It's not about the bike, or the running shoes. But then what is it about?
I pulled my old 1993-94 running log off the shelf this afternoon. It was the first year I ran, and I bought the "Runner's World Training Diary" to keep my mileage. I have all my old logs, along with my George Sheehan running books and my beloved "Lore of Running" on the top shelf of my bookcase with my dad's World War II diary.
The first log still gets used, because every race I run still goes in the "Racing Results" section at the back. In recent years, it's been one race a year, my annual Thanksgiving Albuquerque Turkey, so the log's kinda dusty, but it's a fine record of something. But what?
It for sure records my slow physical decline into middle age, from my 20:34 5K on April 17, 1994 (I still remember the exquisite suffering of that day as I passed the two-mile mark, the guy next to me asking what our split was and me gasping it out) to the 25's and 26's of recent years. I look on that decline with cheerful equanimity — it is a comfort and not a pain.
See, I am really not an athlete. I am never the fastest. I do not mind. But there are moments when the suffering is exquisite, and those are the moments worth living for.
I pulled down the 1993-'94 log to add today's time trial. I've pretty much switched to the bike, only running sporadically (aging ankles being what they are) so I figured the old log would be a good place to start adding bike races.
Paging through the old log, I had an epiphany.
Back in the day, I used to jot notes about each workout, and they became a sort of shorthand for my life: "2 mi Tempo, 7:50, w/ 1 mi warmup, 1 down, headache, never felt good. Job stress?"
'Round about the first week of August 1994 there is this terse entry: "sick, lump in throat. worried, sore throat."
Next day:"4 miles at park - middle two @ 8:30-8:00 felt weak but empowered - my body is my friend and ally, not my enemy." (the actor turns to the audience here, breaking the fourth wall to say, "Don't believe him for a minute, the boy is trying to convince himself of something....")
Then this, two days later: "Rest - doctor stuff - thyroid scan today"
Then a bike ride the next day - "felt good to get out" - followed by this: "Bosque run - raced my lump for a mile on twisty trails - felt strong and powerful".
The short story is that there was a tumor, surgery, it was benign, I didn't die. How many thousand runs in my life, but I will never forget that day in the bosque.
At the time, I was runing at least once a week on the dirt road atop the levee along the Rio Grande. (Today it's been paved, and I'm down there on the bike now at least once a week.) On that particular day I dipped down off the levee and into the woods along the river. The trails there twist and turn, woods so thick you're lost until the trail emerges at some other end. That day I was flying, full of scared rage at the tumor in my throat, racing it as if I could somehow defeat it. Which is silly, obviously. There were statistics, some 90+ percent chance that it was benign and the rest that it was a killer, but my statistics had already been decided, like dice that had been thrown but covered up before I had a chance to see them. At that moment the dice either were double sixes, and I would die, or they weren't. From a statistical point of view, of course, that's comfortable odds, but the prospect of double sixes left me frickin' terrified.
So I ran, and in those moments, suffered and reclaimed my body.
The bike has largely replaced the running shoes, and the feeling of that Saturday in the bosque is now replaced by the exquisite suffering of slamming into a headwind, trying to get onto Jaime's back wheel before he slips away, or standing up out of the saddle, mashing the pedals and watching my heart rate peg as I climb. There's life in those moments.
Being a realistic guy, I had two goals for today — a modest goal of breaking 21 miles per hour (33.8 kph) and an ambitious goal of 22 (35.6 kph). The Big Boys and Girls all break an hour, which would be 24.8 mph (40 kph), and the Big Boys and Girls all show up for this race. To be clear, dear readers, I am not Big. (see above: Fleck not athlete).
I had in mind that my fastest sustained ride, hourish in length, was 20.3 mph, but Moriarty is dead flat and dead straight so busting the old PR seemed doable. I had aero bars on the bike. I was 1337.
I got off to a weird start. They have two start lanes, with riders off 30 seconds aparts - left lane, right lane, left lane, right lane. The guy to my left, before me, popped his chain at the last minute, and there was great commotion getting it back on, so I was completely distracted with all my mental planning out the window. But then it was go, and I was off, and this thing settled over me in the first five minutes that was an almost preternatural calm.
I cannot tell you what was growing in the farmers' fields on either side of the road, but (cyclists will understand this) I sure was happy to see the first farm house flying a flag. You can't calibrate heart rate and bike speed without some understanding of wind, but with the flag-borne information in hand I just settled in an pumped. The speed was slower than I'd hoped, but I knew I'd have a tail wind coming back, so I just gritted and bore down.
'Round the turn and heading for home, I kicked it up a gear, sometimes two, and watched the digits on my average speed indicator creep up. I realized about 10 minutes into the return that I would be able to break 21, and that 22 was probably out of the question.
There are a bunch of technical things that I'll need to understand for the next time 'round - my legs wore down before my heart and lungs, which means more speed work (maybe some climbs?). And I really need to learn more about how to maximize my start without slipping into the anaerobic zone too early. I was intentionally cautious, didn't want to go out too fast after really blowing that part of the other time trial I rode two weeks ago.
But the technical doesn't matter. What really matters is that it was a beautiful cool late summer morning, with lovely wild sunflowers lining the roadside, and pounding down that final stretch toward the finish tower, my heart rate pegged, I felt very much alive.
My time: 1:09:16, spot in the middle between 21 and 22.
Scientists' "just so story" about dogs is that their first evolutionary step in our direction came when their ancestors began raiding the village trash heap. Proto-dogs that were less afraid of humans were more successful at the dump, and the inexorable pressures of natural selection took hold.
Every time I take something from the kitchen out to our compost pile, Sadie follows me and checks it out. She has never once found something to eat amid the coffee grounds and avocado skins and corn husks we throw in among the leaves and yard clippings, but she still checks it out with great discipline, a discipline borne of her evolutionary roots.
(jrb, this one's for you)
It's a beautiful day for a ballgame,
For a ballgame to-day.
The fans are out to get a ticket or two
From Walla Walla Washington to Kalamazoo.It's a beautiful day for a home run,
But even a triple's OK.
We're going to cheer, and boo
And raise a hullabaloo
At the ballgame to-day.
"And a very pleasant afternoon to you wherever you may be." That was the way Vin Scully joined us for Dodger baseball ever day over the radio of our youth, and hearing that song and that voice, you just knew everything was going to be OK. The promise was especially rich in spring, on a warm afternoon from Vero Beach to the suburbs east of L.A., where I grew up.
So I got my start time for Sunday's Record Challenge Time Trial, 8:37 a.m., and I'm nervous as hell. I know to do well I have to cut the edge off of that first five minutes on the bike, to find a way to get my rhythm and keep my heart from exploding from nerves rather than genuine effort. I hit on that song. Riding is rhythm, and I almost always end up with a song stuck in my head. Let's pick a song that's crisp and up tempo in a happy way. What better than Vin Scully and a beatiful spring afternoon with the promise that it's a beatiful day for a ballgame.
Let's go.
Batter up.
We're taking the afternoon off....
Can't say exactly why I feel a malaise this beautiful summer afternoon.
I could perhaps blame the Potter child, who I found rather a distraction these last days. I felt some obligation to finish the fifth book in the much heralded series (much hyped?), but found it a bit of a slog. By the end I was fine with the whole thing, but it took rather longer to get there than it might have if J.K. Rowling had a more disciplined editor. A smart person once suggested that one's decisions about writing should be as ruthless as if one was packing a wagon for the 19th-century trip out west - if you can leave it behind, you must. Rowling could do with a bit of that advice. And she turned that Potter boy into a bit of a twerp. Ah well, he's 15. No, wait. My Nora's 15, and she's not in any way a twerp, at least mostly.
There's other reasons for not malaise - it really was a lovely weekend.
Mom and Dad came over last night, Lissa cooked a lovely salmon dinner and we lounged until after sunset in the back yard looking at our flowers and watching the birds. And chatting. Nora told stories about her school life and was a delight.
Lissa and I had a nice ride along the river Saturday morning, down the south end of town. And I had a great ride this morning, all fast and furious to test out my legs for next Sunday's race. Legs passed test. I feel fast and ready.
And there was sugar-free vanilla ice cream. That alone is worth the price of admission.
In which John is reminded once again of why he doesn't want to be a hacker:
make[2]: Entering directory `/home/jfleck/jhstuff/head/gnome-themes/HighContrast'
Makefile:359: *** missing separator. Stop.
make[2]: Leaving directory `/home/jfleck/jhstuff/head/gnome-themes/HighContrast'
make[1]: *** [all-recursive] Error 1
make[1]: Leaving directory `/home/jfleck/jhstuff/head/gnome-themes'
make: *** [all-recursive-am] Error 2
*** error during stage build of gnome-themes: could not build module *** [29/86]
Lather, rinse, repeat.
No doubt this error, seen when running jhbuild, is the result of dark auto* magic, and had I been paying closer attention during Defense Against the Dark Arts class I'd know the spell to fix it properly. As it is, a bunch of hackerly steps involving commenting entire directories out of the build seems to have gotten me at least temporarily past the point of immediate doom. No doubt someone out there will read this and can tell me the easy incantation to fix things. If I hear it, I'll use it. But in the meantime I just need to get the damn thing built so I can work on the docs.
This sort of mess is increasingly a problem for the docs as building the latest GNOME grows in complexity. (Is it really growing in complexity, or am I just less patient?) One of the docs community newcomers recently asked me, in all innocence, how he could get a look at the latest CVS head version of the app he was working on so he could be sure his docs matched.
Just a reminder of why I don't want to be a hacker.
This Fox News "fair and balanced" bashing is getting so easy it's not much fun any more, but this (free subscription required) was too rich to pass up:
The Fox News Network is suing Al Franken, the political satirist, for using the phrase "fair and balanced" in the title of his new book. In claiming trademark violation, Fox sets a noble example for standing firm against whatever.Unreliable sources report that the Fox suit has inspired Paul Newman, the actor, to file a similar suit in federal court against the Department of Housing and Urban Development, commonly called HUD. Mr. Newman claims piracy of personality and copycat infringement.
The official results of the Double Eagle Time Trial are up, and I'm pleased to point out that I didn't come in last in my age group. I do not know Blake Osburn, but can only assume he had a flat tire.
Bicycling is very much a matter of style. I do not have any. In addition to quads of steel, one must have brightly colored clothing and a disk wheel to play with the coolest of the kids, so I had to very much swallow my male ego to be out there at all. I would like to say I'm above all that, that I was blithely unconcerned about the fact that I was riding a heavy old steel frame in a carbon fiber world, but I'd be lying. Still, I was able to ignore enough of my "I'm not cool" to get out and do it, and if they were racing this week I'd do it again.
"Words and images are a public trust. For this reason I will continue with my work regardless of the hardships, even if it costs me my life."
- Mazen Dana, Reuters journalist killed by U.S. fire in Iraq
There's a photographer I work with named Richard who has this routine when we go out together on a story. He'll work quickly, as soon as we get there, to get something in his camera that will work. So if the whole thing collapses, he won't go home empty handed - we'll have something to put in the paper. Once he's got something, he keeps working, but you can see him relax a little bit. I've learned from him the value of getting something quick that will work into my notebook. The first thing may not be the best thing, but once you've got it you can relax and work the thing, knowing that if you the situation goes south on you, you won't go home empty handed.
That's the way I feel about the GNOME 2.4 release notes. I'm not relaxed yet, but I'm close. A section on accessibility improvements, some notes on the improvements to the control center, some screenshot magic from Jeff and we'll have something publishable. Not great, but then I can relax and work on making it sing.
I'm not used to it taking this long to get the first shot in the camera.
Hmmm. What subtle clue is America sending via Amazon's upcoming releases bestseller list?
- Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them: A Fair and Balanced Look at the Right
- Bushwhacked: Life in George W. Bush's America
- Big Lies: The Right-Wing Propaganda Machine and How It Distorts the Truth
Is this Fair and Balanced?
" A Spanish cycling fan sees it his duty to drag his hot girlfriend or wife to the road-side and cheer. "
- Brad McGee
Jonathan Blandford notes that it's also important for my cycling that I be fair and balanced, lest I tip over.
This is my bike with the clip-on aero bars Jaime loaned me for the Double Eagle time trial. You could think of them as instruments of torture:
This is my heart rate during the Double Eagle time trial. You could think of the red zone here as the zone of torture.
This is my smiling face after the whole thing was over, thinking it really wasn't all that bad, a swirling 15 mph wind across the west mesa - generally a head wind for the last half of the ride - notwithstanding:
(Note the stylish cyclist's white ankle tan line.)
As a professional journalist, I must at all times remain Fair and Balanced. I have changed my blog's title to reflect this fact.
This is cool.
The boys and girls working on Evolution have started a blog, that we may keep up on the latest.
The poets down here don't write nuthin' at all.
They just stand back and let it all be.
Years ago, before Michael Moore became Michael Moore, he did an odd brief stint as editor of Mother Jones. He brought with him Ben Hamper, a hilarious auto worker whose wild columns for the alt weekly in Flint had apparently been something of a sensation.
I loved Hamper, but he got right in my face with the Springsteen thing, in regards to how upper middle class white college boys so completely dug Springsteen-the-poet-of-the-working class. Like we had ever gotten grease beneath our nails, or had any notion about fuelie heads and a Hurst on the floor, or had ever come close to racing in the street. We were just dorky middle class white college kids, so what the hell did we know?
This cut deep, of course, because I wanted to adore Hamper and Springsteen and identify with some sort of working class heroes where you just do the thing, stand back, let it all be. And here was Hamper pissing on that.
Which was brought all to mind the other night when I was poking through a dusty old anthology of The Beats what included an essay by Norman Podhoretz on "The Know-Nothing Bohemians." This is 1958:
Bohemianism is not particularly fashionable nowadays, but the image of Bohemianism still exerts a powerful fascination — nowhere more so than in the suburbs, which are filled to overflowing with men and women who uneasily think of themselves as conformists and of Bohemianism as the heroic road.
Then there is Kerouac, with his knack for just standing back and letting it all be. "Wow." I'm thinking Podhoretz is pissing on me too here. All I ever wanted to adore was the ballet being fought out in the alley, some Neal Cassady flipping a sledgehammer thing. "You are either on the bus or you're off the bus," I'd heard, and I figured I was just off the bus, like I'd missed it completely. And here was Podhoretz suggesting implicitly that maybe the bus was the wrong metaphor. Born in 1959, I'd come of age late enough in the '60s to be able to safely look back at it longingly, as if I could really have done something about it if I'd only been born about five years earlier. But that's crap, of course, because all the Bohemian Jack Kerouac Haight Ashbury longing, all the sentimental tripe about the Jersey auto parts yard 'neath that giant Exxon sign that brings our fair city light, all that's just so much idle chit-chat.
I think I'll read the new Harry Potter.
Put Red Hat on an old box we had for daughter Nora because her main computer is on the fritz, and she's been poking around it a bit.
"You know what I love about Linux?" she announced this afternoon. "The dictionary."
She's talking about the little GNOME dictionary, what sits on the panel and hooks into the dict.org servers. It's a handy little tool, for which she has not a good Windows alternative.
And I helped make it. I do the docs and a bit of the bugzilla work on it these days. Nora didn't know this. It was a big thrill for both of us, a connection to all this wacky GNOME stuff dad spends so much time working on.
I'm sorry, I usually try to resist the urge to quote odd spam, but this subject line was too funny:
Gnome-utils-maint, See our free sex videos!
I hate to lose at board games, but there's a tension between that and parental pride when I play Nora.
In this case, Nora was playing black and I was playing white. She creamed me. I was very proud.
A colleague pointed out yesterday that the phrase (word? term?) "J-Fleck" has been popping up recently as shorthand for that fabulous celebrity couple Jennifer "J-Lo" Lopez and Ben Affleck. After confirming this via Google, I have begun weighing my options. Should I relish this brush with celebrityhood?
Or, perhaps, is litigation in order?
Roswell's dubious claim to fame is the allegation that an alien craft of some sort landed nearby back in 1947. The town largely shunned this weak form of civic celebrity until the late 1990s, when it dawned on Roswell's civic fathers and mothers that there was money to be made. The 1997 "50th Anniversary of Something, We're Not Sure What" was a big success, but apparently things have waned some in the intervening years, according to Wyatt Buchanan of the Plainview Herald:
A few bands played outside, which was the highlight of the event. One act, The Dibs, drove 24 hours from Long Beach, Calif., to play to what they were told would be a crowd of 15,000-20,000. There were maybe 15 people watching, each fighting for the shade.At the end of their set, the band begged people to buy their CD so they would have enough gas money to get home. (I bought one. Itīs good, really good.)
(Thanks to Dave Thomas for the link.)