O'Brien the Hunter

One of my 7-year-old son’s Christmas presents was a Star Theater home planetarium, and he anxiously awaited the first night we could set it up after his sisters went to sleep. He wanted to start learning about stars, planets, and constellations, and he studied the star chart while I set the machine up on his bedroom floor.

Unfortunately, the toy was a total lemon.

The lamp’s fuse kept shorting out on us, and the star images projected on the ceiling were grainy and generally indecipherable. We spent 45 frustrating minutes trying to reinforce the circuit, and attempting to discern particular stars from fuzzy images during the brief moments when the bulb was lit correctly.

Finally I said, “You know what? This thing stinks. We can do way better.”

And with that, we put on slippers, walked outside and sat down in our driveway.

We gazed at the winter night sky, and I pointed out the constellation Orion. My son knew about the celestial hunter, whom he kept calling “O’Brien” (I can’t criticize him too much there…his poor name recollection is an inherited trait from me). But he didn’t know the story of the hunter in the sky, and he listened intently while I told him various theories about how Orion came to be fixated in the heavens.

There are several stories about Orion and his downfall. He was a hunter of tremendous skill and strength. He is accompanied in the sky by his hunting dog, Sirius, and surrounded by such prey as Lepus (the hare) and Taurus (the bull).

Common legends have him killed by the sting of a scorpion sent by the gods, although Orion managed to kill the scorpion in battle before dying. The two adversaries are fixed for eternity on opposite sides of the night sky. One rises as the other sets, so they never have to face each other again.

Another tale tells of Orion’s love affair with Artemis, the moon goddess. Artemis was preoccupied with the hunter, and became forgetful in illuminating the night. Her brother Apollo tricked Artemis into killing Orion. Artemis was so anguished that she placed Orion in the sky, and even on nights when the moon shines most brilliantly, it never obscures the sight of the hunter she loved.

In addition to being the largest and most distinguishable constellation, Orion contains some of the most striking stars visible to the naked eye. At his right shoulder is Betelgeuse, a red giant so large that it could fully contain the orbit of Venus around our sun. The star Rigel, at Orion's left knee, is among the brightest in the sky on any given night.

The Orion Nebula, the nearest region of star formation to our Earth, makes the hunter’s sword. It’s gas and dust clouds are constantly examined for hints as to the origin of celestial bodies, and by extension, life on Earth.

Sitting in our driveway, I only mentioned these points in passing, not expecting my son to retain much of the information. My only goal was to give him a sense, to paraphrase Shakespeare, “that there are more things in heaven and earth than in all your dreams.”

I love running under the stars. I always feel humbled by my insignificance in the universe. Knowing the tales of the pictographs overhead, I feel myself in the presence of those characters, and sometimes I sense that they accompany me on my early morning adventures.

Orion would probably love to run with me through the forest on a moonlit early morning, keeping a watchful eye for whatever creatures happen to cross our path. He’d be especially glad to know there are no poisonous scorpions in this area, but an awful lot of rabbits.

As it is, he only watches my pursuits from afar, but he is a constant presence during the winter. Most of my training runs are solo, so in a way, Orion is my most frequent companion as I run mile after mile in the darkness of December through February.

Is it strange for me to feel a connection to a group of stars? It’s really a childlike notion – probably similar to what my son felt after sitting in the driveway with me.

When he went to bed that night, he had a favorite constellation. He'll remember how to say the name soon enough. And now he has a point of reference from which he can later learn about the all the other pictures and stories in the sky.

He’s starting to sense the magnitude of heaven and earth, and develop a sense of wonder about the beauty of creation.

When I woke the next morning, and went running under the stars, I couldn’t help but feel the exact same way.

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Blink

I’m finally reading the book Blink by Malcolm Gladwell.

I know I’m about a year behind the curve in discussing this title, but I’m somewhat stingy about spending money on books, and Carmel Valley is a very small town. It sometimes takes quite a while for our 1,000-square-foot library to have popular titles available.

I’m still 7th on the wait list for The World Is Flat, and it may be another year before I see 1776.

Anyway, I’m tearing through the book in hopes of validating one my most prevalent (and in my wife’s opinion, one of my most annoying) social behaviors: my tendency to make snap judgments about whether or not I like things, and my indifference to supporting such judgments with substantive information.

That’s the whole premise of Blink (subtitled The Power of Thinking Without Thinking) – that making quick, instinctive decisions is not only natural, but it usually proves even more effective than deliberate, contemplative decision-making.

I’ve been making blink decisions for years. In fact, it was a blink decision that got me into running. Sitting on the couch at my girlfriend’s apartment while watching the Los Angeles Marathon for the first time, I immediately thought to myself, “I’m going to do that.”

One year later, I was on the start line, and my marathon career was born.

The thing my wife hates the most is that I make blink decisions with people. I can typically decide within a few minutes whether or not a new person I’m talking to is someone I will grow to like, or someone I will avoid spending time with in the future.

For all these years, I thought I my blink decisions were a character flaw - like I was cursed with this oddball trait that enables me to pick out the psychopath chicks on The Bachelor just by the way they step out of the limo, by the way they introduce themselves, or they way they say “I’m in my reproductive phase – give me a damn rose!” (OK, that last one was easy – but you get the idea.)

So it’s comforting to learn that may not in fact be the case. And you can appreciate my haste to get my hands on this particular book.

Here’s how the premise is applicable to this space: I’m a blink-blogger, also. Have been ever since I started.

Whenever I come across a new blog, I typically decide whether or not I’ll enjoy it before I finish reading the current post. I’ll frequently put someone’s blog on my subscription service after just one reading, or I’ll purposely stay away based on that first impression formed within about 30 seconds.

So far, it’s been a reliable method. Most of my favorite blogs are those that I immediately connected with. Plus, given the enormous volume of blogs out there (Any estimates on this? Are there 100,000? A half-million? I’d be interested to find out), any process of elimination to separate the wheat from the chaff of cyberspace is certainly welcome.

Finally, here’s my outward seal of approval: if I’ve ever commented on your blog, you’ve passed the blink test. There are a handful of other blogs that have passed the blink test too, but I just haven’t gotten around to commenting yet.

A similar standard could be applied to my own blog as well. For those of you who make reasoned, contemplative decisions, just know that I’m really not that multi-dimensional. If you haven’t found what you’re looking for here by now, you’re most likely not going to.

On the other hand, if you are someone like me who makes blink decisions, you’ve probably decided by this point whether or not you like it, so I won’t try to convince you otherwise.

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Napa Here I Come

I’ve neglected to mention yet that I signed up for this year’s Napa Valley Marathon, coming up in March. I have a somewhat star-crossed relationship with this race, which I will explain in more detail in later posts.

The race is eight weeks prior to the Big Sur Marathon, which is the main focus of my training this spring. The timing works out almost perfectly to do Napa as a 90-95% max effort race, to see how my race pace feels and to gauge my fitness leading up to the main event in April.

As recently as one month ago, I didn’t think I would be in shape to try a marathon prior to Big Sur. But I’ve done a handful of 20-milers between now and then, and my body hasn’t completely blown up from ramping up my weekly mileage, so those are good signs.

Plus, Napa’s a beautiful race. Most of the miles are on Silverado Trail, the road that cuts through the heart of some of the largest and most gorgeous vineyards in the world, just as the fields are coming into bloom.

I would highly recommend Napa to anyone looking for a “destination” marathon. Luckily, it’s only a few hours away from where I live, so I usually make a quick weekend trip to do the race.

One of these years I’ll take my wife up with me and stay for a few nights in a nice bed and breakfast, and give the area more of the attention it deserves. We considered it this year, but those types of plans just don’t materialize too easily yet, with three little ones to consider. Maybe next year. Or the year after. Or…well, you know how it goes.

For this year, I’ve got just over seven weeks to round into shape for my first major race of 2006. That might be cutting it a little close, but it certainly sharpens my focus. It’s time to get my groove on.

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Don't Run

Know anyone who is taking up running as their New Year's resolution? My Monterey Herald article from last week serves as a bit of a disclaimer about some drawbacks of the running life. Read it here.

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Jesus of Highway 68

("...and there's nothing wrong with me, this is how I'm supposed to be..." Green Day, "Jesus of Suburbia")

Highway 68 in Monterey County cuts through the "pastures of heaven" between Monterey and Salinas, and is the road I drive each morning to my job in Salinas.

Outside the city limits, a church sits on top of a hillside pasture. The approach road to the church is a long, straight road rising steadily up the hill for about a quarter mile.

It's the perfect place to run hill intervals in the early morning.

Our training group does this workout once a week during the first months of the year, to bolster our legs for all of the hill training we'll do in preparation for April's Big Sur Marathon.

This morning was our first session of hill intervals in 2006, and we did 12 repetitions. During the last few reps, when my legs start feeling like lead, I often glance at the top of the hill and fix my eyes on the church steeple silhouetted against the twilight sky. It gives me something to ponder besides the rising road.

After the workout, when I'm gasping for air at the top of the hill for the last time, I look at the church again, and for me it's a very spiritual moment. The church spire reassures me of a power and a presence in my life far greater than I'll ever grasp in this lifetime. It's a nice reminder before I set off on my cool-down jog.

Then after this morning's workout, I climbed into my car, and the first song that played from the radio was "Jesus of Suburbia" by Green Day.

Now, I happen to love Green Day. I've been listening to this song from the amazing "American Idiot" CD for over a year now. But I never thought I would hear it on the radio.

For one thing, it's over 9 minutes long. For another, there are several swear words. And it's just a very unorthodox punk rock song. Brilliant and intense, sure - but definitely not radio-friendly. Some station manager probably took a risk in playing it in its entirety this morning.

Yet there I was, driving toward Salinas on Highway 68, rocking out to "Jesus of Suburbia", still glowing from the hilltop awakening I had at the end of my just-finished workout.

It was as close to a spiritual moment as I suppose one can ever get while listening to Green Day. The day was starting out as well as I could hope for.

And sometimes when the beginning of your day is so satisfying, the rest of the day just falls into place. Things that normally bother you tend to roll off your back a little more easily.

When I drove past the church after work, still listening to Green Day (this time on my CD), my gaze fell on the steeple again. I gave thanks for the good day, and continued on home.

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Pussycat Peak

Reading about Stronger's trainer workouts and Bolder's indoor triathlon reminded me yet again of how thankful I am to live in a warm climate, with the opportunity to train outdoors all year long.

California suits me very well, for a couple of reasons: 1) I'm a cold-weather wimp, and 2) I hate - I mean, HATE - working out indoors. I would rather run in the dark, in the rain, or even in sub-freezing temps than imitate a hamster in a stuffy, confined area. Treadmills are simply the antithesis of all the intangible things I enjoy about running.

Having said that, there have been a couple of training seasons when I spent quite a few hours on a treadmill, and it suited me very well. And surprisingly, it wasn't in the winter.

In the summer of 2003, and again in the summer of 2005, I was in training for the Pikes Peak Marathon, a brutal trail run up to the 14,110' summit of the mountain and back.

Unfortunately, well...have I mentioned that I live in California? There just aren't any high mountains in this coastal area, with the highest point in Monterey County just over 3,000'. You can appreciate my dilemma.

By my figuring, there was only one way to mimic a four-hour climb up a steady 12-15% grade. I begrudgingly started dragging myself to the gym on a weekly basis to take on my mechanical mountain.

Luckily, the gym has televisions, and my continuing refrain from those two summers was, thank God for VH1. Otherwise, I wouldn't have lasted 20 minutes before collapsing in some mind-numbing stupor and being flung off the back of the belt.

In fact, my most vivid memories of these workouts don't pertain to the runs themselves, but to the videos I saw. This past summer, "Don't Cha" by the Pussycat Dolls ran about twice per hour, and I also got to see Jessica Simpson wash the General Lee several times per day. I mean...have you seen these girls? Oh my goodness. The prospect of seeing those videos helped me get out of bed more than once in the dark, early mornings.

Other videos in heavy rotation were by Fall Out Boy and My Chemical Romance, two breakout rock bands who never failed to put a bounce in my step and help me while away the hours.

Finally, 2005 was the year that Kelly Clarkson became hot. I remembered her as the good-natured, down-home-looking winner of American Idol, but during the summer she totally raised her game. I had to rub my eyes the first few times I saw "Behind These Hazel Eyes" to make sure I was reading the right name at the bottom. The makeover was a pleasant surprise and somewhat inspiring, in a weird way.

I never would have guessed that Kelly Clarkson or the Pussycat Dolls could help me in my preparations for Pikes Peak, but sometimes strange things happen on the way to getting in shape.

I worked my way up to running 3 hours at a 13% grade on the treadmill, and it provided some good carryover for the mountain race. I had successful races both years I ran Pikes Peak, in large part due to the preparation I had done indoors.

I guess what I'm saying is, I can understand how exercising indoors has a certain appeal. Under the right circumstances, the machines become more tolerable, and in some cases can offer benefits that are unattainable in the outside surroundings.

But if someone invents a way to watch Jessica Simpson while training outdoors, well...I think I could probably run forever.

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Still Puzzling

Today was kind of a lazy day.

My first run of 2006 was an easy 7-miler through the neighborhood, checking out the rising Carmel River and all of the swollen tributaries from the nearby canyons.

It rained for my entire run. It's been raining and blowing for about three straight days here. I think I saw some of the neighborhood animals lining up in twos when I was out there.

Our family spent the rest of the day hunkered down at home. We spent a few more hours on Mona Lisa, watching the ebb and flow of the storm from our patio windows.

The kids played outside for a while in their raincoats and boots, and drank hot chocolate with marshmallows inside.

And you know what tastes great when relaxing indoors on on a rainy winter's day? A big batch of warm brownies. My wife and I (OK, mostly I) made quick work of them, and we're making good progress on the puzzle, too.

Tomorrow it's back to the normal grind: work for me, school for the kids, some alone time with Mommy for our frequently attention-starved third child. It's probably a good thing for me, in that I tend to be more disciplined with everything (especially eating) within the structure of the work day.

But sometimes there's a lot to be said for lazy, rainy days.

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