Da Bomb

Does San Francisco feel left out? No terrorists want to attack our city, no grandiose structures have been blown up, no planes have been miraculously landed in a narrow water channel, the only time we get National or Global media attention is around the subject of Gay marriage. Attention whores that we are, we had no choice but to blow up a gym bag.

As we proceeded with our run, there was a flurry of discussion about the bomb scare. After all, traffic was backed for miles in all directions and the bomb squad was busy at work. Despite the scare, we all went about our business, doing our 400 hundreds and 1600 hundreds, figuring we were safe enough. After all, "It's probably just a gym bag," said Steve (AKA "Fat George Clooney", AKA "Mr. Brown"). Then, to our surprise and maybe even a little delight, came the echo from the bullhorn: "Fire in the hole! Fire in the hole!" and a giant "BOOM", they blew up the gym bag, saving us all from an untimely encounter with a...workout?

That night, I googled to find details on what had happened and could only find a small blurb in a SF Weekly Blog. It commented on the activity but provided no detail on what they had blown up. I checked the same blog again today and found the humble admission that all of the precious city's resources had saved us all from the high level threat of a discarded gym bag. I'd like to think that a bomb squad would, first and foremost, be trained in identifying the difference between an ordinary bag and an imposing threat. Instead, all it takes is a bystander's observation that a bag was tossed out a window for it to qualify as a bomb. Personally speaking, I've seen better detective work on Scooby-Doo.

Why Can't Us?

Remember back in the days when baseball was simple? As a kid, my Dad used to take my brother and I to games all the time, we could gorge on hot dogs, cotton candy, and soda and my dad went home with a few bucks left in his pocket. Now, stadiums across the country are being re-built with premium amenities and premium prices, sending parents to the poorhouse for indulging in the great American passtime. Sure, it keeps the riff-raff out, but isn't it the crazies who make the sport what it is? Alas, the children of today's baseball going experience will be privileged, but I do hope their ADD medication allows them to sit through an entire game without a temper tantrum.

So my Phillies are National League champs and the city of Philadelphia, from Kensington to Manayunk is alive with hope and pride. Over here on the Left Coast, Philly fans have been coming out of the woodwork, becoming fast-friends as we watch the games in bars and share the play-by-play emotional ups and downs. Game 1 was a great high, Game 2 was like watching the Bad News Bears, and of course I pray every night the the home team advantage will shine (even if the sun doesn't) this weekend at the new Veteran's Stadium (I refuse to call it by it's new name).

I am the first to admit, I'm a fair-weather baseball fan. I cheer for the Phillies and the Giant's and that's about it. So I didn't realize how opinionated sport's fans could be until I began to feel my own passion for the Phillies welling up and low and behold, Facebook became the forum for "friends" far and wide to put my homeboys down. What fascinates me is that no one is actually a Ray's fan, they just don't want the Phillies to win. Why you's gotta be haters? What did the City of Brotherly Love ever do to you, besides secure your constitutional rights, invent electricity, and bring you such culinary delights as the cheesesteak, soft pretzel and water ice? Yes, but what has Philly done for me lately? Comedy, that's what. Why can't us? And why can't you, get yourself a little of that Philly Fever.

Unlike Phillies fans who have a deeply rooted emotional bond to the team, a bond that was passed on from generation to generation; Rays' fans are first generation. There's no history there. And the fact that so many are willing to support them over the Phillies says something, something that sounds a little like, "I have no soul, but I'd really like one." Just like the experience of going to a baseball game has become premiumized and out of reach for the everyday Joe (not to be confused with Joe the Plumber, who probably can't afford baseball tickets because he's busy paying his back taxes), fans who don't have an emotional connection to a team have to force it. And I guess the higher road would be to let them have that. Let them have their hope too. Because when you get rid of the garlic fries, the $75 seats, and the $8 beers, isn't that what it's really all about?

Still, for me, the bottom line is, the Rays' don't ask themselves; Why can't us? And if they did, who would find that funny?

Flea Bag

Don't ask me how, but Matthes, the INDOOR CAT, has gotten fleas. In the past month, I have flea bombed, I have had pest control come and spray toxic chemicals, I have washed my bedding and vacuumed maniacally, I have put Matthes on Advantage (a funny story for another blog entry). And tonight, I returned from a wonderfully relaxing and flea-free weekend at Sea Ranch to find fleas, fleas and more fleas. I decided it was time to give Matthes a flea bath.

I was expecting the worst and thought I was going to walk away from the bath with Matthes carvings on any piece of exposed flesh. He was actually fairly reserved. He just sat there in the tub, he seemed resigned. I almost didn't recognize him.

But that is Matthes...always full of surprises, if not dignity.

I have been noticing lately that bacon seems to be making it's way into sweet foods, as seen here in a muffin found at 4 Barrel Coffee. It was also on the dessert menu at Nopa, in a roasted corn ice cream with skillet bread and bacon brittle on the side combo. Personally, while I love bacon and I love sweets, I'm not crazy about the combo. Just like dousing chocolate with salt arouses my curiosity but not my appetite.

Interesting though...what's next? French fries with caviar?

Man on bike killed

Awful

Read the comments. One guy's solution is to avoid eye contact with every single person you encounter. "to do so otherwise seems to get you killed more often than not." A riveting commentary on crime in our city, "veryvermilion". I'm verysorry you don't have a higher IQ.

Introducing...Cooper

I recently said goodbye to my loyal companion, my Jetta, Leroy. It was harder than I expected it to be. I got him detailed, got the bumper touched up, but then I hesitated before posting the listing. While he was physically ready to go, I wasn't emotionally ready to let go. Finally, with my new car on the way, I reminded myself: it's just a car, and I put the ad up on craigslist. Less than a week later, he was gone. The first person to respond to the ad, ended up buying him for just under asking price. I think he went to a good home, a cute, young guy who needed a good commuting car. I hope he scores lots of chics and that Leroy can live out his golden years with some TLC.

And so I went to pick up my new wheels this week, the VW GTI whom I've christened (or "jewened") Cooper, after the car Diageo wouldn't let me buy. Now, sad as I am that I couldn't get a Mini Cooper, I must say, the GTI is pretty damn awesome. It's fast. So fast, I got a speeding ticket my second time driving it. And, no offense Leroy, but it's so much more luxurious. Heated leather seats, integrated stereo system, and various other cool doo-dads that make driving (and parking) an enjoyable experience.

Cooper's first trip to the country: Canoeing on the Russian River

Now, about that speeding ticket, does anyone know if it's legal for a cop to record a conversation without notifying you up front? This douchebag cop recorded the whole deal and didn't tell me until the end. Cooper and I feel so violated.

Nautica Malibu

In his own version of the midlife crisis, my brother decided he wanted to jump on the triathlon bandwagon, and asked me if I had any interest in doing the Nautica Malibu triathlon with him. The idea immersed in May. I said sure and sent him all kinds of tips for training. I spoke with him periodically throughout the summer and the key thing I was trying to drill into his head was how important practicing in the open water would be. But you know what they say about leading a horse to water...you can't make them swim in it.

Despite the fact that I've officially retired from TNT, I managed to train somewhat regularly over the summer. I even did a great swim in Aquatic Park the week before the race with Rebecca and Nate. It was during the 4-day heat wave we had in early September known as "summer" and actually quite nice conditions for Aquatic Park. But I digress.

The Nautica Malibu triathlon now ranks as one of my favorite tri's to date. While each race that I've done has it's positives and negatives, Malibu is really quite approachable, like the Merlot of triathlons. I flew down Thursday night, Andy I went to register on Friday. Pretty good shwag, including female-specific race shirts which in my book, already makes the race a winner. The San Francisco crew, starring Rebecca, Nate, Geoff, Tiffiny and Shaun were all driving down and arriving later on Friday. Most of us didn't meet up until we found each other in the transition area Saturday morning.

Historically, the race has been a celebrity triathlon offering a sprint distance only. The race directors must have looked at their financial spreadsheet and realized how much money they could make if they extended the race and added an olympic distance. Sure enough, they got 1,000 people to sign up for the Oly on Saturday and another 2,000 for the sprint (including J LO, Matthew McConaughey and Andy Baldwin) on Sunday.

The swim was probably the most challenging part of the race; the first leg was through the breakers, totally new for me and not so easy getting pounded by waves during that first stretch in the water. Getting to that first buoy felt like it took forever, but once out there, it was a straight line to the 6th buoy, turn, and then body surfing into the finish. I came out of the water at 30 minutes, but the walk through the sand to the timing chip sensors put me at 31 minutes.

The bike was an out-and-back, all along a gorgeous stretch of the PCH. There were a couple of rollers but mostly flat and the race organizers managed to get one lane of traffic closed to cars. On the way back, we rode past miles of cars backed up waiting for the intersections to open up. I must confess, it brought me some happiness (the fleeting base kind) to see all the fancy Malibu cars and their self-absorbed drivers (with yappy dogs wearing clothing) standing there looking ticked off. I saw Andy on the bike and was happy to see that he had made it through the swim. Time on bike: 1:30

The run was also along the PCH and completely flat. The ocean was in site the whole time and during one stretch, I saw dolphins swimming in the water right offshore. When I saw Andy on the run and told him the end was in sight, he responded "I f'ing hate this" which made me laugh. I don't know of any triathlete who thinks the run is a fun experience. At mile 4, I looked at my watch and realized that if I pushed myself, I was within reach of getting a sub-3-hour overall time. I picked up my speed a bit, but unfortunately, my knees were not on board with the plan and I had to slow down to my standard sluggish triathlon run pace. Still, I finished with my best run time at 1 hour and overall time, 3:09.

My brother rolled in about a half hour later and as we congratulated him, the confession came out: he swam about 1/3 of the swim then come to shore. He then snuck into the transition area and got on his bike, then he did the run. He actually had a better time on the bike than me (by 3.5 minutes), which we later calculated about 1 minute of that could be attributed to the better bike and the rest was just sheer determination to beat his little sis. Still, ya gotta love the father/child finish, which I captured on video as Abby ran out to meet him on the finish chute.

Sunday's celebrity race made headlines all across the rags and it was interesting to see the special treatment the stars got. J Lo had an entourage escort her from the swim to the bike and Matthew had a chair setup for him in the transition area. But the stars did something that the rest of us couldn't; they raised a couple hundred thousand dollars for the Children's Hospital. For that, I will grant them leeway.

Not sure what's next on the triathlon circuit. Marin is coming up in October...

Air Guitar

Take one part pointless activity, a dash of sarcastic and biting judging, several bottles of proud sponsor, Cuervo Black, and a sprinkling of heavy metal classics. What do you have? A night of manic , hysterical amusement. Who needs the Olympics?

The $10 Blueberry

For a town that prides itself on intellectual curiosity and carries itself with an air of superiority, sometimes I really have to wonder about San Francisco and the people in it. Are we as smart as we think we are or do we just have hyper inflated egos? Do we wake up in the morning and put on compassion like it's an accessory?

A few weeks ago, a Farmer's Market opened in my neighborhood. The neighborhood association announced the grand debut with a twinkle in their eye, so proud that they were able to get Nopa on the farmer's map. On my way home from watching the SF Marathon this morning, I finally got the chance to peruse the market, on the corner of Grove and Divisadero. It's a small little gathering, about 1/2 block long with a modest assortment of vegetable stands, bakers, flowers, and various other non-farmed delectables.

I made my way up the street, hoping to fill my fridge with a cornucopia of local, organic produce for the week. Instead, I walked away empty-handed and empty-hearted. The farmer's market has lost it's soul, it seems, and has become yet another example of price gouging that we all seem willing to passively accept as part of the price we pay to live in this fabulous urban jungle. But when we have the same feeling at the Farmer's Market that we have at the gas pump, I have to think that something is most definitely wrong.

Exhibit A:
"Certified California" is now a classification. Marketing crap 101: use the word "certified" to elevate the status of an otherwise non-pretentious object. Are we taking the Foster's Chicken commercial a little too far here? Are those pesky Oregonians and Nevadans masquerading their produce as Californian because they can charge more here? Obviously, this is a serious epidemic and must be regulated.

Exhibit B:
$7 for "Mountain Grown" blueberries. This is like paying extra for fish that comes from water. Words cannot describe how it feels to realize that I am being targeted as an idiot savant who might not know that blueberries are a) from mountains and b) grown. They must have seen me drive up on the short bus.

Exhibit C:
An extra $3 for the artificial flavoring on an almond. Tip for you shoppers: you can get the same crap at Trader Joe's for 1/4 the price. Try the Wasabi flavored almonds. Delish.

While there was a bumper crop of BS, what I didn't find much of at this Farmer's Market was the word "organic". It was strikingly absent and in it's place were a smattering of dazed shopper wandering around asking the vendors, "is your produce organic?". The dream is still alive, you see.

But there seems to be a complex array of forces working hard to destroy this dream. Do we care more about the cache of what a Farmer's Market implies than whether it's actually done right? And since when did farming become a marketing playground where consumers are dodging meaningless labels and fruitlessly searching for substance and truth? I want to believe in the dream, but I'm most certainly not paying $7 for a pint of it, even if it is mountain grown.

And here's the final proof that this Farmer's Market has lost it's authenticity. No hippies.

Semana 6 Mile

For months, my friend Chris has been making reference to this 6-mile open water swim that he's been training for. I was both impressed and intrigued as is my normal response when I learn of anyone attempting a feat that requires both mental and physical stamina. I had it in the back of my mind that I wanted to go and watch the event (which would be a bit tricky, since it's out in the ocean) so when Chris sent me a text message, asking me if I could pilot his kayak for him, it took me about 2 seconds to reply: yes!

Shortly after arriving in the lovely town of Santa Barbara, we made two stops. First, we went to the start of the race, the Santa Barbara pier. As piers go, it was pretty swell with the usual assortment of beach collectibles. We got a good look at the water and decided it was quite promising for favorable conditions; then we went to the finish where Chris did a practice swim and I went for a little jog. I know this blog entry is supposed to be about Chris' race, but I would like to just give a shout out to the jogging trails of Santa Barbara. Top notch. Well done, SB.

We went back to the hotel and vegged out for a little while, watching a special on the weather channel about the rescue mission for that woman in Antarctica who had breast cancer. Being a pilot, Chris was sure to educate me about how it really wasn't dangerous at all and that the pilots were a bunch of pansy dorks. I pointed the remote control at him and pressed "mute". Unfortunately, it didn't work.

Chris spent some time getting his gear organized for the next day. He had a satchel of food (for me and for him), both hot and cold fluids, and some dry clothes for the finish line. There was some debate over whether he would wear his squid lid and he decided that he'd make the final call in the morning. The water was around 64 degrees. Chris had some gear for me as well: a compass, because we didn't know if it would be so foggy, we wouldn't be able to site. And GPS in case I didn't want to use the compass. I was a little disappointed when the conditions were perfect and I didn't get to use either. Being a long-distance open water swimmer, Chris also had a waterproof casing for an ipod, which he had brought for me. This was by far, the best gear I've coveted in awhile.

Before we get onto the race itself, I have to give a shout out to The Ramada, Santa Barbara which was a fantastic little hotel. Serious. And right across the street from the Ihop, which led to an experiment. Chris and I pondered: we spend all this money on fancy race nutrition: Cliff bars, Powerbars, Mojo, Sharkies, etc. What's wrong with a good old fashioned Snicker's bar, or a stack of pancakes to carbo load? In yet another act of bravery, Chris decided to give it a try. 7am race morning, we were at the International House of Pancakes (which was surprisingly crowded) sampling the syrup varieties on our short stacks.

Aside from a strange dialogue with the Ihop waiter:
Chris: Are there bananas in the fruit cup?
Waiter: What do you mean by that?
Chris: I think I mean that I want to know if there are bananas in the fruit cup.

...the Ihop breakfast was a successful and enjoyable nutrition prep for the race.

We arrived at the pier and started organizing the gear and meeting the other swimmers. It was a friendly crowd, only 32 swimmers, most of whom seemed to already know each other. We were like celebrities, having traveled all the way from the "big city" for the race. It was also a pretty casual environment, the race director Jane pulled everyone together at around 8:45 to give some general guidelines on the swim, and then the kayakers got in the water, paddled out to the end of the pier and waited for the swimmers.

I haven't done much kayaking in my life, let alone ocean kayaking, and I really wasn't sure what to expect. Chris and I had done a test run at Aquatic Park the week before and conditions were pretty crap: super choppy and a strong headwind. Down in the fairytale land of Santa Barbara; however, all was serene, and I finally understood what made this activity so great. There was so much life in the water, dolphins, otters, seals, and I think I even saw a mermaid. I rocked out on the ipod to my new favorite musician Xavier Rudd and had magical moments feeling one with nature.

Chris, by the same wave of good vibes, was having a great race. The water was calm, the temperature was perfect, and he had that extra reserve of energy from the pancakes. So he swam, I paddled, I occasionally asked him how he was doing, he occasionally made a request. And at around mile two, he decided to go commando, throwing his speedo into the kayak. "Things don't get much better than this", I thought, as I transitioned from Xavier Rudd to Hall & Oates.

The finish line came sooner than I expected. I saw the buoy in the distance but it was 45 minutes earlier than what Chris had estimated, thanks to the favorable current. We made our way and then turned in and headed for shore. The rest of the swimmers and a few spectators cheered Chris in and there was a party that the race Director's mom had set up with muffins, coffee, bagels and fresh fruit. We met some nice, down-home people and enjoyed the warmth of the mid-day sun.

I truly felt honored to have been asked to participate in this way and am grateful to have had the experience. At the finish line, there was a flier for a "Santa Barbara 10-mile" swim in September. I saw Chris stuff one of the fliers into his bag.

King's Trail

Maui, I've learned, is the elitist faction of TNT, it's where the "it" people go to race. How I've only just discovered this goes to show how not "it" I am. I would put this race in the category of well-kept-secrets. Why it took me so long to sign up is beyond me...

June 8, race day. Still on Cally time, the 4:15am alarm wasn't the abrasive, jolting annoyance that it could have been. I hopped out of bed, greeted my roomate with a big it's-race-day! smile, and took care of a few last-minute logistics. Warm weather triathlons are easy to prepare for. No layers, no wetsuit, I didn't even need a towel. It all fit nicely in my backpack and we headed downstairs (again, not even a jacket needed at 5am) to meet up with the rest of the team. Good spirits abounded, the general mood of the group was: yes, we're doing this thing they call a "triathlon", but really? Must it harsh our Maui mellow?

We rode as a group over to start location at the Maui Prince hotel, about 3.5 miles. Set up the transition area, ate a banana or three, waited in line for a last trip to the loo, and then headed to the beach to check out the swim course. What, during our practice swim the day before, had appeared as a glassy smooth inlet of water, was now choppy with a smallish swell, I'd say around 2 feet to my uneducated oceanic eye. It was then that I got a little case of the jitters. What was I thinking, having such a cavalier attitude about this race? Since I did Big Kahuna, I have this notion that olympic distance races are, well, just a long workout. But throw a little 90 degree heat and a tough course into the mix and I found myself having to make an attitude adjustment.

Before the race started, we received the blessing from the Hawaian Witch Lady, who made us all (375 of us) link arms into this massive spandex group hug, and she led us in a prayer. While I had wax in my ears (a metaphor for how I feel about the Wicca or a preparation for the swim? you decide), I did manage to catch the jist of her message. She told us that when we were in the ocean, we should drink the blood of Mother Earth (which many of us, indeed did), that on the run we should smell the bones of Mother Earth (or was it just the patchouli from the locals), and on the bike we should feel God's touch from the sun. And then we sang the Star Spangled Banner. Go figure. Yes, the Witch Lady was a little esoteric, but I like that kind of stuff. I like being reminded that there's a bigger picture and of how very lucky I am.

At this juncture, the race began and we went off in heats 3 minutes apart. I started at around 7:30 (it's Maui, timekeeping is not a science). The swim was a bit dodgy. I put my breathing-on-both-sides skills to good use, this was the only way to escape getting splashed each time I came up for a breath. Other people were getting mouthfuls of water, which in turn was leading to mass vomiting (which in turn, led to more fish in the water). After I passed the fifth and final buoy, cruising full speed level four to the finish, I happened to notice a shadow looming underneath me in the water. And that was the happy moment of the triathlon, when I saw the turtle. I don't know why, but these creatures are just so clumsy and jovial, they make me laugh.

Swim time: 32 minutes. While certainly not anywhere near my better swim times, given the conditions, I was satisfied.

The King's Trail bike course wins the title of lamest bike courses ever. I felt like I was riding a course that had been designed by a stoner with ADD. It was up, down, up, down, stop, up, down, stop, turn, stop, turn, down, stop. It just made no sense. You couldn't get any speed and I ended up with an embarrassing time of 1:50, inflamed knees, and quads that were totally spent by the time I got on the run.

But run I did. It is now that I would like to give a shout out to my running inspiration, Ben, who sent me a text the night before the race and told me to really go for it and run the whole run. He knows that I have a weakness for stopping to walk, that I am not a runner at heart. His words stuck with me and it really amazed me how much of it was mental. I wanted to stop and walk during this run like I've never wanted to stop before. My knees were killing me, it was hotter than a whore in church, and my legs basically felt like cinder blocks. Fortunately, the water stops had freezing cold sponges which pretty much saved us, I'm guessing the same stoner who planned out the run course was also the mastermind behind this. But in exchange for a little cooling action, we ended up with soaking wet shoes; every step I took went: squish, squash, squish, squash.

Run time: 1:05.

Crossing the finish line was an awesome moment. I fell happily into the arms of my sweaty and repugnant (no offense guys) teammates where we proceeded to re-live every gruesome moment of the race. Just like always. Then I went and grabbed my phone and called my cohorts in San Francisco who had raced Alcatraz to get their race reports. Everyone had a great race; the main difference was that we got to go back to a hotel and lounge by the pool with Pina Coladas for the rest of the day. :)
The most amazing factoid of the race is that I somehow managed to rank 10th in my age group, out of 32. Now, while I do plan to get as much mileage out of this as possible, I really shouldn't let it go to my head. My overall time was not that great: 3:37, and I basically chalk it up to the fact that the race was predominantly TNT people who maybe, like me, were more interested in a Maui vacation than in excelling in a triathlon. Still, a very gratifying experience overall to be a part of the TNT Mai Tai division.

Maui

I like Maui.
And I haven't even been there yet.

Bare Asses: A Sign That All is Right in the World or Armageddon?

I posted this video on flickr. A day later, I received the following email:
"As per our Community Guidelines, “restricted” video
content is not allowed on Flickr . We’ve removed your
video.

If you continue to upload videos that contain
“restricted” content, we may take further action on
your account.

Regards,

Flickr Customer Care"

The whole time I was at Wildflower, I was pre-occupied with whether the streakers would do their thing. As the sun began to set on Saturday night, I grew worried, unsettled, discontent. No streakers at Wildflower, I just couldn't fathom the possibility. But they came and they were glorious. And now, I'm meant to feel shame for wanting to share the laughter they invoked in me with others. Flickr, I would just like to remind you that there is FAR more offensive content on your photo sharing site than the tushies and boobies of some drunk CalPoly students flapping in the dusk.

The Flame

Ah training weekend. Good times. Lots of laughs. Grubby athletes. Cold showers. Missions accomplished.

I thought my flame for the bike was dying. Turns out, it was just a bit buried. For no other reason other than the fact that it was there, I decided to do the long course bike ride. I honestly wasn't convinced I had any business being out there; it's been awhile since I've stretched myself athletically.

I had contingency plans in my mind that I re-evaluated every 10 miles or so. There was wind on Jolon Rd, which is a narrow highway with no shoulder for bikes. I thought I'd bonk because I typically go into a state of paralysis when riding on roads with fast traffic, white trash in pickups and wind. Call me crazy but I don't like to take my hands off the handlebars and subsequently, don't consume calories or fluids. Jolon goes on for about 13 miles and was by far the hardest and loneliest stretch. Towards the end, I started talking to myself, but promptly stopped after swallowing a bug

The next challenge was the infamous Nasty Grade, which was blazing in the heat of the afternoon. It was nasty. But I got to the top and with wobbly legs, continued onwards with the end in site.

I felt such a great feeling of satisfaction after the ride. I had done something I wasn't sure I could do and I kept a positive attitude the entire time. I knew I had contingency plans, I could stop at any time, but I was really enjoying myself...that's what happens when I focus on things that make me enjoy the experience.

My favorite quote from this weekend was courtesy of my friend Chris who said, "this race is a whole lot more enjoyable when you stop trying to compete with it."

And that's the only way to do Wildflower because there are relentless obstacles...the weather, the course itself, mechanical failures, etc. So just get out there and enjoy the experience for whatever it is in that moment. And so I did. It was such an incredible beautiful ride. Fields and fields of wildflowers in all colors and varieties. Perfect biking weather. And a nice cold Guinness waiting for me at the end. Ok, 2.

Chance of Sun

Today was one of those days where I almost didn't go to the workout...too much going on in life and the idea of hibernating sounded extremely attractive. But I went. And it was fun. And on the ride home, I snapped this shot on the Golden Gate Bridge. My soul was filled with gratitude over living in such a wonderful place. A place where when the forecast calls for a chance of rain, what they're not saying is that there's also a chance of sun.

Le Poo

There are places where I expect to step in dog poo. When I'm walking down McAllister St. When I'm playing Frisbee in Golden Gate Park. When I'm looking for a place to sit and read in Alamo Square. The Marin town of Ross is not one of those places. The median income for Ross is $102,000; median home value is $1.7 million. With that, fool that I am, I expect a bit of civilized behavior.

But lo and behold, we ran through lovely Ross Commons this morning, ooh'ing and ah'ing over the beautiful mansions and socialites out walking their poodles with their lattes. After the run, I switched out my sneaks for my Uggs and went to join my team for a picnic on the lawn. Only seconds after I sat down and prepared to bite into my artistically crafted sandwich did I notice the brown-green-ish blotch on my suede boots. My mostly indoor slipper-boots which really, I'd be a lesser person without.

The whole idea of stepping in dog poo is that you're not prepared for it; you don't see it coming. But the act is so insipid, it in turn causes a warm flood of hostility to course through your veins. It inspires hatred towards humanity. And, Matthes would like to add, towards dogs as well. We humans sure do have the art of talking about how great we are down. We just hardly actually live up to it. And it seems the more polished something (eg a neighborhood) is on the outside, the people inside of it are just as careless and self-absorbed as, say, the ghetto.

So, I say to all of you Ross habitants and non-poop-scoopers at large: you disappoint me. I expected more from you. I spent thirty minutes of my life cleaning your dog's poop off my beloved Uggs. You ruined a perfectly good sandwich. And the chocolate cupcake, there was no way I could even touch anything that was brown and gooey.

Thanks for that.

Flipping

It's kinda nice when we get a Sunday off from training. Today, Mother Nature is to thank, the big storm moved in with high winds rendering us unsafe to bike. Instead, I met up with a few of my teammates* at Koret for a swim at the much more reasonable hour of 9:30. With my grandparents in town this weekend, I've been working more on my endurance eating and drinking, so I was grateful to get in a good night's sleep after a great meal at Bar Bambino. And then grateful to have good friends who motivated me to get to the pool.
*A few teammates

I decided that I was going to learn how to do flip turns this year. With the guidance of a swimming buddy (and the internet), I'm making progress. I can actually do the turn without losing my breath. And while I don't have the objectivity, I think my form is getting better. It's amazing how much faster I am in the pool; I know it won't change anything during a race itself, but I do feel like my swimming is getting stronger overall.

As alluded to earlier, I've had out of town guests the last two weekends which has interfered somewhat in my training (mostly due to increased alcohol consumption). In a weird way, this is actually leading to improved results. My theory is that I'm more relaxed about training this year. I'm not doing any races that I haven't already done and therefor, I don't have the fear of god in me. Subsequently, I train when I can and when I'm there, I'm there 100%. I'm also not sweating it (literally) when something else comes up and I miss a workout. After all, life is short and there's a lot of life to live outside the pool, off the bike, and away from the track. This approach suits me well. Living life outside the pool, bike and track.

Back on The Blog

It's been months since my last post. It's not that nothing interesting has happened, I just haven't wanted to write about it. Publically.

I'm back on the training circuit and that's always fun to write about. I've joined Master's at Koret and figured, since I was going to swim with the big guns, I should act like the big guns act. Thus, I pee'd in the pool. It was fun. But come on. Really? Am I that susceptible to the bad advice of my fellow swimmers?

Here's what happened. It was 40 minutes into the workout and I had to go. Attendance was pretty low that night and I had the whole lane to myself. I was hanging at the end of the lane on a rest...and...it just kinda happened. Ok, it didn't "just" happen. I can't in good conscience blame this on bladder control. But there I was, peeing in the water and nobody knew!

The whole point of peeing in the water was so I could continue the workout without having to get out of the pool. Problem is, after I pee'd in my own friggin lane, I didn't want to keep swimming in it. And so, I am chalking this experience up to a bad judgment call. And while I will continue to pee in my wetsuit, there will be no more peeing at Koret, so fear not fellow Masters' swimmers. That warm spot has nothing to do with me.

The Longest Minute

Do you ever feel like some minutes last longer than others? That time works against you: speeding up the moments that feel good and stretching out the ones that bring pain? In an effort to ensure that all things in the world are categorized into nice, neat buckets of good vs. bad, I've compiled two lists: the longest minutes and the shortest minutes. I'm fairly convinced that time is truly accelerating or slowing without our knowing.

List #1 The Longest Minutes:
The 2:30 minutes of chair-pose in Boot Camp (and most other timed exercise)
Waiting for sushi to arrive
Waiting for the phone to ring for someone who says they're going to call at a certain time
Any mode of public transportation
Waiting for good vs. bad news
Waiting. Period.
The dentist (or any medical procedure)

List #2 The Shortest Minutes:
Minutes of a massage
Talking on the phone when you're calling a loved one from a foreign country on a phone card
Eating dessert
Descending a hill on a bike, snowboard, etc.
The time in-between when your alarm goes off and the snooze
Working against a deadline
Running for the bus (or any other public transportation that you're late for)
Anytime you're late for anything
When you can't sleep & you keep looking at the clock

Time may offer a systematic method for measuring the moments of our lives, but our minds can and do play tricks, letting us weight our experiences. A time machine would be great, but how about a machine that can stretch out the pleasure and decrease the pain? Please submit business proposals.

Rooftop Tornado

This is the story of a pie, a roof, and a very windy city.

Let's start by closing our eyes and pretending that the weather in San Francisco is pleasant. Pleasant enough to throw a rooftop party in August. Those smug Mission-ites seem to think (among other things) that they live in a lollypop land of fantasy weather with unicorns flying through the white poofy clouds, sun beams flowing through gently rustling curtains and soft breezes caressing your face.

I have been to the Mission a total of 3 times so far this summer. Once to look at real estate. Once to hang out in Dolores Park (Dolores Park pre-burning man. Bad idea. Topic of another blog entry.) And once again to attend this rooftop party. All visits: cold, windy, un-predicatable. Just like the rest of the city. But with a higher volume and mix of annoying people.

Not long after I woke up on Saturday morning, I realized that I was supposed to bring some sort of "dish" to this party. I had a couple of hours. The coffee was brewing. I decided to bake. One thing led to another and the next thing I knew, I was rolling out a pie crust and putting together the pieces of a somewhat elaborate mocha-brownie-pudding-pie. Despite my rushed state, the pie ended up looking pretty damn good and when I finally arrived at the party, I set it onto the table with pride.

It couldn't have been more than 15 minutes that passed, I was attempting to mingle, eat and keep the hair out of my face all at the same time. The wind was kicking up and it was one of those winds where people actually were compelled to acknowledge it's presence, "wow, it's windy." Yes, you are very observant. The occasional napkin or paper plate was seen circulating through the air, but my pie in it's tin pie-plate seemed safe enough. Or so I thought.

Until the rooftop tornado hit. It was a gust that nearly took down a couple of palm trees. It came out of nowhere, grabbed my pie, and threw it to the ground. Face down. A look of horror came over my friend Tim's face, "Pam, your pie!" I wanted to cry, but I quickly replaced the feeling of grief with an intense and bitter hatred towards the wind, and maybe even San Francisco as a whole (just for a few minutes). Tim helped me salvage some of the pie; it wasn't pretty, but people actually still ate it. That was a couple hours later, after everyone was drunk.

I believe that I am permanently scarred from this episode. While the wind has never made it to my list of favorite things, I am now convinced by its capacity to ruin otherwise delightful activities. It wrecks bike rides, destroys picnics, makes reading in the park virtually impossible, and so on. It used to be a general animosity, but now it's personal. Nobody throws my pie on the ground and gets away with it.