Going Feral

I would grow dreads if I could. But there's a caveat with that.

I would let them form as a result of inaction. And lack of attention. And willful arrogance. Growing something implies a deliberate action. I propose no action at all.

I think that our original hipster forebearers let their hair go feral as a response to the strict and tidy norms of their era. For them it was another outward sign of rebellion against conformity - the conformity that bounded their appearance and actions.

Some thirty-five years later, I knew people with manicured dreads, who spent just as much time rolling and primping nice evenly-sized and rounded plaits as any sorority sister did curling and coifing. The style had been normalized, but the social message had been obliterated. Not just obliterated, but sodomized and napalmed. Dreads were now kind of cool and a "look" one achieved with time and an assortment of products.

Fashion, IMO, is meant to serve a narrow purpose. It is meant to make funny looking people more attractive. Do you have a horse face? Head square and blocky? There's probably a trick for that too.

It's the same for clothing. Fashion can teach people how to advertise their best features (and hide some defects). But it's meant to be done with a light touch. If you're already smokin' hot, nice hair and trendy shoes are just icing on the cake: likewise, they're not going to make you a foot taller or fifty pounds lighter.

And it's precisely this sort of misplaced energy that irritates me. I think that fashion has morphed from an individual concept to an exercise in crushing one's soul. It officially happened when trendy neo-hippies decided to start rolling their dreads twice a day with special conditioner. When the nonconformists of our era buy into the consumer-oriented fashion and style industry, hope is thin indeed.

But how do I take my own game to the next level? How I can I further my personal agenda of disaffection? Obviously, no more shampoo. There are probably some other general rules I need to live with. For starters, my conquest of apathy-induced dreads, by definition, cannot make my life more complicated or expensive. As a barely take notice now (haven't combed my hair in a week, and switched to a 2 in 1 shampoo/conditioner), that's a low bar already set.

My hippie predecessors were tired of societal norms about how they should dress and wear their hair and live their lives. Along the way that message was bastardized, and all get-ups were subsequently included in gross-scale commercialization of style. To me this isn't about rebelling or unconforming. It's about not caring enough to make an effort anymore.

Going feral also needs to remain practical. If I have problems keeping my helmet on and start taking direct tree limb shots to the head, I have become a hypocrite. And if the project irritates my wife enough that she refuses to sleep with me, well, there's a saying about cutting your nose to spite your face.

Past flirtations with hair apathy make me believe that maybe it just won't dread. But after all, maybe that's the point. Leave it alone, and see what it does.

And maybe, just maybe, that's the defining aspect of my personal brand.

So, let the lack of action begin.

East of town

"Fuck you"
"Fuck me? Fuck your mom. Fucking cunt. Get the fuck outta here!"

It's not that Frank couldn't handle people cussing in his pool hall. He was uniquely situated near the overpass between industrial hell and WWII era tract housing. He saw his share of cracked out punks and meth heads, and a sassy fifteen year old barely raised his hackles. Her clothing he had tolerated, and was even OK with the clove cigarettes. At the site of her piece of shit boyfriend with the ear discs and Billy Idol haircut he had only shrugged. Frank had seen it before.

But to address him improperly, in his own establishment, well that was a mistake.

Mark and I always assumed Frank kept a gun in the back office. We would debate about what it was, but we were both sure it was there. He ran a cash business after all, on the Eastlake border near the highway. I seemed to think it was a simple .357 revolver, snubnosed and gloss black. Mark thought it could be nothing else but a sawed off 12-gauge, maybe even a Mossberg with a conversion kit to hold a couple extra shells. For us, bored and idle as we were, it was as good of a debate topic as anything else while we smoked cigars and played better then average 9-ball.

There was no doubt that Frank could shed his share of abuse. He was a Yankees fan. Cleveland at that time was suffering from a drought of self esteem and sports acumen. Sure, the river didn't really catch fire now, but it still smelled bad. Even the fish flies didn't show up any more, not like they used to. The Browns were gone to Baltimore, and the Indians had shown signs of life only to run into a lockout. The Cavs showed flashes of brilliance before MJ hit a miracle jumper, and then slid into years of mediocrity. To be a Yankees fan, a supporter of regular champions from a gleaming mystical metropolis was just an insult to everyone else.

And it was clear, at Frank's pool hall, that the Yankees were the house team. And it really was a slap in the face we thought. I would later meet Clevelanders, as I aged and grew up, and we always shared a special bond, like deprogrammed cult survivors. My college roommate was mystified by this bond. I tried to explain it to him once. Most Clevelanders, I said trying to quote Howard the Duck, have nowhere else to go, that's why they are still in Cleveland. We live in constant reminder of failure. The city crumbles, we have all of the big city problems with none of the big-city clout. Crack, heroin, gun violence and shitty schools without the draw of tourism. Sure, I admit, we have the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, but that's only because donors were even more afraid to put it in Detroit. Out of sheer spite to Chicago and New York, we hang on to our concert hall and playhouse, just so we can say "Look, we're every bit as good as you are."

But we're not. Our industries left or are leaving. The only things that are consistent are consistently bad. We got our football team back, but they have been terrible. The Yankees posters remind us of our failures. The Chicago Bulls beat the best Cleveland could throw at them: Nance, Kerr, Price, and Doughtery. Before that Elway crushed the city with the Drive, and later the Indians had The Mesa Choke and coughed up the World Series. Living in Cleveland, you get used to disapointment.

The posters threw it in our face. I made the mistake one year of trying to kid Frank about it, and he almost tore me a new asshole. Three years of playing pool and he would recognize me, but didn't like me. He probably had plenty of friends already in New York.

So we sat back and watched him tear into this pre-pregnant teenager. At least it was entertainment. Had we better things to do, ten-thirty wouldn't have found us partially drunk at Frank's pool hall. We swore all the time, it wasn't really a problem. But this girl was cursing a blue streak and a half, and it irritated Frank. In his world, I guess women make pies and patiently dish out blow jobs on request. In Frank's world, I imagine, the words that come out of a girl's mouth don't include "cocksucker" and "quifer".

He probably thought it reasonable to tell this girl to watch her mouth, to take some time to consider her language, to act like a lady when in his establishment. She probably had father issues though, and quickly learned that there was no winning an argument, swear off, or any kind of confrontation with Frank. Frank was from New York after all, home of pennants, glamour, and real tough people. I sank the eight and started to wonder what had brought him to Cleveland.

While the little dust up had been entertainment, when it settled the hall once again was unintersting. Women were scarce there, even angst ridden girl punks were an improvement. The ceiling seemed dingier, the air even more stale, and the jukebox tinnier and full of treble. That night we left shortly after. Settling up we paid twelve bucks for an hour and a half of pool. On a weekend, I wondered if that kind of take would be worth defending with the business end of a firearm.

I drove back. Back then I kept a five gallon bucket full of beer in the back of the truck, replacing the ice as needed. By now the bottles had been in long enough that all identity had peeled off and floated to the surface. When we could get someone to buy for us, I purposely chose bottles of similar shape and size. We made a game of it, honing our tastes to identify Warsteiner from Sam Adams.

After dropping Mark off I headed back in toward the city. I couldn't help but think of Frank, and wonder where he went off to at night. He had to go somewhere. I lit a cigarette and tried to picture Frank, going home, somewhere east of town. He would drink beer in the hot night air, sweating, looking out over the old industrial valley, a reminder of something that couldn't be flustered or touched or torn or burned down.

The Secret Life of Knees

“I’m going to knock you the fuck out.” I said to myself. It was the sort of promise I found myself making several times during the race. The first instance was at mile 8, when the course doubled back on itself, and racers passed shoulder to shoulder on one lane of the road. A lady with an orange bib (marathon relay) running in the opposite direction was furious, screaming at everyone she passed “Why are you running this way? Why are you running this way?” Of course, she had been shuttled to mile 6, and ran the return loop to the 13.1 mark, and had not run past the convergence. Still though, after passing several dozen, if not several hundred other runners, a pile of orange cones, and race officials, a sane person would have gotten it.

Now I’m a cheerful lad, and I was cruising along, barely a third of the way into my race. And she pulled me out of my zone. Crazy bitch. Something needed to be done, someone needed to look out for every other innocent runner on the course.

I never let her get further with me than “Why are you”. I raised two fingers, pointing my right index finger at the bird I flipped her with the left. She gave me a good hard glare, but shut up. Runners of the 30^th Hyannis marathon, you’re welcome. Still though, I made a mental note to jab her in the throat if I ever saw her again – not that I’m condoning violence against women, I just never wanted to hear her voice again.

The third time was over a span of four miles later in the race, centering around mile 21. I was chasing down a group of people who had slowed their pace. One of them was a kid who I later found out was eleven. I passed him running up one of the last climbs. A few minutes later, he ran up to me, and asked for the time. “Almost two buddy.” Then he ran past me. And stopped. I passed him, and he started running again. After he was about 100 yards ahead of me, he’d stop again. We repeated this dance several times before I started keeping count, then a half a dozen more.

Full disclosure: this little shit ended up beating me. That wasn’t the irritating part; a lot of people beat me that day. But who lets an eleven-year old kid run a marathon? Seriously. Eleven-year olds shouldn’t be left to brush their teeth without supervision. This kid would suddenly pull up to a stop, and nearly trip up someone behind him. I watched one guy nearly steamroll him, and then stop to give the kid a firm talk about race etiquette. After I walked the water stop at around mile 24, I didn’t see him anymore. When my wife watched him cross the line about a minute ahead of me, she was equally shocked. Is there anyway an endurance event is not physically damaging to a kid? Are these parents criminally negligent? If someone knows better, please let me know.

Oh yeah, I was going to push him down the next time or two he stopped. It seemed reasonable at the time.

Bracketed between these two morons, I made my most important vow. And it would be the only pledge of violence I followed through on.

Last year I trained for and ran the half marathon, my first real distance event. In my recap I talked about the lack of epicness that the ordeal entailed. After the fact, I felt somehow cheated. My friend Mark had kept a blog about his training sessions and race day experience, and it remains a piece of riveting journalistic excellence. Don’t expect that from me, not here.

My decision to train was based on several factors. The first is that I like to eat - I mean, really like to eat. I exercise so I can continue to eat what I want, when I want, and until I am sick if I so choose.

For most who know me, you know I am semi-employed, with little to no work in the winter months. I work for a two-man arborist business, and when my boss takes off for three months to go surfing, there is little left for me in terms of employment. Add in the fact that Nantucket is a small and isolated island, and you have the ingredients for an existential crisis. Distance training requires mental discipline, and running in brutal winter conditions needs preparation. Knowing that I had miles to turn probably kept me from turning into a lazy, unemployed and worthless alcoholic.

The last piece was motivation. The unknown has a certain calling to me. I already knew I could train and run a half marathon easily. And though my attitudes are currently shifting on the subject, improving on times was never an important goal. So I signed on for the marathon for the same reason I drove across a sandbar at low tide: to see if I can make it.

Hal Higdon seemed like a delightful old man, so I chose his Intermediate training schedule. I felt comfortable with that level, having completed a half marathon, Iron teams, and some other shorter races the previous year. It peaked at two 20-mile long runs, and tapered three weeks before race day. I was initially a little uncomfortable with only going 20 miles for my long run, but decided that I could push it to twenty-two if I wanted.

The only problem is that September was beginning, and I hadn’t run since early July.

There are several excellent athletes on island, the kind who run full Iron Man triathlons and are competitive in endurance races. I see them in the spring, when we overlap at the pool, then we disappear from eachother’s lives. My wife’s coworker is one of them, and she once told me that my training regimen is backwards, or at least opposite everyone else. This is true. I train hard in the winter and early spring, as I mentioned, since there is nothing else to do. Summer is for work, surfing, and bluefish; drinking beer and clamming, smoking cigars and sitting on the beach. Last year, after Iron Teams, I did nothing until the Nantucket triathlon a month later, and wheezed my way to a subpar 5k. Now I was two months removed from even that piece of isolated activity.

Higdon’s schedule was 18 weeks, which gave me just five weeks to rebuild my mileage base. So the first day I panted my way to 1.75 miles, running a box from my house out Crooked lane to Madaket, and back on Wannacomet. Six miles was that week’s total. The first three-miler nearly killed me.

I had started running only two years before I moved to the island. I was lifting a lot of weights at the time. My employer, the venerable U.S. government, had decided to subsidize $75 a month towards employee gym memberships, as well as provide thirty minutes of paid exercise time three times a week. Combined with a spouse student discount, I was working out at the university gym for $10 a month. With the salary figured in (yes, I was technically getting paid to work out), I actually made an hourly rate of $12.63 while pumping iron.

Even then, I would slowly jog a mile or less, just to warm up. Then I started running outside on nicer days. Then I took the dog with me, so I wouldn’t have to exercise twice to tire her out (an energetic husky mix, she has since become my running partner). Sierra loved the runs, and I slowly increased my mileage. My back pain, a presence for the last two years, started to ease. Running it seemed, loosened and stretched the muscles that no other therapy had been able to reach. Eventually I was regularly running 3-4 miles two or even three times a week.

Getting back on track was harder, because I knew what I was capable of. I kept pushing myself all the way through mileage buildup. The training was unremarkable until Thanksgiving. We spent the holiday with Jen’s aunt and uncle in the Catskills, and the Saturday following the feast I drove to the Ashokan reservoir for a 12-miler. I ended up running 13, looping the only road I knew twice. Both times I ran into a deep ravine, and had to climb back up to the spillway. Having completed that run I finally felt like I had my legs back, and the marathon seemed less abstract, and like a real possibility.

Spending the winter running on Nantucket is an ordeal. There are two obstacles to training here. The weather sucks. My gym membership lapsed, so I did not have the luxury of running inside during inclement weather. I became a devoted follower of forecasts, and planned my runs between gaps in the radar or before and after wind events. Nor’easters were of the utmost importance to track; one storm event could derail runs for an entire weekend. I even became a devoted student of the tides: if I kept on top of the charts I could run along the hard packed sand on Nantucket Sound.

This winter, I am told, was colder than most. Snow stuck around for almost 2 weeks over one stretch. Gales blew. I started one Sunday run in snow, which turned into horizontal rain. By the end, the sun popped out and the temperature was 45 degrees. I ran a tedious 8 miles down and back the Polpis bike path, over snow and ice without falling. I ran into headwinds so strong, the air would make a low whistle if I opened my mouth, like blowing into a soda bottle.

If the weather weren’t enough of an obstacle, it is compounded by the island’s limited size and eclectic geomorphology. One of the reasons I became a student of the tides was to utilize the beaches. There is only one major east-west route across the island: several long and narrow ponds bisect the island running north to south. Very early on, I grew tired of the limited road options. The situation only worsened as my mileage increased.

So I ran beaches. I ran Dionis to Eel Point, and south to the Head of the Plains. I ran along the bottom of Clark’s cove and Hummock Pond. I ran every way I could to avoid running the same path past the windmill and high school. I poured over walkjogrun.com for hours, days in advance mapping my routes. I was always precise about the mileage, and clicked away until I was within a quarter mile of my goal. It was not only the joys of discovering new routes, and running a new piece of undiscovered island, but a process to look forward to. Jen would sometime wonder how I seemed to know weird back streets and trails. The Google Earth platform, as useful as it was, often confuses streets for driveways, trails, or nothing at all. This made runs reconnaissance missions as well.

I exhausted the Middle Moors, alternating staring at Hoick’s Hollow or the old aboveground tennis courts. I started crisscrossing the scrub plains between Eel Point and Madaket roads. I ran from Smith’s point to Wauwinet. I ran the Polpis Milestone loop. I topped altar rock dozens of times, circled the cranberry bogs, and ran narrow trails in an orange cap during gun season. I spooked deer, horses, ducks, lovers, and teens up to no good.

Eventually I took to naming my routes. ‘The Retarded Angel 17’ extensively crisscrossed the island’s west end. I ran it the day before leaving for Christmas vacation, and on the map it looked like an asymmetrical praying angel. ‘There’s Beer at the End’ started in Squam, and ended at the Brewery after fifteen miles. During the last stretch, running along a road cratered with deep puddles, I shocked myself on Bartlett’s electric fence.

Injuries, I think, are part of every endurance runner’s training. I suppose that most are nagging and manageable, as mine seemed to be. I was stupid, and switched from my Saucony’s to New Balance halfway through. For whatever reason, they didn’t feel right. I felt like the sole was slapping hard on the ground. They were stiffer, but this had been recommended to me. I went looking for big guy’s shoe, something that would last longer than my roadsters. In the end, after only nine miles my foot gave out in view of Sankaty. Things were touch and go for a week as I kept my ankle iced, and rush ordered a new pair of the same model Saucony’s. Somehow, the tendon (or ligament) connecting at the top of my foot/bottom of my shin had become inflamed and painful. It was weird.

The major problem came in the latter stages of my second 20-miler. I had to move it up, as a wicked low pressure system was heading our way for the weekend. This storm was the first of two that paralyzed DC. So I moved my run up to Friday – a cold and windy day. My plan was to run the Polpis/Milestone loop, and then a loop through the Moors. By mile 16 my hip flexor had tightened in the cold, and had affected my stride. My knee started to hurt. At mile 18 I started to grunt in pain with every stride, and walked the rest of the way home.

I knew what the problem was. I had impact-related patellar tendonitis years ago. Now it was back. I took a week off. We were going to NYC for vacation anyway. The walking however, made it worse. Fortunately, I was beginning a three-week taper, and only missed a ten miler that weekend. Returning home, I kept on a strict diet of ice and Ibuprofen. The next run I did was a five miler, and I had to stop at 4 because of the pain. I bought a brace, and it helped. After my final Sunday run (an 8-miler), I found that the pain became manageable after five or so miles.

Tim Lepore is my doctor, and I went to see him the Tuesday before the race. His office is filled with arrowheads, stuffed armadillos, Winchester rifle posters, and pictures of him competing in 100-mile endurance races. He was definitely the man I wanted to see.

“I need to know if I’m tearing my knee to shit.” That was my first question for him. I really wanted to compete in the race, but not at the expensive of major damage. After that, I was really interested in managing my pain. Tim examined my knee, feeling around the kneecap, and asking a few other questions.

“I’m not sure if I’m the one you want for advice” he stated. Dr. Lepore, it had been rumored, ran from Hyannis to Provincetown on a stress fracture that he stoicly self-medicated along the way. He is one tough SOB. But I wanted his advice, and he was fair in dispensing it. We talked about where the pain was, how I had trained, and my past history. He told me all about races I should do. Once, his nurse had to restrain him from running home to get me a topical pain reliever from his personal stash.

At the end of the visit, Tim had given me race plan, some quality anti-inflammatory drugs, and motivation. I later returned and picked up a vial of his secret sauce, some kind of topical super awesome icy hot that smelled like garlic. His imparting words were to take it easy until mile twenty, then I could be the wolf, picking off the three-legged deer. He sent me out with strict orders to call him on Monday, and tell him about the race.

Between the meds, the advice, and his personal support, I was back on track to race. I also would have been scared to tell him I didn’t finish. I wanted to be the wolf, not the gimpy deer.

I had entered the Clydesdale class, for men 211 to 225 pounds. Race day morning, I weighed in at a naked 213, before breakfast. There is some kind of formula of calculating energy usage by an athlete during competition. The relationship is quadratic, so it leads to the fact that I consume about four times as much energy to move the same distance as a hundred and fifty pound runner. I am not complaining about being tall and well built. Most times, the advantages are superior. Except in running. I burn through shoes faster, and need to drink more. My knees experience much more striking force on the pavement. One of the reasons I chose Hyannis was to be able to measure my success against people my own size.

Race day was cloudy and cold, with a light breeze. Both sun and snow threatened that day. I opted for a bit of a lighter setup, a thin long sleeved shirt under my regular running jersey, rather than a thicker layer over top. The trip to Hyannis entails getting up early, driving to the airport, flying the commuter plane over, and renting a car. Repeatedly, I had to tamp down my excitement until I was in the starting gate, and was excited to start running. I knew I would be out there a long time, my guess was 4:45, so I was happy to be underway. I ran an eleven minute first mile, repeatedly reigning myself in and waiting for opening to appear, not blowing by slow runners at the start. The second mile passed after another ten minutes, followed by a water stop. I would need to hit all of them – I had calculated my ideal fluid intake at something basically unachievable. By mile five I had settled into a regular ten minute mile, which felt dependable and the right expenditure of effort.

The Hyannis course is a 13.1 mile loop that the marathoners run twice. At the marker for mile number 12, everyone started to pick up the pace. Of the 4500 participants, the marathon had been capped at 500. Only 1 out of every 9 runners were wearing the blue bib, and I reigned in my competitive energy to let the others pass. At thirteen miles, the halves turned right to the finish. I tapped the mile marker, and whispered, “I’m going to knock you the fuck out.”



My race was two races. The first, other than the crazy yelling lady, was without incident. I hit 13.1 miles in about 2:11, exactly the pace I had planned on. My Ipod playlist had been carefully chosen, and I had been in the zone for long stretches at a time, coming to and realizing three miles had passed, and checking my splits.

I thought I was prepared for the letdown after finishing the first loop. My veiled threat was my own motivational ploy. I wasn’t going to strike the 13-mile placard: it was symbolic. I was going to take out that second loop, and I was in for the fight, and I was going to win.

But I had underestimated the emotional letdown. Since mile 12, the crowds had grown, the pace had quickened, and energy was everywhere. I could here music and cheering from the finish gate. Then I passed it, and it all went away. Two hours earlier, the starting chute had been packed with people fenced to the sides. Now, traffic came in one direction. I had to dodge half marathoners who had finished up and were spilling off the sidewalk and getting in my way. On Main street, I was forced to the side and spent a quarter mile in fear of a driver opening a parked car door. Then the enormity of another loop seemed apparent.

Finally, I reached the turn for Sea street, and the sight of a dozen runners stretching out ahead of me. I went through my checklist. My legs felt a little tired, but my stride was smooth. I knew I had plenty of reserve. I meditated on my body. A brief back cramp had come and gone, as had a side stitch. I had no pain in my knee or hip. There was a slight ache from my right instep, and I resolved to ignore it.

Still though, miles 13 to 15 were the toughest, mentally. I had been running for two and a half hours straight by the time I reached the mile marker 15 water station. I stopped and walked through it, as had been my plan. I took three cups of Gatorade, dropping the empties in the three successive garbage cans on the right. After the third cup, I kicked back into a jog and began ascending the slight hill from the Hyline dock to the JFK memorial. I felt great. Runners ahead of me started to flag, I stayed at my 10 minute mile pace, grooving up until mile 18. This was the prettiest stretch of course, and finishing looked like a real possibility.

My goals for the event were tiered. The primary one was to finish the race. Then to finish in under five hours. Then under 4:45, the time I had guessed on my registration form. Those were the goals I had control over. I also wanted to place in my division, but knew enough not try to control anyone else’s race.

I had kept an eye out for mile marker 17. I passed it before a climb, knowing that I had less than ten miles to go. Singe digits. I played the concept over and over again in my mind. At the mile 18 water stop, I pulled off onto a lawn, and stretched my hamstrings. They had started to ache a little, but would not complain again.

I hit mile 20, and could tell my pace was slowing. I was not going to be the wolf. However, I knew I wasn’t the deer either. Nothing hurt terribly, my feet and legs felt, I thought, like I should expect them to feel after running twenty miles. They were tired though, and a little stiff, and that had begun to shorten my stride, and reduce my speed.

Miles 21 to 23 were tough. They ran along a busy street and then through a residential district that was kind of boring. It was the last part of a loop before being led back into the homestretch. Since mile 20, a realization had dawned on me gradually. I knew I was going to finish. Discovering this had been a process, not a revelation, and I would obsess about it for the rest of the race.

During these later miles, my music list failed to distract me from my running, and I turned it down. It was getting cold, windy, with a few specks of drizzle. At times I started feeling chilled. I had stopped passing, or getting passed by everyone (except for that little shit kid). The only song that worked was “So Lonely” by the Police. I put it on the list as a joke. Now it seemed remarkably appropriate. There were few runners, spaced out in a long line. The crowds were gone, and even the volunteers at the water tables and intersections were looking bored with the pace of the later finishers.

I played a lot of mental games. Every 5 minutes I would check my splits, and work out in my head what I thought I was running, and what my finishing time would be. I walked a two hundred yard section as my instep started hurting, and stretched my foot out on a fire hydrant. When I recalculated my splits at mile 23, I realized that I could safely walk the rest of the way in and get under the five-hour gun.

Considering Tim’s wolf-deer motivation, I tired to push my pace for the final 5k. My legs still felt remarkably strong, but stiff. I could not stride out as far as I wanted to, and when I pushed it, my knees hurt. I tried running faster with the same choppy stride to make up the difference, but after 23 miles, the increased aerobic effort was too much. Even after another brief stretch at the final water stop, I still couldn’t do it. I would not be the wolf.

Around 25.5-ish miles, I pulled off to the right. I had plenty of time. I was going to beat my estimate of 4:45. My foot hurt, and I didn’t want to reach the finish line looking like I was in distress. I knew where I was, and walked forward, rotating my torso, adjusted my hat, wiped my face, and shook out my leg. I straightened my shorts and tightened my ipod band. When I saw the sign reading “Hidden drive”, I jumped into a trot. The pain disappeared and my stride lengthened. At the bottom of a hill, the road turned slightly into a quarter mile straightaway before the finish turnoff. Up ahead, I saw the 26 mile marker, and remembered the promise I had made, and kept. I knocked you the fuck out.

I had caught up to a guy in a red jacket who had passed me while I was walking. His kids jumped out into the course, and hand in hand, they ran together for the finish line. I slowed, letting him get ahead. For starters, I wasn’t going to chase down some guy in the last 100 yards of a marathon. Second, I had also spent a good five miles considering my finish line pose, and wanted a clear picture.




My official time was 4:41:46. In all my flexing, I forgot to stop my watch right away. I turned about a 2:11 on the front stretch, and a 2:30 on the back end. I’m not disappointed at all, and am more surprised that between walking through water stops, two stretch breaks, and two walk intervals, I only lost twenty minutes. In hindsight, taking those breaks is likely the reason I was able to go relatively fast for the second loop.

In fact, I won third place in the fat guy category. True, there were only 7 guys who ran the race at that weight, but it is hardly my fault. I got to go around town afterward and eat dinner with two medals around my neck.



As I write this, it is the morning after, and I am very hungry. I burned up around 4500 calories, and have been cold from lack of any energy stores in the tank. I feel like I have run a marathon. My knee hurts, as I haven’t iced it, and my feet hurt if I walk without slippers. Otherwise my legs are just sore. The worst injury though, is some chafing. While my scrotum remained undamaged, it managed to rub both my thighs raw. Go figure, I must have nuts of steel.

What’s next? Probably a week off, and then I’ll start looking into training for the Nantucket Iron Teams Relay. My knee could be a minor problem, but between some strengthening and stretching exercises, rest and reduced mileage, and cross training, I am sure of a recovery. Another marathon? I won’t rule it out, but I am not rushing to find one to enter either. Besides, summer is coming, and summer is for beer and bluefish.

Party Rhetoric

Beverage parties are sweeping the nation. Unless you've been living under a rock, you've heard of the tea party phenomenon. Originally a grassroots movement of fiscal hawks, the Tea Party movement quickly morphed into a angry mob coopted by misspellers, racists, nut jobs, and even racist misspellers.

But since those good old days of misdirected bigoted outrage, the movement has been under fire from splinter cells and the liberal media. Some claimed that asking $549 to attend a convention to celebrate fiscal discipline was disingenuous. Some wondered who would sponsor the ultimate tea party platform? The convention was sponsored by Tea party nation, a for-profit group. Like any family reunion, though, it was not without its drama. Tea Party Patriots, boycotted the event, saying that her sister Tea Party nation was "hogging all the attention". Tax Day Tea Party wanted to come, but thought that exposing his children to 1776 Tea party's life partner (America's Re-Tea party) would be unhealthy for them. The Tea Party Express and American Tea Party were both there, which was awkward since the divorce. And when FreedomWorks Tea Party arrived late and drunk, he was asked to leave. He hasn't been doing well since his wife left him for the Coffe Party USA.

And who could blame him? She was obviously taken in by a cult of some sort. Advocating cooperation in government? And a platform of participatory democracy and non-obstructionism? Sponsorship from CNN? Bah. Where is the flag waving? And yelling? No signs or angry anti-government speeches? Some movement. Its like she left the Bundy's for the Cosby's. The Simpsons for the Waltons. I find the whole idea of the coffee party ridiculous. There's a reason that Married with Children was terrible but long-lived. It had sex appeal and irreverence. Nobody wants to sit down and calmly discuss their differences with tolerance and mutual respect. That's for Canadians.

I worry for the future. The coffee party movement has the advantage of positive recall. I don't drink tea: I don't drink coffee either. But I used identify coffee drinkers as the hip crowd who would get to stay out late. They would probably grow up to play acoustic guitar and ride trains across India and give their kids names like Rhys and Daria, and shop at Whole Foods.

When I think of a tea party, I picture little girls sitting around a table with their dolls and father who is frustrated at not having had a boy. When I think of a coffee party, I think of people who are otherwise to dull to stay alert on their own.

Is this what I am resigned to? Is this the spectrum of real political affiliation nowadays? As I see it my choices are tea or coffee; fringe lunacy or mind numbing politeness. I know I come down heavy on the tea party movement, but at least they have a recipe for success.

Our bevero-political groups are playing a dangerous game of hot drink one-upsmanship. Boilling water proliferation is at an all time high. We should act fast. Liberals are already rallying around the coffee movement, a decidedly reactionary, but intellectually productive drink. In a cave somewhere, there's probably a clandestine meeting of rebels forming a soft drink alliance. Before we know it, we will see a veritable soda fountain of political movements in various stages of media coverage, and there will be Coke parties everywhere.

It's only a matter of time until someone else skips over soda entirely and into the realm of libations. This would be mostly to the detriment of the Tea Party. The Coffee Party movement would be at a distinct strategic advantage. They could coalesce with the post meal aperitifs, your Kahluas, Kemoras, and other wealthy industrialists, whose power base is in the Northeast. Through espresso stouts and coffee porters, they could join up with the lagers and ales and evolve to caucus with the Keg Party. It would only be natural that they find common ground with the Tonic Allegiance of Gins and Vodkas, and become an important group to woo in an adult beverage dominated Congress. Very quickly the Tea party would find itself bereft of mixers and left to broker entrance into the narrow ideological sway of the Hot Toddy Spectrum. Our beloved two party system could end up a parliamentary open bar gone mad.

What would that leave the Tea Party Movement to do?

It is only reasonable to find a beverage that unites other movements under a common umbrella. Alcohol, after all, is the universal solvent. What better a symbol to promote Tea Party platform, subject to paranoia and fits of emotional outbursts than consuming a distilled spirit? They seem to hate socialists, so vodka is out (if you don't like it, move to Russia). Scotch and gin are too British - the Tea Party moniker makes that association untenable. Tequila? Only if it learns English first and promises not to take our jobs. Rum is a good idea, and has the benefit of domestic production. But it comes in too many dark varieties; even the lighter colored ones are viewed with suspicion.

This leaves us with the only obvious choice: whiskey. You can drink it straight, or you can mix it with coke or ginger ale or seven up. You can make cosmopolitans, long island ice teas; whiskey sours, old fashioneds, and boilermakers. Its hip, trendy, cool, and full of positive name recognition. It will bring at least enough drink combinations to avoid invoking cloture.

I even have a new name for the Tea Party movement: the Whiskey Rebellion. I'm thinking that they can hold their next convention at the Jack Daniels distillery. What better location to hold a Whiskey Rebellion? The schizophrenic nature of a distillery town that banned the sale of alcohol is a natural backdrop for the movement.

Still, aren't there any other options? Ahh. If they could only schedule a mixer. At least that's a party I would consider attending.

Central American beach camping for beginners

I was admittedly a novice at Central American surf beach camping.

Anyone fortunate enough to travel through Latin America has observed careless tourists hemorraging money as they go, drinking too much, and taking little notice of their possessions. As far as this goes, if you can't take the care to safeguard your stuff, you don't deserve to have it. Master this fact, and you are on your way to an understanding.

Just the other day here in the 'tucket, I saw some dude out out walking a dog. Kinda. This guy was was typical NY tourist, collar up, pink shorts, parading his Bichon Frise around Quaker street. I could have kicked the thing a good 30 yards (35 if it hadn't been wearing some kind of jacket).

In El Zonte, I had to step over a dead dog in one of the streets. Meanwhile, this douchebag probably dropped more on his dog in a year than an El Salvadorean family sees in a year.

The thing to understand, is that here in the states we mostly safeguard our dogs. Down there, a dog is a tool with which to safeguard one's possessions.

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How to safeguard one's possessions when beach camping in Latin America.

1) Find a good dog.

It seems a matter of fact that there will be a dozen or so dogs around whatever beach you are camping. They will size you up. These are survivors, but will likely die in a week without you feeding them. The goal is to start a terrible dogfight near your camp. Wait until you have gotten the pack's interest. Throw a couple of tortillas (10 for a quarter) onto the beach. The strongest couple of dogs will win out. Remember what they look like. If one has a louder bark than the other - winner!

This little fella was waiting for Keith to pass out so he

could eat his wounded leg.

Often times there will be a family around from you you are renting beach space, hammocks, or living space. In this case, you will inevitably be courting their dogs.

2) Feed the dog a big pile of food.

When you have found a good dog (dominant, good bark), lure it into camp with a tortilla (or day old cookie (a nickel at the bakery). Then leave it 3 more tortillas under your hammocks.

3) Go a short way away.

Take a short walk or surf. 30 minutes to an hour. See if the dog is still there when you get back. TIP: Tie or hang your stuff off the ground or the dog will piss on it.

4) Feed the dog more food.

If the dog is still there, he obviously sees you as a sucker. He will hang out all day for the prospect of a meal. His bark will at least draw attention to a potential camp thief. This is the best you can hope for. Before you leave for dinner toss another few tortillas under your hammock.

5) Sleep with food in your pocket.

On your return, drop the last tortilla, cookie, chicken bone or whatever under your hammock. Go to bed with a tortilla in your pocket, or rub some chicken grease on your shirt during dinner.

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How to safeguard yourself from dogs in Latin America

To be fair, much of what I have to say here can be gleaned from the good read "The Sex Lives of Cannibals" by J Maarten Troost. But I can vouch for it.

Dogs are the first line of defense there. Shotguns are next. If a dog barks at someone, fine. Bites them, fine. Pulls a limb from a bandito - that might actually earn it dinner. These dogs are tough, and aggression is rewarded. Don't feel that you have any recourse with the owner. The only association that exists between most locals and their dogs is the sporadic feeding of chicken bones.

So, don't be a pansy. Expect packs of dogs. Fortunately, rocks are plentiful.

In El Salvador, rocks came in two sizes: distractors and yelpers. Distractors are quarter sized, and go in your left hip pocket (assuming right hand dominance). Yelpers are ping pong ball to racquetball sized, and go in your right hand pocket. You might need them quickly.

When you first get rushed, often times you can keep on walking and toss a few distractors over their heads. Aim isn't important. That's why you can fling with your left hand. Just get them interested in some noise opposite the direction you are traveling. Works best for dogs around houses.

Sometimes though, ya gotta make em yelp. Wing a yelper rock with feeling at the closest dog to you. Odds are he is the dominant one, and the others will follow his lead. Even if you miss, Latin American dogs understand what a good rock throw is all about, and will back off a bit. If it is too dark to see clearly, skip a yelper in front of a dog. This will buy you some space, and opportunity to throw a few empty handed fakes to conserve your supply.

You eat like El Salvadorans

Alternate title: But how much ceviche can you really eat?

I could eat a lot of ceviche.

A surfer's diet in paradise is set by routine. You get up at 5. This is 15 minutes after Sam has been up checking the surf and discreetly making noise to wrest his friends from their hammocks. At 5am the surf is perfect: offshore wind, glassy, and no other assholes are out yet. Breakfast is a plantano or manzana that you grabbed last night from a fruit vendor in town, at the cost of a nickel. You eat it before putting on sunscreen and hitting the surf.

At about 10am Noah and Keith hit the beer stand (Sam surfs on for another hour or three). First comes a full litre aqua. Then a plate of huevos rancheros. Two dropped eggs covered in picante sauce, over a bed of frijoles negras. Tortillas on the side, smaller and thicker than their Mexican counterparts, are great covered in hot sauce. The eggs doubtless came from one of the chickens running underfoot. By now the wind has changed, and we eat under a tin or cement roof looking out at the point break, watching a now crowded field of surfers jockey for position and wipe out on mushy waves.

Then come the cervezas. Icy cold Pilseners keep rolling in for the rest of the day. Sam shows up and is eager for vendor food. We pack up the camino naranja, and cruise the CA-2 looking for vendor food. It's the heat of the day now, though we alternate windows down and AC. The landscape is too beautiful to cut yourself off from it for too long. Either way, reggae and Dropkick Murphy's are pumping.

Sometimes we seek out the most modest streetside grill we can find. "Se comida vende?" we ask. "Si, Si", and a plump El Salvadorena eagerly points us toward a bench and table. Her husband sits in the shade and nods. Their daughter is sent to take our drink order, and the son bikes to a bigger stand to get more Pilseners. Watermelon trucks rumble a couple of yards past, flying through the cliffs and curves on the way to Honduras or Guatemala. The bottles shake on the table.

"Hice la tabla." The old man wandered over. You made the table? We look at the joints and slats appreciatively, dropping a couple buenos and muy amables. We invite him to sit and buy him a beer. Little is said. He knows no English, and our Spanish is limits us to few pleasantries and queries. He excuses himself when the food arrives.

"Tengo pollo o pescado." Chicken or fish, the woman told us. The fish was always a pescado frito, fried whole in oil. The chicken was seasoned and grilled. Everything was cooked over a simple fire grate. The quality and simplicity were amazing. Each meal came with a fried plantain. The tally? 15 beers, 3 meals; 17 dollars.

Other days we would opt highbrow. At the tops of overlooks, 2-story concrete structures dominated the vistas. The kitchen was below and seating above, always overlooking a pocket beach and point break 500 feet down. Here was more cosmopolitan. Ceviche brisas del mar came in a soup bowl with saltines. Fresh octopus was identified by suckers still strong enough to stick to the plate. The shrimp were 8" long. And each plate came with decorative, yet tasty, whole crabs. The tally? $50.

On other days, when we would need to stop for hielo, we would go into town for pupusas. The pupusa lady worked a piping hot griddle under a hot tin roof in the middle of the day. She would slap two circles of dough around a thin layer of chicken, cheese, or beans and pat them together. They were good, but they were hot. We took a bag home one day for dinner. Four hours later, I swear they were still too hot to eat. The tally? $8.

On the way back to the beach, we would stop for a bottle of anejo or a few packs of Pilsener. We would lounge back into the hammocks with a cocktail and cigar and pass the heat of the day. The fishermen would come in and unload their catch, and sometimes stop by for a chat and a smoke. The evening surf session would begin after 4, and conclude after sunset (530).

Then it was dinner time.

I enjoyed stepping out at dinner time. It was a time for formality, so we would wear flip flops and shirts. With the sun down, people would emerge and congregate in front of shops. It was no longer blistering hot. Kids played soccer in the street. Everyone would stop and give us the eyeball. In El Coco, the nearest doctor was a 3 hour bus ride away. Not too many gringoes came out this way; those that did never left the gated security of the lone resort. We were a spectacle indeed.

Teenage girls would cluster, point and giggle. The old men would nod. After we sat and our round of Pilseners arrived, a gang of boys would hang out in front of us and give us sidelong glances. Apparently they heard that Americans get drunk and go crazy. They were disappointed when we didn't, and soon returned to their games.

Dinner fare was more of the same. I was tempted several times by the Huevos tortugas, but couldn't bear the environmental burden. One night we found a whole fried red snapper stuffed with shrimp for $12. It was easily the best meal I ever ate. As the woman came to gather our plates, she looked at them with surprise and smiled. "You eat like El Salvadorans" (Ustedes come como Salvadornenos!) she said, picking up a bare snapper skeleton that had been nibbled to the cheeks. It was obviously a complement, and we were as pleased as she.

After dinner, the shopping would begin. There were some necessities, the morrows breakfast fruit and some more cold Pilseners. Occasionally we would buy a soccer ball for the kids, or a melon for a neighbor back at camp. We brought her a watermelon. We got cake.

Sometimes we stood around with the old men, who wanted to talk about cars. They were especially interested in what we drove (Senor, que coche usted conduce?). These are very practical people. They were happy with my Land Cruiser, and thrilled with Sam's dually dump truck. Keith's Camry though, failed to impress.

Naturally, by this time you may be wondering how we retained our stuff, especially in a region where becoming separated from one's possessions is a common occurrence...

Next: Perros playeros!

Christ!

Sorry to have tuned out. I've been busy (see facebook photos of awesome summer fishing)!

I know my one follower and mother's friend (That's you, Jane) have been anxious to see what I am up to. And I hate to disappoint my fans. And yes, 2 fans deserves the plural.

Every morning I read the the headlines on cnn.com, the NYT, local Nantucket news, and the Houghton MI Daily Mining Gazette. The DMG is the last bastion of xenophobia driven news and opinion written by a troop of semi literate baboons.

Enter the 9/12 Letter to the editor:

Bible clear on Earth's age

Once again, Robert Kohtala, you are mistaken in your view that the Bible does not tell us how old the earth is. It seems that for someone who loves to talk about the Bible so much that maybe you would actually read it instead of just believing everything you hear. Please allow me to educate you.

The Bible is very clear on the age of the earth. The first sentence of the Bible states that in the beginning, God made the heavens and the earth. This means there is no prior life or aliens or events which happened before this time. God is relying on the fact that we know what the word "beginning" means. Then God made light and called the light "day" and the dark "night." "And evening passed and morning came, marking the first day." How much more clearer can you get? Our seven-day work week is based on the Bible's seven-day work week of creation. Do we have a seven billion-year work week?

So now we have the six-day creation, which includes mankind, starting with Noah. Genesis 5 gives Adam's genealogy to Noah. Chapter 11 gives the genealogy from Noah to Abraham, and on and on it goes until Jesus Christ. The Bible describes each and every generation from Adam, so there is no lapse of time, no billions of years went by, just generations. There is no gap between Adam and Jesus Christ, from which we now base our dates (i.e., 2,009 years from Christ).

From Adam to Abraham are 2,000 years, from Abraham to Christ are 2,000 years, from Christ to the present is 2,009 years. The earth is about 6,000 years old. Scientists are now proving that the Grand Canyon and the Niagara Falls could have formed in that time period. However, imagine this: The day God created the earth, scientists would have said the earth was billions of years old. Why? Because God has the power and ability to form the earth so well that the appearance of it seems to have taken billions of years. It was fully formed on day one.

True Christians believe on every word written in the Holy Scriptures, which were breathed by God, in the same power He used to create the world and all mankind. Read up before you start preaching false information. God is watching.

Rachel Laurn

Hancock

Now, one letter is just a sign of a kook. In my head I started to outline a satirical letter in response, praising Ms. Laurn's stolidity. But arguing with fanatics is like kicking yourself in the balls, so I let it go.

Enter the 9/25 response. Now one is a kook, 2 is an epidemic. Remember, at 2 people we can start using the plurals, which means more of these folks are probably lurking.

Bible has God's infallible words

Rachel Laurn's letter of Sept. 12 was good. She is correct when she stated that true believers in Christ Jesus our Lord believe the Bible is the inerrant, infallible Word of God.

Genesis 1:1 declares, "In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth." And after this statement the details are given in day 1 through 7.

God created the earth first and the sun, moon and stars were not created until the fourth day, (Genesis 1:14-19). Genesis 7 depicts the flood (about 4,000 years ago) that covered the earth, was by the judgment of God because of the wickedness of man, (Genesis 6:5-7).

Genesis 7:22-23 "All in whose nostrils was the breath of life, of all that was in the dry land, died. And every living substance was destroyed which was upon the face of the ground, both man, and cattle, and the creeping things, and the fowl of the heaven; and they were destroyed from the earth: and Noah only remained alive, and they that were with him in the ark."

According to Henry M. Morris, "It is reasonable that Adam and his descendants all knew how to write and kept records of their own times. Genesis records the eyewitness accounts of these histories as written by Adam, Noah, Shem, Isaac, Jacob and other patriarchs. The respective divisions can be recognized by a recurring phrase: "These are the generations of Adam..." (Genesis 5:1) for example.

Moses compiled the writings of these God-fearing patriarchs into the book of Genesis. Genesis is cited at least 200 times in the New Testament and Moses is never noted as the author of any of the citations, according to The Institute for Creation Research( icr.org).

John E Saari

Mohawk native

Calumet High School Class of 1951

Jackson, Tenn.

At least this one graduated from high school.

OK. Not only do I have nothing better to do, but I'm kinda an asshole too. I'm going to see if I can bait these folks. Here is my response. Will post link if the DMG publishes.

Bible laws no modest proposal

I was quite pleased to read Ms. Laurn’s (9/12) and Mr. Sari’s (9/27) Letters to the Editor in the Daily Mining Gazette. It seems that we too often settle for the general sentiment of passages rather than their literal truth. In the book of Genesis, as noted by Ms. Laurn, lifespans were clearly detailed: Noah lives for 959 years (9:29), and Methusaleh 969 (5:27).

But it is not enough to merely accept the Bible at face value. Besides providing a rich genealogical history, it also clearly dictates how we can avoid a sinful life - and maybe live past 900 too.

Personally, I am trying to be a good emissary, though I find it hard to lead by example. I know I should stone anyone who has left Our Lord to worship other gods, but that seems impractical (Deuteronomy 17:2-7). I live on an island, and we only have very small pebbles.

I try to avoid eating pork, as it is an unclean animal. I also avoid hare (though I will eat rabbit), and since I don’t know what a rock badger is, I avoid both badgers and rocks, as I previously noted (Leviticus 11).

I also am trying to grow a beard and keep from cutting my hair as outlined in Leviticus 19:27. But I just can’t fill out a beard very well. I get jealous every time I see a lumberjack, knowing that he is a better Christian than me!

I have since read about others who are taking a literal approach to their own Holy books. Apparently, there is a small sect of people across the ocean somewhere who think like me (and apparently, like my Copper Country friends!). I forget what they call themselves, but they have no problems growing beards, avoiding pork, and killing those who disagree with their literal fundamentalist interpretations.

It’s not our right to try to contemporize the Bible, to weigh competing messages, or to examine the role of metaphor. Jesus never questioned (Matt 27:46), so neither should we. God may be love (1 John 4:8), but that is just not enough. Love alone will not help you live a thousand years, smite your enemies, or gain your entrance to heaven.

Noah Karberg

Nantucket, MA

Too far? Not far enough?

Don't start thinking that I have gone all religious on you. The bible is many things, among them a collection of parables, folksy wisdom, a guide for healthy living in ancient Mesopotamia, and a quasi-history of some historical figures. I tried to walk a line between satirist and fundamentalist, meanwhile hedging my bets lest I get struck by a thunderbolt.

BTW - Mad props if you can find the Thomas Swift allusion.