Pause, pray, breathe

Most of us have had that feeling. You hover over the key to your car for just a moment, hoping that it will turn over and fire up. Your car is a bit of a beater, and it has become somewhat unreliable. It has failed you often enough that you stop for a moment, and say a silent prayer before turning the key. If only electricity would flow, fuel would fire, compression and expansion would translate into spinning shafts and forward motion. "Not this time, not this time, I have so much to do today", and turn...

Every roar of the engine meant you could make it to work, earn your living, and dream of a more reliable car you didn't have to worry over. Every time the key only produced a faint clicking, you knew your day had gone sideways. My first car was a beater Mustang I drove for twelve years. I carried around a full toolbox in my trunk, along with jumper cables and various vital fluids. My car failed me often enough that I learned how to work on engines. Though they are complicated machines, it comes down to two main systems, fuel and electricity. Whenever the engine failed to fire, I knew where to start looking.

After years of driving a more reliable car, every morning and every evening you hop in your car and think nothing of the myriad of systems that make the internal combustion engine possible work. You get used to everything "just working." Until it doesn't.

After work yesterday, I turned the key and nothing happened. Luckily, Sean had not left so we both went to work on it. Unfortunately, with newer vehicles, there is less recognizable when you pop the hood. There is no carburetor to tweak, no distributor to time, no accessible spark plug wires to clean. Now with fuel injection and chip timed electronics, the basic systems I used to understand are buried out of sight. Since the engine wasn't even turning over, I brought out the jumper cables I still carry around.

The car did not respond, so we monkeyed with wires and crawled underneath to check connections. I don't know what we did, but the truck eventually fired up. I stopped on the way home to let Kristy's dog out. I couldn't exactly leave the car running, but I did park on a hill in case I needed to compression start the engine (the beater car knowledge never fades away entirely). I paused over the key, but this time it fired right up, as it did the next time as well. Relief. Then later that night, when I had gone back to taking a functional car for granted, only silence followed the turn of a key.

After futilely trying to jump start it again, and talking about how I would get home and where I would tow the car, I figured out it was a short in the battery cable. I spent yesterday taking things apart, and when I soaked the copper cables in a baking soda solution, there was a satisfying eruption of bubbles as the corrosion was carried away with the foam. After the repair, I was pretty confident that the engine would fire up, but there was still that pause, that hesitation, the silent prayer that everything would be OK.

These days, I experience that moment of uncertainty in a different way. Every morning when I wake before Sierra, and every time I arrive home and walk noisily past her head with no reaction, I pause. Is it just that she is very tired, nearly deaf, or is this the time she won't wake and fire from slumber. I stop and quietly check that her chest is still rising and falling. She had a bad week recently, and I wondered if what was going on meant more than it appeared. Was this the tipping point that she wouldn't come back from.

She, like the car, recovered, but there is no doubt that both are slowly breaking down. There are fewer days in front of them than behind. I try to do as much as I can to lengthen their days, but at some point it will be out of my hands. Every morning Sierra wakes up with a wagging tail is a blessing. Every health hiccup, mess on the floor, or change in routine is worthwhile to be able to see that ray of light each day.

Though pausing over her is a more regular routine, I am sure I will still be blindsided when the day comes that she fails to fire up. I just keep silently chanting, "Not today, not today."

San Diego bucket list

Familiar and trite as it is, the phrase, "Don't know what you got, til it's gone" is still true. I have made that mistake before, and this time I am trying to appreciate what I have before it is too late.

Years ago, six of us did a tourist day in Seattle. Each one of us had lived in the area for at least a decade, yet there were still parts of the city that out-of-towners flocked to, but we had never seen. We all can fall into the trap, knowing that we can see something anytime we want, and since it is always there, we never get around to it. Here we live minutes from beaches people travel hours just to see, but how often do we dip our toes in the surf. Answer - not often enough.

So with a month or two left here in San Diego, I am trying to do some things I have put off. Appreciate this home of two and a half years before I head back north. So I thought I would make a list. Some are things I have intended to do, but put off, while some I have done before, but want to repeat while I have the chance. When I mentioned the list, friends started suggesting things to put on it. Things to do together, and maybe use the list to do things they have put off as well.

My hike up Cowles Mountain at sunrise was one near the top of the list. It was an awesome morning, and I am so glad I finally dragged my butt out of bed and made the hike. Cowles is still on the list, though, because I want to hike it again at sunset with Kristy. Another thing I have wanted to do is ride my bike down the Pacific Coast Highway from Oceanside to San Diego. The deadline/bucket list finally has me out on two wheels after I let my bike languish for too long.

I also want to take a long run with Sean. Overall, we have run seven marathons together, with three in just the last year or so. Though we have toed many start lines together, and chat repeatedly about running at work, we run and train almost entirely on our own. Last year though, we ran a twenty mile training run side by side, and I'd like to do it again. While there is nothing quite like race morning, the more relaxed, social run was a different kind of reward for all this running we do.

Not all the bucket list items are exercise related. I have also been taking advantage of Residents Free Tuesdays at the Balboa museums. As the name implies, San Diego residents get in free to certain museums each Tuesday. The free museums are different each Tuesday, so I have been doing my best to hit them all. Matt and Holly also put wine tasting in Julian on the bucket list, and I would like to complete the tour of the San Diego microbreweries that Sean and I have been working on. The Zoo, Balboa Park, Old Town...I need another sheet of paper.

There are a few things I didn't bother to write down. Things that I have actually been doing, but still want to get in as many times as I can. Things like running along Sunset Cliffs and Mission Bay, or heading over to Dog Beach with breakfast at Tower Two. Unfortunately, Sierra isn't really up for the walk or chaos of Dog Beach anymore, but I will be sure to take her to Fiesta Island where it is a short walk over harder packed sand. She needs to dip her paws in the ocean at least one more time.

Of course one of the most important things to do is spend as much time as possible with friends. I have always made it a priority to travel to see people, but you never know what the future holds. I want to be sure to make the most of it when they are just across town, instead of across state lines.

Leaving California with an aching in my heart*

*Apologies to Led Zeppelin 

I moved down to San Diego back in February of 2010. As I mentioned back then, I came down here for several reasons. 2009 was a tough year for me, my toughest really. Several of the pillars on which a life is built crumbled beneath me. I lost my wife, my house and my job. Through the process of loss and counseling, inner walls cracked and fell as well. By the end of the year, I felt shattered into a hundred little pieces, but with the feeling that I could build a more authentic version of my self.

I spent the week after Christmas 2009 down in San Diego with my friends Matt and Holly. They of course were going through their own struggles. Jobs had been lost, and money that was already tight became scarce. With my life a jumble of puzzle pieces, I decided to move down to San Diego. They needed a renter, and I needed a fresh start. I had no clue how it would all work out, but it felt like forces were coming together, and that it was the right turn to make.

I figured I would be down here for six months or maybe a year. Clear my head and open my eyes to new possibilities. I already had some good friends down here, and with time we became even closer. People I sensed were something special, revealed genuine beauty. Friendships grew, and then turned into something more, and I found love here as well. I started considering San Diego long term.

My time in San Diego up til then had always felt like a break from real life, a temporary visa that was due to expire at any time. As San Diego began to feel more like home, I felt more torn than ever. Though my heart was growing again here in San Diego, Washington still felt like my real home. Deep reflection ensued, and I made myself miserable for months.

Although I have made progress on the personal front, professionally and financially I was moving in reverse. I needed to make a new foundation, and for several months I wondered where to begin, and not just in a to-do sense. After some difficult debates and painful conversations, I have decided my best chance to start again is back in Seattle. Once again, I have no clue how things will work out, but it feel like this is the next turn in the road.

As difficult as it was to say goodbye to everyone in Washington when I moved down, it may be that much harder to say it again to California. When I left Washington, the rough plan was to return in about a year, so that buffered the decision. Now I have no clue where the next few years will lead me, and I have no such comforting feeling as I pack up the U-Haul this time around.

As close as I was to Matt and Holly before, they are now family. Sean Hawkins was already a good friend, but now he has become one of the best. Marci and their kids have welcomed me into their Home (capital H). So many like the Kesslers who I met as these great people who gave their time and spirit to the 2008 remodel, turned out to be sainted friends in everyday life as well.

And of course there is Kristy. She is the biggest fallout from this decision. There were other issues, but this mid-life reckoning of mine was the brick wall we ran into. Even though the relationship didn't ultimately work out, she made me believe in love again. I don't know what leaving will mean for either one of us, or where our paths may lead. I only know that there will be a void, that it will be painful, and I may live to regret it.

Sean Hawkins, being the enthusiastic, creative force that he is, started (verbally) writing the sequel to my life story at work the other day.

"Here's a guy who headed south after a painful divorce, only to find love again. He stopped being this morose guy, he wrote a book, and learned to brew beer. He ran in a bunch of races, got faster and faster, and dropped twenty pounds in the process. And he brought shade to hundreds of overheated Californians."

Though I never doubt for a minute how lucky I am, I rarely look at what I have done with such a rosey lens, so it makes me appreciate friends like Sean that much more. I would like to return to Washington the conquering hero, fully cleansed, having left my baggage on the shore to be washed out to sea. But I know that is unrealistic, and I am still a bit of a mess. I don't know what life would have been like if I had not made the leap south, but even though I have plenty left to work on, I know I am a better person than I was a couple of years ago. San Diego, and more importantly all the people, have been a big part of that.

The plan is to move back sometime in early or mid November. Work and U-Haul schedules are a bit up in the air, but I would like to be back home by Thanksgiving. I look forward to spending more time with my parents, my close and extended family, and reconnecting with old friends once again.

There is plenty to look forward to, but so much I will miss. Matt and Holly have been torn between Seattle and San Diego since they moved back ten years ago. Now that I have a deeper connection with the sunny state, I can finally understand what it is like.

Rolling true after some repair

I have set a few fall and winter exercise goals, so my bike is finally out of the corner for good. As hard as it has been for me to get back in the habit, the bike seems to be resisting it even more fervently.

Since I haven't been doing that much riding down here, I only have a few regular routes. One of them is a nice ride around Mission Bay then up to La Jolla, and it seemed a perfect way to spend a morning off last week. Before heading out, I wanted to give the bike a once over to clean it up and make sure nothing was out of place. When I tried rolling it outside, the wheels weren't spinning freely, so I just carried it to the bike rack. I assumed it was just a brake out of place, but on closer inspection, one of the spokes on the front wheel had broken off. Apparently the strain of neglect was just too much.

Looking at a bicycle wheel, it is somewhat surprising that these thin strips of metal can not only support the weight of the bike and rider, but can stand up against additional bumps and blows of riding over uneven pavement. Off the wheel, you could bend a spoke rather easily with your hands, but on the wheel they resist bending by being placed under tension, and by relying on the surrounding spokes to share the load. A wheel is so finely tuned that if one spoke fails, the force of the nearby spokes pulls the wheel out of true. Now my wheel had a noticeable bend in it, and was rubbing with every revolution.

It turned out that the spoke was just fine, and it was the rim socket that it screws into that had broken off. I actually have some spare spokes on hand, but had never thought to buy one of the tiny little sockets. So a trip to the shop replaced the morning ride.

Apparently there are only two typical socket sizes, but I had brought along my bum wheel so I didn't have to guess. The tech took it in the back and returned with the tiny little piece that had brought my ride to a halt. When he went to ring it up, a price of $50 appeared on the register. Before I could grab my wheel and make a break for it, he explained that all of the random screws and bolts come up with that price initially. The real price - 10 cents. Well, 11 cents with tax. Finally, a cheap fix.

I went home and replaced the part. I spent some time slowly adding tension to the spoke. A couple of turns of the wrench, then spin the wheel and look for the bend. Wrench turn, wheel spin, repeat. Truing a wheel is a bit of an art form, trying to get all the forces to balance out, but fortunately I knew I only needed to work on one spoke until the wheel was straight once more.

I eventually made it out for a ride that Sunday. The weather was nice, and the scenery beautiful. This is a shot in La Jolla near my turn around point.

Well worth the wait.

I planned a bit longer, less scenic ride yesterday. I need to get more time on the legs, and more importantly on the seat, if I am going to get back in biking shape. When I went over to pull the bike out of the corner, the tire was flat. Same wheel. It is like my bike it trying to give me excuses not to get out.

A flat tire is a much easier fix than a busted spoke, so after a quick tube change I was off. As I was flying down a mile long hill, I was trying to keep pictures of snapping spokes and blown tires out of my mind. The ride was challenging but satisfying, and another great start to the day.

I suppose a bike is a bit like a body - it can break down from lack of use just as quickly as with hard work. I'd rather put it to good use, but it is still a balancing act between the gas and the brake, climbing and coasting. Also, something can look perfect and true, and still be under great tension. Watch out for the snap.

Cowles at sunrise

I am not a morning person, but once in a while, it is worth the effort. I returned to Cowles Mountain to watch the sunrise.

Kristy and I hiked Cowles a few months ago. It was the first of several hikes together. Rather than ease into our new weekend warrior habit, she wanted to jump in with both feet, choosing a five-star hike off the Mission Trails map. It turns out there aren't many hikes in the park that aren't worthy of five stars.

Cowles Mountain is the highest point in San Diego County, and the summit offers 360 degree views on a clear day. I thought it would be a beautiful place to see the sun rise or set over the city. The hike is extremely popular, and on the weekends the trail is jammed with people. At 5:00am, however, Matt and I had the parking lot and trail largely to ourselves. There were two older gentlemen getting ready as we pulled in, unpacking walking sticks and doing a bit of stretching. Their gruff, sarcastic and familiar banter made it clear that this wasn't the first time they started the day together with a  pre-dawn hike.

I passed them with a greeting and soon all that was ahead of me was the small circle of light from my headlamp dancing over uneven ground. Kristy and I had made some unintended trail short cuts in full daylight, so I tried to focus on the path, but I still managed to repeat (and add) some extra scrambles over large rocks and tight underbrush.

I paused regularly to look over the lights of the sleeping city, but still managed to arrive at the peak 45 minutes before sunrise. For a moment I wished I had those minutes back toward a full night's sleep, but the feeling didn't last long enough to register to regret. I found a comfortable rock on the east side of the peak and settled into the quiet, almost private moment. As I stared over the valley and at the hilly horizon, my mind emptied and joined the quiet.

It wasn't long before another two hikers reached the summit. They paused to touch the stone marker with the engraved sign before ambling off to the right to find their own quiet vista. Though the sun was still far from making its debut, the monotone horizon gave way to increasing definition. The single jagged line became individual peaks, and roads and trails came forth, as shades of brown and green made their way through the purple. Sounds came more frequently and insistently as the mountain awoke, soon to be joined with more and more hikers.

The earliest arrivals each touched the stone marker like it was some sort of talisman, evidence that they had made it to the top. Some hikers turned around after leaving their fingerprints, heading back down instead of waiting for the approaching solar show. I was content to wait in my rocky, front row seat.

As minutes passed closer to the break of day, the hikers changed from pilgrims to tourists. Reverence turned to chatter and laughter, and hands placed silently on stone became a whirring of cameras and self portraits. I tried to leave my camera in my pocket, and just record the moment in my mind, but the temptation to preserve the scene became too great. The beauty I saw is inadequately stored as pixels on a storage card (I need a better camera), but they are there to reinforce the memory of what I was there to see.

Even as the sun was still below the horizon, its approach was announced in the few low lying clouds, the undersides on fire and the upper peaks haloed in light. The chatter died down for a moment, and even the hovering insects seemed to stop their buzzing. One final hiker made it in just under the wire, touching the stone as the first pinprick of light flashed into our sleepy eyes.

Illumination.

I watched for a few more moments until enough of the sun had crossed into day that I could not look directly at it anymore. I took some more photos, hand outstretched and eyes averted. Turning away to the west, I found more hikers cresting the rise, their forms emerging from a backdrop of cloud cover we had risen above. The low rays of the sun set the bushes alight in fiery red, chasing away the remaining blues for another day.

I plan to return to Cowles again, next time at sunset. I have no doubt it will be just as spectacular to watch the sun drop out to the west as it was to see it join me in the east.

Love and friendship

Most change comes with a side of discomfort. Some change comes with pain, and this is one of those times. Kristy and I are no longer a couple.

Though we talk throughout the week, because of work and other commitments, we usually only get to see each other on the weekends. For the past month and a half, things came up in our schedules that kept us apart. The physical separation only accentuated the feeling that something was coming between us.

Though we both felt that something was wrong, I don't think either of us wanted to broach the subject, knowing where the conversation might lead. We finally talked about it a week or so ago, opening with the simple question of, "does this silence feel awkward?" We talked about what had been going on over the last few months, how things seemed to have changed, and what our future(s) looked like. No vases or insults were hurled at each other. It was mature and reasonable. And all too painful.

We agreed that there were certain issues, bits of our personalities and other differences that would continue to plague us. Neither of us felt it necessary to go through any sort of listing of grievances, willing to accept that they were there, and not feeling it necessary to point them out to each other. Strangely, without even going into detail about our issues, I have a better understanding of them than after seven years of marriage, and four months of counseling.

In a different time, we may have been able to work it out. But at this point, I need to change my life fairly dramatically, and it was not fair to the relationship, or either one of us individually, to continue it half-heartedly. We both deserve a partner that is fully committed, both to the relationship and a common future, and neither should settle for less.

I have tried to remain friends with the women I have previously dated, but it has never really worked out. Most of the time, I worked with my former girlfriends, so we were forced to deal with the break up on a daily basis. Kristy and I do not work together, but we are both in the same tight group of friends. A week after we broke up, we both attended a birthday party where most of the people had no idea we were no longer a couple. On the outside, everything seemed fine, but we were both in pain.

We actually spent the next day together as well, and it was a fraction better. We spent the afternoon in the sun, floating in the deep end of a pool, trying out casual conversation as if the last week, or last year and a half weren't sitting on our shoulders. Later on, we were able to talk a bit more deeply about last Sunday. Things that still made sense, but that didn't erase the feelings we have for each other.

Kristy and I began as friends, and we desperately want to remain good friends even though our relationship has ended. Before we started dating a year and a half ago, we worried about sacrificing our friendship for the chance at something more. When we took the plunge, we told ourselves that we simply wouldn't do anything to jeopardize what we already had. Now we are having to make that promise come true.

I think we have a good shot at it, but it will be painful for a while. The breakup was mature and mutual, but just because the head knows that something makes sense, the heart doesn't always understand. Or agree for that matter. The feelings remain, even if they are no longer appropriate.

Even though it didn't work out, I am so glad we tried. Already close as friends, it was a new and wonderful experience to become that much closer to her. To add love to friendship, rather than exchange it. Though we found out things about ourselves that were in conflict, I didn't learn anything that changed my opinion of what a wonderful person she is.

It is just going to be hard for a while. For both of us.

Envy and ambition

A tranquil heart gives life to the flesh,
but envy makes the bones rot. 
~ Proverbs 14:30

Wanting to be someone else
is a waste of the person you are.
~ Kurt Cobain

I have lived my life almost entirely free of envy. Now, I am guilty of plenty of other sins, pride in the lack of envy being one of them. Comparing myself to others, it just has never held much meaning to me. There is plenty to worry and work on when it comes to my own life. Whether or not I am doing better or worse than another is pretty much irrelevant.

If one of my friends or a complete stranger is doing particularly well, I begin with the assumption that they have worked hard and made certain sacrifices to get there. This is not always the case, but if it is just dumb luck that got them there, it doesn't really change how it relates to me. Being envious of others only serves to make you miserable and unappreciative of what you already have.

And I have a lot. The reason envy has not been a part of my life is because I already have so much. Just by the fortune of birth, I live in a place where life is easier than most of the rest of the world. But beyond the fact that I don't have to worry about clean water, police states and holy wars on a daily basis, I grew up in a family that seemed exceptional as I grew and learned what others had.

From the outside, we didn't look unique. We weren't rich and we weren't poor. Voices weren't raised and punishments were few. The lessons weren't overt, but somehow we learned how to do the right thing. But in the spaces in between, something seemed different, special. I felt respected, as well as loved by my parents. Our extended family including aunts, uncles and cousins not only loved each other, but actually liked each other enough to gather nearly every month. Though the monthly gatherings don't happen any more, we still like each other enough to spend an entire week together, just like we have every summer for more than 30 years.

Now, of course it wasn't all Brady Bunch perfection. My brother and I fought constantly. It never rose to the level of hate, but there were certainly times when we just couldn't stand each other. Looking back on it as an adult, I think it was that we did not understand each other. I had lots of acquaintances in high school, but few close friends. It wasn't terrible, but it was lonely, and I do not pine to relive those days like so many seem to. My parents divorced when I was in the fifth or sixth grade. It was an incredibly difficult time for them, but they never put us in the middle, or made us feel at fault. Even so, it rocked my center of gravity, and probably changed me in ways I am still not aware of. But with a little tv story magic, my parents remarried after a decade apart, and have been together again for the last twenty years.

All in all, it felt like I had it pretty damn good, and to dismiss my good fortune with jealousy and envy would be offensive somehow. What more could I ask for when I had so much already? Living without envy not only made me appreciate what I had, it kept those poisonous thoughts out of my head. Tearing someone else down does nothing to lift you up.

Still...living a life without envy and feeling fortunate for all that I had, probably let too much complacency into my life. Whether or not we have it good already, we should still be striving toward bettering ourselves and our situation. Of course, "better" means something different to everyone, and some people take this to an extreme and can never be satisfied. I think I have the opposite problem.

I have a great life in so many ways. I am blessed by my wonderful family. I have somehow managed to develop a core set of friends in two different places. I have my health, and though my body is starting to show its age, I do my best to keep this vessel I so appreciate in good shape. But in other ways, I feel like a terrific failure, and I know I can do better. I can be greatly unsatisfied with part of my life, without losing sight of how lucky I am. Some changes have already happened, not all of them good, but more are on the way. Time to stop floating, and be more like the river than the driftwood.

This American Life, live and cut short

This American Life is one of my favorite shows. It appears each weekend on Public Radio, but I never much listened to it until I started downloading podcasts a few years ago. Each week, they brings us several stories based (often loosely) on an overarching theme. The storytelling ability of the show's contributors is what really makes it special. They can take seemingly mundane topics, and relate them in such a way that you understand their hidden significance. Some stories are profound, some funny, some remain somewhat mundane, but I am always glad I tuned in.

The show has been on the radio for some fifteen-plus years, and part of the appeal is that it in fact, on the radio. The storytelling becomes more compelling because of the format. They have to describe things in such a way as to capture your imagination and make you "see" it for yourself without the aid of visuals. There was apparently a tv show for two seasons on Showtime a few years ago, but more recently they have done three "live" shows that are broadcasted to movie theaters around the country. Matt and I went to the most recent one back in May.

I didn't know exactly what to expect. The regular show relies so heavily on the spoken word, would we just be watching people speak? Would this add anything to the experience? The theme of the show was "Invisible Made Visible". There were a few presentations that were typical of the regular radio show, but seeing the facial expressions and mannerisms of these people you have heard but never seen, added to their stories. Just being in a theater full of people, instead of alone on a run, also made the laughter come a little easier. Tig Natoro's well-told story of repeated run-ins with 80's pop musician Taylor Dayne was more entertaining by seeing her tell it.

But the show made use of the added video ability and the "live" aspect of the theater. There was an audience participation section with the band OK Go. Theater goers were asked to download a free app to their phones ahead of time. There were four different versions randomly sent to each person's phone. As the band played in Chicago, there was a cascade of colored symbols on the theater screen telling us when to hit our colored keys. The phones produced sounds of hand bells and across the country we all played our own live version of the song. Simple but entertaining.

The opening two segments of the show were about a man who is blind. He travels quite a bit for work, and the first section described how easy it is to get lost in a hotel room. As he described how he walks around the room, feeling his way to a picture in his head, the theater screen showed a drawing of the room he was creating. He could not find the phone, even after several passes, so as strange as it sounded, he assumed there simply wasn't one in the room.

Then the phone rings in the middle of the night, on a table he knew was empty before. When he tried to return to bed after answering the call, and walks straight into a wall, he wonders where exactly he has woken up. It turned out there was an alcove in the room, on the opposite side of the bed, with a matching coffee table (this time with a phone). The drawing of the room made it easy to understand the assumption he had made that the wall simply continued straight to enclose the rectangle of the room, and shed a fraction of understanding what his life without sight is like.

The second section has the author walk out on stage to tell another story. In it he talks about trying to explain blindness to his young daughter. In one moment he is walking across a rural campus, where it is not unusual to see wildlife, bears in particular. He has his daughter on his shoulders, and when she says "Bear", he calmly high tales it in the other direction. When she says it again and again, with increasing tension, he is soon zig-zagging in all directions unsure of the road to safety. It takes him some time to realize she has simple dropped her Teddy Bear. There are other moments of confusion, mistaken identity, and the eventual understanding over a cookie.

The section that most benefited from the theater live show was about the life of a woman, Vivan Maier. She was this solitary, somewhat cantankerous woman who worked as a nanny. She kept her private life hidden from everyone, though she did not welcome many to seek it out. She may have gone largely unnoticed into history if she had been able to pay her storage bills. Her effects were auctioned off, and some pieces found their way into thrift shops. This is where John Maloof discovered her photos. Thousands of them.

The photos are primarily street shots of New York and Chicago, shot in black and white. She seems to capture in these random photos, the stories of the cities and their people. In her photos, the beauty of the everyday comes through. Yet it appears she never showed any of the photos to anyone. This invisible life and talent only came to light after her death, and a fortunate discovery in a thrift shop. As the story of her life was told during the show, several of her photos appeared behind Ira on the movie screen. Although the story about Vivian, and the way her photos came to light was very interesting, it would not have translated nearly as well to the radio. In fact, this segment of the show did not appear in the eventual radio rebroadcast.

Why am I finally telling you about this show some three months later. Because of one of the presenters, David Rakoff. His story was told live, on stage in act three. In it, he describes a recurring dream he has. It is simple, and I suppose expected when you know his story. He had recently had a tumor removed from behind his collar bone, and in the process, nerves were severed. Although this relieved him of the intense pain he had been experiencing for a number of years, it left him unable to use or even feel his arm. In the recurring dream, his limp arm floats up into the air as if buoyed by air and light.

He goes on to talk about his experience and all it has meant to him. For some reason, it is the segment that I remember most vividly from the show. It is mostly him speaking, and it would (and was) translated to radio, but there were parts of it that felt important for you to be there with him while he spoke. Indeed, there is one section toward the end that Ira has to simply describe to the audience. In that section, David dances gracefully across the stage, recalling the fluid movement of his youthful life when he felt less heavy.

David Rakoff passed away last night, ultimately losing his battle with cancer. I had just heard another piece of his on This American Life a week ago. It was a clever bit of writing in the persona of Dr Seuss, but I will always remember him for the performance I was fortunate enough to see three months ago. It was rebroadcast on the radio a few weeks after the live show, and if you would like to hear what we saw, you can find the segment here. Click the small arrow just underneath the photo to begin play.

Update - In honor of Mr. Rakoff, This American Life has now put the video of his performance up on YouTube.



The other acts that made it to the radio, including the blind man in the hotel room and with his daughter, Tig Nataro's Taylor Dane encounters, and the thoughts that run through David Sedaris' head while standing in line waiting for coffee, can be found here. Vivian Maier's story and wonderful photos can be found here.

Rest in peace, David.

Olympic inspiration

The Olympics - there really is nothing like them.

I had the chance to catch quite a bit of coverage last week. I was house sitting, and didn't have any plans in the evenings, other than staying up til midnight each day to watch the world's best.

Much of the first week was dedicated to swimming and gymnastics. Though Michael Phelps turned out to be human, and did not repeat his spectacular run in Beijing, he still became the most decorated Olympic athlete in history with his 22 total medals, 18 of them gold. The women seemed even more impressive this year. 17 year old Missy Franklin came away with four golds and a bronze, Allison Schmitt earned a medal of every color in the freestyle, and Rebecca Soni set the world record in the 200 meter breaststroke semifinals, and then broke it again the next day in the finals. Both the men and women capped off the London games by capturing the gold in the team 100 medley, both setting new world records.

In gymnastics, the women dominated in the team competition, earning their first gold medal since 1996. They won by more than five points in a sport normally decided by hundredths. Three Americans took the top four scores in qualifying for the individual all-around competition. One of those, Gabby Douglas went on to win the gold in the individual all around event. The men did not do as well. After coming in first in the qualifying round, the team faltered repeatedly (particularly on the pommel horse) and finished fifth. In the individual all-around, both Americans did poorly on the pommel horse once again, but Danell Leyva managed to claw his way back to a bronze medal finish.

Normally, I don't give much of a rip about swimming or gymnastics, but during the Olympics I am drawn in. I am caught up in the athleticism, focus and dedication these athletes bring to their sport. I find myself leaning in as they push on to the finish, and pumping my fist to celebrate their victory.

Not every sport grabs me. There are more events every year, and some just don't seem to fit. Major sports like soccer and tennis already have their worldwide tournaments, and basketball just seems out of place. Anything that has "synchronized" in the title is also lost on me. Though I know the sports are still incredibly demanding in their physicality and precision, it just seems a little silly. I tuned in one morning to find whitewater canoeing, and I thought to myself, "seriously?" But a few minutes later I found myself cheering on home team Great Britain to an upset gold and silver. Olympic moments just have that kind of pull.

The first week of the Olympics have been great, but I was really looking forward to two events - the women's and men's marathon. This is the one event I can somewhat identify with. I will never approach their performances, but I have at least run in their footsteps and understand what it takes to complete the distance. The women's marathon was yesterday, and it did not disappoint.

The Kenyans and Ethiopians have dominated the marathon for some time now, particularly the men. Since 2001, Kenyan runners have owned more than half of the top 20 times each year. In 2011, they owned them all. They not only won every one of the World Marathon Majors last year, they set course records each time. However, for all their dominance during the year, their record in the Olympics is not nearly as successful. A Kenyan woman has never won gold, and Sammy Wanjiru was the first Kenyan man to capture gold in 2008. The Americans had three strong competitors in the race this year - Shalane Flanagan, Kara Goucher, and Desiree Davila. None had personal bests that matched the Kenyans or Ethiopians, but the Olympics are not like any other marathon. Anything can happen.

The marathon course was a series of twisting loops through London. Commentators expected that many of the runners would stick together for the first couple of laps while they learned the course and looked for best opportunity to break things open. Through the halfway point, a pack of 30 held the lead, including Flanagan and Goucher. Unfortunately, Davila showed up with an hip injury, and pulled out somewhere after mile two.

Soon after mile thirteen, the pace picked up and the crowd thinned. With each mile, more runners fell off the back, unable to match the pace of the leaders. Soon the lead pack was down to six runners, three Kenyans and three Ethiopians. It seemed both inevitable and surprising how clear cut the break was. But a couple of women kept the lead group in sight, including Shalane Flanagan. She couldn't reel them in, but tried to limit the damage, hoping someone would falter.

And then someone else joined the party. Russian runner Tatyana Petrova Arkhipova bridged the gap and joined the group of six as they entered the last eight-mile lap. She looked strong and settled in. Over the next few miles, two of the Ethiopians and one of the Kenyans fell back, and the group was down to four. Flanagan would eventually pass one or two of the stragglers, but was still losing ground to the leaders. Goucher seemed to have disappeared entirely as the commentators never mentioned her. It looked certain that four would stay away, and that only one of them would lose out on a medal.

The group of four ran together until the last mile when Ethiopian Tiki Galena threw in a surge. The four runners who had been running in a tight bunch for so long, stretched out into a line as the finish line approached. Surprisingly, it was race favorite Mary Keitany (who had won the London Marathon in April) who fell off the back. She had looked much more in control than her Kenyan teammate Priscah Jeptoo, but she faded fast. Galena looked over her shoulder once or twice, but the surge had worked and she won the race by the slimmest margin in Olympic history, beating Jeptoo by five seconds. Arkhipova came in seventeen seconds to win the bronze. Galena had set a new Olympic marathon record with her finishing time of 2:23:07.

Though Flanagan had passed some of leaders that had faltered, others caught her and she faded to tenth place in a still great time of 2:25:51. Goucher, who had disappeared from the commentators view, finished just behind her to take eleventh in 2:26:07. Flanagan had collapsed to the ground after finishing, and her teammate and training partner Goucher, helped her to her feet. They walked off arm in arm, heads on shoulders after a great effort.

Like so many other Olympic matches, the women's marathon was inspiring to watch. As I think I have mentioned somewhere before, it was watching Deena Kastor win the bronze medal in the 2004 Olympics that first planted the seed in my head that I wanted to run a marathon. Watching her give it all, refusing to wilt in the Athens heat, and cross the finish line in joyful tears left an indelible impression on me. I could picture the moment in my head, her hands on her face as the emotions of the moment overwhelmed her, falling to her knees just after crossing the line. It spurred me on to go farther than I thought I could.

I looked for a clip of her finish online some years later. You can find nearly anything on YouTube these days, but the Olympic committee is very protective of its footage, so I looked in vain. Then in January of 2008, the movie The Spirit of the Marathon came out in a limited theater release. The movie follows a couple of pros, some amateurs and first timers as they prepare for the 2006 Chicago Marathon. There are interviews with racing legends, a great history of the marathon, and clips of special moments of the sport. And there in the theater, I saw the moment once again that had been living in my head and pushing me along - Kastor crossing the Olympic finish line.

I don't know that it would hit you in the same way it hit me, but if you want to see it, you can watch the movie trailer here. Kastor's finish is in the first minute or so.

Once every four years, the Olympics bring the world together to celebrate human excellence and competition in sport. War, politics and cynicism do not always fade into the background, but at its core the Olympic spirit is there to give us a taste of something better, meeting as equals, trying our best to excel on common ground. We at home embrace their dedication and achievement, and get a glimpse of what is humanly possible. It is inspiring.

J.P. Patches

J.P. was a local icon in Seattle, and I heard the sad news that he passed away yesterday after a long battle with cancer. I wrote a little something about him last year when he made his last public appearance. It is a sad day for Patches Pals everywhere, but he will live on in the many hearts he touched. From the Seattle Times obituary:

"Every type of kid imaginable watched J.P.: the geeks, the bullies, the popular kids, the invisible kids," biographer Johnston wrote in his book, "J.P. Patches: Northwest Icon," which he co-wrote with Wedes in 2002.

"They were drawn to him because he wasn't a namby-pamby, goody-two-shoes ... He wasn't preachy, but lessons were learned."

His show was unscripted, and you could tell he was having just having fun doing it. He and his longtime cohort Bob Newman would often break out in laughter while they improvised, and you always felt like you were in on the joke. Though he didn't seem to take himself too seriously, he was dedicated to the children that watched every morning, and to the many fans that followed him long into adulthood.

You will be missed Chris Wedes, the man and the heart behind the makeup.

On yer bike!

At some point between stowing my bike and losing much of the feeling in my cheeks, I reviewed the blind spots in my life, as a young man verging on the edge of drunkenness is apt to do. Everyone has such spots -  not obvious shortcomings, but the hidden flaws and conspiring circumstances that duck under the radar, usually until it is too late.

----

“On yer bike,” the bartender hollered in the direction of this seemingly comatose fellow. The scuttered gent found his footing and wandered for the door.

“That guy’s not really going to try to ride a bicycle home, is he?”

This brought such a roar of laughter from the gang in our booth that you’d have thought I’d just goosed each and every one of them.

The expression had caught my attention several times already during my Irish jaunt, but alcohol and other lively conversation had distracted me from further investigation. I was certainly thrown by it, since none of them appeared to be avid cyclists.

“It’s a clever way of telling someone to get off their arse and on with their life,” Brian explained. “Out the yard, up your socks, on yer bike.”

On yer bike . . . it was the very battle cry I’d been reaching for these many miles in the saddle. My eyes practically filled with grateful tears as I hoisted my glass.

“Gentlemen, on yer bike!” I toasted.

While not moved to my level of emotion, these newfound friends looked plenty amused as our glasses touched. Clearly, I was the only one at the table for whom the phrase carried untold depth and weight. And in the sober and thankfully gray light of an Irish morning the day after, it had only grown more valid as an evocation, rite, fight song, and prayer. Not the sort of thing you’d expect a Tibetan monk to offer up as a mantra, but who would argue with the clarity and simple wisdom of “get off your arse and on with your life”?

Some days I have to coax it from myself as a whisper. Other times I belt it out so loud and strong along lonely stretches of road that quail are flushed from the bush. As long as it rings true, I’m sticking by this as my operating instructions.

On yer bike!

~ two passages from the book, Riding Outside The Lines by Joe Kurmaskie

Running and weight

I have pretty much always been overweight. As a kid, I shopped in the "husky" section that had nothing to do with our local college team. Growing up, my brothers were taller and leaner, and I was the more round guy on the end, the 'o' to their 'i'. I was not particularly active as a kid, though I did play youth soccer for some seven or eight years. But when I tried out for the junior high team, I washed out in the first couple days of tryouts because all we did was run. We didn't get to soccer skills until the last hour of the second day, and by that time I was finished.

Fitness and activity didn't come until later. Most every job I have had required me to be on my feet, and my decade-plus in construction has made me stronger just by going to work. Biking was my first extracuricular activity, and two years after that I was running. I ran my first 5k in March of 2005, and my first half marathon that November. I hadn't prepared terribly well for the half marathon, but the experience of the day, and crossing that finish line hooked me. I wanted to take this more seriously and prepare for a full marathon.

I was still pretty heavy at that point, but far from my heaviest. Before I started running (I think I had just started biking), my former wife bought me a scale one Christmas. It was one of those fancy models that not only gives you your weight with half-pound, digital precision, but it also estimates your body fat percentage by sending a small electrical charge through your body. I don't remember precisely what it read that first morning, but the weight was north of 190, and the fat make-up above 30%. I had no illusions that I was skinny, but those numbers were pretty shocking. What was worse was when I plugged my numbers into an online Body Mass Indicator (BMI) calculator. I was not only overweight, but I had moved into the "obese" catagory.

Damn.

Back to 2005. Just after the half marathon, I started my plans to run a full marathon. Looking at some training plans, I would now be running 20, 30, or 40 miles a week. If I could stick to it, I knew I would be in the best shape of my life by the time I showed up at the start line. I imagined that the pounds would fall away as the miles went by. I even took a  "before" picture I could compare the glorious "after" person I would become. Shield your eyes, 'cause here it is:

For several months, I followed the training plan and slowly built up my fitness. Then a month or so out from the marathon, I got injured. I didn't know it at the time, but it was a classic IT band issue. I still showed up at the start line, but only made it 18 miles. I would finish a marathon five months later, mostly on grit and biking fitness.

So how about that physical transformation? I was definitely fitter, but the weight did not melt off like I had anticipated. I went back and looked at my running diaries, and I weighed in at the exact same 175.5 pounds a few days before the marathon, and I had somehow managed to gain a point of fat percentage. Over the next few years, the miles increased, but the weight stayed the same, or even climbed. In 2007, I ran 660 miles and I was carrying the exact same 182 pounds in December that I was on January 1st (that handy fat percentage meter kept me from believing that I was exchanging fat for muscle).

In 2008, I ran another 650 miles, but nothing much happened with my weight until the last two months, when my marriage frayed and I started running for UPS every day. After that difficult November and December, I finished the year about ten pounds lighter, I managed to maintain that loss for most of 2009. But after running a lifetime high of 928 miles, I was again back up to 176 on December 31st, a half pound heavier than my optimistic "before" picture four years earlier. What had become crystal clear is that exercise is not enough.

Not that this isn't completely obvious, but it comes back to calories coming in versus calories being burned off. I had been burning more calories for four years, but I was clearly consuming more as well. Part of the problem is the illusion that you can eat whatever you want after a long workout. Unfortunately, it doesn't add up that way. I would need to run about 28 miles to burn the calories in a single pound. By not paying attention to what I was eating, I was essentially running in place.

I heard on a podcast (can't remember which one) about combating childhood obesity. Today one in five kids are obese (triple that of 30 years ago), and many more are overweight. The study asked the question of where the best place was to start - exercise or nutrition. If you eat better and weigh less, you might be more inclined to move around more. The other side of the coin is if you move around more, you might be inspired to take care of your body and eat a little better. The study found that children were more successful if they started with the food side of the equation. Exercise is clearly important, but what you put in your body is even more important.

2011 was the year of the 30 day resolutions, and cutting out alcohol, fast food, meat, and making better food choices in general were some of the monthly challenges. As a result of those changes, I lost another 12 pounds during the year and I have managed to keep them off. Both the exercise and making good food choices are about taking better care of myself, and they were finally reinforcing each other.

160 pounds is now the number I dance around, and the 30 days of running helped push me below that. This is the "after" picture, about six years later than planned.

From this angle, the most noticeable difference is in my face (and of course my California tan lines). This is me at 155.5 pounds, and 21% body fat. Nothing like a Biggest Loser transformation, or even particularly skinny for my height, but still it is a difference of 20 or 40 pounds depending on the starting point, and 9 points off the fat scale. The miles of running, biking and that fancy scale have seen me move from obese, through overweight, and into the high end of normal on the BMI chart. At six years older, with the accompanying slowing metabolism, I'll take it.

There was no "diet", just dietary change. I still indulge, but the overall pattern is different. I understand that one day of exercise or one meal doesn't make or break it for me, and that it is how they all interplay over the long term.

Occasionally, the solution is very simple, but that doesn't make it easy. Even when you know the solution, you aren't always prepared to take action.  Running wasn't the silver bullet, but it improved my outlook and set me on the road to taking better care of myself. Everything played its part, but in the end it turned out to be a bit more about the meals than the miles.

30 days

I didn't have to get up quite so early this morning, and Sierra kept quiet and let me enjoy that extra half hour of sleep. I gained that half hour because there was no running this morning.

I started my challenge of running every day for thirty days to jump start my life-reboot. Before tackling all the things great and small, I figured I needed to start with my mental outlook. Getting out on the road has not only improved my physical condition, but I know it provides me with a certain kind of mental clarity. There is nothing quite like pushing your physical boundaries to humble you. It breaks you down, and then builds you back up. It felt like the right place to start.

I have never come back from a run thinking, "I wish I hadn't done that." That said, it can be very difficult to head out some mornings. Even after all these years and miles, those first steps are still a challenge. After the marathon in January, and with no races on the calendar, it was too easy to listen to those voices talking me out of action. A short night's sleep, a tight muscle here, a little nagging niggle there, and I spent far too many mornings trading a half hour on the roads for internet time.

Even knowing that running would improve my outlook, I was stuck in a lazy loop. When I draw up a marathon training calendar, there is a commitment to getting out. Though the commitment is only to me, I take it seriously. Not ready to sign up for a marathon, I made a different kind of commitment this time. I vowed to run every day for 30 days. This would jumpstart my reentry into running, and put the procrastination on hold. There was no debate whether I was up for a run - every day was a running day.

As I mentioned before, I have never run more than three times a week, even in the height of marathon training. I was always worried about injuries, and decided that three days was the perfect balance of training and recovery. In my better days, I added in a day each of biking and swimming, but I limited the leg pounding of running to three a week. So this experiment was not only to break one habit (procrastination) for another (action), but also to see how my body would hold up under an every day regimen.

So, I ran without fail each and every morning, and yesterday marked day 30. I ran at least three miles each day, and ran most often at a decent pace. Most days were only three miles, but I also threw in an impromptu 13.1 miler on day 12. My friends Cherie and Wendy were running the Seattle Rock n Roll Half Marathon, and unable to run alongside them, I ran a San Diego course at the same time they were running. We exchanged texts and encouragement along the way, and it was the next best thing to being there. I was a little concerned about running the distance after twelve straight days, but it went well and I finished in a respectable 1:50.

There were extra aches and pains as the days and miles accumulated. My ankles hurt one day, my knees the next, but this was most pronounced in the middle of the month. By the third and fourth week, my body seemed to be getting stronger. Though there were fewer aches and pains, the fatigue built upon itself and it felt harder to maintain pace this past week (though strangely, day 28 was my quickest run). Throw in some long, hot, physical days at work, and I was happy not to put my running shoes on this morning.

I hadn't really thought about it previously, but this 30 day commitment was similar to what I did last year, choosing a different resolution each month. Some asked why I didn't wait until the first of the month to make July my "running" month. The answer was simple - I couldn't put it off. I had to start somewhere, and I had to start right now.

Would I do it again? Only if I needed to. The every day commitment helped me fight that procrastination gene, and starting every day getting my blood pumping improved my outlook. I am more fit than when I started, but I feel run down as well. I needed this month for my mind, but to make my body stronger in the long run, I need to take rest days. Your body rebuilds in the moments after the struggle, and that is when you get stronger.

Now, where did I put that bike?

The animals made a monkey out of me

Out of town, out of touch, out of practice - my excuses for not writing. I was house-sitting for friends this past week, taking care of house and all manner of animal, and the animals did not make it easy. Even the tortoise wasn't cooperating.

Tuesday morning, my own forgetfulness created a 200 mile day of driving when I forgot to pack Sierra's insulin. Then I spent Tuesday night chasing down the wrong cat.

When I drove up to the house, there were two cats sitting outside. I knew the orange cat did not belong, but I wasn't sure about the black one. I couldn't find my friend's black cat anywhere in the house, so I started looking for the black cat outside. He would come close, but then dart away, teasing, but avoiding my attempts to get it inside. Thankfully, he knew he didn't belong, and I eventually found the right cat hiding in a duffel bag under a bed.

Wednesday started out quietly, and ended with a bit of a fizzle. After logging another day of running, I spent the morning at the house tending to the animals and reading in the sun. Then I headed down to San Diego to spend the 4th with some friends. We had a great BBQ before driving to a better vantage point to see the fireworks. As you may have read, all the fireworks at three separate shows went off at once, and early at that. What was supposed to be a 18 minute show, was over in 15 seconds (video) We were still in the car when it happened, and didn't find out for another 20 minutes that what we thought was a preview, was all that was happening. Fortunately we hadn't driven far, and we were able to get back to catch the nightly fireworks at Sea World.

Thursday was the first time I had left Sierra alone all day, and she panicked in the unfamiliar surroundings of this new house. As I have mentioned before, her sight and hearing are very poor these days, and I found her scared and yelping at the bottom of the stairs. I can only assume she had been looking for me, and had made a bit of a mess of the downstairs in the process. I was a little worried about leaving her alone again on Friday, but was happy to arrive home to find her calm and everything in order. And then the cats escaped.

Sierra and I were enjoying a read and a lie on the grass (me reading, she on the grass) when the black cat that I had only seen once all week, darted across the lawn. In the ten minutes we had been outside, she suddenly became brave enough to come downstairs and nose open the screen door. Then while I was leaning out the front door, shaking the bag of kitty treats to entice her back, the second one escaped. It was a comedy of errors, but the cats were the only ones laughing.

After a couple of hours, I was eventually able to corral the second escapee, but the first one was nowhere to be found. After some slightly panicked text messages to my friends, they assured me that she would nose her way back in if I just ignored her and left the screen door unlocked.

I was awakened by fireworks at 3am Saturday morning (a neighbor was apparently trying to make up for the dud in San Diego). I noticed the screen door had been nudged open, so apparently the cat does come back, the very next day. I searched the house that night and the next morning, but once again she had found a secret hiding place. I assumed she was there, but couldn't be sure.

I finally found her new hiding place Saturday night, and snapped this picture to send to my out-of-town friends to let them know she was safe and sound. I know it is just the flash reflecting off of her retinas, but c'mon, doesn't she look a little evil.

It was great to be away for a bit, and I know Sierra enjoyed the big backyard with no steps, but now I am back home, and back at it. This morning was the 27th day in a row of running, and I have been cleaning up some of the debris of life that has been piling up. The habit of running is ingrained again, and writing is the next on the list. Thanks for checking back after all the silence.

Everyday, the world is made

I have a couple of inspirational songs by Switchfoot on my running playlist, including "Dare you to Move" and "This is your Life". Their new song, "Afterlife" will be in heavy rotation.

 

"Afterlife", by Switchfoot, from the album Vice Verses