Heat Casualties at the Rose Bowl

So cried a pedestrian today at the Rose Bowl. And sure enough, an older man had collapsed in the 90 degree heat, laying crumpled on the asphalt. I believe he may have been participating in a Senior Olympic Events and faded from the heat.

In addition to the Senior Olympics, a Run Like A Girl five-mile race crowded onto the trails above the Rose Bowl. TNT Coach Karla observed another heat casualty as a running girl dropped at the finish line.

As to the non-collapsing runners, Ernesto nursed a sore hamstring and only ran two, while I put in six to make up for skipping yesterday due to high temperatures. In any case, the last few days haven't been good for strenuous outdoor activity.

As to the old guy, a squad car zoomed up and almost flattened a departing cyclist, whose attention was focused on the injured man. The rider had to dump her bike at the last second to avoid becoming a grill stain. A fire truck and an ambulance arrived, lights flashing. Loading the old guy on a back board, paramedics took him to the hospital.

A very eventful morning.

Reflections on an Ugly Eight Miles

This really stinks. My carefully considered thoughts after an eight-mile run yesterday. Temperatures were in the 90s well into late afternoon. I slowed way down, walked when necessary, and finished without heat exhaustion.

Insect Update

In addition to writing about insects, I've discovered an odd species clinging to the walls outside our condo. Over an inch long, these black and white critters have exceptionally long antennae, make no audible sound, and fly.

We'll execute a close-in zoom and post a photo as soon as we overcome the "Ewwww, big bug" factor.

Bose Ears

Our new condo offers a rich audio bouquet. On a street with other condos and apartments, there are trash trucks crashing into dumpsters, leaf blowers, horns honking, sirens whooping, kids yelling, Armenian parents yelling back.

Then came Bose Acoustic Noise Cancelling Headphones.

Ahhhh.

Mitch Watson at the Actor's Gang

Pal and playwright Mitch Watson has a hit on his hands. Klub (umlaut pronunciation on the "u," — Kloob — but I can't find the character on my keyboard) takes a dark look at the world of theatre through the eyes of a bitter clown. (Portrayed by the very busy Mitch Watson.) Check it out at the Actors' Gang.

Note: The website mentions a run through July 19. But Mitch assures me the play ends July 12. Believe the author and not the electronic page.

USC and Writing for T.C. Boyle

Last night, MDW and I attended a film screening on the USC campus. Having graduated in 1987, I believe this was my first trip back. (Though I have been to the Colosseum for football games.) My final semester was taken up by a creative writing project under faculty mentor, T. Coraghessan Boyle. Professor Boyle had an arid sense of humor, dropping out dry koans then moving on. In class once, he suggested we always write the last paragraph of a story in French so the reader would feel stupid. He was a great resource and a warehouse of story-crafting knowledge even then. But I never took full advantage of his insight. I was eager to get back out in the world and write for real.

My plan had been to take a job somewhere overseas and write something very expatriate and wry. But having focused so hard to finish college in two and half years, I folded immediately after graduation. I checked out jobs, sent out stories, started new ones, began a book, but my follow-through was shot. The only thing I completed was jury duty. Finally, a few months later, I stopped even pretending to write, returned to acting and spent the spring and summer performing bad plays.

What's this got to do with anything? As Dummy Fever gathers dust in its third draft tomb, I've started thinking about acting again. Maybe it has something to do with all the energy we put into selling the old place, getting a condo plus my training for a marathon, then running two in less than a month. I fear my follow-through has crashed again.

Could just be a 21-year cycle. In any case, I will complete the book. And no more acting.

'Bye TNT '08 Marathoners

Thus endth the saga of the San Gabriel Valley Summer 2008 Team in Training. A few folk showed up yesterday for a farewell run, nursing injuries brought on by the San Diego Marathon and partying after the event. Among them were teammates who didn't think they could complete 26.2 miles and made it in style. Others who should've cruised, struggled. And a few who looked like they'd only cross the finish line in an ambulance, gritted their teeth and limped to victory. Which is all a way of saying that the marathon brings out the most surprising elements in people. Now it's time for the deck to be reshuffled. I will miss this motley bunch at the same time watching the new SGV Winter Team form.

My best wishes and prayers go out to teammates Stacy and David, both of whom were recently diagnosed with cancer. A season of running has given them good health and mental toughness. If anyone can meet this disease head-on, it's these guys. Do send them your very finest thoughts.

My first TNT coach, Jimmy Freeman, swung by practice on his way to run a crisp 22 miles. Jimmy is training for the upcoming Western States 100 Mile Endurance Run. With a course winding through terrain accessible only to helicopters and animals that grew up there, Western States is an event Jimmy's hankered after for years. Finish under 24 hours and you win a coveted belt buckle that says you've gone where others have only flown over. Jimmy is not a half-way man and stands an excellent chance of success.

And now back to writing about funny insects.

Photo by Alfredo Cacho.

Old and New

Brother coach, Alfredo, shot this as I ran up Broadway in San Diego. At that point, it was a young marathon, barely beyond seven miles.

Tapings for the second-season Freakazoid! DVD are being scheduled for early July. As I glean more intelligence, I shall be delighted to pass it on.

Cyber Juggling

Work arrives in the form of a fine animated show about insects. Just a single story for now. But Herr Computer pines away in the digital hospital and I'm forced to shift between MDW's machine and another computer that isn't connected to the Web. But persevere I shall. Then I'll stop writing like Yoda.

Mr. Computer is Ill

A corrupted file - a file keen on drink or cards. In any case, I'm off to a computer doc today to seek repair.

Last night, I watched Beowulf. Maybe it looked better in 3D. As it was, I couldn't help feeling I was watching an R-rated version of Shrek. I kept expecting the donkey to appear. ("Say, Grendel, s'up with those bad ass teeth?")

Barer of Good Tidings

Thanks to Freak-Friend Danny Barer for the shout-out on his blog. Scroll down to read how 2008 Comic Con attendance is expected to spike.

Cool.

SD Marathon This and That

Natasha and I performed a ritual mombo around mile 21.

Running and walking around the course on my coachly duties, I covered at least 30 miles.

A common medical condition treated that day was hyponutremia or over-hydration. People drank too much water and washed out valuable salts and electrolytes.

Teammates Chris and Scott threw a victory party yesterday at their secluded Monrovia estate. I learned we have at least 3 Ph.Ds on our team. Also, two older teammates referred to me as a "punk kid." You don't get that a lot at age 55. It was rather refreshing.

Comic Con Freak-a-Note

On the subject of San Diego, as of this hour on a quiet Sunday morning, the pre-order info on the first season Freakazoid! DVD stands at:

Amazon.com Sales Rank: #3,033 in Movies & TV (See Bestsellers in Movies & TV)
Popular in this category: (What's this?)
#82 in Movies & TV > Kids & Family > Television

In addition to Paul Rugg and I, our old boss, Jean MacCurdy will be at the Comic Con panel on Thursday, July 24, between 10:30 and 11:30 AM at the San Diego Convention Center. (Tom Ruegger, alas, must attend to sundry family matters.)

Stop by if you're in the neighborhood, with time on your hands, and a desire to mingle with Klingons.

San Diego Marathon Notes

As previously noted, my marathon finishing times continue ending in different hours.

2008 San Diego: 7:28

2005 Honolulu: 6:01

2007 Chicago: 5:48

2007 Phoenix: 4:21

2008 Eugene: 3:59

17,828 runners and walkers started the marathon and 16,372 finished.

Average finishing time was 5:01:08.

Many junior high and high school cheerleaders lined the course. While most groups remained upbeat even to the bitter end, a few were sullen as if present under threat of a beating. Trying cheering under duress and see what comes out. Inspiring to others? Not a 100 percent, I'm thinking.

Teammates agreed that the latter miles of the marathon were made unneccesarily grim by the terrain — concrete freeway underpasses and smelly tidal inlets. Interestingly, the same company (Elite Racing) that hosts San Diego puts on the Phoenix Marathon. There also the crucial final miles wended through a bleak industrial district that looked like the terrain you see in movies where zombies attack. I suggested that Elite Racing worked with a psychologist who designed the courses to mirror the inner make-up of runners. They've certainly got beyond 20 miles down cold.

Staying Classy

After a marathon moving experience, I left for San Diego on Friday in search of the real thing. As the San Gabriel Team lacked a "sweeper," I'd volunteered for the job. Thus I had to enter the race as a participant, station myself toward the back and sweep along our runners and walkers, making sure they passed the cut-off points and crossed the finish line. I drove down with TNT mentors Ernesto and CJ. In the car, we had a long spirited discussion on international monetary policy, the existence of God, and driving while drunk.

As marathons go, San Diego was deceptively difficult. On the map, it appears you're running a pleasant course around Balboa Park, downtown, around Mission Bay, and finishing aboard the USMC Recruit Depot in Point Loma. However there were a number of long inclines and declines coupled with several miles on a slanted freeway that aggravated old running injuries. In the latter miles, IT bands, hamstrings, and calf pulls would be refreshed, feeling just as painful as the day on which they occurred.


Sunday arrived with an overcast sky. Our team milled around the start area. Pictures were snapped, trash bags worn to ward off the morning chill, and Port-a-Potties visited again and again. Steaks dropped by for a chat before setting off to run a sub-five hour race. Teammate Gordie had been the featured speaker the previous night at our send-off dinner. A cancer survivor, he was treated like a rock star by other TNTers except Gordie was coherent and didn't smash anything.

6:30 AM. Crack! A cheer. The race had begun! We advanced 14 feet then stopped. Then a few more feet and stopped. Then walked. Then stopped. Seventeen minutes later, we crossed the start mat. NOW the race began.

Mile One: Lots of laughs and fun. There were many people dressed as Elvis, including CJ. These running Elvi hoped to set a record for the most Elvis-garbed runners in a marathon. (How did they do? I can't say.) In addition, a woman ran with an artificial leg, several men ran with large American or MIA flags, and a blind woman with a shirt that read "China Gal," speed-walked without a guide, tapping like mad against the curb.

Mile Two: We passed over the 163 Freeway and started south along the east side of Balboa Park. Nice and downhill. I ran ahead, marking the position and disposition of teammates.

Mile Three: Still east of the park. A man jumped into a sumac bush to urinate, but found the bush already taken. These are the gritty set-backs that must be overcome for a successful marathon.

Mile Four: Coaches Katie and Kate said 'hi' and 'bye' as everyone was doing Okay.

Mile Five: Downtown. We passed a Hooters where two desperate men were already lined up at 7:30 in the morning.

Mile Six: More loping back and forth between groups. Several of our injured had cautiously begun running.

Mile Seven: A long uphill climb on Broadway. Coach Alfredo arrived to capture the moment in digital pictures. Away from the camera, I stopped to use a Port-a-Potty. The smell was most dire.

Mile Eight: We're on the 163 Freeway, heading north and uphill on slanted concrete. Aches and pains crop up. A man in a red Super Man cape tore up a hill as if pursued by a kryptonite dog, leaped a chain-link fence in several bounds, and disappeared behind a tree.

Mile Nine: Adios cloud cover. The sun emerged and the temperature rose instantly. Worse, it felt humid. We came upon TNT drag cheerleaders. There's nothing like screaming men with beards, wearing make-up and short dresses, to energize the weary.

Mile 10: We passed beneath University Avenue. There was a strange phenomena: locals strolling along the freeway. Apparently, the novelty of walking on a freeway was too rich to ignore. What fun San Diegans have!

Mile 11: Downhill. Huzzah!

Mile 12: Off the stinking freeway and west on Friars Road. To our left stretched a colossal mall. It was layered with smaller malls within the mother mall as well as satellite malls across the street. Truly, we were running through shopping Valhalla. Cut-off time loomed close.

Mile 13: Anna, Liz and several others picked up the pace. Other teammates nursed more serious hurts. They vowed to run again another day and stopped at the half-marathon. Coach Pete cheered us on, offering encouragement as well as an odd snack consisting of wheat thins floating in a pan of hot dog water. The encouragement was appreciated

Mile 14: I almost missed the cut-off. This would've have resulted in my appearing weak and foolish. Virginia and Stacy stood on a curb with a bag of Oreos. I took one and it disintegrated from the heat like a cookie dandelion.

Mile 15: We were now on the east side of Mission Bay, running north through parks and suburbs. Natasha had fallen behind her group of Sanchez and the sibling duo of Whitney and Kingsley. Her IT injury was acting up and she walked along, having been joined by a runner named Stu. Stu had completed ten marathons, five San Diego marathons, and had tickets to Pat Benatar that evening.

Mile 16: Hobbling to a curb, the woman with the artificial leg sat down. I caught up with Kirsten and Sonia, battling pain and fatigue, but determined to press on.

Mile 17: Heading back toward Natasha, I found she'd ditched Stu. We set out to pass the mile 19.4 cut-off. Miss this one and you were bussed to the finish area, given a half-marathon medal and sent on your jolly way. Our team manager, Tiffani, met us, wished us well, and successfully hit up several children for contributions to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.

Mile 18: Despite IT pain, Natasha kept up a brisk pace. She remarked that her first name spelled backwards was "Ah Satan." True. But I felt it was the marathon talking.

Mile 19. We made the cut-off. Stopping in a medical tent, Natasha had ice wrapped around her IT band with yards of packing tape. It unraveled within a mile as we headed up a steep bridge. In the far distance, downtown San Diego shimmered in the haze. Rapid tapping. We turned as China Gal sped past, cane arcing from curb to pavement like a metronome.

Mile 20: Sea World was nearby. I'd been running and walking since early morning. I fantasized about dynamite fishing and Shamu.

Mile 21: Coach Sharla showed up somewhere around here. It was getting into the afternoon. We turned onto a dirt road, curving along some tidal inlet that smelled like dead sea lions. Trucks were dismantling water stations. Did I mention this was a rock 'n roll marathon with bands every mile? They were striking their gear. In fact, there was no shade and we sensed it had also been packed up.

Mile 22: Coaches Karla and Alfredo met us with ice for Natasha's head. As I was an unpaid volunteer, it was felt ice would be wasted on me.

Mile 23: All around, runners hobbled and limped. We walked by a water station that had everything but water. A street sweeping machine gobbled up the flattened cups, chasing us under a freeway and out again into the sun. Without question, we were at the butt end of the marathon.

Mile 24: Bleak concrete overpasses; scraggly bushes. We passed China Gal, tapping along, locked into pace.

Mile 25: Jets roared overhead from San Diego International Airport. To our left, we passed the Marine base where I went through boot camp 36 years ago. I wasn't in a nostalgic mood. Natasha's IT band hurt so much she was biting a piece of wood to keep from yelling. China Gal tapped past.

Mile 26: We're on the base. The end is near. Natasha vowed that no matter what happened, she wasn't finishing behind China Gal. We started running and passed that tapping machine.

Mile .2: But China Gal was a Terminator and would not quit. Tapping sounded from behind like the clock the crocodile swallowed in Peter Pan. We passed a guy with a "I Wish I Weren't Here" tee-shirt. We passed two chick in grass skirts. We crossed the finish line in seven hours and twenty-eight minutes.

But our adventures continued. The finish area was practically deserted, covered with trash and looking like the parking lot of a rock concert. We got our medals then tried to figure a way to reach the UPS trucks where our gear was stored. There was no crowd to follow, just wide open areas surrounded by fences and garbage. I climbed over a metal barrier near the trucks. Natasha and I tried dismantling the barrier, despite the fact there was an opening about twenty feet away. Eventually we spotted the opening, got our gear, stumbled over to the TNT sign-out area and called it a marathon.

That night there was celebration and drinking. (For some, a good deal of drinking.) Many first timers walked with the "marathon shuffle," a post-race gait that makes 28-year-olds look like doddering wrecks. CJ finished as Elvis and Ernesto finished despite a bum hamstring. Teammate Chris ran a phenomenal race, crossing the mat in 3:43. (On the 2008 highlight video, he's pumping up the crowd at 2:37.) Nevertheless, all who persevered and finished the marathon/half-marathon were exceptional.

Well done, Team.

Off Again

After my big stinking move, I'm heading down to San Diego this morning for the marathon. I'll be performing various coachly duties for Team in Training and otherwise relaxing after a most stress-filled week. More upon my return.

Really digging the new place. Leaf blowers sound outside and I don't have to think about paying the admirable Mr. Kim.

Phantom Home

Nerve endings curl so that amputees often "feel" sensations from ex-limbs. Tonight, as dusk fell on the condo, I felt the need to rise and turn on the outside lights. A few minutes later, a sprinkler hissed and I listened closely for gurgles or other signs that the rain bird needed replacing. Adjustments are occurring.

Yesterday afternoon, my gardener waited in his truck for me to return from errands so that he could say good-bye. Twice a week for eleven years, Mr. Kim managed my big wild yard: reseeding the lawn, loping back sumac, growing ice plants, as well as replacing busted sprinkler valves out of his own pocket. Every Christmas, I left him an envelope with a little cash bonus. In return, he'd leave me potted palms and orchids, in addition to traditional poinsettias. When we met, I was still unmarried and he was not yet a grandfather. Over the years we talked about insects that killed Monterey Pines, the joys and sorrows of his children, and the uncertain nature of my line of work. He had designed a hot-looking bonsai garden that faced the street and still got compliments from passers-by.

And so we stood in my driveway in the warm sun and wished each other the best. We had shaken hands when we had first met. Now we shook hands again in parting. (His were like sand paper.) Grey hair sticking out from under his baseball cap, Mr. Kim shuffled back to his Ford pick-up, bed bristling with lawn mowers and leaf blowers, and drove off around the curve.

As Dorothy said to the Scarecrow, "I think I'll miss you most of all."

And the Move Goes On

On top of it all, I have a slight hamstring pull. But onward we go. I can't tell you how wonderful it was to go online and read next to my mortage: PAID IN FULL. Sweet. Now if I can only avoid serious injury for the next 48 hours I'll be swell.

Downpour Near Devil's Gate

. . . the weather man gets it right. I'd packed all day yesterday, hauled a bunch of stuff to storage, then went running. The sky was overcast and the weather report foretold thunderstorms, but, really, this is southern California in May. Parking at the Rose Bowl, I saw a few drops disturb the dust on my hood. Big deal. I started running.

Nearing mile one, the rain fell steadily. By mile two, hail had kicked in. Reaching a freeway overpass, I took shelter as the sky unloaded like the wet season in Phnom Penh. Rain fell in wavy sheets. Run-off water poured from a big, corrugated pipe into a nearby arroyo, splashing down boulders and splitting into twin waterfalls. Thunder rocked the sky overhead. Sheet lightning flared like a giant flashbulb while a lightning bolt performed an eerie shimmy. A huge branch from an oak tree cracked and fell down a hill side. More hail. This storm was a bit too Midwestern-nostalgic for my taste. Tornado, anyone?

Finally as the thunder grew fainter and the rain slacked, I finished my run, getting only slightly wetter than I already was.

Last Saturday, we had to call practice early because of the heat. Then there was heavy wind on Wednesday, usually a fall/winter occurrence, now a stinking cloudburst. I don't pay high taxes for this. I feel I'm owed sunny and clear with temperatures in the low 70s. Luckily, our legal system is so screwed up I'll have no trouble filing suit against California for unlawful atmospherics. A nice settlement would help pay for the paint job in the condo.

Home Sale and Comic Con Invite

Sometime around 1:05 PM the buyers' loan went through. Sale! We lease our former home for another week. Meanwhile, MDW deals with contractors at the new place while I pack on.

Tiny Toons and Freakazoid DVDs are due to release July 29. In preparation, Warner Bros. has invited a number of the old crew, including Tom Ruegger, Paul Rugg and I, to attend a panel at Comic Con on July 24 between 10:30 and 11:30 AM.

I hemmed and hawed and finally agreed. -:)

Tick-Tick-Tick

Only a matter of hours until we sign the papers that sell our house and buy a condo. There is so much STUFF to still pack-lose-store.

Yesterday evening was our team's final track practice. As a farewell surprise, Coach Katie divided us up for a 200 meter relay race. We used her daughter's dolls as batons. (Bizarre, even by Los Angeles' standards.) Off we ran with the lead swinging back and forth. When my turn came, I had a 15-yard cushion as I bolted with maximum effort. This blazing start flooded my system with lactic acid (by-product of sudden strenuous exercise). Like an old watch, I wound down as my opponent gained. He caught me just as we handed off. Fortunately, our anchor was the fastest guy on either team. After trailing briefly, he kicked in the jets and won, thus saving me from being the oaf who blew a lead and lost it for our side.

Having already logged three miles at practice, I was sagging. That was the fastest I'd run in many years, recalling high school memories of my brief track career as a 400 meter fellow. Nostalgia aside, I'll be glad to resume less-speedy marathon training.

Pitching Movies with Paul Rugg

Paul Rugg and I shall once again craft a feature film idea and go a'pitching. We've done this twice. Back in 2002 we worked up a live-action idea about a group of actors undergoing military training in preparation for an upcoming war film. However, they are accidentally dropped off in a jungle and mistaken for real American troops by guerrillas. As I was preparing to leave for Cambodia at the time, we conducted a sales blitz, hitting nine production companies and studios in a little under three days — a blur of smiling faces, couches and bottled water.

In 2003 we prepared an idea about two tornado-chasing geeks sucked up by a twister and deposited in an Oz-like world where they blunder into a quest that changes their lives. A live-action idea, we pitched it around, here and there. (Eventually, I wrote it into a script.) Retooling our tale as animation for a 2005 Dreamworks meeting, we finished the pitch only to have the executive suggest we take it around as live-action.

Now we have an animated concept about dogs and honor and doing what is right, regardless of circumstances. We'll start building a story as soon as I get back from the San Diego Marathon. I have a most excellent feeling about this one, as it is just silly enough to warrant a sale.

UPDATE: Someone else had the same idea around the same time re. actors mistaken for real soldiers. In 2008, someone else's idea became a film called Tropic Thunder. Such are the cards of Fate.

Animation Update

Had a long chat with my agent yesterday. After a prolonged shake-up, the TV animation industry is settling down. New execs and/or new directions have emerged from the swirling uncertainty of the last six months. That said, very few new projects are in the works and an industry slow-down continues.

But that may change soon. TV animation shares many traits with real estate: it's cyclical, expensive, and often involves a septic system. In any case, we're long overdue for another boom. I can't wait.

MDW and I need an expensive vacation.

Gala Parade of Contractors

Decks and dry rot and termites, oh my. Like mile 20 of a marathon, we near the finish of our house sale, but the going gets slower. Our new place has its own contractor caravan lined up for the close of escrow.

Soon . . . it . . . will . . . be . . . over.

Sundry Notes

Breaking four hours took me 17 months, a torn calf, and a scrubbed marathon.

Each of my four marathons has finished in a different hour:

1. Honolulu 2005: 6.01

2. Phoenix 2007: 4.21

3. Chicago 2007: 5:48 (Unofficial)

4. Eugene 2008: 3.59

Don't look for "2" anytime soon, and I hope you don't see "7."

Post-marathon recovery has been slow. Following an ice bath Sunday, I felt fine. But Monday we drove two-hours to Portland, followed by a two-hour flight to LA, then a 35-minute drive home. The next day my quads were testy and sore. However, walks and the foam roller have struck soreness a telling blow.

The Summer Team runs 20 miles tomorrow. I'll be out there assistant coaching, but not running. I see my role more as a "go get 'em"-type guy. At least for another week.

My next goal is to run a 3:45 marathon and qualify for Boston. That means I'll need an 8:36 per mile pace. Which, in turn, requires pruning 34 seconds from my current pace. This can be done if I'm patient; more importantly, if I'm patient and unemployed. Work has ruined more peoples' running dreams. Sure, it pays, but look at the hit your training takes. Balancing full-time employment with marathoning requires careful thought.

Don't be hasty. Ha-hooom.

Eugene Marathon Notes

Looks like I finally caught a break on the climate. Eugene offered perfect marathon weather. Temperatures stayed down all morning, thanks to a chill breeze that felt rather refreshing several miles into the race.

Peter appreciated the tribute to Rosina. He closed an email with: "The only marathon I've participated in recently was watching all three Indiana Jones movies in a row with my son. Which, by the way, started out Okay, but took a lot longer than 4 hours and was ultimately just as painful as running."

A few words about chips. Pretty much all marathons use running chips. These plastic objects attach to your shoe laces with skinny plastic ties and contain various codes. According to an article by Douglas Fruehling: "When runners run over mats placed at the starting line, an electrical current in the mats creates magnetic fields that charge the chips. The mats have receiving antennas that send the codes on the chips to a nearby controller box and computer, recording data for the runners."

In monster marathons such as Chicago with 45,000 participants, a runner might need a half-hour just to cross the start line. Pre-chip (1996), that meant 30 minutes of dead time tacked onto your finish. Nowadays, runners begin their marathon the instant their chip passes over the starting mat. This is known as "chip time" or "net time" and measures how long runners run regardless of the official clock.

In a small race like Eugene, it took me about 20 seconds to cross the start line. As I ran the last kilometer, I mention seeing the official clock inching into four-hour territory. Thus I knew I had a few more seconds to reach my goal.

That said, there is finish line video of me at RunnerSpace.com If you click on the 4:00 - 4:05 Hour Finishers, check the extreme far right of screen between :38 and :50. After checking my watch, I raise both arms in celebration. There's more, but it's blocked by two very oval half-marathoners who stroll through frame.

On the subject of weight, Horizon Air was apparently the first airline designed for anorexics. The seats were very narrow. Airline staff cautioned passengers to please keep their shoulders out of the aisle so they could maneuver the drink cart.

Eugene is such a green town our hotel room had a special recycling wastebasket. I'm all for recycling and being good stewards of the Earth, but if a place gets too green it makes me nervous and I start thinking Wicker Man. Eugene borders on that.

Tales from the Eugene Marathon

Light shifted subtly over the Willamette River. You sensed God working the sliders on his heavenly lighting board, blending shade and tone while sipping coffee from an immense mug. As marathon day began in Eugene, temperatures hung around the low 40s. I was reluctant to leave the warmth of our rented Rav. But MDW (My Darling Wife) pointed out that no man ever raced crouched over a hot air vent. So it was out into the cold near Hayward Field on the University of Oregon campus. MDW vowed to meet me at mile 18. There I'd planned to leave my water belt: a symbolic act to "lighten the load" for the arduous last miles where head games are mandatory. Meanwhile, I lined up behind other shivering runners at a Port-O-Potty.

Back in January, around the time I began training for this race, the wife of a friend died battling leukemia. I asked Peter if he'd mind my dedicating the marathon to Rosina. He and the kids were cool, but I had forgotten to bring anything. Fortunately, MDW grabbed some art supplies and cobbled together a fine inscription for me to wear. As I ran that day, spectators called out Rosina's name, encouraging me to keep going for her. In those moments, it seemed Rosina was present but just out of sight, as if she'd gone to fetch something from the car.

As to the course, imagine a drawing of a bolo tie such as gentlemen might wear in a square dance. Now imagine that same bolo tie drawn by an angry man. This will give you an idea of the route's shape. The opening miles led out from the campus, up a hill, down another, then into a park area where the metal tips would be if it really were a bolo tie. Doubling back to the U of O campus, the course led up another long hill, down to the Willamette River and across. Instead of a turquoise clasp, Autzen Stadium provided the center piece around which the race swirled, looping along bike paths around the Willamette. Tree-lined and tranquil, the river flowed under quaint foot bridges. The finish line was just outside the stadium where you could purchase bolo ties and other treasured souvenirs.






Finally, we go. Despite last-minute wavering, my goal was to break four hours. That meant a pace of 9:10, 49 seconds per mile less than my previous best in Phoenix. Since January 2007, my only marathon had been an extended walk in Chicago. The night before, I'd phoned coaches Jimmy and Kate for a little advice. They told me many useful, savvy things that I promptly forgot. But what I recalled was to stay on pace and save something for the end.

The first mile led uphill. I ran way too slow (9:40). I wanted to sob like a weepy old man, but didn't.

Mile 2: Mostly downhill.

Mile 3: More downhill. Now I was almost a minute ahead of pace. Cool.

Miles 4 and 5: Running the dangling string section of the bolo tie. Ate some yummy goo.

Mile 6: Doubling back to campus through Amazon Park. Still slightly ahead of pace.

Mile 7: Up a long hill. I slowed again, keeping my heart beat even. Runners blasted by, huffing and puffing. I smugly watched them pass.

Miles 8 & 9: Back through the campus, then across the Willamette on a foot bridge. At one point, I thought my legs were buckling. But it was only the bridge wobbling from impacting runner feet. Still, I hurried across.

Mile 10: On the bike trails along the river; more yummy goo with double caffeine.

Mile 11: We'd been running mixed in with a half-marathon. Now the half-marathoners veered off to finish their race. I remarked to a woman next to me, "I thought they'd never leave."

Mile 12: MDW surprised me at 12. I was still ahead of pace, feeling great. Perhaps I'd made too much of this marathon business? We confirmed our date for 18.

Mile 13.1: Half-way assessment. I was at 1:56:52, about an 8:55 pace. A little brisk, but no strain. Figuring I could hold it a bit longer, I decided to press on.

Mile 14: I encountered the Clopper. A lean man in his 60s with short, silvery hair, he slapped the ground loudly with every stride like a farm horse walking on cobblestones. Whock-whock-whock-whock! The sound grated. I sped past. But since I was walking a minute every seven minutes, there was no escape. I'd prepare to run again when I'd hear whock-whock-whock coming up behind.

Mile 15: What was on the menu? Surprise, it was another double-caffeine goo! (Damn the Clopper!)

Mile 16: Holding steady two and three minutes ahead of pace. I was looking at a solid finish. I uped my run/walk ratio to 8x1.

Mile 17: Something happened here but I can't remember.

Mile 18: MDW took my water belt after I washed down the last of my salt.

Mile 19: I finally ditched the Clopper. Hurray! Oh, God, hurray! First little twinges of leg pain.

Mile 20: Back across the Willamette. We're now running on the south side bike trails. I was still ahead, 3:00:06, but my pace had dropped to 9:00. My legs were beginning to feel a tad thick.

Mile 21: Now began the Track of Broken Dreams, better known as the last miles of a marathon. I dropped a full minute.

Mile 22: Dropped another minute. The same effort took tons of energy. My calves felt like iron knots. The four-hour pace group leader, whom I hadn't seen all day, breezed past with several runners in tow.

Mile 23: Leaking seconds badly, I dropped intervals and ran. All around, marathoners were breaking down: a young, bearded guy fast-hobbled on an injured foot; a husky Asian man cramped out in pain; a girl in tangerine shorts ran backwards to ease the ache; a guy in a floppy hat staggered off the trail and heaved a great spray of liquid. He heaved again and again. Meanwhile, sunlight shone through the trees and the Willamette flowed serenely.

Mile 24: For the moment, I'd plugged the time leakage and was almost exactly on pace, but fading fast. My hip flexors felt as light as a parking structure. Walking at a water station, I ate jelly beans and realized I enjoyed walking. Forcing myself to run, I focused on a large man in a red T-Shirt and passed him.

Mile 25: On pace, but maintaining the effort brought a bonus hurt. A side stitch arrived as I passed a balding runner in a blue and gold singlet. His feet quickened as he tried to catch me. Pretending I was in the Olympics staving off a Kenyan, I moved ahead to the next runner.

Mile 26: Reaching the shadow of Autzen Stadium, I was roughly on pace, but gassed. MDW waved and cheered. All the blood in my upper body had migrated to my legs. Woozy and light-headed, I lumbered along on auto pilot.

Mile .2: An orange snow fence lined the final kilometer. On the race clock ahead, red LED numbers inched into the four-hour district. I tried recalling how many seconds had passed before I crossed the start mat. However calculations were oafish folly as I lacked blood north of my waist.

I made it by six seconds: 3:59:53.

MDW helped me to a curb where I sat and stared at nothing for several minutes. I was fortunate to have reached my goal. Nevertheless, I finished what I set out to do. Plus, I honored Rosina and pumped money into the Eugene economy so they might purchase yet more commemorative bolo ties.

It's been two days since the marathon, we're back home and life proceeds. We have to move in a few weeks. And there's still the TNT Summer Team and preparing them for their first marathon. Oh yeah, and finding a job. And jury duty.

But today I'll rest and eat pizza and think about running another marathon in a few months.

That'll be fun.



(Start line photo by Rick Russell. All others by MDW Joy.)

Sam Plenty: "Hat of Doom"

Sam Plenty wears one and sings in Episode Seven, now up and available for your viewing pleasure.

Victory at Eugene!

3:59:53!

Hyperspacing I-5

Early this morning, my wife and I exited I-5 Freeway in Burbank, parked, and flew to Portland. Enroute, Horizon Air held a contest: the passenger with the oldest penny would win a bottle of wine. Half-asleep, I watched my traveling companions rummage through pockets and purses. The winner produced a 1942 penny and was awarded a large bottle of wine wrapped in gray paper.

A few hours later, we're back on the northern branch of the same interstate 5, driving south to Eugene. Green countryside everywhere, with small hills rising in the background. Oregon appears to be a teenage version of Washington.

As Oregon has legalized assisted suicide, my wife and I joked how any public expression of discomfort is interpreted by state employees as "suffering" and you are summarily executed.

Our hotel is only ten minutes from the finish line at Autzen Stadium, (home of the University of Oregon Ducks.) I picked up my race number (1116) and goodie bag. I've gone from nervous to excited. Now, out for the traditional pre-pre-race meal of Chinese food.

Going Up

In Eugene, Sunday's temperature is now forecast in the low 70s. I'm going to ask the weather to stop. The mercury has climbed high enough. Let's not sully a fine marathon with excessive heat as was done with certain other races.

A few notes:

A brief four-mile run today wraps-up my marathon training, begun in late January.

April marked the third consecutive month of 100 + mileage. This was a large amount of running for me, aided by steady, persistent unemployment. Sunday will tell whether greater mileage equals faster times.

My goal is to break FOUR HOURS! There. I've used large attention-getting letters. As race day approaches, my nerves have been gnawing on me like rats in a town house made of peanut butter. I've caught myself telling other runners how stressed I've been over moving, thus advancing an alibi for failure. Enough! No! I commit to breaking FOUR HOURS!!

Captain of the 10K

Today I was placed in charge of coaching 10K runners as SGV TNT held its annual half-marathon and 10K. Teams from all over LA, including the San Fernando Valley and South Bay, turned up as well as alumni. It was also a race against autism as that particular affliction was holding a huge rally/walk-around-the-Rose Bowl. The goal was to have our runners off the course before the walk began. This was done successfully, despite rising temperatures, thanks to good planning by staff members other than me.

I am really excited about my marathon. This time next week I hope to have my feet up on the bed as I sip water and watch bad movies in the hotel while outside the temperature hovers around 50 degrees — and stays that way for the next day.

I still have to move, but right now I'm thinking Eugene.

Sam Plenty: Episode Six

"March of Doom" is now up as Sam Plenty ponders the undergarments of the underworld.

Boston Marathon Tidbits

Very successful indeed, as Coach Kate, bib #15941, broke the three-hour and twenty-minute mark at Boston - twenty minutes faster than her previous best marathon time. Beau Jimmy ran alongside in the 50 degree weather. As the bulk of marathons are completed between 3:30 and 5:00 hours, Kate has stepped into the upper ranks of those who dare 26.2.

Speaking of which, the U.S. Womens' Olympic Trials were held yesterday in Boston. Congratulations to top three finishers Deena Kastor, Magdalena Lewy Boulet, and Blake Russell who will represent America this summer in Beijing.


Who Dares, Wins!

Who Gets Up Last From A Restaurant Table, Pays!