I showed her this ring.

I asked her one question.

She said yes.

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

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

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.

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!

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.

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)?


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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.