Strawberry Week

It’s springtime in Monterey County, which means one thing. OK, that’s not true – it means a lot of things, but for the purposes of this blog, this week, it means only one thing: strawberries.

Strawberry fields are prominent and plentiful in the Salinas Valley from April through September. They serve as a backdrop to everyday activities in incidental ways that take on more meaning with each passing occurrence.

I’ve had several strawberry-related snapshots in my head I’ve wanted to discuss over the past several days, but instead of including them all in a single long-winded, meandering post (which if you’re a regular reader, you KNOW I’m capable of), I decided to make it more like a recurring theme.

Think of it as an on-line mini-series. I don’t exactly have lofty ambitions – this won’t nearly be as groundbreaking as Roots or as instructive as North and South, or (thankfully) as exhaustive as Ken Burns’s Jazz. But I think I have enough material for a collection of decent posts.

So that’s my plan for the week: the topic of each post will be related in some way to strawberries. Of course, if Thursday rolls around and I’ve run out of things to say or my hit count takes a dramatic plunge, I reserve the right to change my mind. I know that sounds noncommittal, but that’s pretty much as good as I give nowadays. Don’t you judge me.

As for today’s post, I’ll flash back to the Big Sur Marathon.

I’ve already written ad nauseum about the most difficult portion of the Big Sur Marathon: miles 21-24 through Carmel Highlands, where the road rises and falls mercilessly at the point of the race when runners are in their most fragile mental and physical state. It’s the stretch of road where pleasant or strong marathons go to die.

There is, however, one outpost of comfort and relief during this daunting stretch of the race: the strawberry station at mile 23. Runners speak of it in a reverential manner, like travelers who come across a silhouette of the Blessed Virgin in the markings on the side of an abandoned taqueria. Many of them don’t know the station is coming, but their hearts leap with joy and hope when they come across it.

This is a point of regret for me, in that I’ve never stopped for the berries. I don’t know who mans the aids station, where the berries come from, or how many runners they serve. I’ve always been too paranoid about losing precious seconds to eat a handful. I’m also fearful that if I stopped, I might enjoy the moment so much that I would decide to kick my feet up and stay a while.

I do know this: every runner I’ve ever talked to that has stopped for the strawberries considers it one of the highlights of their race. It’s something that keeps them moving through the hardest miles: the knowledge that the strawberry station is ahead, at which point they can stop to recharge their batteries before conquering the final 5K.

I haven’t completely missed out on the strawberry bounty at Big Sur, though. One of the things awaiting runners at the buffet table in the finisher’s tent is an enormous stack of strawberry crates. So in addition to bagels and water and energy bars, I always walk off the course with a full basket of Monterey County strawberries.

Those strawberries are always the first thing I consume, and they never fail to be absolutely delicious. Maybe it’s the context of complete exhaustion or the satisfaction of accomplishment, but those post-race strawberries stand out as one of the most pleasant experiences of race day.

Actually, just about all of my strawberry experiences are satisfying in one way or another…as I’ll talk about in my posts for the rest of the week.

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Masters Rock

Hey, did you hear? Pearl Jam has a new album out!

It’s always interesting when a formerly enormous band disappears for a while, then releases a strong “comeback” album to a lot of fanfare and excitement. The marketing idea is to have people recall the band in its glory days, and make us believe that the current band is the same as it ever was.

And we’re generally a forgiving culture, so we can selectively forget the reasons why a popular band actually becomes unpopular in the first place. We’re the society that gladly gives second chances to people like Marion Berry, Martha Stewart, or Ron Artest - so we can certainly overlook the terrible albums like Binaural orYield that Pearl Jam offered us in the late 1990s.

Like just about everybody else between the ages of 20 and 30 in the early nineties, I was a huge PJ fan. They even influenced my running career: during the 1993 Los Angeles Marathon, I was feeling miserable on a hot day, and one of the only things that kept me going was repeating the chorus of “Alive” over and over in my head until I reached the finish line. (To this day, whenever I hear that song, I remember myself staggering through the last 10K in the heat at L.A. Despite the way it sounds, it’s a good memory.)

So I’ve been listening to the new album a bit, and it’s actually not too bad. A few songs are old school grunge-rockers, and there are also some brooding, melodic pieces that were PJ’s hallmark back in the day.

But this morning I heard “Even Flow” on the radio, and noted that Pearl Jam hasn’t made any songs on the new album nearly as good as that old one. The more I think about it, the more I realize that the old band was way better than the current version.

We need to have some special category for rock bands that get older, just like there is a separate category for masters runners at road races. I mean, nobody expects a 45-year-old guy to come out and win a local 10K – so why should we expect a rock band of 40-year-olds to compete against younger groups at the height of their talents?

Sure, that 45-year-old dude may be an excellent runner – let’s say he ran a 33 minute 10K ten years ago. He probably runs something like 37 minutes now, which will still beat everybody but a handful of racers. But he just doesn’t have the goods to seriously challenge the best 25-year-olds who can crank out 35 minute 10Ks on any given weekend.

And it’s fair to compare the master runner’s best times to the younger runners’ best times, and conclude that the master would have kicked their butts if he were in his prime. But his best days are behind him, so he usually comes up a bit short when trying to hang with the big dogs. It’s a cold dose of reality that is sometimes hard to swallow.

That 45-year-old has changed in too many ways to pretend that he’s still 35. He’s most likely got a family and a career, and matured such that running is not an overriding priority in his life anymore. If he tried to mimic the lives of younger runners who eat, sleep, and breathe their training, he would look strangely out of place.

The 2006 edition of Pearl Jam is that 45-year-old dude. They’re never going to match the energy and intensity of songs like “Porch” or “Rear View Mirror”, but they are still good enough to crank out “Life Wasted” and “Big Wave”, which are better songs than a lot of rock music on the radio.

But – here’s the cold reality - the new album isn’t strong enough to make me take the Foo Fighters or Avenged Sevenfold out of my car CD player.

Pearl Jam is the mature band now, singing about poverty and politics and a larger worldview. How can you compare their work to a song like “I Bet You Look Good on the Dance Floor” by a band called the Arctic Monkeys? Despite their enormous talent, it seems a bit odd to hear PJ songs in a modern alt-rock lineup on the radio.

It’s fair to argue that when they were at their best, Pearl Jam was way more talented and influential than groups like Fall Out Boy will ever be. Ten was an absolute classic, to the point where it was like a soundtrack of my college years. But that doesn’t mean I enjoy listening to it more than FOB’s From Under the Cork Tree today.

So can we recognize older rock bands in some manner besides putting them up against what is currently popular? Because you can apply this exact same thesis to U2, Jon Bon Jovi, Metallica, and even (gasp!) the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

Why couldn’t there be a separate Grammy category for “Best Masters Rock” or something similar? You could even go across genres and include “Best Masters Rap” now that guys like LL Cool J and Reverend Run are putting out CDs again. And when the Beyonces and Shakiras and Mariahs of today keep making records into their 40s, there could be a category for “Best Formerly Smoking Hottie Who's Still Workin' It” – come to think of it, Madonna could win that award now. The possibilities are just fascinating.

There would be more awards to give out, older musicians wouldn’t compete against younger ones, and fans of the older bands can see them recognized for their talents. Does anyone think this wouldn’t be a success?

For a group of older dudes who released their best album almost 15 years ago, Pearl Jam has done a darn good job on the new disc. And from a personal standpoint, it’s great to see them back in the spotlight again. Whatever additional fame and money they gain from this CD is well-deserved.

They’ve definitely earned the age group award for their effort. And I’ll give any age group winner a great deal of respect.

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Shock and Blah

Part I: Shock

I guess you can say I’m stunned.

I almost couldn’t believe my ears when Chris Daughtry was sent home from American Idol last night. So much for my prediction that he would win the whole thing.

Remember my post recommending that some Vegas casino open up wagering on reality TV show outcomes? Thank God nobody ever listens to me. If that scenario had ever materialized, chances are I would be out a lot of money this morning, and spending the next several days screening calls from my bookie and looking skittishly at any overweight Italian wearing a patterned shirt. I don’t need that kind of stress. But really...who would have bet against Chris?

On the flip side of that coin...if there had been gambling lines two months ago, what do you think the odds of Elliott making the finals would have been? 50 to 1? 100 to 1? 1000? He’s like George Mason University in the NCAA hoops tournament: flying under the radar while the big names knock each other out one by one, and delivering surprisingly strong performances at key times. Yet it still seems no one really gives him much of a chance. I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.

Last night’s unexpected turn of events also highlights two key lessons:
1) Perhaps all those people who yammer about how TV has a mass dumbing-down effect are on to something. There’s really no rational reason why I should get emotionally invested in a glamorized singing contest, or why I should care about who gets fired from the board room or sent home in a limo or voted off the island. Yet somehow, on some level, I do. And if anybody other than Terry wins Survivor next Sunday, I’ll probably be bummed out about that, too. So how stupid does that make me?
2) Regarding my prediction of the Idol winner: please realize at any given moment, on almost any given subject, there’s a better-than-average chance that I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about. Just thought that needed to be said.


Part II: Blah

Five of us met at the track this morning. It was our first speedwork session since the marathon, so we made sure to choose a simple workout.

Some of us (me included) are shifting gears in our training somewhat during the summer, to focus on different races and shorter distances. My next serious race (separate post coming soon) is less than five weeks away, so I didn’t want to take too long of a layoff before getting back into the training groove.

We chose a workout that on paper appears to be very quick and painless: three sets of 100m, 200m, 300m, 400m, with equal distance recovery each time. Total distance 3000m of speed, with 3000m recovery.

The workout absolutely kicked my butt.

It was one of those workouts where nothing felt right at all: I was constantly short of breath, felt strange muscle twinges, had occasional pain in my back, and generally lacked any snap or spring in my stride. I also felt about 20 pounds heavier than last week, which – if you’ve ever seen the way I eat in the week after a marathon - may not be that much of an exaggeration.

Honestly, I didn’t expect to feel any better than I did this morning. It usually takes one or two efforts like today’s to blow all of the cobwebs out of the pipes, and get my body reacquainted with the demands I’ll be placing on it again over the next few weeks.

So now the bad workout is out of the way, and things are almost certain to only get better from here.

Except for the fact that I can’t watch Chris Daughtry on TV anymore.

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Spellbound

Did anyone else let out a cheer when they read this article?...

***
Top spellers to vie on prime-time TV
National Spelling Bee final to air June 1 on ABC

By DARLENE SUPERVILLE
Associated Press

WASHINGTON - Move over American Idol. For the first time in its 79-year history, the National Spelling Bee — the original "reality TV" — will go prime time for next month's drama-filled finals.

After 12 years of showings by the sports cable network ESPN, the final rounds of the two-day Scripps National Spelling Bee will be shown live at 7 p.m. June 1 on ABC.

"I think we're ready for prime time, and I think America is ready for spelling bees in prime time, too," said Paige Kimble, the bee's director and its 1981 national champion. "We like to think of ourselves as the original reality television programming."

ESPN spokesman Mac Nwulu said the bee really is a sport, though without the physical contact. The pint-size spellers endure rigorous practices and training; some even have coaches.

"It's captivating, just sitting down there and watching these kids spelling words you've never heard before," he said.

About 275 spellers, ranging in ages from 9 to 15 and about evenly split between boys and girls, will compete for the national title and more than $30,000 in cash, bonds and scholarships.
***

Longtime readers of this blog may remember that I’m completely fascinated by the National Spelling Bee. I circle the day of the Bee on the calendar like regular people mark upcoming weddings or birthdays.

And you know what – this TV thing was partially my idea! For as long as I can remember, I’ve been telling anyone who would listen (read: my wife) that I couldn’t understand why the Bee wasn’t featured more prominently on the television landscape. I'm actually on record recommending that the Bee has its own dedicated weekend, just like the Super Bowl or Boston Marathon.

The best part of this prime time deal is that the earlier rounds will still be televised earlier in the day on ESPN, so those of us who dream of watching six consecutive hours of competition are still satisfied. By the time the final round is broadcast that night, I'll probably be having leg cramps and difficulty staying focused - it will be like the last miles of an ultra, but in the comfort of my own home.

I know I’m a bit, um, unorthodox in my interests, but I can’t be the only one out there who is hooked on watching hundreds of pre-teen wonder kids sweat it out under the national spotlight. And I’m convinced that there is a vast untapped market of spelling fans out there. Yes, I typed that sentence with a straight face.

I mean, look at what’s happened to poker in the past few years. These Bee kids are at least as compelling as those slobs. Why couldn’t ESPN package the Bee as a series, like they do with the World Series of Poker? At the very least, the ratings would certainly outdraw professional hockey.

If you doubt my passion, I've submitted a couple of links for you to review as Exhibits A and B. Before I was a blogger, I wrote articles about each of the last two National Spelling Bees, for no other reason than it seemed like a perfectly fun thing to do. When I first started Running and Rambling, I wasn’t sure how this whole blog thing worked or where it might lead me, and I posted one of my spelling bee articles just to see how it looked in the blog format.

Since I only had about three readers back then, chances are that post went unnoticed by a lot of people reading now. (On a related note, to Jeff, Karen, and Danny: you can click off this page right here, and not miss anything you haven’t seen before.) So I’m linking to that early blog post here, and linking to another article from the previous year here.

And now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to instruct my TiVo to clear out its schedule for June 1st.

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Malcolm Gladwell and Plinko

For various reasons, I didn’t post nearly as much as I thought I would last week.

I had this general fatigue, which shouldn’t be surprising in the week following a marathon. Work was busier than usual, and it just seemed like one of those weeks where a lot of things were going on.

The primary reason, though, was that I hadn’t been running. At all. Not one mile.

The one-week layoff was by design, allowing my body to recover from the marathon. I also welcome the downtime as a much deserved mental break – it’s refreshing to have a brief respite from planning workouts or worrying about getting to bed on time or obsessing about weekly mileage.

But the creative drought was something I didn’t quite foresee. I’ve heard about this phenomenon from several writers who utilize their daily run to facilitate the process. The well-known running philosopher George Sheehan was often photographed hunched over his typewriter wearing his running tights and sweatshirt, with beads of perspiration still visible from his morning run. He wanted to put the ideas on paper as quickly as he could after stimulating the creative juices.

In fact, an article by Kristin Elde in this month’s Runner’s World discusses the power that running has to tap into a reservoir of otherwise underutilized cognitive power. She quotes Malcolm Gladwell (author of The Tipping Point and Blink), who says he runs three to four times per week, and uses that time explicitly to work out his writing problems.

Now, I just happen to have this thing about Malcolm Gladwell. He’s a brilliant writer with razor sharp insight, and has a way of writing about all manner of esoteric subjects in a way that reads like an espionage thriller. He can tell you about a syphilis epidemic in Baltimore, or an Ivy League admissions policy, or a retrospective analysis of the “Pepsi Challenge” taste tests in a style that’s not merely interesting – he actually makes you wonder why you didn’t realize these topics were so darn compelling a long time ago.

Over the past two years he has become my favorite author. I’ve also learned that he’s a passionate, knowlegdeable sports fan, and – to top it all off – he even has a blog. It’s probably a good thing I don’t actually know him, or else I’d be in danger of developing some kind of man-crush on him. (Wait...was that out loud? Let's move on...)

So Gladwell is a writer who runs a bit. I’m a runner who writes a bit. And it turns out we have this one small thing in common: the act of running facilitates our writing.

Running is like the Plinko game on The Price is Right: I have all of these ideas for posts floating around inside my head that are the chips resting at the top of the board. They're more or less worthless up there. It’s only when I’m out on the trail or road that those chips bounce around my brain and eventually make their way to the bottom of the board, where they become something tangible.


Sometimes I’ll get an idea that’s the equivalent of a $5,000 chip. More often, my notions are like the chips that land in the $0 slot. But regardless of their future value, they all have to go through the same process before they are revealed.

So today I went running again, fired up the big Plinko game in my head, and all sorts of things came bouncing down. Here’s a brief preview: spelling bees, strawberry fields, sexy guitar players, and oh, yeah – maybe a bit about running, since I'm actually doing it again. (I also came up with the whole Plinko analogy during today’s run – but you probably guessed that already).

Obviously, no one will ever mistake my talent for Malcolm Gladwell’s. My writings probably won’t even justify the money your boss is paying you to read this blog. But I’ll at least try to keep things interesting enough over the next couple of weeks to keep you checking your Bloglines list.

That’s right: I’m promising randomness and mediocrity. And believe me, I’m capable of delivering.

(And if Malcolm ever happens to read this...if you’re ever in Carmel Valley, drop me an e-mail. We'll go running some day.)

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Through the Darkness

"Out of darkness comes light, twilight unto the heights...
Said, thank you to my God, now I finally got it right
And I'll fight with all of my heart, and all a' my soul, and all a' my might."
- Matisyahu, "King Without a Crown"


I’ve still got a couple of leftover items from last weekend’s Big Sur Marathon to talk about before I get the race completely out of my system. Just bear with me a little longer…

First, the leader of my son’s Good News Club reported to my wife that last week my son asked the group of his classmates to pray that his dad’s legs would feel better soon. Which speaks to a couple of obvious points:
1) I was in a lot of pain last week. I spent the better part of last week hobbling around in slow motion, wincing and moaning the whole time. Apparently it was even worse than I realized. And…
2) I mean, how great is this kid? He way more selfless and considerate than I was at his age – or ever, come to think of it. I guess the simplest thing I can say is that when I heard that story, it didn’t surprise me one bit.

Second, I wanted to revisit this idea of going through dark, desperate straits during the marathon. I described how it happened to me. I received e-mails from people who had similar experiences.

As you would suspect, most people ran into trouble at the same part of the course – Carmel Highlands at miles 21-23. No one who has run a marathon should be surprised to hear this.

The thing I wonder about is that in the aftermath, runners often talk about how disappointed they are to have succumbed to hopelessness and despair, even if they only faltered to a slight degree. And truthfully, I’m no different. It’s only been one week since the race, and I’m already second guessing why I couldn’t have gone just 20 seconds per mile faster for three tough miles, to shave one extra minute off my time.

It’s a natural thing to consider, but also somewhat pointless. I mean, to some degree or another, everybody goes through a difficult stretch like that during the marathon. If you are running hard and pushing your limits, you are going to suffer. It’s just part of the deal that we sign up for when we choose to take on this particular event.

It took me a long time to accept this fact, and in the meantime I frequently beat myself up for losing my focus or straying from my target pace in the latter miles of several races. I used to think I was psychologically “soft” for being unable to stay confident and positive throughout the most difficult stretches.

But here’s the thing: I was killing myself last Sunday. My feet were torn up, my calves and quads were on fire, my stomach was cramping, and I felt like my legs were made of lead. I inflicted so much pain on myself that four days later, my son was praying for my recovery. And in some form or another, two thousand other people were doing the exact same thing.

So the real question should be, why wouldn’t somebody’s thoughts turn a bit negative under these circumstances? I can’t imagine somebody going through similar conditions and being able to completely block out all of those physical alarms.

It’s almost like a chicken-and-egg scenario: do our thoughts turn bad because we are struggling physically, or do we struggle because we lose our psychological focus?

The answer I’ve settled on goes something like this: my physical training before the race prepares my body to carry me through the most difficult stretches of a marathon. The better my training is, the more efficiently I will get through those dark miles (i.e., without losing too much time). But that doesn’t mean I won’t encounter self-doubt or other mental anguish along the way. That particular obstacle is unavoidable, no matter how well-conditioned someone is.

But here’s the funny part: going through that darkness is the part of marathon running that many of us appreciate the most.

Those of us who are hooked on this sport know that there is nothing more rewarding than working our bodies to the brink of failure and facing down our inner demons, then somehow pulling ourselves through to emerge triumphantly on the other side. Some finishers will tell you they don’t even know how they get through those difficult patches, yet they always find a way.

And every time we go through that fire, we gain a self-appreciation and self-respect that is (as MasterCard would say) truly priceless. What’s more, we’re thankful for the hardships that helped us earn this awareness, because they aren't so easy to find in our everyday lives. Many of us become addicted to the feeling, and start looking for another race to renew the fight all over again.

Those people are called marathoners.

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Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Office

(I had a story that I wanted to tell last weekend, but it just didn’t fit in well with the other posts, so I saved writing about it until this week. Apologies to Pearl Jam for the title...)

About 5 weeks ago I hinted at the fact that I was working in a new office, sharing a room with two other people. I only slightly exaggerated my concern about being able to listen to Green Day and Fall Out Boy on my computer like I was accustomed to in my previous work space. (Sure, I'm learning new job duties and taking on increased responsibilities, but I can still find time to fret about these things. I’m gifted that way.)

I soon discovered that my fears were somewhat unfounded. One of the women in my office spends a lot of time off site, frequently vacating her desk for a half-day at a time.

And the other woman is as deaf as a post.

She’s one of those ladies who looks about 70 years old, dresses in outdated fashions, and takes about five full minutes to rise from her desk and shuffle over to the printer. And it took me a while to understand that her failure to respond to my questions wasn’t just her way of giving me the cold shoulder.

I’ve since learned that she pretty much relies on lip reading, and unless I raise my voice to a near yell, she’s pretty much oblivious to noises around her. Her desk sits behind the front counter of our office, and I pass back and forth in front her several times per day, yet she barely notices.

So we settled into a pattern where we each go about our own business – her typing and printing whatever unknown tasks she is responsible for, and me plugging away at my computer with my head bouncing happily to Yellowcard. Honestly, it’s an ideal arrangement (Believe it or not, I’m more of a keep-to-myself type in the workplace. Blogging is like channeling some alter ego.).

Then one day last week she startled me by tapping me on the shoulder while I was sitting at my desk with my back turned. After my initial jump, I saw she was holding a small white bag out to me, and said “I stopped at the bakery on my way in.”

I peeked inside the bag, and saw that she brought me a dozen donut holes.

This was on Friday morning. Less than 48 hours before the Big Sur Marathon. There was no way in heck I was eating those donut holes.

But I put on a happy face, thanked her about ten times, and made a big fuss over how nice she was to think of me. I placed the bag beside me until a bit later in the morning, when I opened my desk drawer and dropped it inside.

About 30 minutes later she tapped me on the shoulder again. Again, I jumped. When I turned, she was holding another white bag, and said “It looks like [our office mate] isn’t coming in, so you can have her bag, too.”

It took me a few seconds to return my jaw to its upright position before I could manage going through the same routine of thanking her again, then waiting a while before hiding this other bag in my desk next to the first one.

On my way home that night, I dropped the bags in a trash can in our parking garage. I knew I wouldn’t be eating them that weekend, and they were getting a little stale to bring home for somebody else to eat.

I felt kind of bad, though. I think I played the situation off well enough to avoid hurting the old lady’s feelings, but I still felt like it was almost disrespectful to be so dismissive of her goodwill offering.

Perhaps my actions say something about the importance I placed on last weekend’s race. More likely, they just demonstrate my overriding neuroses about anything I perceive to be a threat to my running. Either way, I wanted to make some sort of amends this week, now that the race is over and I’ll pretty much eat whatever the heck I feel like for several days.

So this morning I brought her a donut, and told her to have a nice day. She smiled and seemed happy. Then I went back to my desk and cranked up the Foo Fighters.

Just like that, all was well in the office again.

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