Thoughts de la Rustyboy

My Friend Mike: The First Time I Ever Flirted

2011-02-02T18:07:00.000-08:00

Believe it or not, this band-choir-theater-nerd had a not-so easy time meeting the ladies in high school. I suppose it had a lot to do with the fact that I was terrified of them. I worked my ASS off trying to be a perfect gentleman, to the point that by the time I was 17, I'd only had 3 "girlfriends", one of whom I was with for about 45 seconds.

Mike? Mike was the Ferris Bueller to my Cameron. If you don't pick up on that reference, odds are you've been very confused by my entire blog.

Dude had girls ALL OVER HIM. I kid you not, one night, we were at a party wherein Mike was juggling three, THREE different girls, all of which he was dating, and none of whom knew the others existed. It was straight out of an episode of "Three's Company", making him Jack Tripper and me...Mr. Furley.

Down to the cravat.

One night, when we were 15, Mike decided that we were going to the main strip in Elmhurst, Illinois, a well-to-do and charming community of very, very white people. Nearby York High School housed some of the cutest girls in the western Chicago suburban area, and weekend evenings, packs of them, wearing their designer jeans and Member's Only jackets would descend on the strip to, well, walk up and down the strip.

Mike lived about 5 miles from me and another 2 miles from Elmhurst. Both of us being 15, we had no way there but to either walk, like normal human beings, or...hop the freight train like two idiots.

Guess which one Mike talked me into.

I am TERRIFIED looking back at what we did, nearly as terrified as I was in the moment. But Mike had a knack for sniffing out danger. So my mom dropped me off at his place (I'm assuming because I didn't want to reveal to her that we were going to chase skirts), and we walked the few blocks to where the train would be ambling by any moment. And when I heard the locomotive's "WHOOOOO!", my stomach turned into a pile of dogshit and I nearly puked. Not letting on to Mike, who was howling and laughing up a storm.

"This is gonna be AWESOME!"

Yeah. Awesome. Awesome like, oh, I don't know, GETTING RUN OVER BY A FUCKING TRAIN.

The train couldn't have been going more than 5 miles per hour (a pace we could have nearly kept walking), and I remember him shouting to me, "Run alongside it, get to speed, and then jump forward and up into the boxcar!" Perfect. I'm going to die like a hobo, I thought.

My heart was thumping like it wanted to bust through my ribcage, but there I was, right behind Mike, jogging alongside the train until an open car pulled beside us and BAM. In and up he went.

"C'mon!"

My legs pumping, shit nearly running down my leg, I kept pace and thought, I HAVE to do this now - he's in the car already, which was a stupid rationalization on my part, I realize now. I sucked in two lungfuls of air, held my breath and rocketed myself into the car, landing on Mike.

"YEAH!" he screamed and slapped my arm.

10 minutes later, we jumped off the train as it pulled in to Elmhurst, screeching to a stop. I think I may have been in shock for the first hour of our wandering around, because this entire night is as vivid in my head like it happened today, save for that first 60 minutes.

Mike was a fucking rock star. He had no issues walking straight up to a group of tittering, giggling girls and introducing himself, usually, at the very least, getting them to chat for 5 minutes while he and I did "The Russ and Mike Show", which resembled street comedy improv fused with the stench of desperation and failure.

So in other words: Street comedy improv.

We dicked around for a couple of hours, grabbing frozen yogurt at "TCBY" (The Country's Best Yogurt, which, at the time, it was the ONLY frozen yogurt in the country, so a job well done!), avoiding the annoyed stares from adults that I myself now give amped up teenagers, and finally, curfew time rolled around.

Well, MY curfew time. Mike treated the concept of curfews like I treated the concept of flirting with girls: Not with a ten foot pole, man.

So in Mike's usual impulsive haste, we were left stranded 2 miles from his house and 7 from mine. I broke into a sweat, worrying about not making it home in time. I voiced my concerns, which Mike waved off like the stench of a fart.

"Hang on," he told me, striding away toward a gaggle of giggling girls.

Within minutes, he spun on his heels and signaled "come on!" to me with his hands, a smile spanning so wide, it wrapped around his head.

"This is Russ," he introduced me to - I kid you not - the most ADORABLE 3 girls I'd ever laid my pimply eyes on, "and he one funny son of a bitch."

No pressure.

"My car's over there," one girl said through her Lipsmacker-glossed smile, pointing at a tiny Toyota that in no way was built to house 5 people. But, our advantage? We were teenagers and couldn't care less.

One young lady in particular seemed to laugh at every voice-cracked word that dribbled from my mouth: Light blond hair, skin as clear as daylight, and a grin that lit up the car. As she sat. On my lap.

Holy shit.

In my mind, I was just trying to be funny and get her to laugh, and I'm sure I. Was. Hilarious (sarcasm intact). Mike was faring well up front with the driver, making small talk, exchanging phone numbers, and once in awhile peering over the headrest to give me a wink of confidence. That's when it hit me:

Holy crap: I'm flirting. And she's flirting back!

The ride lasted far too short, and before I could even get her name, I was out of the car, Mike riding as the solo male in a car filled with bubbly females. As I began waving goodbye, Mike told them to hang on a second and jumped out to say goodbye.

"Have fun?" he asked, devilish smirk on his perfect face.

"Yeah, yeah," I responded, unsure of what I'd just gone through.

"Did you get her number?"

I paused.

"You have to get her number!" he whispered, punching my shoulder.

I heaved a nervous sigh, as I felt the same terror that had visited me while jumping aboard a moving train. I, in fact, was longing to be risking my life sprinting alongside a train at that moment.

I don't remember her name, but she did write it down, her perfect fingers handing over her perfect phone number in her perfect penmanship.

I never did call her: Baby had just learned to walk and wasn't about to run a 5k at the Olympics. But that wasn't the point, I realized. Mike had just given me a coaching in self-confidence. And every day after that night on the town, I had an instilled confidence that hadn't been there until I'd met my friend, Mike.

My friend Mike: Part 1

2011-01-27T21:21:00.000-08:00

His name was Mike. Michael. Last name started with a "K". And he was my first, albeit most unlikely, best friend in high school.

You only get to have one first, best friend. Just like you only get one first true love (her name was Stacey, and we met at - yes - CHOIR CAMP). Mike and I met sophomore year in a pre-geometry class that I'd opted to take since I'd sucked it HARD at algebra my freshman year and was looking to actually comprehend mathematics (Spoiler alert: It never worked).

Mike was handsome. And tall. My teeth were wired with miles of steel braces, and his cast a confident, even glow. My face was peppered with one thousand dots of acne while his was clear and white. Well, tan in the summertime, because Mike's skin turned a golden brown from the sun, while mine went from "Snow White" to "DEFCON 1" after 30 minutes of exposure. Mike's face was angular and even, and mine looked like Picasso and David Duchovny had pumped out a bastard love child.

As I sat in Mr. Thorn's pre-geometry class the first week, I knew about Mike, had heard stories about what a renegade he was, how even the female seniors at Proviso West High lusted after him, and that he voiced his opinion whenever questioned.

Meanwhile, I'd been crafting myself to be a strident student, a head-down, books-up, "yes sir" and "no ma'am" learner when teachers pointed a finger at my sometimes wandering attentions.

On one magical weekday afternoon, Mike and I became friends. And my life-view completely changed.

I think these photos sum up our relationship, snapped about 6 months upon befriending one another:

I will never forget the first time we actually "hung out" after school: Riding on his bike, me straddling the bar behind him as he pumped the pedals, riding past our high school to his home, my hands thrust above me, feeling a freedom I'd never yet experienced.

And that was only the beginning.

Sheesh, the hell I been?

2011-01-20T20:02:00.000-08:00

It seems that having an incredibly active creative life is - while a dream come true - exhausting. I currently am juggling:

1. Hosting a running podcast - 3 Non Joggers

2. Editing an audio piece to submit to This American Life on The Western States 100.

3. Helping my dear friend Carl get his documentary off the ground by mid-August.

All three of these projects are coming to a head only within a few weeks of each other, and then I suddenly found myself muttering, "HEY, YOU HAVE A BLOG, DUMBSHIT!"

Okay, it was a yell, not a mutter. But in my head, so that makes it okay. Or does it make me crazy? Don't answer.

So tonight, after pre-interviewing our next podcast guest, I returned home to help Carl with some paperwork for an hour so we can get up and running to raise funds. After, I popped open a beer (Green Lakes Ale by Descheutes Brewing) and something caught my eye.

It was my ukulele.

I sat strumming some Beatles on the sofa, surfing the 'net, and before I packed up L'il Ukey (not an actual nickname), I jokingly tried to make the weirdest sounding chord possible. So I figured out an A 7+5 and strummed, quite literally about to put away Ukophone (not an actual nickname) and then strummed a G chord. And then went back and strummed the first. Then back to G. And then on to adding more chords for another 30 minutes.

Suddenly, I found myself writing a song. Something I have never before done.

It seems creativity breeds more creativity. I logically know this, and have experienced it before, but I've never had so many different pokers in the fire. And it is a little bit magical. Thus, my return to blogging after a month of absence.

Expect to see me 'round these parts more often.

3 NJs do it again!

2010-12-17T11:18:00.000-08:00

This week, 3 Non Joggers break it down and interview Yassine Diboun on the podcast. But that's not all: Carl the Mailman lets iTunes HAVE IT during an F-Bomb-riddled-rant.

Here ya go!

And introducing...

2010-12-10T12:59:00.000-08:00

I am happy and proud and ecstatic to announce that the 3 Non Joggers have a very special guest on this week's podcast:

Amy Sproston, winner of the JFK 50 miler, Pine 2 Palm 100, Massanutten 100 and top finisher in SCADS of other ultras! Take a listen by following this here link!

2010-11-15T12:45:00.000-08:00

I'll begin this post on a positive note: I love, Love, LOOOOOVE the PS22 Chorus. Seriously. I could watch/listen to their videos all day and night with tears streaming down my cheeks. And frequently have:

Director and teacher Gregg Breinberg has given these children an incredible gift: The ability to reach inside and call forth the innocence and beauty within us all.

Okay. Positivity intact, I can now move on to:

"Glee" is a sensation, a phenomenon, a 5 star hit for network television. It's also - in my opinion - a turd polished so brightly that you can see Jane Lynch's reflection in it.

"Seriously, Steve, I am the only entertaining part of that show."

For me, the show is so incredibly unaware of how hokey it is (save for Jane Lynch), I get diabetes even from watching the commercials. But this isn't about whether I enjoy/can't stand the 2000's version of "Coprock".

Who in the WORLD designed that logo?!?

In 1981 - aged 11 years - I discovered that I could sing, and sing fairly well. This was called to my attention (which at that point focused on why girls were starting to look "funny" to me) by the music teacher at my middle school, Nancy Guiterrez. Already involved in band, I quickly was learning that if you really want to alienate yourself from the young, developing ladies, joining the chorus would seal the deal like iron-cast welding.

But my love for music was as such, I didn't care.

I remember watching the middle school's production of "Westside Story" from the front row and - not thinking it odd at the time that 11-13 year olds actually grasped this tale of love and death - I got the itch to audition for the next year's musical.

For musical accompaniment, Nancy played every song on the piano throughout the play's duration. Again, not completely understanding the kind of physical and mental energy that involved, I took it for granted that, hey, EVERY middle school does an adult musical whose music is played solely by a single person.

I auditioned the following year for "The Wizard of Oz" and landed the part of Mayor Munchkin (in the musical, versus the film, he has a slightly larger role...LARGER! Munchkins! Ha! I am awesome). The hook was further set, and in 8th grade, Nancy revealed that that year's musical production would be "Fiddler on the Roof".

Yes: The story of a Russian-Jewish family during the era of the pogroms. To be performed by children. SOunds crazy, no?

Again, not knowing that there was anything at ALL odd about this, I got my chops ready through private singing lessons (thanks, Mom, for the support and driving and, well, everything!) and by late winter, when auditions were being held, I was prepped like a soprano Pavarotti to audition for the male lead, Tevye.

If I were a pre-teen...

I don't recall the actual audition, but I do remember that it came down to me and another l'il guy, whose voice had already changed. I. Was. TERRIFIED! After all, my singing range was that of an alto - Tevye, a 50-something milk farmer - couldn't hit a high C, right?

Despondent, I resigned myself to Nancy's eventual decision because, as stated, I didn't care which role I played. I wanted to perform, no matter how big or small my character!

And then I got the part.

Me and my pal, Melissa - who played Golde - pre-show. Yes, the whiskers are real, as is the gut. Naturally.

Looking back, again, Nancy, coached us ALL, and got us tuned to the point that yes, this show actually happened, and in a tight, humorous, and astounding manner. I honestly don't know how we pulled it off, but I have recorded evidence (never to be shown on this blog) that each note, every scene, and even the grand, final exit of Tevye and his family during the pogrom, was SPOT. Effing. ON.

I sobbed for an hour after the final performance, such was the release.

Nancy guided us towards stellar musical goals, not at all once letting us know that what we were doing was mind-boggling. And at our middle school graduation, blessed us - in decades ahead of her time - with lyrical passions from the Broadway show, "Fame":

We sang the body electric

Seriously. We are singing that song in this very moment

I remember parents being confused, even slightly offended, by the fact that 13 year olds were dealing with such hefty concepts as who we all are, and where we're headed as beings. And yet, our voices carried these melodies into the rafters of the gymnasium, unaware of the message we were sending. And lo, these 26 years later, the ears of millions are excited by the idea that little children can teach us all about the vastness of the human experience.

I don't know where you are, Nancy, nor do I even believe that you grasped what you gave us all, but these gifts...they'll never leave me.

And in time
And in time
We will all be stars

I, like Huey Lewis, have some news.

2010-11-11T18:04:00.000-08:00

Okay, for realz, for serious, this shit is ON(I have no idea what I just said, but I'm sticking to it):

As I'd mentioned, over the past 6 weeks, my friends Carl The Mailman and Gary have joined me in my basement on a weekly basis to record a brand-spankin' new long distance running podcast.

And here it is. Ladies, gents and otherwise, I present to you:

3 Non Joggers.

The title is in reference to the fact that Carl The Mailman™ cannot, for the life of him, call running "running". Instead, he refers to running as "jogging", to which I was quick to point out that NONE of us "jog": Two of us "run".

Very engaging conversation. And you can hear every syllable during episode one.

We're still honing our mad skillz (no idea what that means either), so there's a gradual learning curve you'll likely notice from episode one to four (like George Lucas, but in reverse). Overall, we're really happy with what we've laid down thus far.

Remember: You can check us out on iTunes and download the podcasts for your long runs, or drive to work, or when you're soaking in the bath, enjoying a fine port wine and feel the need to hear 3 bozos fucking around and - once in awhile - talking about jogging.

Er, running.

Make sure to rate us and leave comments on iTunes if you use it, as those ratings and comments will bump us up higher and higher in the "Sports and Recreation" category. YES, THIS IS A SHAMELESS PLUG.

We'd love to hear your feedback, show suggestions, or otherwise, so hit us up at 3nonjoggers@gmail.com and let us know!

Enjoi!

PROMISE

2010-11-04T13:56:00.000-07:00

This is my dedicated and sincere promise that I'LL FINISH THE WESTERN STATES SAGA. Not being a fan of big-ass blogposts myself, I diced it up into a 3 parter, and then left it to die on the vine. So here we go...

Having found out that Hal dropped, Gary and I gave Kate's crew a call and found out that she was faring well. I weighed the decision to head out to Michigan Bluff (mile 55) to catch a few words with her against the fact that I was beginning to get incredibly tired. So I dragged a reluctant Gary back to the hotel to catch a few Zs and a hot shower. Well, two hot showers. One shower each. Just to clarify.

Not that there's anything WRONG with that

I checked the online progress and noticed that Hal's soon-to-be-bride, Carly, was WAY ahead of her projected 26-28 hour finish, likely rolling in around 24 hours. I wanted to catch her finish, not only to have an audio record of her crossing the line, but just in case - and this is the producer in me, not the friend - Kate couldn't make it. I needed an ending. Without so much of a "good night", Gary and I passed out from around midnight til 5AM, when we awoke and scrambled to the car.

Sure enough, we were at the track no more than 30 minutes (this is when I FINALLY got to meet the lovely, talented and sweet-as-hell Gretchen, who was kind enough to grab us coffees while we chatted) when in rolled Carly. I met her at the entrance to the track and then jogged across the infield to capture her finish. She looked so damned fresh, it was ridiculous. Hal was, of course, there to greet her, and we caught up on what had unfolded as far as his day went. He seemed in good spirits, although I did notice a slight limp as he and his crew swept Carly away to the car.

I tried to track Kate's progress, but the site hadn't updated in a long while. I texted Kate's crew and let them know we were heading back to the hotel, when Karen called and said, "Kate's doing well! We think she should finish in about 29 hours." Quickly gauging the time, I made the decision to get another hour or two of sleep and again, dragged a bummed out Gary from the finish line back to the hotel.

Kate's pacer, Glenn, and husband, Rodney, probably sometime around this point in the race. Photo by the lovely and talented Leslie Ames!

Right, right, right, left, left, right. This is how you get from our hotel off I-5 to the Western States finish line at the track. How do I know this? Because we drove there about 90 times over the course of 12 hours. And we were about to do it again, having caught another 2 hours of sleep.

Tracking Kate's progress, I knew we'd need to be ready to record by 8AM. I was kinda bummed I hadn't made the effort to meet Kate at any overnight aid stations, but I also knew that this would be an exhausting feat, and possibly fruitless due to the sheer amount of crew cars driving up and down 2 lane highway roads. But then, inspiration smacked me in the face...

I would meet Kate at the last aid station (Robi Point) and record and run the final 1.2 or so miles with her to the finish.

Gary and I parked and hiked through the neighborhood to the trailhead, congratulating finishers along the way, most of whom looked like the walking dead. I remember one runner staring dully into our eyes without so much as a blink when we went to high five him. Yeah, running 100 miles? Not so easy.

I couldn't BELIEVE how steep the downhill was to the aid station, which of course, means that Kate would have to climb it. I must say, the producer in me was ecstatic, knowing that I'd get some good sound bites from her on the climb, but the heart of the friend in me was breaking for her.

We greeted more runners coming through the aid stop (most of whom just blew right past it) and within 10 minutes, I see Kate's unmistakable stride pulling up the trail. This woman is an ANIMAL. I quite remembered that powerful hike from when I paced her at Headlands Hundred and could barely keep up with her the final 5 miles.

FLASHBACK TO HEADLANDS 100: Lookit that smile! I think we clocked 9 minute miles from mile 95-100. Photo credit goes to Leslie Ames..again!

I screamed, "Heya, Doc!" to which Kate flashed a big ol' grin. I told her I'd be running the final stretch with her, and I think she grunted something as she blew past me, determined to put the sword through the heart of this thing.

We jogged that nasty uphill for a bit, hiked for a few minutes, and Glenn told me that Kate had been passing people NON STOP the last 10 miles. Sure enough, we reeled in more runners as we made our way to the track. I was in awe.

"Hello, my name is Russ, and I'll be annoying you for the next 10 minutes..." Pic by Mr. Gary Vale.

If her perseverance and strength hadn't left me utterly dazed, what happened next drilled it home, and I am SO glad I have it captured on audio:

Glenn: "You know, if you make it to the finish in 6 minutes, you could break 29 hours."

Kate: "Really?!?"

Gary snapped this photo about 10 seconds after this information was delivered:

As you probably can see, Kate's strides grew longer. And faster. She was a woman on a mission, and no way in HELL was she finishing in over 29 hours.

Passing more runners, Kate sped to the track entrance. I told her I'd meet her at the finish line and sprinted across the infield as the announcement came over the speakers, "This is Kate Merrill...she could break 29 hours...".

This is where I began to do color commentary...and began to lose my shit.

She was HAULING ass around the track, passing another runner, and kicked into a new gear. All the while, I'm describing the insane mission as the crowd begins to stir to life, cheering for Kate to break 29 hours. And as she dashes to the finish, breaking this arbitrary number, I completely freak the hell out and have my own "DO YOU BELIEVE IN MIRACLES??!?!?!" moment.

Copyright Al Michaels

She was ELATED. The grandstands went berserk. I jumped around like someone had set my ass on fire. It was amazing.

The face of someone who has run 100.3 miles? Really? (another perfect shot by Leslie Ames)

A few weeks ago, along with my dear friend and co-podcaster Carl, I laid down the final voice over for the audio piece. I am now revisiting the material I've collected over the last (ulp) 7 months and face the daunting/exciting task of editing it all together. I expect to be amazed yet again by the determination of everyone involved, and it most certainly will not deter me from entering another 100 mile race.

Congrats to every runner, crew member, and volunteer from this fantastic event. You're all class acts, every last one of ya.

jz, part 3

2010-11-01T16:20:00.000-07:00

Here it is: The finished product.

Photo by Summer Allen Gibson

I think jz would have loved it. This was seriously the most pain I've ever had getting tattooed. As I lay there on my back, feeling like 1,000 razor blades were carving my arm off, all I could picture was Julie in her bed, immobile, smiling, looking out her window at the changing fall colors.

Ready to Rock

2010-10-30T13:17:00.001-07:00

In the "biz" (showbiz, people - that's showbiz talk for..well, showbiz), there is different phraseology for simple, every day subjects, acts, and objects, no matter how extreme or mundane. Examples:

• "Confab": Meeting

• "Green lit": Approved

• "This show has legs": The show has potential

• "Showrunner": Executive producer

• "Ankle": Leave

But my favorite of these (ultimately douchey-sounding) terminologies is "in the can", mostly because I giggle like a wrinkly old man when it's uttered.

"Tee-hee! It could mean something dirty! But not dirty like what I just left in my underpants."

This is in reference to a single take that the director likes, or that a show/film is completed and ready to roll onto the large or larger screen (let's face it: With plasma screens in our homes, there are no small screens these days).

Welp, I am proud to announce that the running-based-podcast I've been working on alongside dear pals Gary and Carl The Mailman (hereafter referred to as such) are nearly ready to roll out. More teasers:

1. We have a personally written, and simply awesome, theme song.

2. We have - in our opinions - quite the clever name for said podcast.

3. Our microphones are taped to 18" long pieces of PVC which are in turn taped to camera tripods, except for Carl's, as he's running the sound board and computer. He looks all professional and grown-up.

4. The sound quality is spot-on.

5. Lastly, we are fucking hilarious. At least to each other.

The website will "go live" soon, as we will have enough episodes "in the can" (tee hee!) to launch in the coming few weeks. In fact, Annie's on the sofa at this very moment making the site look all perty.

So soon, VERY soon, you'll be able to download our yapping, stick it on your iPod or MP3 player, and zone out to the HILARITY that is our podcast during your long runs, while taking Fido out for a stroll, or when you just can't stand the dialogue of "Jersey Shore" any longer.

The Off Season

2010-10-22T12:27:00.000-07:00

As I sit here at noon, still in my pajama bottoms and sweatshirt (hey, I work nights, okay?), sipping my second cuppa joe, I am - for the first time - actually soaking in "the off season". And I'm loving it.

After a long spring and summer of training, my mileage will typically dip to around 45 miles per week, having topped off around 75 in July/August. I'll find myself with extra time on my hands and a lot more energy.

This is my body's time to repair and recover.

Normally, I'd be in a state of panic over this. "What if I lose conditioning?!?! What if I gain a few pounds?!?! What if, GOD FORBID, I WIND UP DOING THINGS OTHER THAN TRAINING?!?!?!"

Preach it to me, Doug

Life is about balance: Put too much energy into one aspect and the other pieces atrophy and wilt. We do it every day: Too much time at work, too much time studying, too much energy wasted on worry, one day too much of focusing solely on your family and then you wind up yelling at them to eat your f*cking french fries!!!! (starting at 6:25 - and TOTALLY offensive but hilarious).

Looking forward to an off season of restin' and exploration. Hope y'all get to take some time off too!

Welcome to: The future. No, wait, now it's the present. Damn.

2010-10-08T12:45:00.000-07:00

"Cease to inquire what the future has in store, and take as a gift whatever the day brings forth."

- Horace

“I like men who have a future and women who have a past”

- Oscar Wild

It's rather an abstract thing, the future. We imagine it time and time again, and rarely - if ever - does it look or feel anything like what we dreamed up. Example: I recall a 5 mile run one morning in Los Angeles, along the singletrack trails in Elysian Park, hovering about 100 feet above the 5 Interstate Freeway, when Annie and I just found out her job was allowing us move to Portland.

As I scrambled along - filled with soaring joy and utter terror - images of what our future held began to flash: Possible friends without faces, jobs without locations, "whos, whats and whens" all flashing in my mind's eye. But never, ever could I have imagined the reality of what is now the present; with all of it's wonderment and constantly shifting strangeness.

So now, I have completely embarked on a new leg of this journey, starting with this here blog, and the (STILL AWAITING THE CONCLUSION TO, RUSS!) Western States piece I've recorded and am now editing. The next step: An ultra podcast, co-hosted with my buddy Gary and recorded/engineered by my dear friend, Carl (hereafter referred to as "Carl The Mailman, or "CTM").

I'm usually an overly-cautious creative guy (ask me about the 8 years it took to write a novel, or the collection of short stories that I've been threatening to self-publish for 6 years), but I figured, sometimes, you've just got to say "what the fuck."

"Remember that quote, from the movie I was in before I attacked Oprah on her couch?"

CTM and I headed downtown yesterday to check out mixing boards and scored one for hella cheap (kids' talk for "incredibly inexpensive"), and Monday evening, CTM on the board, Gary and I will lay down our first of - hopefully many - podcasts on ultra running.

I'm leaking this info to titillate my small pool of ultra running readers. I'm not certain of a launch date, but I know it's just around the bend, an arm's length into the future.

I'm not sure where this might lead me, but I know it's a half mile in the right direction. That's the best part about the future: It's up to us to form it.

P2P2DOWNPOUR

2010-09-21T16:17:00.000-07:00

It's hard for me to drudge up the proper words to describe this, my third shot at 100 miles, at Pine to Palm. Where to begin? Well, as someone might say, starting at the very beginning is a very good place to start...

"The hills are alive, with the sound of...thunder..."

Thursday evening, my Dad, Annie, and I drove down from Portland to Grant's Pass, Oregon, about 30 minutes from the start of the madness. We stuffed our pieholes with incredibly sub-standard pizza (pro-tip: If you're burping up pizza 3 hours after eating it...yeah, it kind of sucked as far as pizza goes) and crashed out in our respective rooms. I want to say I watched the shit-fest that is "Terminator: Salvation", but I'm pretty sure that was Friday. Which ever, we awoke Friday, I stayed off my feet, and late afternoon, we headed to The Grange in Williams, where the race would kick off only 13 hours later.

I've echoed this a million times, so what's one more, but the ultra running community is ridiculously small. Crammed in the basement of this tiny hall (Hal, the race director, found out only a few days prior that the upstairs was being infiltrated by a dance troupe), it was like a high school homecoming: We hooked up with Kate and her crew, Gary and his crew, and a slew of friendly and familiar faces. All of us crapping our pants about the fact that forecasts in Southern Oregon were screaming about, "OMFG THUNDERSHOWERS AND STORMS AND RAIN AND GGGAAAAHHH!!!"

I am paraphrasing, of course.

Waiting in line for my swag and to get weighed in, I saw Hal's (now) wife Carly handing out fleece jackets, and she immediately smiled and said, "I'm gonna be at the mile 93 aid station - I'll see you there!" This pumped me up, having someone hinting at waiting for me (aside from my crew). She seemed as jazzed for me as I was about actually finishing one of these damned things. I introduced her to Annie, grabbed my goodies, and went to weigh-in.

No pressure.

Okay, to clarify: I visited my doctor in late July and weighed in at 162 pounds, fully clothed, which didn't surprise me, with all of the training I was putting in. I stepped on the scale and "179.5" popped on the screen! What the hell? I'd find out later that Kate weighed in 8 pounds heavier than she actually is, and Gary weighed a good 3-5 pounds LESS than he should have been. Ahhh, science!

Good heavens, Nurse Yakimoto, you're fatter than I expected!"

After briefing us about specific turns to watch out for on the course and other details, Hal and Ian bade us all farewells and good luck...until Hal turned to everyone and announced, "One last thing - does anyone have a birthday tomorrow?"

I sheepishly raised my hand, and Hal looked me square in the eyes.

"Tomorrow is Russ McGarry's 40th birthday, so if you see him out there, give him a slap on the ass, or rub his head and wish him a happy one!" Well, now, if that isn't motivating, I don't know what is! (Ann had contacted him earlier in the week and asked that he make an announcement. Hal replied that he'd embarrass me good.)

We headed back to Grant's Pass, dropped off Gary and his crew at the hotel, and Annie, my Dad, and I dined at a local brewpub. As we chatted, I have to admit: The course was scaring the living HELL out of me: 20,000' of up, 20,000' of down, peaking at 7,000' THREE TIMES? I live at 160 feet above sea level. I was lucky to merely choke down my turkey club. The two Dead Guy Ales I chased it down with helped steel my nerves a bit, but in the pit of my gut, a storm was a-brewing. Nearly as big as the one outside.

I actually slept fairly well ("Better sleeping through chemistry," my ultra-hero Bud once told me, holding up a sleeping pill the night before a 100 miler) and woke up with the alarm for once. Before I knew it, Annie had gathered all of our gear, stacked it in the SUV, and we were off to the start of my third 100 miler.

Pause: Shout out to my crew - Dad, Tom, Ondie, and Annie, my crew chief. Christly lord, I don't know what I'd do without you out there. You are amazing.

My poofy-morning face and my Pops/crew member, trying to figure our what's wrong with his son's mental condition

Play: A light drizzle played with our nerves as we boarded the SUV and headed to the start. Maybe this is as hard as it will rain, my lying brain kept telling me. Gary and I had freaked out the night before about the rain but decided that, hey, it's yet another hurdle we get to overcome. "GET TO" being the key words I ran over and over in my head.

As I meandered around the start, I found Kate, Carly reminded me, "I'll see you at mile 93, okay?", kissed my Dad and Ann, and suddenly, I was trotting in a pack of 131 runners, 6 miles up a road towards the first of three epic climbs. Seriously, I don't remember the countdown to "Go!" at all. I think Gary and I were too busy dicking around and joking about how trashed our quads were at the moment, and how we might be dropping in a mile. Yes, we are hilarious.

Miles 0-6: Drizzly, but nothing that distracted me. Hell, I live in Oregon. It's like I live in a bath tub with a shower head that has a slow leak year-round. Kate and Gary and I hung together and chit-chatted as the miles ticked away to the first aid station, which was water only. There was 11 miles to the next aid, so I made sure to fill my water pack, as the first big-ass climb was staring us in the face.

Miles 6-17, aka holyfuckinghellisthisreallyhappening? This first climb was all switchbacks on single track trail. I powered up as hard as I could, keeping my breathing level and below the red line. I managed to pass quite a few people, but Gary was off and RUNNING up this steep climb. He waved down to me on a trail just above, and that would be the last I'd see of him until we have lunch this Thursday. Dude was READY.

After about 41 days of climbing (I might be being a bit hyperbolic), I crested on the ridge. Holy. Shit. Even with the overcast, drizzling skies hiding the views, I felt like I was on top of the world.

TOP OF THE WORLD, MA!!!!!

Excitement burst out of me, as all I'd been running were climbs, and I do love me a good, technical downhill, and I knew that's what awaited.

I attacked those downhills with excited fervor, jamming on down, although the trails were at times like peanut butter, so charging downhill wasn't an option on certain sections. I passed a few runners and ended up at the mile 17 aid in excellent spirits, refilled, ate a couple of gels, and I was off, trotting down a slightly-graded gravel road towards Steamboat Ranch Aid, 7 miles away, feeling most-excellent and incredibly strong.

Miles 17-24: I'd passed a few runners who looked to be running on fumes already, which triggered a whispered prayer to the trail-gods to hold off that look for me until mile 83, when it normally hits.

I cruised up beside T.J., a mutual friend of another runner in the race, and we blabbered on and on for about 10 miles, cutting up and laughing the entire way. We exited a 1/4 mile piece of asphalt onto some singletrack that sneaked us into California for a few minutes before plopping us into the mile 31 aid station at Seattle Bar, the first time we'd see our crews.

Karen and Heather (Kate's crew) saw me first. No, wait, check that: Ondie, one of my crew members saw me first. I forgot about that. This was her first time at an ultra-event, and I can imagine the fact that I was laughing and bullshitting with another runner having just run over a marathon in the mountains likely confounded her. So I cruised in to Seattle Bar aid, got weighed (was down 3 pounds!), and Karen - waiting for Kate - tended to changing my socks while I planned for the next 11 mile stretch where I'd next see them.

Opting for two handhelds, I jumped up and headed toward the meadow where the trail continued when Kate came jogging in! Karen and Heather - her crew - exploded in to "Happy Birthday To You" for her, and kate looked up, saw me and...well, here:

Happy birthday to us!!!

So long , suckers! Oh, wait...who's the sucker?

Miles 31-37 After hugging, I thanked my crew and the workers, took off across the meadow for the next climb of 2,200' over 4 miles. This wouldn't normally suck so bad, as I banged the hell out of my legs all summer on hills, but we were starting at 2,000' and ending at 4200'...and then climbing to 6500'.

Yeah, having oxygen would have been an added touch.

Some parts of this trail were absolutely the steepest stuff I've ever encountered. I would not be surprised at all to find out that 100 yards at a time were somewhere in the 30% grade-range. With the slop, going uphill was like sinking in quicksand. I managed to pass 4 people during this section, merely because I'd spent the last 5 months going up and down hills. Without that training, I would have been screwed.

I at least would have enjoyed the "stewed" part

I landed at the mile 37 aid which was, quite amazingly, the most remote aid I'd yet encountered, but by far the best supplied: They were frying potatoes when I pulled in to fill up my water and handed me a (very welcome) hot cup of chicken broth. Up on that ridge, I'm gonna guess winds were somewhere in the 20 mph range, and my wet clothes were stuck tight to my shivering body. Leon and Betty, two runners I'd caught up with, all said our farewells and thanks as we headed toward - what we were told - was "a small uphill and then all down".

Uhhhh...rrrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiight.

Miles 37-42/44 Leon and I sputtered a bit ahead of Betty, who was adjusting her clothing. It was then Leon revealed to me that he had 2 separated ribs last week and could barely gasp a deep breath!

"Dude, we're 39 miles into this thing! How did you make it this far?!"

Leon: "I don't know. But I'm dropping at the next aid station."

We came across a rather large (and very fresh) pile of bear crap, which helped our paces quite a bit. And the climb kept going, up, up, up, and we three cursed it from the depths of our frozen souls, and more up, then more up and then...

"THANK GOD!" we all exclaimed upon the sight of singletrack downhills.

Technical downhill is a personal favorite of mine, so I eagerly launched myself into it and battered away at my already crying quads. Bam! Bam! Bam! and down! down! down! we sailed, although the footing became tricky at times, as the dirt was pure slop. This added to the fatigue and slowed me WAY down. I passed another runner ("My quads! Gah!" he yelled) and just let 'er rip, clocking a fast few miles into the aid at mile 42, Squaw Lake.

As I charged in feeling like a million (muddied) bucks, I saw my crew patiently waiting, with Nick, Gary's pacer. As I trotted to them, they yelled, "You have to do a lap around the lake. Wanna change now, or after?"

I checked in with myself and realized I was really tired of being cold. I opted to change everything but my shorts (much to my crew's pleasure), strapped a trash bag over me (the drizzle was fairly steady now and temps were dropping) and took my lap around the lake. I actually power walked several of the minor downhills, just to give my quads a break, figuring they'd get more abuse in the coming 20 miles to Dutchman Peak, where I'd be picking up Brian, my pacer.

It felt weird to actual run. I'd been spending so much time managing downhill sloppiness and powering up incredibly steep uphills, I hadn't actually run a comfortable step since mile 3.

Me, looking for "Lieutenant Da-yan."

I returned back to the aid station, now at mile 44, feeling amazing and taking note to enjoy that feeling, as it would inevitably change. I strapped on a rain poncho and took off as quickly as I could, now - again - running a mile or so down a road to the next section of trail. I knew I was up against a hard cutoff at mile 65 (1AM), and it was now around 6pm. With the terrain I knew awaited, I'd have to boogie to make it with some cushion.

I found myself confused in the moment: The race was announced as "100 miles", then was altered to "101.5 miles", and was now bumped up to "103.5" miles thanks to our lake adventure. What the hell?

Kate's crew beeped and screamed to me that I run "like a girl". I imagine the getup I was wearing in the below photo didn't help. (note the eerily-appropriate sign in the foreground. Ohhhhhh...TELLING).

Uh oh.

I hung a right onto the trail just as Annie drove past, screaming encouraging words (I believe, "WOOWNFEUAJBSUOINDV!!!!!" was it, but I couldn't quite hear).

Then, the door slammed.

THUD.

Mile 44-47 More intensely straight, uphill climbing, again, at or around 20% grade. This sucked the life out of me, but I just put down my head and powered up as hard as I could. Ahead, I saw another runner in a yellow poncho look down at me and smile, one that can only be described as, "What the hell were we THINKING?!"

Eventually, a pickup truck came rolling down the road, the driver all smiles, who said, "About 3 minutes and you're there!" I felt as though he told me I'd just won the Nobel Prize. I stepped back to keep from kissing him and sobbing on his shoulder and continued up.

I landed at the aid station to find the runner I'd seen ahead of me, Alan, standing at the table, eating.

"You want a partner?" he asked.

"Hell YES, I do!" I knew that night was coming, and the next section was singletrack trail. If at any point I needed company, it was then. I also wanted my mommy and my binkie, but no matter how much I whined, neither showed up.

Alan and I powered on, again, sucked into the uphills, stumbling now on unmaintained, overgrown trail, and once the sun completely set and our headlamps clicked on, we were consistently whacked in the face by low hanging branches. Something very Looney Tunes about it hangs in my memory.

Ladies and gentlemen, our story's heroes.

Winds were picking up, and we both announced how thankful we were for our ridiculous ponchos as we got to know one another. As I came to find out, P2P was Alan's inaugural 100 mile race. As we tripped, stumbled, laughed, shivered and steadied our staggering steps, I assured him that this was NOT your typical 100. The weather was incredibly draining, and in fairer temperatures, we'd be much farther along.

The uphills kept on a-comin', but we dragged each other up that trail until we reached a gravel road. After a minute of examination, we saw ribbons leading us down to the mile 53 aid at Squaw Peak. Running it in, we were informed that there was a 1.5 mile out and back to go up to the actual peak, grab a pin-flag, and return down as proof that we'd made it.

Okay, you're aware of the saying, "The wheels came off the train", no? Well, this is where the lug-nuts began loosening.

We climbed (again? Really?) up a dirt road for what seemed like 20 minutes. In fact, it had been 20 minutes. No way was .75 miles taking us that long. I checked my watch and noticed that cutoff was getting TIGHT. Wandering around in the dark for 10 minutes, we discovered that we'd missed a turn in the dark up a tiny piece of trail, which was marked only with a small ribbon.

Um, Russ, are these yours? Because you dropped a bunch of them.

Without minutes to spare, we continued onto more, 20-25% grade uphill for what seemed an eternity, switching back over and over until FINALLY, we reached the peak, snagged our flags, and headed down, our detour likely costing us 15 minutes we didn't have. I really wanted to run the downhills to catch some time, but they were so seriously steep, and the night was hiding rocks that could catch our toes so well, we opted to power-hike.

Finally back at the aid station, I told one of the volunteers, "Hey, can you make sure to mark that turn better? People coming in after us are running right to the cutoff at Dutchman." This was greeted by a confused stare.

Worker: "You missed it?"

Me: "Yeah, it's pitch dark back there. Please put down a glowstick or something."

Worker: (confused look)

Me (to Alan): "Let's move."

I hope I didn't come across like a douchey-ass, but as it turns out, MANY runners after sunset missed that turn, possibly costing them the race.

Alan and I were - what else - CLIMBING again up steep roads, constantly checking our watches. It appeared if we could keep a decent, steady pace, we'd hit the cutoff at Dutchman with 15 minutes to spare. Alan said, "We blow through the next aid station," to which I grunted or nodded or farted. Who knows at that point.

After about 30 minutes, a mini van came crawling down the road towards us, slowing as it approached.

"Hey, Mr. McGarry!"

"Hey, Hal!"

Now this was a classy race director. Hal put himself out there on the course to help shuttle dropped runners and lend morale/support to our freezing, soaked butts.

"Just keep movin', gentlemen!" he yelled as he took off.

Easier said than done. Looking at the course profile for this section, there were moments of climbing 300' in about 100 yards. This kept occurring over and over: Just when we'd be able to start running, God or The Devil Whomever would slam us down to a near crawl.

After an eternity, we saw the lights of the mile 60 aid floating above us in the dark. This fueled our drive, and I ran in my head over and over, "In and out, in and out..."

One of Kate's crew, Heather, was at the tent waiting for Kate, who couldn't have been more than 15 minute behind us. I grabbed a couple of gels and looked up at Alan.

"Ready?" he asked, and within 2 minutes, we found ourselves - predictably - powering up more steeps. Minutes later, an older runner shuffled past us.

"How are ya?" he asked.

"Probably the same as you."

He then laid out a litany of acidic complaints about the race I wasn't prepared to hear: How deceptive the 34 hour finish cutoff was (it was), how the course is FAR tougher than advertised (well, I dunno...I mean, yes and no) and how in 24 years of running 100 milers, this would be the only one he wouldn't recommend.

Yeesh. I just wanted to get to mile 65 in time. This guy wanted blood.

As his light faded up ahead, winds began picking up even stronger, at times blowing me sideways, chilling my soaked bones, and generally making it a really un-fun situation. Without stating it aloud, Alan and I were damned sure there was no way in hell we'd make it to the cutoff, not in this terrain and under these conditions.

Heather pulled up beside us in her Subaru and rolled down the window.

"You okay?"

Alan and I shrugged as if to say,"Who knows." And we really didn't know.

She told us we were doing great and to keep it up, but as she pulled away, I noted that the conditions were still worsening. I knew I was shivering under my layers of dripping clothing, and Alan was actually reduced to sitting down every 10-15 minutes as we slogged uphill.

"I know you're tired, but we can't stop. We'll freeze up here."

Now at 6800 + feet, the conditions had become interminable, and I knew the reality: We weren't going to make it, like dozens of other behind us, and we needed to hitch a ride up to the peak.

Next car, we're climbing in, no matter who it is. Seriously, it could have been a three-toothed local with "Dueling Banjos" playing on his 8-track.

You boys got some perty legs...

We saw the lights of an SUV bobbing down the road toward us, and I knew this was it, and I really didn't care. Our spirits were still relatively high, but the trail and the 19 hours of straight rain and wind had left us battered.

The car slowed, and lo and behold, my friend Paul - another runner from the race - was in the passenger's side!

"Hey, you okay?"

I looked at Alan, who smiled and held out his hand.

"Good job, man."

"Good job," I said, taking his grip and shaking it.

We squeezed inside and asked for a lift down to the mile 60 aid station, where I could call my crew and let them know where I was, but we were informed that the aid station was being broken down, as the last runner had come through.

Kate? I wondered.

Paul had dropped due to hyponatremia, an incredibly dangerous condition wherein you drink too much water to the point that your body can't absorb it. In fact, he told me, Annie had taken him in to our SUV at mile 65 to warm up until his crew could get him!

"C'mon - we'll drive ya up."

We drove down aways to flips around, and through the windshield, I saw the telltale lights of Kate's flashing vest blazing up the road.

"Hey, you!" I yelled, rolling down the window.

"Hi!" she shrieked, in stunningly good spirits.

"I quit! Fuck this!" I informed her. "Good job!"

At the top, conditions were out of control: The aid station tent had nearly blown away several times, and the air was that of general chaos. We immediately found Ann and my crew, hopped into our SUV, and proceeded down the mountain, through the fog, wind, and rain, towards Ashland. I say "towards" because there was no way in hell you could find your way around. We stopped several times and checked with other drivers, who were also lost and turned around. After a diligent go, my crew member Tom guided us down for what seemed like 15 hours to the highway, and up to Ashland.

We dropped Alan off at the finish line where he'd catch a shuttle back to the start, and his car. Another soul mate found on the trails. I consider myself lucky every time I befriend another runner while out there. It's like I'm forming a family one race at a time.

I'm left after this one feeling as though there was nothing I could have done differently. As Hal told me in a later email, "You can't train for that!", and it's true. I'm amazed anyone got out of that mountain range at all: 72 finishers out of 131 starters, many of them dropping before or at mile 42.

So now for a restful winter: A fatass 50k or two, time off my feet and to reflect on my third shot at 100 miles. I'm still not 100% positive that I'll give this distance another chance for awhile. The training is life-consuming, exhausting, and expensive as hell. Maybe a 100k next summer? Who knows. For now, I'll crack open a beer, kick my heels up, and enjoy the incoming winter rains.

Ugh.

WS Report Part II: This Time, It's Personal

2010-09-04T11:58:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I got super-lazy about scribbling a single, massive writeup of the race experience and have been kicked in the arse by numerous people for doing so. Apologies. (Thanks for the pics Karen, Leslie, and Gary!)

Dad?

Race morning: 5AM sure rolls around early in Squaw Valley. Gary and I dragged our butts to the start, half dazed/totally exhilarated. The overall energy was enough to take your breath away (if the race itself wouldn't do that for you).

LET'S GET READY TO SNUGGLLLLE - er - RUMMMMMBLLLLLE!

Kate said she hadn't been nervous until pretty much the very moment this pic was snapped. I spied Hal up front at the start alongside Geoff Roes and Anton Krupicka, joking around. Before I knew it, Greg, the race director, was up on a ladder with a microphone, informing us that race founder Gordon Ainsleigh would say one sentence, which he - somehow - managed. God love Gordy, but you give that guy a microphone...well, suffice it to say: Don't give that guy a microphone :)

I can only dream of looking like this when I'm approaching 70

The countdown from 10 seconds out started, and BLAM, off went the shotgun, and "Woo!" screamed a bunch of runners and crew members, and then...well, that was it.

Gary had hiked up to the first aid station to watch the pack climb up, so I opted to hide out in the restaurant area and try to catch some z's. I passed out on a bench in a tucked away area as I heard volunteers cleaning up the place. Gary phoned me to say he was nearly to the front door, so I roused myself, feet dragging, to meet him. I tried the front door.

Locked.

I tried the side door.

Locked again. While I was asleep, the volunteers had locked everything up and taken off.

Gary was pacing on the other side of the windows, trying to figure out where I could get the hell out, and I felt like I'd seen this in a movie before.

Finally, I found a remote back door, gritted my teeth, grasped the handle, and...WHEW. Sweet release.

We'd planned on jumping in early-on at aid stations, but from the looks of things, access was fairly limited, and chasing Hal would actually be cutting it close due to his speed. So we opted to meet him at 2 accessible aid stations: Michigan Bluff (mile 55) and at the elementary school (mile 62). We hauled ass back to our hotel in Truckee, then grabbed our gear and raced down to Auburn, checked in to our hotel, and figured out Hal's approximate arrival time at Michigan Bluff, only 10 miles from the hotel.

Gary and I hung at the aid station at Michigan Bluff, enjoying the pomp and hugeness of the race (I've never seen more than 5 volunteers at an aid station - this place was HOPPING with both them and "fans"), meeting with and talking to crew members (one in particular was gregarious as hell. He invited Gary and me to stay with him if we were ever in Boseman, Montana). Then, the crowd burst into cheers - the leaders were pulling in! yay, Hal!

Wait. That's Anton and Spanish ultra-champ Kilian Journet.

Geoff Roes, Kilian Journet, and Anton Krupicka. It's not the heat, it's the stupidity...of running 100 miles.

They were in and out of the aid station in the blink of an eye. I have never, EVER before seen anything like the well-oiled machines that were their crews.

A few minutes later, the crowd began again to cheer. Go, Hal!

Oh. Wait. That's Geoff Roes.

Again, lickity-split, and he was gone. I knew when Hal rolled in, I would get precious few seconds with him, so I readied my recorder and braced myself.

Within 5 minutes, I saw Hal's telltale visor bobbing through the crowd, coming right at me. He weighed in, refilled his bottles, and I ambled up to him.

Me: "Sorry, man. I warned ya I'd be here."

Hal: "Hey, brutha!"

Me: "How's it going out there?"

Hal: "It's getting warm, but I don't think that's gonna change."

And BOOM, off he trotted.

Gary and scrambled to the car and floored it to the next aid station, only 6 miles away by trail, 3 by road. At the pace they were running, we'd barely be ahead of the leaders after parking and setting up.

Now THIS is an aid station: Music blaring, scads of onlookers, announcement upon announcement over the loudspeakers. It felt more like a party than a place runners would eventually be crashing out in chairs later on, whining and sobbing.

Down the street came Anton and Kilian: They weighed in, got new bottles, and off they dashed yet again. I was stunned. A few minutes later, Geoff rolled in, made the same, amazing transition, and - with a huge smile on his face (which would be a harbinger for things to come), off he sprinted.

I was a bit suspicious about Hal's race, as he hadn't snatched up any distance between the front runners. Again, I saw his visor trotting down the sidewalk to the school, and I gave chase as he weighed in.

Me: "Anything changed since I last saw you?"

Hal: "Nah. I'm just glad to be here."

He lingered a moment, then took off to an SUV where his crew handed him fresh bottles. But in doing so, I noticed something was off: Hal was walking. And walking. In fact, he walked a good 1/4 mile with his pacer to the next section of trail.

Again, we leaped into the car, this time, heading for the finish. We'd have quite a wait (remember: We last saw Hal at mile 62), so we grabbed a mid-afternoon meal and found our way to the track/finish, getting completely lost at the first stab, although I knew that we'd get VERY used to our way from the hotel to it eventually (exit I 80 south, cross over interstate, right, left, left, right, park).

Hanging out at the finish was surreal. As you know - if you run these races - the most you get at a finish is MAYBE a few hands clapping and a "Good job!" or two. Well, the grandstands were PACKED, tents were set up all over the infield with products to test, and music was pumping.

But seriously: If I hear "Running on Empty" once more time, I will give Jackson Browne his well-deserved black eye.

An announcement finally came: Geoff Roes had passed Anton and will be approaching the track in approximately 10 minutes. This blew my mind, as the course record stood at 15 hours, 36 minutes, and Roes was poised to finish close to 15 hours! The buzz was hilarious as all of the ultra-geeks (myself included) began nerding out.

If you too want to nerd out, here is Geoff's final mile approaching the track.

As Geoff entered the track, the place went berserk. He crossed the finish in 15:07, running a 7:30 mile the final mile. Unreal. And Anton pulled in only a few minutes later in 15:13, both of them crushing the previous record. I had a sinking feeling about Hal, so I went to the "Where's My Runner" tent to see where he last checked in, but their internet was down. I texted my pal/crew member Mariko to see if she could find any info, but as she saw, Hal had checked out of the elementary school, where I'd last seen him.

I grabbed a few quick words with Anton (the best part: He was answering my question and his pacer pulled of his shoe. The, "DUDE MY TOE!" still echoes in my ears) and parked myself in a chair, exhausted.

50 minutes later, Kilian crossed the finish. I began wondering if Hal was still even on the course when I heard someone say, "Hal dropped at mile 80." What?

Apparently, he'd come into the race with an achy ankle, and I'd find out later from him that his running gait was compromised due to it. After 80 miles of running wonky, his hips were killing him, as well as the ankle. The only logical choice was to drop.

I hate to do this, but...

MORE TO COME SUCKAHS

FINALLY: My Western States report

2010-08-26T12:09:00.000-07:00

It's flat-out bizarre, writing a "report" about a race, having not run it, having not crew or paced for it, but whaddya know: Here I am!

Gary and I headed down to Squaw Valley (God bless him and his Subaru) with media passes in hand to chase around Hal and Kate, documenting them for a piece to submit to This American Life (that enough links in a row for ya?). We made it down in 11 hours, dumped our junk and gear at the hotel in Truckee, and grabbed some dinner. After some good ol' fashioned, restless sleep (on my end - man, were my wheels turning/grinding), we woke up to meet Kate and her crew near the start in Squaw Valley for packet pickup.

Ugly, right?

She seemed more than ready to run the race, and I shadowed her every step through the pickup process. MAN, Western States does it right! Check it out:

After snagging some sweet schwag, getting weighed and her blood pressure taken, Kate was off to relax. Next up, following the Big Dawg: Hal.

Me, as far away from Hal I would get for the entire day

Hal opted to swing by packet pickup towards the very end, as he wanted to conserve energy and knew people would be wanting to catch up. So I shadowed him through pickup (he dropped some GREAT sound bites for me - dude knows the drill), and while he was (pictured above) getting his BP read, the volunteer asked him if he'd run the race before. Hal, being the most excellent dude that he is, was sheepish and humble.

"Yeah...I've finished it as well...ahead of 400 people.

Once those duties were polished off, Hal headed back to home base, and Gary and I ran a 10 miler with Leslie before showering and eating home made pasta at Kate's condo.

Okay, let me take you back about 6 years, when I first began running: I became particularly obsessed with running trails (because it's the ONLY WAY TO RUN) and became a member of an online forum that now, speaking frankly here, sucks. But back then, there was an "ultra running" group, where I'd first befriended Kate and Leslie. Years later, we would meet by fate and happily become intertwined in one anothers insane endeavors.

Thing is, what got me interested in running a 100 miler was a race report from Western States by a runner called "Mudrunner". It was heroic, humble, hilarious, and...another "h" word I can't quite dig out. This was "the moment". I actually said aloud, "I will run 100 miles."

To use Hollywood terms: CUT TO:

Dinner at Kate's condo.

Drumroll please.

While we're eating, I meet Kate's pacer, Glen, who is in from Vancouver, Canada (he'd be running the final 40 miles with Kate as support). We chit-chat, I ask him if he'd run Western States, he answers yes, in 2004, but he'd paced a friend a couple of years ago, when he and Kate had met.

Something sparked in my wee brain.

Me: "Are you 'Mudrunner' online?"

Glen: "Yeah. Why?"

I was sitting face-to-face with my inspiration to run a 100 miler. AT the 100 miler he'd reported on.

(((((((CREEPY ORGAN MUSIC))))))

Me: "Holy shit! I'm Rustyboy!"

Glen: "Holy shit!"

Me: "I met Kate and Leslie by chance on the trails a couple of years ago. I was all, 'You're KateMD! And YOU'RE Fatozzig!"

Glen: "Wait - Leslie is Fatozzig?!" he asked, poniting at Leslie. "I KNOW YOU TOO!!!!!"

to be continued

Forest Park marathon...report?

2010-08-02T12:23:00.000-07:00

Jeff: "I am SO lucky to put my arm around this sweaty guy YET AGAIN!"

I find it difficult to write a race report for marathons, since I run about 2/week while in heavy training, so I'll quickly sum up yesterday's:

1. Jeff and I hung together for 24 miles, yammering away. I'm sure I talked both ears off about Western States.

2. Jeff pulled away at the 4 hour mark, leaving me with my own thoughts...which involved Western States.

3. My attempt to finish in "4:20" to get a photo of me standing beside the clock, pretending to toke on a joint, was missed by 8 minutes due to the fact that I'd banged the hell out of my quads on a hilly long run Friday.

4. There are really evil trail bandits in Portland that move course markers at every race. Wendell (the RD) has no idea how to beat them at their game.

5. Working a 7 hour shift after a marathon - on your feet - really is miserable. And knowing you have 15 miles the following day doesn't really help.

6. I had a blast! So nice to do a training run that's supported and with other people.

7. Seven! That's a good number to finish a list with.

Hello! Hello! Hola! I'm at a place called...

2010-07-24T12:47:00.000-07:00

...VERTIGO!

- Bono

As of right now, I'm supposed to be around mile 30-35 of the PCT 50 Miler, out by Mt. Hood. I, however, am not. This is not because I'm a coward -

- it's because for about 10 days, I've had this stuffy-head-feeling goin' on, and an annoying, omnipresent ringing in my ears. Wednesday afternoon, on my way back from running errands, I started getting the feeling that planet Earth was moving, even when it really wasn't. This sent me into a panic, which - as we know - is the best thing to do when you don't feel well. So Annie, with her amazingly calm demeanor, suggested we check out an urgent care clinic, just to see what was going on.

Turns out my blood pressure was 170/100! The doc suggested we head to the E/R and see what's what. So we did. And let me tell you, if you're having a near panic attack, and your BP is extremely high, THE E/R IS THE LAST PLACE YOU NEED TO BE.

And this was just the admitting nurse

My BP was 190/100 at this point, so Annie got them to fast-track me to a room. Within minutes of being out of the lobby, my pressure had dropped to 170/90. EKG, CT scan, strength tests, all of that shit, and what did they say?

"Hmmmm. You should see a doctor."

Um...aren't YOU a doctor?

So yesterday, I met my new Doc, and he flat-out rocks. Also a runner, when he asked if I exercised, and I told him I'm training for a 100 mile race, he muttered, "You people are (effing) crazy!"

We aren't crazy...okay, maybe this guy is. But just a little.

(sidenote: He went to feel the glands under my arms, but I was sweaty and therefore apologized. Said the doc: "No need to apologize. I look at buttholes."

He told me that I have an acute, benign case of vertigo and that it should go away after a few days. I'm still a wee bit "spinny", but nothing like where I was, and my BP is back to normal. BUT, I'm not out by Mt. Hood, running the PCT 50, which is a mild bummer.

To help throw me a pity-party, please press this button.

Wow: jz, part 3

2010-07-19T12:38:00.001-07:00

From the nether regions of the universe (and beyond), my amazing friend reached back to me once more, again placing her hand on mine.

Without my knowing it, Julie put me in her will, and I received yet another gift from her today - on this overcast, warm, wonderful summer day.

jz, you rock!

Wow

2010-07-02T12:37:00.001-07:00

I've taken this past week to digest what my Western States experience was, but the only summation I can wrangle is:

Wow.

No, not "WoW"

Kate and Hal were incredibly accommodating, allowing me to chase them around with my recorder at packet pickup Friday before the race, where they were weighed in, had their blood pressures taken, given a shitload of amazing schwag. Seriously. I would have gladly taken the killer backpack, technical shirt, and jacket and headed home.

Without going into too much detail, I was able to snag Hal at the mile 55 aid station and at the mile 62 aid as well for a couple of words. As for Kate - I ran the last 1.3 miles to the track with her, recording away. What I ended up getting seals my thoughts that this piece has true potential.

Oh, and I finally - after 3 years of "knowing" one another online - got to meet with a weary, yet somehow still smiling Gretchen around 4AM, as Gary and I wandered in a sleep-deprived state at the track. As I quite suspected, she flat-out ROCKS!

Gary and I returned Monday late evening, beaten and bedraggled. Of course, this meant we woke up the next day and hammered out a hilly 23.5 miler, giddily recapping what we'd just been through.

(Side note: Best moment of my time with Hal - as his blood pressure was taken, one of the volunteers - a middle aged woman - asked him if he'd run Western States before.

Hal: "Yup. 8 times."

Her (smiling): "And how many times did you finish?"

Hal (sheepishly): "Six."

Her (with an impish, "good for you, little fella!" grin): And what was your fastest time?

Hal: "16 hours."

Her: "HUHN?!?")

STATES, BABBEEEEE

2010-06-19T16:40:00.001-07:00

'Scuse me - I have credentials

One week from today, Gary and I will be in Squaw Valley, picking up interviews from Mr Western States, Hal Koerner, bearded superhero runner Anton Krupicka, my ass-kickin' pal Kateand Western States founder Gordon Ainsleigh. Then, Saturday morning at 5AM, my bud Gary and I will begin the 30 ishhour process of following both Hal and Kate, from aid station to aid station, for the duration of the race.

It's weird to have reached this point for the piece (in case you missed the entry...EXPLANATION). It's kinda surreal. I imagine it will be slightly more surreal at 4AM, in the middle of nowhere, when I'm punch-drunk and bleary-eyed, asking Kate, "How do you feel?" Somehow, I think our conditions will be similar.

50 KM...and then some

2010-05-31T12:25:00.000-07:00

It was that time of year: Time for the running o' the Forest Park 50k ri'cheer in P-Town, USA. Last year, I had stomach issues late in the race and bonked around mile 27, dragging ass to the finish in 5:24. The trail conditions otherwise were pure perfection: Dry singletrack, partly sunny skies, hell, I even sweated rose petals and farted rainbows, it was so ideal.

And then, there was yesterday.

The weather itself wasn't the issue. The skies opened up just BARELY for a light, mid-race sprinkling, but temps bounced between 55-65 and the sun poked and peeked it's way out here and again, lighting up the beautiful canopy of bright green spring leaves above us.

Now ask me about the trail conditions. Go ahead. ASK. No, wait. I'll build up. That's better story-telling.

"Make 'em wait for it, runner-boy. And bring me a scotch."

At the start, I chatted with my buds Gary, Nick, and Brian: Gary was opting to run the 20k version, as he'd kicked some serious ass running a 12 hour a few weeks ago and was carefully coming back to higher mileage. Nick toed the line for the first time at an ultra, and Brian was back for his second 50k since last year, when he rolled in only minutes after me for his first ultra-finish.

The new RD made some announcements. Best I could tell, he was saying, "jdufiuslhhvkwdvbcuxu;DJDHIhf'ngivd;jj...", but I did manage to hear that there was a slight course change. Instead of taking a cutoff trail to aid station one, we'd go an extra 1/4 mile, then turn on a firelane and do another extra 1/2-ish mile to the station. As this is mostly an out and back course - and because I am an absolute math wizard - I calculated that, yeah, this wasn't 31 miles this go-round. Sweet - and we didn't have to pay extra!

With all of the fanfare that ultra starts provide ("Ready...set...GO!" a few whoop and hollers, then silence), we were off. Young Nick and I hung together, rambling, chit-chatting, bullshitting, for the first 2 miles, but I could smell it on him. He was itching to go faster. Knowing my own pace, I bid him adieu, and off he went, bounding up the hill for the 1200' climb to aid 1.

I was about to yell down the trail to Brian when suddenly, I heard his voice over my shoulder. Running the next mile or so together, something dawned on me: A few weeks ago, I'd fallen asleep and come up with the PERFECT pacer for Pine 2 Palms 100 Miler in the fall. I'd wrestled with remembering who I'd thought of for days and days, and BOOM! I realized it.

"Want to pace me for the last 40 miles in the fall?"

I wondered if I should had waited to ask until later in the race, when he'd be more delirious, but what the hell.

Brian(without hesitation): "Yeah, man!"

WHAMMO. Takin' care of business. What has two thumbs, holds a hand held water bottle, and can multi-task?

THIS (slow) guy.

"Running 50k as a fun run? Illogical, Captain."

Brian was inching away, so I let him take off and told him to kick some ass. But coming back down were the 20k runners, and lo and behold, there was GARY, in 5th place, big-ass grin on his face.

"YEAH!" we both yelled, high-fiving with all we had.

I continued climbing to the first aid station, downing a banana and a gel, refilling some H2O, and off I dashed.

I fell into a rhythm and ran with a few really cool peeps for quite awhile: Timmy - a father in town visiting his daughter at PSU; Peggy - a preschool teacher from Astoria (who knows my ultra bud Kate), and Chelsea, a full time grad student, who somehow holds a full time job AND runs ultras, and Charlie and Erik, two work-partners with a running problem.

We all yo-yoed as you do and hit aid two. About 1/4 mile down the firelane was where I'd run into Ruben last year coming back up, in the lead ("I knew it, you bastard!" I had yelled) and I wondered where he was. Charlie, Erik and I headed down the firelane, noticing that the mud was getting thicker and more prominent, and in the exact same place as last year, I saw Ruben running up, his sleeveless, button down, mechanic's-looking shirt open in the wind, flowing behind him.

"McGarry!" he yelled.

"Go git 'em!" I responded as we high fived. HARD. I'm pretty sure the folks at the start/finish 12 miles away heard the crack.

We were now running a 10k lollipop loop, which was PURE SLOP. There was a lot of stopping, hopping, walking at this point due to not wanting to bust my ass. Charlie, Erik and I hung together, and I kept picturing what was about to come: a .4 mile downhill that at one point is about 35% grade. With the sloppy conditions, I knew what was coming and warned them.

Me (as we hit a 20% downhill which is pure mud): "Man, wait until we hit the steep stuff."

Them: "Ha ha ha!"

Me: "..."

Them: "Seriously?"

Okay, I'm not a skier, or snowboarder. In fact, I'm more of the, "I'll meet you in the lodge for whiskey toddies" kinda guy, the skills of which would not help me in the least for the downhill.

"Hey, guysh, wheresh the lodgsh?"

There was not a single piece of non-muddy, slick trail and honestly, if your center of gravity tilted so much as an inch too far forward, you'd tumble ass over ankles down this thing. So I took a seat and began skidding down, roots, rocks, and vegetation making their way up...well, you can well imagine.

I think that .2 miles took about 8 minutes, but we landed on Leif Erikson, a wide, flat fireroad, and greeted the change of terrain with wild enthusiasm.

We trotted on the rolling road for about a mile, then found the climb that would take us back to aid station 2, which was now aid station 3. Charlie and Erik took off ahead on the steep, slick incline, when suddenly, I dreamed I saw Gary standing on the trail.

"Damn, I usually don't hallucinate until mile 65," thought I. But then the hallucination spoke.

"Good job!"

Gary had finished the 20k in 1:43, placing 5th. And here he was, cleaned up, and waiting to tackle the mile-long climb with me! I was only at mile 17, but I needed perking up as my legs were burning due to having to stabilize for miles and miles on the murky trail.

I hung at the aid stop with him for a few minutes as a gift to myself (it's the little things) and took off down the 1 mile downhill, passing Mo - who was looking strong as hell - and hanging with Patrick, yet another first-time ultra runner.

The downhill is a 1.1 mile, paved fire road, so the banging pretty jostling. I told Patrick, "Aren't donwhills supposed to be fun?", to which he responded, "This SUCKS!"

Hitting the singletrack, we hooked a right and just like last year, my stomach started bothering me. Not wanting a bonk-repeat, I downed two gels with a ton of water, just to get the fuel in before the nausea took over. We ran together for quite awhile, Patrick experiencing for the first time all of the pain of an ultra. Mentally, I reminded myself that however crappy I was feeling would pass, and sure enough, my stomach lightened, my legs stopped burning, and we were well on our way to the last aid station.

Mo was about 5 yards behind us, jamming away, earbuds blaring, so we scooted to the side and she swooped past us, telling us to poke her if we wanted to pass.

Yeah. Like I'd see her again.

I needed to stop and get a salt tablet (or something - my brain was failing me at this point) and watched Patrick fade off into the woods, clearly over whatever crap feelings he'd had earlier. I reached the firelane and ran the half mile to the final aid stop, walking up to the table for water, when I encountered my second, "non-hallucination" of the day Miki, working the station. Having not seen one another in 2+ years since The Big Basin 50k, where she'd rolled her ankle in the first mile. Badly. In fact, she's just NOW getting back to high mileage, she told me. Way to go, Miki!

The rest of the race was a 1200' decent to the finish, so I started hammering those downhills, hammer, hammer, hammer...OWWWWWW!!!!

My right, lower back was pinching, likely due to stabilization issues due to the mud. This, in turn, made it difficult to fully inhale, which in turn, began causing side-stitches. I began a "Run until it hurts, walk until the stitch goes away, then run again" program that actually was working, because when I ran, I could run hard for about 2 minutes, walk for about 20 seconds, lather, rinse, repeat.

I began smelling the barn door a mile and a half from the finish, when I came upon a family of hikers, their 2 year old son wailing and crying.

"I know how ya feel, buddy," I said as I passed.

Hooking a left, I had about .8 miles to the finish and began hauling ass. I started tricking myself into running scared, so as to not get passed in the final half mile. I hit pavement - indicating I had a tenth of a mile left - and picked it up. Passing Annie and our friends Kimi and Carl, who were along out of curiousity and for support, I saw Nick standing at the finish. He screamed, "YOU'RE SO SEXY!" and held his hands out, so I took my water bottle and lobbed it about 10 feet at him, missing my mark completely. I hit the finish in 6 hours and a few seconds, turned around, seeing my buddy Charles videoing my finish as well. I gave him a grimy, mud-covered hug and found out that Nick had finished AN HOUR AND TEN MINUTES ahead of me. Daaaamn.

Me: "What's your secret to such a quick finishing time?"
Nick: "White hats make you faster!"

Brian was hanging at the finish as well, having beaten me by 25 minutes (WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE?!?!). I broke the news to his fiancee that he'll be spending 12 hours dragging my ass up and down a mountain in the fall, which she seemed receptive to (thank god), and Annie, myself, and our friends headed out for a late lunch.

Team Russ wears only black

And as for the mud?

I swear, there is skin under there somewhere

2010-05-16T17:15:00.001-07:00

So Gary ran a 12 hour race this weekend in Redlands, Washington called The Watershed Preserve. My original intent was to run it as well, but what with my work schedule and all, I have to choose my races wisely, as losing too many shifts could result in financial hardship.

Can you help a brotha out?

I texted him yesterday to see how it went, and his response was easily one of the funnier texts I've ever received:

Holy mother fucker I am completely done. Right now, in my condition, I vote we change our mother fucking hobby to sewing.

Of course, we exchanged further texts today, and he admitted to once again loving the sport, having run 100km in those 12 hours.

Way to go, Gary!

On the hunt

2010-05-10T12:02:00.000-07:00

It's a comin' - the Forest Park 50KM, right here in ol' P-Town. I ran it in 5:24 last year and had a blast...well, save for the final 4 miles, when I'd bonked and didn't have time to recover. Yeah. That bit sucked.

It's my first race of the year, and I'm all a-flutter. See, workin' weekend evenings has put a damper on my racing schedule leading up to the fall's 100, so I'm really only able to race twice this summer. All of my other long runs will be solo, or with Gary, Nick, and Charles.

The four of us have run weekly long runs in one incarnation or another, on one or two occasions, all together: Nick, the kid (26...BASTARD) earned the nickname "Three Shits" after a particularly bad instestinal day out on the trails; Charles ran his first 50km with me, not knowing going out that he'd run the entire thing, and Gary, the health-obsessed (in a good way, mind), affable speedster who kindly reigns in his pace for me when we hit the hills together.

I'd never before run with a partner, so having someone say, "Meet you there at 2:00!" sure helps getting my ass out the door (example: I'm running 25 today, solo, and I'm sitting here at 12:15 in my PJs still, writing this post), and holding hours-long conversations ranging from crapping-the-woods-techniques to political discussions to attempting to answer "What is 'God'?" makes the time fly by.

Charles' wife once told him it was "male bonding", and I must agree, when the four of us are out there, it feels very primal, very natural.

You could almost smell the elk herd we're chasing down to feed the village.

2010-05-07T12:05:00.000-07:00

"Does writing ever scare you?"

He asked me this as I sipped my beer beside him at the bar. That is to say, Seamus posed to me this question.

I honestly didn't have a witty or intelligent answer. Sure, when I write, I sometimes feel apprehensive about a direction I've taken (just ask my 1/3 finished second novel sitting on this hard drive), but overall, I simply let it come out and go with it.

Although you can ask my wife about the time I was reading a Stephen King novel and tossed it to the floor in frustration, whining that I'll never ever be this good a writer.

Yeah. THAT Stephen King.

Seamus - with his wife Barbara - is a regular at the County Cork Public House where I sling beers and fish and chips. He's affable, quirky, sometimes can get a little too friendly, but I always had a feeling that deep inside that rambling, dad-joking persona, there rested the heart of a poet.

So I sat there with my IPA in hand with no answer to his question. He cleared his throat and tossed out his own 2 pennies worth:

"Well, I think a writer SHOULD be scared. It means he's going into an uncomfortable place, which is where your creativity lives."

Well, dammit, I thought, if that isn't the mother-effing truth.

I turned to talk to another regular about the baseball game playing out on the set, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw Seamus grab a bar napkin and a pen. Within a minutes, he handed me a brown napkin, and written in sloppy scrawl on it was the following:

"For Russ"

Russ? Rusty?
Fleeting moments...contact real.

Chosen words not wasted. In the moment of nothing to say...

a polite smile with nothing for or against.

Open to the world
looking forward...
always -

Seamus

In that moment, with the flash of his crooked smile and not so much as a spoken word, the poet had revealed himself to me.

Brushes with "Greatness"

2010-04-22T16:19:00.000-07:00

The severe lack of celebrities in Portland is both quite refreshing and, at the same time, slightly saddening. I mean, on the one hand, WHO CARES you just saw a celebrity. But sometimes, I miss the sideways, nearly closed mouth mumbles of a friend sitting next to you whispering, "Holy SHIT. Don't look right away, but Bill Murray just ordered a whiskey at the bar and belched."

I trekked across this great nation from Nashville with my buddy, Todd, in a Uhaul jammed to the rafters with a bunch of stuff neither of us likely owns any longer. After a single week in LA with only one car (tantamount to having access to 1 train in NYC, or being beardless in Portland), we began to get a tad stir crazy (drinking crap beer and playing Nintendo 24/7 can get old pretty fast, as impossible as it sounds), so we decided to seek out celebrities around town, spending as little cash as possible whilst on the hunt.

I will tell you this right now: You don't seek out celebrities. THEY seek out YOU.

Look as hard as you'd like: You'll never recognize them. Those ridiculous photos you see of A-list celebs, donning their Elton John shades and towering douchebag trucker hats?

That shit WORKS. I couldn't pick Harrison Ford out of a lineup of people I've smoked weed with.

(Actually, I wouldn't ever smoke with Harry. Word is he's a Bogart.)

Somehow, Todd has a superhero power that allows him to spot ANY celebrity with 100 yards of him. I can't recall the number of times that - seconds after walking past someone - Todd would turn to me and whisper, "Did you see Robert Downey Jr/Heather Graham/Prince/Tom Hanks just then?" And I'd look around, seeing only every day faces, exclaiming, "Where?!" like a kid being told the real Batman just pulled up...and you just missed him.

My point is, out of every level of celebrity in the greater LA area, the first one I spotted was infamous house guest, Kato Kaelin.

"Wait, your Honor...which guy is O.J.? Is he the dead one?"

This high-profile sighting took place on the sidewalk that our garage door emptied onto. It was a fortuitous sighting for us both, as Kato was kneeling on the sidewalk, out of my range of vision, tying his shoelace as I was backing out. It wasn't even a close call (although, MAN, that would have sealed my fate as a hero, had I rolled over that hairdo), but I slammed on the brakes when I saw his feathered mop emerge. He gave me a, "Whoa, sorry, bro" gesture and wandered along in his merry, blond, excessively-styled way.

Within weeks of arrival, I landed a job at a bar/restaurant/coffeeshop a block over, which catered to high-end clientele. There, my celeb-cherry was popped, and I was repeatedly gangbanged thereafter. I'll never forget the morning I poured Christopher Guest a coffee and he actually said "thank you" (I hear he's very shy), or the successive mornings Gabriel Burns would show up for espressos, dressed in fine, linen suits, or when Tyra Banks introduced herself to me ("My name is Tyra." NO SHIT!!!) as I handed her a smoothie. But by far, the one that stands out:

I was working the bar, buried with drink orders, so of course, the computer system went down. I was in the middle of mixing a cocktail for Rosanna Arquette and was about to ring her up when the screens went black. I remember telling her it might be a few minutes until they rebooted, to which she replied, "No prob. What's your name?"

"Russ."

"Hey, Russ."

"Hi. How are you?"

"Good. (sips drinks) Good stuff!"

"Thanks!"

(computer reboots)

(end scene)

I had, at that very moment, my first brush with actual celebrity. It was a bizarre feeling: Like the prettiest girl in senior class had told me my fly was undone - it was utterly awkward, but at least SHE PAID ATTENTION TO ME!

By the end of over a decade working for TV Hollywood, I grew sort of eye-callouses when it came to celebrities. They are truly just people, who are surrounded by a team of manipulators and spin doctors (ironically, save for Chris Barron, ex-lead singer of the Spin Doctors, who called me at my MTV office once to thank me for doing a piece on him).

And a lot of them are far shorter than you're picturing.

At least they're honest

2010-04-19T12:14:00.000-07:00

Living in the current (read: screwed) economic situation, as you can well imagine (and have probably noticed), the job market blows harder than a springtime tornado. I feel lucky to have a solid job, working with cool people, that doesn't involve:

1. Waste removal

or

2. The Gap

but this doesn't mean I don't check out the local Craigslist every now and again for potential full time, tv/film employ. I mean, Annie nailed a job on a kickass PBS series - maybe I could do the same?

After clicking my bookmarked Craigslist page, and scrolling down to the tv/film category, I click. I read. And I am thoroughly amused. The latest (bolded in the appropriate places so you can truly enjoy my frustration):

Looking for software geek / creative video producer using Adobe element 8, Camtasia etc. software.
(we have software; but applicant must have completed videos, powerpoint, etc..to show.
(Unless you want to learn and work on strictly a profit share basis)

Should have gift for script writing, voice over, transitions, animation, ect. (sic) (maybe even 3D)
Must have ability to upload content, direct and produce digitally so to speak. Basically we need video software geek!

Pay by project, very low pay until we complete some projects, but profit share if video's(sic) go well.
No bad stuff so don't worry about that. No nude, immoral, or unethical videos.
Mainly Business to Business films. Highest integrity and character references required.

Also looking for starving actors and actresses.

Whoever dose (sic) this well should make allot (sic) of money as soon as we go live!

Now, aside from the obvious grammatical and spelling errors, what this means to me as a professional producer is:

1. They want you to be able to write, direct, produce, animate ("maybe even 3D") these videos (what the hell are THEY doing?)

and

2. FOR FUCKING FREE

I am constantly amazed by the number of "job" ads posted that match this nearly to a T:

"YOU: Must be able to write, perform, direct, produce, edit, provide contacts, animate, juggle, spit a minimum of 20 yards, and make Republicans have feelings.

WE: We'll just sit and watch you do these things."

It's tight out there, man. If you're employed, thank your lucky stars. If you aren't...I have a project I might need your help on writing, producing, directing, animating...

2010-04-14T19:03:00.001-07:00

If you haven't ever lived in Los Angeles, I'll sum it up for you in a single, quick-capsule review:

That place is fucking WEIRD.

Weird, as in, you've-only-ever-acted-as-an-extra-in-a-Scorcese-movie, yet you insist on calling him "Marty" when you tell me about the three days you spent on set on "The Departed"; weird in that after having hopped off a Greyhound only 15 years ago, you're still waiting to "be noticed"; weird meaning, "I am SO throwing a temper tantrum over this nonfat latte while on my cellphone in a crowded Starbucks", and finally, weird as in...well, the following happened to me. And I'm some dude from a Chicago suburb whose greatest glory growing up was being part of a triple play in junior league baseball.

I'd been working with my buddy Michael for several years at this point as a writer/producer (my constant insisting that I "wasn't a producer" cracked one of my fellow producers the hell up constantly). Michael is a brilliant director, and a visionary producer, whose career stretches back into the late 80s, when - as he has regaled to me - he once saw a producer shove an editor's face into a pile of cocaine, all the while screaming, "KEEP WORKING!!!"

The good old days, apparently.

As luck would have it, we actually began obtaining jobs, mostly from Country Music Television (need to know ANYTHING AT ALL ABOUT ELVIS? CAUSE I KNOW IT), and before we knew it, we'd expanded from 2 people, to 3, to 4. And we needed someone to just keep the little balls in orbit.

So Michael hired an old friend's step-daughter as Production Assistant.

Her name: Willa.

I remember meeting Willa and being stunned by her maturity. At age 19, she had her shit WAY together more than I did, even by 30: She was naturally beautiful, cunningly acerbic, and prompt, which didn't go unnoticed, as we all were at least 15 minutes late coming in each morning.

Willa filed, Willa returned calls, poor girl even stowed boxes loaded with tapes in a crawlspace for us.

Then, one day, I asked how Michael had found her.

It seems his friend - Rick - had married Willa's mother years back. Willa was looking for a summer job before she headed off to college. And Willa's last name was Mamet.

Yes. As in David Mamet . Easily one of the late 20th-centuries' most revered play/screen writers.

"Willa," I asked, in a not-so-unquivering voice upon discovering this nuclear bomb, "is your mother Lindsay Crouse by chance?"

"Yes! Do you know her?"

She said this as though she'd asked me, "Is YOUR mother Ruth McGarry?!?!? WOW. I love her work!"

So, the young woman pouring me coffee and filing my scripts was THE OFFSPRING OF ONE OF THE MOST LEGENDARY WRITERS OF MODERN TIMES. Didn't feel weird at all. Nope. Completely natural. Kind of like waking up one day after a long night shift at the factory beside Heidi Klum, who is stroking your chest and muttering the phrase, "Mind blowing, babe."

Willa worked a few months as our P.A., and was - predictably - wonderful. We shared a lot of laughs and weathered a ton of stress together, the handful of us.

Then, the day came when Willa would be leaving, to begin her freshman year back east. The 6 of us walked to a local eatery to celebrate at lunch, crossing an unbearably busy intersection at Olympic Blvd and Sawtelle in West LA. While we were in the midst of our crossing, a car skidded to a stop, narrowly missing mowing us all down like an incomplete set of bowling pins. We addled on to the restaurant, hearts pounding. One coworker summed up that moment to me that really sent it home: How the world views Hollywood and showbusiness, and the hefty importance beset upon it:

"You what would have sucked if that car had killed us all? The headline would have read, 'David Mamet's Daughter and Five Others, Killed in Accident'. We would have been remembered as 'five others'."

LA, man. What a weird place.

Interview

2010-04-13T19:30:00.001-07:00

I'll write a lengthier description of my interview with Ultra-champ Hal Koerner, but suffice it to say: He and his fiancee Carly are two of the sweetest, most down to Earth people I've had the joy of meeting. And both give a great interview.

County Cork Public House/Public Drunkeness

2010-04-04T13:13:00.001-07:00

The pub I work at caters to a laid-back, family crowd. It is a place to relax, share a beer or three with friends, converse, catch up, nibble on a basket of fish and chips...in other words, HEAVEN, and the purest definition of a true Irish pub.

Last night, things shifted.

Business wasn't too terribly insane (thank the LAWD - the last 2 months, every shift has been K R A Z Y), so I wasn't running around like a maniac for once, when the pub owner - in having dinner with her family - approached me, speaking in sotto vocé:

"Don't pour the guy at the end of the bar another beer. I think he's wasted."

I peer across the bar and see a 30-something hipster watching the basketball game, looking not at all drunk. I thank her and go back to my bid-nezz ( I promise to never again type that word) when I hear my co worker say to said customer, "I need an I.D. or credit card to give you darts."

We have 2 traditional, cork dartboards, and a handful of very nice darts we loan out. All ya gotta do is give us something you will miss if you "accidentally" walk off with them. Yeah, as "accidental" as reaching over to brush a woman's hair out of her eyes and dragging a pinkie on her boob.

Uhhh...so I've heard.

I dash off to pour some beers and return to the end of the bar to see that the patron has EVERY CARD FROM HIS WALLET LINED UP ON THE BAR. He waddles over to the dartboards. I deliver said beers. I return to see him hucking the darts with every ounce of energy he has left in his buzzed carcass at the boards, missing every time.

Okay, rummy, it's time to go, think I.

The owner is now on her feet (all 5'2" of her) with fire in her eyes.

"Want me to...?" I start.

Her nostrils flair. "Oh no. I've got this," she growls, with a look I pray to never be on the receiving end of. Seriously. I actually felt like *I* was in trouble for a second.

I continue pouring and delivering beers and see her talking with Boozy O'Whiskey in a low, stern voice. Then I hear the front door slam. The owner's husband looks at me and says, "He tried to go through the door."

More beers poured, more dropping off ensues. Then, I see the pub owner marching with wicked intent to the front door, with a look that can only be summed up with the word "FUCKINGPISSEDOFF" (a word I just invented, FYI. Don't look it up on Wikipedia).

As it turns out, Slurry Zambuca marched out front, declaring he was being 86'ed for "beeeinggg ruley", and decided to pet a dog that was tethered to a bike rack. And, as it also turns out, was BITTEN IN THE FACE BY THE DOG.

I mean, how drunk do you have to be to GET BITTEN IN THE FACE BY A DOG? Unreal.

The evening ended with the most drunken patch of people I've yet dealt with playing darts and not catching on to the fact that the lights were all up and the music had stopped and I was yelling, "We're closed! Have a good night!" Know what cures that?

A little band called Tesla at full-volume.

WS

2010-03-20T13:11:00.000-07:00

It's time to come clean: I've been hiding something from you. It's a dirty little secret that, well, I frankly can't hold in any longer.

We've known each other for quite awhile, haven't we? We've seen the ups, the downs, the gray in between. So withholding this from you has been difficult, and now, I deem it unnecessary to keep you uninformed...

This summer, I am recording and editing a piece to submit to the public radio show This American Life.

I've been prepping this since November of last year, slowly but surely putting the jigsaw puzzle pieces into place, and the first week of April, I'm beginning principal recording.

The piece will be on the Western States 100, the granddaddy of 100 mile racing. I'll be following the journey of two runners: Hal Koerner, 1st place finisher, going for his third win, and my dear friend Dr. Kate Merrill, running her first Western States, going for her third 100 mile finish.

I'll record with Hal at his home in Ashland, OR next month, hit the Oregon coast in Astoria to record with Kate later that month, then, in June, with press passes in hand, Gary and I will traverse the entirety of the race course, first following Hal from aid station to aid station to his (hopeful) win, then doubling back to follow Kate's journey.

There. I feel better now that I've admitted my secret. Whew. Don't you feel better? There, there. Don't cry...wait! Where are you going?!? Is it something I said???

Sure, I can run 50 miles just for fun...

2010-03-17T12:20:00.001-07:00

...but working at the pub on St. Patrick's Day will undoubtedly leave me in a quivering, exhausted heap. Last year, it was wall to wall patrons for 8 hours straight, and the unending din of the 4 back-to-back Irish bands left the "deedle-dee-deeing" of a bagpipe in my head for days. I seriously went into the walk in cooler to escape it. One of the cooks joined me and asked, "You can still hear it, right? It's not just in my head, RIGHT?"

Happy St. Pat's to you all! I hope to come out of it alive. And without DEEDLE-DEE-DEE DA DEEDLE DA DEE running through my brain for the coming week.

Here we go again

2010-03-10T11:19:00.000-08:00

During our 20 mile, hilly run yesterday, Gary and I were expounding on the virtues of hill-training for this September's Pine to Palm 100 miler (Oh, I didn't mention I'm running another 100 on my 40th birthday? Errr, I am.) as we huffed and puffed, climbing and descending. I mean, ya gotta train for what you're gonna run, right? Lookit this profile:

Yup, that's THREE mountains we'll climb up and drop down. Anyhoo, as I blathered on and on (and on), the following words leaped from my drooling, dry, gasping mouth:

"If you aren't hurting during your long run, you aren't training right."

We both guffawed and cackled, and then we stopped. It's SO true! You need to get into that discomfort during your long runs to prepare yourself for the discomfort of the race, because it WILL come - no denying it.

And so I now dive back into my 100 mile training for the fall: The back to back long runs, the you-can't-wake-me-with-a-baseball-bat sleeping, eating like a rabid bear, the wondering where my time has gone (and knowing full well it's been on trails).

BRING IT!

Tunes, jams, and other lame monickers for "music"

2010-03-06T13:25:00.000-08:00

If you're a runner of any distance, you probably get faced with this question from time to time:

"Do you listen to music when you run?"

My incredibly simple answer to this simple inquiry:

Yes. And no. But sometimes.

Okay, maybe a not so simple answer.

Yesterday I hit some climbing, winding trails for a nice 7 miler, and I opted to toss on the headphones, as I haven't for quite some time. It completely changes the way I run. And this ancient article raises the question, "Does music give runners an unfair advantage?"

I have to admit, in my case, it does.

If an adrenaline-pumping song pops on, I find my pace quickening. If a more light-hearted song clicks on, my mood lightens. I find I'm more out-of-my-head (as opposed to my usual "out-of-my-mind" state) and pay less attention to mental distractions ("Is this climb EVER gonna top off?!?" and "Dammit, my ass if chafing!"), therefore focusing more on my running. It's kind of an opposite state than you'd think - music doesn't distract me; it merely distracts me from my distractions.

On the flip side, I can only take music for an hour at a time. I can set a watch to it. By the end of my 7 miler, I HAD to remove my earbuds...at precisely the one hour mark.

The secondary question regarding music is, "What do you listen to?" So here, categorized, are a few samples.

Ass-kicking

Hot For Teacher - Van Halen

Baba O'Reilly - The Who

Fire - Jimi Hendrix

Silly/Makes me smile

I Want A New Drug - Huey Lewis and the News

Heat of the Moment - Asia

M-79 - Vampire Weekend

Plain embarassing

Steppin' Out - Joe Jackson

You Better Love Somebody - Rick Springfield

Roll With the Changes - REO Speedwagon

Luckily, I've already deleted the Brittany Spears from ym playlist, so I don't have to admit that.

Whoops.

Review time!

2010-02-09T17:35:00.000-08:00

I recently had the joy of purchasing the Brooks Cascadia 5 trail shoe. And by joy, I mean outta sight pleasure!

This shoe was in-part designed by ultra champ and all-around nice fella Scott Jurek, and he and the folks at Brooks did a bang-up job.

The Good: Where to start? The way this shoe naturally conformed to my foot made me feel as though I was running barefoot (a current trend in running that I have a multitude of opinions on - I won't get into it here), yet provided a ton of support. My pal Gary and I hit a rocky trail for a quick 15 on Monday for my first spin in them, and I was impressed: Excellent traction and none of the "constrained" feeling of wearing footwear. My foot moved freely and easily, and the couple of times I dinged my toe on a rock, I felt no pain...only shame.

The Bad: On the inside sole of the shoe, Brooks put the route for the Western States 100 miler. It only served to get me itching for my trip in June down to Auburn for the race (no, I'm not running it - more on that later). AND, they put Jurek's record-breaking time for the race (15 hours, 39 minutes) down there too. As Ann said, "It's to remind you that you'll never be as fast as him!"

I kid about the bad. I can't imagine a better shoe for me.

Save for one that can get me to break 16 hours in a 100.

jz part 2

2010-01-24T21:07:00.001-08:00

I have been notified that as of yesterday morning, my dear, sweet friend and teacher in this life, departed on to her next great adventure.

The tears I now shed are of sadness and of joy. What an honor to have been part of her life.

2010-01-13T14:07:00.001-08:00

Back in 199(coughcough), when Ronald Reagan had only been recently dethroned, and our biggest fear as a nation was that some mustached guy in the middle east might just try to take over some small, little piece of sandy real estate and make it his own (it just dawned on me that an entire generation has known where Kuwait is located for their entire lives), I moved from Milwaukee back home to Chicago in pursuit of a burgeoning career in stand up comedy.

Clubs at that time were like present-day Starbucks: Two for every city block. Seriously, almost every bar/disco/nightclub/honkytonk housed at least one comedy night per week (we once almost convinced a comic that another comic's mom okayed hosting an open mike in her basement. Yeah, THAT prevalent), so every wiseass in Chicago had the chance to give stand up at least a single shot.

Located about 6 blocks from Chicago's O'Hare International Airport were two clubs: The Comedy Cottage and Last Laff (note: misspelling a comedy club's name ensured quality comedians).

The Comedy Cottage (above, pictured: comedian Greg Glienna, probably around 1987) was started by Jay Berk and "Big Ed" Hildebrand, sometime prior to the comedy boom of the mid-80s. At the time of it's inception, it was one of the few clubs outside of New York and Los Angeles, so many soon-to-be big names played a week there en route to either coast. Example: In the late 90s, I once heard that Jay Leno ran into Big Ed and hugged him.

Indeed, they were a big deal.

As the boom began, well, BOOMING, the tiny club (which was actually more of a banquet room attached to a restaurant) drew sell out shows every night of the week, and with it's success, Jay and Ed (not the two most easy to get along with fellas) began butting heads, I think, quite literally at one point. Their partnership quickly fell apart, and Big Ed stayed on to run the Cottage, while Jay, in the most passive-aggressive move in the world of comedy - and that's saying something - opened the Last Laff about 1/2 a block away.

Begun, the club war has.

Mysterious happenings, like rocks crashing through club's windows, began to occur, and it was made clear as a half-emptied bottle of gin that if you played at Ed's, you didn't play Jay's, and vice-versa. Eventually, this "understanding" dissipated, and we were "allowed" to perform at both clubs, with minimal grumbling by the respective club's owners.

However...

If Big Ed ever caught a comic talking during a show in the back of the room at the Comedy Cottage, he would inevitably haul his massive self over to you and bark: "IF YOU WANNA TALK, GO TO JAY'S!" in full voice, interrupting the comedian onstage even more so than your whispering and cackling. This became an HUGE inside joke for Chicago comedians, and we'd riff endlessly and mercilessly:

"If you wanna get laughs, go to Jay's!"

"If you wanna take a leak, go to Jay's!"

"If you wanna fuck my wife, go to Jay's!"

and so forth. To this day, if you meet a comedian who began performing in Chicago in the 1980s, promptly state, "If you wanna talk, go to Jay's!" and you will win a special place in their heart.

As stand up's star began to fade, and the over-saturation of televised comedy began to pull the "art form" further under, Jay was forced to shut down his club, and Big Ed reduced his 5 nights/week to 2, and eventually altogether locked his doors. I don't believe they ever made amends either. Last I heard, Ed passed away in Las Vegas some years ago. Of course, I heard this info from a fellow old-timer comedian, so the riffing - in true 21 gun salute status - picked up right where it left off:

"If you wanna die of a heart attack, go to Jay's!"

"If you wanna cremate me, go to Jays!"

"If you want a tombstone, go to Jay's!"

Random neato-ness

2010-01-10T12:50:00.000-08:00

Annie was going through boxes in the basement and unearthed a couple of Polaroid of mine from back in the day:

That's me, at the Ford City mall on Chicago's south side, near where my grandmother lived. The man towering above me is Buddy Bell, ex-third baseman for the Texas Rangers. I guess they were in town playing the White Sox, as evidenced by:

Wayne Nordhagen's presence. I distinctly remember that my mom and I were wandering through Sears when we came across them, randomly standing there.

You really don't get this any more: Athletes are treated more like rock stars nowadays, untouchable to the public...unless you wanna fork over some dough for an autograph.

Oh, crap. I just realized I'm that old guy now who says shit like, "Back in MY day..."

The Finale: How I Learned to Love a Loincloth

2010-01-03T16:44:00.000-08:00

The Loincloth

The title of these entries, “How I Learned to Love a Loincloth”, was a cheap marketing strategy. You know: Somewhat obtuse, with a hint of sexuality. If I didn’t have a soul, I’d be in advertising. Or still in entertainment.

Before I launch into these entries’ namesake story, I want to explore – more in depth – other kid’s party experiences, but I realized as I began fleshing them out, they are better suited as bullet-pointed one liners. Here are a few:

• I once – at 29 years of age – portrayed Santa Clause, complete in shitty false beard and pillow added for belly, at a Christmas party in Los Angeles’ Korea town. I sat on a throne in a hotel conference room for several hours and watched the party unfold. Best piece of the night: A lip-synced version of “Men in Black” performed by two Korean pre-teens, dancing ala Will Smith from the music video.

• Hired by a South Central LA high school, donning masks and robes from hit horror flick Scream, another performer and I ran in and out of classrooms, terrifying the kids. We were walked to our cars by a teacher afterward, quote, “Just in case.”

• This job did have one or two perks: After playing Prince Stephan from The Little Mermaid alongside (an insanely smokin’ hot) mermaid Ariel, we stopped to grab food at a bagel shop. Having to change from her mermaid tail to shorts, Ariel – a part time model - stripped right in front of me down to a g-string, all the while holding conversation.

Okay, now to clarify the loincloth.

Back in 1997, Brendan Frasier was selected to portray the live-action version of the hit 1960s cartoon series, George of the Jungle (pictured). Wouldn’t you know it, a year later, children were anxious to have the idiotic but affable jungle dweller appear at their birthday parties.

If you examine the photo closely, you’ll see what George’s costume consisted of: A wig and a loincloth. And this was handed to me by the cranky Caribbean costume-giver-outer one Thursday afternoon.

“Where’s the rest of it?” asked I.

“That’s it.”

I held up the two, small pieces of leather held together by two tinier leather strands and stared at the wig. Perhaps this was payback for seeing Ariel in a thong?

Okay, so the “event”:

I don’t know if you’ve ever attended a Korean birthday party, but I’ll paint this picture for you if you haven’t had the pleasure: Imagine…all of Korea. Okay? That’s who shows up.

I remember shaving my chest for this (ugh - the second of two times I made that mistake) and trying on the loincloth, I saw that not much was left to the imagination on my wiry, 150 pound frame. Plus, the wig looked like something a sad tranny would have buried in the back of his/her closet.

60 dollars for an hour, I thought.

Now, if you’ve never worn a loincloth to a party with 400 people in attendance, I’ll spell it out for you: YOU ARE THE NAKED PERSON AT THE PARTY. The look I received from the mom answering the front door was that of abject horror. But what did they expect? You’ve seen the movie – this is the uniform!

I was ushered in through a living room FILLED with dozens of (what I’m remembering as) attractive Korean women of every age, all smiling and snickering. And this was just a warm up.

Coming to the back patio, I entered to a sea of black-haired, tiny people, all waving to The Naked Guy at the party. The kids (thank GOD) all rushed me, laughing, excited, and ready to play. As I waded through the crowd of the clothed, my ass hanging out for all to poke, the children's enthusiasm began getting me pumped. After all, George is supposed to be kind of stupid, and I was hamming it up and getting belly laughs from the kids.

We forwent my normal show, and instead opted for actual games, like basketball. I must have run into that post fifty times, staggering and acting dazed while holding my head, and each time, I was like Carlin at Carnegie Hall to those little guys and gals. GENIUS.

This show took place in August, when children’s outdoor parties tend to die off and the kids head back to school. I’d already lined up my first television production job that was starting the following month, so I knew (and prayed) that this phase of my “career” was coming to an end. And even though I was in the closest state to total nudity that I could be in, surrounded by complete strangers, I became blissfully aware that I’d miss these kids, these experiences, these lessons.

As I packed up my things, I was swarmed by kids and parents alike, grabbing handshakes and hugs from what seemed like one thousand hands.

And with that, The Naked Guy exited, having at last learned to love those dangling squares of fabric, Batman’s cowl, Superman’s tights, wearing clown white face, Santa’s beard, Hercules’ wristbands, and Barney’s head. And I know that these children, now full-blown teenagers or even adults, have memories of a birthday when one of these characters magically appeared at a party in their homes, backyards, and neighborhood parks. I’m honored and humbled to have been a small piece of every last one of them.

Note: I did leave out one detail: When I first entered and walked through the crowd? Someone did grab my ass, quite intentionally.

Part 4 of "How I Learned to Love a Loincloth"

2009-12-15T11:46:00.000-08:00

The Non Believer

“What’s this?”

“I don’t know.”

She continued gathering my costumes - the Caribbean woman whose job it was to gather the performers’ costumes. Man, did she really hate that job. I don’t blame her. All she did was clean, steam, and hand out a warehouse full of costumes to a bunch of wannabe actors, writers, and directors.

I stared at and examined the striped pajama top and bottoms. And then the large, furry, yellow head.

I lifted the ticket and read. “It says ‘Bananas In Pajamas’. Have you ever heard of them?”

Caribbean Woman shrugged.

“I really don’t know. I’ve never given this out to anyone. It’s brand new.”

I consulted with one of the company’s owners, and she explained that this was a popular children’s show in Great Britain called – unsurprisingly – “Bananas in Pajamas”, and that it now was gaining popularity in the U.S.

“What do they do? Or how do they act?” I asked.

“They’re just super silly characters with English accents. Just be goofy with an English accent and you’re golden.”

Excellent. I was to be a golden banana. With a really shitty fake, British accent.

I do remember this weekend being insanely hot, because prior to this show, I’d performed in *another “head costume” (costumes when you have to wear a fake head over your own. Most companies pay a little more for this type of costume. This one did not.) and downed two big bottles of water afterward, and was still thirsty. Quick theorem I developed:

San Fernando Valley + summer temperatures + head costumes = possible renal failure.

I can still picture the back yard of this house: Concrete deck, swimming pool, and not a damned sliver of shade. Not a single tree in sight. God dammit, that pool called to me with its siren song.

“’allo, kids! I’m a Banana in Pajamahhs! ‘ow are we doin’ this ahfternoon?” I announced as I entered the party, feeling 100% of the dipshit I must have appeared to be.

I inquired (or “enquired”, as I was British, you see) as to the birthday boy’s whereabouts, and I was quickly led to a toe-headed 4 year old in short pants, playing by the pool. I knelt beside him.

“’allo, birthday boy. An’ what’s yooor name?”

I saw two little eyes peer through the translucent eyes of my costume. There was a pause. Then:

“You’re not real.”

He said it just like that. “You’re. Not. Real.”, as though he had never been more certain of something before in his life. I’d like to believe I gave him his first opportunity to feel true pride. I panicked, hoping none of the others heard.

“Of COURSE I’m real! I’m ‘ere, aren’t I?” (I picture myself doing some sort of clod-hoppy, stupid, bouncing dance to prove I’m a real…whatever I was.)

He stood, looked me dead in the eyes (again, MY eyes, not the costume’s) and repeated himself, like the bad guy in an awful action movie:

“You. Aren’t. Real.”

Regardless of the sweltering temperatures, I broke into a cold sweat. What the fuck do I do? I have to spend an hour entertaining a kid and his friends who will probably utilize the time by trying to yank off my head and screaming, “Faker! Faker!”

Resigned to my fate, I decided that honesty would be my best course of action. I whispered:

“Okay, you’re right. I’m not real. You figured me out. But,” I paused and pointed to the group of his friends getting situated for my show, “THEY think I’m real. Can you keep a secret and help me make them believe?”

This was a major roll of the dice. If he understands my point, excellent, I have a clean slate and can start over. But if he can’t comprehend what I’m saying, or if he simply calls bullshit, I’m fucked. In the ass. With a banana. Wearing pajamas.

A crooked smile crept across his face.

“Okay!”

He proceeded to grab my hand and lead me to the party goers, announcing that I was a REAL Banana in Pajamas, and that we were to do whatever I said.

I don’t recall how the rest of the show went, if I face-painted kids or opted for the crappy magic show, or if my kidneys shut down under the sweltering blanket of the sun, but I did learn that if you show a child respect, they might, just might, give it right back.

Or they could possibly tear off your head.

*I’ll let you in on a little secret: Those poor suckers you see in the head costumes? They can’t see SHIT. Especially tiny children that are knee to waist high. I’m sure I have trampled more children than Godzilla did Tokyo highrises.

Part 3 of "How I Learned To Love a Loincloth"

2009-12-10T17:59:00.000-08:00

When “The Man” Comes To Town

Even if you’ve never visited, the phrase “South Central LA” probably puts a few drops of pee in your shorts.

Cue the, “Russ Has To Perform A Kid’s Birthday Party In South Central” theme music, please. Thank you.

To say that I was nervous would have been like comparing the tragedies of 9/11 to a blind date that ends with the two of you discovering that you’re cousins. I mean, yeah, gross, but at least you didn’t screw before figuring it out.

I remember pulling slowly into the neighborhood, searching for the address, wondering what the hell I was doing. Sixty bucks for an hour of work. THAT is what you’re doing my brain reminded me. You’ve learned to really like eating and having a roof above your head.

Stupid brain, always thinking.

I parked around the corner, as the house was in the center of the block, as I didn’t want to destroy the illusion. What illusion, you dare to ask? Let me tell you something:

BECAUSE SUPERMAN DOESN’T DRIVE A CAR - HE FLIES.

Yes. There I was, in South Central LA, dressed in a bright blue and red, skin-tight unitard and cape, wandering up a side street. The outfit was complete down to the curl of hair on my forehead (ah, the “hair days”), as the birthday boy’s mother had informed me that her son was insistent that the REAL Superman had a curl on his forehead. A few scoops of hair product later, and I had the sassiest forehead hair curl seen since Shirley Temple.

Not a very macho comparison, I know, but my internet is down, and that’s all I’ve got.

The kids were at the far end of the driveway by the garage, in a moonbounce, jumping wildly and screaming. What the fuck do I do? I kept thinking as I peered around the corner of the house. If Superman can’t fly or throw a car, there’s nothing “super” about him. I can’t shoot lasers out of my eyes or see through shit. I don’t even work as a reporter at a major metropolitan newspaper. I’ll just be some stranger in tights at your birthday party…

…UNLESS…

“Kids!” I yelled, as I ambled up. “Hey, kids!”

Ten or so 5 year olds came running to me, as I kneeled, slumped at the end of the driveway, my cape over my shoulder.

“Superman! Superman!” came the concerned chorus of soprano voices rushing toward my heaving carcass.

“Superman, what’s WRONG?!?”

“It was…it was…Lex Luthor…he put kryptonite in my bag,” I grunted, holding out my duffel bag jammed with party paraphernalia.

Good ol’ brain. Always thinking.

“No!” they yelped in unison.

They assisted me to the back yard, where I continued to stumble and groan. One boy pointed at the curl of hair I’d created on my forehead and screeched, “It IS him! It’s him!” The birthday boy had bought it. I was in. Because, as I’d been learning, if the birthday child believes you’re the real deal, everyone falls in line.

Once the kids had “helped” me regain some of my strength, I asked if they’d like to play some games with me, since I can’t do my normal show of lifting cars and bending pipes (and seeing through their mom’s skirts). An enthusiastic roar leapt from their tiny mouths, and I proceeded to have one of the single most fun children’s parties of my short career.

They were captivated. Entranced. Eager to have a super hero paint their faces like a kitty, or Spiderman, or whatever – as long as SUPERMAN was drawing it, it didn’t matter.

Sixty minutes later, after wrapping up, I revealed that their having such fun really helped me regain some of my powers. I couldn’t quite yet fly, but I told them that I’d walk for a few blocks and give it a shot, and that they should watch for me in the sky in a few minutes.

As I walked more confidently (and more “Supermanly”) away, I thanked them, and that tiny chorus of voices all coalesced, yelping and screaming their goodbyes.

Dropping my bag in my trunk, I took a mental photo of the moment: The boarded up houses, the dried out lawns, stray mattresses on the corners, the general disarray of the neighborhood, and I remember thinking how much that single hour likely meant to that group of little boys. Even now, as I type this, touching those memories, I’m filled with emotion.

And I do believe in my heart, at least one of those kids was positive he saw a red caped figure flying above South Central that sunny afternoon.

Installation # Deuce

2009-12-05T01:24:00.000-08:00

Los Angeles County – the area that the kid’s party company served – splays across Southern California for a staggering 498.3 square miles like a giant, polluted amoeba. This is slightly less than half the size of the entire state of Rhode Island. I’ve been to Rhode Island. It isn’t paradise (no offense R.I-ers, but c’mon…), but I’d rather spend a lifetime beneath an overpass in Rhode Island than try to cover the entirety of LA County in a single day by car. Which was expected of us. Regularly.

My 1971 VW Beetle was a $2,000 cash purchase, one that to this very day, I proudly crow about. It was in excellent mechanical and physical shape (come to think of it, back then, so was I). Each Thursday, I’d ritualistically putter over to the children’s party’s offices, pick up that weekend’s costumes, receive my marching orders (packets done up with the parents’/kid’s info), stuff the costumes (ranging from Batman, to a Power Ranger, to once, some kind of evil, menacing dinosaur that terrified every child I approached) into my trunk, and head back home to contact the parents.

Being the days pre-GPS, or even Mapquest or Google maps, or any other variety of online mapping system that leads drivers down the wrong direction of one way streets, I had to get in actual touch with my contacts to receive directions. I would then pull out my *Thomas Guide and begin the long process of figuring out whatever the hell a Laguna Nigel is, and how to get there from Pomona, wherever the hell that was. Depending on the number of parties stuffed into a weekend - a Saturday could sometimes be a 14 hour day - and the logistics of the locations, this mapping could take upwards of 2 hours.

To be fair, once we were asked to drive outside 20 miles of the immediate Los Angeles area, service charges were tacked on, in increments of $5, starting at 20 bucks. On a busy day with a shit-ton of driving, I could rake in 60 or more extra greenbacks. The strain of trying to navigate to these exotic locales, coupled with the stress of sitting in LA traffic, usually meant that money was to be spent on single malt scotch for that night, enjoyed while *sitting in my apartment, dazed, on the floor.

* A massive, detailed map of all of Los Angeles County. They are seriously about 800 pages thick. And nearly everyone's has the same tattered, fucked up pages (page 532 rings a bell).

*No one likes to see a drunken Batman.

My life as a children's show character, or, "How I Learned to Love a Loincloth"

2009-12-01T17:21:00.000-08:00

Having grown up in suburban Chicago, circa 1975-1983, the timeframe when birthday parties seemed to matter most to me (save for the unavoidable liver destruction on my 21st and the thrill of purchasing an arsenal of handguns on number 18), birthday celebrations usually involved a group of sugar-wasted preteens running around a back yard, pausing only to shove squares of cheap sheet cake in our yowling mouths, only then to return to chasing one another and maybe, MAYBE, if the family was “rich” enough (in my case, this would be my best friend Timmy Mace’s parents. Looking back, the term “rich” meant they could afford to build a two room addition on their tiny, two bedroom house), we children might receive a little goodie bag, filled with more multi-colored sugary products, to help us come down from our respective highs until we faded like a lightbulb being smashed by a ballpeen hammer.

On my 5th birthday, Mom and Dad pulled out all stops and treated me and a small group of friends to a celebration at McDonald’s. This was pre-playland McDonald’s, so we were relegated to a large booth, enjoying such celebratory activities as “Squirming Around” and the ever-popular childhood game, “Being Good”.

And that was it.

Flash forward: Late summer of 1998, my friend Todd and I trucked his, my, and my then-wife’s belongings cross-country from Nashville to Los Angeles. Following a grueling 6 WHOLE weeks in our new city, I was shocked to find that my writing career wasn’t panning out the way I’d planned. Which is to say, no one knew that I existed. This is a phenomenon that is almost solely reserved to a move to LA in pursuit of a creative career: The more insulated you are, feelings grow that range between, “Oh shit, was this a major fucking mistake?” to, “Um, HELLO! I’M HERE! WHERE’S MY MOVIE DEAL?

In Southern California, as in space, no one can hear you scream.

A close friend of mine had displaced himself in Hollywood about a year prior and told me that on weekends, he’d bring in a fairly decent payday, for a mere 2 days per weekend, performing at children’s birthday parties. He regaled me with tales of hilarity: How he once purchased a six pack of beer dressed as Wolverine from X-Men and told the two kids behind him in line: “Remember: Wolverine says, ‘Don’t drink and drive’!”

Hungry for fame, and even more so, food, Todd and I signed up at the kid’s party company which consisted of 2 days of training (“How to Play ‘Parachute’”, and a handful of magic tricks a blind duck could figure out) and finally, at long last, an AUDITION.

Yes, welcome to Los Angeles, where the opportunity to make balloon poodles for a gaggle of three year olds requires an audition.

Thankfully, I was notified after my audition (which was comprised of each of we – the auditioners- doing a kids party WITH one another. That was a looong afternoon of adults face painting one another) that I was “qualified” and therefore, put in active duty. I use military terminology to describe the following 6 months because that’s what I was getting myself into: A full blown, fall-of-Saigon-style-finish war. My enemy? They stood 3 to 4 feet, blinked eyes filled with pie-plate-sized innocence, and were duly trained in the art of the stealth thigh-bite, the ankle-kick, and the cock-punch.

to be continued...

2009-11-14T17:52:00.001-08:00

A wedding is a little bit like running an ultra: You prepare, you devise, you think, overthink, put in place specific plans, then dash them to the rocks and start over, you purchase things you may only ever use once in your life and question their reliability, you call on friends and family for support.

And that's the weeks/months leading up to the event.

Two days out, you're a trembling mess, overcome with anxiety, nervous excitement, your bowels stop doing their "normal" thing, and the day prio, you are in a zombie-like trance, unsure of your surroundings.

And then, the "big day" comes.

You barely slept the prior night but somehow feel strangely rested. You glance at the clothing you especially purchased for the day/evening laid out and step into the event's uniform. It fits like a slipper on a certain princess whose name I likely can't type because a certain animation company might sue me. You begin to realize all of the effort and time and energy you've put into it is about to pay off. And toeing "start line", your nerves cool, as the journey to the journey is over. Now, all you have to do is get out there and enjoy yourself.

To say that our wedding was one of the moments in my life that I will replay with joy over and again in my mind barely does it justice. Loved ones from around the globe all converged into one small building outside of Portland for our special moment. Humbled, Ann and I both took a step back and felt the blanket of love wrapped about us. In that moment, a feeling washed over me that I think we're lucky to experience: That love, collected in that one space? It's always there. Not just for that day, or for a few hours; it is real, and it is constant.

By the way, you also feel after the wedding the same way you would after running a race and giving it all you got. Effing WHOOPED, I tells ya.

Our friend Orrin was wonderful enough to surprise us during the ceremony with this mind-bogglingly sweet and hilarious video piece he edited together.

We have awesome friends and family. Doy.

2009-11-03T10:41:00.000-08:00

Stomach somewhat queasy, 100% of the time?

Check.

Piles of post-it notes with to-do lists scattered across coffeetable?

Check.

Flashes of anxiety?

Check.

Planning a wedding is partially like putting together a massive party for everyone in your lives that you care about, where you will show and profess your love for one another. The other percentage feels a bit like walking into a parking garage and seeing that your car was stolen.

But we're excited to see our beloved family and friends on Sunday. And to vow to be partners, forever in this life.

Am I nervous about throwing a wedding? Absolutely.

Am I nervous about getting/being married to Annie? Not in the least.

I think that's the way it should be.

2009-10-22T11:07:00.000-07:00

I spent a lovely long weekend back in my hometown of Chicago: "Sweet Home Chicago", "The Windy City", "The Second City", "The City with Big Shoulders", and "The City with way Too Many Nicknames", to quote an old comedian friend from years back.

Me Mum still lives in the same house I grew up in, and it's always a trip to head back as an adult and encounter the same side door, tiny kitchen, bright living room, staircase that I used to slide down on my little butt (pictured here)...

...bathroom where I'd get stickers for brushing my teeth every day, and my first bedroom, but this visit, Mom and I took a step outside the box (literally: the house looks like a brick box).

We drove to the apartment building a few miles away where I spent the first 6-8 months of my life (the upper, upper left corner behind my very pregnant mom was our unit), then clocked the distances from there to the school my mother taught at (about 1.4 miles), and from the apartment steps to our new home's front door (somewhere in the range of 5 miles). Why did we do this? Because my mother didn't get her driver's license until several years after I was born. That's right: The woman WALKED everywhere. With either me in her belly or on her back: To and from work, then to and from the old apartment to the new house (to work entire days redecorating, stripping wallpaper, and painting, of course) and back, logging somewhere in the neighborhood of 40 miles/week for a few months.

Yeah. I think I know where I get the endurance thing from.

I went for two runs while home, and traced the same winding footpath on the Salt Creek trail system that she traversed daily, trotting along beneath colorful maples and oaks, imagining my very young self looking about as she hiked along, gazing in wonder at the towering trees and incredibly un-shy deer (one walked right in front of me during my 8 mile run. As in, it saw me, looked me dead in the eye, and ambled across the path, 5 feet in front of me as if to say, "Meh. PEOPLE."). It was then that it hit me in the solar plexus like a falling piece of timber: THIS is where I learned to love the woods. THIS is where my tiny brain first began it's passionate affair with silent contemplation, surrounded by nature.

Needless to say, it blew my mind a little.

The rest of my visit was filled with uproarious laughter with old friends, enough Italian food to wipe out an army (I wish I had a reference to an army the Italians defeated, but I'm drawing a blank), and deep talks with mom. Opening myself to learning more about my past certainly teaches me armloads about who I am now. I'll continue this exploration for the rest of my days.

It's good to come home again.

54

2009-10-15T16:58:00.001-07:00

That is how many steps it is between one Starbucks in the Pioneer Square Mall in downtown Portland to another.

And two escalators.

2009-10-13T21:33:00.000-07:00

I'm finally posting some photos from Hundred in the Hood - first, the night before the race, where water, beer, and This Is Spinal Tap were all in order:

Me and Bud at mile 29 or so. This is right before I took off with the water pack that didn't work and had to come sprinting back. Ohhhhh, the DRAMA! (I'm pretty sure he's telling me I need to pee more right here)

MY CREW!!!!! Annie and Mariko!!!!

Bud!!!!

Liam (reading, waiting for my sorry ass to drag in)

Coming in to mile 55 aid. I cannot believe how fresh I'm looking:

This is how you know that someone truly loves you: Ann, addressing a hot spot at mile 55. Those dogs were stinkin':

A kiss goodbye before heading out for another 20 miles until I'd see them again. Both of us being reality TV producers, the original kiss wasn't captured on-camera, so we did a 2nd take for posterity's sake:

Man, what a blast. I'm getting all itchy for my next go at 100!

Once upon a time ago, in a past life...

2009-10-06T11:24:00.001-07:00

...I wrote this blog post. Man, I barely even recognize this guy:

TUESDAY, JULY 26, 2005

It's this simple, kids:

I am going to run 100 consecutive miles.

Someday. Not tomorrow, not even this year, but mark my words, these legs will pump out 100 miles without so much as a few minutes of sleep. It's something that in the past months I've decided that I must do.

I'm signed up for and running a 25k mountain race on August 27th (only 15.7 miles, but in the Santa Monica Mountains, so plenty of elevation changes and hazardous trails), but I see a 50k in my near, near future. From there, it's only another 20 miles to a 50 mile ultra-marathon, and well hell, while you're there, might as well tack on another 50 for an even 100...

I know it sounds crazy, but it's something, one of the few things I've ever considered, that I have to do. Of course, talk to me when I have blisters the size of half-dollars on my heels at mile 56...

Shocking

2009-10-05T11:35:00.000-07:00

I am utterly blown away by my recovery from the 100. This is absolutely the healthiest I've ever felt after an ultra, and it bests my longest run by 35 miles!

I took off last Monday and Tuesday, aside from a 20 minute walk on Tuesday to keep the blood flowing. Wednesday I did 3 miles on the elliptical and then 5 on Thursday, as I was feeling strong. Friday I cranked out 5.35 on Wildwood trail at a comfortable 9 mn/mile pace, and yesterday, a nice, easy 3 on the street at an 8:15 pace. I swear, I'm feeling stronger than I did during my taper, which, I believe, is most excellent news.

So, of course, I'm now scouring the web for winter races and next year's 100.

"My name is Russ, and I'm an Emergency Responder - can I help you?"

2009-10-02T14:31:00.000-07:00

Following my passing the final written exam to become a certified running coach last autumn, I was required to become CPR/first aid certified to back up that training. You know, in case I send someone on a tempo run only to find them in a collapsed heap on the side of a trail, so that my only reaction wouldn't be to silently tip toe away from their twitching corpse.

I found a class that was only a mile from my home, instructed by an amazingly friendly and personable woman who had me repeat the phrase, "My name is Russ, and I'm an Emergency Responder - can I help you?" more times than I care to recall. This, she explained, is the perfect way to introduce yourself when you think someone is in physical trouble: Firstly, you're giving your name to the person. Secondly, "Emergency Responder" could mean any variety of things - doctor, nurse, EMT. It sets the person at ease. Thirdly, "Can I help you?" is a simple yes or no question; easy to answer, and if they don't answer, welp, you kinda can fill in the appropriate response.

Somewhere around the 3rd hour of that 9 hour day, I became keenly aware that such tactics might be implemented on the prisoners at Guantanamo Bay. I questioned the Constitutionality of such a practice but caved. She'd broken me. My mind was hers, and there was no returning: I was a changed man. Was the burlap bag over my head and fake electrodes attached to my fingertips necessary? I have no idea. After all, I was merely the student.

Flash forward 2 months: On an out-and-back trail run at Forest Park, I reached the midway point at a trailhead around my mile 5 and paused a few moments as a reward before heading back. I remember shaking out my legs before chopping down in quick steps back to the trail, and was maybe only 10 seconds back into running when I heard the following sounds echo in the canyon. Ahem:

"SKKREEEEEEEEEEEEEECHABAMOSQUEEEEEAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!"

I spun around and found myself sprinting back up toward the winding road that passes the trailhead, and without even thinking found the words, "My name is Russ, and I'm an Emergency Responder - can I help you?" running from my lips. I emerged onto the road and saw a car, completely flipped over on his hood, in the center of the two lane road. An older man was standing beside the car, with it's smashed windows and still-spinning tires. And as I sprinted to him, what do you think the first words out of my mouth were?

Yep.

He had no immediate injuries, just a cut on his hand from climbing through the decimated driver's side window. A man and a woman emerged from their cars and approached. And what were the first words out of their mouths?

"My name is ____, and I'm an emergency responder. Can I help you?"

We guided traffic around the wreck and dialed 911. Within minutes, paramedics had taken the man aside, wrapped him in a blanket, and began to examine him. I thanked my fellow ERs and headed back on my run, in utter shock. I will never take for granted the training I received, and how prepared for an emergency I was. Or am.

Although late at night, I sometimes awake with a start, the statement so burrowed into me being whispered like a hundred Hail Marys.

So much to say...

2009-09-29T10:03:00.000-07:00

...and so little brain power. I'm gonna attempt to be thorough with this race report, but I can't promise many accurate details, as my brain is still flopping around on the PCT, somewhere around mile 65 or so:

As always, a MASSIVE thanks to my crew! There was a helluvalot of waiting for me during this one, since so many aid stations were inaccessible, and miles 55/75 were the exact same station. You were patient...uhhh...here's where the brain freeze hits...efficient! Yes, that was the word. Efficient, caring, motivating, and seriously? The best-lookin' crew out there. I mean, I know other people had handsome handlers, but you all take the cake in the looks department. And I'll never be able to thank you even-featured, fit lot ever enough. And the volunteers? Sheeeeit, they were enthusiastic and incredible.

Here we go:

After dealing with renting the SUV (don't get me started on Chase bank and how they handle their credit cards) Friday morning, I picked up Bud at PDX and headed to the hotel, where the clerk instantly recognized me from July's PCT 50, when Ruben and I hunkered down there for the evening. It was most excellent to see Bud, who I hadn't hung out with since the San Diego 100, two years ago. We dropped off our junk, grabbed some of the largest pancakes known to humankind (I managed to snarf down two and Bud, after calling me a "wuss" as the waiter took away my half-eaten meal, felt obligated to eat almost all 4 of his), and carted off to pick up my race packet.

I picked up my packet and Bud and I walked just a small stretch of the trail so he could get an idea of what was out there. And what was out there, you ask? DUST. Lots of it. I knew I'd be filthy during this run, but the puffing brown stuff kicked up in enormous clouds as we stepped along.

Back at the motel, I propped myself up and tuned in for my ten millionth viewing of This Is Spinal Tap, and just as David St. Hubbins remarked to Marty DiBergi, "Well, I'm sure I'd feel much worse if I weren't under such heavy sedation. ", Annie knocked at the door, hauling in a cooler filled with water, sodas, food, and beer. One and a half brews later, and I somehow fell asleep...you know those totally fitful sleeps, where your dream heavily, and the alarm gently shakes you alert?

yeah. NOT one of those.

I woke up every hour on the hour and managed a full 3 hours of slumber before getting up, dressing, and suddenly, I was out the door to my second 100 mile start.

Around 4:30 AM, I dropped off my drop bags and began jumping around with the rest of the field to stave off the chilly 32 degree air. I introduced Bud and Ann to Gary - my newest and bestest running buddy - found one of my oldest and bestest running buddies Kate, and Mike, the kickass fella I'd run the majority of the PCT50 with. Honestly, during this race I became incredibly aware of how small the ultra running community is, particularly in Oregon. The funniest reveal will come later...

Okay, I've been juggling with how to write/express my feelings on the race direction of this thing, so I'm going to just toss it out there, edit the shit out of it, and hope I don't come across like an ass:

History: If you don't know, the course was supposed to run 25 miles up Mt Hood, then back down, and then 25 miles south, then back. Well, thanks to our EVIL SOCIALIST PRESIDENT (your sarcasm detector should have blown a gasket with that statement), part of the trail up to Timberline Lodge is shut down due to - oh, I dunno - help save the environment. I feel for the RDs on this, because it was going to be a straightforward race in the beginning. They had to hustle their asses off to figure out how to detour the course and still give us a beautiful 100 to run. And they did! However, after changing the course, that's where the communication hit a brick wall, and I , and many, many other runners, feel that this race was left to die on the vine. So I now continue with this race report, already in progress...

The pre-race announcements included that there would be very few course markings and that we needed to "just stay on the PCT". Ooookay. Then, we were told that glowsticks would only be hung coming into aid stations: Nowhere else during the night would you be seeing them. Huuuhn?. Then, we were told that there would not be an official time clock at the finish, and that the RD's watch was the official clock, so if you finished, and that watch wasn't there, you'd have to go and find the RD to communicate your official finishing time.

Yeah.

There were more than a few sighs and grumbles, and there we were, 5 minutes from starting a 100 mile race.

We counted down (to the official watches time, mind you), and off we trotted, up a road about 1/4 of a mile to the PCT. Everyone started WAY to damned fast, and I got swept up in it, but luckily we hit the singletrack and grinded to a halt, walking the first 5 minutes like dwarves heading off to mines in the woods. Once we were able to run, I got into a steady rhythm, chatting with Kate ahead of me and Gary behind me. Gary and I had decided a few weeks ago that we would stick together for as long as possible, as our running paces are nearly identical and, hey, we really like one another! Who knew?

The dust in my headlamp was fierce, and I heard more than one runner coughing in fits. Around mile two, a female runner ahead of me stopped. I asked if she was all right, to which she replied, "I've been puking all morning. I shouldn't be here." She then barfed on the side of the trail and headed back to the start/finish. Man, I witnessed the race's first DNF, about 20 minutes in.

The rest of us continued, and jokes were bandied about, nerves finally calmed, and paces set in. Before I knew it, we were at mile 6 (or is it 5.9? Or 6.1? More on the questionable distances later) and Annie and Bud were waiting, topped off my bottles, and away I sped.

I spent time talking with Kate's friend Glen, whom I'd met at the finish of the 50 miler in July, and we hit it off most excellently, jabbering and joking, and once the sun fully lit the forest, I, Kate, Glen, and Gary had formed a wagon train that would stick together up until mile 28 (or was it 28.1? Or 29?). We all passed through an aid stop at Highway 58 feeling amazing...and then, came the bees: Gary got nipped in the leg first. About 30 minutes later, as I slowed to hop over a fallen tree, I felt one of those little bastards on my calf and kicked my leg, just as the stinger sunk in. Effing bees. Eff you and your effing sweet nectar.

We hit the Frog Lake aid (mile 14-ish) where Bud greeted me, filled my bottles and put his hand on my shoulder. Now this is a man who has been running ultras for 30 years and 100s for 20+. He leaned in and whispered in his gruff voice, "Run SMART." I instantly felt a rush of confidence. "You're gonna pass a LOT of these people later in the race. Now go GET SOME." I teared up with joy, knowing these words would become mantras later, when the real work needed to happen.

We headed back to the start/finish, passing through the same aid stops, our wagon train still intact, and literally, before I knew it, we were back. I walked to the aid where I was going to change out my waist pack for my NATHAN PACK OF AWESOMENESS and saw that Liam and Mariko had arrived. I was pretty much "in the zone" at this point, so it was down to business, no time to hang out. I gobbled down some PBJs and watermelon as I got dressed, which is when Bud asked, "Are you peeing okay?" I'd gone twice and told him so, and I saw his expression change. "Drink more. Lots more." I don't normally go very often over the course of 50km, but I knew that adding 69 more miles to that involved making sure I was completely hydrated.

My crew hoisted my pack on me, I looked around for Gary but didn't see him, so off I jogged, back on the trail.

Thank GOD, I checked the drinking lines about 100 yards out. The "fuel" line worked wonderfully, but when I switched to just water, nothing came. At all. I stopped, tried to mess with it for a second, then realized it was time for a change of plans. I dashed back to the aid station, told the crew that this wasn't working and strapped my waist pack back on, handing a handheld to Liam and telling him to fill it with water/Perpetuem. I wrapped my jacket around my waist, we transferred gels and salt to my waistpack, and off I went, with Gary right beside me.

This was the portion of trail that he and I had run together about a month prior, so it was great to relive it as a team. I pushed fluids, staying on my one electrolyte capsule/hour, as we began the climb up the PCT towards Red Wolf aid, which really came in no time at all. We figured we were on 13 mn pace, which blew our minds, as we were hiking all of the hills and really reeling in our running paces. I knew that after Red Wolf, there was a 2 mile drop down to a stream, and then a mile + of uphill to the next aid at mile 40-ish. This came and went without incident, save for having a blast together, and we stopped very briefly at Warm Springs aid to refill, and away we went.

We were entering unfamiliar territory for me, as the 50 miler flipped around after Warm Springs, and SHIT, there was some intense climbing. We powered up strongly to Pin Heads Aid (their hearts were in the right place, but when you're halfway through a 100 mile run, seeing printouts of actual pinheads is a tad bit unnerving), and these volunteers were the real deal: They had hiked in all of their equipment, uphill, and had everything a runner could ask for. Knowing that the next aid was 10 miles away (oy!), we filled our bottles and loaded up on food, and down, down, down we dashed.

Gary made mention of a hot spot on his big toe, so a couple of miles later, around 53, we stopped and I addressed it. Lickity split, and we were off again, only to stop a mile or two later so he could address a hot spot on the ball of my left foot. Again, what a team!

We ran more rolling stuff, hiked some ups, and took in the gorgeous views. We were shocked when we arrived at Ollalie Meadows aid (mile 55) at 6:00PM, a full 45 minutes ahead of my estimated time, feeling completely healthy and raring to go. I saw Bud's shock of white hair in the crowd of volunteers and crews and waved at him as I checked in, and suddenly, my pit crew was on the job! I swapped out socks, Annie covered hot spots, bottles were filled, food was handed over, and literally, at the exact same time, Gary and I were ready to tackle the 20 miles out and back to and from mile 65. It was at this aid station that I found out that the front runners had missed the turn as the course was poorly marked and had added a mile to their runs and that an aid station hadn't been set up early enough for them, so they'd gone FOURTEEN miles without aid. Man-oh-man, as if running a 100 miler isn't difficult enough, running it at 10 mn/mile pace and not being tended to?

As I readied myself, Bud, again whispered to me: "Go get some."

The man knows just what to say, and when to say it.

We returned to the PCT and continued south, which is when the front runners were returning. Holy SHIT: They were 20 miles ahead of us! I yelled a hello to Mark Tanaka, who was in 4th or 5th as he zipped by, looking as though he was on a 5k fun run, and that's when I began to hallucinate.

Do I hear an acoustic guitar?

Thankfully, it wasn't my imagination at all: A worker was propped up on the side of the trail, playing "Hotel California", about 200 yards of the next aid station at Ollalie Lake. We trotted to the aid table, refilled our bottles, drank some chicken broth, and bam! We were off yet again. i've never gotten in and out of aid as quickly as I did during this race, and Gary and I pushed one another to keep moving and not dick around.

WARNING: THIS IS THE PART OF THE REPORT WHERE THE WORD "FUCK" APPEARS MANY, MANY TIMES. IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE ABOUT THE WORD "FUCK" I HIGHLY SUGGEST NOT READING THIS FUCKING PART

FUCK.

As soon as we returned to the PCT, the climbs began. Not a big deal, but the race website gave a no idea what we were about to embark upon, and here we were, legs churning uphill on loose rock. We had no idea at this point, but this trend would continue for the next 15 miles: Nearly no actual trail, with only boulders and small loose rock to trip us up, mash our toes, our running settling into slow walking, up and down a mountain to the turnaround at mile 65.

And then the sun crept down below the horizon.

It was a SLOG. Our paces were reduced to 21 mn/mile and I really thought, had I known this was coming, I might have taken it even easier on the first 55 miles. Gary was going through a really dark patch at this point, but I kept plugging away, pulling and pushing us through. Around mile 63 or so, we came across Mike and his pacer, who I thought was supposed to be Joe Lee, coming back from the turnaround. It was, instead, Lanny, who told me he couldn't wait to read my writeup of the race. I promised him the use of a certain word for this section, so Lanny, here it is:

BULLSHIT. That section was fucking bullshit. Bullshit bullshit bullshit bullshit bullshit bullshit bullshit bullshit.

Bullshit.

**** CORRECTION: It was Joe! Man, was I out of it.

We bade them farewell and, what seemed like 200 miles later, we hit the aid station/turnaround, scarfing down soup, refilling, locating drop bags for warmer clothing (it was easily around 30 degrees in the lower elevations) and out we went. I knew it was instrumental to get us in and out as quickly as possible, because as much as I wasn't looking forward to the next 10 miles, I knew that Gary might be at the end of his rope.

We powered out, but our paces were taking a beating. Gary tripped - as he put it - every second step, and without course markings, more than once, we ambled off onto rocks that led us to dead ends. Needless to say, we were frustrated. Many runners were coming towards us, even as we got to the end of this trial, which made us keep shaking our heads, saying that there was NO way they could make the cutoff at mile 75, easily being 8 hours away from that aid.

I was being patient, bitching here and there about the difficulty of the terrain, mostly to support Gary, but I really was laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation: Two men, battered, stumbling over rock in the middle of the night at a slow walking pace out in the middle of nowhere, just to cross a finish line 30 miles later to say that they had done it. My mood maintained a lightness, which I was surprised by, while Gary, who I could tell was in the lowest mental spot he'd been all day/night, insisted that I go on and leave him.

"No way: We started together, we finish together."

My mind went back to my first 100 mile experience, pacing Bud, when he came into mile 75 with his friend, Darren, who was in shit shape, saying we had to carry him with us. And carry we did: No matter how much he insisted that we leave him, Bud doubly insisted that we continue with him. At long last, we stumbled across the finish an hour ahead of the cutoff.

FINALLY, the trail ejected us onto a fireroad at the mile 72 aid, and I spun around and flipped the trail we'd come off of the bird.

"Good fucking riddance!" I yelled, which caused the volunteers to erupt into laughter.

We checked in, checked out (the guitarist was now onto "Take It Easy" - it had been an all-Eagles night, I assume) and headed to the 75 mile aid station, where we'd pick up Bud. Running had begun to become a problem for me, as the rocks and gain and loss for the last 18 mile really took it's toll, but we were able to maintain a strong power walk on the flats and ups and before we knew it, we were heading down the intersecting trail to our crews.

I knew I needed to eat, so I sipped some chicken soup and noodles while my crew readied my night gear. Annie wrapped a blanket around me when "it" hit. And by "it", I mean...

"I gotta puke."

I wandered into the dark, away from everyone, and wretched up a good portion of noodles. Bud came by just to make sure I was okay.

"My first puke during a race," I told him. Never a prouder moment for me during an ultra!

The overall atmosphere at that aid station was like a war zone. I'm thinking most people who dropped did it there, because there were a lot of miserable, moaning, groaning souls there. After 10 minutes of readying, I had my pack on and was ready to go. I told Bud to be prepared for some walking. He had no idea.

The three of us climbed out and onto the PCT and I knew something was wrong within a half hour. My legs were like lead. Lead filled with rock and stuff even heavier than lead. Super lead? The 10 mile climb to the mile 85 aid was taking it's toll, but Bud stayed ahead pulling me, and Gary hung in tight behind me, getting dragged up that mountain.

We came across another runner, Baldwin, who was cheery and chatty, which helped raise the mood and our spirits a little. He'd taken a nap trailside and was feeling a ton better. Our small talk dwindled and we left Baldwin behind, now chatting here and there about Larry Davis' series "Curb Your Enthusiasm".

"COFF-ee and miLK...COFF-ee and miLK..." Gary and I bandied back and forth to one another. Yes, it was hilarious at the time, but then again, just about anything would have been. Gary, i couldn't find the bit on youtube, but I did find this one, which popped in my head while we were quoting.

After 9,000 more hours, Baldwin caught us again and yelled, "Hey, Russ and Gary, is that you?" We responded positively, to which he replied, "Are you 'Rustyboy'?"

Holy shit, whaaa????

"I read your blog!"

Now if that wasn't a kick in the ass. I again began wondering if I was hallucinating. So Baldwin, this shout out goes to you, my friend. You were strong as hell out there!

When we dragged our dying carcasses into the mile 85 aid, Bud wanted a realistic assessment to see if we'd make the 30 hour cutoff at the finish. He asked a volunteer how far it was to the next aid. The worker twisted his face into an apologetic knot.

"Uh, well, it could be anywhere between 5 miles and 6.1. We've been hearing that range. Sorry, I wish I could be more accurate."

Bud's jaw literally dropped.

"Screw it, we're movin'," he told us, and after some soup, down, down we started, and I knew one thing was for certain: My quads were going to be as useful as two flat tires on a mountain bike heading down that hill. I could barely walk, and the reality began sinking in - this was no longer fun, or a challenge. This was a painful impossibility.

I allowed those realizations to drift in and out at we slowly made our way downhill, not judging, just letting them sit there alongside my, "Relentless forward motion!" mantra, when it suddenly came crystal clear. And Bud, with his ultra-6th sense - turned to me within minutes and saw it.

Bud: "Okay, Gary: Do you think you can make it to the finish?"

Gary (in the most unsure and hilarious tone): "Yeah? Why?"

Bud and I explained that I couldn't go on beyond the mile 91 aid. If our math was correct, from that point it was another 11 miles to the finish (the race was "actually" 101.9, although the jury's out on that). This means we'd have to average 2.5 mph to the finish, and I knew that a major climb still awaited. I'd be lucky to be able to make it to the top of the damned beast.

"What? No, you said we'd finish together!" Gary reasoned. He shook his head out of confusion.

"What do you want me to do?" I could read the conflict on his face and in his heart. I put my hand on his shoulder.

"I want you to finish this damned thing."

After it sank in, he nodded and we said our goodbyes, and Bud and I watched Gary's light as it bounced downhill into the dark, fading slowly away like a star.

Bud and I hiked it in to the next aid station and I informed them I was dropping. I honestly couldn't get my legs to move. Kate sat slumped in a chair refueling, and I told her the news. I could tell she was sad for me, but, I said, "I can't even move my legs, and I want to save them for our second annual 50KM December Fatass!" She understood (as much as you can after running for 25 hours), hugged me, and off she went.

Bud and I hung out at the aid station, chatting with the (again, awesome) volunteers, as I radioed the start/finish to talk to my crew and tell them I'd stopped. Within an hour, Annie, Liam, and Mariko all pulled up, while I sat in a worker's SUV with the heat blasting beside Anil: Another runner who'd dropped due to the fact that he was SLEEP RUNNING on the trail. Jesus, and I though *I* was done!

We gave Anil a lift back to the start to his car so he could snooze awhile, said our goodbyes...and that's when I saw Gary.

"HOLY SHIT!" I yelped. He came running over, and I kicked open my car door. He'd finished in 27 hours, puzzled by his amazing 11 mile split. I started crying for joy for him - HE'D DONE IT! For 10 hours, I wondered if he'd last another step, and here he was, all smiles, at the finish of what was easily the hardest run either of us had ever experienced.

"We really pulled one another through - what a team!" he gasped exhaustedly. And then and there, with nearly 200 shared miles between us, we promised to run as a team again, possibly during a multi-stage, multi-day race. And I don't doubt for one second that it'll happen.

As we drove away from the course, my mind already began it's conflicting thought processes: Was the last stretch really 11 miles? Probably not. Since it was likely shorter than that, could I have made it prior to the cutoff? I'll never know. But the most important thematic questions rise above the chatter of these silly second-guesses:

Do I run these races to finish them? Do I put my body and mind on the ridge of the unknown to simply cross a finish line, or is there something more I'm after? Then, I re-read what I've put down on paper above, and the focus becomes clear as a lake resting in the middle of a mountain range...

It's what happens between "start" and "finish" that I relish: The people, the love, the fear, friendships old and new, the pain, the joy - these are finisher's medals that I'll carry with me wherever I go. And, in the wise words of an old-time-ultra-runner, you can't collect these treasures until you go out there, and "get some".

Meet: The Crew

2009-09-24T09:25:00.000-07:00

Please click here for the appropriate soundtrack while reading the below post:

My friend Liam flew in last night from Los Angeles to crew for me. Annie snapped this shot of him over Christmas when he visited:

all photos are by Ann, BTW

The hamburger he's about to attempt to consume is called "The Ridiculous". It harbors: One pound of beef, stuffed with proscuitto, salami, blue cheese, mushrooms, onions and peppers, topped with havarti, jalapenos, swiss, bacon, cheddar, pepperocinis, and a portobello mushroom.

Yes, he survived.

He's one of my closest friends, and he'll spend day and night shoving food and drink in my face and keeping me on my feet. Hopefully, this burger will be absent. Until after the 100, that is.

He'll be driving out Saturday morning with Mariko, while I'm bounding up and down the trail for the first 29 miles. Annie and I met Mariko through a certain photo-sharing website at a party. As it turns out, not only is she a photographer, she's also a seasoned trail runner. Who knew, right? She and I exchanged frequent emails during the webcasts for Hardrock, Badwater, Western States, and Leadville, geeking out in excess about splits and finishers' times. When she offered her soul for 25-30 hours to crew for me, there was no way I could refuse. Her years of experience of trail running will be an invaluable tool. Plus, if she can "Hello Kitty" up a pic of me covered in salt and dirt at mile 75, I will have won the race, in my opinion.

As you likely know, pictured above is Bud. Bud is an old-school 100 mile runner (his first was over 20 years ago, when only he and about 300 others were running these damned things) who I had the great pleasure of meeting/running with during my first ultra marathon at the Calico Ghost Town back in 2006. He's been a continued inspiration to me, in ways I won't get into in this post, and will be running me in from mile 75 to 101.9 (that extra 1.9 miles is gonna feel like an extra 100, I'm guessing). His sensitivity, knowledge, sense of humor and wisdom will be wrapped around me like a security blanket those last 5-7 hours. Plus, as I told him, he's the one who got me into this mess - he'd BETTER drag my ass to the finish!

Lastly, and not leastly (sp?):

Ann.

Dammit, Annie, how are you so awesome? You've put up with my constant exhaustion, ridiculous absence from social gatherings, stinky running gear, stinkier body odors when I return home from training, an appetite that even a glutton would call "ridiculous" (see first photo), my weak utterances of "ugh" as I lay prostate on the sofa watching free, on-demand, crap horror movies...the list could go on until the internet ended, so I'll stop there. But know that I've not taken one second for granted of your utter selflessness during this intense, incredibly selfish training period of mine. I love you, and knowing that you're out there while I'm inside this insane adventure - having your own adventure - will be part of the fuel that keeps me pushing during the down patches.

So, with that, my final blog post before heading out to the hotel near the course tomorrow. See you all on the other side!

Ahhh, yes: The "Aha Moment"

2009-09-22T14:40:00.001-07:00

Oprah really battered this phrase into the dirt, but I'm a firm believer in these monumental moments where the shroud is lifted from our past histories, behaviors, and old patterns, and we see life for the simple, amazing, and present experience that it is. This is such a bonding of human nature that now, there's a website devoted to sharing the...ugh, I can barely stand typing it...Aha Moment. And here's one that has to do with ultra running.

And here is a link to another poignant Aha Moment.

2009-09-21T11:06:00.000-07:00

For my birthday, Annie treated me to an awesome day/evening getaway in Government Camp at The Resort, which happens to only be about 45 minutes from the 100 race course.

Prior to check in, we wheeled over to the course so Ann could at least see a couple of the aid stations and get the overall layout. We then tooled to the hotel, took in a couple of hours of crap reality-tv, and unfolded a super-detailed map of the race area that we'd picked up at the ranger station. Charting out times to each aid stop at a reasonable pace (15 mn miles), I discovered that, OH SHIT, I'LL ARRIVE ONLY 5 MINUTES BEFORE THE CUTOFF AT THE 55 MILE MARK!

Okay, that was the taper (and after-dinner scotch) talking. Looking at it this morning, I'll arrive 2 hours ahead of the cutoff.

Man-o-man, was the weekend restful. Something we've discovered: We both LOVE to hang out in hotel rooms. LOVE IT. I don't need much on a birthday, not even a cake...although I have to admit, I crack up every time I witness a grown adult blow out candles on a cake and everyone surrounding him/her wildly applauding.

"Good JOB!" they all seem to be saying. "Whosa BIG BOY?!?!"

So my (perfect) birthday treat included watching horrific reality tv on a flat screen, sitting on the most goddamned comfortable king-sized bed ever stitched and stuffed, and shoving room service food down our gullets. Oh, and sleeping 11 hours.

Right there, THAT is the gift that keeps on giving.

2009-09-18T11:39:00.000-07:00

July of last year, I ran as a course sweeper with Kate at the PCT 50 miler. After spending 25 miles and 7 hours (the final 6 miles was a slog, spent following a runner who should have been DQed for not making a cutoff), we climbed in her car to shuttle me back to mine. I can't recall exactly how the conversation started - probably something about fall races - when Kate mentioned her September birthday. An odd feeling crept across me, so I asked, "Which day?", to which she responded, "The 18th."

"Me too!" I yelped.

Happy dual-birthday, Kate! Hey, whaddya say next weekend, to celebrate, we run 100 miles or somethin'?

Nah. What kind of idiots would do that?

Eleven

2009-09-15T11:41:00.000-07:00

256 or so hours.

15,400 or so minutes.

I won't break it down into seconds, but I could if I were more anal.

I'm doing a fair amount of visualization for the race; watching myself powering up the hills in strong hiking strides, gliding the downhills and flats, cruising in and out of aid stations, slowing only to fill my water bottles and grab food, and finally crossing the finish with a smile on my face...beneath layers of caked-on dirt and soot. And some dried snot on my upper lip.

Having a vivid imagination, I can get very specific.

I visualized a ton for my last shot at 100 miles, and I was absolutely amazed how much it helped. Of course, I never pictured being injured at mile 56, sitting in a chair, wincing and shaking my head as my crew asked I thought I could continue, but hey, that's ultra: Make a plan and be ready to change it. Or trash it.

(Oh, and: 924,000 or so seconds)

WARNING: THIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH RUNNING A 100 MILE RACE

2009-09-10T23:41:00.000-07:00

But it's one of the funniest moments on 30 Rock of all times. And it's stuck in my head.

Working on My Night Cheese

And so it begins...

2009-09-09T11:40:00.000-07:00

THE TAPER

I constantly ping-pong on my feelings once I begin reducing my mileage before a race: There's definite relief, particularly this go 'round (I've logged 1,450 miles in my training since March, not including the 300 + miles leading up to the start of it), as my body is riding that fine line between "the best shape of my life" and "the utter destruction of my physical and mental being". Tapering off? Man, that sounds welcoming; like an old friend who convinces you to stay out a little later, have a few more beers, eat more unhealthily than you would normally...of course, when you wake up the following morning wondering where your pants are, and why everyone around you is speaking Latvian, you realize the double-edged sword such a relationship is.

I can guarantee I'll be a nervous ball of energy once my mileage begins dipping. Last go 'round at 100 miles during my taper, I broke down into tears in a mall parking garage (not that that's abnormal. But this time, it wasn't because The Gap didn't have a size Medium sweater vest that I liked). I awoke on several occasions convinced that I hadn't enough energy to run 10 miles, never mind 100. Phantom pains arrived and settled in bizarre places on my knees, ankles, and hips. Of course, every time I dive into a taper, I expect these feelings of anxiety, weird aches and mood shifts, and although I logically know it's not "real", pulling myself out of it is emotionally impossible. So I'm just gonna go with it, accept that it's part of the process, and keep my eye on the prize.

If you happen to see me blubbering in my car at a stoplight, or if, in conversation, I snap and tell you that the sound of your voice makes me want to pop my eardrums with a rusted screwdriver, please understand: It's nothing you've done. It's just The Taper talking.

2009-09-07T21:25:00.000-07:00

Today marked my final big back-to-back runs (30 yesterday, 20 today) prior to the 100. I ran it with Gary, a fellow Hundred in the Hood runner, and we came to an agreement, as we huffed and trudged our ways up and down the hilly terrain, which made us laugh...

Running ultra marathons is all about overriding the mind/body's instinct to protect us from ourselves; ignoring the "STOP BEFORE WE DROP DEAD" signals. And this takes courage - to trust that all is well during moments that wave every red flag there is. I suppose this is what draws me to this sport. We basically run straight into the line of fire and dodge all of the messages that tell us that this is a bad idea.

Also, we mused about how we love the "I hate this feeling"-feeling. In fact, dammit, I relish it.

Which I think sounds a little twisted to *most folk.

*the entire planet

2009-09-07T00:14:00.000-07:00

Amazing

Running: The "cheap" sport

2009-09-04T17:09:00.000-07:00

Shoes: 3 pair at $100 a pop

100 mile race entry fee: ~$165

Gus/food/electrolytes for training: Easily over $500

Hotel for pacer/crew/myself: $200

Rental SUV so crew can access aid stations: $50/day

This is just off the top of my head. I don't want to add up the actuals. Oh:

Therapy to figure out why I do this: $60/session

NEW TOY

2009-09-03T18:57:00.001-07:00

Since there will be EIGHT, EIGHT, EEEEIGGGGHHHHT (8) inaccessible-to-crew aid stations at the 100, with no drop drop bags either, I decided to get effing serious and purchased a Nathan pack that is rivaled by no other.

This sucker holds 100 ounces of fluids and has more pockets than Grandpa Joe's overalls (I have no Grandpa Joe, nor does anyone in my family farm). AND, get this, it has a separate reservoir for energy drink/electrolyte drink. Show 'em, Vanna:

That little orange dial actually allows you to switch back and forth from water to mixed drink, OR, you can combine the two.

I seriously have the biggest nerd smile on my face right now.

2009-09-02T09:53:00.000-07:00

I always took great pride in the fact that, although my feet have been trotting up, down, and across trail/roads/sidewalks for a handful of years, they've never once taken on the look of the nightmarish talons I'd seen on other runners.

Welp, this week, that all changed: 3 blisters and several "false start" blisters. One of my toenails most definitely has a bruise beneath it.

I couldn't be more proud.

2009-08-31T20:38:00.000-07:00

On a 20 miler today, I ran with Gary; a cool, kickass fellow runner who will be tackling Hundred in the Hood as well. We ran part of the race course, out on the dusty, winding trails near Mt Hood, and as we descended back down towards where the start/finish area will be staged, he yelled back to me: "Imagine this is mile 99.7 and how good it will feel!" It really put me in that future moment, and what a rush! All of the visualization in the world pales in comparison to actual visualizing that moment there, where it will happen.

Can. Not. WAIT.

The itch grows deeper.

Okay, so I missed one entry. Sue me.

2009-08-30T20:39:00.001-07:00

Quite un-shocking that I found myself on the sofa last night watching "Karate Kid" thinking, "CRAP! My blog post today!", as it was the only single day that I'm not running or working. I opted instead to pick up a new pair of shoes (another un-shocking piece of news), some Gu "Chews", have a BBQ sandwich and do some reading, then proceeded to hit a brew and view with Annie to view the latest "Star Trek" movie. Which was damned fine entertainment, I must admit. Our jokes feigning confusion between "Star Wars" and "Star Trek" never got old. Especially when Ann kept calling it "Star Track". Ohhh, the humor.

I ran 30 today, with 20 looming tomorrow, and it got me to recalling my first 50KM adventure not a handful of years back. I remember how completely thorough my training was (some things never change), logging every single minute to insure I wouldn't drop dead out in the desert. I was instantly swept back to the starting line, eyeballing the crazy people, wondering if I belonged, and the thrill of coming in a full 15 minutes under my "secret goal" of 6 hours, feeling fairly fresh, and smelling not so.

I remember my newfound friend, Bud, out during that first 50KM, calling it a "training run", and wondering what planet he called home, and now, just 4 years later, I can step out my front door, calculate my time, and head to the woods for a little ol' 5 hour adventure. And then awake the next day and pretty much run a road marathon. Having run a 22 mile trail run only 3 days prior.

30 miles is truly a mere training run.

I'd call myself blessed, but that sounds too 700 Club, so I'll stick with saying I'm incredibly lucky to be able to head to the trails, run 30 miles, shower, change, and not hobble around in the least. Although I was pretty slow as I walked into the brewery we hit earlier for dinner, but that's simply fatigue. Pft. A little fatigue never hurt anyone. Right?

And so here I sit, 4 weeks out from my second 100 mile attempt, wondering with great expectation when the day will pass that an "easy" 100 will leave me much in the same state of mind:

"100 miles with only 12,000 feet of gain? Nothing like an easy training run!"

"That's ultra!"

2009-08-28T14:34:00.001-07:00

For those of you who haven't seen it, here is Andrew Jones Wilkins around mile 76 at the Leadville 100 last weekend, where he placed 9th. He also placed 10th at the Hardrock 100 in July and 10th at the Western States 100 in June. That's what he's talking about when he quips, "It's been a long summer."

Warning: Pretty graphic, but don't let it stop you. The ending of the clip pretty much sums up ultra running.

On Crap Beer and the Reward For A Long Run

2009-08-27T16:29:00.000-07:00

It's my dirty little secret, and it's time to let it out of the bag: I LOVE a crappy beer post-long-run. Watery, low alcohol, with little to no taste. In Portland, this is the criminal equivalent to ordering a plate of dog shit at a 5 star restaurant. For, as you know, the Pacific NW is host to flavor-infused, carefully crafted, meticulously concocted microbrews; some of the tastiest, hoppiest, most intriguingly named (see: Pliny the Elder, Tricerahops, and Arrogant Bastard) brews on the 3rd planet from the sun.

That's Earth, for those of you who - like myself - attended public school.

But my taste buds want none of the floral essences, or the mysterious hop combinations after I've pounded out 22+ dirty miles out on the trails. What they want is to be treated like a 15 year old sneaking out to the forest preserve with his buddies to pound can upon can of skunk-ass beer.

And so here I sit, having just finished 3 hours and 40 minutes of scuttling up and down singletrack in the woods, with a Foster's beer can beside my keyboard. And it is GLORIOUS. The taste? Hmmm...have you ever watered down a Budwieser with 70% tap water? If yes, then you're getting the idea. If not, I recommend licking the sweat off an alcoholic bum, and imagining it with less body and taste.

On a side note: I'm 4 weeks out from the 100. I feel prepped as all hell to tackle this thing, as I've indicated, although I am a bit nervous about the lack of crew/drop bag access. The race directors had to reroute the course due to some LAME "Wilderness Protection Bill" (BOO, OBAMA, YOU FASCIST, SOCIALIST, KENYA-BORN, NON-AMERICAN, TREE-HUGGER, PRIUS DRIVING FASCIST SOCIALIST...this was an attempt at irony), but wow, EIGHT aid stations will have zero access to crew and drop bags. Which kinda leaves runners hanging by our asses.

One thing is for certain: Once I've crossed the finish, the night will belong to Michelob.

2009-08-26T17:19:00.000-07:00

As you likely do not know, I do my two shorter runs at the gym during the week, usually on the elliptical, to give my body a break from the banging of the trails. Today, as I settled into my 6 miler, two middle-aged women were talking to my right, beside one another, and through my headphones, I heard the unmistakable sound of the whitest people on the planet trying to rap. The woman beside me:

"My name is Mary...
...uhhhh...
My husband's name is Mike...
...uuuhhhh...
the....uhhhh....hmmm...other day he did something
I just didn't like..."

This went on for several minutes, each of them taking turns. Sadly, I wasn't in the mindset to completely shut off my music and eavesdrop.

I believe they landed a recording deal somewhere around the stationary bicycles.

Being

2009-08-25T16:14:00.000-07:00

When I lived in Los Angeles over an 11 year span, whether I was commuting to work, working, or commuting from work back home (I have just described an 18 hour day in the life of a Los Angelian), there was little time for "being". On the flip side, my life was busting at the seams with "doing", and reflecting back, I have no idea what I was actually "doing" besides getting to and from freelance TV writing jobs that left me creatively and emotionally drained. And not emotionally drained because I was creating meaningful, deep, soul-stressing programming. No, I felt sapped because I was actually putting together television shows that were complete and utter lies, posed as "reality". What I was left with at the end of my hour + commute to drive 16 miles (I once clocked 10k on the freeway and realized that even if I didn't push myself, I could still run it just as fast: 45 minutes) was an overall sense of "WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING?!?", which made "being" nearly impossible.

I always looked forward with great anticipation to my runs - before work, and long ones on the weekend - when I would escape the city to the mountains and...well, RUN. And that's all I did: Becoming a verb in those moments. "I *AM* 'running'," I'd muse to myself. The complete naturalness and ease that accompanied that feeling would soon rinse away my feelings of paddling upstream, as hard as I could, in a cardboard canoe with hockey stick for a paddle.

Having moved to Oregon and shirking the LA "lifestyle", I've found myself with time for Being, and my feet hit the floor every morning and I thank my lucky stars for it. Sure, there are challenges, but they're far more my speed: Which direction to steer a career? With whom to collaborate on creative endeavors, not to pitch to a network, but to create and see where they go? Being in this state of - er, ahem - Being has given my running a slightly different, slightly deeper meaning. No longer am I escaping the scramble to survive; I'm simply going to Be somewhere else for a little while, and do something I love.

2009-08-24T18:07:00.000-07:00

I've been inspired. And, as they say, blogging is 90% inspiration, 5% perspiration, 3.8% regurgitation, and the remaining percentage is comprised of potato leek soup and tap dance lessons.

Warning: These figures may be off by as much as 89%

Author Haruki Murakami's novel What I Talk About When I talk About Running has been in my hot little hands as of late, and - while I find it somewhat disjointed at times - it's put a whisper of a thought in my head about writing about distance running. So here I go: My plan is to write an entry/day leading up to Hundred in the Hood on September 26th; nearly one month to the day of the race.

I've noticed a shockingly obvious parallel in my life. As a writer, I've pumped out a few handfuls of short stories, some tragically lame poetry, and have about 4 unfinished screenplays forever living on my hard drive. But writing a novel? Sure, why not? It's only the most painfully long process you can put yourself through as a writer. I mean, why sketch a simple 12" x 12" portrait when you could paint a mural on the side of the Sears Tower?

I completed the first draft of my first novel and am currently rewriting my second draft. This is a little bit like beating yourself over the head with a Louisville Slugger, allowing the wounds to heal, and then beating yourself over the head with a hammer; slightly less painful, but it still leaves you groaning.

So I've tackled/am tackling writing a novel. And running? Why, I could try to train for my fastest road marathon/10k/5k/trip down the block, couldn't I? Instead, I choose to undergo training that can only be described as the most physically and psychologically transforming experience of a lifetime. Again: Why bust out a sub-20 minute 5k when you can drag your sad, sorry ass across mountain terrain for 25-30 hours?

I suppose I enjoy the "process" of both undertakings. The actual 100 mile race, the physical novel? Most excellent to experience, touch, sniff (okay, maybe just the novel). Absolutely. But how I get there is as of much, if not more, importance to me. How could I hand off a book to friends, loved ones, and complete strangers without first getting the idea, and then growing it into an outline, then writing the prose? And how in the HELL could I run 100 miles in a single day without planning, obsessing, recording, um, well, RUNNING all the way to the starting line?

Now, where did I put that hammer...

Quick post

2009-08-24T00:28:00.000-07:00

I am so ready to run this 100.

FYI.

81 miles this week. And I know that next week holds more.

Beat DOWN, I am. Whilst prepping a wedding.

Why is there still a grin on my mug?

PCT 50 Part Deux: The Final Battle

2009-07-28T10:36:00.000-07:00

Morning came early at 4:30, but we got our respective gear together and shlepped across the road to the local market. Our goal: Buy beer for the finish line. However, the clerk informed our broken hearts, they couldn’t sell alcohol before 7AM. This, in a town called “Zig Zag”. I bet if we’d walked 2 blocks in any direction, we could have purchased something far more potent to celebrate with.

45 minutes later, we were parked at the start finish, changed, picking up our packets, and ready to roll. Ruben introduced me to Lanny: A member of our running group (by which I mean, the running group I’ve never actually run with). He’d been nursing a hip injury and had only decided at the last minute that morning to chance it on the run.

“If I have to drop at mile 28 (an aid station located at the start/finish), then I got in a 28 mile run.”

Ultras at 50+ miles are such a hodge-podge of equipment planning: Some people are loaded down with gear/water packs/clothing/bandanas; others carry only water bottles, and then, then there’s Ruben: One handheld bottle and a Snickers bar. That’s it. Snickers must TRULY satisfy.

A few hellos to trail-pals, I wished Ruben and Lanny luck and made myself to the center of the pack, not wanting to get in the way of the big boys n’ gals. After all, I was taking this one nice, slow and easy. As if I am capable of running an ultra any other way.

3, 2, 1, and we were off, whooping and hollering up the 1/10 mile worth of road to the singletrack Pacific Crest Trail. I saw Ruben and Lanny sprinting ahead of the pack while the rest of us hit a bottleneck that could rival the 10 and 405 FWYs on any given day of the week. I said to the slowly walking train ahead of me, “I can handle this pace!” as we wandered along for a good 3 minutes. Then, everything opened up, and the shuffling commenced.

It was 6~miles to the first aid station at Crater Lake; a tiny, crystal clear body of water alongside a trail constructed of wooden planks. I made chit chat with a runner named Burke in from Colorado as we ran along, and before I knew it, I had checked in, grabbed some snacks, and immediately checked back out. This was an in and out aid station, and the wooden planks made passing one another slightly difficult. I knew that when we came back through 22 miles later, growing fatigue our legs would make it slightly more difficult. But before I knew it, I was back on the PCT and headed out to the turnaround aid station at Frog lake, 3 .5 miles away.

Settling in to a comfortable pace, I soon caught up with Mike, a local Portland runner, and a funny, affable fella. I mentioned that I had driven out the prior night with the guy I was pretty sure was going to take this race, Ruben. He laughed and said, “I know Ruben!” As it turns out, Mike and I are BOTH members of the aforementioned trail running group that has yet to run with said trail running group. I also suspected that he and I would be seeing a lot of one another during this race, as our paces were nearly identical. I sure was hoping so, because I knew that late in a 50 miler, having someone you get along with running the same pace as you can save your ass.

My dear friend Kate had taken the early start offered by the race directors. Once again, I wondered when I’d be coming across her, and AGAIN, she magically appeared! We hugged, she told me to get a move on, and we parted. That gave me a nice charge and boost, I gotta admit.

We soon crossed a highway and ran another 50 yards to the second aid stop. I refilled, checked out, and made my way back across the road, feeling fantastic at mile 14.

Yeah. Mile 14. In a 50 miler. I knew that feeling would last MAYBE another 25 miles, so I decided to enjoy it while it lasted.

The temps were cooler at the elevation we were running at (4,000’), but word was we’d be facing mid 80s by early afternoon, and if we passed through any canyons, or if tree cover disappeared, it’d be an ass-kicking.

My – ahem – “G.I. tract” had been “talking” to me for the last several miles (ultra speak for: I had to take dump), so I hiked off-trail, found an amicable tree, did my business, and hit the trail, feeling much “lighter” (ultra speak for: My dump made me feel better). Lo and behold, there was Mike, jogging along. We ran a bit with each other, but my legs were feeling strong, so I ran ahead, catching and passing a few runners here and there, hitting Little Crater aid stop in what felt like no time. I gobbled down a ton of watermelon and cantaloupe (which would become my mainstays as the heat grew) and headed back out, the next aid stop being at the start/finish at mile 28.

I passed a few more runners here and there, one of whom was having stomach issues, came across three riders on horseback who informed me that I was 1/8 of a mile from the road. Bam, I hit the road, hung a right, and there I was, at the mile 28 aid stop in 5 hours, which looked a bit like a M*A*S*H unit. People were digging through drop bags, changing shoes, smearing on sunscreen, sitting in chairs. All I could think was, “I gotta get the hell in and out!” I gave myself 3 minutes to refill bottles and hang out as a reward, and I was off.

About 1/10 of a mile worth of singletrack greeted me, and then I popped out onto – drumroll – FULLY EXPOSED JEEP ROADS. Holy shit. The sun was beating down on me like Stan Getz. Or Tommy Lee. Wait: Which one steered a boat with his erection? I forget. And digress.

This road was DEATH. It climbed mercilessly, and you could see at least ½ a mile ahead towards the hot, blinding nothingness that awaited. I mused with a couple of other runners about the “Army of the Damned” that we saw up ahead, cresting a hill: Sweat-soaked runners in a death march, packed tightly together. I knew we’d be joining their ranks soon.

Finally, the Road to Nowhere was marked with a bright pink flag at a trail intersection (remember this fact for later, as I didn’t), showing us with open arms a trail to ease our wearied bodies/brains. We enthusiastically leapt onto the trail and began an ascent. One that made our calves burn and scream in abject terror.

The climb carried on for quite a good bit, and then I finally caught the “Army”, following the train of five for 10 minutes before feeling I needed to run more (we were power-walking as hard as we could). I scooted past and ran when I could, which wasn’t very often, as the climb carried me to the aid station at Red Wolf. The first runner coming back from the second turn around descended at an insane pace. It was LANNY!

“Are you in the lead?!?!”

“Yep!” he breathed, blazing past me. I guess he hadn’t dropped at mile 28. Thinking back, I ‘m sure I saw him after the first turn around, in the lead. Ruben wasn’t very far behind, as he’d screamed, “Rustyboy!” my way as he tore past.

The climb continued not too much farther when I began seeing signs planted beside the trail:

“My, grandma, what big EYES you have!” the first one read.

A few minutes later:

“The better to see you with, my dear!”

A few minutes later:

“My, grandma, what big HANDS you have!”

Minutes passed, and another sign:

“The better to fill your bottles with, my dear!”

Okay, if you know me, you’re more than aware that I’m prone to get teary-eyed. In fact, the theme song from “Welcome Back Kotter” can get me sobbing. And I actually teared up upon seeing those signs. I love this sport so damned much, and little gestures like these at mile 32 of a 50 can really keep your head even and light. And I KNEW what I’d be seeing at the aid stop.

I pulled in whooping and clapping, pulling my bottles from my waist pack and handed them off to “grandma” herself: A worker dolled up in granny glasses, nightgown, wolf ears and tail. Everyone was joking, filled with energy, although I knew that coming back through after the turn around would be a different story, when this would be the mile 45 aid stop. The heat was growing and fatigue had rolled out the red carpet. But I wasn’t done. Business was still to be settled.

And then I saw Ruben trotting back, firmly in 2nd place, shirtless and smiling! But as we high fived, he revealed that he hadn’t planned on 50 miles feeling this tough.

“It’s a different game, right?” I asked.

“I just want to get to the finish. 5 miles, right? I’ve run 5 miles before,” he muttered, convincing himself.

I slapped him on the back and bade him best of luck. I couldn’t tell him quite yet, but I was so damned proud of him. He informed me of what was to come until I’d hit the turn around: Lots of downhill followed by a bit of uphill, then the aid station. I was grateful to know what to plan on dealing with, but I also knew what “lots of downhill” on the way out meant for the way back. I shoved those thoughts to the rear of my mind, where lingered images of my parents having sex (shudder) and memories of the Bush administration (shudder-puke-shudder).

Off I trotted, and the downhills came...and came...and came, and HOLY SHIT a creek!!!! A couple of runners I'd been yo-yo-ing with all afternoon and I dunked our hats in it, it's ice-cold goodness sending yelps from our burning brows.

"Nothing as refreshing as a hat-full of mosquito nests!" I announced, with the stinging, sweet cool water dribbling in my eyes.

We continued, crossing a jeep road, and then the climbs hit. I think it was here that I took my first header: I scooted aside to let an oncoming runner pass, literally standing still, when I "tripped" and ended up in the brush (which, BTW, covered the trails at certain points).

"Man down!" yelled the guys behind me. I have no idea how one stands still and trips, but I'd accomplished just that.

We climbed to the dead-end aid station/turnaround, and the heat was tearing us new assholes. Several runners were seated in chairs in the shade. I'd call this my "dark patch" right here, as I began imagining the 3+ mile climb that was awaiting, knowing the heat was gonna hammer down harder on us.

I could drop here. It's mile 40. Do I want to push during a training run and possibly mess myself up?

That little voice makes periodic pit stops in my brain, so I have to remind The Voice Called Doubt™ what we're doing.

Uh, NO - it's only 10 miles left of 50, so screw off.

We had to run a little out and back beyond the aid stop, so I pounded up the hill, hit the turnaround, and headed back, regrouping. I gobbled tons of refreshing watermelon/cantaloupe and readied for the adventure back home, downed several Sprites, then saw Mike - from earlier - roll in.

"It was great running with you, man!" he yelled.

"You aren't getting away that easy. You're gonna help me drag ass up that mountain on the way back!" I called to him as he headed to do his out and back.

Now, I was energized and ready. It's amazing how little mind games like that can flip a switch during these big runs. I bounced in place, waiting for his return. When he came back, he filled his bottles.

"Let's rock this thing," I told him, and off we patted, on our short (ooohhhhh, TOO short) downhill.

Okay, I may have mentioned above here, but, well, THAT UPHILL WAS OUT TO KILL US ALL!!!!! Holy hell, it was steep. Steep, as in, power-walking wasn't even an option at this point. I'm a sea level dweller, and the race started at 4,000'. One runner, on our way down, told me his Garmin said we'd lost 800' in 1/2 a mile, so here we were, making it back up. As the air grew thinner, my stomach began doing cartwheels. Very BAD cartwheels, like ones you see on a playground that make you wince when a kid bashes his head on the asphalt. We pushed, caught two female runners who were looking none-too-pleased about the grade, and basically stayed with them the entire 45+ minute climb. Conversation dwindled to a dull series of grunts and moans, and it seemed like 5 days passed until we hit the last aid station. I stumbled in behind Mike, filled up again from Grandma, and gave myself a pep talk.

"YOU'RE THERE. Finish this!!!"

The workers were SO sweet and supportive, and as I charged out after Mike, they hollered and cheered as I yelled, "I can almost smell the beer at the finish!"

Then, the downhills began. I had been looking forward to them for over an hour on that mother-trucker of a climb, and here they were. I jogged most of them, my energy returning slowly. Mike had carried on ahead, as the only thing left to do was claw our ways to the finish. I popped in my earbuds and landed on the song that is absolute magic when it comes to picking up the pace for me:

I really wanna know

As soon as Pete Townshend's guitar blasted through the smashing of Keith Moon's crashing drums, I found my pace quickening. And I mean QUICK - I passed about 6 runners (including Mike) as I beat away at air drums, the tears coming, the thrill of racing in the woods overtaking my being, and down, down, down I cascaded, hitting the gravel road, hanging a left, certain that the finish was a mere 2 miles from my hands.

And about 4 minutes later, the road ended.

"Shit."

Then I saw Mike bounding towards me. I yelled, "Is this it?!", to which he responded, jokingly, "It has to be. It would SUCK getting lost this late in the race."

Another 4 runners approached. This settled my nerves and at the same time sealed it.

"This ain't it."

We turned on our heels and began shuffling back to the singletrack that had dumped us onto the gravel. Lo and behold, there was an entrance to more singletrack, poorly marked, but there it was.

"DAMMIT!" one runner yelled, grabbing his pacer and heading down. "If I finish in 11:02, I'm gonna be pissed." He told us that we'd added exactly 1 mile to our run with our detour.

Now it was every man for himself. Mike took the lead, and the above runner and pacer took off ahead of me, angrily pounding the trail. I was just relieved to be on track. Relief would last all of 15 seconds...

Blam! My right instep hit a rock.

WHUMP! I did a full forward flip onto my back.

ZAP! as a charlie horse gripped my calf.

"Hey, are you okay?" asked the runner ahead of me, who'd seen the entire spill.

"Yeah, just this cramp," I winced, massaging my calf as I lay prostrate on the trail.

"Dude, that spill was RAD!" he smiled, taking off.

My scrapes and cuts would later confirm it: Not one part of my arm or shoulder had touched the ground. I had pulled off what we breakdancers back in the day called a "suicide".

Relentless forward motion dictated that I assess my condition immediately (nothing broken or sticking out from my skin) and keep moving, so I did. Seconds later, I hit the actual turn and headed out on the long, arduous, painfully steaming road. I caught two runners and saw Mike on the horizon. Shuffling up to him, I realized we were both cooked, and that in NO WAY had we just run 50 miles.

"I'm putting 54 in my running log," he snorted, and I agreed. I've run 50 miles. This was NO 50 miler.

Mike peeled away and we walk/ran to the singletrack that would pop us up on the road, only 1/10th of a mile to the finish. Through the trees, I heard the cheering for Mike, and my energy immediately returned, as did my running. I climbed up out of the woods, where 3 onlookers pointed me toward the finish. I trotted past the cheers of, oh, a dozen people (yeah, this sport draws the spectators, aka, family members) and saw Kate about 20 yards from the finish. She acted as though I was chasing her, so I hammered a out sprint, caught her, and she grabbed my hand just as she did when we'd finished her race at Headlands Hundred last August. We charged across the finish in 11 hours (maybe less, I didn't see the clock) and she gave me a huge hug, asking if I wanted anything.

"I just need to find a place to puke."

Yeah, that last sprint had sent all the blood from my guts into my legs, and I was feeling it. I dry heaved twice and felt better. Kate came over with a bucket of ice water and washed me off (did I mention already that she's an amazing human being? No? Well, there. I just did.) Ruben ambled over and shook my hand.

"How'd you do?"

"2nd place. 7 hours and 15 minutes or somethin'."

OR SOMETHIN'?!?! The guy is a machine.

Charles, one of my pals who was volunteering, came over and shook my hand, as did Mike, echoing what he'd said 10 miles prior.

"It was great running with you, man."

Ruben led me to a creek, where I soaked my swollen feet, and I rinsed off at a water spigot, grabbed a Coke, changed, and climbed in the car. We were SPENT.

"Now run it again," I smirked. "That's what I'll be doing in the fall."

Ruben shook his head as he shoved the car into gear.

"Dude, I am so sorry."

I called the garage where my car was being healed, and the owner said it would be later in the week, as he was waiting on a part. At least I think that's what he said. My brain was tapioca pudding at that point. I really need to call him today.

Overall, I'm pleased with how it all went down. I had to dig a little, which will happen more than once during the 100, so it's reassuring to know I can easily tap into that part of me, plus I got to see more of the 100 course. I awoke on Sunday with minimal soreness that faded altogether by day's end, so I know my training's on track, and I put in 5 miles yesterday on the elliptical with perfectly strong legs.

Okay, September: I'm ready for you!!!

(thank you to ALL of the workers, Bushwacker Mike, Monika, and Olga for putting the event together, and my fellow runners, who continue to amaze and astonish me with their strength and fortitude and humor.)

PCT 50: Part Un

2009-07-26T09:48:00.000-07:00

This journey of fifty miles (okay, fifty ONE miles, due to some navigational issues...and I honestly don't believe the course itself was "only" fifty. Probably more like fifty three) begins not with my toe at the starting line, nor does it launch into storytime at mile 30, when the real "work" begins on a 50 miler. Nope. Friday afternoon -a full 15 hours pre-race, the drama begins to unfold...

Ruben and I planned on driving out together to a cheap hotel about 45 minutes from the start, affording us the luxury of an extra hour and a half of sleep, which we knew we'd need. I picked him up at 5PM, and off we carted along highway 26 toward Mt Hood. He was especially excited, as this was his first race beyond 50 KM (31 miles). I was especially excited, as this run would be showing me 50% of September's Hundred in the Hood, and I needed to see what I'd gotten myself into. And I was especially excited because I had an inkling Ruben might just win the damned thing.

About 25 miles from the hotel, in "beautiful" Gresham, OR (quotes make for awesome sarcasm!), my car started rumbling and jostling. The "check engine" light flashed maniacally on my dash. My first thought was, "Oh, shit!", followed by the ever-insightful, "Oh, fuck!" We pulled off into an apartment parking lot where I struggled for 5 minutes to pop the hood (calling me mechanical is like calling Gresham, OR "beautiful") and we stared at the mostly computerized circuitry.

Ruben: "Maybe there's a garage up ahead?"

I shit you not, 4 blocks farther along, and there it was: a fix-it garage! The owner was kind enough to take us in, and while I filled out paperwork, Ruben was on the phone with an idea: His room mate was only 5-10 miles further east of us, in The Gorge, on a hike with visiting friends. Maybe she could - on her way back west towards Portland- pick us up and lend us her car? Hey, it was worth a shot.

T-minus 12 hours until the start and counting.

Lo and behold, she was happy to swing through and pick us up, although it would be awhile. Ever-hungry, as ultra-runners tend to be, Ruben used something called the "IN-TER-NET" on his phone and nailed down an Italian restaurant only a few blocks away. We strapped on our packs and hoofed it to "Guiseppi's", feeding our faces with 17 pounds of pasta each.

Minutes after finishing, Ruben's room mate and company came rolling into the lot. We got nice n' cozy for the 25 mintue trip back to Portland, where we'd left 2 hours prior.

Profusely thanking them, we started back out from where we'd just came, hopping on the highway, jamming to Prince. Ahhhhhh. Time to relax, no?

No.

About 10 minutes into our drive, Ruben's phone rang. It was his room mate, asking if we could locate a small pencil case. I turned and found it nestled in the back seat. Inside of it? Only her driver's license. Hell, why would she need that? They were only going out to bars that night. Why would someone in her mid-twenties who looked like she'd just graduated high school need her I.D., I ask of you?!?!

And so, we turned around and headed back to Portland, yet again.

Determined to get to the hotel, or at the very least, give up on life and join a monastery, Ruben pushed the car away from the setting sun towards the hotel, where we checked in at 9:30: 4 1/2 hours after this winding, ambling, stumbling journey had begun.

Tune in later, kiddoes, for...well, the actual race report.

2009-07-22T09:41:00.000-07:00

Sunday's long run - my last before this Saturday's 50 miler - was to be a 13 mile loop, plus a mile out and back, on the trails of Trapper Creek in Washington. It's a bit of a drive, but Annie and I figured we could stop at THE AWESOME PLACE WE'RE HOLDING OUR WEDDING RECEPTION, drop off the contract and deposit, and continue out into the Gorge another 30 miles to the pictured trailhead.

And this is exactly what we did. And then the real excitement started.

The guide book I'd recently purchased called these trails "beautiful" and "winding" and, for the loop I was running"strenuous". Now this is a hiking book, and I? I AM A TRAIL RUNNER, dammit. Strenuous? How tough could it be? I've hauled my carcass up and down mountains for 3x that distance. Strenuous. Pff. Man up, publishing house that spat out this somewhat pedestrian guide to *hiking*.

What's that one saying? About pride and the fall? And cometh?

Before I scurried off, I told Ann I'd likely be back in 2 1/2 hours, around 6:30. She herself was going on an hour long excursion, so we scanned the map so I could double-check the two trail numbers I'd need to follow, made out for a few minutes (not really, but kissed goodbye), and away we went.

This trail. Ruled. Rolling single track with a few short climbs and drops, all along the banging waters of Trapper Creek. I was in heaven. But, to quote The Ozark Mountain Daredevils - which hey, we've all done time and again...AMIRITE? - "...if you wanna get to heaven, you gotta raise a little hell." Or at least run through it. And by mile 5 or so, I was staring into the yawning mouth of The Beast™ himself.

The cutely named "strenuous" climbs were, um, ridiculous! Like, on all fours type of climbing. And I quickly realized that the mile or two of straight up-fucking-hill was taking me from 1500' elevation to 4,000'. The air grew thinner as I scrambled along the tightly winding singletrack plastered against the side of the hill. Looking down, I could see the once rushing and wide creek snaking like a tiny shoelace 500 feet below.

"Shit," I hoarsely muttered, my head growing dizzy. "I am UP here."

And the climbing, as suddenly as it began, stopped.

Just joking: It kept effing climbing.

I kept picturing the map, and about where I was. I stopped and marveled at crashing falls across the canyon for a few moments...which is when the nausea settled comfortably in to my gut. I felt my heart racing from my pace, but I knew I had to plug on, as Ann would be expecting me in an hour or so, and to reach her by that point, I'd have to be FLYING the rest of the run. Which was made incrementally more difficult when the trail - quite literally - stopped at a cropping of shrubs.

"You gotta be kidding." No way was I going to turn around and head back - I was about 9 miles in at this point, the point of no return. It would be longer to flip around and head back than press on. Except pressing on would normally entail, oh, SOMETHING TO FOLLOW while pressing on. My cellphone had zero reception, so calling Annie to let her know I was going to be dorking around out there a bit longer was about as much of an option as, say, having a trail to run on at this point.

I was pissed and a bit freaked, so I dug around in the shrubs, hoping to see some semblance of a dirt path. Nope. Nothing. I wasted about 5 minutes whacking bushes and trudging through forests of poison oak, finally backtracking 50 or so yards and running towards the dead-end, in hopes of giving a fresh visual angle, and POW! I saw it: The trail ended all right, passing between two trees into the shrubs but, well, they'd diverted it to hook around one of the trees set up like field goal posts. I have NO idea how someone without experience in the woods would find it as it snaked perpendicularly to the dead-ended trail, under heavy cover of branches and brush. Elated, I pressed on, now on the "loop" portion of the loop, heading towards trail #132, where I'd hook a right and begin my decent back to the trailhead. Should be only a couple of miles, according to the map...

I'll say it right here and now: Screw that map.

Luckily the trails were rolling, so I could pick up some speed along the way. I passed through a creek, really pushing my pace, keeping an open eye for the trail intersection. After 20 minutes of running, I quickly realized: That map was as useful as a mute opera singer. I raced by a small tent about 20 feet off-trail, where I could see someone sleeping. Okay, if all else fails, I can hump back and see if he has an accurate map. I was fine with food and water. The thin air was playing tricks with my brain however, so I had to keep reminding myself, "You're close to the trailhead. You aren't lost. Get back safely and don't worry about Ann calling rangers. If it happens, it happens. Just be smart and don't slip up/get lost/crap your shorts."

I finally hit an intersection marked by a post without a sign. This couldn't be my turn: It should have been a dead-end, and I would take the right turn. But the trail continued straight. I looked down, and a small sign sat on the forest floor beside the post: "Shortcut Trail".

Shortcut to where? This trail wasn't on the map. GAH, that MAP! I calmed myself, took some breaths and logically deduced that there was only one trailhead for this entire network of trails. "Shortcut" was the way back to that. It had to be.

There was more climbing, which didn't necessarily lead me to believe I was on my way back "down", but I hit an intersection about 8 minutes in. An intersection without a marking. I desperately wanted this to be trail #132, so I hooked a right, following instinct, and began running like a deer down the slowly dropping grade. By now, I was a half hour behind when I told Ann I'd be back at the car. "Can't think about that," I told myself. "Just get back in one piece." Again: My water pack was about 1/3 full still, and I had a Gu left to eat for sugar. I couldn't be more than 4 miles from the parking area. So I dashed.

And I mean, I dashed. I must have been clocking 8 mn/mile on the winding downhills...the narrow, wedged-onto-a-cliff's-side downhills. Again, the drop revealed to me exactly how high up I was, and it was impressive.

That's when my foot slipped on loose rock.

I quickly regained my balance and continued, giving myself affirmations on my speed and dexterity, cursing that hiking manual again and again. "Strenuous"? How about including, "Parts of this trail may give way, sending you sailing 1/4 mile off of a cliff's edge?" Within 1 minute of that slip, another hit, with far more dramatic results:

As far as I can ascertain, my right foot sent a portion of the trail crumbling, taking with it, well, my right foot. My left - now lonely without it's partner - followed suit. Without a thought, I twisted my torso and caught the trail with my forearms. My feet touched nothing but the shrubs growing off the cliff's side, so I was now dangling, held only by my arms, with about 500-800 feet of drop below my kicking toes.

I relaxed and let out a breath, the inhaled and pulled with all I had, which did about as much good as farting into the wind. I saw a root a few inches from my hand and gripped it. You know the scene at the beginning of "Raiders of the Lost Ark", when Indiana Jones, after grabbing the golden idol, has to leap across the yawning chasm to slide beneath the slowly closing wall of rock? Remember how he, dangling on the edge of the chasm, grabs a root and begins pulling himself up, a relieved smile creeping across his mug, only to have the root give way and send him further back down into the pit?

Yup: Exactly what happened to me.

The root gave way, and I slid a good 2 feet down. Then -so as to not infringe copyrights and attract lawsuits from Spielburg - the root snapped. I dug in with my fingers, and with this fresh rush of adrenaline, I cried out, "Heeeeee AAAAH!" and pulled myself up on the trail. And began running without missing a beat.

Looking back, I'm glad that I did, because had I paused to absorb the reality of what had just happened, I probably would have had a nervous breakdown then and there.

So I was back to pushing downhill. I encountered two hikers, scaring the crap out of them, as I asked how far it was to the trailhead. They offered a map, but I felt it best to keep sprinting, as I was now over an hour later than scheduled. Shadows began stretching across the trail. I knew I was growing close, as the drops leveled and I was now on rolling ground. Within a few minutes, the intersection with the trail I'd started on 3 hours prior cropped up. I hung a left, racing now, blowing past roots and rocks to get to the car before Ann had a coronary. Then, I saw her, 50 yards ahead, hiking back. I called her name, and she gasped and turned around. And the tears came. She was literally a 5 minute hike to the car, her plan: To drive to a ranger station and get search and rescue to look for me. We kissed, cried, exhausted from this "adventure", and I, pissed off at that God damned guidebook.

Once we collected ourselves, we changed clothes and headed back toward the freeway, stopping for drive thru burgers and drinks (I downed 56 ounces inside of 10 minutes), and drove back home to Portland, relieved, beat, and ready for a night's rest.

Judging by my pace, I figure that actual loop is somewhere in the vicinity of 15 miles, with about 3500' of gain. That's a LOT for a short loop. In fact, my last 50k had the exact same amount of gain, but with it spread twice the distance.

The reality of the entire ordeal hit me on Monday night, and I sobbed with relief with Buffy the Vampire Slayer spinning in the DVD player.

Effing map.

Running-nerd-mode: ON

2009-07-11T10:33:00.001-07:00

For reasons I can't express: I dislike wearing gaiters. Seriously, I can't explain my apprehension to strapping the damned things on my ankles/shoes. Maybe because they tend to look so...dorky? I have issues with looking dorky. Don't get me started. This is a psuedo-product review, not a headfirst dive into the chilling pool of my neurosis. I'll save that for next time. Stay tuned.

Thing is, in distances over 50k (31 miles), I really do need to wear the effing things. Practicality wins the day, as I really don't need to stop every few miles to knock the pebbles/grit/small mammals out of my shoes. I've owned gaiters that allowed absolutely, 100% of these items to end up in my shoes. Seriously: I spent the money, I look like a goddamned Himalayan hiker...so why did I just feel a boulder nestle its way beneath the ball of my foot?

I ambled my way over to www.zombierunner.com (the single GREATEST online resource for ultra running. Ever.) and HOLY SHIT, I found these gaiters, by Inov 8:

Okay, admittedly: I didn't find THESE gaiters. AKA, I ordered the wrong ones. Damn me. So, I "ended up with these gaiters". There. That's accurate.

Problem is: The gaiters are socks as well. This means, say, at mile 55, I want to change socks. I also have to have purchased another set of these gaiters (!?!?) So now I have to own an entire fleet of these. OR, I simply "convert" them to gaiters by snipping off the sock-parts. And of course, the gaiters I meant to order? Yeah, they don't have the sock parts.

Dammit CHECK YOUR SHOPPING CARTS BEFORE HITTING "PAY", PEOPLE!

What I like about these: The top part of the gaiter, which is usually elastic, is the top of the socks. This completely prevents anything from getting inside through the top. I ran a 17 miler in these a few days back, and the insides of my shoes were as devoid of debris as Howie Mandel's fireplace. The bottoms affixed nicely to the sole of the shoe and laces. Overall, I give this product an 8 out of 10, but only because of the sock-issue.

And overall, I give my online shopping prowess a 5 out of 10. I mean, I ordered *a* product and received it, right? That's worth at least 2 points. Like filling in your name properly on the ACTs? AM I RIGHT, PEOPLE??!?!

2009-07-01T18:37:00.001-07:00

My parents split in 1981. Even as an 11 year old at the time, I gave this decision both my blessing, two thumbs-up, and an emphatic, "JESUS CRIMINY, GOOD IDEA!" Everyone benefitted from this frightening, daunting, and absolutely 100% necessary choice.

As a result, my dad and I never really bonded, nor did I have a male figure to pattern myself after. We always kept in touch, he saw us as often as he could, however you can't replace good ol' "Havin' someone around to guide you." Again, my father and mother's split was as good as a longtime idea as, say, alternative fuel choices. Or flossing your teeth. Because that gunk would have built up over the years, and holy hell, the only choice you'd be left with is to yank out each of those suckers and start over.

Over the last 2+ years, Pops and I have reconnected, as adults. Well, as adult as one can possibly be whilst wearing a t-shirt that reads "International Order For Gorillas" on a regular basis (me, not him). And for 5 days, my father stayed with us in Portland this past week. It was - most sincerely and humbly - one of the most memorable weeks in my life.

I think we tend to know our parents in one-line summaries/fabled stories from their pasts. Case in point: Things I knew about my father as of 7 days ago:

• He joined the Army during the Vietnam war, even though he opposed it.

• He had some girlfriend before meeting my mother named Marcia.

• He worked as a salesman of packaging machinery.

• He rarely attended church with the rest of us (trust me, I looked longingly back at his pajama-ged visage as the three of us pressed out into the frigid, Chicago winters early Sunday mornings).

• I was born 12 months nearly to the day of their one year wedding anniversary. I mean, I'm no dummy. Accidents will happen.

What I learned in only 5 days of talking with my father:

• At 19, he, quite literally, tossed his college books into the trash, hopped on a bus, and enlisted in the Army. He was sick of college. 3 months later, landing in Bangkok, one of the first things his pal said to him: "Let's go score some grass." And they did.

• In early 1969, he was moping in his apartment, as his girlfriend, Marcia, had been out of town. As he describes it:

Marcia had gone on an extended trip to Florida and I had not seen her for quite awhile. All of a sudden I get a phone call. It is Dennis Murray (his friend) calling from the Holiday Club saying that he was going to drive back and get me. And that he had a surprise. He drives me to the Holiday and there she is (Marcia) in the middle of the dance floor. Jimmy Ford and the Executives were playing a Motown song (they were very good with Motown songs) and I just walked up and started dancing with her. I can still remember the song that was playing---------Sugar Pie Honeybunch by the Four Tops. Turns out when the Murray Brothers showed up at the Holiday Marcia asked them "where is Bob?" "I sure would like to see him." And Dennis drove back to get me. Did you ever see the movie "Dirty Dancing"? There is a scene in there where Patrick Swayze walks onto the dance floor and everyone parts and there is Jennifer Grey. It was just like that. Jesus, the tears just well up every time I read that.

• In his spare time, my dad has been volunteering for FIFTEEN YEARS helping tutor/train tutors for illiterate adults.

• My father leans towards Buddhism. He only attended church as a social function for the short time he did.

• I was planned. VERY planned. I can honestly say that it never "bothered" me to think that I was a "surprise" (my quotation marks key is getting quite the work out), but hearing that my existence on this planet was thought out and a gesture of love? To be frank: Shit, that's fucking cool.

Lastly: His final, full day here, we drove to Silver Falls State Park and then spent the following 6 hours driving up and down Oregon's winding, 2 lane highways, with no particular destination: Windows down, Beatles blasting out from the speakers, chatting at times, comfortable silences during others.

This was the first song to grace the CD player on our road trip.

Two of Us

You and I have memories, longer than the road that stretches out ahead.

I love you, Daddy.

Rhymes with "Mafed Triples"

2009-06-15T09:53:00.000-07:00

About 3 miles in to Saturday's 22 miler in the confines of the lovely (and muggy as all get-out) Forest Park, as I bounded along the singletrack of the Wildwood Trail, detouring up and down steep Firelanes to give my quads some good, old-fashioned ~~punishment~~ working out, when an all too familiar tingling sensation began to clear its throat and alert me to some fascinating news:

"HI, I'M YOUR LEFT NIPPLE, AND I'M CHAFING!!!!!!"

Donning a brand new Brooks technical shirt (thankfully red and not white), I'd applied my ritualistic 4 pounds of Body Glide to various, ahem, "delicate" parts on my person, including said left protuberance, but the humidity and newness of the shirt were beginning to win the battle. So I was relegated to take action and do something I believed I'd never have the brass cojones to step forward and throw down:

I took off my shirt and continued my run.

I'm, how you Americans say? "Modest"? "Shy"? "Have horrible body image issues"?, so for me, this was tantamount to strolling onto Wrigley Field during the 7th inning stretch and dropping my pants. Of course, knowing my Cubbies, this would only help somehow.

I came across other hikers/runners here and there, mumbling to myself beneath my breath, "Watch out, here's comes an old dude who wants to be oggled" and "SASQUATCH ALERT", but after getting into the rhythm, I imagined my Celtic ancestry, tearing across the rolling, Irish greenery to deliver news of local battles, or that the latest batch of Jameson was now available. It felt...freeing? Me, pairs of shorts and shoes, and water bottle, and that was it. Primal. All I needed was a spear and a boar to chase after and I would have been whisked back a few thousand years.

By the run's end, I'd totally forgotten my state of near undress, and as I finished up and opened my car door, I caught the reflection in the window of the sweat-covered (and gnat-encrusted) warrior who'd traveled through the forest the last few hours and watched him smile back.

jz

2009-06-02T10:14:00.001-07:00

I know this entry will be difficult to write. And probably incredibly long to read. I'm warning both you and myself of these details.

In 2002, I wrote and produced (along with my friend/brilliant director, Michael) a fly-on-the-wall, documentary special initially called "Tattoo Nation", later to be repackaged into a half hour flashy-piece-of-crap, hosted by Dave Navarro and Carmen Electra, and renamed "Set in Skin" by the jughead executives at VH1. We spent tireless time finding subjects to be interviewed. Our goal: To find real people who were tattooed for life-changing reasons, interview them and the artists who helped them transform "tragedy" into art. Among the subjects I pre-interviewed and pitched: 5 NYC firefighters who were tattooed with memorial ink for their fallen brothers post-9/11, a man who turned his entire arm's chicken-skin-like skin graft into beautiful dragon flesh, and a 60 something woman on Long Island who, after having a double-mastectomy due to breast cancer, opted to have a lattice-work of flowers and vines tattooed across her chest and scars.

Her name: Julie. And I had no idea how my life would change thanks to meeting her.

We arrived to her tiny house in the tiny Long Island town and set up our interview. It was a tight space, the one bedroom home she was born in 6 decades prior, but we made it work. I sat across from the bubbly, quirky, and energetic lightning storm of a human and began the interview.

She was candid and explicit and unapologetic. She made me laugh and spoke of her surgery as a "relief".

"No more boobs going 'baBOOM, baBOOM!' when I run," she remarked with a dismissing wave of a hand.

We spent 2 days interviewing both her and the artist, Dana, who'd inked the beautiful tattoo across her torso (which Julie was more than happy to show the entire crew), and , at the second day's end, Michael and I were lucky enough to get tattoos done by Dana. The poor woman worked 2 hours on his Celtic knot and 4+ hours on a sailing ship on my arm. She must've been BEAT, but she did an outstanding job. Somehow. I think my hand would have cracked and fallen off.

I kept in regular touch with Julie on my work email address, letting her know, ultimately, that VH1 was reducing the 9/11 piece to 1 minute ("No one wants to hear about 9/11 - it's too depressing") and completely cutting out her segment. She took it in stride, as she'd worked as an editor (and as the assistant editor on the Oscar-winning film "The Conversation") and knew how the TV business operates (read: In a bullshit way).

As the life of the freelancer goes, the show ended and I drummed up more work with a different production company, leaving behind Michael's company for nearly 5 years to work on a variety of *cough crap* reality shows. Once in awhile, my mind would drift to the memory of Julie and wonder what she was up to. Of course, I was living in Los Angeles, so those thoughts of fancy were quickly shattered by strict deadlines, traffic, iced coffees and other handy, material distractions.

Then, in 2006, my then-wife and I separated, and my world came crashing down. I picked myself up and made the long and slow choice to take the pain and sadness and turn it into a lesson. This incredibly pivotal point in my life took a LONG time of dealing with letting go (I'll not bore you with the details here...well, not in this entry) and accepting that life cannot be controlled. And not just paying lip-service to that idea: Really FEELING it and noticing it.

Almost one year after this "existential awakening" as my therapist called it, I returned to work with Michael on a series he'd sold. I logged in to my old email account and began tossing out all of the junk that had accumulated. Apparently, my penis could have been 20 feet long by then and my credit score could have been checked 5,900 times. Then I came across scads of emails from Julie:

I was on a mass email list, and as I began scanning, it became quickly obvious that Julie was suffering from amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS, or "Lou Gehrig's Disease") over the past handful of years, and the symptoms were advancing. The disease is neurodegenerative; that is, motor neurons slowly die, leaving the muscle tissue stagnant and eventually paralyzed. She would now by typing her emails with eye-detecting software, as her hands had lost strength, she wrote. I immediately fired a response telling her that I was back at the company and to email me at my personal address. Thus began a correspondence and friendship that would lead me through life-lessons I couldn't have dreamed up. And I'm big on dreaming.

Julie spoke very frankly about her death, as she faced it in an obvious way day upon day, in poems I'd regularly receive, sometimes of the torture, sadness, anger, regret, but also in pieces entitled, "Moments of Joy" with that day's date, chronicling the sounds of snow melting, visits from loved ones, breezes carrying the scents from her garden inside, and trips on her Equus motorized chair up and down the charming streets where she lived. More often than not, the tears would come, tears of sadness and joy and every shade of grey in between. Without trying, Julie was teaching me about death and what it means to die.

This isn't to say all of her emails were bustling with poignant and sagelike wisdom, nor do I think that's how she lived her life. Instead, softness, honesty and tenderness were conveyed with the understandable frustration and fear. Julie never once pulled a punch. And there, another life-lesson was imparted: FEEL what you FEEL, no matter how uncomfortable it is, because IT IS YOURS.

We'd exchange movie recommendations, I'd pitch her story ideas I was scribbling away at, I took my camera on runs with me and edited pieces together showing her the trails I was blessed enough to run along. The internet: Is there anything it can't do? I also told her of the memorial pieces I was shooting with a brain cancer patient, chronicling his life, celebrating his experience on this planet. As a fellow filmmaker, she was utterly ecstatic and intrigued, telling me how she wished she'd thought of doing this for herself years ago.

A few weeks ago, I received an email from Julie that read, in part:

If i suddenly stop being able to eat, I quit.

Her symptoms were beginning to worsen. She was also growing low on funds and didn't qualify for state hospice care. And this morning, I received this email:

Geez, rusty, i wish i could send you a ticket to come and interview me
before my event. You know i always wanted to have a live memorial.

She spoke of fearing "not being" any longer and asked what *I* have discovered about death through my interviews with the brain cancer patient. Imagine that! Still humble, still honest, the teacher had turned to the student for a lesson.

It was in my response email that it dawned on me: I need to visit her, if only for one final goodbye, and to record at least part of her living memorial. I'm putting a plan into motion to head to Long Island next month. I pray that she's still with us.

Over a year ago, I received one of my weekly mails from Julie, one coming from an incredibly positive place. Following her jokes and spinning of stories, she signed it, "Remember me dancing on my bed! jz".

My next tattoo.

An open letter...

2009-05-27T10:02:00.000-07:00

Dear drivers of Portland, Oregon...

Hello. My name is Russ, and I love this fair city. So very deeply. In fact, I adore the entire state of Oregon, with its stately mountains, breathtaking shorelines, and endless supply of microbreweries. In under one year, my love affair with this city, this state, has blossomed into one of utmost sincerity.

But seriously: If you people don't learn how to drive, I'm gonna start bustin' eco-friendly caps in carbon-emission-reducing-asses.

In my lifetime, I've lived in 5 major cities: Chicago, Milwaukee, Nashville, Los Angeles, and Portland. I've driven through 49 of the 50 United States, through Canada, England, Ireland, and Scotland. Those last two involved driving many single lane dirt roads littered with wandering sheep and barking sheep dogs. When you come face-to-face with another automobile, you have to psychically work out how you'll get around one another. Somehow, it always worked out.

And yet this city's drivers regularly cause an eruption of expletives from my lips the likes of which might offend even a fleet of sailors. Or an Irish grandfather. Trust me on that last one.

I've compiled a quick-sheet list I plan on printing out and delicately placing beneath the windshield wipers of every Subaru and vegetable-fueled Mercedes I see. It reads as follows:

Welcome to your car! Once inside, please make yourself comfortable, and keep the following in mind...

DO!

• Stop at posted stopsigns. And look BOTH WAYS before accelerating
• Merge onto freeways by gaining speed on freeway entrance ramps
• Pro-tip: Try matching the numbers on your speedometer with the numbers posted on speed limit signs. It's like a little game!
• Remove your foot from the gas pedal within 10 seconds when traffic lights go from "red" to "green"
• Use your turn signal to alert those behind you that you are going to park/turn/pull over to look at pretty flowers/celebrate this amazing experience we call "life, man!"

Do NOT!

• Stop when no stopsign is posted at an intersection. Go! I know you do DO it!
• Slow to a crawl in the middle of a crowded, multi-lane road. No matter how desperately you need to find the REI address/food co-op/pub happy hour
• Wave cars sitting at stopsigns to "go ahead" when you yourself do not have a stopsign. While this is polite, it also falls into the realm of "dangerous" and teeters on the brink of "co-dependance"
• Stay in the left lane on a freeway while on your casual, 40 MPH drive. Actually, this also falls into the "Do" category about matching the little numbers on your dash with the numbers on the signs
• Over the course of 5-8 blocks, slllllooooowwwwwly accelerate to the speed limit. I know you're laid back. 7 of the 12 bumper stickers on your car have already alerted me to this fact
• Right turn from a far left lane? Please don't. Please. Just don't.

Now, let's be careful out there!

2009-05-25T10:13:00.000-07:00

"Here's your coaster."

These are the words I have heard on numerous occasions after, quite literally, crossing the finish line of an ultra marathon. But I'm getting ahead of myself...

Ann and I ambled out the door bright and early to the trails of Forest Park; I, signed up for the 50 KM distance, Ann, for the 10 KM. And boy howdy does morning come early around these parts.

We picked up our numbers, wandered around the start/finish area, stared in horror at the snaking lines for the port-o-potties, when I ran into Ruben (click here to see how he blew my ass away). I'll not save the reveal and tell you now: He KILLED the 50 KM course record and won the freakin' thing in 3 hours, 38 minutes. Then he rode his bike 8 miles home.

Uh huh.

We ran into Brian, who works the kitchen the the pub and is brother to the twin sisters who own it. He's such a mellow, sweet, funny fella, and today was to be his inauguration into the world of ultra running...and marathon running. I don't think he'd run farther than 20 miles in training for this one, which took me back to a young man who approached his first ultra in very much the same way. I am, of course, talking about: Zac Effron.

Kidding! It's me.

We lined up, the 50 KM and the 20 KM racers, the race director tossed a few tips out about trail markings, and I snuggled up beside Ruben, so I could get out ahead of the majority of the pack (the 20 KM had 120 runners, we had 70). Then, with all the pomp and circumstance of any ultra, the RD yelled "Go!" through a megaphone and we were off.

I tailed Ruben the first 1/2 mile (he was running at what I like to call a "sprint") and fell into my own pace once I knew most of the pack was behind me. A few passed me here and there on the winding UPHILLS THAT LASTED FOR THE FIRST 6 MILES. I knew this was coming, but I wanted to see how hard I could push myself on this run, so my mantra was, "Stay on the 'good' side of 'uncomfortable'."

The climb is fairly significant, even if this 50 KM has "only" 3500' of gain (most have more in the 6,000' range) and I wanted to be on pace to hit aid station #1 in 1 hour, 5 minutes or less. I was really pleased to find myself refilling my water bottle and shoving PB and J squares in my mouth in under an hour!

This was both good and bad, as time would tell.

I scooted down the firelane and hooked a left back onto the Wildwood Trail. I smiled, calling it in my mind, "The Engagement Trail", as I'd just passed the spot where I'd proposed to Annie only one month prior. This section is all about down, down, down, and a few runners scooted by me (the 20 KMers turned around at the aid station, so it was just the ultra-weirdos now) and I heard another on my tail. I shouted, "Let me know when you need to get past!", to which he responded, "I'm good - let's keep it up!" This was Taber, and yet again, I met another truly cool person to run with during a big distance race.

I'm very familiar with Forest Park, so there were no surprises (save for one, which is coming up), so I went into auto-pilot, and we chattered away like a couple of schoolgirls amped up on Mountain Dew and the music of Zac Effron (there's his name again...why???). Taber ran the same race last year and very humbly mentioned he that he and his then-girlfriend came in dead-last. I asked his finish time (8 hours, 6 minutes) and gave him the good news that last year, I'd run in the DFL (dead fucking last) 40 minutes after his finish. We talked about our pace, and I told him I was looking to come in between 5:15-5:30, and the pace felt like that was spot-on. Wait until you see how spot-on.

Before we knew it, we were hanging a left up Saltzman Road towards aid station #2. We were about to do a 10 KM loop and then return back to this aid station, and I began thinking that Ruben should be on his way back any minute. Taber needed to use the "facilities" (as in, "not a tree"), but this aid station had no port-o-john. We snarfed down some food while I heard one aid station worker - younger gal - ask a woman around my age, "Do you run too?" Just looking at her, I knew the answer.

Runner-woman: "Yes."

Younger girl: "Marathons?".

Runner-woman: "Uh huh. And ultra marathons too."

Me: "Oh man, you run those? Those people are fucking crazy!"

Pause. Then laughter.

I eyeballed an uncut watermelon and whispered a secret prayer to the ultra gods that it would be sliced on our return, as the heat was growing. Taber and I headed down Firelane 5 to complete our 10 KM loop when, lo and behold, up the steep incline come Ruben, tailed by the 2nd place runner. And by "trotting" I mean "still sprinting" (his pace ended up being 7:03/mile. For 31 miles. On hilly trails.). I yelled, "I knew it! You BASTARD!" He laughed and told me he'd see me later. Yes, as in much later. As in, not on the same day.

We wound up back on Wildwood and rolled along until a small climb on Trillium trail: A nice, level, short, well-groomed piece of single track. I'M LYING, IT WAS STEEP, ROOTY AND LONG. I stopped to use the lavatory (aka, "some random tree") and eventually caught up with Taber again, and down we went. And I mean DOWN. Gas Line Road carries you downhill to Lief Erickson - the road that runs through the heart of the park - and on tired quads, the super-steep downhills came as a big-ass surprise to me. I would venture to say that we were crawling down 25% grade for a short bit. Once that kick in the ass was over, it was a short mile or so on Lief Erickson before we hit the climb back up to Wildwood. I never thought I'd welcome a climb so dearly. We power-hiked up the same bit we'd seen Ruben galloping up earlier and landed back at the aid station, stocking up on foodstuffs and water. Alas, the watermelon still sat whole on the table, as if still awaiting a blow from Gallagher's Sledge-O-Matic.

Down on Saltzman, we hit Wildwood again, which is where the sloshing in my guts began. I figured I downed too much water and not taken in enough salt, so I popped another electrolyte cap and vowed to hold back on H2O. Upon revealing to Taber my stomach issues, he offered his GI distress situation was growing more and more ominous. We were under 5 miles to the last aid station, where a Honey Bucket (grossest name of all times for port-o-potties, FYI) awaited. My legs were feeling a little trashed at this point, due to my pushing a little harder than my comfort zone. I remembered that I hadn't actually tapered my mileage very much during the week, not as much as I would have had I been "racing" this one, so I knew I was paying for it. We hammered the rolling hills and downhills and finally hit the 3/4 mile ascent to the aid station. When we arrived (mile 25), Taber jumped in the Honey Bucket (ew, again) and I made small talk with the aid station worker, who is part of Trail Factor: The local running group I belong to, with which I have yet to run with. Then I saw it:

WATER. FUCKING. MELON.

I think I ate 1/4 of the watermelon. SO GOOD. I took off (Taber and I decided that the last 5 miles, all bets were off) and found myself back on Wildwood, knowing that I'd be losing 900' down to the finish. Piece of cake, right?

Willie Nelson penned a song a number of years back, about the desolation of living alone, called "Hello Walls." At this point, I entertained myself by stating, "hello, wall" over and over, as I'd hit "The Wall" myself around mile 28. I was DONE. I was fascinated by the feeling, taking it in stride; the fact that I thought that the only way I was going to finish this one was to tumble down head over ass to the finish. I engaged in a walk/run scenario, which I cursed on the downhills, and WOOSH, Taber dashed past me with a big ol' smile on his face! Funny how the mental distress of GI issues, once lifted, can send you sailing as though you're at mile 4 and not mile 29. I cheered him on and continued my slog.

"Screw this," I muttered. And began to run. And run. I knew I was about under a mile from the the finish and pushed. Another runner caught me, striding so strongly, I could only imagine how dead I looked by comparison. He yelled, "Let's do it! Let the adrenaline carry you!" and I picked up my pace, seeing the finish only 200 yards ahead. "Go for it!" I yelled, and he took off like a Zac Effron album on the Billboard charts. I've done enough of these big races to know that I can live with the extra 4 seconds on my finish time by finishing strongly and comfortably.

Pumping my arms and giving it my all, I passed Annie who was snapping pictures, and crossed the finish in 5 hours, 24 minutes. And not a single, full step beyond the finish, Wendell - co-race-director with his wife Sarah - smiled and offered the three words that would sum up this day's battle of Man vs Himself:

"Here's your coaster."
(actual moment depicted)

Taber had finished 3 minutes ahead of me, knocking - are you ready? - 2 hours and 40 minutes off his finish time last year! We congratulated one another, Ann and I thanked Sarah for putting together yet another fantastic event, and headed home for a shower and then out to the pub for food and brews. Once there, the phone rang: It was Brian, on the highest runner's high I've ever heard, ecstatic over the experience. AND, he finished only 15 minutes after me! Un. Be. Lievable.

I hope he enjoys his coaster.

2009-05-18T12:33:00.000-07:00

Out of the gates, before digging into this, I have to admit: I was a band nerd. I've been a variety of nerds over the span of my lifetime (see below post), but from the ages of 10-16, you could find me snickering over the term "spit valve" or marching the streets in some of the worst uniforms known to humankind:

And:

That second photo appears to be a young fleet of real estate agents invading suburban Chicago. With brass weaponry.

When I was 15, one of my fellow band geek friends (although he played drums, so there was a modicum of cool there) purchased tickets for us to see jazz trumpet legend Winton Marsalis in downtown Chicago at the Chicago Opera house. Note: His uniform? FAR COOLER than any I ever played in:

My friend, Rob, drove myself and two other dorks downtown, parking underground, across Lake Shore Drive, from the opera house. As we clambered and got all psyched to see a show that our grandparents would likely have been into, we passed through an underground tunnel that would pop us up on the sidewalk at the virtual doorstep of the performance hall. Well, somewhere in that 100 foot walk, someone swiped the tickets, and Rob's wallet, from his pastel, padded-shoulder jacket.

Uh oh.

This was discovered while standing at the ticket window in the lobby. Being 15-17 years old, we began to lose, as they say, "our minds". I remember the older woman in the ticket booth being very patient and offering Rob the phone to call home, which he immediately did. As it turned out, his mother had bought the tickets with a credit card, and two phone calls later, the tickets were traced and we all heaved relieved sighs (my GOD, what if we'd brought DATES? Fat chance).

The transitional point is fuzzy, but someone told us to wait in the lobby and that they'd be back in a moment. When they did return, we were told to follow them. Confused, we ambled behind him down a hallway where hundreds of instruments in their cases lined the walls. What the hell was going on?

At the end of the hall, we took a sharp left - I remember that - and our escort opened the door.

Lo and behold, there stood Winton and his band, hanging out in the green room, in a cloud of "strange smoke".

He stood and extended his hand, thanking us for making it down to the show. He told us he was sorry to hear about what had happened but was glad all had worked out.

And just like that, I knew something amazing had just occurred.

The show? I don't remember a piece of it. I'm certain it was mind-boggling and beautiful, but the shock would last for days. All because one man had taken a few minutes to extend thanks and appreciation to a group of giddy young jazz nerds.

NERRRRD

2009-05-06T17:57:00.001-07:00

Ann will officially hate reading this. Why? Because it's a rant I go on far too often, with the passion of a martyr being hauled to the stake.

It's "The Star Wars Rant", Annie. Please close your browser and forgive me.

I. LOVE. Star. FUCKING. Wars. I saw the original at least 3 times in the theater at the age of 7. I still have my action figure collection, although really, we all know they're small "dolls" and I was a little Nancy to play with them as often as I did...and still do. "PEW PEW! The stormtrooper's dead!" can be heard late at night, erupting from the depths of our basement.

I'll spare everyone the obvious, "GEORGE LUCAS RUINED MY CHILDHOOD!" convulsing cries regarding the last 3 movies. They sucked Bantha pud. And if you know what I mean by that, God love you and your 1983 lightsaber replica.

No, I'm going to perform the ultimate act of sacrilege:

George Lucas phoned in his shit for the first three episodes as well.

Exhibit A: Character naming:

So, the wannabe pilot, trapped on the sands of Tattooine, the boy who dreams of flying through space and defeating the Evil Empire. What was his name?

Luke SKYwalker. SKY. DO you get it? HE LONGS TO WALK IN THE SKIES PEOPLE!

And what of the renegade smuggler, who plays by his own rules and asks for help/friendship from no one. His name?

Han SOLO. As in LONER. DO YOU FOLLOW?

Oh, and poor Han. In one of the first scenes we meet him, in the dark cantina of Mos Eisley, who shows up to collect the money Han owes Jabba the Hutt?

GREEDO. And get this, HE'S FUCKING GREEN JUST LIKE THE MONEY IN GEORGE LUCAS' WALLET.

These are but a handful of examples that make those close to me want to tear their ears off and shove a Tusken Cycler in my mouth and gently pull the trigger. But one MAJOR plotpoint hit me today while I was on a run (yes, I think about Star Wars when I run. It's a miracle I've ever even touched a girl), and it's a biggie:

In "Empire Strikes Back" ("ESB", my dear geeks), when Luke leaves Dagobah for Cloud City to fight Darth Vader (don't get me started on that Goddamned name. Seriously.), as Luke's X Wing lifts into the skies he so boldly dreamed of one day walking on - just as his name suggests - Obi Wan turns to Yoda, and the following exchange is had:

Obi Wan: "That boy was our last hope."

Yoda: "No, there is another."

This is in reference to Princess Leia, who is Luke's sister. Of course, Luke doesn't know this information yet, and neither does Obi Wan, which is strange because in Episode 3, HE TAKES LUKE AND HIS TWIN SISTER TO THEIR NEW ADOPTIVE PARENTS.

Yes. Obi Wan was there when the two babies needed saving. But somehow, only 20 years later, he completely forgets she even exists. The hell you been smokin' out there in the desert, old man?

Thirdly and finally: I recently read Carrie Fischer's autobiography, "Wishful Drinking". In it, she reveals that beneath the flowing white robes of her Princess Leia costume, Lucas insisted she not wear a bra. When she asked why not, George's response was, "No one in space wears underwear. Because of the lack of gravity, your bra would suffocate you." Apparently, this was said in all earnestness. But here's the conversation as it could have happened in a more honest manner:

"Carrie, I don't think you should wear a bra."

"Why not?"

"Because you are attractive, and the majority of people seeing this movie will be teenaged boys. I would very much enjoy the honor of giving them their first erections."

Of course, two episodes later, Leia winds up in this getup:

Not that I'm complaining.

I don't fault the guy for being, well, kind of a shitty filmmaker when it comes down to it. He built an empire (creepy?) and entertained/continues to thrill audiences worldwide.

In fact, I think I hear IG 88 and Boba Fett calling from the basement. 'scuse me.

2009-04-23T11:52:00.000-07:00

I showed her this ring.

I asked her one question.

She said yes.

2009-04-18T18:20:00.000-07:00

Ran a 20 miler today at Forest Park. I decided to park at Firelane 1 (I know, this makes sense to about .09% of you), run 1/4 mile down to Wildwood trail, do an out and back of 10 miles in one direction, refill at my car, then head back down to Wildwood and do an out and back of 10 in the other direction.

My "aid station" at mile 10:

Vernor's ginger ale is a current favorite to guzzle midway through a long one. Add a PB&J? EFFING GORMET MEAL!

I have a 15 miler tomorrow: My first back to back long runs in over a year. And then, Annie and I are attending this awesomeness.

By the way, if you're keeping score:

Gnats flying into the eyes: 7

Gnats flying into the mouth: 4

2009-04-08T17:15:00.001-07:00

In the single most confusing Hollywood casting choice of all times, I present to you:

The Doobie Brothers on "What's Happening"

Rumble at Peterson Ridge

2009-04-06T10:30:00.001-07:00

We loaded up Ann's Jetta with goodies and gear Saturday afternoon and headed south and east towards the tiny mountain town of Sisters, OR, nestled in the Deschuttes National Forest, 3500' above sea level in the high deserts of central Oregon.

I ain't gonna kid ya: We live at (roughly) 4 inches above sea level in Portland. The lion's share of my training is done at a maximum of 2500' when I can access the Columbia Rover Gorge, and that's been snowed in since December. At Forest Park, where 99.999% of my training has taken place, I've been maxing out at 1500' and averaging at 600'.

What this mean, my dear, bored, number-crunching reader, is that my red blood cell count isn't near what it needs to be to run comfortably at 3500-5000'. I knew this going in. And boy, howdy (do people say that anymore?), did I suppose correctly.

I snarfed down a pasta dinner, guzzled a couple of beers in the room, and passed out watching This Is Spinal Tap, I think somewhere around when Arti Fuffkin asks for the band to, "Kick this ass for a man, that's all. Kick my ass!" At 2AM, I woke up, wide awake, knowing that this is my cycle when trying to sleep at higher altitudes. My restless slumber continued until 7AM, when I dragged ass outta bed, made a pot of java for us, and readied my race gear for the 9AM start.

Yes. 9AM start. What am I, The Queen or something?

We headed to the start at the Sisters Middle School and, as Ann used the "facilities" in the gymnasium, I did a quick, 2 minute warm up jog. And quickly realized that I was breathing 2% oxygen (I may exaggerate for effect from time to time). She quickly snapped a shot of me donning a RAD technical shirt sent by a certain German runner and off we headed to the start.

We crowded together, and I placed myself in the front 10% of the pack, as we would trickle down narrow trails to start, and I wanted to get ahead early on. I had a "secret" finishing time of 3 hours, but with the lack of O2 in the air, I dropped that altogether and decided to shoot for having fun and getting in under 3:30. Or 3:45. These numbers would schizophrenically change throughout the duration of the race.

With the shout of the RD's command to "Go!", away we ran, and I watched the leaders peel away like they were on ice skates, headed downhill. Meanwhile, inside my own body, my lungs, to quote Lloyd Bridges in "Seahunt" were, "BURNING FOR AIR!" I noticed that, while my legs appeared to be moving at a 9:00/mile pace, my lungs felt like I was on a full sprint, and I heard the huffs and puffs of other sea-level dwellers growing around me. We ran along a LOOOOONG gravel road that looked to stretch into western Idaho and finally hooked a right turn to the climbing singletrack.

There were two versions of the race:The 30KM and the 60KM. I - at the behest of my running coach (and ultra running champion) Warren Finke - dropped my distance from the 60 to the 30 a few weeks prior, as I'm using these races to train for September's 100 miler. And I'm glad I did. Because this course is a challenge-and-a-half. The 30KM welcomed runners to run with their dogs, which was a first for me, and it was SO damned cool to experience! I was running behind a woman and her dog, Porter, for the first mile or so on the singletrack. Porter was having the time of his four-legged life. I began to envy those extra two legs, as the climbs were gradual, but I could feel them. Eventually, we reached the first aid stop and Porter took a watering break. I snagged a PBJ square and ran through the aid stop, continuing the climb as we all settled into our individual paces. I had to keep reminding myself to run for comfort, not time, because the lack of air (I mentioned this already, right?) was going to play havoc with my lactic acid, and I didn't want to run the final 5 miles with dead legs. BUT, I promised myself to not walk any of the ascents, no matter how steep.

I began wondering if I'd come across my pal Kate, who was running the 60KM and got a 2 hour headstart on me, when lo and behold, who comes winding down the trails towards me but Kate herself. She'd slipped on a sheet of ice about 30 minutes prior and banged her head pretty good on it. I checked for bleeding (there was none), but she did manage to host a nice, pear-sized lump. She told me to get a move on after a couple of minutes, so we bade each other well-wishes and up, up I continued.

I need to find the elevation charts for the run, but I can pretty much guarantee the 30KM had 2000' + of climb, which crested us at 5000' +. I hit the ridge up top and was in AWE: The mountains rose all around me, and I was easily a few hundred feet above the tree line. The sentiment "wow!" was uttered aloud as I looped the ridge and started my descent down the narrow, rocky trail. I hit an aid stop, grabbed another PBJ and headed down, deciding that I must be at least 11 miles in: It was time to punch the pace and hammer the downhills.

We wound down and I began - as is my usual - to overtake runners in the last 1/4 of the race. I conserve so damned much up front, which is good, but I wonder at times if I upped *juuuuust* a little more during the first 3/4 how I'd finish. Four of us formed a conga line, but I eventually shot ahead, hitting the final aid stop at 2:22. The workers (middle school XC runners - it was so damned cute!) told me I was 3.9 miles from the finish. Dashing off, I calculated I could finish in 3 hours by running under 10 minute miles! Holy hell, really????!!?

More descents, more challenging trails and I finally popped out on the gravel road: The long - and not winding - gravel road. I kept my pace steady, overtook a few more runners, and heard a woman's voice from behind me yell, "Pacino!" I looked to my left, and there was a strapping young dog, panting and keeping pace with me. He was one of those dogs who looks like he's wearing a perpetual smile. Eventually, Pacino's mom caught up to me, we chatted a bit, and then she overtook me without missing a stride. I had been "chicked" and "dogged" in the final mile of a race!

A few more hundred yards of trails and I hit the start area, knowing that the finish was only 1/4 mile away: A single loop around the school's track. I raced through the parking lot and entered the track area, deciding I'd easily hit 3 hours and some change. Then, I turned the final corner and saw the official clock: 2:59:45! I turned up the gas and crossed the finish 5 seconds under the goal I had - only 3 hours prior - considered to be next to impossible!

Annie snapped a "finish" pic and then burgers and beers and rootbeer floats were had:

I was actually quite surprised how healthy I felt, regardless of the altitude and climb of the run. Hopefully everything goes this smoothly on my way to Hundred in the Hood.

Woops. Might have jinxed it there.

****Update:

The RD just sent out an email, and it looks as though the "30KM" was actually 20 miles! According to the finish results, I came in 53rd overall out of 167 finishers.

2009-04-04T11:21:00.000-07:00

In a couple of hours, we're off to Sisters, OR so I can run the Peterson Ridge Rumble.

Originally I'd signed up for the 60KM, but my coach thought it best to hold back for the 30KM (which is actually a little over at 19.5 miles), as my mileage is about to ramp up significantly in the coming 2 weeks. It's my first race for "me" since the Sycamore Canyon 50KM where I was welcomed into the world of asthma attacks (100% thanks to you, Los Angeles, for your crap-ass air conditions). I'm pretty damned excited. My coach has me finishing in 3 hours, but the race starts at 3,000', so we shall see.

Keep your eyes on this site for a race report!

2009-03-31T16:57:00.001-07:00

At the moment (well, not this very moment. I'm dreading going in to work at this moment), I'm about 60% through my second longform writing piece, chronicling the final days on the road for a 50-ish, washed up comedian in the early 1980s, when the "comedy boom" was busting at the seams, waiting to unleash crap comedy on the planet for the next 15 years. This is taking some research and, as I dig into the changes in the comedy world throughout the 60s and 70s, little gems from my past (like the post prior to this) have began leaking outta my noggin'.

So, alongside my chronicling of my training for Hundred in the Hood, I'll be spilling small pieces from two careers back.

1993. I think. My hair was rather large, so it had to be '93 or '94. At any old rate, I'd booked a one night, two show engagement opening for Bobcat Goldthwait in Milwaukee at some random club that didn't regularly do comedy. I have to admit that I was psyched. Bobcat - outside of the "AAAUgHGHAAAAHHhha!" bullshit - is an incredibly talented comic who, more often than not, injects his liberal viewpoints into his shows, and evocatively at that.

I get the call that the first show is at 8:00, and I and my then girlfriend hit the road around 5:00 to give me plenty of time. Well, when we arrive, the booking agent (short, round, mustache, hoarse voice, named "Roz") starts freaking out.

"Why weren't you at sound check?!?!"

I hadn't heard of a sound check. Besides, THERE ARE NO INSTRUMENTS ONLY MY SINGULAR VOICE, JACKASS, I thought.

"We almost hired (another comedian) to replace you. You're lucky you got here early."

Looking around the club, the word "lucky" didn't instantly spring to mind. It was a HUGE sports bar in an utterly shitty part of Milwaukee (and if you've been to Milwaukee, you know that's saying something). Indeed, I had been anointed with blessings by the Comedy Gods to play at such a locale.

Upstairs was the "VIP" section, which meant they served Heineken and had left scattered trays of veggies and chips everywhere. At the front of the lofted space was the green room. I was told to not enter this holy and sacrosanct vestibule, as Bobcat was preparing his set within. Instead, my girlfriend and I were to sit with the other "VIPs", which all appeared to be local, morning DJs and some of the hotter strippers from around town.

Fine. After 4 years in comedy, I'd been treated with far less respect. Like the time the owner of a chain of successful Chicago clubs chastised me for eating tortilla chips in between shows, informing that I was lucky he didn't charge me for them, even though the headliner had sold out an entire week at $15 a head.

I digress.

The place swelled up and every seat is taken...by some of the seediest motherfuckers I'd ever laid eyes upon. Seriously. It was the kind of crowd that starts a bar brawl that ends with some dude's head getting mashed into the jukebox. My intro is read, I run down the stairs at the side of the stage and commence my comedy-ing.

I don't think it went too terribly, but I do remember that not one second of my 30 minutes was ever easy. That's what opening for a name-comedian is like: Everyone is saving their yucks for the guy they shelled out $20 to see, not for some lame, faceless loser who isn't even allowed in the green room.

Remember: "Lucky".

I made sure toss out some of my more (and I cringe with recessing testicles merely typing this next word) "edgy" material, as I knew Bob would probably find it funny. At one point, I heard him cackling from upstairs. I know this because he was the only one laughing, so singling him out was a breeze. Most of the bikers in the room grew bored and I sensed their anxious anticipation too see the Police Academy guy who would most certainly blow this dipshit out of the water with his patented "AUGGhOOOooOFFFFANNnnG!!" material.

Suffocating beneath a blanket of discomfort, I wrapped up my tattered 30 minutes and the emcee trotted onstage, shaking my hand as nearly every hand in the place lightly slapped the other. Like a golf clap, but with less sincerity. I thankfully plunged into the darkness from the spotlight and was greeted on the steps by Bobcat:

"Really funny, man. Why aren't you in the green room?"

"They said I couldn't hang out there."

"What?? Go ahead. I'll see you after my set."

My girlfriend and I then crossed the thresh hold. And it was glorious.

KIDDING! It was a plain room with two sofas and some more scattered fruit and veggie trays. This was the Forbidden Zone. We plunked ourselves down and watched as Bob began his set on the stage below.

HOLYSHITHEWASBOMBINGSOMETHINGFIERCE

Not eating shit constantly, mind you, but Jesus, he was getting hammered up there by drunken hicks screaming his patented "OoOoOOOOAAAUUghhHHhh!!". He couldn't get in a word edgewise. For 45 minutes, we watched him pull out all the stops, and I recognized that he was now trying to piss them off. Meanwhile, we were laughing our asses off. After all, the guy is funny. And those sofas were comfy.

In between shows, we chatted and got to know each other, and he was then interviewed by a college paper reporter who asked, "Who are your comedy influences?" Bob looked up at me with a blank, "You got any ideas?" look, so I replied, "You were big into Max Gail, weren't you?" (which instantly became his answer).

Our second sets probably went worse than the first, but it's all blended together into a singular show of suck in my memory. At the night's end, my girlfriend had forgotten her purse in the green room as we walked to the car. When she tried to get back in, two bouncers stopped her and told her that no one was allowed in the green room. Luckily, Bob heard her and she was allowed back in...as soon as two, young, attractive girls exited.

Years later, Rolling Stone put out a comedy issue, in one section, asking comedians about the worst nights they'd ever played.

Bobcat Goldthwait made mention of a biker/sports bar in Milwaukee a handful of years back.

2009-03-30T13:40:00.000-07:00

1990. I was 20 years of age, living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, working 35 hours/week at a sandwich shop for minimum wage and performing stand up comedy 5 nights/week - mostly for free - at open mikes. And my apartment (just up the steps and through the front door)?

View Larger Map

It was a two room studio I paid $305/month to rent. The main room was about 3 x the size of a generous closet, but the kitchen was ENORMOUS. Good thing, as then, as now, I LOVE cooking*

*warning: I sometimes lie

One night, while a friend and I were performing at (ya ready?) "Sir Laugh's A Lot Comedy Castle" (not a castle at all but, in fact, the bar at a Day's Inn hotel, located not in rural England but off a highway in Menomonee Falls, Wisconsin), we were approached by an older gent with a proposition.

No, luckily, not that kind. At least not this time.

He was hosting a St Patrick's Day bash at a local rented hall and wanted Jason and myself to each do two, 15 minute sets before his son's band played. And he was going to pay us $250 a piece to do it. Quickly calculating - using my massive brain - I realized that was two weeks worth of pay from my dayjob.

We met him at said hall one afternoon to see what awaited. It was HUGE. Seriously, almost as big as my kitchen. He showed us the layout: Where the stage would be, how there'd be poker tables set up in a select area, blah blah, all I heard was "250 DOLLARS FOR 30 MINUTES OF WORK".

St. Patty's came and we arrived to a packed, and I mean it, PACKED hall. Easily 300 people, and every last one of them drunk, gambling, and yammering. As green as I was in comedy, I sensed things were not going to go as previously imagined (me, onstage, commanding belly-laughs and howls from an attentive and appreciative crowd who, after, would likely hand me business cards, begging me to weave my comedy magic at their upcoming corporate events). No, this was gonna be like performing my act at a hockey arena. While the game was going. And I was the goalie.

I drew the short straw and went up first. It's hazy in my memory, being so long ago, but one thing I do remember? I was PISSED. The 15 minutes dragged on for 16 months. I couldn't even get anyone to look at me, much less listen. So I droned on and on, my singular audience response being, "Bring on the band!"

I sloughed off and Jason took the mike. I was livid, embarrassed, defeated, and needed a gallon of green beer. Jason ate it worse than I did, if memory serves. And then he intro'd the band. The place went haywire as the opening strands to "Rockin' Robin" filled the cavernous drunken hall. I will never in my life hear that song and not get a sick feeling in my gut.

Jason dashed to the back of the room and sat next to me, I imagine saying something to the effect of, "One down, one to go!", but I'd had it.

"I'm not going back up there."

"What?!"

"Fuck that bullshit, no way."

"But you'll only get half the money!"

This is when I walked up to the (now drunken and slurring) guy who'd hired us and told him, "No way am I going back up." He didn't seem very surprised, nor did he even pause before handing me the $125 that I now felt like I'd earned sucking off lepers in an alleyway. Jason offered to do the full time for the money, and he complied, so I sat and watched him die endless deaths, over and over, wildly attempting to get the crowd's attention and failing time and again. After 30 minutes of brave attempts at wackiness, he closed his "set", came to the door where I stood and waited, and we left.

It would be 5 long years before I came to my senses and quit comedy. 5 years of gigs that made this one look like I had played Carnegie Hall.

The Long Run

2009-03-23T17:15:00.000-07:00

The phrase itself - "the long run" - is uttered daily by thousands, nay, TRILLIONS of human beings inhabiting our fair Earth and a small quark on the outer reaches of the Milky Way Galaxy (please note: Most things typed in this blog are pulled from the galaxy known as "My Ass").

(Guy with Powerpoint presentation): "So you see, that if the spending trend continues over the long run, by April, most of our users will turn away and effectively..."

zzzzzzzzzz.

"The long run" is the barometer with which we gauge something's sustainability. As a distance runner, sure, I can comply. But the concept that in "the long run", something can be tested and then categorically listed as "failure", well, that doesn't hold very much water. Unless water is selling, in which case, SELL SELL SELL!

Take my long run of 20 miles yesterday:

By mile 8 out on the trails, I was feeling horrid and certain that this was going to be a painful experience. And in the moment, sure it was. But by mile 12, I was back in gear and feeling like a million, muddy bucks. Why? I will now reveal to you my new favorite song on my iPod playlist:

Clicky

Hate me yet?

This plucked me out of the doldrums and suddenly, I was transformed. No, not into a young Alberto Salazar, but a 14 year old in the year nineteen hundred and eighty four, when parachute pants disgraced the face of fashion and the Chicago Cubs clinched the division for the first time since the year 1258.

I cannot properly map out the ups and downs experienced during a long run...yet, here I am, attempting to do just that. Patience and hope (and if you're sick of the word "hope", which I hope you are not, replace it with "bravery") help to expose all that can be experienced in "the long run", in just about every arena in life. If, at mile 35 you think all is lost, keep pressing forward and see how mile 36 feels...and 37...and so forth.

I guess I'm writing this with much on my mind. It's probably more therapeutic for my brain and self than anything else in these uncertain days. I have to trust that in the long run, the bad and scary patches will ebb and flow, just as in happier days.

Okay, NOW you have to admit that you hate me, even just a little bit.

2009-03-20T12:14:00.000-07:00

My runs this week were as follows:

Tuesday: 8 miles at 8:51/mile pace

Wednesday: 4 miles at 8:39/mile pace

Thursday: 8 miles at 8:51/mile pace

These paces are all assuming a flat, road run, which none were. So my splits on the 8 milers were somewhere in the 9:20 range. As for the 4 miler...uhhh...

See, it started out mellow enough: I arrived at the trail with plans to run an out and back of 4 miles. Then, she came whizzing past me as I locked my car. She being a 40 something woman in amazing shape, cruising by and uphill at a pace I assumed was somewhere in the neighborhood of my proposed pace.

So I gave chase. And then realized that she was somewhere in sub 8 minute miles. Naturally, I slowed and backed off, reminding myself that my pace was to be about 1 minute/mile slower than muscley, fit woman's trotting pace.

KIDDING I PASSED HER AND KEPT UP THE PACE FOR ANOTHER 3 MILES AND RAN 7:18/MILES

It's this competitive side of myself I'm nurturing. In a previous entry, I talked about how even in kindergarten I was non-competitive. It's time for this to change.

In the sport of ultra running, I've gotten quite used to the fact that yes, while I'm fast in big distances, I'll likely never finish in the top 10% of the pack, so I've grown content at hanging somewhere in the top 25% of finishers and having fun in the outdoors with the other crazies. But somewhere within those confines, I have to remind myself that it's totally acceptable to "compete" against others. It doesn't take away from the other elements of the sport that I enjoy. It adds to them.

2009-03-15T17:15:00.000-07:00

As you may know, or not, but will be finding out....nnnnnnnnnnnow!, I received my running coach certification last autumn, which I've done very little with, but I *have* altered my own training, so I figure that's my money's worth right there.

And as you may know, or again, not know, but will after a few more splashes of verbs, nouns, and more commas than your eyes care to deal with, I'm also registered to run Hundred in the Hood this September. This is my second 100 mile run endeavor and - for reasons unbeknownst to me - I want to train properly for it.

Go figure.

I really enjoyed the wisdom and humor possessed by the teacher of my running coach certification course, so in a sweeping act of irony, I went to the very website where I myself am pronounced as a certified running coach, grabbed his email address, and sent off to see what he could do for me.

He's building me a training program that I believe, in my heart of hearts, is going to kick my ass like the guy who rearranged Leroy's face in Croce's chart-topping "Bad, Bad Leroy Brown". Having never run on anyone's schedule but my own (waking up, hungover, delaying the long run until the following day, etc), this has lit a bonfire beneath my ass. The last two runs he scheduled for me I ran to the nearest 1/1,000th of an inch. I clocked and logged my times on the interactive site. I've written down trail conditions and how my body felt while out there. In other words: I STARTED PAYING ATTENTION.

Right now, my weekly running totals hover between 40 and 45 miles. When training for San Diego 100, my mileage topped off around 63 miles in a week. My coach has revealed his plans to get me up around (are you sitting down? Relaxed? Take a deep breath...now exhale...goooooood....goooooooooooood. Woop, I digress...) 80 to 85 miles per week.

Ulp.

I have complete faith in his knowledge (having run probably dozens of 100 milers himself, and placing in the top 10 usually) and in my capabilities to train at this level. Who knows? I might surprise myself out there.

And so it begins: My obsessive blogging about training for another 100.

Flushed and Itchy

2009-03-04T20:02:00.000-08:00

No, this is not the name of my sophomore album release, the one poised to follow "Flaccid Banana". It's a reality I'm facing:

Certain India Pale Ales cause me to break out.

I've found I'm not alone, as a regular customer at County Cork also experiences this emotionally traumatic reaction. Thing is: I love the very IPAs that cause my face to blow into a reddish hue and send creepy-crawlies to tingle my skin. The exact same ones:
Pliny the Elder,Broken Halo, and my beloved Tricerahops.

Perhaps part of love is knowing when to say goodbye.