the urbane runner

of gods and the men who would like to become them.

2011-04-12T20:12:00.000-07:00

I believe that, ultimately, this film highlights that religious conviction and it’s corresponding practices (both good and evil) are determined by the humans willing to entertain them. In particular, the practice of religious radicalism was juxtaposed nicely. On the one hand, we have a group of men willing to kill for their beliefs. On the other, we have a group of men willing to die for them. The film did a wonderful job displaying the consequences of each decision.

What I appreciated: the unobtrusive, repetitive, and stark depiction of the monk’s routine. Simplicity is profound. The only soundtrack provided in the entire film was that of the monk’s chants; there was nothing familiar (in the way of sound) to manipulate the audience’s emotions or thoughts. The only instance of music is when one of the monk's played Allegretto (Beethoven Symphony No.7) during the dinner. Singing is a vehicle for the devout to carry their words and prayers to God; it's only natural that he decided it should be the vehicle to bring everything back. Quite honestly, it ranks as one of the more powerful scenes I have seen in years. Joy for one another’s company, transitioning into a quiet remorse when the strings begin to grow somber, and then, finally, the realization that their deaths are inevitable. Each individual reacted differently – some smiled, some cried, some stared. It was at this time that they came to terms with their greatest turmoil: in order to be with God, one must die.

I really enjoyed the film's cinematography -- long, quiet scenes that were always well framed. Nothing was forced. The final shot, all one take, was equally powerful. We witnessed men of God being led by men of God to be with Him. One wonders if they, at that time, wanted nothing more than humanity. The environment of the monastery led to shots of unavoidable beauty. How difficult it must be to confront despair, turmoil and chaos objectively when your surroundings are so tranquil, full of life, and beautiful.

What I didn’t appreciate: the fact that very little background was given into why they were there. From personal experience, I know that for every deed in the name of God, there is an institution that will lay claim to it. Missionaries are placed in areas in order to drive conversion, yet the film didn't convey that. I also wholeheartedly find fault in their final decision. In one of the final exchanges between one of the elders and the priest, a woman exclaims, "You are the branch. If you go, we lose our footing." Despite being affected by this comment, their self-sacrifice simply allowed that branch to break. How could men who value life so much fail to plant a new tree before leaving?

1-10 rating: 8.5…

alice in 3d wonderland.

2010-04-30T20:31:00.000-07:00

3D applications of film work very well in certain situations. Beowulf comes to mind, but only because the characters were animated. Alice in Wonderland’s human characters looked flat (if that makes any sense); Tim Burton’s color palette would have worked so much better in 2D, but that he allowed the producers to convert his stock to 3D after filming took a toll (not on revenue mind you). As proper performances go, Helena Bonham Carter and Johnny Depp delivered; however, their efforts were offset by the (consistent) over-acting of Anne Hathaway and the knave of hearts. And to make matters worse, right when the energy of the film seemed to slacken, Burton decided to cue in a spectacular fight scene – on a chessboard. Weren’t the minions of the red queen originally playing cards? Splitting hairs, I know. After sitting through Alice’s uncomfortably quick sword-wielding learning curve, we were forced to sit through the Mad Hatter’s dance number. Watching Depp getting jiggy was almost abusive. The worst, however, was to discover what Alice drew from her personal experience in Wonderland: how to reject a comically repulsive man and become profoundly entrepreneurial. Wha? 6.0 if you need it. I wish I didn’t.

don't judge. i will -- movie review criteria.

2010-04-30T20:24:00.000-07:00

Rating system: 0 – 10 with a full range of arbitrary decimal places when the situation calls for it. 0 is bad. Very bad. As in, the people who created the film should be institutionalized for the length of its production and donate to charity any sort of revenue the film happens to steal from its audience. So far, there is only one film with a 0 rating – a documentary named “Keep the River on Your Right.” Ugh. That title wastes the time it took to write it.

Moving on – a 10 will be, in all fairness, nearly as difficult to come by. Now, I won’t be cheeky and give a film a rating of 9.99, but 9.8s might make an appearance. I will try, whenever possible, to keep to .5 ratings. Still, “City of God” was a 10. “My Left Foot” was a 9.8. “Last of the Mohicans” was a 9.5. You get it.

the great turkey challenge 5K

2009-12-02T10:19:00.000-08:00

In 2006, on Thanksgiving morning, I agreed to join my friends and family in a 5K in Helotes, TX. If I was in the business of making bad jokes, I would say I went into the race “cold turkey” – no training, no watch, and shoes that barely passed for trainers. I had watched my friend Natsuki finish the San Antonio marathon two weeks beforehand and was motivated to start running. It was a bad decision. My fitness level at the time was on par with a beached whale. I ended up nearly puking a lung meters before the finish and when I had nothing in my stomach left, dry-heaved my way to a 24:22 finish. This was my first 5K experience.

But that was 3 years ago. And I’m a runner now. So at least I had that going for me when I toed the line at the Great Turkey Challenge 5K last week.

My twin brother, Martin, my Dad, and my Mom all decided to run that morning. It was cool, crisp and about to become sunny. Martin and I arrived early to register. We went through the business of paying and received our timing chips and bibs. We then engaged in the business of porta-potty use. But I’ll spare the details.

Although it took a sincere effort on my part to get my brother to join me (he has ceased being competitive), I could tell the race atmosphere was having an effect on him. Martin was always faster than me; he was the runner of the family. I remember starting alongside him at our old cross country races, but have no memory finishing anywhere close to him. It never happened. That’s why. But like I said, I’m a runner now.

The warm-up run was kept around 9:30-10:00 minute pace. It felt right. Martin and Dad bailed around the one mile mark, but I continued for another half mile or so. I wanted to run the entire course, but with the jacket, arm-warmers, and wind pants on, I was plenty warm by the halfway point. I returned to the car and proceeded to shamelessly strip down to my singlet and tights. I switched out shoes to a new pair of racing flats – the Brooks T6. If anything, I looked like a runner now. Martin confirmed this.

I recognized a guy at the starting line. He looked fit and wore shoes that were splitting at the seams. I knew instantly I was going to lose to this guy. We got to talking. Jorge was his name. Sure enough, he planned on running “somewhere around 18.” That means the potential to go below 18 was a reality for him. It wasn’t for me. So I conceded right then and there – the last thing I needed was to go out too fast in an attempt to catch someone I couldn’t.

“Sub-19 and I’m happy. I ran the marathon a couple weeks ago,” I said, “I don’t expect much.”
“Oh yeah, me too man,” he responded, “my hamstrings locked up at mile 19 and it was over after that.”

I told him about my stomach/side issue. About how I finished with a 3:29 when I was shooting for a 3:10. He said he came through the half in 1:28, and was possibly looking for a sub-3. He came in 4 minutes behind me. That’s why I recognized him. As terribly as I felt, there were people who felt worse. He was one of guys I passed in the final miles.

Shit happens, man. He agreed. And then the horn sounded.

I went out quickly, but Jorge set out at a blazing speed. Perhaps around 4:50 – 5:10. After the first 200 meters, I tried to slow the pace down. 5:20s became 5:30s, but it felt slow. Still, I was in second. A younger guy came flying past me around 400 meters in, only to fall back just as fast. I’m not sure what his intent was.

The first mile was about as fast as I assumed it would be: 5:46. Absurd. I ran a 2-miler in 5:46 pace once, but not 11 days removed from a marathon. And not with an extra 1.1 miles added on to the end of it. I decided to slow down.

I managed a 5:58 second mile which felt very comfortable. I wasn’t gaining too much on Jorge, but the gap had stopped growing. That was a plus. But right around the end of the second mile, I noticed a family (wife and child) cheering along the side of the road. I waved to them as it appeared they were waving to me. As I was about to say “thank you!” the little girl yelled, “Go Daddy!” Uh oh. Either my illegitimate child was playing a cruel joke on me, or someone was actually making a move behind me. Thankfully, it was the latter.

Out of nowhere, the little girl’s Daddy was right on my tail. How did a 5:58 mile allow someone in a race this small get this close? I sized everyone up beforehand, the only one that looked fit enough to beat me was Jorge. And he was in front of me. Still, I didn’t turn around. I didn’t want to acknowledge the dude’s hard work (because it provides impetus to run even harder…I learned this somewhere…really). So I just dropped the pace when I heard his labored breathing grow closer.

For a while, I thought I had lost him. I was running a solid 5:40 pace and the sounds of footfalls or breathing were no longer there. After rounding the last turn, however, it came back: huff, puff, huff, puff. I was deflated. And it grew louder and louder until we were running side by side. I was set in a good stride, but he was flying just as fast. Who the HELL is this?! I thought. He was somewhat fleshy, pale, wore a tight singlet that looked like it was from high school, and had trainers on that looked as heavy as bricks. But there he was, running stronger and faster than me. Lesson learned, I thought to myself. And then he passed me, arms swinging comfortably.

But that’s when I remembered: I’m a runner now. I kicked a bit to catch up to him – we only had 600 meters left. I ran on his left shoulder to draft for a while, but decided that I had doubted his abilities for too long already. I didn’t want to be on the wrong side of a Daddy with a mean finishing sprint, so I passed him. My plan was to make him run out of his comfort zone. That would give me a chance – because I was confident I can hold on to a lead once I got it. The pull away was gradual at first, but I could sense he knew I wasn’t interested in a sit-and-kick finish. I wanted to end this now. I dropped the pace to 5:10 with about 400 meters to go. He came along for the ride, but I continued to gap him. I pushed harder and harder; I was redlining. And then the finish line finally came into view. I saw Jorge cross it, but some people were blocking the clock. I could only make out a “17,” but assumed it referred to the seconds. It wasn’t. It read: 17:36. Counting down.

I opened the throttle and burned the last remnants of gas. Fumes, really. My stride had widened and my arms were pumping as fast as they could. I was the embodiment of “controlled fury” – my Dad’s advice on how to run a 5K race. I finished second overall. 17:56. I was able to hold off the third place runner and, in the process, picked up a new personal record.
Martin finished 10th overall with a 20:47 (6:46 pace) on minimal training and no watch. When I attempted to do that three years ago, well, simply reread the opening part of this blog. Still, I suspected Martin would perform like this. He’s got skills.

My Dad, however, was a surprise. He finished in 68th place (out of 410) and ran a 25:39 (8:15 pace). In the 2006 Turkey Day race, my Dad posted a 27:37 (8:53 pace). Three years older and nearly two minutes faster. Skills.

it was the worst of times...

2009-11-19T07:40:00.000-08:00

On Sunday, I raced 16 miles of a marathon. I ran a portion of the remaining distance from miles 18-20, but only mustered something resembling a jog/walk from miles 21 to 26. This is the story of how I finished the most difficult race of my life.

The temperatures had begun to rise earlier during the week and all the weather reports for Sunday were singing the same tune: mid 70’s for the high, mid 60’s for the low and overcast with a 30% chance of rain. Surely, these were not ideal conditions for a marathon, but they were far from impossible. My last 20-mile training run took place during a certifiable deluge, so I felt confident I would perform well despite possible precipitation. I carb-loaded throughout the week, drank water, and went to bed early on most nights. I was ready.

Race morning. I woke up at 4am to take Buster outside. Immediately upon exiting the door, my confidence took a shot – it was humid. 100%. A fog had developed and it didn’t look like it was going anywhere. There was no wind. I could feel my palms sweat. A bead developed under my armpit. I was losing it.

I decided to abandon these feelings through the mindless business of race preparation. I have developed quite the ritual – band-aids, moleskin, body-glide, sunglasses. Check. By the time I laced up my trainers, I was ready. Again.

Dad and Adam swung by the house at approximately 5:45. We were in the car and heading to the drop off point before long. After a couple of arguments concerning directions, we arrived at the corner of St. Mary’s and 281. We started the half-mile walk down to Broadway. In the dim light of an overcast morning, I listened to the conversations of other runners. I gave Adam some last minute advice. I repeated to myself I was ready.

I queued up at the porta-potties and got to work. I made small talk with the ladies in line and handed out jokes like rolls of toilet paper. Gold. Dad, Adam and I then walked the corrals and made our way to the front. My corral. #1. Nothing too spectacular going on – racers going through their preparations. Perhaps a bit more mindful than I do, but only because it’s worth more to them. Literally.

With 20 minutes left, we parted ways. I performed a couple of shake-out stretches off to the side – leg swings, high steps, some skipping. I looked around and saw all the familiar faces: Westley Keating (who would go on to win the half in 1:05), Joshua Keena (from Austin), Chris Layman, and Robert Michell. All looked to go under 3 easily, if not under 2:50. As I lined up in the corral, I saw Gary Guerrero and we nodded to each other. He was gunning for a sub 2:50 and went on to smash it: 2:47.

Right before the national anthem, my Dad appeared along the corral fence. He put his hand on my shoulder and wished me luck. It was brief and not many words were exchanged. How do you feel? Ready? You’ll do great. I tried to hide my nervousness, but I wanted nothing more for him to be right. You too, Dad. I could tell he was anxious as well. I’m not sure I was convincing enough, but I tried. I told him to hurry back to his corral, but he refused. He said he’d be fine. And so we stood there for a while longer. Father and son. Two runners.

After parting ways, I lined up towards the middle of the corral and went through another routine: pat the thighs, kick out the legs, roll the ankles, and stretch the shoulders. Not long after, the horn blew.

I got out to a quick start and then settled in, I was being passed very quickly by all the half marathon runners, but I stayed on pace. The 3:10 pace group was on my left shoulder making noises and laughing. The 1:35 pace group consisted of Roger Soler in a odd-looking hat running alongside that girl who wore the same shoes as I did in a recent 5K (refer to SNIPSA 5K for comment I made to her). I wanted to run beside her, show her my shoes and say, “SEE?! I’m not a creep!” But then again, given the lack of context, it would have probably creeped out anyone close enough to hear. I decided to keep running.

My goal was a 1:35-36 opening half and a 1:33 closing. I allowed the 3:10 group to gap me a bit, but always kept them within striking distance. After the second mile, though, it was obvious they were running faster than a 7:17 pace. We clicked a 7:09 mile without blinking. Not my race. I slowed down.

Maki and Mom snapped a couple of shots of me at miles 1.5 and 3. I made silly gestures to entertain them. I felt sharp. Fast. And a tad bit high on pent up glycogen. I understand this means nothing to non-runners, but make it through a couple weeks of tapering and you’ll know how I felt.

After cresting the only real hills on the course and running past several people I knew, I hit the first GU (energy gel). It didn’t sit well and I immediately knew something was off. It took more energy to consume and I burped a lot after I guzzled the mandatory 5 ounces of water. I wrote it off as nerves. Likewise, I was coming upon the 7-mile mark and I had to determine what sort of jack-ass photo I should have my Mom take. Obviously, I felt good enough.

After that last photo op, I knew I was not going to see everyone until the end. I focused on turnover and developed a good stride. I was clicking off 7:10-12s with ease. I talked to people as if I was jogging 7:50s and felt even better. This is the race I was looking for. A breakout.

Then, things changed. I started to develop a slight stitch on my left side towards mile 8. This occurred immediately after a Cytomax stop. By the way, cytomax is what you get when you mix demon urine with baby gravy. Disgusting. But that was the only electrolyte drink offered, so I dealt. I shrugged off the stitch and maintained the 7:10 clip throughout the first half.

I dropped a 1:34 half marathon. I was about a minute under schedule, but I felt good enough that it didn’t worry me. Then, all of a sudden, I was worried. My stitch developed into a steady, sharp pain and it wasn’t getting any better. It wasn’t affecting my stride at that point, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to ignore it forever. At mile 14, I saw Natsuki, Yuka and their children. He made a sign for me: “Go Paul, ボストンや！”
Boston it read. Perhaps. I was so happy to see him. I wanted him to be there, but I knew how seriously he took his familial obligations. Ever since the birth of Kazu-kun, he’s stopped running entirely. Terrible timing! we used to joke. We could have made each other great.

And there we were, 3 years after his 2006 San Antonio marathon, running together on the same course. He asked me how I felt. Better I mustered, but I’m not sure what’s going on. I can’t breathe. My chest and side hurt. Thank you so much for showing up. He asked me more questions. Told me my pace was still impressive. Somewhere around 7:20. He asked me the question I knew was coming, “行けそう？” Could I make it? I’m not sure. Not if this continues, I responded. It’s funny. I was asking myself this question starting from mile 8. This was the first time I really answered it.

The real answer came at the end of mile 15. I tried to ease the pace to around 7:20-30 for a couple of miles to ease the stress, but the pain had only increased. It was causing me to alter my stride, breathing, and posture. I was running slightly hunched and taking in shallow breaths. My stride was shortened. This was at the 15.2 marker. I remember because I looked down at my watch. I wanted to remember at one point in the marathon I stopped racing.

I attempted to run/jog in hopes of having a couple of bad, yet recoverable miles. Perhaps 3:10 was out of the question, but I could turn around a 3:12 I thought. When the water began to hurt going down, I knew all was lost. Still, I kept going. I tried to walk the water stops, but people urged me not to. Losers! I wanted to scream. But their intentions were pure. Ignorant, but pure.

By mile 20, I was a walking, jogging mess of a man. The 3:10 pacers were well out of sight and the 3:15 balloon was approaching from behind me quickly. It didn’t even take a quarter mile for them to catch and pass me. I let them. How could I do anything else? I was barely fit enough to stand straight. Still, I had been able to hold on to somewhat decent splits. Hovering right above and below 8 minute miles. Then, my watch beeped. The end of mile 20: 8:23. This number is special. It represents the slowest mile I ran at Big Sur. It was the slowest mile I ran during marathon training during a fast-finish long run – uphill, into a wind, and hung-over. I always thought, at the very least, I will never, ever run any mile slower than 8:23. Today, however, it felt fast. And that’s when I knew it was truly over.

After that mile, I decided I was OK with a “DNF” (did not finish) next to my name. This was not running, let alone racing. This isn’t you, I kept repeating. You don’t hit the wall. You don’t cramp. Your legs still feel great. Why this? Why now? Naturally, I didn’t have the answers to any of these questions. I had a crippled torso, weakening mind, strong legs, and 5.2 more miles left. That’s it.

Given this state, I declined quickly. The pain intensified. I had stitches on both sides of my torso and an awkward pain began developing in my right chest. The walking breaks grew in length. I was done. I needed to find a medical tent. I could be in trouble. And then Natsuki showed up again. Get away from me! Was my first thought. I wanted to suffer this breakdown alone. Self-pity is not named group-pity for a reason. But he yelled. Yuka yelled. Kazu and Mana would have yelled too if they knew how. Natsuki started to jog with me. He didn’t lie to me. He didn’t say I was doing great. You’re almost there. Great pace. He told me, “大丈夫や. 無理するなよ.” It’s OK. Don’t overdo it. I told him the pain was worse. I couldn’t breathe or stand straight. He repeated his phrase: Don’t overdo it. And then he made me smile with his comment: “俺のペースじゃん.” This is my pace. He cramped terribly in ’06 and ran 10-minute splits to the finish. He was right. I had run exactly two 10-minute splits back-to-back. He jogged alongside me while I walked again. He didn’t walk. That’s Natsuki. He has never walked in a marathon. So I started up again. As I ran under the I-10 Bridge, I heard him shout an extended “頑張れ！” A rally cry. I put a thumb up and kept the slog fest going.

For the next two miles, I didn’t walk as much. I managed a couple of miles under 10, but all the stopping and starting began to affect my legs. I’m a mess if I stop. A couple more miles of this and I’m done, I thought. But I realized I was only a mile out. 25?! Seriously? I started down Durango with people lining every available standing spot. I heard the yells, but don’t remember a single word. They weren’t necessarily for me, but for the effort that I embodied. I didn’t appreciate the effort, though, so naturally I tuned everyone out.

I knew things were bad when I had to walk on a downhill coming into the Alamodome. It was like a nightmare. I couldn’t even run downhill. And then I saw a sea of people. Camera flashes. Open mouths. Fists pumping in the air. My feet had started to move and I went along for the ride. I was clutching my side because the second I released it, I felt nauseas with pain. I turned the corner. I had one more hill. I looked to the right and saw Seth. I heard his voice among all the screaming. “Good job Paul.” Perhaps that is what he said. Perhaps that is what I wanted to hear. I really appreciated him being there.
I turned the corner to the finish and immediately saw my Mom, Martin and Maki. The look on my brother’s face was priceless. He was the only one in the entire crowd who knew how I felt. I looked to him through my sunglasses and nodded. I looked to my Mom who looked sorrowful. Come now, it isn’t that bad, I thought. I tried to release the grip on my side, but almost threw up when I did. I decided to let go right before the finish. They have a video of me coming across. In it, I almost threw up. 3:29:40.
I went through a range of emotions during and immediately after the race – frustration, depression, anger, sorrow, self-pity, and then, finally, elation (only because it was over…don’t get any ideas that in pain I found some profound meaning to all this crap). This sucked. In every way and at every conceivable angle, this sucked. I trained for months, put in nearly double the mileage and ran more efficiently than I ever did for Big Sur, only to run 2 minutes slower. Most people have told me that I succeeded because I finished. Not really. I didn’t want my parents to have to pick me up anywhere. Traffic was a nightmare. That’s why I finished.

But here it goes: I came to realize that finishing was the best thing I could have done. The race was just as important to all the people who woke up early to watch me, to cheer for me, to see me finish. More importantly, I wanted to finish for my Dad. So I did. He finished as well. Because runner’s run. That’s it.

BQ or bust

2009-11-03T12:03:00.000-08:00

It's taper time. I dropped down to 58 this week and plan on running around 35ish this week. No more than 12 miles next week – around 3 days. It worked for Big Sur. I toed the line feeling fresh and completely charged. I’ll attempt to do that again.

I've put in some serious training over the last 14 weeks. I have dragged myself from bed hungover and on less than 4 hours of sleep to stamp out 15+ mile runs more times than I wish to count. I have run in 100+ degree weather, 100% humidity, and certifiable monsoons. I have been sunburned, wind burned, drenched and chafed. I have been attacked by poisonous snakes, wild dogs, and a mocking bird. I have been heckled by homeless people, insecure men, overly secure gay men, and the occasional cougar.

But I will start the 2009 San Antonio Rock N’ Roll Marathon with exactly 801 miles logged since August 1st. Although I only have 7 runs of over 15 miles, I have run a total of 32 times over 10. I have averaged 57 miles a week with a weekly high of 77. For Big Sur, I averaged fewer than 26 and never ran more than 44 miles in one week. I ran only 3 total runs of 15 miles or more and only 10 runs over 10 miles. It was enough to land me a 3:27:58 in windy, hilly conditions.

I have switched from the Brooks Ghost to the Brooks Launch. They weigh approximately 3 ounces lighter. They own a more minimal construction. They are brighter. Faster. I have also stopped wearing shorts over my tights (‘compression shorts’ when I’m explaining what I’m wearing to non-runners). Free is better. I will switch from the Mizuno Creation singlet to the ’09 Adidas adizero singlet (red). The only difference is that the Adidas singlet doesn’t retain water quite as much as the Mizuno does. The other accessories don’t matter much. Socks are the same.

I’m attempting to qualify for the 2010 Boston Marathon. As far as I know, I am the first in my family to do so. My Dad came close in 1987 with a spectacular 3:22:11 debut, but fell just short of the required time of 3:15. He did this in San Antonio on a very similar course. I don’t think he even gave thought to Boston. He just ran. That’s what runners did back then. I plan to do the same, but I need to run 5 minutes faster. I need a 3:10. This requires that I average no slower than 7:17 per mile. My goal is to average anywhere from 7:05 – 7:12 pace. I want to open up with a sub 1:34 half marathon, and then finish with a sub 1:33. These are my times. This is my goal.

Let’s do this thing.

big man japan review - 10.14.09

2009-10-14T12:16:00.000-07:00

Hitoshi Matsumoto’s directorial debut is a “mockumentary.” There is no better way to explain this film; but its comedic nature is not in the least bit surprising. Macchan, as he is more widely known, is one of Japan’s most famous entertainers. His on-air persona specializes in crude, often violent humor, and he is more often clumsy than clever. When I began watching this film, I anticipated I was in for two straight hours of slapstick. I was pleasantly surprised. The pacing and rhythm of the opening shots were quiet and unobtrusive. The camera panned along a small neighborhood street and into a tiny, dilapidated yard of a small residence. We were introduced to the main character cooking in a cramped kitchen with books and packages lining every available space. This was Japan at its smallest.

The literal translation of the film is, “Large Japanese person.” Although I appreciate the humor in the American title, I think it detracts from what Matsumoto attempted to convey. The main character, Masaru Daisato, comes from a long line of “big men” who are employed by the government to fight off invading monsters. Japan has a lot of them it seems; however, the work has dwindled over the last several years and it appears that Masaru is the last of his kind. He is a lonely man of indistinguishable qualities (save the ridiculously dated outfits he chooses to wear at times). Some people recognize who he is, but many more could care less. His wife left him and took their only child, his salary is laughable, and his house is constantly vandalized. In the beginning, the only thing grand about him is how terribly pathetic he is.

And then he gets a call. A monster is attacking. In order to grow large, Masaru must be electrocuted. The camera follows him to a downtrodden power station. He drives a small motorbike up a long, winding road littered with trash and signs calling him names and even calling for his death. His abilities have branded him a nuisance. Masaru ignores them all.

We are then introduced to the Big Man. His hair stands straight up and his body is tattooed. Although he looks somewhat imposing, his only weapon is a small stick. His opponents, however, rarely offer any notable resistance. Not because the Big Man is a skilled fighter, though, but because the monsters themselves rarely transcend the comic. There is one who likes to destroy buildings, but focuses a lot of his energy ensuring his comb-over remains properly set. Another monster holds a giant, retracting eye where his genitals should be. He throws it around, pulls it back…you get the idea.

The most intense battles, I would argue, are fought when he is a normal size. He is constantly arguing with (and losing to) his agent; he is fighting a custody case he cannot win; he is fighting off waves of depression, a drinking problem and his own insecurities. In every scenario, he loses. When confronted with his only real opponent (from North Korea we discover later), he flees. Arguably, this was his biggest defeat. But his sponsors and television ratings soared. Everybody wants someone else to lose. It’s the only way to win.

Things get markedly different from here. The final several scenes culminate into something wholly unlike the first 90% of the film that I feel a completely separate review might be necessary. Still, it was one of the most hilarious skits I have ever witnessed on screen. Purely Japanese. Purely Macchan. This was finally the film I expected (but to be honest was a bit disappointed arrived). To an American audience with no background in the comedic duo of Matsumoto and Hamada, I argue this final scene won’t even make sense. It shouldn’t, really. But it does somehow. And in that is precisely why Big Man Japan remains ultimately and unashamedly victorious. Most of the time.

SNIPSA - part two...thousand nine

2009-10-04T18:32:00.000-07:00

I raced a 5K over the weekend. This was my 4^th official 5K race of 2009 and 9^th total in my short career.

The race benefits the Spay, Neuter, Inject, Protect San Antonio organization. They rescue dogs and cats that have hit bottom (via abuse, abandonment, etc.) and invest time, energy, and love in order to get them back to the top. It’s a good cause run by good people (literally in this case).

I ran the SNIPSA event last year in the midst of my IT band (illiotibial band…not computer geek heavy metal) injury/recovery nightmare. Although I dealt with pain during and after that run in 2008, it provided a string of “firsts”: first sub-21 minute 5K, first top 10 overall place, and first time receiving a physical prize (outside cheap medal or cheaper ribbon) for an age group placing. For second place in the 25-29 age group I landed high-end dog shampoo (for sensitive skin), a year supply of flea medicine, multiple discount coupons/gift certificates and some organic treats (unfortunately still for the dog). I want to believe I am a person whose soul cries out for all the abused pets in the world, but I’ll be honest -- a majority of the motivation behind this year’s race was because we were running out of doggie shampoo. Don’t judge me.

I showed up around an hour before the race and went through the normal race day registration procedure. I received my bib, pins, some Frisbee looking thing and my shirt. “We’re all out of sizes except medium,” the man told me. “OK. I’ll take one,” I responded. And I did, but I have no use for it. In fact, the 2008 version of the race shirt remained in my trunk until June of this year – I ran out of towels to dry my car one day and, well…

I threw the shirt in my trunk and pinned the bib on the right side of my tights. Right, I wear running tights for races. There are never any issues with chafing and I don’t have to worry about wind making my 3” inseam shorts any shorter. So the bib went on, my wind pants came off and I started my warm-up run. For a 5K, I like to run the entire course for a warm-up. I understand some will assume this defeats the purpose, but on most training runs 3 miles is roughly what it takes for things to start clicking. So there.

The course was difficult to follow. There were arrows marked with flour, other arrows marked with spray paint, and what appeared to be arrows from races past. Despite which direction I followed, though, the course was beginning to reveal its true nature – hilly. They were steep. Some were long. I was starting to grow genuinely nervous about my chances.

After I finished the warm-up and changed into my race gear (racing flats, singlet, etc.), I made my way over to the starting area. I saw quite a few people I knew were going to be there, but was surprised to see my cousin, Adam. This was his second 5K. He had logged a 23:36 the week before and was looking to lower that time here. I warned him to take it easy the first two miles, but that the second was net downhill – go nuts. He listened: 21:59 was his chip time. Very fine run.

I didn’t find Bob until right before the gun sounded. Bob and I run together a lot. At the 4^th of July race, we went out together, but he flashed his speed and dropped me at mile 2. Although I had been training a bit more diligently than he had recently, I didn’t fully believe him when he said he wanted to stay around 10 – 15 seconds behind me. Bob is a short/middle distance runner with explosive finishing speed and a penchant for downhill running. Anything less than 30 seconds on this course wouldn’t be enough to hold him off. Still, I thought, I was here to run my own race. We wished each other luck and took our starting positions.

After the patriotic shout out, the gun sounded. I started 3-4 rows back from the start for the first time ever in such a short distance race. I love getting out in front early; it helps me establish a solid pace without having to worry about running in/around people. Still, it’s hilarious how many people treat a 5K like a 400 meter race. So much speed, so many elbows flying. I hung back until I saw an opening.

It came on the first downhill. We were only 0.3 miles in or so, but I was already passing people who were breathing heavily. I was working my way through the crowd and when we hit the hill, I opened my stride like Bob had showed me. Gravity let me pick off another 5 or so runners. At the bottom of the hill I heard quick, long steps approaching fast. I knew it was Bob. “Hey,” he acknowledged. “What’s up?” I responded. A couple breaths later Bob mentioned, “I’m tired.” I laughed under paced breaths, because he didn’t sound tired at all. Regardless, he dropped back soon after. I heard him off my right shoulder for a while (his Nike shoes popped a flat recently and hiss air with every footfall), but lost him in the sounds of the race behind me not long after.

With ¾ of the first mile in the bag, I was running in solo 6^th. It appeared I had put some space between the runners behind me. Two runners were immediately in front of me and the 3^rd place runner, a woman, was about 20 yards away. I took care of business with runners 4 and 5 on the first uphill, dropping them fast. The woman, however, proved to be pretty strong. When I got closer, I noticed a tattoo of a beetle on her back. I remembered her (and the tattoo) from the July 4^th race. She was running in some pink Brooks Burn shoes at the time that I thought were cool. Today she was in the Launch, a shoe I also use for training. When I was close enough for her to notice I was there I mentioned, “Those are great shoes.” At the time I thought this was a valid comment to make. Upon writing it, however, it does sound a bit creepy. I’m not sure if she huffed and ignored me because she was deep in concentration, or because it was such an awkward comment to make during such a high-energy endeavor. Regardless, I pulled away and dropped her on the next turn feeling a little embarrassed.

Right around the time I turned the corner, a funny thing happened: my legs ceased feeling tired and my breathing became completely relaxed. In the midst of a hard, hilly 5K, I hit a runner’s high. For the first time ever. It only lasted for a couple of climbs and descents, but I was able to put some distance on the rest of the field. By mile 2, I couldn’t hear a single person behind me – no one was close. I didn’t help my pursuers, however, when I took the wrong turn. Instead of taking a left down the hill I went right and uphill. I stopped when I couldn’t find the arrows and turned on the following cross street. After running on this for a while, I came upon the course again – I had made the race roughly .1 miles longer and hillier. Sigh.

Still, there is nothing like getting lost to fuel the fire of urgency. I had given up around 10-15 seconds stopping and looking for the proper route, so I floored it. I had just around a half mile left to the finish and I was burning fuel fast. I saw the 2nd place runner making his way up the last hill. I was about 30-40 seconds out. That deflated the tires a bit, but I finished at a good clip. They took a picture of me right before the finish. I was tired.

Manu Ginobili handed me my award. The medal was nice and heavy, but the PR was worth gold.

18:25 - 3rd OA - 1st AG.

zoo run - 2 miles

2009-09-17T08:20:00.000-07:00

I raced in Brackenridge Park yesterday. It was here, under a bridge and along the brick walls lining the San Antonio River, where I learned to fish. On a stone picnic table several feet from the banks is where I learned of my parents’ decision to divorce. In front of the main pavilion is where, for the first time, I crossed the finish line in under 20 minutes for a 5K race. The park is famous for vagabonds and feral cats.

This race only had 60 or so people. Perhaps less. Weekly races don't tend to draw huge numbers, but the quality of patrons was unquestionable. Everyone was nice. Accommodating. People called out to one another by name. At the starting line, an older man balanced on a curb while a shirtless kid stood below him. He was needling him: “I’m going to beat you. Perhaps not today, but some day. Just you wait.” “Ha. Nah uh. You’re never going to beat me," the boy responded. I believed him.

Perhaps because of my similar shirtless appearance, the kid came up to me after I arrived from my warm-up jog – two miles and change. “I’ve seen you at a lot of races,” I called out to break the ice. “Yeah, I run a lot. Were you at the Freedom 4-miler?” I acknowledged I was. “Yeah, everyone was at that one. I think I remember seeing you, too. I finished with a 6:30 pace. You?” After complaining of the number of unaccommodating walkers in that race, I told him my time: 6:19 pace. “That’s fast.”

I previously raced at this park earlier in the year and the starting line was in the exact same place. I lined up as the race announcer began the countdown. “On your mark…” I noticed everyone was facing me; I felt immediately self-conscious. But I quickly realized why – I was facing the wrong way. “Get set…” I leaped across the line and turned to face the opposite direction. “GO!”

The kid took off at a break neck speed. He cut the corner under a twisted oak tree at the start, but I flared to the outside. The roots of this tree had caused the concrete and asphalt surrounding it to crack and swell. It looked like waves receding from a cliff face. Another silent victory for nature. It wasn’t too long until the tree was no longer a focus. I glanced at the watch on the second turn; the kid and I were running around 5:20 pace. This was too fast for me. Too fast for him. I decided to slow down.

We crossed the bridge over the San Antonio River where a man was fishing. Some ducks were patiently waiting by the shore anticipating bread to be thrown their way. Someone was bound to do it. They always do.

We wrapped around the public bathrooms and headed back up the only hill in the entire park. It lasts for 50ft. This is when the kid started to drop back. He didn’t have a watch on, but he must have known he was running through his fitness. I fashioned a peace sign as if to say, “see you later” or “good luck,” or both. I wanted to be a friend to the kid. I wanted to show him that there is always room for kindness – even during a race. I’m not sure the peace sign conveyed that, but it was worth a shot.

After around 0.3 miles we were running on the trails. I’m not as fast on trails as I am on road, but I maintained focus on my turnover. I was following the lead bike and it felt good. As it was my first time in the lead at any race, it felt more foreign than anything. It wasn’t long, however, that I heard the sound of someone on my heels. The kid gave me a heads up before the race: “Gabriel is probably going to win this, even with the stroller.” I listened intently for the sound of wheels. Unmistakable – it was him. First the large front wheel appeared in my peripheral vision, but it wasn’t soon after that dad and son were in front of me. I was surprisingly comfortable with this.

For the next mile or so I remained close. The turns would slow him down slightly, but any attempt to catch up would be met with a surge or two on his part. He never looked back to see where I was, but he must have known. We were racing after all. With a quarter mile left to go, I dropped the hammer. It was in a straight-away that I often run my intervals – I knew the distance perfectly. The previous acute-angled turn had slowed me down to just above 6-minute pace. I started to widen the stride and move the arms more. 5:50…5:40. I was gaining ground, but not enough to retake first. I knew I would come in second, but I wanted it to be close. 5:30…5:22.

I finish 6 seconds behind the man with the stroller -- Gabriel Guerrero. And son. After congratulating each other on a good performance, I discovered he had attended St. Anthony. He was in the class of ’89. I was ’98. His mentor and coach was J.G. Well, I thought, that’s alright then. I saw the kid, Conrad, come in third. He’s only 12 and averaged a 6:12 pace. He’s going to be unstoppable in high school.

After I inhaled several cups of water, Gabe invited me on a cool down run around the park. I accepted and we started shortly after the last racer crossed the line. Along the way we talked of his upcoming 20-year reunion. Had it been that long? He mentioned Father Salas and Dr. Higgins. After forgetting his name for the last two years, I asked if he remembered a Father Hall. Richard Hall. He said no. Yeah, he was a young guy I mentioned. We ran past the kiddie park. The canopy above the carousel housing the fighter planes had a hole in it. The 10-foot high roller coaster was completely rusted out and any remaining paint was cracked and peeling away. As if attempting to flee from the place. We turned the corner and ran away too.

We passed some runners Gabriel knew and I noticed a girl with a Boston marathon shirt. Technical. I’ll be there, I thought. Give me time. We then turned onto River Road. So many feral cats. I used to feel sad for them all, but then I met the kid, Conrad. Before the start of the race we joked about how many there were. He responded, “My dad comes out and picks them up. Gets them fixed. He sometimes releases them back out here, but sometimes he doesn’t.” I nodded in appreciation. There are still a couple left, I thought.

We passed the pavilion and the stone bench where my parents said “I don’t.” Running back over the bridge, the man was still fishing. His 5 gallon bucket was empty. As an inebriated man once told me along Town Lake in Austin, he “needs to get busy catching.” We finished the run and I received a blue ribbon for my achievements. I stayed and clapped for everyone. It was difficult to find who to pay. One dollar. That’s all it cost. Well worth it.

2-miles – 11:31 – 5:46 pace.
2nd Overall

9 film review

2009-09-13T19:12:00.000-07:00

On 9/9/09 of this year, I sat in the front row of theater 9 (really) at the Drafthouse and watched the movie “9.” This is my review of the film. It will most likely be the first of many reviews, but I don’t purport to be a critic per se. I am, however, terribly critical, which should give me all the tools I need.

“9” begins with images from a flashback that seek to figuratively and literally weave a story of creation. We are witness to human hands delicately working on a rag doll--setting robotic eyes into empty sockets, stitching together seams, and painting the number 9 on its back. The rest of the film, however, focuses on telling a story of destruction. The initial images of a room awash in loose papers, displaced books, and warped wood provide an ominous tone that is soon confirmed when the character opens a nearby window. The camera draws back from the window to reveal a landscape painted with thick strokes of apocalyptic imagery: blown out buildings with exposed frames, blackened vehicles, rusted metal and rolling hills of crumbled concrete.

The imagery and artwork were instantly compelling, but the film’s greatest strength was its initial silence. Without life’s background noise, the audience was wholly immersed in the aloneness of the character. The abundance of nothingness caused everything to echo. Loudly. To the extent we could hear the character’s emotions. To my disappointment, however, 9 quickly runs into another numbered doll who provides him a voice box. This meeting ushers in what would become the dominant theme of the film: unbridled action.

Through a series of fortunes and misfortunes (all too convenient to be plausible), 9 finds himself in the company of other numbered, sentient dolls. Although each of these dolls own a particular set of attributes and personality traits (along with different numbers), the development of these characters is driven solely by their reaction and relation to 9. They might as well have never existed before 9 appeared. Still, the director covered all the archetypal bases – there is the over-protective father figure, the muscle, the love interest, the slightly insane yet curiously cute oddball, etc. I’m sure you get it.

Back to the action. Once it started, it never seemed to stop. Although I don’t imagine most one-eyed, saw-wielding robots would offer “time outs” in their quest for ultimate destruction, the pacing was such a departure from the opening first half of the film. The director attempted to slow things down by developing tie-ins – the character was shown newspaper clippings and news reels depicted how the world came to an end – but that just begged more questions and exposed obvious plot gaps. What had started as a profoundly quiet film was growing uncomfortably mind-numbing. For me.

I hope I don’t dissuade many readers with this next comment, but “9” the character is a typical non-heroic hero. Cue in spear-wielding love interest that also acts as party strong-(wo)man. I normally have no problems with this dichotomy, if only the director didn’t belabor the point by having 9 become a victim to the over-produced love at first sight shot – pupils get large, slight gasp, hold the breath, pan in slowly to capture expression. The story pretty much writes itself after this. Still, I couldn't help but think that the asexual construction of the dolls wouldn't really lend itself to a useful relationship. Feeling the love would be an issue. Not to sound crass.

Now that I have spent the better part of this review falling just shy of berating many aspects of the film, I’m going to pull an about face. I thoroughly enjoyed this film. As a fan of anything post-apocalyptic, animated and artistic, “9” sung to my soul. Sure, there were plot deficiencies. The characters, too, may have suffered from lack of depth, and the dialogue seemed to work against itself at times, but I’m willing to look past all that. Why? Because to develop an idea of this nature and produce it as visually artistic as this is commendable. It’s also important. Why? Because very few films can succeed at grasping the human conundrum without featuring a single human being. It challenges us to ponder – can humanity exist without being?

17 and a life to go...

2009-09-06T17:19:00.000-07:00

Holy shitzl. I have never wanted to NOT run more than this morning. Martin came in yesterday, which means we were in a Mexican restaurant having ritas by 2pm. We had 2.5 each. He had an allergic reaction to something either in the chips, salsa, or drink. It made his face red and blotchy. Hilarious -- if not for the not being able to breathe aspect of the reaction.

After watching Longhorn football at the Fox and Hound and having dinner at Dough I had consumed a total of 7 alcoholic beverages including Tequila, Texas-made beer, and Italian wine (Feudi). I was carbed out. And pissed. Drunk.

I woke up after an odd night of sleep. Buster whining. Too hot. Too cold. I wrestled back and forth with the idea of scrapping the long run. After about an hour of this, I quietly laced up the trainers and left.

I opened up well enough -- easy. Thankfully, the detox came quicker than expected. I had forced myself to drink as much water as possible before bed. Note to self: this works. Like clockwork, though, I felt a pain in my gut indicating that I needed to drop a deuce. I remember looking at the watch to see how far I had run -- only 1.8. Funny, I thought, right before "2." I soldiered on.

Somewhere along mile 4 or 5 I started to hit a stride. Clicking off 7:45s, I was fully committed. I then came upon a guy setting out cones for runners. He was nice and acknowledged me with a "good job runner." I nodded and said thank you. He eventually passed me later in his car; I assumed he was heading out to set the next marker. What surprised me, however, was when he stopped in the middle of the road a little less than a quarter mile away. Already another marker? Can't be I thought. In fact, he had stopped because 4 or 5 feral dogs were laying near the street. I had already picked several rocks up and was fondling their grooves in order to become familiar with how I would defend myself. The dogs never attacked. In fact, my presence barely registered a response from any of them. I appreciated their disinterest, but I really appreciated the act of kindness from the guy in the car. I waved and he drove off when the situation appeared safe.

At around the time I turned back, I was oiled and ready to roll. I started hitting 7:30 - 7:35 miles. I was hardly breathing and my legs felt sharp -- transition was smooth. On the return route I ran past scores of joggers and bikers. Although there were a few cordial riders, the rest gave me no reason to withdraw my criticism and bias towards them. If they rode in groups, they chatted one another's faces off. If they rode alone, their seriousness was akin to Floyd Landis in his doping hearings. C'mon people. Perhaps they were still frustrated from trying to fit their fleshy mass into those compression suits. Who knows. I sure don't.

I finished a bit tired, but strong enough that if I was pressed to do 26.2, I could have finished it at an even lower pace. This is the first time I have ever felt this way. Trust me; I have run MANY hung over long runs. Now, on to bigger and better.

17 miles - 2:12:16 - 7:47 pace

Soft Baller - 8.22.09

2009-08-25T06:42:00.000-07:00

On Saturday morning, I played softball. Given the general theme of this blog, however, it was not without a run. Roughly 8.1 miles from house to home, as it were.

I started at 6:30am as 8 miles usually takes anywhere from 55 minutes (when I’m feeling it) to 1:05 (when I’m not). It was 78 degrees with 80% humidity and a dew point that was equally disturbing. My plan was to arrive around 7:45 at Normoyle Park, wipe down, cool off, and get swinging. I planned the route the day before at work – the normal St. Mary’s route through Downtown, out and about in the King William district, and then the West Side. What a story. Ha.

As the sun had barely crested the skyline, not a lot of folks were up. It was quiet. I saw quite a few runners, but they had opted to take other routes. I was alone on the road I chose. Given the high number of abandoned dogs, buildings, and cars, things came to the West side to die. Or biodegrade. Whatever.

The dogs were a bother. Oddly enough, the most prominent breed (if this term even applies) to give chase was the Chihuahua. Scary little things. I never ran without two or three rocks in my hand, but then again I never needed to throw them. Most of the wild dogs were either emaciated or bloated – natural world’s version of the have and have-nots I suppose. It was easy to discern which were female; their swollen nipples hung low and swung in synch with their apprehensive strides. Forced to bear life, but perpetually scared of most living things. Man, that was sad.

After turning on Theo St., I knew it was around 2 miles of boring straight. I dropped the pace to around 6:50 to make it to the softball field in time. Perhaps a part of me needed to leave that area as fast as possible. Regardless, I made it with plenty of time to spare. I was received with a bit of fanfare: “You ran from where?!” – “Not the entire 8 miles, right?!” – “And you can still stand?!” As it was Japanese people asking me these questions, I did my best to downplay my achievements and even apologized. There are reasons I had to do this, but they won’t be included in this entry.

I changed into some dryer technical stuff and put on the soccer cleats. Wrong sport, but they work just the same. As I began the walk from the parking lot, I noticed that another colleague also was wearing a red Adidas top, with black shorts, and white shoes. Damn; I’m going to hear it, I thought. I did.

Despite wide smiles and booming laughter, a Japanese ex-high school baseball players’ seriousness is crystal clear. Drop a ball, and you’ll hear it. Make a good play, however, and you are showered with reserved praise. It’s a rollercoaster and the ride can easily make one sick. After making some plays that ranged from bone-headed to Mantle-esque, I decided to get off – lay back a bit. I don’t like team sports. Never have. Reviewing what I’m good at (track & field, golf, fishing, running, tennis) I realized I didn’t belong on the field. Heck, I was wearing a running top, tennis shorts and soccer cleats. I was all wrong in right field.

Still, I play for Maki. As an ex-captain on a Japanese softball team, she lives for this stuff. Teamwork. Double plays. Single homer to left. I like to talk about it and even believe I have an advantage (given the abilities gained from individual sport), but I’m just not warming up to softball. It doesn’t help when the captain of the Japanese team lined up the players to pick and eventually placed me with the ‘tard’ team. It’s not that I can’t play, but because I’m not Japanese. Conveniently, though, I’m not American, either. This way, he assumes I won’t take the under the bus throw as harshly. Underhanded as it may be.

I played on a team with other Americans. We have a game scheduled for this weekend: Team Japan vs. Team America (f yeah). Some players from the other team came to get a bit of practice in. Although I enjoyed their attitude, some are more serious than others. I hate losing, but I’m not good enough to consider myself immune to it. Still, I made some plays. Left my mark, as it were. I tripled once, got on base a bunch of times, and played defense well enough. Sadly, though, I was making the more impressive stops at the expense of Maki. She likes to yank down the foul line. I stood there waiting like a glorified lamp post.
Here are pictures. Of M and myself. I’ll post later about the results of the “Friendship Match” between countries.

2009-08-13T12:37:00.000-07:00

Give or take a couple of days, I got 13 weeks left.

The San Antonio Rock ‘N Roll will be my second marathon. Although it doesn’t boast an impressive elevation profile like Big Sur, 26.2 flat miles measure the same distance. Still, I haven’t slacked off too terribly much. Excluding the week after Big Sur and the burnout week two weeks ago (I’ll get into this later), I have never dropped below 26 miles per week. Overall, I am averaging 33 miles with a high of 49. I have posted five 40+ weeks after Big Sur and would have continued with this trend if not plagued with a recurring injury. In contrast, I only ever breached the 40-mile mark twice during the spring. Point of departure, I call it. On to bigger and better.

Immediately after the marathon in April, I ran several races of varying length: 25K trail, 10K paved trail/road hybrid, and 4-mile road/sidewalk. I was looking for diversity and I found it. Although I was somewhat happy with the trail performance, every other race fell short of expectations. I just didn’t have it when I needed it. In fact, this string of sub-par performances compelled me to question if “it” was ever in my possession to begin with. I hated this feeling.

This probably led me to abandon the heavy race schedule I had laid out immediately after Big Sur. And then came the heat. Like a righteous plague from heaven, it consumed everything. Merciless in its quest. I became as fragile as a flower exposed to nuclear fallout. Any excuse to opt out of a run or race and I jumped on it – too much wine; not enough wine; date night; night of fighting; Tiger Wood’s leading a tournament; early-morning golf; post-golf frustration; laundry; grocery shopping; picking up antibiotics for my dog’s urinary tract infection. I could have opened up a business creating excuses.

Running is, by its very nature, a self-centered endeavor. Or so my self-pity led me to believe. Around the time that I thought I would never get my groove back, Bob and I began running together. We then joined a marathon training group at a running store. Although I used to discredit these sorts of things (cool people like Clint Eastwood never needed to go on group rides), I discovered that my resolve was stronger than ever. It became much easier to define my individual strengths and weakness in this collective context. Another runner friend of mine mentioned, “I don’t believe you were looking for validation, but calibration.” Point of departure, I called it. Perhaps it’s really just as simple as the old adage asserts: “Misery loves company.”

japan diaries - vol. 7

2009-07-22T07:58:00.000-07:00

My last run.

M and I woke up at six and got ready. She was tired and I could tell she wanted to sleep by the way she kept squinting. It was sweet of her to come along. Her on the bike. For the last time.

We set a course for Asuka based on the directions her father gave us the day before. Asuka is a part of Nara that boasts old temples, lush farmland and a series of nature trails. It remains quite a popular attraction and most of the tourists travel the area on bicycle. As such, the streets and sidewalks were very accommodating.

I enjoyed the looks M and I received. Given my appearance, I must have looked like either a professional runner being timed and photographed, or simply a foreigner chasing a Japanese woman on a bike. I never shied away from saying good morning or hello. Given that we were not in or around Tokyo, my acknowledgements were almost always well received.

We arrived in Asuka after 3 or so miles and came upon a series of paved hiking trails. I stopped the watch and implored M to go on a hike with me. She was already beginning to show signs of fatigue. Asuka draws its beauty from its hilly terrain. And it was draining her. Still, she agreed and we set out into the park.

Only several steps into the walk and we were heading up a major incline. We stopped occasionally for a picture or two. A Buddha statue with an accompanying offering table. An excavation site of an ancient kofun. M swatting at mosquitoes with hormone problems. The kind that make Chinese people over 8ft. tall. Huge.

At the top of this hill was a lookout. The steps were made out of earth and framed by wood. I walked them one by one. No need to rush. I had an idea what was in store at the top. I could hear M taking pictures of me perhaps two or three steps behind. I pretended not to notice. She prided herself on taking shots when I wasn’t aware.

A man, covered in sweat, was sitting on one of the seats fashioned from cut tree trunks. There were many of them. Maybe 9 altogether. No particular order. He was breathing heavily and wearing a bright orange shirt. He had a radio strapped around his neck and seemed to be listening to the news. I heard voices. Not singing. The radio was old and covered in a worn black leather case. Holes were cut out where the single speaker was. My grandparents used to have a radio like this. Always set on the A/M stations. It was played during ironing sessions, or in the workshop. I never really listened to what was being played. I nodded and said good morning to the man on the seat. He responded as clearly as his scratchy radio. He needed water.

At the center of the circle was a larger tree trunk with a series of carvings. Names of the surrounding cities and their corresponding directions. Looking out, houses and buildings, temples and towers rose in the few places a mountain did not reside. The sun was burning the last remnants of the morning haze. But it lingered. Like incense around a gravestone. Cigarette smoke in a pachinko parlor. I snapped a couple of pictures and we made our way down the hill.

After a couple of more shots, M had had enough. She was being assaulted by mosquitoes and, in between all the swatting and slapping, couldn’t appreciate the beauty of the place. It was time to go.

We made our way back to the parking lot where we locked the bike and headed toward Asuka temple. It was closed. Nonetheless, I leaped across the small moat and took a picture of the courtyard over the wall. It would have been nice to visit there during the fall I thought, but I wasn’t to put off about not being able to enter. A corresponding gate picture and shot of M looking tired and bitten and we left.

I stopped to take more pictures of random things and eventually came upon a temple. I ran up the stone steps as M waited. She didn’t know how many steps there would be and didn’t like the idea of heading back into another densely wooded area with, most likely, standing water. After not too many stairs, I came upon a temple with a priest praying inside. I decided to quietly snap a few pictures and head back. He looked serious. And I didn’t want to disturb.

After those last few pictures, M and I settled into the run/bike back and finished strong up the last hill before her house. The one I ran the first full day in Japan. It is even more oppressive when the base comes at the start of the 10th mile. But we made it. And not too much longer we made it home. Hitomi and M’s dad were still sleeping. I cooled off outside while M brought me some water. She asked if it was OK if she left me to take a shower. “Yes,” I responded, “it’s OK. Thanks for coming with me.” “Un,” she responded. And slid the door closed.

japan diaries - vol. 6

2009-07-16T16:19:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a big loss on the pachinko boards. We are still positive for the trip, but barely. It seemed so easy to win the first three days that I thought it must not be a very lucrative business. Not so. Especially after I witnessed other people slamming the machines in frustration. Japanese people.

Outside dumping large amounts of cash waiting for M to get her hair done, her dad and I ate some ramen, gyoza and had some beers at around noon. Thats it. No new pictures.

Here are a few videos, though. One of the automatic golf cart.

Another of the wind playing with the stalks of rice. I could watch this all day.

japan diaries - vol. 5

2009-07-15T15:07:00.000-07:00

Yesterday we went to Osaka. The drive was pretty much non-descript. A couple of toll roads, a bridge or two, lots of small cars, and then a sprawling metropolis home to millions of people living obscenely close together. Par for the course. As it was approaching lunch time, we made our way directly to the sushi restaurant. This was the main reason we were in town. We drove to the dock where fish is unloaded and processed. The air was thick with the smell of fish oil and salt water. The building that housed the restaurant was an architectural hiccup. I didnt even notice it until we parked nearly 20 feet away. I assumed a wrong turn had been made and we were using the parking lot as a turn around. Not so.

The entrance was adequate. There was room for 8-10 people to sit against the wall and only 6 people at the bar. There were 7 patrons when we entered and it never dropped below that. We ordered some beer and their omakase option. They choose what we eat. It started with 5 pieces. Followed by another 5. And then followed by, you guessed it, 5 more. I have never had more than 10 pieces of sushi, but by the end of the last plate, I wanted 15 more. Needed 15 more. Incredible. I have had sushi many times in my life, but I have never had that. Given the large number of autographs from celebrities, sports stars, and even sumo rikishi that decorate the walls, I assume I am not alone. I have a picture of me after the event.

M's dad then dropped us off downtown and M and I went shopping. We first went below ground and shopped in a place called Namba City. There was a Paul Smith store where the shoes were too small and the jeans too tight. I picked up some underwear and am wearing them now. Too tight. We then walked to the 5-story shopping mecca called Namba Parks. I found a lot of things I would have liked to make mine, but staying consistent with theme that is Japanese fashion -- too small. M picked up some Birkenstocks, I picked up a Porter purse for myself (me stealing the thunder from someone who will undoubtedly make this comment when I return) and some Japan-edition Levi 501 jeans. I like the color, and the fact it was half off, but they need work. I plan to sand them down and get them a bit more worn. Good color.

After a tako yaki dinner and some beers, we decided to go to the Pachinko parlor again. I understand no one wins all the time, but I have yet to be witness to that. We walked into a crowded room and took a seat at the older Sea Story boards. M and I were just not lucky. Before we knew it, we had burned through $200. M's dad was not having any more luck either. Down $150. M abandoned her board and moved to another machine, but I stuck with mine. Patience. M's dad slipped into her chair and decided to put in another $100. He got down to only $20 left when I had exhausted my board. We were down nearly $500. That's a lot of jackpots necessary just to break even. He then told me to use all the remaining money in his board and left to find another machine. Find some luck in the joint. With only $10 left, I hit the first jackpot of the night. Its an odd number, so that guarantees another jackpot. I hit another odd. And then another. And then an even, but it turned into an odd. And this continues for the better part of 2 hours. 14 total jackpots. $770. After we split the earnings, I pocket $100. Sweet.

Another run this morning. 5:15am. Sun already risen for the better part of 20 minutes. I started along the path I always run and felt good. Great. I dropped the pace and hit a 7:40 opening mile. I continued with the speed session and strung multiple sub 7-minute splits. Breathing was paced. I followed the alleyway route and listened to the slaps of my shoes echo along narrow corridors. Water flowing from an unknown location to an unknown location. With purpose. Bellows of bullfrogs along the river. Crickets singing to one another. I forgot how accommodating nature could be in such an urban sprawl.

9.5 miles. 1 hour 8 minutes.

M's sister arrives later tonight. We plan to eat and drink a lot. Enjoy ourselves. Finding it more and more difficult not to do this. In no particular order.

japan diaries - vol. 4

2009-07-14T14:17:00.000-07:00

Although I continue to wake up at 5:30 every morning, I have decided to run only every other day. Yesterday was a good day to run. So I ran. M joined me behind on the bike recently dropped off by her aunt. Herself a runner of over three marathons. We started on the same route and although it was M's intention to show me around, I led for the first three miles. I took her through the side streets that I discovered on my first run, which eventually led us past her grandmother's haka. We stopped to wash the stone and the offering cups. And pray.

It took only another 5 or so minutes of running along the river to reach the large toori gate. This time M helped me capture it's size. Only two and a half miles into the run, though. I was craving distance. We decided to turn around and run to the Miwa temple. The route became decidedly historic and the houses aged the closer we drew. The last 1000 meters were uphill. M and I raced. I won.

The temple grounds were much larger than I had imagined. Not only was the main temple impressive, but the surrounding grounds were also noteworthy. I love these places. The smell of pine. Incense. Architecture completely devoid of plaster and cheap materials. The sound of walking on crushed stone. Echoes of a steel bell. The residue of history.

After several pictures and a well-timed bathroom break -- thank the gods -- we decided to continue the run. M's uncle had told us that her grandpa would be on one of his farm lands this morning. As they were not spaced too terribly far from one another, we decided to run/bike to each one. The first plot was only two miles away. We started down the hill and away from Miwa.

More pictures of the temple and surrounding area:

M was not too sure of the location of the first plot. Still, after about five minutes of searching in the area she was certain of we found it. He was not there. Which was not much of a problem. The next plot was less than a mile away. I forgot to mention, I was running low 7-minute miles by this time and feeling great. The run, surprisingly, was not a main focus.

Found. We looked across the length of field to see M's grandpa working in a squat. He had his back to us. With his poor hearing, we were going to have to make our way across the field. As we approached, M called out. He didnt hear the initial attempt, but the second one was successful. In fact, Im sure there was at least one other grandpa in the area that turned around. She was intent.

You sure did well to find me! he exclaimed from behind a beaming smile. He loves his granddaughter and she does he. All the way out here, come come! I've got some great tomatoes and cucumbers for you.

Before we even reached the spot where he was working, he was busy collecting items to give to us. Like my grandpa, he will never know that the greatest gift is himself. His love. But we took his offerings just the same. He immediately went to collect items from his bike. Still riding at 87.

Here, here. Lots of cucumbers. They are really good for you.

But we can't take all of these. There are over twenty!

Oh yeah? Hmm. Well take them anyway. Just throw away what you cant eat.

Grandpa!!

Logic will always find defeat in the arena of kindness. M took eight. He then sat down in his tomato garden and began picking the ones that were ripe. He carefully selected them. M squatted next to him and kept him company. We then received a tour of his plot. Azuki beans, watermelon, cucumbers, cantelope. There were much more planted, but my understanding of Japanese food stuffs is weak. There were also insects I had never seen as well.

After promising to watch some Sumo and show up to a farmers event on Friday we left. He did as well. M couldnt have been happier. We set a course for home and I started clicking off some really fast splits. We stopped at a convenience store and picked up breakfast. Another great run.

More pictures:

japan diaries - vol. 3

2009-07-13T17:59:00.000-07:00

9:17. Our tee time at the Yamato Country Club outside Tenri-city was set. At approximately 7:00am, we left the house and began the nearly hour-long drive in the mountains. After a number of dips and turns, climbs and falls in an ever increasing green landscape, we finally reached our destination. I was once told that Japan owns less than 40% of land available for proper settlement. Humans need space. So where would one create a golf course? On the tops of mountains. Naturally.

Initial reactions were tempered. I have lived in Japan before. I have golfed a number of times. Driving up and dropping off our clubs was like any other place. The gentleman's locker was nothing special either, although I was surprised they did not allow smoking. Heck, you can light up in the maternity ward in this country. I was curious to understand why it was off-limits here.

We had coffee in the cafe and made our way to the cart. Things became novel quickly. The cart, for starters, is fully automatic. In fact, the wheel is locked. It's impossible to move from the track. It follows the course at a pace so slow at times that I am sure it was done on purpose. But after several very steep inclines/declines, I realized this was necessary in terms of safety. Always first. It came equipped with a CB radio (I didnt shy away from this picture), individual space for putters, multiple baskets, Suntory cooler to house individual water bottles, water-proof seats, and every possible information necessary for one to score their good/bad day.

Given the location, the course rolled and banked and boasted elevation changes on nearly every hole. It offered breathless view after view and the few gasps of air I did manage were reserved for expletives. It was terrible difficult. Actually, it was mainly different. Unlike America, Japanese courses do not celebrate the power game. The term "smart golf" does not exist here because there is no other golf that could be played and remain effective. I shot near double bogey golf for the first four holes and then it clicked. A couple of well-shot 3-woods, some chips, and I finished out with 5 consecutive pars.

Time for lunch. Right. I had been told that most players in Japan take breaks between the front and back nine, but I didnt expect it would be mandatory. Regardless, there is nothing like lightly-breaded tonkotsu, curry, rice and grilled vegetables to recharge the cells. And beer. Two of them.

I opened up with 3 pars in 5 holes, but another beer mid-round and my bad habits began to spill out. Still, playing with M's dad was one of the most comfortable things I have ever done. Although M had hyped up my skills, he never questioned why I was falling apart. In fact, he made it a habit to excuse my poor shooting before I had the chance. "The fairways are too small in this country; oh, I made you practice too much at the range yesterday; the grass they use here is really difficult -- I cant imagine what you would look like when you get used to it." Apprehensive play he wanted to avoid. Just not fun he said. It reminded me of Dad. Victory in the small. Pin high. Straight down the pipe. Perfect line. Perfect time.

More pictures:

This incline was over 30%. It's also a great tool shot.

japan diaries - vol. 2

2009-07-12T14:10:00.000-07:00

Late morning and early afternoon yesterday were reserved for haka mairi (visiting family grave sites). Although I have accompanied others on trips like this, my connection with M and the manner in which her mother and grandmother passed away made this special. I watched as M and her father washed the stone and laid offerings of tea and coffee -- drinks that both of them enjoyed in life. After the flowers were watered and repotted, we lit some incense and prayed. All I could muster was a hello, yet M's dad seemed to realize that. "Her mom would have loved to meet you. I couldn't even imagine." My day was made.

We then drove to M's grandpa's house and met her uncle and aunt as well. Although quite nervous at first, the welcome was so warm and genuine that I almost forgot I had never met them. The uncle is major Karate instructor, but has turned to boxing recently to stay fit. He is not able to drink alcohol for the next two weeks, but we never really discovered why. The aunt is a runner and it didnt take long to discover that she is an enthusiastic host. There was no way she could have known we were coming, but she had prepared a whipped cream, almond, and blackberry pound cake "just in case." We were also offered cantelope and blackberries that were grown in grandpa's garden. Delicious.

M's grandpa mirrored my father's dad to the point in raised a near painful dichotomy of feelings within me. He couldnt say enough about how happy he was that I was so proficient in Japanese, but although I worked so diligently over the last 10 years to endeavor the language, I did so at the expense of learning Spanish. I never was able to understand my grandpa in his native language like I understood M's yesterday. It hurt at first, but then I began to realize that although I may not have remembered/understood all the words my grandpa used, I could never forget the feeling of his course hands holding mine crossing streets or walking through a flea market. Or the way he made me and my brothers laugh. A curled finger against the strength of all three of us. A smile during the darkest times. Shoulders and arms that held an entire family together.

After the visit we went shopping at various stores. I picked up a knit hat and some golf shorts. Although I enthusiastically looked for items not available in the states, I increasingly discovered the reason why -- pretty over the top stuff.

We returned home, watched some Sumo and then went out to the driving range. I hate the ranges in Japan as most all are infested with mosquitos and force the player to hit off mats. This one was no different, but I still managed a good time. I shanked a lot because of the mats (for some reason), but had a great time. We hit a lot of balls. Had iced coffee and cooled off with cold rags a number of times. M's dad hits a good ball. M was having issues like me.

Dinner included high-end meat purchased from a store in town. We grilled it ourselves in the"shabu shabu"style. Delicious. We had beers and then I made the mistake of getting in the automatic chair. Again. Asleep in less than 5 minutes.

Here are more pictures of M's house.

RAMEN!!!

japan diaries - vol. 1

2009-07-11T15:26:00.000-07:00

I'm here. Japan.

We arrived without much fanfare. The flight was long and somewhat cramped, but it would have been useless to assume it wouldn't be. Instead of listening to music or playing on the iPod, however, I read. A lot. I started with The Road by Cormac McCarthy and found it nearly impossible to put it down. In three hours, I had finished it. Beautiful, haunting, visceral. This immediately catapulted into one of my favorite books of all time. Thanks, Martin.

Back to Japan. After waiting in line with all of the other foreigners, we exited and picked up our bags. No problems. Before exiting, we swung by a Customs officer and he asked what was in the golf case. "A pair of golf clubs," I responded in Japanese. He freaked out. That wasn't the first time that happened, and it wouldnt be the last. That day.

In the car ride back to Sakurai from the airport, we talked about Toyota, eco-friendly marketing, and golf. I immediately took a liking to Maki's dad and it appeared he to me.

After dropping off the bags at home and getting a quick tour of the house, M's dad made a reservation at a restaurant located close by. As we intended to celebrate, i.e., drink scores of alcohol, we opted to walk. At 78 degrees, the walk was wonderful. Despite a higher level of humidity, nothing can compare to the oppressiveness of a Texas summer.

15 minutes later, we were at the restaurant. I dont remember the name, but it would take little for me to recall how wonderful the food was. Service is not an issue in Japan. Its always good. I made one of the waitress literally fall to the floor when I spoke Japanese. Although the overreactions are good for a laugh every now and again, it can get pretty old.

We had sashimi (sushi without the rice), grilled fish, squid, sea urchin, miso soup with crab, and several rounds of large beers. And sho-chu. All of it was beautiful and tasted better than anything I have had in the states. Which is why I dont go for a sushi/Japanese food when in America. No. Scratch that. San Antonio.

The walk back was filled with laughs, dim side streets lit by the lights spilling from house windows or a vending machine, and the sounds of a host of animals residing in the rice fields. I was drunk. And I couldn't be happier.

Upon return, we retired to the computer/TV room and began watching golf. M's dad and I began to critique the swings of the Japanese women on TV. It wasnt very difficult. There were some odd looking ones. He had me sit in his automatic massage chair and after playing with the settings, I passed out. Literally. My finger was still on the button that read, 'lower back.

I woke up the next morning to a gray light filling the room. I must have slept in, I thought. I turned to M. She was looking back at me through sleepy eyes, but looked mostly awake. I asked if she could show me around the neighborhood and take some pictures. She agreed. Within minutes, I was stretching in front of the house and playing with the dog, Jin. She got the motorbike ready and secured the camera. The dogs a bit shy, but warms up well and rarely barks. Really more like a string of gruffs. Odd.

We started with some flat sections around the house and near the library. The hills were nominal. Whats great about Japan is that the sidewalks are made of blacktop as well. I didnt have to run on concrete in order to avoid the cars. Still, most of the roads are not much larger than a one-way alley in America, so I found myself in the middle of most streets. During the run, I discovered that it was only 5:20am. Still, the streets had enough people and cars that it felt more along the lines of late morning. Sun rises in the East. Dont forget, I told myself. After around 1.5 miles into the run, M brought me to a large, long hill. At this point, I was beginning to lower the pace and decided to attack. I passed a group of young guys sitting at a park eating breakfast it seemed. They stared. One pointed. And we got a picture of it.

After M took me back to the house, I decided to keep going and went alone. I took a lot of side streets and alleyways. I ran under the awnings of houses that looked hundreds of years old and near temples that were definitely so. At every turn, I studied the surrounding area in order to avoid getting lost. Tanuki-sama, right. Biwa temple, left. Construction guys under the bridge, straight.

When I decided to turn back, I saw a huge toori gate towering over the horizon of roofs. I followed more small streets in an attempt to form as straight a line as possible, and it worked. I arrived under the gate and run through it. Nearly 100 feet tall, it was a great point to make the return home.

I was clicking off 7:20 splits at this point and it felt as easy as a jog. A lot of this has to do with the lower temperatures, but I have to assume other factors were at work. Oh..I was also a bit hungover as well.

I plan to open the blinds and read in front of the garden. Later we are scheduled to visit M's grandpa and watch some Sumo. Perhaps driving range later in the evening. Perfect.

freedom, four miles and misfourtunes

2009-07-06T10:19:00.000-07:00

Coming off a full day of sun “bathing” (read: burning) and water-skiing the day before (on two skis, which is infinitely less cool than on one – I have Meghan to thank for showing us that), I kicked the 4th of July weekend off with a bang at the “Freedom Day 4-miler.” Shameless idiom aside, this was my first SARR-organized event. I had heard they were a professional bunch and often brought out a sizable crowd to their events, but this race was terrible. Allow me to elaborate.

I showed up early to avoid the parking fiasco that this race is famous for. Like, 2 hours early. Although I entered the park (Woodlawn Lake) and found a spot without a problem, I almost immediately began taking offense to the scene before me: countless broken bottles littering the streets, the ubiquitous used diaper, people passed out on mattresses outside their tents (camping in anticipation of the fireworks show later that night), wild dogs mingling with chained dogs, and men and women already three Bud Lights deep. You just know these witless fools are saying crap like, “It’s 5 o’clock somewhere!” under the assumption that this is sound logic. Cursed Margaritaville.

Perhaps it was too early, but the volunteers at the check-in were not very jazzed either. Behind glasses that were too small for her face, a portly lady dispassionately gave me a form to fill and said, “Now if you’re an XL or XXXL, you can have a shirt for this year’s race. If not, you’re going to have to deal with last year’s.” I wanted to ask what happened to XXL, but in the end I decided to deal.

Although I felt good on the warm-up jog, 50+ miles over 7 days coming back from injury left me apprehensive at best. I decided to I would go out at around 6:20 pace and see if I couldn’t get something rolling. I met up with Bob during the warm-up and went over strategies – he was looking to do the same.

I lined up next to the starting mat (chip-timed) at the front of the crowd. Since all the high school and collegiate runners were back for the summer, I knew I wasn’t going to finish in the top 10, but it didn’t matter. I’m ambitious. Sue me. After some attempts at jokes on the foghorn by the race director, the gun sounded. Bob and I got out quick and made the first turn at around 5:30. We then settled into 6:10s when some space opened up. The pace felt right and Bob acknowledged this. Slightly uphill, we continued at this speed until we were dealt a 180 degree cut-back. I hate these things, but at least it came early. Almost immediately after this, however, my legs started to grow tired. Wow. Way too early for that crap.

First mile was deece at a 6:18 pace, but I could tell I was starting to fade. Like I sort of assumed – but mostly ignored – my legs were dead from the high mileage week before. I shifted gears and told Bob I was dropping back. I wanted to maintain around 6:30 and see if I couldn’t recover; I did exactly that. 2nd mile – 6:31.

After looping the lake, we came upon the slower racers. Although I generally run faster when I have a crowd, these kids killed all my momentum. The next 1.5 miles was a mixture of dodging, swerving, wide-outs, dead stops and the occasional burst of speed. It was seriously f’ing with my mental state. I was pissed. I was tired. I questioned why I have such bad luck with race venues.

At the point I was about to decide to scrap my “soft goal” (i.e. if I’m a softie that day, this is my goal) of 25:30, a female runner passed me like I was stopped. I blurted, “good race!” And she followed with, “you too.” That was all I needed. I pulled in tight behind her not unlike a “playa at da club” and drafted. She was flying. I looked down at the watch to see a 5:xx pace flash back, but decided to ignore it.

After about .2 miles of this affair, I dropped her. I pushed it. I opened the stride and leaned forward. I was starting the kick around .7 miles out. I was catching back up to Bob and could see him flaring way out and running on the grass instead of pavement. I followed his lead and found a groove on the outside. I continued this for the remainder of the way and finished with a decent kick. Final mile 5:42 pace. A bit short, perhaps, but hilarious how much I had left.

I need to discover a way to maintain intensity throughout the race. Next, I need to find a race I can do this without worrying about stepping on dog/baby crap half-way through. It’s nice to run in a weak age group, though. I brought home some hardware even though I finished 34th overall.

I also got a free hot dog. In pure San Antonio fashion, however, the lady serving the dogs offered me 3 stating, "oh you definitely earned these today!" I kindly refused. My punishment was this picture. Trying to smile, trying to swallow...rich.

Results

Brooks Ghost 2 & Launch Review

2009-07-01T11:16:00.000-07:00

--Updated from RA log entry--

I tried on the Ghost 2 yesterday at RWS and wasn't thrilled with the updates. For starters, Brooks decided it would be a great idea to beef up the arch support from the original Ghost. Although my left foot felt fine, there was a marked “lack of room” in my right foot as the insole pushed into my arch. In their bid to get a more “secure” fit, I think they tried too hard. Changing out different insoles, however, would most likely fix the problem. The heel was also slightly raised. It’s not terribly noticeable, but it’s there. The front section of the foot received even more attention: increased forefoot cushioning coupled with a flared out toe box (due to complaints of the shoes’ narrowness).

The color way, however, is awesome; I never turn down yellow and black in a shoe. The hydroflow is still there if you need it and the Biomogo sole is a nice update (improves your footprint both literally [“Ghost” is written on the bottom] and figuratively [i.e. carbon]).

Conclusion: It's definitely "more of a shoe.” Some will appreciate the updates yet others, like me, could do without them. I will more than likely continue to buy up the discounted Ghost 1 until it becomes too difficult to find.

--Launch--

The other shoe I had RWS order was the new Launch. Billed as the true replacement for the Brooks Burn (legendary shoe), I was itching to get into a pair. I was afraid my enthusiasm wouldn’t hold up to reality, but I was pleasantly surprised.

First off, the Launch lacks certain elements that has made the Ghost it’s beefier, i.e., more expensive, brother: no DRB Accel (medial support), no forefoot Hydroflow, Cush pod construction in the forefoot (as opposed to Hyper pod), air mesh (as opposed to ‘element mesh’) and different sockliner. I was unaware of all these details when I slipped them on for the first time, but it was obvious this was not simply a cheaper, lighter version of the Ghost – I had stepped into the reincarnation of the Burn. Like the Burn, they initially felt soft, especially when simply walking in the store. I was surprised, however, to discover how immediately responsive they became when I jogged in them. I decided to pick up a pair.

I went on a 9.5-miler around an hour after purchasing them. Out of the box, they were perfect. Still a bit softer than the last several models I’ve run in, but a very sound shoe. I was surprised how similar they were to the Brooks Burn 3 (got new and cheap off eBay, but I can’t use them on account they are too small). Similar to the Ghost 2, the toe box was expanded to placate wider feet, but this wasn’t a problem. After a warm-up mile, I started to drop the pace and they responded accordingly. Like the Ghost 1, the lowered ride height promotes a mid-foot strike, which is natural for me. The grip is a bit better than the G1s on concrete and asphalt, but I didn’t get a chance to try it out on a wet surface (the G1 is notorious for having poor traction in these conditions).

The color way can only be described as Flash Gordon (almost striking similar blend of red and orange). I assume there will be a lot of people who will consider these “ugly” or “loud,” but I have no qualms about making a statement with my fashion choices – I just have to back it up with an equivalent performance.

Conclusion: Comfortable, cushioned, light and cheap (when compared with Brooks’ other line-up). It’s responsive when I want to go fast and accommodatingly soft when I don’t. I look forward to putting some more miles and different workouts on these. Perhaps I might even live up to Gordon’s call sign.

back on it

2009-06-28T13:31:00.000-07:00

So it appears all I needed was four days off.

Friday and Saturday were as easy as can be. Today, though, was my first "workout" in a while. Bob showed up at 7:30 and I took him on my Downtown - Southtown route. I forgot how enjoyable it was to run with a buddy. It also helps when said buddy is able to click off sub-7 miles when I start feeling frisky.

Bob likes to go fast. I knew this. Still, I always feel like taking it slow for the first two miles of almost any run (including tempos). After forcing a slow start, I let Bob dictate the pace and sure enough we start bringing it down to around 7:40ish -- a quick easy. As the return on South St. Mary's can be terribly boring (long, straight, and almost no cars), I decided to rock what I call a mid-run interval (hold a tempo pace of 6:35 - 6:55 for at least one mile). Although my initial goal was to keep it at 7:10, we never ran anything slower than 7 flat. Whatevs...it felt good to get the turnover out and about.

Nearing the homestretch, we decided to run some strides -- 3 x 10 seconds. Perhaps there was room for more, but we ran out of street before hitting the apartment. Bob was step for step the whole way -- SA RnR marathon training is going to be a lot of fun.

Right.

----Post Edit----

So I went on that double I was flirting with. I'm glad I did. It was the perfect run: breathing, stride, body temp...everything just clicked. My legs were somewhat tired at the outset, but they came around towards the second mile. In a bad (note: good) way. Although I didn't initially want to run a progression, it almost seemed easier the faster I ran.

I immediately began to think what I had changed in my routine. The only thing that was different from recent runs was my diet. I made a strawberry-banana-blueberry smoothie for Maki and me and had it about 3 1/2 hours before the run. I'm going to continue with this to determine if it has the same effect. If so...gold.

I added a photo that describes how I felt after today's double. It's about as perfect as it can get.

run less = less help

2009-06-24T08:19:00.001-07:00

So I’m hurt again. The original self-diagnosis was ‘Achilles pull.’ It then manifested itself into a ‘soleus strain.’ Now it’s more along the lines of ‘tendonitis.’ The area in question is marked by the number “1.” I fear posting this will only draw criticism from peers (“Go to a doctor!”), but I feel confident that applications of R.I.C.E. will relieve my symptoms (this has worked 4 times already with other ‘afflictions’). I’ll do anything, however, to avoid repeating my previous experience at the doctor’s office.

Doctor: “So it looks like you have a bug.”
Me: “I’m pretty sure that’s the case.”
Dr. (after perfunctory checks): “Yeah, well, could be all sorts of things. Drink lots of orange juice and don’t sleep under a fan to help with the sore throat. You checkout at the window before the lobby. Have a good one.”

The orange juice (read: acid) hurt my throat and I slept in a room with no fan to begin with. Still, I struggled through this penance for a week and finally got over it.

Although I would love to give this leg a week, I just don’t think I can make it. I notice myself sighing a lot, eating and drinking things that are decidedly unhealthy, and opting not to answer the phone when I’m doing absolutely nothing. How many days has it been since I hung up the trainers? Two. I know. Helpless.

6.13.09 - flag day 10K

2009-06-23T07:43:00.000-07:00

First 10K. Done. McAllister Park is known for its trails, but I didn't assume this race would be run on them. I assumed wrong. Even though the trails were paved, all the twists and turns led to some random splits. Still, I enjoyed myself.

I arrived at the park around 6:40 and immediately went and registered. Given the flag theme, the shirt was what I expected. I threw the bib and bag in the car and started my warm-up. I ran the opening 0.5 of the course and knew I was going to have to work harder. The course was twisted and there were even a couple of cut-backs. Sigh. I ran back to the car.

Only a mile worth of running and my singlet was drenched in sweat. The humidity was at 87%. Ugh. I decided then to run shirtless. After stretching and doing a couple of warm-up strides, I went over to talk with Matt and met a guy named Lance. Matt signed up for the 5K, so I expected him to run balls to the wall from the start (at 50, dude runs mid 18s). Lance told me he intended to run 6:40s, so I decided I would pace him. He seemed pretty fit.

Although the race was fairly small, it attracted quite a few strong runners. I came in wanting to run something close to my last 4-mile tempo (6:37 pace). If I could run a conservative opening 5K, I didn't think this would be a problem -- there would be someone to reel in towards the end. We all lined up at the front and waited for the guy holding the watch to say "go." He did. We went.

The first mile was the same: jostle for position and let the too-fast crowd have their glory. I tried to keep on Lance's shoulder, but he was starting to pull away. Although we were in the high 6:20s, he said he felt good. I held back and focused on steady breathing and a comfortable stride. Something around 6:35 or so. That's when the trail started to twist and turn and I dropped off the pace. Still, I was doing OK.

I was passed at mile 2 by a strong looking Masters runner. After a lot more twisting and turning, we emerged from the woods to a long straightaway. I opened up a bit here and dropped the pace down towards the 6:20s again, but it didn't last long as we had to cut back 180 degrees after about a 1/4 mile or so. For some reason, that threw everything off. It took me a while to get my turnover going after coming to a near dead stop.

I crossed the 5K mark at almost exactly 20:45. I was hoping to rock a sub 20:30, but I had run too conservatively. Despite this realization, however, I continued to run defensively for the next two miles.

Around mile 4.5 or so, I caught up to 3 runners. One of them was that older guy who passed me at mile 2, and the others were a couple of guys who passed me at the start. I was pushing the pace, but could tell they were trying to fend me off. I hung back during the woody section and remained patient. As soon as we emerged into the straightaways, though, I made my move. I picked off an older runner first, and then set my sights on a guy who looked like he could be in my age group. As we approached the cut-back, he swung far out and I took the inside. I immediately burst into a sprint to pull away, but he surprisingly slowed to a jog (as if letting me pass). Runner 2 -- down. There was only one left.

I knew I had left a lot out there as I started to drop the pace down into the 6:00-10 range comfortably. I was pumping my arms, breathing hard, and closing the distance. With about 0.2 miles to go, he turned around and saw me. As my element of surprise was gone, I had no choice but to drop the hammer. I pushed it to 5:20ish pace, but so had he. As he had a 50 meter lead on me, I knew I was going to have to dig REAL deep. Although I eventually got within 10 meters, I knew it wasn't going to be enough. If I really wanted to beat him, I thought, I should have ran harder earlier. With 20 meters left to the finish, I gave up the pursuit.

I ended up running a 20:27 closing 5K and although the fastest split was the last mile, I was too apprehensive. I treated this like I was running a 10-miler. Whatevs. Good to have an actual 10K PR. Now it's time to break it.

41:14 – PR

Overall – 10/204
Age Group – 3/18

hell's hills 25K trail race

2009-06-23T07:24:00.000-07:00

First trail race. Done.

Started out fast as the route became single track almost immediately -- didn't want to get stuck behind the crowd. Started in 5th and kept that position for the first 2.5 miles. I was passed by 2 different people by mile 3 and then again at mile 4. By mile 5, I reeled in the guy who was originally sitting in 4th. I ran completely alone from mile 5 to mile 10.5. First 5 miles: 40:42.

The course was terribly twisted and very technical. I was engaging all of my core muscles just to stay balanced during the innumerable dips, turns, and inclines. And that was only the first 6 miles. I tried sucking down a GU, but my stomach wasn't having it. I almost threw it up and decided right then against energy later in the run. From mile 6 on, a lot of the course was soft pine needle/packed dirt/loose rock. There was, however, quite a few areas with loose sand that completely sucked the life out of my legs. Ugh. I began to hurt around the second aid station (mile 10.5). When I stopped to fill up my water, I was passed again putting me back in 8th. Second 5 miles: 42:33.

This is when the hills came. In droves. Unrelenting. Two back-to-back series of around 6 hills completely took whatever energy I had left and crushed it. Around mile 11 was the first walk (5 seconds). I started the geriatric shuffle shortly after that, but was able to regain form on the flatter portion. Still, there was very little flat in that course. The loose rock made the climbs even worse, and the descents more dangerous. Oh yeah...this is about the time it hit around 82 degrees. I walked 2-3 times after this and for always less than 15 seconds, but I was struggling. I wanted fuel, but my stomach was being a bitch. At around the time I decided I couldn't take this crap anymore, the downhills started. I floored it. I was pushing 6:30s and then it started to flatten out. And then climb again. I was about to start another walk when I noticed some flags; I had only 800 or so meters left to the finish. I punched it and was able to hold on to 8th place. Last 5.5 miles: 44:25

2:07:40 -- PR (impossible NOT to on a first)

Overall - 8th

2.21.09 – ‘diploma dash’ – 5K city championship

2009-06-23T07:10:00.000-07:00

Given the prize money, this race usually boasts a very strong field. This year was no different. Regardless, coming off a series of good training weeks and races, I felt comfortable lining up behind the likes of Keating, Hunter-Galvan (former Olympian) and Keena. I was looking for a sub-19 and knew this crowd would set the pace accordingly.

After the initial sprint out of the gates, I settled into a solid sub-6 pace. I intended to run this until around the first major turn, but I felt good and rolled just behind the lead pack. After about 0.5 miles in, three or four runners started to pull away and that’s when I decided to cool the jets. I was still on the heels of Galvan (consistent 17s for the 5K) and knew that this would only end up hurting me later.

The course was billed as “flat and fast,” but the first mile was nothing but rolling and somewhat challenging. I hit a 6:20ish split and panicked because the intensity felt somewhere between high 5:50s and low 6s. Still, it helped that this was on the campus of UTSA. Since I went to this school for 3 semesters, I was familiar with the layout. I knew the remaining portion of the course would be flat and slightly downhill, so I attacked.

5:37 for the second mile was ridiculous, though. That wasn’t me. I don’t run those splits comfortably and it showed. I started to struggle towards the end and was passed by a couple of strong masters runners (notorious in this city). As I approached what I believed was the final turn, I began a kick of sorts only to realize I was off by about .3 miles. Although my turnover was still somewhere in the low 6s, mentally I was done.

When the finish clock came into view, it read 18:3x. Realistically, given the early kick, I was about 30 seconds out. Lord knows I’m a realist, but I decided to give it a go. I started to spread it out and pump the arms. I focused on a couple of nearby runners and just gassed it. I looked back at the clock with about 100 meters to go and it read 18:40. I knew I had it licked, but I sprint like a fool anyway. When I crossed the finish line, I pumped my arms and let out a victorious, “Yatta!” Why Japanese? I’m not sure. The spectators laughed at my enthusiasm. I would have too.

18:53 – PR

Overall – 29/912
Age Group – 2/55

give it a minute...

2009-06-23T05:48:00.000-07:00

as I get the feel for this site.

big sur race report

2009-06-23T04:33:00.000-07:00

Fists clenched, spittle flying from the sides of my mouth, I ran. I could see the finish line. I was almost there. The pain in my calf was not going to beat me. 8…9. Not this time. 10…11…22:22:12. Done. My first official 5K PR. The date was June 28, 2008.

Nearly 10 months and six 5Ks later, my dad and I arrived at the San Antonio airport with just enough time for the automatic terminal to tell us we were late for our plane to Monterey, California – we were going to run the Big Sur Marathon. After looking confused for nearly 2 minutes, one of the attendants took pity on us and printed our tickets. The flights, however, were completely forgettable. I remember some mountains, an attractive flight attendant, and the flat stench of cheap vinyl and recycled air (I hate airplanes). I tried to sleep – didn’t happen. I remember trying to solve a crossword puzzle in the airplane magazine, but I gave up after I correctly guessed the word “zephyr.” Although the instructions stated to take the magazine if the boxes were filled in, a Costco-sized bottle of Febreeze wouldn’t be able to get the smell of coach seating out of my bag.

Upon arrival at the Monterey airport (the naval of the aviation industry, by the way), we located my bags (which arrived before I did…long story) and jumped into Kiran’s rental car. I sat in between Nate and Naya and would enjoy that position for the remainder of the trip -- there’s nothing like hyperactive kids in stereo. And if these guys were the music, Kiran’s driving was the bass – the hard, heavy thumping kind that resonates in your chest and makes you sick. I was glad, needless to say, to arrive at the hotel.

The main lobby/bar/restaurant at Carmel Valley Ranch boasted huge floor-to-ceiling windows. They beautifully framed the surrounding landscape while offering an interior that was quiet and minimal, yet sophisticated and vibrant. This juxtaposition, whether intended or not, worked very well.

We walked to our room located near the lobby (and in close proximity to Kiran and Elizbieta’s), but we discovered it was a suite. As we didn’t need a dining room, nor would we even appreciate the fake books and flowers, we decided to move into something smaller. Our “other” room was located well across the property, but I didn’t want to imagine the barrage of comments that would be made if I, a future marathoner, complained about walking farther. Sure it was smaller, but it fit in terms of price and privacy.

We decided to have dinner at the restaurant located on site – Citronelle. The chef, come to find out, is the somewhat famous Michel Richard (I’m guessing his name is not pronounced like my brother’s “Richard”). In between hearing stories about Vampires and Ghouls from Nate (he purchased a new book), I started with one of Michel’s signature dishes: Lobster “Begula” Pasta. It came in a small watch case-looking tin and had lentils, squid ink, butter and lobster. I can only imagine what sort of choice French words Michel would have for me if I described his dish like this to his face, but I’m not a food critic. I did, however, enjoy it on many levels. Nate thought it was “monkey brain soup,” but I assured him it was not. He seemed somewhat delighted, but more disappointed.

I then had the sake-miso marinated Sablefish – wonderful. The highlight, however, was the Crème brulee: vanilla bean cream stacked on flaky pastry glazed in caramel with a blooming strawberry on top. I have never had better, but that did not stop me from trying (I made it a habit to have this dessert every night at every restaurant we visited in Monterey).

The next morning we awoke to a still sea of blue trees and encroaching fog bank. We decided to go on a warm-up run around the area and began with a tour through the golf course on site. Along the way, we ran past some deer and a congregation of wild turkey on one of the greens. The mountains to the West prevented the wind from entering the Valley, so there was not so much as a breeze that morning. We continued the trek though the course and then headed back up the hill leading to the lobby. The hill was steep and long. It hurt.

After a shower and shave, we headed to the nearest town. Carmel boasts a myriad of shops that sell everything a tourist could ever hope for: shells, Kincade paintings, boating shoes, and $250 outfits for their children. We decided to have lunch at an Italian restaurant run by Spanish-speaking individuals. Coupled with the huge party of Korean nationals that came in before us, it felt like as if we were eating at a UN cafeteria. The gnocchi was good; however, if not for this report, I would have never written home about it.

Dad and I started to psyche each other up once we returned. I voiced all of my anxieties, but he responded by disregarding each and every one. He called them “nerves.” It would be hours later until I realized he was right. Again.

I started with the preparations. I placed everything in a corner: shirts, shoes, socks, timing chip, arm warmers, hat, and jacket. I remember cursing the size of the sweat bag (too small), which was a clear indicator that I had over-packed – I cut back. I then pulled out some moleskin and started to tape up my pinky toes and middle left toe. I made sure that the Body Glide (anti-chafing) was out and that all toiletries were readily accessible. Race was practically half-way over.

I feared that I would sleep in, but only two hours in and I discovered that that would not be an issue. Starting approximately at 11:30pm, I woke up every 10 minutes until the alarm went off at 3am. Despite this poor night of sleep, one would be hard-pressed to find a person more awake in the entire resort. I put on my clothes, brushed my teeth, cleaned my ears, got down on my knees and prayed for nature to call. After I waited a bit, she did.

We met up with everyone in front of the lobby and crammed into one car. At this point, I might as well have been drunk – the ride was a complete blur. The only thing I remember was that Kiran drove so close to a car that when it pulled over to let him pass, it blinded him with its lights to show in obvious disdain. Nevertheless, Kiran’s aggressive adherence to punctuality got us there on time. We parked and walked to the bus.

I walked ahead of the group, with dad, and found a bus that was nearly full and had a sign that read, “Relay Leg 4.” I passed it in favor of the empty lead bus, but as I turned to call the group, I discovered we were alone. I attempted to backtrack and find them, however, dad broke away to ask one of the drivers where he could relieve himself. “Umm…there’s a side of a building over there,” the long-haired, Twisted Sister of a driver stated. As dad took off, I remember thinking, “I hope he at least picks the most inconspicuous side.” I boarded the empty bus and took a seat. The leg room was just as horrific as I remembered. How hilarious would it be if I cramped up on the bus ride to the marathon? My smile became stoic as the silence in the bus grew louder. I was quickly thinking myself into a panic; I needed the group.

On cue, the gang emerges in the doorway. Elizbieta was sarcastic: “So, Paul, it appears we had the ‘wrong bus.’” I tried to explain the situation, but it was still too early in the morning and my wits had not shown up. Dad did, though, and he took a seat next to me. We talked about my high school days for a bit. We pretended to sleep. We were ready to go.

The bus ride alone was worth the price of admission. Although I could have done without the ladies to the right of us talking so passionately about nothing, or the dude behind me who continued to jam his stubby little knee in my back the entire trip, it was almost spiritual. I looked out the window the entire time (as I am wont to do in anything that 1. moves and 2. has a window). I caught the shadows of redwoods, of tall pine trees, of sand embankments, and the occasional glow of an animal’s eyes. I tried to follow the elevation changes in order to get a read on how much the race was going to hurt, but I decided against this after a short while. I looked to dad a few times and occasionally his eyes would be closed. I knew he wasn’t sleeping. I could tell. Our minds were busy racing.

Upon arrival at the starting area, dad and I became quickly separated from the group. I knew this was going to happen, but wasn’t bothered in the slightest. The place was packed. Those who arrived earlier than us had already found a curb or patch of grass and established a home base of sorts. By the look of things, people had been there awhile.

Nature must have a thing for me, I thought, because she called the minute we started to queue up for the porta-potties. As we waited, I saw a girl enthusiastically enter a recently vacated commode only to exit even quicker. “Ew,” she stated, “someone is going to have a pretty rough day on the course.” Those who were close enough to hear took her word for it and remained in their respective queues. Still, though, based on the awkward silence and glances from some of the runners, there must have been a couple of people who wondered how bad it actually was. I wasn’t one of them.

Now, I don’t want to stay on the issue of bowel movements, but anyone remotely close to me knows how this has been an issue on my long runs. For the first four long runs (14, 16, 15, and 18), I have had to “go” at least once (almost always around mile 8). I assumed this would be no different during the marathon, so instead of fearing the poop, I embraced it. To be more honest than I should, I started to practice going to the restroom mid-run. I even focused on getting these “shit splits” down to sub-9 minute (mile included). Although I failed the first time in a 14 miler, I was stamping out some impressive times in the later runs. My PR: 8:43. With wipe.

Needless to say, I expected to answer some calls on the course. But there I was, entering a porta-potty about to deal with my 2nd number two of the morning – I was thrilled. I exited the pot confident, refreshed, and smiling from ear to ear. The sun was beginning to rise over the mountains, the trees were taking form, and I knew I was going to have a great day.

Dad and I made our way to the coffee line shortly after that, but I had no intention of becoming caffeinated. We talked with a girl who was running Big Sur for the second time. She was nice, but more importantly not overly enthusiastic as a lot of runners can get before a race. She said her goal was to finish; I said my goal was 3:30. She smiled and said, “Go for it.”

After what seemed like three hours in line, I decided to get into my race gear. I took off the beanie and put on the Asics hat. I placed the sunglasses on top and packed my zipper pocket with 4 GU packets – junk in the trunk. I then took off the wind pants and jacket and stuffed it all in the sweats bag. I went to the van, wrote my bib number on the bag and then wrote Maki’s name in Japanese on my bib. She was coming with me whether she liked it or not.

20 minutes before the start…“5 to 6-hour finishers…5 to 6, start lining up!” screamed the race director. At this point, we were a little more than halfway through the line. As we approached the front, another runner flatly stated, “There’s really no need for a line, there are tables over there serving water and fruit.” I grumbled a bit and embarrassingly walked to grab some water; the woman was right, no need for a line.

15 minutes before the start…I found a 2’x 1’ empty space along a curve and started to get ready. I checked my laces – double-knotted. I checked my bulging fanny – all 4 GU packets secure, zipper closed. Arm sleeves – on. Sunglasses – still there. I opened the 5th packet of GU I was carrying and downed it like an Herradura shot. I drank both cups of water and ditched the trash. Let’s do this thing.

10 minutes before the start…I start heading over to the starting line, but noticed a lot of runners were not even near the staging area. As I wanted to start immediately behind the seated group, I waited and stretched. As I started to really feel a good pull in the IT band, I felt something even better: “nature.” Again. I attempted to head back to where the magic initially happened, but the lines were too long. That is when I looked to the left and noticed a semi-hidden group of porta-potties without a single line. The sun wasn’t out quite yet, but I swear there was a ray of light shining right on them.

5 minutes before the start…I made my way through the crowd and lined up in the sub 3:30 corral. Although the runners lined up shoulder to shoulder immediately behind this corral, I had more space around me than during Sara’s yoga class. It didn’t seem a lot of us in the front were confident enough to commit to the 3:30 thing, but I simply didn’t know better. I saw a couple of people from the blog scene in front: Scott Dunlap and Bob Hearn. Bob had just come off a negative split 2:59 at Boston 6 days prior and Scott, well, his idea of a race usually starts at the 50K distance (has a couple of 100 milers under his belt). “Whatever you do,” I repeated to myself, “stay behind them.” I talked with a father of a boy who couldn’t have been older than 15. It was his first marathon as well. I turned to attempt to look for my dad and in less than a second, I noticed him standing on an embankment to the left. I didn’t wave because I knew he wouldn’t see me. Still, I saw him, and that was enough. I was ready.

1 minute before the start…People were still relieving themselves in the grass to the left of the start. Women standing up, men sitting down, I saw it all. But it was time. The anthem was sung by some portly white dude with a hoarse voice. I felt unpatriotic when I wished for him to stop, but I blamed it on nerves. As the race director raised the gun, I felt my muscles tighten. I looked down at the pavement and noticed every crack. I then focused on my watch: “Don’t forget to push the start button hard enough. Don’t F this one up, Paul.”

3…2…1. Bang. We’re off.

After the gun fired, I made my way with the crowd and passed the starting gate. Our watches collectively beeped when we passed the timing mat signaling the start of over 3000 commitments. I ran through injury, through doubt, and through a lot of nasty porta-potties to be able to run through that starting gate; I was ready.

The first mile was severely downhill. As we needed to run down to sea level, I knew the start would be exceptionally fast, but didn’t expect the grade to be so steep. After establishing some space from the starting pack, I toned down the strides – I kept them small. “Focus on turnover,” I repeated to myself, “these first two are only warm-up.” I looked to the watch: 8:04 pace. Perfect.

Although I was barely 0.5 miles into the marathon, enthusiasm had already caught up to people. I was passed like I was stopped by nearly everybody I saw in the first two miles. I, on the other hand, only passed two people. One was picking a rock out of her shoe and another was stretching his calf. I never once assumed that so many people would go out so fast. Surely all of these people had run a marathon before, I thought. Surely they are not as ignorant as I am.

After the second mile, people were starting to thin out. I was still being passed, but not at the same speed as before. I didn’t care; the redwoods were perfect company. The skies were still blue at this point (the clouds would come later) and the sun was pouring in between their leaves. The trees quietly cheered me on one after the other and protected me from the wind I knew I would face from mile 5. I shut off the iPod soon after the first mile and listened to the melody of a thousand feet slapping the pavement. As we all started to settle into pace, strides became similar and it fashioned a familiar rhythm of beats. This was a sign that people were beginning to group up. I clocked a 15:50 opening 2 miles, good enough for 7:55 pace. I was right on schedule, but now it was business time.

I started to quicken the strides and pump my arms a bit more aggressively. I was bringing the pace down slowly and, as we were still heading down slightly through the redwoods, letting gravity do most of the work. I started to click off miles at my next target: 7:40, 7:45, 7:45. I had dropped the group I was stuck with in the first two miles and had passed nearly a hundred people since dipping into the 7:40s. Right before emerging from the trees, I caught up with Bob Hearn. I was apprehensive about running on his shoulder, but decided to pass him if he dropped the pace. I was serious. I had brought my business socks.

5 mile mark – 39 minutes flat (7:50 pace). I was cruising and didn’t feel a thing. The end of the redwoods was signaled by a steep hill that curved to the right. After blowing past it and hitting the second aid station, I tried to search for Bob, but I couldn’t see him. As I attempted to look behind me, I was met with a wind that could sculpt mountains. I knew the fog bank was going to make them stronger-than-normal, but this was spectacular. I lowered my head and leaned slightly forward. I kept my strides quick and small in order to maintain good balance, but I was beginning to panic: “What if it’s like this the entire time?” I knew that even though my watch was spewing splits in the 7:40s, I was most likely running at an effort much greater. I kept at it: 7:48…7:47.

At mile 6, I came upon a guy who I had passed around mile 4. I noticed his burnt orange Big Sur shirt from the marathon the year before and really wished ours weren’t lavender. I made some comment about the wind and he responded, “It could be worse.” I noticed his German accent, but decided to joke first and then inquire where he came from later: “Sure it could be worse; we could be running a marathon.” Not really funny, but he laughed. We eventually got to talking and I discovered he was indeed from Germany. His name was Marco. We then went on to help draft each other through the lowlands. This is also where the downhill ended and the uphill began. It was gradual at first, but then became noticeably steep. Coupled with the wind, I fell off the pace: 7:54…7:58.

After sharing the drafting duties with Marco, I asked him what goal time he had in mind. He stated that he would be ecstatic to secure a 3:45 since he had had little time to train and was coming off a 20-mile long run the weekend prior. “Given the conditions,” he added, “I just don’t see my fitness levels carrying me past anything faster than that. The way I figure it is this: I passed the 3:45 pacer about 3 miles ago, and he has not passed me since, so I must be OK. Ha!” I smiled at the comment, but was completely serious when I thought: “I will drop you like a sack of bratwurst if we start rolling 3:45 marathon pace.” Regardless, we were not. Yet.

Before I noticed, Marco and I were reaching the 9th mile. I remember from the charts that there was a hill that dropped us all the way back down to sea level before the climb up Hurricane Point. Marco and I pushed the pace in order to put some seconds in the bank. This was also the first time that the mountains began shielding us from the wind. We hit the 10 mile marker in a fast 7:24. Talking and pacing with Marco saw me completely lose track of the one thing I didn’t expect to: time. 10th mile – 1:10:27. Give or take, I was 2 minutes over schedule. I wasn’t freaking out. Yet.

At this point, though, I made a tough, but necessary call – I decided against gunning for a 3:22:11. I didn’t calculate the winds in the initial equation, and there was no sense in attempting to make up time in the more difficult latter part of the course. I wasn’t deflated in the slightest, however, as I had a made a good friend and was running a great race. My legs were crisp and my breathing was never once in trouble. I knew I was headed for a good day.

But that is when Marco drew my focus to Hurricane Point: “There it is. Big and beautiful. In roughly 16 minutes if you’re fast, or 17 if you’re smart, you’ll be there.” He pointed to the top, and I decided to look away. It looked nasty. It looked far. It looked glorious.

As we approached the bottom of the mountain, Marco called me to the side of the aid station. I had been spilling liquid all over the place every time I tried to run through one, so I obliged. He told me to properly hydrate and rest the quads from the downhill we just ran. I wouldn’t have listened to anyone else, but I trusted his judgment for some reason I can’t explain. We walked fast for around 15 seconds and then began the ascent. At the very base of the hill, however, were the Taiko drummers. The rhythm matched our stride and I felt rejuvenated. As we passed, I screamed in Japanese “Thank you so much for coming out; I deeply appreciate it!” As I scanned faces for a response, I noticed that a majority of them were old white people who looked at me quizzically. Oh well.

The first part of the hill was the most difficult. It was steep and long and the end was nowhere in sight. Just when you thought the hill was starting to plateau, it would rise again defiantly. This is where Marco and me began passing scores of runners. Strong runners. Experienced runners. We were pumping our arms and legs while keeping our backs straighter than most. We met up with a runner who got everyone hooting and hollering: “Let’s get to work! Wooooo!!!” It had the stink of drunken frat boy, but it took my mind off the fatigue that was creeping in. He hung around for a half mile or so and around the 11th mile marker, he exclaimed, “Whale!” I turned to see a water spray and, indeed, there was the largest mammal on the planet. I didn’t look long; the second mile was waiting.

When my watched beeped to let me know the 11th mile was completed, I looked down to see 8:54 staring at me in the face. I started to freak out: Had that walk at the aid station ruined my marathon? Am I really running that slowly? I decided not to answer too quickly, as Marco was signaling me to make another pass; the walkers were beginning to increase in number.

After about another half-mile up the hill snaking through walkers and runners alike, he turned to me and stated, “ready?” Without having the slightest clue what he was referring to I said, “Sure.” What was I doing? I was placing all my faith in a guy I had only met less than an hour ago. I was pretty sure he wanted to stop, but was surprised when he dropped the hammer and pushed the pace. We ceased conversation and focused on the attack. It hurt. The 8:20 pace for that mile confirmed it, but he said that since the top was close, we would need some momentum once it was crested: “You’ll soon come to find out why it’s called ‘Hurricane’ Point.”

After several false alarms, I saw the top. It rounded the corner and seemed to drop sharply; I couldn’t wait to open some speed on the downhill. As we made the turn, however, we were met with a wall of 40+ mph winds. My legs crisscrossed for a second because I couldn’t control foot placement, but I didn’t trip because I had next to zero forward momentum. Although I have never had to do it before (nor would assume I will get the chance to do it again), I leaned forward and pumped my legs and arms to get some speed downhill. Yes, downhill.

After several yards of slow downhill running, the mountains began to provide some cover from the wind. “This is my chance,” I thought, and I started to increase the pace. Although the race program had warned of trying to “make up time” on the downhill, I knew that if I kept my strides quick and my pace reasonable, I wouldn’t be in any danger of blowing my quads. Although we were rolling 7:30/40 pace, the intensity was minimal. We let gravity do most of the work and focused on putting in a decent opening half. Bixby Bridge was waiting.

As we descended towards the halfway marker, I thanked Marco for helping me with the last “hill.” I also inquired what his personal best was for the marathon. “2:52 in Berlin,” he mentioned, “but it took me a while to get it.” I felt like a chump for even thinking about the “bratwurst” comment. The entire time I assumed I was helping him, but it was the complete opposite. I pressed on: “Well, exactly how many marathons have you run before?” “Oh,” he paused, “over 20 I suppose.” And just like that, my confidence was put into perspective. He must have noticed this, because he quickly stated, “But really, Paul, for you to be able to run Big Sur like this so far is a great sign. I have no doubt that not only will this be the first of many for you, but you will most definitely break 3 hours. Now let’s get down to that bridge.” Heading down; looking up.

I have seen countless pictures of Bixby Bridge, so I assumed it would be beautiful, but the reality defied all expectations. It was almost tragic, insofar as pictures do such an injustice. Still, I remember thinking, “this bridge is a lot smaller in real life.” Before I could really enjoy hitting the halfway mark or appreciate all the sights and sounds of the surrounding area, I found myself at the end of the bridge. Half-marathon split: 1:44:51. Almost 3 minutes off my goal time. I was disappointed, and almost got caught up trying to calculate where I lost it, but the sight of a photographer at the end of the bridge lifted my spirits. I darted to the left to ensure I would get into the shot, and I did, but at the expense of a female runner behind me. Apparently, I cut her off like an 80 year-old Asian woman driver entering a highway – she was not pleased. I attempted to apologize, but she just ignored me. The picture was hilarious.

The next few miles were either slightly downhill or flat, so this allowed Marco and me to stamp out 7:40 miles with engineer-like efficiency. 7:40…7:42…7:44. Before we came upon mile 16, though, Marco informed me that he needed to stop – nature was busy calling me all morning she must have forgotten him. As we pulled up to the porta-potty, he left me stating, “I’ll try my best to catch up in the later miles, but I hope I don’t. Good luck.”

Marco’s parting words spurned me – I downed a GU, dropped the hammer, and attacked the uphill from mile 15 to 16. Although I produced a 7:39, it felt smooth and relaxed; nothing hurt. I had two initial plans: A) If I felt great, I would start pushing the pace down to the 7:30s starting at mile 18. B) If I was in trouble at 18, I would start the final drive at 20 and only run 7:40s. I settled on plan A and began to prepare mentally for the work. It was time.

I came off 17 at 7:46 pace, but was bombarded with wind almost immediately afterwards. I remained patient, but I knew I was losing seconds. At mile 18, my fears were confirmed by an 8:00 flat split – not a great start to the end of the marathon. It could have been worse, I thought, but I didn’t want to wait around and find out – I quickened the pace and muscled through the wind and inclines.

I dropped the pace back down to 7:50 for 19 in attempt to bank some seconds that I knew I would lose in the hills to come. I was passing people left and right (including the girl I cut-off) and I was gaining confidence with each takeover. But just as I would gain steam, I would hit another hill or encounter a particularly disheartening gust of wind. I dropped to 7:59 for mile 20, but didn’t come to anything resembling a wall. I did notice a sign that read, “Phidippides almost stopped his run here,” followed by another later down the road that stated, “but didn’t.” Or something to that affect. Cute.

Mile 20. There I was. Since I had never run past this distance, I was reaching a milestone with every step I took. As I attempted to wax poetic about my achievements, I saw what I had known was coming, and feared: the emergency telephone box. There was nothing terribly ominous about the actual box itself. In fact, its flaky blue paint and wind-battered pole made it look sad and out of place; however, this marked the start of the last 10K. Dad and I had driven this part of the course and noted every major hill until the finish. I remember telling him, “When you see the emergency box, it’s go time!”

Naturally, the start of the last 10K was a hill. After seeing the box, I attacked hard. At this point in the race, I was catching up to scores of walkers and relay racers. After reeling in one of the relay runners and passing him, an Indian guy, he stayed on my shoulder and began pacing me. I asked him how he was doing. “OK,” he stated after trying to catch his breath, “are you in the marathon?” I am, I responded. After wiping a large volume of sweat from his brow he followed up with, “impressive.” In order not to disappoint, I continued to push the pace. For about a half mile he stayed with me, but then dropped back stating, “finish strong.” I decided to do just that.

Mile 21. 7:42. I was still feeling better than most it seemed, but I was beginning to question whether or not I had burned too much energy too early. I would soon find out that this was indeed the case. The end of mile 21 and the beginning of mile 22 witnessed the second greatest single incline on the course: 130ft. in less than a mile. Since attacking the hills had worked up until now, I attempted to do the same here. I failed. My legs started to grow heavy and my turnover became sloppy. I was planting too far to the outside and losing momentum; I was slowing down. I tried to pump my arms, but it felt like I was barely moving. Oh no. Oh no.

The mile 22 split came at just the right time. After cresting the hill, I still had enough sense to run hard on the downhill and came in at a respectable 8:02 pace. I thought to myself: “If I can turn out some low 8s or high 7s, I will be in great shape. Just hold on, Paul” But then that’s when they hit me. One hill. Two hills. Three hills – they just…never…stopped. I was burning all the reserves just to top the hill, and ran too conservatively downhill in order to recover. I was throwing precious seconds out the window. I looked to my watch for my current pace on a particularly bad hill and saw what I had feared most: 9-min miles. An aid station was several yards away and I quickly took my “emergency” GU. When I slowed down to drink water, I felt my legs begin to seize a bit. I tried to run again, but the legs were growing increasingly heavy. For the first time, I decided to walk. Was that it? Was I going to be another runner who ran a “great effort?” Will I joke somewhere that I had a wonderful 20-mile training run? No one will ever see me, I thought. I can simply walk/run it in and blame it on the hills or wind.

I was four steps into the walk when the young guy I started next to (passed nearly 6 miles back) passed me. He slapped me on the shoulder and smiled, “C’mon, let’s finish this thing.” I nodded because I couldn’t muster the energy to respond vocally, but I started to shuffle the feet. What eventually spurned me to begin the run again, however, were not his comments; it was the presence of another force. The kind that has caused cities to both rise and fall and frequently transforms men into both heroes and fools: a beautiful woman.

Mile 23. 8:26. I had been able to perform adequately enough on the downhill portion of the hills to turn in a sub-8:30 mile. Still, the mile marker came at the bottom of the hill, and it took no time for mile 24 to head up again. At this point, I noticed her. She had passed me shortly after I began the shuffle in mile 23, but had slowed down on the following hill. As she had a good pace and looked to be running pretty efficiently, I decided to make her a target. Even though we had a mere 30 yards between us, it took me nearly a half mile to reel her in – she knew when to push the pace and when to run conservatively, which helped me establish a rhythm. Halfway through mile 24 I caught up with her. We took turns running on each other’s shoulder, but never once really talked. I remember us passing a skunk at the end of mile 24 and she said, “Yummy.”

Mile 24. 8:16 and dropping. My legs came back. The intensity of the hills was beginning to dissipate slightly and when I looked to my watch and read 3:09:50, I knew I had this marathon licked. Two miles at 10-minute pace would get me my sub 3:30, but I was looking for more. Although I was still running with the girl, she had dropped behind me about 5 yards. After running through yet another uphill, I decided it was as good a time as any to end our up-and-down relationship – I quickened the strides and lost her on the following downhill. I felt good enough to smile.

Mile 25. This mile was mostly downhill, but the wind made me work harder than expected. Still, my breathing was paced and my stride was consistent. I knew I wouldn’t hit 3:22:11, but I was surprised I was still this close. At the bottom of the hill named “D-minor hill and D-major time,” I heard my watch beep. 7:52 pace.

Mile 25-26. I hurt. I was tired. I was hungry. I was almost done. The only thing that stood in between me and my goal was a long uphill chock full of walkers. I didn’t look up; instead, I focused on a space 5 yards in front of me and just drove the legs. I looked for the sign that my dad and I discovered marked the end of the hills. I didn’t see it. I kept pushing. I kept passing the walkers. I don’t even remember getting my picture taken. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see the sign – Ribera Rd. I gun it.

Mile 26. 7:57. The hill took a lot out of me and I remember pushing close to 9-min miles on the way up, but it was literally and figuratively all downhill after that. I began pushing the pace. 7:50…7:45. I needed to finish strong; I needed to make up some time I lost. 7:40…7:35. My breathing became labored, and my stride started to become wider. At this pace, I thought, I would not be able to run another mile, so I pushed it even harder. 7:30…7:20. I was pumping my arms and my eyes were focused straight ahead. Harder. Faster. Almost. There.

Mile 26.2. I saw the flags. I knew the finish was right around that corner. I was heel striking and struggling, but I was doing all of it at a pace I could handle. With 500 meters left to the finish, I saw a runner around 50 in front of me; I began reeling him in. It took me less than 10 seconds to catch up to him as he was hurting pretty badly. He undoubtedly had a story to tell, but I was too busy focusing on ending my own. 100 meters left – I start the sprint. The thing I had been chasing since January of this year finally came into view: the clock. Fists clenched, spittle flying from the sides of my mouth, I ran. I could see the finish line. I was almost there. The pain had enveloped every part of my legs, but it didn’t beat me. 54…55. Not this time. 56…57…3:27:58. Done. My first marathon. The date was April 26, 2009.