How to Have Fun with an Englishman

“I’m just a smart ass but I’m playing dumb.” - Green Day, "Walking Contradiction"

Once again, I spent a good part of the weekend watching the World Cup. But now that the Americans are done, I’ve resorted to more juvenile amusements – namely, using the tournament to exploit the nationalistic passion of my foreign friends for cheap entertainment.

Two of my running partners are from England. The Brits have high expectations in this year’s Cup, but also have a long history of frustration and underachievement in many previous tournaments. As a result, many Englanders suffer from paranoia and emotional fragility every four years when the World Cup comes around.

One guy who I run with three days per week is in his mid-40s, but spent the first 35 years of his life in London. He also happens to be a raving football fanatic, so you can imagine how easy it’s been for the rest of us to push his buttons this month.

We ran together this morning, and I goaded him into the following conversation:

***
Me: Hey, I was watching that England game yesterday, and I noticed something. A lot of the English fans were singing America’s “My Country Tis of Thee” song, but putting different lyrics to it…I think it was about a queen or something.

Him: You mean “God Save the Queen?” Our national bloody anthem? You Americans didn’t write it – you stole it from us.

Me (playing dumb): Really? I’m not sure it’s the same one...does your song start, “My country tis of thee, sweet land of liberty...?”

Him: No! It starts “God save our gracious Queen, long live our noble Queen.” We wrote that song one hundred years before your country was born!

Me: You mean before we beat you in that war?

Him (getting exasperated): It’s our song!

Me: Wait a minute...“God Save the Queen?” I thought the Sex Pistols wrote that song.

Him: Yeah, yeah, yeah...”God save the Queen and the fascist regime and there is no future and England’s dreaming...”

Me (secretly impressed that a 45-year-old knows those lyrics): That’s the one! So that’s what they sing during the games?

Him: No! We sing the ROYAL ANTHEM! It’s called “God Save the Queen,” but it’s not the Sex Pistols song.

Me: They sing it to the tune of “My Country Tis of Thee?”

Him: Yes. I mean no. Its our bloody song!

Me: OK, if you say so... (long pause)...it was a good game, though. England played well.

Him: Aah, they got lucky. They need to play a lot better. They’re just driving me crazy.

Me: Clearly.

***

Keep in mind, this was the morning after a game that England won. I can’t imagine how he’s going to react if/when England gets eliminated.

Whether they win the Cup or not, one thing’s for sure: it’s going to be a lot of fun running with my friend for the next couple weeks.

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Sweet Tri O' Mine

Considering that this is a blog about running, I don’t really talk about training that often.

In fact, it’s entirely plausible that I could be making this whole “runner” thing up, right? I mean, have any of you actually seen me running? I rest my case.

My reluctance to talk about training is entirely by design. I want this blog to be more about how being a runner (again, assuming I really am one – you have no idea) affects the way I see the world and my place in it. Posting specific workout details doesn’t necessarily fit into that framework. From my standpoint, the plan has worked well so far.

But lately my training has taken a noteworthy turn, significant enough that I feel like I should discuss it here.

My race schedule on the right lists the Big Kahuna Triathlon, a half-Ironman event in the middle of September. Now that my other races for 2006 are done with, it’s time for me to focus exclusively on the triathlon. That means a little less running, and a lot more swimming and biking.

I’m still fundamentally a runner at heart. As I wrote in this post at the end of the 2005, running is my true love, but triathlon is like this totally sexy mistress that’s always in the back of my mind. (And don’t think I won’t hammer that analogy into the ground over the next few weeks – you know how this blog works.)

This summer is the time for me to withdraw from my relationship with running and have an affair with triathlon. Actually, I’ve already been at it for a couple of weeks now. I’m keeping separate bags of clothes in my car, sneaking out of work for quick “nooners”, and showering twice a day sometimes. It’s physically exhausting, but it makes me feel young (I’m talking about training now).

The reason I’m bringing all this up is twofold. First, if you see me dropping a lot more peripheral references to swimming and cycling, that’s why. Don’t worry - I’m not going to turn into a tri-geek and give you all sorts of workout splits, or post pictures of my various tri-gear (with one exception: I have to do a post about my bike – it’s too good of a story to go untold.) I’m not changing the blog name to Running and Swimming and Cycling and Rambling. Just as I’ll always be a runner at heart, running will still be the subject at the heart of this blog.

Second, I’ll probably spend more of my lunch breaks exercising than I normally do. It’s the best time of day for me to swim, and the easiest way to get two-a-day workouts done when I want to. Unfortunately, lunch breaks are typically when I do a lot of blogging. So my productivity here may take a noticeable dip.

Reviewing my recent posts, I’ve managed to post something almost every weekday for the past couple of months. I honestly didn’t realize I was doing so much. I don’t think I can maintain that kind of clip – or more accurately, I’m not sure I want to.

I think I need to pace myself a little better. Remember the band Guns ‘n’ Roses? They were one of the most powerfully unique and influential bands ever when they burst onto the rock scene in the mid 1980s. Shortly afterwards they simultaneously released two full-length discs that had some inspired brilliance, but set too high of a standard to successfully maintain. They spent several years trying to create a worthy follow-up, but ultimately burnt themselves out and never made another album. (I’m still sad about this, honestly. For those three years, there wasn’t a cooler band on the planet.)

I don’t want to be the Guns ‘n’ Roses of bloggers. I’d rather have the long, graceful career arc of Green Day than the “burn bright and fade away” story of GNR. I think I can reasonably aim for a few posts each week without doing an Axl Rose and passing out in the bathroom of a strip club or landing in a detox unit somewhere. (I’ve mentioned before – I don’t typically set real lofty standards for myself.)

If there’s something that I’m just dying to post on an “off” day, I’ll go ahead and do it. But if you have to go a couple of days without posts from me, I’m sure neither of us will suffer too badly. You’ll find another blog to read. I’ll be getting into better shape. And we’ll always have April.

With that, I’m off for now – I’m scheduled to be in the pool in three hours.

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If You Want Blood

I have one quick World Cup-related item before today’s post…

This morning I stopped at the bodega on my way to work, and walked in just as Mexico was lining up for a penalty kick against Portugal. Mexico was losing 2-1 at the time.

There were about 10 people in the bodega cheering and chatting and paying for items at the register, until one of the amigos said “Everybody! Silencio!” so he could watch the penalty kick. Everyone immediately fell silent, then we all screamed in shock as the Mexican guy launched the PK over the crossbar. I think I even learned a couple new swear words. A few minutes later we all went on our way again.

Afterwards, I knew there must have been 100 million people watching the same thing and having the same reaction at exactly the same time as we did in the little bodega. And that’s a snapshot of why I like the World Cup – it’s a shared experience of truly global proportions. Not many sports can claim the same thing.


Anyway, on to the post. It turns out I have one more Dipsea-related post in me. One I wasn’t really expecting.

I noted that several people were somewhat disappointed about the lack of blood and gore in my Dipsea report and photo. I wasn’t sure what to say about this. It’s not like I’m trying to get myself bruised and bloody out there. I just run the race as hard as I can, and deal with whatever scrapes and sores might happen as a consequence. This year I happened to come out relatively unscathed.

Then four days later I went on my first post-race run, an easy five-miler on the trails at Garland Ranch. About 30 minutes into the run, I drew blood.

I wasn’t doing anything spectacularly risky like jumping over logs or racing down railroad-tie stairs. In fact, I was running uphill at the time. Quite slowly. And I tripped over a root that only protruded a few inches over the ground.

The funny part was, I knew the root was there, and thought I could clear it with no trouble. But obviously my legs were a little more fatigued than I realized, because I couldn’t lift my foot up the extra few inches necessary to avoid the root.

As I picked myself off the ground and dusted off, the guy I was running with went back a few paces to check out the monster that had wrestled me to the ground. Seeing the blood coming from my knee, he said, “You better make up a better story than this to explain that scrape.”

So for the remainder of the run – while I considered the irony of my surviving one of the most brutal trail races in America without a scratch only to go down in a heap on a recovery run - I pondered various ways to embellish the story. But then I remembered the comments from the Dipsea post.

Apparently it’s not the story you’re interested in. It’s the blood. So I stopped irrigating the leg, and just came back home and took this picture. Like the old AC/DC song says - if you want blood, you’ve got it:


Yes, I know it's very minor. But don’t let anybody say I won’t bleed for you.

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World Cup Musings

I mentioned in Friday’s post that I grew up as a soccer kid.

On the other hand, I don’t think I’ve yet disclosed the fact that I’m Italian, although it’s obvious to anyone who knows my last name. Both of my parents are of Italian descent, which makes me about as Italian as you can get - except that I’m not olive-skinned, Catholic, hot-tempered, sophisticated with the ladies, or overly attached to my mother. But other than that, I’m as Italian as they come.

So when Saturday’s World Cup game between the USA and Italy rolled around, I knew that was a game I had to watch.

I honestly had torn feelings about who to cheer for. I still remember the pictures of Le Azzurre on my bedroom wall, but my conscience wouldn’t forgive me if I cheered against the Americans. My compromise was to just settle into the easy chair and enjoy the spectacle.

Of course, along the way I couldn’t help some random observations that I thought might apply to my own interests:

• Child companions: As the players walk onto the “pitch” before the game, each of them holds the hand of a child, who also accompanies them for the singing of the anthems. It’s a win-win situation for everybody involved. How jazzed do you think those kids are to be a part of a World Cup match? How cool must it be for the players to know they are giving some kid a memory they’ll cherish forever? It’s also symbolic passing of the torch from one generation to the next, getting kids more involved in soccer. Because apparently the 50 million American kids already playing soccer isn’t quite enough for us to develop into an international contender.

• National anthems: I don’t care what the sport is – I get chills when I see athletes stand under their flag as national anthems are played at sporting events. And I can honestly say that chill-wise, Saturday’s anthem ceremony was completely off the charts. As I saw the Azzurre linking arms to sing, and listened to 20,000 people thunderously belting out the words to “Inno di Mameli”, I thought to myself, “Gosh, those people are amazingly passionate with national pride.” I got choked up just by the sight of it. Then the US anthem played, and the stadium voices were just as strong, if not louder. Watching our players standing with their hands over their hearts, knowing how nervous they must be, realizing the importance of the moment...as far as I’m concerned, there isn’t a more dramatic scene in sports. And, um...is it dusty in here? I think I have something in my eyes...

Finally, before the opening whistle, the captains greet each other to exchange flags and gifts. It's a true display of international friendship. I know a lot of people knock the World Cup for being dull, stifling, and low scoring, but at least give them credit for this: when it comes to pre-game ceremonies, it may be the greatest show on Earth.

• Injury amplification: I think I’d like to try this sometime: if I’m in a race and having pain due to stomach cramps or blisters, instead of stoically dealing with my issues, I’m going to handle it World Cup style. I’ll drop to the ground, roll over three or four times, and scream like I’m having labor pains. I’ll get some rapid medical attention, eventually stand up and walk a few steps, and then start running again as if nothing happened. And nobody would bat an eye at this.

Could you imagine what mile 24 of a large marathon like Rock ‘n’ Roll would be like if this were the standard code of conduct? It would look like a battlefield scene from a Civil War documentary. Hmmm...maybe that’s what it takes to get better TV ratings for running. We should think this idea over.

• Post-goal celebration: Goals happen so infrequently in soccer, that players make sure to savor the celebration. It’s like extra style points are awarded to the most creative, expressive, unique celebrations after a goal. After scoring against the United States, Alberto Gilardino trotted to the corner flag, knelt on one knee, and mimicked playing a violin sonata.

Actually, a couple of famous runners have tried similar stunts. Hicham El Guerrouj frequently played the air guitar after winning a 1500m race. More famously, Maurice Greene once mimicked pain in his feet after winning the 100m dash, then took off his shoes as a buddy of his ran over with a fire extinguisher and sprayed them. For whatever reason, the track community tends to see these actions as corny, but soccer fans just eat them up. They are two completely different cults of personality.

• Red and yellow cards: This is a fantastic disciplinary technique. When a player misbehaves, the official may give him a yellow card warning, or send him immediately off the field with a red card. A player with a red card cannot be replaced on the field.

It’s swift, frontier style justice, and extremely effective. In fact, when my son was misbehaving later that afternoon, and bickering with his sister, I gave him a red card and sent him to his room. His sisters had to play one man down until dinnertime. (For those of you keeping score at home: yes, this was 8 hours before Father’s Day. Don't come to this blog looking for a role model.) It diffused the situation quite nicely. I can’t believe it took me so long to steal this idea.

• The Group of Death: How does soccer come up with such cool nicknames? Sure, the United States is in a qualifying group with three other good teams – I get that. But isn’t that moniker exaggerating the talent pool just a bit? Remember the 100m final at the Athens Olympics, with Shawn Crawford, Maurice Greene, Justin Gatlin, and Asafa Powell? Why didn’t anyone think to call that the Race of Death? You think NBC isn’t kicking themselves that they didn’t come up with that one? Sometimes it’s all about the presentation. People might not tune in to see “World Cup Soccer”, but if you tell someone to watch the Group of Death, they just might check it out.

Fittingly, the USA-Italy match ended in a 1-1 draw, providing everything I could ask for: a closely fought match, Le Azzurre still in control of their fate, a glimmer of hope for the US squad to survive group play, and a thoroughly relaxing afternoon for me. All four teams in the group play on Thursday (7:00 AM Pacific time), and all four have a chance to advance.

So if for some reason I’m late in posting on Thursday…it could be because I’m stuck at home in the easy chair, cheering for my two favorite countries as they go their separate ways.

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A Coach's Son

Seeing as how Sunday is Father’s Day, I figured I should muse a bit here about my own father, and his contribution to my development as a runner.

My father had nothing to do with my running career. Then again, maybe he had everything to do with it. I haven’t really decided yet.

He was the classic four-sport varsity stud in high school, playing a starring role in all of the macho sports back in the day: football, basketball, baseball, and track. He played freshman football in college before giving up the team to concentrate on his studies.

Intentionally or not, his talents influenced his role as a father. Sports were the backdrop for almost all my childhood memories, and my dad was involved prominently in most of them. It’s one of those nature-vs-nurture things I’ll never figure out: if I always played sports because my father shaped my environment, or if he simply catered to the athlete he saw emerging from the boy.

Growing up, I participated in more sports and on more teams than I can count, and my father was right alongside me nearly every time. Whenever a team needed a coach, he volunteered to fill the role. He coached me on several baseball and basketball teams. Most surprising of all, for many years he coached me in soccer, a sport he knew nothing about when he first started.

Soccer became our family’s calling, as I excelled at the game through high school. My dad read coaching books and studied the game, and expanded his knowledge base while I developed my skills. When the politics and demands of competitive boys’ soccer grew tiring, my father started coaching my younger sister’s teams, and became one of the most successful girls’ coaches in the state.

All the while, he worked a full-time high-stress job, often staying up past our bedtimes to finish one task or another. Now that I have kids, I can’t imagine devoting the amount of time and effort my father did to our athletic pursuits. Years later, when I asked him why he did it, he matter-of-factly said that he just thought it was a great way for us to spend time together. Since my sister and I were going to be playing on the teams anyway, he figured he might as well get involved.

When I headed off to college, I left soccer and the other sports behind, and joined the rowing team. I participated for three years and had a fantastic experience. But then my grades started slipping, and I knew I had to quit the team before the following season started.

I was 21 years old, had participated heavily in team sports since I was 4, and suddenly had nothing to do. I missed the challenges, and the competition, and the camraderie. I missed my identity as an athlete.

That’s when I turned to running.

I’ve written essays before (like here) about how I developed into a marathon runner from square one while I was in college. Since then, I’ve had a fairly well-documented progression from novice runner to experienced racer to complete running lunatic. In nearly every regard, it’s been one of the most satisfying journeys I’ve ever embarked upon.

So now I come back to the question: Did my dad influence my running career?

The most apparent answer is no. I never ran as a kid, and never ran with my dad (with one notable exception, which will be its own post someday). I chose running on my own, well after I had moved out of the house for good. I progressed as a runner only through my own study and discipline and perseverance.

But here’s the thing: if I hadn’t grown up playing sports, if I hadn’t been hooked on the rewards of physical exertion and hard work, if I hadn’t been immersed in athletics for so long, maybe I wouldn’t have gone looking for running in the first place.

And if it weren’t for my father’s dedication to my childhood pursuits, maybe none of those things would have happened.

I’ll never know for sure. All I know for certain is that I had a satisfying childhood, and that I’ve grown into a happy, well-adjusted (well, mostly) adult. And now that I’m a dad, I realize that’s pretty much the only thing that matters.

So Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Thanks for everything.

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Wag the Dog

All of this legitimate race blogging has got me itching to talk about something mindless. So if you’re in the mood for a good workout report or details of a scenic run, well…this would be a good time to click over to someone else’s blog.

Because I saw something the other day that puzzled me so much it made me stop in my tracks and cock my head sideways to think it over, like a dog who falls for the fake ball-throwing trick. I kept chewing on the thought for the better part of an entire day. (Again, not unlike a dog. As far as intellectual comparisons go, I don’t set a real high bar for myself.)

Now, it’s not exactly remarkable that I would get so easily discombobulated. What’s noteworthy is the cause of my confusion: Mary J. Blige and U2.

Let me re-phrase that. It wasn’t just Mary J. Blige and U2. It was Mary J. Blige featuring U2. In a video that’s been getting heavy airplay on VH1 lately.

The video is for the song “One,” perhaps the most distinctive and recognizable U2 song ever. There wasn’t anyone alive in 1992 who doesn’t remember the popularity and poignancy of this tune. Over the past year the song has reemerged into the mainstream as the theme for Bono’s “One Campaign” to end global poverty and the AIDS crisis.

In other words, the song is classically, definitively U2.

So I found it disturbing that the song and video credit is listed as “Mary J. Blige featuring U2.” Because for all these years, I thought I had a clear understanding of the word “featuring”, as popularized by countless hip-hop practitioners. Yes, I think about these things.

The word “featuring” is typically used when:

1. A well-known artist collaborates with a lesser known artist on a song, with the intent of increasing the lesser-known artist’s exposure among well-known artist’s fan base. For example, the Ludacris song “Pimpin’ All Over the World” featured a relatively unknown dude named Bobby Valentino who sang part of the chorus along with the rap star. Or…

2. A well-known artist collaborates with another well-known artist who performs a small role in a song written by the primary artist. It’s not as confusing as it sounds: just think of Mariah Carey’s latest video “Say Somethin’”, which features Snoop Dogg rapping during one verse. (Actually, this video is almost worthy of a whole separate post. And hopefully I’ll be the guy to write that post someday.) It’s Mariah’s song. Snoop’s just there to help out, and to kick it with Mariah in her bikini lingerie - I’m sure he thought about 2 seconds before agreeing to that one.

That’s it. That’s the list. Or so I thought. But now we have Mary J. Blige featuring U2, and that’s what froze me to the floor with the tricked-dog look on my face.

U2 is not an unknown act. They’re not contributing to a song Mary wrote. The collaboration is 98% U2’s doing. It all just seems backwards to me.

Mary J. Blige featuring U2 is like me racing on the front of a tandem bike featuring Lance Armstrong. Putting my name first and giving me credit for the ride is insulting to the real driving force. Let’s say we’re in a world-class race, like Paris-to-Roubaix. The standings might look something like this:

1. Ivan Basso
2. Floyd Landis
3. Donald B. featuring Lance Armstrong
4. Jan Ullrich

Wouldn’t that stand out as odd? Doesn’t one of those names look glaringly out of place? Everybody in the world would know who did the legwork in that race, just as (hopefully) everybody knows who is responsible for the song “One.”

(And notice, that although we wouldn’t win, we’d still find a way to beat Ullrich. Was there ever a more one-sided rivalry in professional sports than Lance vs Jan? For goodness sake, even the Red Sox finally beat the Yankees once. Does Jan get flashbacks every time he sees a yellow bracelet? Do you think Lance ever calls Jan and says, “You know, I’ve been thinking it over…and I think I’m going to go ahead and race again,” just to mess with him? I’m really going to miss that rivalry.)

My point is, I always feel credit should go where credit is due. I suppose I fear that people who don’t remember the song from 14 years ago (like almost all of Mary’s fan base) might not give proper credit to the band that deserves it.

And maybe feeling this way is just an indication that I’m getting older. Which in some select cases (like a certain trail race in Marin County) is a good thing, but generally it’s just a bummer.

So do me this favor: when you see Mary J Blige singing “One,” just picture me on the front of a tandem bike with Lance, and remember that it’s U2’s song. That will make me feel better.

(And the next time you see a puzzled dog, think of me and all the crazy stuff that bounces around my head all day long.)

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Thank You Notes

I’ve got just a couple more Dipsea-related items before we close the book on this years race. The way I see it, if you’re still sore from the race, that justifies continuing to talk about it. I'm figuring my soreness from this year’s Dipsea will be pretty much gone by tomorrow, so it will be time to move on.

As for today, the two remaining things. First, I received an e-mail yesterday from one of the Dipsea Race directors, after he read my blog posts about the race. He was incredibly kind, actually using the word “entertaining” to describe my writing. He didn’t even take issue with my griping about the color of the this year’s race shirt.

Then he wrote this:

As for not knowing anyone at the finish: Next year just watch for me and say hello. I will introduce you to a number of other crazies and you can recount your tales of the trail.

The Dipsea is a family so stop being so anti-social and join in.

See you next year.

I mean…how cool is that? The Dipsea really prides itself on the whole “family” concept, which is quite evident when you hang around the finish area and see that almost everybody knows everyone else, and when you know that many people have ties to this race going back 40 or 50 years.

Now after nine years, I feel a lot more welcome in that family. And all it took was a little e-mail.

However, in the interest of full disclosure, I felt somewhat obligated to warn him about me. I wrote back and said that using the family analogy, I would probably be the strange, introverted cousin from out of town who only shows up once a year at the holidays and makes everybody feel a little awkward in conversation.

But you know what? Next year I’ll take him up on his offer to say hello. And for me, that’s a good start.

As for the second item…I was totally blown away by a comment that Drew left for me last Friday, encouraging me before Sunday’s race. It impressed me so much that I felt it deserved to be a post of its own. So I wrote to Drew and told him if he didn’t post it on his blog, I would post it on mine.

I actually thought of the words a few times during the race, especially during the first couple minutes (when I was terrified) and during the long climb to the highest part of the course. While I can’t prove that it helped me run faster, it certainly didn’t slow me down any. At the very least, it gave me something to ponder besides my own despair.

And now since it’s been more than 72 hours since I wrote to him, and since I try to be a man of my word, I’ve taken the liberty of posting the majority of the comment here:

***
I've been meaning to write something about the Dipsea, but haven't been able to put the right words down. Fact is I don't understand what this race means to you. I haven't been through the grinder you have described so eloquently and I haven't experienced the anticipation and humiliation of this rigorous journey, I'm left feeling inadequate to wish you luck or Godspeed because I understand that this race means more than you can adequately describe. I understand what it's like, but I don't understand what it's like for you.

Have an excellent race. Push forward when you want to step back. Run harder than you think you can and faster than you think you're able. Blast through the weeds and the boughs and the sticks and the runnners when you have to. Twist your ankle and move on. Scrape your legs and your arms and your face and jump forward faster and stronger. Lean forward on the uphill and swing your arms and breathe deeply of everything that brought you here. Lengthen your stride and fly on the downhills.

Fly!

Run faster when it hurts and forget about what you can't do. This is your race.

Do not have fun.

I do not wish you luck.

Fun and luck have nothing to do with it in the end. You'll be pushing yourself through miles of discomfort and pain. Let the fun come afterward because come race time you'll be ready for nothing less than a battle.

A battle you won't win.

A battle you can't win.

You won't come in first, or second or 100th. You go to battle assured of loss, but you will lose less this time. And you will lose less next time. And if you lose enough, you may come to appreciate how little you've lost, and how much you've gained without ever winning.

Champions always show up for the fight.

Most champions never win.

Godspeed Donald!

***
Again…how cool is that? I really don’t have anything else to add here, other than some thank yous. To Drew and to the Dipsea director and to everyone else who contacted me before and after the race.

You all helped to make an already enjoyable week even more rewarding.

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