My Brush With Santa

Let's get this one thing straight, Santa Claus and Jesus Christ have nothing to do with each other. They don't know each other, never did. If I have my facts correct, and I'm pretty sure I do, Santa Claus wasn't even born until well after Jesus' bar mitzvah. Like hundreds of years after.

I'm fairly sure the families didn't even know each other. It probably wasn't as strained as the Montagues and Capulets, or even the Hatfields and McCoys, but I'm fairly positive that the Clauses and Christs never went on joint family vacations. At the very least, what with one group liking the cold and the other the heat, they probably wouldn't even be able to agree on a vacation destination.

This line of thinking all started the other night when I referred to Santa Claus as a douchebag.

You see, every year for one night in early December the shopping district in Santa Monica keeps it's doors open late. With the hopes of getting the local community blotto and ringing up big bills on their credit cards, all of the stores reduce the cost of their overpriced goods, dust off their holiday music CDs and assemble their own private version of holiday cheer - egg nog, frosted cookies, glasses of wine, chunks of cheese and, in the case of the local eye doctor, cups of homemade chili.

Miraculously, Santa Claus finds the time every December in what must be a fairly hectic schedule, to pop on by the local Coldwell Banker Real Estate office and take pictures with the locals. For many years I've enjoyed dropping by with my friends and getting my Polaroid with Santa. After all, it's not often that you get to see that large a celebrity up close and personal.

For the most part I've enjoyed my time with Santa. A bit roley-poley, could probably use an extra few weeks in the gym, maybe even a couple training sessions with Mark Allen, but he seems to be a nice enough fellow. Good hearty laugh, sharp looking outfit (if not a bit dated) and always in a fairly positive mood. You can probably imagine my surprise when all of this changed two years ago.

It was the same evening in early December - the Montana Walk, we call it (mostly because it involves walking up and down Montana Avenue). Catherine and I were new in our relationship and what better way to capture those early months of love than a joint photo with St. Nick.

We roamed up the street, grabbing a cookie here, a brownie there, dipping in and out of stores, until we finally reached the Coldwell Banker. I could see Santa inside, sitting majestically in front of a line of well-wishers. Catherine and I stood in line and, soon enough, we were at the front. Now is our big moment - our brush with celebrity. We approached the big fat fellow excitedly.

Cat went to one side of Santa and I the other. That's where things started going badly. It seemed pretty evident to me from the moment we walked up to Santa that he had a little bit too much holiday cheer focused on my girlfriend. As we neared his chair he immediately pulled Catherine to his leg and put his arm around her with a jolly warmth and a bit too much ho-ho-ho for my liking. I started feeling a little uncomfortable but, hey, this is Santa Claus, I thought to myself. This is what St. Nick does - he makes people feel good. So I let it pass.

As Catherine was sitting on Nicky-boy's left leg, apparently already engaged in conversation with the old fart, I went to plop myself down on his right knee. Call me crazy, but I swear that just as I started to sit down, he straightened out his leg and tried to push me into the christmas tree.

Dick.
I mean....Nick.

I turned my head to look into his face and toss over a "don't fuck with me" stare. Though he was still engrossed in conversation with Catherine - Lord knows what they were discussing so soon and so intently - I could tell that he was giving me the stank-eye from the periphery.

Someone said something from afar. I turned my head to see what it was and - flash! - our photo was taken. HEY!! I wasn't ready! What happened to "1, 2, 3...cheese!"???! Where's the fucking warning?!

We started standing up but apparently Santa wasn't done with Catherine yet. "Wait a minute, young lady," he said, pulling her back onto his leg. Not wanting to leave St. Nuisance alone with my girlfriend, I sat back down on his other knee, ready to quickly kick him in the nether-region if he started acting up.

"Have you been good this year?" the old wackjob asked Catherine.

"Yes, I have" she replied.

Wanting to get in on the conversation, and stake my proverbial claim, I decided to speak up. "No, she hasn't," I said laughingly.

Catherine looked at me with a smile. Nick, on the other hand, turned his head to me in shock. As if this were the first time he actually noticed my body sitting on his knee. "I wasn't talking to you," he said in what I must admit was not a Christmas-like, holiday spirit type of tone.

Well excu-u-u-u-se me, fatman, I thought to myself in utter shock. And, hey, Tubbo, why don't you take your grimy paws off my girlfriend. As a matter of fact, we'll be leaving now, thank you very much.

I grabbed Catherine by the hand, swiped my Polaroid from his photo-taking accomplice and marched on out of the real estate office in a huff as I mumbled all sorts of nasty things about Santa. I ranted about how the curtain on my entire life of holiday cheer had just been torn back revealing a dishearteningly angry delusion. I started thinking back through the years of Santa in my childhood. How my mom was either unusually happy or unusually angry the day after the gifts arrived. How it must've been Santa's fault. Was St Nick making the moves on my mother? I swear, I'll kill the sonofabitch and make venison burgers for dinner when I'm done.

Fast forward two years later to this past Friday night and apparently I still haven't gotten over this life altering experience. I'm standing on Montana Avenue at about 10pm with Catherine and our friend, Amy. The Montana Walk was just winding down and the girls were having some late night frozen yogurt when Amy brought up something about Santa Claus.

Santa is a douchebag, I spat out immediately.

Amy looked at me in disgust. You're going to hell for that one, she said.

Going to hell?! You've got to be kidding me. And I was off.... There's no possible way I could go to hell for recognizing the true douchebag in St. Nick. Santa has no influence over hell. Or heaven, for that matter. He doesn't know Jesus, much less can influence his line of work. Jesus is a good, honest man. Santa is a prick. There's no way that Jesus every met St. Dick and if he did, he'd probably kick him in the shins. Jesus would never be friends with Santa.

I see through Claus' trickery. His whole "have you been good or bad" schtick is a scam. It has nothing to do with daily life or being good. It's a pick up line. It's how Claus gets laid. I'm not buying into it. Not at all. I'm over Santa. If I actually had a chimney I'd light a fire on Christmas eve and burn his ass as he wiggles his way done. And if he gets through, you can bet my lawyer will be waiting to slap a Breaking and Entering suit on his fat face. And while he's serving 5 to 10 up in Rikers Island, I'll be rejoicing in the fact that I've done some good in the world.

Go to hell for calling Santa a douchebag? Puh-lease, it's probably the one thing that's going to get me into heaven!

Now excuse me, I've got to go buy a goddam christmas tree.
Happy holidays.

Logan's Run

Let's call him Logan.

I've known Logan for five years. Met him on a bike ride in 2002 and have since been cycling with him more times than I can count. We've challenged each other on the road, pushing, pulling, sprinting until the little blue veins in our foreheads nearly explode. We've been out to group dinners together, have met each other's girlfriends and even shared a few morning conversations over a nice, warm cup of coffee.

Here's the catch: I don't like Logan. Never have.

I have absolutely no reason for despising the man. I've enjoyed the time we've spent together. He's a nice enough fellow. Fairly harmless and pretty friendly, he always says hello with a smile. Sure he's got a bit of an ego and likes to be the star of the show, but as my buddy John once said as he ducked for cover, Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.

The truth of the matter is that Logan is my triathlon nemesis. I'm not quite sure why, but these things don't always have a reason. All I know is that from the moment I met the guy I've been focused on beating him. My goal in sports is simple, whatever I do I need to do it better than Logan. When I see him cycling on the road, I can feel the adrenaline begin to course through my veins. I push forward to get in front. I churn with all my power to break him down; to make him admit that he can't keep up with my breakneck pace. Say Uncle! I scream inside with an intense competitive anger. SAY UNCLE! SAY IT! SAAAAYYY IITTTTT!!!!

But Logan is strong. He's not the type of person that gives up easily. From what I can gather, he doesn't seem to be the type of person that gives up at all. Present him with a challenge and he pushes forward. That's what has made him such a darn good athlete - and that's precisely why I despise him.

Logan is repeatedly a sub-11 hour Ironman racer. He finishes 70.3 races in 5 hours or less. He kicks my ass at every distance. If I drove the marathon course of an Ironman race - swim, bike, drive - he'd still beat me. That's how far ahead he is.

There is no chance in hell that I'll ever beat Logan in a race anytime in the near future. If he collapses and falls into a coma before finishing, he'd still have time to de-vegetable-ize himself, have a CAT scan, go through speech therapy, pay his medical bills and crawl on all fours across the finish line before I even come within sight of the darn thing. But this doesn't stop me, I still want to beat the guy. Just once, I want to win.

Every year I seem to get faster. My speeds improve and my race performance enhances. I'm still getting PRs and still feeling excited about it. I'll cross a finish line and immediately look down at the time on my watch. I scream with joy seeing that I beat my last year's time. I raise my head to the sky, point to the stars in my best Barry Bonds meets Tiger Woods impression, and scream my head off in a Howard Dean frenzy. I got you this time you fucker! I'll say in a cacophonous roar. THIS time, you're going down.

Later on I may glance through race results to see how Logan did - to make sure that my increased speed was just enough to leave him sucking my dust in a similar race. But alas, with each 10 seconds I improve, he's gone 1 minute faster.

I should probably admit that he's a better racer than I. But I won't. You might say I'm stubborn. Even hard-headed. I like to think of it as focused and determined. My glass is half-full, thank you very much. And if you can just step the hell out of my way, I'd like to take a drink from the darn thing. I'm feeling a bit parched.

It has now been years that I've been trying to beat Logan. With those years, my feelings have morphed into something short of insanity. I no longer want to just come in ahead of him, I want him to suffer. I want him to admit that I'm a better racer. That I am a better human being. I want him to quit.

Here's the catch of it all - the dude doesn't even know my name. He has no clue that I consider him my rival, no reason to even think that despising him is my fuel to move forward. I am nothing to Logan; a mere face on a bike ride so easily forgotten.

This is the funny thing about sports rivals, it's all so personal. Rivalry is often driven by no rational thought process other than a need to find a bad guy. After all, there would be no superheroes to save us without villains to conquer. We all need villains in our lives, if for nothing else than to make us feel like saints.

Logan is my villain. I'm the superhero.
Let's not forget that.

I'm determined to beat my villain this year. And if I don't get him this year, I will get him the next. I'll train harder and stronger and push myself faster. If he keeps moving away, I'll keep going. Because eventually he'll have to stop. Eventually it has got to end.

Maybe his knees will give out before mine, maybe his desire will wane. If I don't beat him in this decade or the next, I will still be there chasing. And perhaps one day down the road while we're piddling along in the 90-94 year old age group, I'll edge his sorry wrinkled ass out on the line at some remote race that nobody cares about. And if I have a heart attack and fall dead to the ground right there right then on the other side of that finish line, I'll die a happy man. Because even if it takes me another 40 years, eventually Logan's run will end. And then I'll know that the superheroes have won.

The Giving of Thanks (revisited)

My loving family. My health. My happiness. My luck and life. The beautiful area in which I live. My supportive friends. My friendly colleagues. My amazing girlfriend. The ability to run. To walk. To laugh and cry. To speak, hear, taste and see. The sadness of sunsets. The rebirth of sunrise. To touch and feel. Feel and think. Think and grow.

To learn. To love. And learn from love. The music that fills my life. So that I may run. Bike. Swim. Eat. Sleep. And dream such wonderful dreams.

The nieces. The nephews. The mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers. My grandparents. And grandfather. And grandfather. My grandfather.

The serenity in silence. The joy of noise. The mountains and trees and oceans of beauty. The sun. The moon. And endless hopeful skies. The gifts I’ve given, and those received. The touching of a child’s hand on mine. The godson. And god-daughter. And God’s ceaseless giving.

My joy. My gratitude. My utter, complete happiness. The smiles and tears. The screams and silence. The yin and yang of me. My safety. Security. Solitude. Strength. I’m strong. I’m strong.

My intellect. And writing. And style. And flow. And on and on it goes.

Thank you.
Thank you.

Happy Thanksgiving!



[this was edited, reworded and reprinted from a post nobody saw two years ago.]

46 Random Things About Me

I'm really not one to do these silly things, but my girlfriend sent this one over to me and I actually found it quite interesting to share with one another. The interesting part is really learning about other people, but it'd probably be really tough for me to have every one of you answer this, so how about I just take the egotistical tact. Here are 46 things about me that you never really needed to know. If you decide to answer these questions on your blog, drop me a line and let me know.

1. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE?

yes, my great grandfather Joe (I think) and, um, somebody else. I can't remember who. I recently asked my father and he couldn't remember either. I think it might be Aquaman.

2. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED?

I thought it was 4 or 5 years ago but have since learned that it was 1 or 2 years ago. Either way, I don't remember.

3. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING ?

I like my handwriting when I really focus on making it neat. Other than that it's more chicken scratch than hand writing. I like my typing a lot better.

4. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT?

Salami, but don't tell anybody.

5. DO YOU HAVE KIDS?

Not that I know of.

6. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU?

Absolutely. I'm looking for more me to be friends with.

7. DO YOU USE SARCASM ALOT?

What do you think?

8. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS

I think so, unless the tooth fairy swiped them when I wasn't paying attention, the little whore.

9. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP?

No thanks. I will barely jump off the couch.

10. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL?

It used to be apple jacks. I'm going to go for Heritage Flakes right now.

11. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF?

Depends on the shoes and my mood.

12. DO YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG?

Physically, hell no. Mentally, hell yes.

13. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM?

Herrell's cookies and cream.

14. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE?

The energy in their eyes

15. RED OR PINK?

I'll take red for a hundred please, Alex.

16. WHAT IS THE LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF?

The voices in my head.

17. WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST?

Me, when I was young and innocent

18. DO YOU WANT EVERYONE TO ANSWER THE SAME QUESTIONS ABOUT THEMSELVES?

Sho' nuff

19. WHAT COLOR PANTS AND SHOES ARE YOU WEARING?

Black sweat pants, no shoes

20. WHAT WAS THE LAST THING YOU ATE?

Lettuce with balsamic dressing

21. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW?

The sound of my wine fridge humming in the background

22. IF YOU WHERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE?

Purple. Or navy blue. Navy purple.

23. FAVORITE SMELLS?

Fresh air. Morning after an evening rain. My girlfriend's neck.

24. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE?

My web designer

25. DO YOU LIKE THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS TO YOU?

Incredibly

26. FAVORITE SPORTS TO WATCH?

Baseball, billiards, basketball, bicycling… mostly b sports.

27. HAIR COLOR?

Blond-ish brownish

28. EYE COLOR?

Blue, brown, grey. Depends on what I wear.

29. DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS?

No

30. FAVORITE FOOD?

Pizza. Patty's pizza with barbecue chicken if you really want to know.

31. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS?

Happy.

32. LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED?

American Gangster, not really that happy, but you asked.

33. WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING?

White

34. SUMMER OR WINTER?

Summer (if autumn isn't an option)

35. HUGS OR KISSES?

Hugs

36. FAVORITE DESSERT?

Yogurt

37. MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND TO YOUR SURVEY COMMENTS?

Nobody

38. LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND

Everybody

39. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW?

"Words, Words, Words" by somebody or other.

40. WHAT IS ON YOUR MOUSE PAD?

Ain't got a mousepad, haven't you heard of laptops? Time to crawl out of the 90s, my friend.

41. WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON T.V. LAST NIGHT?

I watched my girlfriend watching Dancing with the Stars

42. FAVORITE SOUND?

Music (the actual song depends on my mood).

43. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES

Silly question. Beatles, of course..

44. WHAT IS THE FARTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME?

Denmark

45. DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT?

I can annoy you in less than 5 seconds.

46. WHERE WERE YOU BORN?

Philly, home of the cheesesteak. Which I guess explains a lot.

A Study In Marathoning

I ran my first marathon in 1997. 'twas the Chicago Marathon and it was a wonderful race. Probably still is. I was married back then and the goal was to help my then-wife qualify for the Boston Marathon. We had to beat a 3:40 to make that happen.

Back in 1997 I didn't know a lot about nutrition. And though I'm no expert now, I've since learned the basics for survival. For instance, I now realize that I have to eat healthy to stay healthy. In fact, I now realize that I have to eat, period. It wasn't uncommon many years ago for me to get so busy I'd actually forget to eat a meal. What'd you have for lunch today, the wife would ask later that evening. Um....uh...., I'd stutter as I delved into the meal-specific corner of my mind only to see an empty gap. Inevitably, of course, I'd wonder why I kept getting sick and never bothered to associate it with poor eating habits.

In terms of exercise, I ran a lot. These were back in the days of youth when my legs could handle the pounding. Back then running was running to me. Running wasn't eating and drinking. Calorie intake and exercise were mutually exclusive properties. I run and then I drink and nary the two were combined.

So back to the Chicago Marathon. We started off the race at a pretty good clip. By the half-marathon point, we were on course for a 3:20 marathon and were feeling pretty happy overall. Even if we walked a mile, the wife would still qualify for Boston. But we felt no need to walk, so things were looking good.

Around mile 17 she started having hamstring problems and that slowed us down a bit. But not to worry, we were still on pace for a 3:30. We could practically taste Boston. And though I don't quite remember the actual flavor, I can recall it had a sweetness to it.

Then we hit mile 22 and I hit the wall.

I didn't really feel anything building within me, it just happened suddenly, which I suppose explains the whole "wall" concept. I mean, it's not called "hitting the exit ramp."

One step all was nice and fine and then the next step I couldn't move, couldn't walk, couldn't speak. I had become a vegetable. I thought I was going to die. I stopped right in the middle of the street and stood there, hoping to dear God that my wife would turn around and see me before I collapsed onto the ground in my final pathetic goodbye.

help, I said quietly and meagerly. Not nearly loud enough for anybody to answer. Not even loud enough for anybody to hear. My knees were knocking, legs were feeling like a windblown castle of cards about to tumble. I was not enjoying myself.

That feeling, I realized later, had nothing to do with healthy.

The wife eventually did realize I wasn't by her side anymore. She looped back for me and somehow pulled me to mile 23, at which point I stopped at the aid station and drank about 10 glasses of water.

Eventually I was able to run again and eventually we got to the finish line (albeit at 3:41 - one measly minute slower than her qualifying time!). I don't know how we finished. I mean that literally, I have absolutely no recollection of anything after mile 22. It scares me. Kinda freaks me out that I did so much damage to my body, destroyed so much of my brain that I can't even remember the last 4 miles of my first marathon. It's like a drunken blackout, when a big chunk of your life is missing and will never come back no matter how hard you think about it. I don't like not remembering my life, it scares the hell out of me.

Fast forward 10 years and 3 weeks later and here I am running my second stand-alone marathon. I am proud to say that I've learned a think or two over the past decade. I know a bit more about nutrition and have a vague concept of how to keep myself healthy. Still, my only stand-alone marathon experience still looms in the scared section of my brain. As marathon day approached, I was subconsciously nervous. I had no clue what would happen to me this time at mile 22. All I know is that I didn't want to have the same experience I did back in Chicago.

In the past 10 years a company called Fuel Belt was launched, enabling people like me to run with a veritable buffet around their waist. With memories of Chicago haunting me, I needed liquids and nutrition within arms reach at all times, so I bought myself a new fuel belt right before the race. I tried to drink constantly throughout the course, knowing that liquid intake would ward off the demons of disaster.

When I passed the mile 22 point, I did a mental check. Am I coherent? I asked myself. Will I still be able to remember this moment?

All answers were positive, I felt pretty good from the waist up. Sure my legs were in pain, but I was mentally secure. Even when I got to mile 23 and my quads decided to revolt, I remembered. I was present and accounted for.

As I crossed the finish line of the New York Marathon, I hobbled over to the side of the course and mentally reviewed the last 10k. I wanted to be sure I could remember, that I would never forget. I wanted to be sure I didn't hit the wall and not realize it. Mile after mile I went through in my mind, trying to recall every single painful step of the way.

You may not understand this, but it was somewhat of a surreal experience to actually remember my entire race. It almost feels like I had just ran my very first marathon. It makes me happy, not so much that I finished, but that I can remember it all. I'm proud of myself and, perhaps, a little bit curious to try another.

New York Marathon: A Race Report - or - Make The Bad Man Stop

Five facts to remember for the following race report

1. I've been battling achilles tendinitis since August. It's been a very frustrating battle.
2. For the two months prior to the marathon, I only ran 31.7 miles on the road.
3. 95% of my marathon training was done on the elliptical.
4. Elliptical work does bupkis for strength training.
5. I have no quad strength anyway.

OK, now on to the details...

Last year, Catherine and I were lucky enough to win a couple of precious lottery slots to the New York Marathon. However, since we were still recovering from Ironman Lake Placid we were barely able to muddle through 4 miles without sounding like my gripe-heavy Jewish family, always trying to one-up each other on our physical maladies.

You tell me your hamstrings hurt? I might question Catherine within the first mile of our run. Oy gevalt, you don't know from hurt. With the pain I feel I could only be so lucky to have my hamstrings seize.

Needless to say, we deferred our slots until this year.

Catherine and I both grew up in the New York area. She spent the first 16 years of her life in Brooklyn while I was primarily a Connecticut boy. Our memories of youth are jam packed with the bustle and energy of the Big Apple. Though we both spent our entire adulthoods in California, we still consider ourselves east coasters. New York will always hold a special place in our hearts (which, for the record, can be easily located by going to the place in our hearts that loves pizza, and taking a quick right.)

Surprisingly, neither of us have run the NY Marathon before. My father has run the race five times and my mother ran it once. I've spent many a cold November afternoon of my youth standing on the sidewalks of First Avenue and clapping my mittened hands. In fact, if you dig up the December 1979 issue of Runners World, you can see a photo of me, 12 years old and freezing, standing on the sidelines of First Avenue as I wait anxiously for my father to zip on by. I still remember my super comfy, green, two-toned, wool-lined winter coat that I wore that day. I miss that coat. But I suppose that's a different walk down a separate memory lane.

To avoid delving any further into the cobwebbed memories of my captivating childhood, let's just agree that I've already set the tone about Catherine and I having a connection with New York and feeling excited to run the New York Marathon. We all on the same boat for that one? Great. Now we can move on.

I'm told that the beginning of the 2008 NY Marathon was different than other years. I hope that is right, because this year it sucked. And that, my friend, might be putting it nicely.

The logistics for the beginning of the New York Marathon was, without question, the worst pre-race experience I've ever had in my three decades of competing. Bar none. Whomever was in charge of pre-race logistics should be fired, stripped of their clothing, save for knee high multi-colored striped socks, and then forced to skip around Central Park naked, in the dead of winter, carrying a live ferret, for no other reason than to be humliated.

Here's the deal. Like many other events, there's a drop off zone at the beginning of this race. You shove all of your post-race needs into a plastic bag and hand it off at your pre-assigned UPS truck, who will than magically transport your belongings to the finish line so you're all comfy and cozy as you meander aimlessly through the streets of New York and proudly display your finishers medal for all to congratulate.

We got to the pre-race staging area about 60 minutes before race start, which in a normal race should be ample time to prepare ourselves. We had our plastic bags in hand and all we needed to do was drop them off at our specific UPS truck and head to the race start.

There were about 70 UPS trucks lined up for drop-off. All of the trucks were parked side-by-side in one corner of the staging area. That's where the problem began - the part where all the trucks were in one small corner.

There were over 39,000 people who started the New York Marathon this year. In order for said 39 thousand people to drop off their bags, they had to enter the roped-off area where the UPS trucks were waiting. In order to enter the roped off area, you had to get through a 10 foot wide entrance space. At first shrug, ten feet doesn't sound too bad for an entrance. I mean, it's wide enough to fit four, maybe even five people at a time. Unfortunately, it's not quite wide enough to fit 39,000 people. It's especially not wide enough to be an entrance AND an exit, which it was on race morning.

So here we were, less than 60 minutes before race start and it was chaos. Thousands of people were cramming, scrambling, pushing, shoving, yelling, rushing and elbowing their way through. It was like a riot. It was chaos. People were packed so tight there was no room to move. You didn't walk, you were pushed. There was no escape. People were scrambling for any relief. Anxiety and stress were building. At least one person fainted and had to be carried away while others were jumping on the tops of UPS trucks in the hopes of mere survival.

Catherine and I tried to hold hands so we didn't lose each other but with the pushing and shoving our arms got bent. We reached as far as we could, desperately clinging to one another. At one point, I honestly questioned whether I'd make it out of there alive. We got pushed and shoved and jammed and jostled and poked and pressed and nudged and thrust. I wasn't old enough to be at the Who concert in Cincinnati when those people got trampled to death, but I imagine it wasn't too much different than the beginning of the New York Marathon, but with better music.

For at least 15 minutes we were imprisoned in the clammering masses, hoping to dear God we'd get spit out the other side. And then, just like that, we did. Suddenly we could walk. We could breathe. We exhaled joyous sighs of relief as our bodies shook in shock from the post-traumatic anxiety.

We followed the crowd towards the starting line, flowing with the current of athletes. A few minutes later, as we continued walking forward, we heard an air horn go off. I looked at my watch. 10:10 am. The race had just started. Go figure.

For us non-elites, the starting gun doesn't really mean much. We remained at a standstill as we watched masses of runners stream across the Verrazano Bridge far in front of us. Slowly our line crept forward, inching step-by-step. We flowed on in the current of the crowed, walking around the corner, down the stairs, onto the roadway. Nearly six minutes later we made the U-turn to see the bridge rising majestically in front of us. In a few steps we reached the starting line and, with the crowd finally thinning out, we were able to start running.

Welcome to the beginning of the New York Marathon. It seemed the hard part was already over. Now all I had to do was run 26 miles and change.

To begin running the New York Marathon is an amazing experience. The first mile is a consistently steep climb up the Verrazano Bridge. It is a rare moment when you can truly experience the enormity of such a structure while being free from the limited confines of a plane or car. It made it all the more symbolically appropriate to start the marathon in this fashion. Like the experience of running across the bridge, the New York Marathon is an enormous, awe-inspiring endeavor. It is a mind-boggling task to shut down one of the most active cities in the world and guide 39,000 disparate soles through an intimate tour of the far-reaching corners of this town. These are the types of things that you think about when you start your first New York Marathon.

Another thing you may start thinking about on that first mile is how much your achilles is hurting. As I kept a steady pace up the hill, the exterior beauty of this amazing experience battled with the internal frustrations of my damn achilles pain. I forced myself to stay slow, to let my legs warm up. I prayed that the pain would not become debilitating. It was too soon to be limping.

On the other side of the Verrazano Bridge lies Brooklyn and a steady stream of cheering and clapping fans. Without question, the spectator support in Brooklyn is the best of the burroughs. Singing, screaming, cheering, laughing and yelling, the Brooklyn-ites sure know how to make 39,000 people feel special. As we made our way through the mob-packed streets, Catherine and I couldn't stop smiling. The miles began to roll by. 2, 3, 4. Suddenly I realized my achilles pain had subsided or, at the very least, was reduced to a mild twinge. Mild twinge I can deal with.

By mile 5 I realized that Catherine and I were on a pretty good clip, at least 1 minute per mile faster than I expected to run. I was ecstatic. At the same time, I knew from a run I had done two weeks previously that my quads would not be able to hold out for long, especially at this pace. By the end of that 10 mile jaunt, my quads were in so much pain that my legs nearly seized up. I realized it was not a matter of IF that would happen in New York, but a matter of WHEN.

Still, after 6 miles at this pace I was feeling pretty good. Catherine wanted to break 4 hours in this marathon and I was thinking that she had a really good chance of making it happen. As we crossed the 10k mat, I committed myself to her goal. If I could just keep her pace as long as possible and drive her forward, it will help her break that 4 hour barrier. I'd stay as strong as possible until my legs gave out, then I'd let her go and hobble my way to the finish line. At least that was the plan.

By mile 7, the quads started whispering quiet warnings to me, but it was nothing that demanded immediate attention. I stuck to her pace and stayed by her side. We wisped through the streets of Brooklyn and moved with the masses towards Queens.

About the time we hit Queens I looked over at Catherine and saw a grimace on her face. SHIT! she screamed. I could tell her legs were beginning to hurt. I know that look on her face all too well. She had been battling pain in her right leg for months. Though she was able to log in some serious training miles, most of it was done in discomfort. And that discomfort just reared it's butt ugly head again.

We slowed down the pace and struggled along for a few more miles, but by the time we got to mile 15 I could tell Catherine was reaching her limit. Tears were forming in her eyes, the anger and frustration steaming out of her pores.

My quads were growing more tired but they hadn't yet given out. I pushed a few steps ahead of Catherine to give her the space to sort out her pain. Mile 15 is a long, lonely uphill across the 59th Street Bridge. There are no spectators, no sunshine, no sky to look at, nothing but the pitter-patter of shuffling feet pounding like a metronome in your mind. And then, all of the sudden, everything changes.

The bridge ends at Mile 16 and you are dumped onto First Avenue. First Avenue is the epicenter of spectatorness at the New York Marathon. Continuing on for about 4 miles, the race opens up to it's widest berth, six lanes of open road for runners to spread out their arms and soak in the energy from the mass of spectators that lines the corridor, reaching 10 people deep in certain areas.

Emerging from the confines of the 59th Street Bridge, there is a sense of relief when you reach the openness of First Avenue. As we tried to soak in the experience, I tried to ignore the growing pain in my quads as Cat sunk deeper into her own personal agony . By mile 17 1/2 it was too much for her. We stopped by the side of the road as she tried to stretch out the pain. After a few minutes we moved back into the flow and pushed forward. It was slow and agonizing to watch her run, but run we did.

It didn't get better for Catherine and as we hit mile 19 1/2, just a few short blocks before the bridge to the Bronx, Catherine could go no further. Her right leg had seized, she couldn't run. She was done. End of story. Over. Finis. Kaput.

I walked with Catherine for a block to make sure she would be alright and then I bid farewell, gave her a kiss and started my jog again. Though the pain in my quads was steadily increasing, my breathing felt fine and my mind was clear and focused. I picked up the pace a little bit, back to our early race rate and tried to motivate my mind to push forward through the rest of the run.

Miles 20 and 21 breezed by and soon enough I was out of the Bronx and back into Manhattan. As I reached Mile 22, I could feel my legs take a turn for the worse. The pain increased dramatically. Knowing I still had 4 more miles to go and a fair bit of uphill, I slowed down a little.

The climb up Fifth Avenue to mile 23 is horrendous. Block after block you trudge along, knowing that you will eventually get into Central Park but with every step the carrot gets pushed further away. Your legs are tired and Fifth Avenue is an endlessly long steep uphill. It was dreadful.

After what seemed like hours, I reached 90th street and took a right turn into Central Park. Mile 23 marks the entrance to Central Park. Mile 23 also marks the moment when my legs finally gave out.

There is a water station on Mile 23, as there had been at just about every mile throughout the race. Having worn a fuel belt, I had very little need to stop at any point during the run. In the days leading up to the race I had told myself that I should walk the aid stations. That method got me through the Ironman marathon without issue, I didn't see any reason why it shouldn't work at the NY marathon. But, alas, I found myself running through every single aid station. There were a couple of short stops to refill the water bottles, but that's it.

So here I was at Mile 23 with my legs burning like waffle irons and I figured that there's no time like the present to enact my super special aid station walk-run strategy.

The moment I stopped at the Mile 23 aid station, I knew the strategy was for shit. Abort mission! I screamed in my mind. Abort mission! But my legs didn't feel like running again.

I grabbed a Gatorade and sipped on it as I lumbered painfully down the road. When I reached the end of the water station I knew it was time to run again. That's all part of the strategy. I've got to stick to my plan. Still, I knew it was going to hurt. I psyched myself up, reached for the lonely place deep inside and began to move forward into a slow jog.

I felt a million and one machetes slicing through my quads. I screamed in pain. I actually screamed. I inched forward in a dead man's shuffle. I could barely pull my legs off the ground. The impact of each step was like a hot poker searing through my body. But I kept going. Slowly and deliberately, I kept moving like a turtle with broken legs and red running shorts.

As I passed Mile 24 the road turned to a steeper downhill. Downhills hurt my quads even more. I slowed down the pace and tried to weave across the road to lessen the impact. I wanted to quit. I looked for a place where I could sneak off and slip into the grass. To lay down under a tree like Ferdinand the bull, maybe smell some flowers and take a very long nap. I had enough. But the gates and fencing didn't just keep the spectators from crowding the course, it caged me into this race. I was stuck, with no escape. I was a prisoner to my pain. So I kept jogging.

As I finally reached the end of Central Park and the last of the downhill, I glanced at my watch. That was a 12:20 mile. Ouch.

I passed the mile 25 banner and took a right turn on 59th street. The next mile was an uphill to Columbus Circle, then a right turn into the park and an uphill to the finish. Uphill I can do. Uphill isn't nearly as painful. Besides, I've only got one more mile to go and then the pain will be over.

Make the bad man stop.

Only 1 mile to go, I told myself again and again. I can do this, I know I can. I can make it. As I picked up the pace a little bit more pain seared through my bones. A twinge turned into a pange which turned into a stab. Only 1 mile to go, I kept saying to myself.

I tried to ignore the pain and picked up the pace even more. I can do this. I can make it.

I turned the corner into Central Park and passed the 26 mile mark. I could see the finish line in the distance. Spectators lined the course, 20 and 30 deep. I hurt. I hurt bad, but the adrenalin masked the pain. I began to scream shouts of joy, of disbelief. Did I really complete the New York Marathon? Did I really run this distance with such ridiculously crappy training?

Yes, I said to myself. I did. I sure as hell did.

The moment I ran over the finish line my legs stopped moving. Enough of this shit, they said. And I kinda agreed. Enough already.

***

The New York Marathon is a truly amazing race on a truly amazing day. Every year, on the first Sunday in November, the magic of the city gets amplified to incredible proportions.

The beginning and the end of the race were horrendous this year, a clusterfuck of organization. But I can only guess that the thousands of complaints will create a much more efficient solution in years to come. I look forward to seeing how it happens.

By the way, Catherine ended up walking the last 7 miles of the course in pure agony and crossed the finish line, though mostly because that was the only way she new how to get back home.

post-Marathon Gluttony

I deeply and sincerely apologize for the lack of communication. Already so many days past the New York City marathon. I have stories to tell (of course, don't I always). There are good parts, exciting parts, even bone tingling parts (definitely my bones were a-tingling, no guarantees that yours will) and there are sad parts, painful parts and frustrating parts. But I suppose that's what marathons are made of.

Catherine and I are still in New York. Once we stop eating, I will fill you in with the details.

Thanks for your patience. Back atcha soon, babe.

Relax A Little

Last Sunday I ran 11.3 miles. The Wednesday before that, I ran 8 miles. That's a good solid 19.3 mile week of running.

If you add that to all my runs over the past two months, that comes to.....let's see here..... hold the three, carry the eight..... ummm.....where's my abacus when I need it.....ok........errrr... That comes to a grand total of 31.7 miles that I've run in two months.

Let me repeat that for you people out there that are slow of reading. I've run 31.7 miles on the road since September 7th. It is now November 2nd. Two months.

Don't worry, you say. It's the off-season, you say. Relax a little, you say.

Shut up, I say. I've got the New York Marathon in 3 days.

Yes, it's true. I will be running more miles this Sunday than I have in total since the beginning of September. And here's the thing that baffles me: I'm not real worried about it. In fact, the thing that scares me the most is the fact that I'm not scared. I'm kind of at peace with the whole thing. Maybe even looking forward to it.

Trust me, I'm not the type of guy that can go out and run a marathon all willy-nilly. At least I didn't think I was. But it seems that I've overcome the mental barriers of the whole thing. I've got no expectations. It goes without saying that I'll be breaking no land-speed records. I'll have to walk through some aid stations, that's for sure. I'll have to pick a slow pace and stick with it, that's for sure too. But I'll finish the race, I'm pretty sure that's for sure.

In fact, I bought a disposable camera today. I've decided to document my journey through the streets of New York. I've never run the NY Marathon but I've heard it's a blast. If it's half as much fun as everybody tells me, I want to grab a few photos on the way. Maybe it'll even stop me from passing out.

OK, gotta finish packing.

See you on the other side.

The Grey Lines of Ironman

So apparently my previous post created a fair bit of discussion. Nice to see. As the great Axl Rose once said, love me or hate me, at least there's a reaction.

One interesting topic that came up in the comments of the Wishy-Washing of Ironman was the definition of an Ironman. What makes an Ironman?

On the surface it seems like a pretty easy question, but I think there's more to it. Let's take my friend, Kouy, as a for instance. Kouy trained eight long months for Ironman Coeur D'Alene. She pounded the pavement just like the rest of us and splish-splashed in the pool as much as the next person. She pushed her body, stretched her schedule and sacrificed her weekends.

She showed up to Ironman Coeur d'Alene and toed the starting line. The waters were rough that day and she had a tough time getting through. Seasick, hypothermia, dizzyness... somehow she made it through the swim right before the cut-off. She sat in the medical tent until the last minute before she would be disqualified, then got on her bike and rode.

Kouy finished the bike course with only 2 minutes left before the cut-off. It was already a long day but she was determined to finish the race. She head out on the marathon and pushed forward. By the time the clock struck midnight and the official clock had stopped, Kouy still had more than a few miles to go. She kept going. She crossed an empty finish line at about 1am.

To me, she is an Ironman.

I've got another friend who plowed through the swim, trudged through the bike and pushed through the run. Battling fatigue and stomach ailments, she reached mile 14 and couldn't continue. Physically, her body wouldn't move forward. She backed out of the race rather than risk long term disability.

To me, she is an Ironman.

In fact, to me, anybody who has the courage to put in the training and get to the starting line, who pushes through the swim and does the best they can possibly do, that person is an Ironman. Are they an Ironman finisher? Maybe not. You've got to cross the finish line to do that. But an Ironman is so much more than just finishing. It's trying, believing, dreaming and doing. Ironman is starting.

So what's an Ironman to you?

The Wishy-Washing of Ironman

I was standing at the counter of the coffee shop. They were unusually slow in their barista activities so there had accumulated a little bit of a line. I was in front. There were maybe four or five folks behind me, no doubt tapping their feet, checking their blackberries and acting curiously antsy despite the fact that they hadn't yet gotten their morning caffeine fix. But that's what people usually do in Los Angeles coffee shops, they act jittery and rushed the moment they step in the door. Caffeine is just an excuse.

It was somewhat of a cold day - or at least cold in terms of Los Angeles standards (keeping in mind that we have very low standards). The temperature had dropped down to a frigid 57 degrees, just cool enough to dust off the light sweater or throw a long sleeve on top of your sun-tanned arms. I was mighty happy that a chill was in the air, reason enough for me to wear my Ironman finisher fleece. Any excuse to gallivant in my Ironman fleece is good enough for me.

Whenever I wear my Ironman fleece, my pride collides with my embarrassment. It all revolves around the back of the fleece. There, stretched from shoulder to shoulder, are eight very large letters, shining forth in bright red stitching. It says: FINISHER.

In my mind, the eight letters mean so much more than the sum of its parts. If you read between the lines of those letters, what it really says is, "Look at me, I'm important. I'm better than you. And, by the way, your mama wears army boots."

Honestly, I just doesn't feel right to cop that attitude. I'm not comfortable with overt arrogance. The fact is, I'm not better than you and I'm not that important (though I'm pretty sure your mama does wear army boots).

At the same time, I suppose there's a fine line between arrogance and pride. The fact is that I am damn proud to be an Ironman finisher. I had dreamed of finishing an Ironman and, gosh golly, I want to share my excitement with the entire world. Being an Ironman finisher makes me feel special. It makes me feel like I joined an elite club. This fleece cost more than money, it cost hard work and perseverance and a fair bit of pain. For goodness sakes, I earned the right to wear this fleece.

So, anyway, there I was in line at the coffee shop ordering some sort of hot beverage to warm my fleece-covered bones in this God-awful frigid weather. The happy helper took my order and informed me that I may want to get a bank loan to pay for my flavored water. I declined and handed over my Ironman credit card, because in Los Angeles we use credit cards for everything. If gumball machines took credit cards, I'd be spending my days chewing. As for the reasons I use my Ironman credit card, its pretty much the same as the fleece. I earned it, goddammit.

As I'm waiting for the receipt and my expensive cuppa joseph, I casually glanced behind me. The line stretched back into the store, but my eyes stopped at the people who were standing right next to me. It was a man, about 45 years old and slightly paunchy. Overweight might even be a better term. Sure, maybe he jogged a few miles every now and then, perhaps lifted some weights in the gym, but he didn't look like the endurance type of athlete. Next to him was his wife who definitely doesn't exercise - and if she does, it's not working.

The thing that really got me intrigued, though, was the fact that they were pushing their child in a stroller. A yellow stroller. A yellow stroller with a great big IRONMAN logo on the side.

I stared at the Ironman logo, partially in disbelief, partially in an emotional bond. I looked back at the parents, almost expecting to see the Ironman glow in their eyes.

There's no way, I thought. I mean, sure, you don't have to have six-pack abs to finish an Ironman, just look at me, but.... This just didn't feel right. If they had really completed an Ironman wouldn't they at least say something to me? Here I am standing not but 2 feet in front of them, with the big bright red letters of "FINISHER" smacking them in the face. Wouldn't it be natural to strike up a conversation? Isn't that what we do in this exclusive Ironman club of ours? We enter into conversations with other Ironman finishers about random Ironman events.

Which Ironman did you finish? we say to each other. Oh, I hear that's a great event, we inevitably respond. I've always wanted to do that one, we continue. There's an unwritten script that we follow in Ironman introduction conversations. It's required. It's like a secret handshake.

But these people - these Ironman phonies - they didn't even bother to say anything to me. Not a hello. Not a "when did you race that one." Not even a simple smile of recognition.

I turned my back slightly to make sure they saw the back of my fleece. I wanted to blind them with the brightness of my FINISHER stitching. That'll get them to talk. That will weed out the true Ironmen from the posers.

I waited for their comments, but there was nothing.

Clearly they can't be Ironman finishers. I felt disgusted. These people are wannabes. They are stealing the Ironman logo from those that have earned it. Don't you have to qualify to buy one of these baby strollers? Don't you need a finishing time? These people, they're thieves, robbing me of my pride. I can't stand them. I want to rip the M-Dot logo right off of their baby stroller and expose them for the fabricators they are.

I grabbed my coffee and huffed out the door.

What has become of Ironman? I think to myself. What was once a select club of the most fiercely determined athletes, is now just another logo in the marketplace. Do you remember when the Ironman was recognized as the most difficult one-day athletic event in the world? What became of that? Where did it all go to?

As people flock to Ironman events like it's another weekend road race, the power in the symbolism has begun to fade into banality.

Ironman merchandise abounds. There are Ironman bikes, Ironman sunglasses and Ironman watches. Ironman scales and medicine balls and jump ropes. For $1100 dollars you can by an Ironman elliptical trainer on eBay and for only $450 you can pick up the Ironman recumbent bike. The World Triathlon Corporation just announced the new Ironman coffee. I don't know where it's going to be sold, maybe in the Ironman section of Target. Or perhaps it will be next to the Ironman baby strollers crammed onto the floor of REI.

When I raced Vineman 70.3 this year, the finish line announcer was calling people Ironmen. "Joe Schmo," he'd say as they crossed the finish line. "You are an Ironman!"

Wait a minute, you're telling yourself, Vineman is only 70.3 miles. And you are right. But Ironman is no longer a distance, it is an attitude.

Since 1978, the Ironman brand has stood for endurance and passion, dedication and perseverance. It has represented the best and strongest. Ironman is inspiration.

Unfortunately, the great irony of the Ironman brand is that, as participation in the sport popularizes, the power of the brand diminishes. If everybody claims to be "elite," than nobody is.

Ironman is no longer simply a 140.6 mile event, it is a symbol of determination. It is no longer an endurance event, it is a consumer brand - and one that generates a butt load of money. Ironman is about determination, and now, for a few dollars, anybody can buy in.

We are in the midst of the gentrification of Ironman. Today it is much easier than anytime in history for anybody to experience the Ironman attitude. You don't have to swim, bike or run. You don't have to train for 7 months - to sacrifice family and friends. You don't have to battle the physical pain and emotional destruction. You don't have to bring your body to the very edge and confront the demons burning inside you.

All you have to do is open your wallet.

As somebody who is highly passionate about the sport of triathlon, I want everybody to feel it's power. I want the sense of accomplishment to spread like a virus and fuel the fire of inspiration in all corners of the world. I want everybody to experience the joy of triathlon. At the same time, I want to feel special. I want to be an Ironman elite.

Ironman is a dream.
I hope our dream doesn't get sold down the river.

The Fire Inside

For years the only Ironman race I wanted to do was in Kona. It's the grandaddy of 'em all. It's where it all began. If you're going to do one, why not do The One. I had no desire to even consider another Ironman besides Hawaii. It barely even crossed my mind, and when it did, I felt dirty. I felt like I was cheating myself.

I suppose I can be an all-or-nothing type of guy.

Year after year I entered myself into the Kona lottery. I came up with the most creative things to say on my application. I paid the extra fifty bucks for the Passport Club, whatever the heck that is, to make sure I had the best chance of success. The moment I entered the lottery I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that I would be accepted. It was not too dissimilar from the feeling of every state lottery participant - that they, for sure, will be the one to walk home with the 40 mill.

But, alas, I came up empty time and again. Qualifying wasn't even an option. I'm not that fast. My only hope is waiting another 40 years and hoping I outlast any other potential 80-84 year old competitors.

After years of seeing my Ironman dreams fade away into a lottery losers mental maelstrom, I finally decided to wave the white towel. In 2006 I gave in, tucked away my ego and decided to race Ironman Lake Placid. Though I may never get to Kona, I would live a life of regrets if I didn't do at least one Ironman.

So I jumped on the proverbial treadmill of Ironman training. My life revolved around the 15-20 hours a week. Swim, bike, run, eat, rest, stretch, eat, sleep, eat, repeat. I became engrossed in the monotony of it all. It was enthralling. I succumbed to the mental energy and nervous anxiety that infiltrated every corner of my life. It was a roller coaster of emotions - an amazing experience in hindsight.

I raced Ironman Lake Placid and finished. It was incredible - one of the best days of my life. When I emerged from the other end, I was an Ironman. I had lived my dream.

I've now signed up for Ironman Arizona and am jumping back upon that treadmill of training. I will, once again, go the distance.

But I have to admit, as I sit here and watch the Hawaii Ironman Championships on my little computer screen, I can't help but feel the energy of it all. The lure of the island and history of the race burns through my monitor and awakens that once dormant corner of my brain. The fire still burns.

I suppose its time to play the lottery again...



(And a huge hearty congrats to all the Ironman finishers! What a race this year, eh?)

The Miracle Of Life

It started at the movie theater. It was a couple of months ago and Catherine and I were going to see something or other that is fairly irrelevant to my story. A couple of friends were going to meet us for this celluloid extravaganza, so while Catherine held close guard over the seats, I stood out front to wait for our friends' arrival.

As showtime approached, I watched many a person come through the doors and head into the theater. My eyes were in a daze, staring at face after face, looking for the familiarity of our friends. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I saw a woman standing in front of me, ambling slowly towards the theater door. She was about 60 years old and was carrying a white cane. I looked down and noticed the bottom of the cane was red. I looked up and realized she was wearing dark sunglasses.

Interesting, I thought to myself. I've never seen this situation.

The woman approached the door and handed over her ticket. The usher asked if she needed help and, as she nodded approval, he took her arm and guided her into the theater.

It seemed odd to me, a blind woman coming to watch a movie. Or, rather, to listen to a movie. I'm not sure why it stuck with me, but it did.

Fast forward a couple of months and I'm driving down the road headed somewhere that is, again, completely irrelevant to my story when I see a 20-something girl crossing the street. But not just a regular 20-something, a blind 20-something girl. Dark glasses, standard white cane with the red tip - you know the story.

The young blind girl alone wouldn't necessarily spark my attention. What got me gawking was the fact that she was smiling, arm-in-arm with another 20-something girl with another white/red cane and another set of dark sunglasses. It was, literally, the blind leading the blind - and having a good time in the process.

Seeing those two, smiling arm in arm, made me realize why it all struck me so intensely. I suppose it can be summed up in one word: fear.

Blindness, in my mind, would take my life away. I love movies, I love reading, I love the endless senseless beauty that envelopes the minutae of life. When I go running, I drown myself in the God-like elegance of the green leaves, the towering trees. I find spiritual solace in the comfort of the soft blue sky. What would be of life if this gift of sight were robbed of me? How would I possibly survive?

I'm terrified to live in a world of darkness. Scared shitless to float through an endless black sea of nothingness.

So to see a blind woman go to the movies, and to witness two blind girls happily strolling the streets... well, in my mind it might as well have been a surreal sketch from a Salvador Dali scene.

But as I sit here and write this, I realize how desperately and drastically wrong I am. I suddenly think of Charlie Plaskon, 62 years old, blind and racing the Hawaii Ironman in Kona this weekend. I learn about Sharlene Wills, 59 years old, completely visionless, 40 marathons under her belt and many more to go. I amaze over the C*Different foundation. My heart melts when Ray Charles plays and suddenly I sit here singing a Stevie Wonder song in my mind.

Blindness is not a disease, nor is it necessarily a detriment. The sightless are not afflicted, they are not the weak ones. It is me. Us. The disease is ignorance and judgment. The disease is callowness and an unwillingness to reverse the paradigm of life. Maybe the blind ones are the gifted - the souls who can experience life on a higher level. And maybe me.... we who can see but still don't believe in the miracle of life, the strength of humanity....maybe we are the true weakness.

A Trail Of Crumbs

Some people can exercise all day without a craving for solid food. I’m not one of those people. After two hours on the bike I desperately need something to chew on or else I'll end up eating my biking gloves. And since I stopped wearing biking gloves, I can only assume that my fingers are now in danger.

I ingest my fair share of Power Bars, but man cannot bike on Power Bars alone. Pretzels, fig newtons, trail mix – the cravings can be quite varied, so on the long rides I try to bring a few different items with me.

When I raced Ironman Lake Placid last year, I brought so much food, I couldn't even carry it all. I crammed as much as I could into my Bento Box and then stuffed even more so tightly into my jersey pocket that it started falling out along the bike course. I felt like I was the lead character in a crazed endurance remake of Hansel and Gretel.

I’m determined to avoid that problem at Ironman Arizona. Fortunately, I think I’ve already figured out the solution…

This photo is courtesy of these people.

Around The Hamster Wheel - or - My Elliptical Marathon: A Quasi-Race Report

Training for a marathon is challenging when you have achilles tendinitis.

Perhaps the early stages of training might be manageable; the weeks when your schedule tells you to run just a few miles here and there. Being so far away from race day you can probably even spend a few weeks out of your running shoes. Maybe log in some quality time with the physical therapist to make sure you are healed properly. Ice, stretch, massage, electric stim, rinse, repeat.

It gets a bit more difficult as time marches on. When you're plagued with achilles tendinitis five weeks before race day, decisions become more rushed. The mental masochism begins the moment you see "20 miles" listed as your scheduled weekend run. You know that just 20 feet of running turns into unbearable pain, yet still you try to manipulate your mind to justify the agony. But there is no escape.

Maybe you haven't questioned how you'll make it to the end of the marathon, but you definitely wonder how you'll make it to the start.

So you become a regular member at your local gym. You think about jogging in the pool. Maybe you even give it a shot. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. By the time the clock hits twenty minutes you are about to go insane. The boredom is unbearable. So you get out of the water and sit in the jacuzzi and convince yourself that the heat and bubbles are more therapeutic anyway.

You come back later in the week with the intention of going on the treadmill. Maybe you've even gotten so far as to convince yourself that it will create less impact on your legs. It will be good for you as long as you can go slowly, you tell yourself with shaky confidence. Just take it slowly. But you quickly realize that's a really bad idea because the achilles starts hurting before you even turn the damn machine on.

As you turn away in frustration, you notice it from afar. It's as if the moment you lifted your head up, the sounds of a heavenly choir echoed through the exercise room. The light bulb of an idea flashed so brightly you nearly blinded yourself with enthusiasm. You think you've figured it out, the solution that could be your ticket out of this. Your ticket to a successful marathon.

Say hello to the elliptical machine.

You walk over and touch it. You slowly reach your hand out to caress the mechanism's long arm. Your fingers curl around the heart rate sensor with emotional tenderness. You step one foot cautiously onto the platform and realize there is enough resistance to lift you up and put the other foot in place. You smile. You finally have it all figured out.

And so your indoor training begins.

You do your speed workouts on the elliptical. Twenty minutes of higher intensity isn't so bad when there is no pounding on the legs. In fact, it almost feels good. You plug out some 5 and 6 milers on the machine. A quick 40 minutes and it's done. The iPod gets you through most of it. You almost begin to enjoy it.

Then the weekend comes around. The schedule calls for thirteen miles. For days you have mentally prepared for the challenge. You psych yourself up. You load up your iPod with all the best entertainment and make sure you grab a bottle of your favorite electrolyte fluid.

You step on the treadmill with anxious anticipation and begin movement. Your feet go around and around, arms pushing and pulling incessantly at your sides. You are revolving endlessly on a hamster wheel. Going nowhere fast.

An hour and forty minutes is what it takes. You can't believe it. An hour and forty minutes you spent on the elliptical. You feel like you should get a medal. Some type of award. Maybe a plaque in the hallowed hallways of the YMCA. At the very least, a pat on the back and a free diet Pepsi.

But just when you thought you've succeeded, you suddenly realize the road continues on. Thirteen miles was a rest week. It was a gimme. You look at the following week's schedule in horror. The Saturday workout stretches it's arms out to choke you. It makes fun of your 13 miles. 18 miles it says in bold red letters. 18 miles.

You repeat the distance softly to yourself as if the words will make it less intimidating. 18 miles. But it doesn't work, the fear engages. 18 miles? 18 miles?! 18 MILES!!!

How can I do this? It isn't possible. Will my legs give out? Will I go insane? Will I collapse from boredom?

Throughout the week, the anxiety creeps quietly amidst the spaces between your bones. It tickles and taunts you. It unnerves you at the most inopportune moments.

But somewhere around Thursday or Friday, the anxiety meets it's foe. A switch gets turned. You flip the script and suddenly the anxiety is no longer a limiter, but a driver. Suddenly your faith is stronger than your fear.

You get to an empty gym on Saturday morning, a row of silent elliptical machines await. You lift one foot on, grab the arms and pull the rest of your body on top. With a deep breath, you begin...

* * * *

2 minutes, 1/4 mile: Has it only been two minutes? Every painful rotation of the hip flexor feels like my bones are being held together by rusted hinges. Since when did I transform into the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz? And where's my damn oil can?

8 minutes, 1 mile: One thing I've learned about my body since I got plagued with these nagging lower leg problems is that it takes me a full 20 minutes to warm-up. Unfortunately, this knowledge doesn't help. It's only been 8 minutes. This sucks. My achilles feels tender. My hamstrings are tight. My calf is a piece of wood. I slow down the pace to something just short of making the machine stall.

26 minutes, 3.5 miles: I suddenly notice the pain is gone. Heart rate is hovering around 140, resistance at 6. Legs are moving in circles fairly quickly. Achilles feels good. Woohoo!

32 minutes, 3.87 miles: Somebody just turned on the fan. It's a nice cool breeze. I open my mouth and look up towards the sky as if I'm soaking in the sunshine. But I'm not. I'm inside a room with no windows, no sunshine and no view of the sky.

41 minutes, 5.2 miles: The iPod is blasting an album by Brand New, my favorite running music. I'm feeling good. I'm bouncing to the music. I'm mouthing the words to my favorite songs. I might even be singing the words, I'm not sure, I can't hear myself. Either way, I've suddenly become the people that I make fun of. I pick up the pace and shift the resistance up to level 8.

49 minutes, 6.3 miles: I'm putting in more effort, grooving to the music. I feel like I can keep this up all day. I look down to see my heart rate: 149. Ooh, that might be a little too hard. I slow down... kinda. Sorta. Not really.

51 minutes, 6.55 miles: I'm not hungry. I feel pretty good. But realize I should eat something if I'm going to keep this up. I glance over and notice fellow ellipticalers on both sides of me. Damn. I hesitantly reach into the bottle holder on the elliptical and pull out a Hammer gel. I sense the man on my right peeking over, no doubt wondering what kind of fool brings gels to an elliptical workout. I'm wondering the same thing. I try to remain calm. I quickly rip the top off the packet with my teeth and try to conceal my embarrassment. I can feel them watching me. I can sense their eyes rolling. I just have to get through this quickly. I keep my eyes forward as I chug down the guey substance. I swallow too fast and begin choking. [cough!][hack!] I shove the empty gel packet into the bottle holder and grab my fluid. [ckh-uuuuh!] Must drink. [hack!] Must stop coughing. [kuh!!!] Don't want to bring attention to me. [cough!!] Too late, they're looking. I swallow my fluid but it makes matters worse. I stifle a cough [co-rrmmmph!] and clear my throat loudly and macho-ly. Whew. That did it. I take a big breath. Well that clearly didn't quite go as planned. I stare forward and stand tall. I don't want to meet their eyes. I don't want them to know me. I want to squirrel into a little corner and curl into a ball.

1 hour, 7.4 miles: There's a 60 minute time limit on the elliptical machines. I'm fast with the ATM, a speed demon on a punch clock. The moment it tells me my workout is over, my fingers fly. I punch the buttons with laser-like dexterity. Clear, new exercise, manual workout, weight, time, resistance, GO!! I don't lose a beat, I'm still moving, still keeping the rhythm. A boy on his hamster wheel. I am elliptical, hear me roar.

1 hour 23 minutes, 10.3 miles: My mind is starting to fade. I stare at the clock. This is boring. The seconds inch forward. I swear that the clock seems to be slowing down. I tap on the digital timer to make sure it is still moving. Of course it is, it's digital.

1 hour 30 minutes, 11.2 miles: I am listening to a podcast of Babe Ruth giving his "Farewell to Baseball" speech. His throat is beyond gruff. It sounds like every word out of his mouth is an effort that may kill him. I'm starting to feel that way about the elliptical. Around and around my legs go. My mind is numb. I'm staring incessantly at the wall.

1 hour 41 minutes, 13.05 miles: I passed last weekend's workout length. Woohoo! The legs feel good, though the body is definitely tired. Achilles is getting a little tight. I start counting the specks of dirt on the wall. I lose count after 17 and start again.

1 hour 43 minutes, 13.2 miles: It's that time again. I look behind me to see if there's anybody I know working out in the gym. I don't know why I look for people I know. They are the last ones I want to see at this point. Of course, the moment I see somebody I know I quickly turn my head back. I hope he didn't see me. Please God, don't let him have seen me. I reach into the water bottle holder and pull out another Hammer Gel. I hold it close to my chest, firmly encased in my hand so nobody will know. I quickly rip off the top of the packet with my teeth like Tom Hanks eating that mini-corn in the movie Big. Swift, small and smooth movements. I quickly swallow the gel. Swift, small and smooth. Please God, I say to myself, don't let them notice me. I can feel eyes piercing through my back. I can sense them laughing at me. I hide the empty gel packet and slowly push forward.

1 hour 53 minutes, 14.4 miles: My mind is still numb. I'm not sure the gel worked. Wasn't it suppose to energize me? It's not working. Maybe it expired. How long ago did I buy it?

1 hour 58 minutes, 14.9 miles: I'm listening to a podcast of Nelson Mandela's speech right after he was released from jail. I don't understand most of what he's saying, his accent is too thick. I keep listening anyway. In my head I keep singing that song "Free Nelson Mandela" by The Specials. Free, free, freeee...Nelson Man-delllll-aaahhh. I want to be freed. I've been staring at a wall for nearly two hours. I'm pretty sure the Geneva Convention has rules against this.

2 hours 2 minutes, 15.2 miles: I'm either entering a diabetic coma or I've just gotten into a special zone. I can't quite tell the difference at this point. Maybe the gel just finally kicked in. Either way, I'm feeling a rhythm again.

2 hours 10 minutes, 16.25 miles: My body is a bit tired, but it's mostly from my mind. My eyes stare blankly into the distance as my legs uncontrollably spin in circles. I feel like Jack Nicholsen in "One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest" right after the lobotomy and just before the big Indian guy suffocated him with a pillow. I glance over my shoulders for pillows. Or big Indian guys.

2 hours 12 minutes, 16.5 miles: I start having a spiritual experience. I feel like I'm on LSD, or as close as one could get without ingesting any drugs. My eyes are closed. I start getting flashbacks of Ironman Lake Placid. Images come zooming in front of my eyes. A tsunami of emotion floods my heart. I start feeling the bodily pain of that Ironman bike ride. I've reached behind the smiles. My heart is flooded. Nelson Mandela finishes his speech. Apparently there is no more apartheid. I want to cry.

2 hours 20 minutes, 17.5 miles: I emerge from my spiritual awakening to notice a woman on the elliptical to my right. I don't remember when she arrived. She is staring at me. I don't know why. She thinks I'm crazy. I can tell from the glare of her eyes. I try to remember if I'd been talking out loud during that little journey of mine. I think I may have clapped at the end of Mandela's speech.

2 hours 32 minutes, 18.6 miles: I try to add up my mileage but my brain doesn't seem to be working properly. In three attempts I come up with three different distances. I average them out and realize I must've passed 18 already. I decide to keep going for reasons I have yet to understand.

2 hours, 45 minutes, 20.2 miles: I reach 20 miles. I'm proud. My body is a little tired. Achilles is tender. There is a weird tingling in my right calf, I've never felt that one before. I should stop. But I don't. What has happened to me? Do I actually enjoy this?! Have I really been on this godforsaken machine for nearly 3 hours?! My legs keep spinning in circles. I turn on a podcast called "Podictionary" and listen to the definition and etymology of the word "crater."

2 hours, 49 minutes, 20.7 miles: I reach in the water bottle holder for my last Hammer Gel. I realize in ancient times that the water bottle holder would have been called a crater. I don't much care. Most people have already left the gym, I don't bother to hide my gel behavior anymore. I'm too tired, too bored. I tear off the top of the packet with my teeth like a rabid pack of hyenas tearing the flesh off the decaying carcass of a fallen gazelle. I suck down the Gel with fury and guzzle what's left of my fluid. I would pound my chest like Tarzan but I don't have the energy. Besides, I'd probably fall off the elliptical.

2 hours 55 minutes, 21.5 miles: I'm listening to a podcast of Robert Kennedy's speech right after Martin Luther King, Jr. was shot. I envision somebody shooting me near the end of a marathon.

3 hours 10 minutes, 23.6 miles: My iPod battery dies, just like Martin Luther King, Jr. I'm left with just the voices in my head for the rest of this journey. I keep saying the words "I have a dream..." over and over. I can't make it disappear.

3 hours 18 minutes, 24.7 miles: I start singing songs to myself. Out loud. I begin to count the specks of dirt on the wall again but get bored by the time I reach 7.

3 hours 26 minutes, 26 miles: All of the sudden I feel great. Has it only been 3 hours and 26 minutes? I think to myself. This is wonderful! I can do this all day! I pick up the pace and increase the resistance. Level 8. I push harder. The adrenaline is pumping, the excitement brewing. I'm going to do a marathon!! I scream to myself. A marathon!

3 hours 27 minutes, 26.1 miles: Ouch! A pain shoots up my achilles. I reduce the resistance back to Level 4 and slow down my pace.

3 hours 28 minutes, 26.2 miles: I did it!! I DID IT!!!! I did a marathon on the elliptical!! I slowly stop my legs from moving.

I stand motionless on the elliptical and smile. I wait silently for the throngs of cheering fans. I want balloons and streamers and bleachers of people shouting my name in unison. I want sports reporters and the Guinness Book of World Records and TV cameras scrambling to get the best close-up. I slowly turn my body around to greet the masses. There is only a semi-decrepit 92 year old, silently struggling with the quad machine on the other side of the room.

I step off the elliptical and balance myself on rubbery legs. I wash the sweat off the elliptical, grab my belongings - my iPod, my water bottle, my used packets of gu - reach down, pick up my bag and hoist it over my shoulder.

I grin.
And then the grin becomes a smile.
And the smile becomes a laugh.
And the laugh screams through every part of my body.

I walk silently and proud, out of the gym, out to the rest of the world.

....And He's Still There

This story is going to sicken you.

There is a 42 year old woman who lives a few blocks down the road from me. She had some work to do on her condo so last week, instead of hiring a bunch of overpriced tradesmen, she decided to save some money in the true Los Angeles way: she drove down to the corner and got a few Mexican day laborers to do the work for cheap.

I'm guessing that the work went well, she saved a couple of pennies and life went on.

Fast forward to this past Thursday night. The woman comes home at about 10pm to find her house ransacked. And the burglar was still there.

But wait, it gets worse. Much worse.

As she entered, he attacked her, beat her and tied her up. For the next four hours he repeatedly raped her and sexually abused her in ways I'd rather not know. Finally, at two in the morning, he took her cash, credit cards and car keys. He jumped in her convertible Mercedes and got the heck out of there.

The woman was soon able to get out of the ropes and have a neighbor call 9-1-1.

Here's where it gets a little more freaky...

The cops caught the intruder earlier today. A 17-year old Latino driving a convertible Mercedes through the streets of Oxnard stands out like a sore thumb. Yes, he is 17 years old.

Even more, this kid was one of the same men who the woman had hired a few days earlier to help her fix her condo. And though on first glance it seemed as if he had scouted out the condo and went back to rob the valuables, that's wrong.

He hadn't been scouting out the condo, he had been scouting out the condo owner.

He had showed up in the condo on Thursday morning. Sneaking in through a doggie door, he waited, lurking inside the home all day while the woman was at work. Time enough to sit around and contemplate what he was going to do. Time to make decisions. Time to back out. Unfortunately he didn't. 12 hours later she came home and he attacked.

He has raped, beaten, robbed, and stolen from this woman and Lord knows what other charges will be leveled against him.

Here's the catch: he is underage. And he is an illegal alien.

So tell me, how quickly do you think he'll be walking the streets of Los Angeles again?
Now tell me, what's your position on immigration?

A Boy And His Elliptical

You may be wondering what happened with me and the elliptical this weekend. I'm going to let you know. You'll probably even enjoy hearing about it. It may make you laugh and say things like, there is something really wrong with that child. Or perhaps you'll wonder how my parents screwed up to create a human being like me. Maybe you'll just make sure to lock your doors extra tight at night in case I get loose.

Either way, you'll have to wait. I'm not going to give you the story right now, cause I don't have time. But it's a-comin.

Oh, and my hip flexor doesn't hurt nearly as much today. Thanks for asking.