a peak, and we were doing two. But this day was going to be different than any other day in the mountains. I was planning to run them.

Before you think I'm completely nuts, let's talk. The mountains were Grays and Torreys. These are two 14,000-foot mountains in Colorado and they are easily some of the most-visited peaks in the state. In fact there are very few that get more footfalls per year. The reasons for that are simple. These are 14ers, and the 14ers in Colorado are kind of a craze. More than a half million visit the summit of one of the 54 every year. I'll admit that I'm one of them: I finished them a few years ago, something more and more want to do. The other reason is even if most don't want to climb them all, they are curious what all the fuss is about and want to try one or two. And Grays and Torreys is a good place to start. It's sort of like blackjack face up. There's an easy trail all the way to the top, they're flooded with people, and they're close to Denver, with a good road that leads to the 11,000-foot start.

Still, they ARE 14,000 feet, and though I knew the terrain wouldn't really be an issue, running at that altitude worried me. I've been to 14,000 feet many times, and it's always a struggle. The air is thin, and I gasp even when I'm walking above 13,000, even when I've been up there many times. And I hadn't been up there at ALL this year. The mountains were only a part of my life now, even during the summer climbing season (the few months when they weren't full of snow), and that's a little sad to me.

Not today. I picked up a couple training partners - one who was renowned for his mountain running and climbing - and we were off.

I expected to get blown away, and my expectations were fulfilled almost right away as I took off at a shuffle. I knew I would not be able to run fast, but I was determined to keep a shuffle going for as long as I could. I was doing this, after all, to train for my next big race, the Pikes Peak Ascent, and I was hoping to run on that race as long as possible.

Right away, I felt like I was revving the red line. My heart rate hovered around 140, which isn't bad at all, but my lungs seemed to be stuffed with cotton. No matter how hard I breathed, it didn't seem like I was getting enough oxygen into my body. I did my best to keep moving, as that's always the key when you're climbing any mountain, running or not. I passed many hikers along the way, gasping for air, many of them expressing awe at what I was doing. I usually answered by telling them they may pass me near the top. I wasn't expressing false modesty. I was serious. At times I felt like I could combust at any second. My partners were already far ahead of me.

But when I watched them, I saw them speed hiking more than running. It took some pressure off me. When the trails got impossibly steep, I backed off, allowing myself to at least breathe somewhat controlled (if not still fast), and at one point I told myself to make it to a sign and then I would re-evaluate how I felt there.

When I did that, hiking fast enough to pass others starting at around 13,000 feet, my body seemed to relax, and I found a groove. I popped a few energy chews in my mouth, and that seemed to help, too. I flew by the sign and saw some girls sitting in a circle talking.

Could that mean???

Yep, all of a sudden I found myself on the summit of Grays. My time was 1:35 to the top. I didn't think that was too bad after all. Sure, my partners were gone, but they're elite runners. I spotted them heading over to Torreys just a few hundred feet away.

I waited for them at the saddle between the two peaks, figuring them to want to move on when they came down, but they surprised me when they came back down, encouraging me to head up. I decided to tag Torreys and we headed up and back down to the saddle.

Then we ran all the way down in under an hour. This really felt good, making me think that the only reason I struggled was the altitude and not the uphill climbing or the mileage. I guess that means my training was going well.

We got back to the car in about three hours and 15 minutes after we started. That was more than 9 miles and 3,700 feet of elevation gain. The last time I did these two peaks, I was leading a bunch of rookies, and it took more than seven hours. And I was pleased with that. Today I felt pretty proud, even if I did get blown away too.

These two trips, both in a week's time, are who I am. I'm an endurance athlete and a father and husband. Sometimes the teeter-totter stays right in the middle. I have to appreciate the steadiness when I can.

Poker on TV

2010-07-28T11:24:00.003-06:00

I'm curious to see what the ratings will be for the WSOP this year on ESPN.

I don't honestly know how much I'll contribute to them either.

Unlike most who were bitten and had their blood sucked by the poker tick - and really, isn't a tick a much better analogy, even if you enjoy the game as much as I had - I didn't get hooked by watching poker on TV. I played in a friend's home game, really not knowing what I was doing (I loved chasing inside straights), and eventually looked so forward to those Thursday nights that I sated my poker urge by watching it on TV and, yes, playing online. I even blogged about it. A little.

Anyway, the tick is no longer there (but the head still is, those tiny bastards), but I still enjoy poker on TV. I love High Stakes Poker and even the cash games on Poker After Dark.

The thing is, I've still got 13 episodes of PAD on my DVR. From June. I'm doing my best to watch them, but the kids (which I've already whined too much about), the outdoors (damn summertime) and Kate's surgery have all conspired to leave me about as much free time as James Bond (and I don't even get to go to fancy parties to blow off some steam).

So TV is almost like a chore, another thing to do, because those episodes are just sitting there in my DVR.

I don't want the WSOP news on ESPN to be seen as a chore, as I look forward to that every summer, but this may be the first season I watch sporadically. The other problem, of course, is tournament poker can be pretty boring to watch. Here's a pair of 6s, and here's AK, let's shove 30 BBs in and flip to see what happens, oh look an Ace on the river, how amazing.

Plus we already know who won most of the events. And most of the Main Event coverage is usually cutesy segments following around the guy from Everybody Loves Raymond and the other guy from Everybody Loves Raymond.

I dunno. Has the WSOP coverage lost its thrill for you? I guess we'll see for me.

The hottest band in the world? Kinda. Probably.

2010-07-25T18:02:00.003-06:00

Over the years, when I tell people what music I listen to, especially as I've gotten older, I've always felt the slightest need to apologize.

Um, yes, THAT Motley Crue, I say, even when their eyes say, "Um...still?"

I hardly ever do apologize, of course. I'm a metal head and proud of it, even years later, when folks like my own Mom think I should have outgrown it by now.

This, of course, brings me to Friday night's KISS show in Cheyenne, Wyo.

Yep, THAT KISS.

KISS are kind of a goofy band. They went without that black and white makeup for a few years, mostly in the hair metal era, when everyone already looked so ridiculous that the costumes seemed tame by comparison. They brought it back at the right time, in 2000 (I believe), when most of the bands were still whiny brats and forgot how to rock and roll.

KISS has not forgotten, and they sounded like it Friday.

Though most of the people there probably didn't even know KISS had a new album out, the band led off with its greatest tune in decades, "Modern Day Delilah." If you were any kind of a KISS fan at all - and don't lie, you were too - you really should download this song. The album is good, maybe even just decent, but the song is great.

Still, they played the song as they were being lifted on risers, with enough dry ice to fog a city, after the announcement that the "hottest band in the world" was about to hit the stage.

If there's any band that's survived as long as it has and yet draws the need to apologize for loving them, it's KISS. The band just smells of cheese, and, let's be honest, not just cheese, but Cheez.

Yes, there are the costumes and makeup, and that's almost enough. But there's also the winking lyrics - "Danger Us" off the latest album is just one of many fun examples - and more endorsements than Krusty the Klown and all the TV specials (and I'm not even talking about KISS Meets The Phantom Of The Park). Do I even need to mention the Disco song?

And there's the pyro and lights and dry ice and fireworks.

OK, but here's where KISS starts to justify the Cheez. Because it's BECAUSE of the Cheez, almost as much as their insanely catching songs and great musicianship, that makes KISS a one-of-a-kind, terrific band.

Yeah, I expected great music, and I got that. (Let's be honest for a second here. KISS can play. No, their songs are not "House of the Holy," but they are also more fun to listen to, and name me another band that features four great players and singers at the same time). Yeah, I expected a long show, and I got that, too. But I DEMANDED the pyro, and literally, my expectations were blown away. The show ended with fireworks that lasted a good five minutes. It sort of reminded me of the cartoon by the Oatmeal that talked about a pig having an orgasm for more than 20 minutes. I kept thinking as the explosions went off over the sky, "Wow, how long can this really go on?" (Something the pig probably thinks too).

Cheyenne's Frontier Days was packed that night, sold out, with thousands and thousands of fans shaking the place, including thousands from Colorado who probably would not have made it up there otherwise. It's no secret. Yes, KISS is cheesy, but they sounded great, played for almost three hours and gave us exactly what we wanted.

All of it without any apologies.

Slave

2010-07-18T18:22:00.005-06:00

I remember being single and free in Salina, Kan., where I worked for five years before spending the last 11 in Colorado.

I also remember an older co-worker living vicariously through me, usually in conversations we'd have that Saturday morning about what I was going to do that night.

"Eh, I dunno. Maybe go drinking, maybe go to a movie, maybe hang out, maybe go for a bike ride," I'd say while his eyes glazed over. "What are you doing?"

I didn't really understand how cruel I was being. Hey, I was naive. Elementary school kids probably don't really know how awful they're being when they make fun of another child's hair. I didn't get why he wanted to know so much about my free, easy and uncomplicated life. I know now that's precisely why. His life, one with two small children, was quite the opposite.

I thought about that as I raced around Friday to care for my three small children while Kate sat in a recliner. I am a parent, and so Friday should have been a joyous occasion for me, according to things like "The Family Circus." It would be the first time in nearly a week I'd get to see my kids and Kate.

I was happy to see them at first. Kate had hernia surgery - that's what carrying twins will to do you, even three years after they were born - and it was nice to see her out of the hospital, even if recovery will take six weeks. The kids stayed with her parents in Denver while I worked in Greeley and she spent a couple days at her sister's.

But that six weeks of recovery was the problem, for now my mother (who came down to stay with us thank God) and I were stuck with unpacking and dealing with kids who were unloading and far from understanding about the fact that Mom can't do, well, hardly anything with them.

I honestly thought they would get it, that Mommy had an owie - we showed them her goose-bump-inducing, black bellybutton - so Daddy and Grandma would have to carry them, put on their shoes and get them their meals. I was naive yet again, and the result Friday was two severe, brain-melting tantrums that, coupled with everything else I had to do, were so stressful that my mother and I had our first fight in years.

Parenthood is not what you think it is a lot of the times. It's not playing catch with your son and watching your daughters at a dance recital. A lot of it is exhausting slave labor that isn't fun or even very fulfilling.

Laundry. Clean-up. Wiping shit off their bottoms. Getting them juice. Dressing them like dolls, then making sure they've got their shoes on when it's time to go somewhere. When they're uncooperative, it makes it all twice as hard, and lately they've all been uncooperative a bit too much.

The labor continues outside the house. You have to go somewhere, every day (on my days off too) because staying inside doesn't work. I realize I should have 10 different arts and crafts for them to do, and 12 types of sporting equipment (including mountain climbing and running, of course), and a good computer so they can practice their writing skills. But you know, what we have is a bunch of cheap, crappy toys from McDonalds and birthday parties (along with a few cool toys, we're not sadists here, though most of those are from their grandparents) and a TV that shows mostly bizzare cartoons (what the hell happened to Bugs Bunny?), and all that keeps them entertained for about 3.4 minutes before they start acting up.

So it's off to the park, or a soccer field, or an indoor mall, or the zoo, or the neighborhood pool if it's summer, or many other places we've already been, where we unload them from the minivan and expect them to burn through breakfast.

Sometimes this is fun. One of the best things about being a parent is you get to be a kid again and go to, say, a carnival without any hint of regrets about doing something more important, like going to a museum. But many times these activities only add to the grind.

When we do have quiet time - though that's increasingly filled with noisier time now that the girls, at age 3, have decided naps are too sedentary to fit their active lifestyle - it's usually accompanied by a movie we've seen 75 times. I pulled out "Star Wars" to try to break that up the other day, but he - SIGH - got bored with it after a while.

It's really, really hard not to resent it all. I understood every second of the parents' comments in the New York Magazine story "Why Parents Hate Parenting."

Some have called it just another screed by "whining" parents, but most of those comments are from people who don't have kids or think they have kids because they have, like, a dog and a cat.

Now of course I love my kids. Dearly. That's one of the other things about all this is when you do "whine" about the demands of having children, people assume you're a selfish loaf who doesn't enjoy being a parent and questions why you had kids in the first place. I don't question it. My life is much, much fuller with children than without.

But while I love my kids, I am really coming to terms with the fact that I do not enjoy everything that comes with my kids. In fact I don't enjoy half of it. Maybe more. I find myself longing maybe a bit too hard for the days when I didn't have to chose between an hour of reading, playing a video game or watching a movie - I could do all three in one night. I find myself wishing I didn't have to give up softball this year just so I could continue to train for big races. I find myself wishing I could go to bed later than 10:30 p.m., and then knowing that if I do, I'll be dead the next day because there's no sleeping in any longer.

So maybe I don't enjoy being a parent. I enjoy being a FATHER. I cherish the hugs and kisses. I love hearing the word "Daddy" escape their lips, even if it's to ask for more juice, which is usually is. I adore their cute little faces and live for their laughter when I'm spinning them around.

Only then they want to be spun around again. And again. And again. And then, after a while, I get really dizzy from it all.

Reunion

2010-07-11T18:23:00.000-06:00

My hands shook as I turned off the mini-van and pulled into the bar's parking lot.

I allowed myself a chuckle.

Shaking? Really? I mean, seriously? I've stared down killer mountains, completed a marathon (a killer in its own right) and finished our third year with twin girls. I've covered tornadoes and murders and approached angry men a lot bigger than me for quotes. I've swam in open water, faced charging dogs and dodged lighting bolts.

And going to a bar to see people I hadn't really even talked to in 20 years is what makes my hands shake?

That's what the past can do to you.

I barely considered going to my 10-year high school reunion. I even chuckled at the thought. I mean, I really did like high school. In a way, I even loved it. I have good memories of being a Shawnee Mission Northwest cougar.

It was, in fact, quite a comeback story after what had to be one of the worst junior high careers anyone's ever experienced.

But I had a good life my first decade out of college. I had a successful career as a newspaper writer, something I'd wanted to do since I wandered into journalism class my sophomore year. I had a lot of friends from varying backgrounds. I had good hobbies, as a musician and a mountain climber. Why in the world, I decided, would I want to bring back those feelings of angst, of not belonging, even bits of unworthiness, when I hadn't felt anything like that in years?

What was the point?

I paused as I sat in my van. I felt the same way I did a decade ago. In many ways, I my life was even better now. The career was the same, even after a couple of scary years in our bad economy, but I was also married, with three beautiful (if not challenging) children, and I was in the best shape of my life.

Still, there was no backing out now. Facebook can cause problems, which I understand, but it's a wonderful opportunity to get back in touch with people you thought you'd never see again. I always regretted losing contact with some of the best friends of my life, even if it felt good to shed all those awkward, lingering feelings from my teen years. It seemed like losing all those relationships was a pretty stiff price to pay to feel like a different person. I even wondered if it was also unnecessary.

And it was because of Facebook that I was in that bar, and so, before I knew it, I had committed to my 20th anniversary high school reunion. I planned our annual trip to Kansas to see my family and Kate's grandmother around it. I bought tickets, and they were, quite honestly, too expensive to throw away. I tend to do things like that in advance to prevent me from chickening out at the last minute. I entered the marathon four months before the race for the same reason.

But I had to wonder, even as I'd already called my old group of friends and texted others that I would meet them there, why I was putting myself through all this again.

I sighed as I got out of the van. I tried to slip on my ragged bulldog mentality, as if this was just another peak.

I saw one of my good friends right away and relaxed. This will sound awful, but he wasn't one of the "popular" students, and so I felt like I was on his level. Here's a confession: I got pretty hung up on the class system of high school, even if I didn't really care about not being in the upper echelon, and I did it mostly to keep myself in my place, not others. As silly as it sounds today, remember, we WERE, like, 16. At 16, I thought U2 sucked and Poison ruled. I had a mullet. No one should really be held too accountable for the choices we make at that age, which is why teen pregnancy breaks my heart. But I'm kinda rambling. It was a long weekend.

ANYWAY, that last sentence might have given things away a bit. I entered the bar, saw some friends, my closest friends from high school arrived, and it was comfortable almost right away. They looked the same. They were more mature. That, unfortunately, is also unavoidable. But I was stunned at how easy it was to talk to these people again.

I even talked to some I hardly ever saw in high school. We had a large class - more than 400 - and so it was possible to completely avoid whole groups of folks until you graduated. Some of those were the upper echelons who ran cross country (which was actually cool at our school thanks to a coach who has won like 25 state titles), and they approached ME and wanted to talk running. Well, I mean, let's be honest. I know a thing or two about it, and they immediately said they'd heard I ran my first marathon. How did they know that?

It would have confused me a bit if these people were talking to me 20 years ago, but I quickly realized that while some of those people would hang on to those classes, but I needed to let them go.

When we gathered at another bar later, with at least 100 others, I had one of the best times in recent memory, and I even closed the place down. I got home at 2:30 a.m. I remember getting UP at 2:30 a.m. many times in the past few years, thanks to the twins, but I hadn't to bed that late in a long, long time.

It was wonderful, I told Mom the next day, after I got up at 9 a.m. when one of my girls jumped on my head and told me I "needed to get up."

That made the actual 20-year reunion the next night easier to take. I felt those same nerves at first, and to be honest, it didn't get much better after the first hour, until the beers kicked in, and even then it was sort of weird. I expected that though. People had their friends, and naturally they wanted to talk to them. I wasn't in a lot of those groups, and I remember being OK with that. I was even more OK with it that night.

I introduced Kate to some close friends, watched people for a while, regrettably missed talking to a couple others and left an hour before it closed.

We had a 5 a.m. date with the road back to Colorado.

I will probably talk to a few of them again, either on Facebook or maybe through a Christmas card. But then again, I don't know that for sure. I may never seem some of them again. I'll do my best, but people have their lives to lead, we all have our own futures to carve, and we can't keep relying on the past to make us happy along the way. That's what the present is for.

So what was the point?

Well, one of those best friends commented on Facebook the next day that there was something about knowing you've still got close friends in the world. These people know you in a way hardly anyone else does, even your closest friends today, and you know them just as well. It's nice to know that these people who you loved do not completely change. One of my friends laughed in that same goofy voice, and another still talks in rapid bursts, like an English Uzi, without ever taking a breath, and another still chews on her hair when she's quiet.

People do change. That's inevitable. It's good that they do. But their core, their internal selves that brought you all together like magnets, doesn't really evolve, and that's wonderful because it means you know those people will always be there for you.

Even if you haven't seen them in 20 years.

The past can be scary. It never changes. But it is possible to replace some of those worst moments with memories that actually make you smile instead of cringe.

The Entertainer

2010-07-08T12:48:00.002-06:00

Vacation (n) - Leisure time away from work devoted to rest or pleasure.

Sorry. Can you excuse the tears of laughter rolling down my cheeks at the moment?

OK? OK. Thanks.

We are still in Kansas/Missouri for our annual trip home. I have called it a vacation because I am away from work. So part of the definition fits.

But vacations are not what they used to be since we had kids. Especially after we had twins. Vacations, actually, are more work than, well, work.

The problem with going on vacation is traveling is hard on the kids. It makes them cranky, irritable and tired. It makes us feel the same way, only we as parents don't get to express it except in biting each other's heads off. Kids get to express it by throwing three fits a day, throwing stuff around Grandma's house (which Grandma doesn't like because she's long forgotten what it was like to have little ones running around) and throwing a bonus fit at bedtime. Let's couple that with their general spastic hyperactivity and throw in the Twin factor, and you have what is commonly called a "shitstorm."

So that leaves us with two choices. Locking them in the basement, unfortunately, is not really an option because I will not be able to afford therapy later in my life. So the only real option is to get them out of the house and give them something to do.

So that's been our "vacation." There is no rest or leisure. Little pleasure, either, unless you consider watching your kid paint a cardboard snake under a florescent light a kick in the pants. And I kind of do enjoy watching my kids have fun. They're at a cute age. But after a while, you want to have fun yourself.

I think this is why parents eat a lot on vacation because it's generally the only "me" time they get. When we went to Gates barbecue one night to pick up some sauced-up heaven, in a place where the smoker burns your eyes and the floor sticks to your shoes, I was truly thinking of myself, not the kids. It felt great. It was probably the only time this whole time I've had the luxury of doing that.

I think this might be one of the toughest parts of having small children. When you go on vacation, you don't get a vacation. You get to come up with ways to burn the days for your kids.

In fairness, this is also one of the joys of kids. You get to be a kid yourself again. We go to the zoo, to some really cool parks and the aforementioned craft place where kids do a bunch of artwork for free.

My favorite was a cool dinosaur exhibit with moving, life-sized dinosaur robots. Of course, the kids were too scared. So I didn't really enjoy it as much as I could have. Then again, I doubt I would have gone if I didn't have kids.

My 20th high school reunion is Saturday. That is for me. I hope that's fun. But that, along with my kid, also doesn't necessarily depend on must me.

Why Shane Carwin matters

2010-07-04T21:26:00.002-06:00

One of my running friends sent me the text as we sat in an Applebee's, with me and Kate both sipping on margaritas in the corner of the bar and trying to look inconspicuous.

"It's packed in here!" it read.

It was one of many bars packed that night in Greeley. There were hundreds more in the Greeley Stampede, our annual county fair, even if it likes to think it's a little bigger than something like that. And I got at least three invitations to viewing parties that would draw dozens to someone's house.

All of them were there to watch the UFC.

That's right. The UFC. The Ultimate Fighting Championship. That's why we were in Applebee's, among people Kate and I have long since left behind in our world now dominated by our minivan, Pixar and overly sweetened snacks.

There are 10 good reasons to be in Applebee's at 10:30 p.m. on a Saturday night with your spouse, but until a couple years ago, watching the UFC wasn't one of them. But that was before Shane Carwin got big.

Shane Carwin, the Greeley native. Our Shane. Our fighter.

We were in Applebee's in Belton, Mo., because we were back home on my annual trip to Kansas. I mean "Kansas" in a home sort of sense because, really, heading back to Belton and also Overland Park, Kan., to see my parents is a return trip home. It's a chance to spend time with my folks, eat nostalgic food (mmmm barbecue), get away from work on the cheap and let my kids see a little of my old life, even if a lot of my past life is really no longer there.

We had suffered a bit to get back home, as we usually do. Jayden does pretty well in the car, but the girls, now 3, still whined quite a bit, and one of the whining sessions escalated into a full-blown meltdown, one so bad I thought about leaving them at a rest stop. The only thing that saved us was the girls now watch DVDs better than last year (and, really, how did my parents get us across a road trip when we were kids when all we had was an Etch-A-Sketch to keep us entertained?).

I really look forward to going back home. Yet all those texts were making me miss Greeley.

Carwin was doing that to me.

I understand that the UFC is more popular than ever, perhaps more popular than boxing now, but it's not quite mainstream. Many of the uninitiated still see it as a brutal, bloody match between two tattooed fighters with bizzare haircuts and few teeth. Still, more and more people in Greeley were becoming fans. The geeky engineers Carwin works with. Runners. City officials. Me. People, in other words, you would not expect to see at a gruesome cage fight.

Why? Well, first of all, Carwin's a pretty interesting guy. He's a hydraulics engineer who still works for a water division. He's also quiet and humble and classy. So he's a smart, likeable guy who also happens to be one of the true badasses in the world.

If you want, you can read more about him in one of my favorite stories of this year.

Carwin was also a monster in MMA. He had destroyed all his opponents in the first round. People, I think, love dominant sports figures even in sports they may not understand. Look at Tiger Woods' popularity, even after he cheated on his wife with porn stars.

But the real reason everyone in Greeley, it seemed, was watching a sport that, until a couple months ago, many knew nothing about, or even avoided, was because Carwin was our guy.

He was Greeley.

Carwin was a big deal. He was fighting for the heavyweight title against perhaps the most famous current fighter in the UFC right now, Brock Lesnar. Lesnar was also a beast, like Carwin, and both were huge guys, bigger than anybody else in the UFC.

There were so many storylines - good vs. evil, Lesnar's year-long illness, how it seemed both were fighting a doppleganger, Carwin's and Lesnar's speedy rise to the top - and most of them were, of course, exaggerated by the media. Yet all those storylines made this the biggest fight of the year and one of the biggest fights in the UFC's history.

Carwin was like our college playing in the national championship.

I felt it too. Just before the bell rang I had big-time butterflies, as if Kansas was playing against Memphis for the title all over again.

Most of Greeley, too, seemed to be watching, and that's why Shane Carwin mattered that night.

Let's face it. Greeley is a city of about 100,000. We are a town famous for the way it (used to) smell like cows, for being close to Fort Collins and Boulder and Denver and for things like the Stampede.

But, dammit, I love it there. It's also a place with Colorado's beautiful weather and an incredible view of the mountains and several very cool little parks and places to run, in addition to many of the best friends I've ever had. It's a great place to live. Yes, it needs work, but so do many other cities our size.

And that's just it. There isn't much residents of a city our size can rally around. We don't even have a minor league baseball team. We've had some tough things happen to us lately, too, like a 12-year-old who vanished and was later found murdered in a ditch, and no town wants to make the news for something like that.

Yet Carwin marched down in one of the biggest events of the year with Greeley attached to his name. And yes, the fight lasted like 10 minutes, and he lost an amazing battle thanks to Lesnar's sheer guts, but man, we were all yelling for him, full-throated, in that first round when he battered Lesnar and gave him the test of his life, all of us together. Even if we were far away, like I was.

Wishing I was home.

Crossroads

2010-06-28T19:48:00.002-06:00

I played in a home game Saturday. It's probably the first home game I've played in at least a month.

The poker was good. I booked a winning session. But it wasn't about the poker. And that's when it hit me.

It was the first time in quite a while I've had any fun at all playing poker.

It's not the extending losing streak I'm currently enjoying. I'm actually down less than the cost of a new video game. Sure, putting in your money when you're ahead and getting constantly sucked out on sucks (that must be why they call it sucking out). But the online game just doesn't excite me all that much any longer, and the opportunities to me to play live just aren't there very often. A training schedule, kids and weekends full of both will do that to you.

When I finally got the call from Pokerworks that my services were no longer needed because of cutbacks last week, I was grateful for the opportunity for the freelance work and not surprised at the same time. Times are tough everywhere. I was honestly surprised it lasted as long as it did.

I have no obligations to poker any longer. I'm not sure where that leaves me with the game. I may not play very much any longer.

Not only do I not have that much of an itch to play any longer, but the game may be passing me by. I'm probably old school despite the fact that I'm only 38. I learned the old way to play from the books, and I'm not aggressive by nature at the game. I don't know if I'll ever be too aggressive, and I don't know if I'm willing to put in the time to learn to play that way. You might think this is fine, I can just stick to the lower limits, but even the lower limits are filled with tough, aggressive players these days.

I may concentrate only on Omaha for a while, but I fear in a year or two the same thing may happen to me.

So what am I doing in those rare, spare times when I actually have some free time? Well, I'm reading, writing and raising my kids. And I'm playing Nintendo 64.

You remember that system, don't you? Yeah. I brought it back out, and it's amazing how good some of those games actually were. When you're raised on thinking blobs of light shooting at other blobs is fun, your standards are pretty low, so playing games that are 12 years old just doesn't bother you like it probably should. You tend to think those games are still pretty fucking cool. Which they are.

So where does that leave this blog? Well, this really hasn't been much of a poker blog for a couple years now. I'll still write here, and I suppose the dozen or so of you will still read it, as I doubt you had expectations about why AK in early position really fucking rocks.

I still watch poker on TV, I still read poker blogs and I still keep up with the game. But it's now only one of many activities I chose to spend my time on, and right now, it's probably in the back of the line.

Oh, Hanna, hey, Hanna Ho?

2010-06-17T16:03:00.002-06:00

I'm - how do I put this - disappointed in Miley Cyrus' latest career move.

This is really no surprise. As you can probably guess, I haven't really liked anything Cyrus has put out (that's a pretty funny sentence once you get the context of this post further down). In fact, I thank my lucky stars, as I guess she would say, that my girls are too young to like "Hannah Montana." The amount of time she's spent on my TV screen is a tiny millifraction of the time, say, the Backyardigans have camped there.

In fact, to even say I'm disappointed implies that I expected anything other than crap. I really didn't.

Yet I am a little surprised by her new direction, and for this, I guess, I'm disappointed.

Hannah Montana is now a sexpot.

Maybe even a slut.

Someone who knows me - and that's probably all of you, or else there's really no reason to read this - could easily point out the many contradictions that will follow. Yes, I read SI's swimsuit issue. Yes, I've pointed out certain women who are hot. Yes, I've even defended a woman's right to choose her own path, and if that includes celebrating her sexuality, then so be it.

So why am I not standing up and cheering Miley Cyrus' transformation? She says she's "matured" as a songwriter. Shouldn't I celebrate that?

Well, no. I'm disappointed, and here's why.

She's still Hannah Montana.

She's still the girl with the blonde wig.

And she didn't need to Ho herself to become rich and famous.

Now believe me, I'm impressed with the way her handlers have managed to move her past her child-star status. That's mostly her father, who was known for a stupid novelty country hit before he was Hannah's Daddy. I once interviewed Billy Ray, and I thought he was very nice but dumb as a post. Apparently I didn't give him enough credit. He's managed a rare feat: He gave a child star a career beyond the teen years. Usually they not only fail, they fail miserably. Gary Coleman, God rest his soul, and his supporting cast in "Different Strokes" is a perfect example.

But her latest image is just so unoriginal. I had hopes for Cyrus. I honestly believed that because she was already huge, she wouldn't feel any pressure to prance around in her underwear in a video and sing about how she's so wild and slutty, as she does in "Can't Be Tamed."

A lot of female pop stars obviously DO feel that pressure to sell records or even get signed for the privilege of making one, and let's be honest, they probably do. Alicia Keys didn't really have to do that, but there aren't many who have her chops (and truth be told, she's not exactly innocent these days).

Now I know I look like a prude here. I'm hardly that. In fact if someone like Nancy Grace or Dr. Laura was ranting about this very topic or about Cyrus' video, I'd probably think she sounded screechy and all finger-pointy.

So why am I disappointed?

Well, the world hardly needs another Britney Spears. But my main fear is not unoriginality.

I have twin girls.

I have twin girls who just turned 3. They already like pretty dresses and necklaces and shoes, so they are well on their way to girlhood. It also means they are influenced by what they see, and that means I have to counteract what they see with good, sound advice.

It's quite possible that they will never really know Hannah Montana and only know Miley Cyrus, and they may see Cyrus as some weird pop diva who sings crappy songs. Man, I hope so.

But knowing Disney's unabashed preference for squeezing every last drop out of its most famous characters - just take a gander at the famous "Princess" line of toys and clothing, where Snow White, Cinderella and other "princesses" get recycled for proof - I have a feeling that one day they will stumble across some "Hannah Montana" product and think it's pretty cool. That might lead them to the TV show.

Eventually they will have to make the connection that Hannah Montana is, in fact, that weird pop diva who prances around in her underwear. They will see that Hannah Montana is now a sexpot.

And how hard will it be for them to make the connection that in order to be liked, or popular, or even just to get a little attention, you need to be ultra-sexy. If it worked for Hannah, a little girl with a blonde wig who was a huge star, it might work for them. After all, even Hannah had to be sexpot, and she was already popular!

So as much as I don't care about other pop stars flaunting what God gave them (or their plastic surgeons), I really wish Hannah Montana had decided on a different route.

I will have a big influence over my girls' lives. I'll encourage them to play sports, possibly play music and follow their hearts. But I don't want to choose their TV shows for them, and if they like "Hannah Montana" or her clone in 15 years, well, so be it.

I remember with a little longing at some of the stars of the 80s. Whitney Houston didn't really get naked, and neither did Tiffany or Debbie Gibson. Dads could rest a bit easy if their daughters liked them.

Then again, maybe it's only a matter of time. Houston got stoned. And both Gibson and Tiffany? They posed for Playboy.

Is it the sunshine or the new hemp necklace on our shoulders that makes us happy?

2010-06-13T20:51:00.001-06:00

We're heading back tomorrow from a week in Maui. And while the trip was wonderful, once again, Hawaii wasn't what I expected.

It's funny how you see the pictures of waterfalls, beaches and people snorkeling when you see pictures of Hawaii. Maybe a few people with a lei. Maybe a volcano. Maybe people surfing.

You do not see what makes up a good portion of Hawaii, and that's people selling and buying crap.

The first time we went to Hawaii, four years ago, we stayed in Waikiki, and I was surprised at how unfulfilling it was. Everywhere we went, someone was trying to sell us something. I probably spent as much time looking at shirts and other souvenirs, and when I wasn't doing that, I was telling people I wasn't interested in what they were selling.

This is partly because my wife's mother loves to shop - she'd rather do that than anything, actually - and partly because the sales pitches, stores and people selling crap were unavoidable.

Oh, there were things to do that didn't involve money. They were just hard to find.

I find myself worrying about Jayden as I think about this. He's with us on this trip. The twins are with my mother back in Colorado. We figured, correctly, that Jayden was old enough to appreciate the trip. It''s been nice to have him here. We've had a good time.

Well, a good time, that is, when he isn't asking for toys or shirts or necklaces or all the other stuff he runs into when we run into a store for something. Sometimes his begging and pleading is embarrassing. Sometimes we don't listen. Other times, I'm sorry to say, we give in.

And so, when I think about this trip, I find myself worrying about how we consume. It seems our lives are geared around consumption. Our errands, our jobs, our daily lives and even our vacations. Especially our vacations. When we're supposed to be taking a break from many things, we're actually revving up our consumption of crap we don't need.

Before you start to get the idea that I'm pointing a finger at you, I'm guilty of this myself. Probably not as some, but I definitely do my part. I've bought a couple shirts, a hemp necklace and some new sunglasses on this trip. I went on a submarine ride and also took a snorkeling cruise with a private company when I got tired of waiting for the Pacific Whale Foundation, which supports the ocean when so many others aren't, to take my order (in fairness to me, I did wait a half hour).

I've also done my share of things you'd expect from me. I ran a rainforest trail through a beautiful misty wonderland, ran on a beach, ran 8 miles today along a coastline and went to a bird preserve. Yet as I've done these things lately, I get fulfilled, and yet I also get sad.

Have you seen "Planet Earth"? You should.

After watching it, and watching how all these animals interact with each other, with each species playing a role in a sensitive eco-chain, I'm struck by something. We are probably the only species that worries about obtaining things rather than just the stuff we need to survive. We do not worry just about food and water and shelter like all other animals.

No, we worry about and lust after T-shirts, and hemp necklaces, and cars, and jewelry and travel guides and paintings and new dresses and turtle earrings and iPods and swim shirts and shoes and running shoes and computers and digital cameras (both waterproof and regular) and cheap sunglasses and…and…do I need to go on?

And we start them so young. My girls are fixated on things. They sleep with their Made In China toys from McDonald's until they forget about them three days later and we put it in the drawers full of other crap.

I understand that probably 90 percent of all our livelihoods rely on this sort of thing. I know my job does. As much as we'd like to believe how sacred journalism is (and I still do believe that, at least the kind that runs in newspapers and maybe a few magazines and a couple blogs and maybe a TV program), we rely on advertising to survive. I wish it weren't so, but I can't think of another model that keeps us viable.

This all has a price, and we're seeing that price right now. It's all over the gulf and threatening Florida and the very things I love. BP's oil spill is just the beginning. As shocking and sad as it is, it was inevitable.

I believe one reason we're still using oil, other than their powerful lobbying efforts, is rather than focus on ways to find other sources of energy, we're too focused on consuming things, and so we're tapping into oil the way addicts shoot up their drugs of choice.

The new shit is what gets us high.

But I wonder.

The sub ride, and the snorkeling trip we took, was packed with people who wanted to see pretty fish. Whenever they saw something cool, an eel, a blowfish, hell, just something other than a guppy, goldfish, beta or anything else you can't buy in a pet store, you'd hear cries of joy.

"Oh my God, that's just so beautiful!" a woman said through tears after seeing a dolphin on our snorkeling cruise.

See?

As much as I would like to think I'm different because of my connection to nature and begin outdoors, as I see time and again, I'm really not that much different. I've just got the tools to experience it more than others. I'm fit and skilled and knowledgeable, and many aren't and don't have the time, desire and energy to reach the levels that I already have available to me.

But that doesn't mean they don't want to see nature. Most people not only love nature, they're willing to spend hundreds of dollars in one sitting to experience it. The sub ride took us to the bottom of a coral reef for less than an hour, and the only real cool thing about it was the opportunity to see different fish. Yet people paid almost $100 per person to go.

I get the idea that people are exactly like me. They just don't know it. They don't get the satisfaction they believe they should from stuff. They get their joy and satisfaction and life forces even from nature and being outside. We're still animals. We still play a place in the ecosystem.

We're at the top, thanks to our intelligence and force of will, even if we'd probably be somewhere in the middle if we didn't have those traits (and after seeing some of the fish thanks to that sub and the cruise, I wonder if we wouldn't be near the bottom).

Do we stomp on it all in our path in the quest for more stuff, or do we begin to tread lightly? I fear I already know the answer, but for now, I'll remain optimistic that more people will become self-aware of their need for a diverse, complex and fun world around us and do something about it.

My son, like me, is walking a thin line between those two choices. He adores nature and the outside world. And he loves stuff and wants more of it all the time.

I suppose I shouldn't worry too much about him after all. In our world, either way, he'll fit right in.

Tri-ing something new

2010-06-06T12:31:00.004-06:00

I gazed around the hardbodies. Not in lust. In anxiousness.

But I was determined not to let it get to me. I was at the Greeley Triathlon Sunday morning. And this was supposed to be for fun.

I was determined to keep my competitive nature in check. That's easier said than done for me. But I had to this time out of necessity. A lot of these people were going to be better than me.

Many weren't going to be me on the 5K, even with the concessions I was making because I knew I'd be tired. I was hoping for 24 minutes. That's a decent 5K time in a triathlon, especially on a tough running course on a hot day.

But the swim?

Ha. Ah. The swim.

I do not swim. This is not a mantra. It's a fact. If you tossed me in a pool, I would survive, and I enjoy our neighborhood pool as well as any Dad who likes to see his kids burn their energy and maybe sneak glances of the college girls and their bikinis. But actual swimming? Well, I'm not Michael Phelps.

Water is kind of scary, and open water is even more frightening. It's generally colder and much, much deeper, and there's something unnerving about swimming in something where you can't touch bottom.

But honestly Sunday, as I approached the mat, in my frogskin wetsuit (borrowed from someone who CAN swim), I reminded myself to have fun.

And I did have fun.

I loved it.

Unfortunately, I did not have the strength to swim the full 500 yards like a real swimmer. I had to "backstroke" sometimes. But I did make it out. When I approached the transition area to get my bike, I was stuck with a new feeling: Nearly last place.

I hopped on my bike and started to burn. And then I got a little sick. Oops. So I had to back off and just rode a hard 12 miles.

The run was the run. I can do that. I passed at least 20 people on the run and ran a respectable 24 minutes. I'd hate that time for a normal 5K. But I usually don't bike and swim before them.

I'm posting this now, and I don't even know my time. It wasn't recorded by my chip, so I had to get it by hand, and I won't know what that is until it's posted on the Web site.

And for the first time in a long time, I don't even care.

Struggling; Acceptance

2010-05-31T15:18:00.002-06:00

We lined up for the Bolder/Boulder, and I savored the anticipation of the gun going off. I was ready, and I knew it.

Oh, it was going to be a tough race. It always is. It's one of the tougher 10Ks in the state, if not the country, and it was already warm, despite the 7 a.m. start.

But I love this race. It's the largest 10K in the country. It's a race that sparked my running, and this was my sixth. I could call myself a veteran. I knew the course. I was excited to run fast, and I was in a fast wave, the fifth-fastest, so I was with some damn good runners, most of them, I have to admit, better than me. I was probably really suited for a couple waves back. But that's not what you want to think about right before a race.

I told people it may not work out. That I may bomb out. That I may not be ready to run a tough race not even three weeks after a marathon. But I didn't believe it. I never do. I'm terrific at handing out advice about rest and tapering and accepting the fact that racing so close after a tough, long race may not work. I'm terrible at accepting that advice on my own.

So the gun went off, and sure enough, I was feeling good. I ran the first mile in 7:22, and I thought that was smart. I thought I was fine.

I started feeling it by mile 2. The troll was already at work. Slow down. Walk. It's OK. I still hit the mat at 15 minutes, and I thought a PR was possible.

That's when the bottom dropped. More realistically, that's when the hills began to wear on me.

The BB is a tough course, with hills, hills and more hills. They're gradual, but they're also constant, and I've yet to find a good way to tackle them.

Let's make it short. I ran 8:25 for the third mile, somehow managed to hit 8:20 on the fourth, but then I puked, and mile 5 was 8:45 or so, or the pace I ran the first 20 miles of my marathon.

I crossed the finish in 50 minutes, my worst time in four years.

My friends, who are all experienced runners (and all of whom turned out their usual great times), told me that it was too soon. This was, to be honest, the first week where I even remotely felt myself, and even last Monday that wasn't true. I'm still surprised how long it's really taking to recover from the marathon. As I said, I'm great at dishing out advice and not so good at accepting it for myself.

But there's another form of acceptance, and it's one I may have to face soon.

I'm just not an elite runner. I am not my friends. Not even close.

My running partner finished 9th in her age group, which is amazing, considering there are 50,000 runners. Another who met us at the start finished 15th, and she's 31. I have friends who have done Ironmans, qualified for the Boston Marathon (no small feat) and ran 100 miles in a race.

Me? Well, I guess when you compare me to the average person, I'm good, and the average runner, I"m not bad. But I have to admit something. I am famous for climbing mountains even when I'm not feeling my best. That's something I can do. I've done it hundreds of times, and that's how I finished all of Colorado's 54 14ers (I'm only one of 1,500 to do that). But I'm not an athlete. Not really. I feel like today, with more guts, and more oomph, I could get past the marathon blues and turn out a good time. I didn't do that. I can't do that.

I may just have to accept the fact that I'm not in their class. It should be fairly easy for me to accept. I never was an athlete. I played in the band in high school and in college. It's only recently that I transformed myself. And yet I put in the work, and I'm seeing mediocre results, at least compared to my friends.

Should I accept that? I'll know in a few weeks. That's when the marathon becomes a memory. And no longer an excuse.

Evil Thought of the Day

2010-05-25T19:12:00.003-06:00

As the girls screamed, cried, kicked, refused to lay in their bed, threatened to break the world record for decibels excreted in a minute, threw their teddy bears across the room, lost their pacifiers, then found them, then lost them again, then found them again, then lost them again (all within the span of 30 seconds), hollered as we sang them a song and generally acted like hellspawns on wheels:

"Well, maybe I'll just concentrate on the boy."

Perspective

2010-05-21T08:37:00.003-06:00

My wife texted me Wednesday night and asked if I could work from home Thursday morning because Andie was sick and we should probably keep Allie home too.

Normally, I'd groan at the prospect. I enjoy spending time with my girls, but I had a big story to write and sometimes I get caught up in my own self-importance.

Not this time.

Predictably, Andie and Allie put in their usual rate of two demands per minute. Juice. Potty. Juice again. Potty again. (See a pattern here?). Food. Candy. Cry when I say no to the candy. The movie "Up." Blocks despite the movie up playing. It makes it hard to do ANYTHING, let alone write a big story.

Normally I'd groan at this.

Not this time.

Predictably, as the morning wore on, Andie became fussy. She was cold. She was warm. She was not all-together. She was dramatic. She was "upset," as she put it. She wanted to see the computer. Even if it meant sitting on my chest so I couldn't write. Nothing would appease her. I was wishing good luck to her future boyfriend.

Normally I'd groan and roll my eyes at this and bemoan my bad luck.

Not this time.

Not that day.

Because that day, the body of Kayleah, a 12-year-old girl who lived in Greeley with her mother, was found Wednesday. Police hadn't officially announced that it was her yet, but everyone knew it was. Today they revealed that think she was murdered. Awful. Awful awful awful.

And my big story was a profile of the Greeley mother of a 23-year-old missing in Nepal since last month. Again, awful, even if there's still hope with this one.

When my daughters whined, I smiled. When they needed juice or milk or a thousand other things, I got it for them without complaint. And when they needed to snuggle, I put my computer aside and snuggled.

After all, they were with me. And I was damn lucky to have them there.

A trying trio

2010-05-17T19:08:00.002-06:00

It's the girls' third birthday. This is supposed to be a time when I write heartfelt, loving prose about how much I love them, the kind you find the more serious Hallmark cards, the ones with lace and unfocused pictures of teddy bears and ballerina shoes.

But as I leave their room, I can still hear Allie screaming and banging on the door. Kate is pleading with her. Now she's just left. Tonight it's Allie's turn for a nighttime tantrum. Tomorrow it will be Andie's.

At times like these, I really have to wonder. I have to wonder why being a parent is the most rewarding thing I've ever done. Because, at times like these, it's not.

The girls' third birthday marks one of the harder years in my life, and the only ones that were tougher than their first and second year. The sacrifices I've made are numerous, uncompromising and, at times, unnatural. I have sacrificed many of the fun, relaxing things I used to enjoy. I have sacrificed most of my free time. I have sacrificed part of my sanity. All so I can replace all with tantrums, ear-splitting cries and moments that are so stressful that I don't even recognize myself. This is my life. This is every day.

And when I try to explain what it's like, usually to my friends who have older children, I get "just wait until they're teenagers." Which tells me they have no idea what I'm going through and probably don't care. All parents think they're stressed. All parents think they've got it the worst. All parents just seem to want to get through the stage they're in so things can get better.

I'm not sure they ever do.

And that is why I am happy for those three years. I admit that I really question that happiness. I wonder if I"m just telling myself that. I have done a lot soul-searching on my long runs. And I always reach the same conclusion.

Long runs are hard, just like a lot of things. And parenting may be the hardest thing I've done, but it is perhaps the most rewarding. It doesn't give me the same satisfaction that climbing a mountain or running a marathon does. Those give me energy, and the kids just take it away. But it's energy well spent, and nothing about climbing a mountain or running gives me the same warmth that those small, loving moments do.

They are fleeting. Just like a runner's high. But they're the reason to enjoy the journey, rather than try like hell to get through it.

RIP Nemo

2010-05-14T21:58:00.003-06:00

One of my friends suggested I just put a new fish in the tank. He'd never know, he said. He's 4.

Yeah, but he's an old 4. Hell he'll be 5 next month. And so this afternoon I wrapped my arm around his neck in a sort of awkward father hug and told him it was time to say goodbye to Nemo.

He named the fish Nemo when Grandma Gail - my Mom - bought him the fish tank for his birthday more than a year ago. Nemo is probably the most popular fish name in history these days, just how everyone named their pet dolphin "Flipper" in the 1960s. Nemo was a good little beta. He was red, he swam around the tank and peered back at Jayden when he would drag his chair over to get a close look at his first pet.

Lately, though, he just sat in the bottom of the tank, looking like I do after a hard race (like a marathon, per se). Only he wouldn't eat. That's usually not a problem after one of my races. And I wondered how I was going to handle this.

I did consider a fish switch. But I only want to lie to my kid about fun stuff, like a bunny rabbit that carries eggs to good children. And, more importantly, I wanted him to get his first lesson about death.

"OK, let's go say good-bye," I told him. "I'll need to flush him away."

See, I was working on my eulogy.

"But I'll miss him," Jayden said.

I know, buddy. I miss Sparky. He was my dog for 15 years. I miss my uncle, and my grandparents, and I'll always miss them all.

I hope I'm long gone before I'd have to miss you. That would be a hole that would never be filled.

I hate that a 4-year-old boy has to learn that people, and yes, pets, go away and never come back. Whether you see them again is up to you. I'm not getting into that with a 4-year-old yet.

Right now the lesson is hard enough. I'm regretting, in a way, thinking that he needed to learn it right now. Really? Couldn't I have just switched the fish?

"I'm sad," Jayden said.

Me too.