KRAC Blog

After the Ridge Saturday (but before my nap) I took CLA and LCA to the park to do some soccer drills. We horsed around for a bit, then mosied down to where the Rugby players were to watch for a bit. The Buffalo Rugby Club "B" team was playing (the "A" team had gone earlier in the day.) CLA watched, entranced. I don't think she'd ever seen it played before. "Oh. My. Gosh," she said. "I think I have a new favorite sport." It was a pretty impressive display, I must admit, and although I'm sure she'll play Rugby sooner or later, I don't think she's done with soccer quite yet.

I thought about this again today when I read this account of the unelected leader of the Free World's version of his college athletic career:

"[A]ccording to presidential adviser Karen Hughes, the president likes to, well, embellish a bit when describing his college athletic career. [F]rom a book review of Hughes' Ten Minutes from Normal:

A strange anecdote about Vladimir Putin's interest in Bush's college days seems to be included so Hughes can mention Bush's underappreciated athleticism: "'President Putin knew you had played rugby, but he didn't have the context. I mean you just played for one semester in college, right?' I said, dismissing it.

"'I played for a year,' the president corrected me, 'and it was the varsity.'"

"Doolittle [the source for the review] offers this correction:

"... The underappreciated athlete couldn't have played varsity rugby because there wasn't any varsity. Because rugby was a club sport."

I'm not sure what the appropriate Rugby response to this sort of thing would be, although I'm sure it is something both violent and humiliating. I'll say this, though, whatever it is: I hope CLA does play Rugby someday, and that she gets to participate in giving out whatever Bush has coming. (Via Electrolite.)

We arrived in Utica at about 9:15 Friday night, and went directly to the Hotel Utica. We checked in and immediately called "Dominique's Chesterfield" to make sure they were still serving. They were, so we went right over. On the way down Bleeker, we had to dodge a few guys staggering down the middle of the street. When we got there, the old guy owner recognized my voice from the phone call; we told him we had driven all the way from Buffalo to eat at his restaurant, so for the rest of the night he stopped by the table to chat us up. He described Buffao as "that place near Olean." We had the "hats."

Turns out that the Chesterfield has a hopping bar crowd and the clientele was loud and happy when we got there at 9:45. The scene was "Tony & Tina's wedding." At the back of dining room a DJ was setting up his gear. The owner told us that starting at 11:00, the tables are cleared and room is turned into a disco. Who knew?

We had a huge corner room at the Hotel Utica. Although it was raining when we went to bed, by Saturday morning it was clear and sunny, but there was a stiff, cool breeze. We went over to the Boilermaker course, and parked at the Community College. We ran from just before the two mile pole, up the hill and through the golf course, then down the hill and back to the car along Culver Avenue, about four miles. It was a piece of cake. The view from the top of the course was spectacular.

After a solid outing at the Ridge yesterday (post mort, per Dave: "I thought we started out a little fast, but I figured I'd just go with it." Bill: "Huhhuh, huhhuh, huhuh, gasp.") I thought I'd try a little tune up on my leg of the Relay course. Thing is, the description of the course ("Nottingham to Meadow Dr., right on Meadow entering Delaware Park turning left on the Ring Road running clockwise. Take Ring Road to Colvin Blvd. Exit the park turning left onto Colvin heading north to Hertel Ave. Turn left on Hertel to Delaware Ave., right on Delaware to Delaware Rd. Turn right on Delaware Rd. to Brighton Rd. Turn right on Brighton to Colvin Blvd. Proceed south to Colvin to Amherst St. ") does not seem to match the map.

Ah, the hell with it. I'll just run my usual loop.

Found at Bookslut:

"A two hour TV movie, coming to us Fall 2004 by the blessed folks at TNT:

"Hidden beneath the monolithic New York Public Library is a repository for mankind’s greatest secrets. From the Golden Fleece to the Ark of the Covenant, every enigma and artifact from every known and unknown civilization is protected from the forces of evil who, if given the chance, would use the priceless treasures for their nefarious plans.

"Only one man can keep them safe:

"The Librarian".

We'll be in Saratoga Springs Saturday afternoon for some type of Adirondack-fest. Tonight we're going to drive "halfway" -- to Utica -- to make Saturday's drive a little more leisurely. In the morning we're going to run the hill/golf course section of the Boilermaker course, just for the fun of it.

I wasn't able to run last Friday or Saturday, so when I got home Sunday I went out and did my long loop: up Delaware to the park, around the Ring Road and out to Nottingham, behind the Historical Society, up the Hill then down Elmwood. It felt pretty good after the long drive, but Monday, walking off the plane, down the jetway I had a twinge, a sort of sharp, stabbing pain in the big toe of my left foot. "What's this?" I thought. I'd avoided injury last Spring by prophylactic self-administration of anti-inflamatories, but I can't get anyone to prescribe them for me now. (Dr. Z is surprisingly hard-assed about this sort of thing. He wouldn't approve HGH either, and I can foresee a problem with palliative marijuana if that time ever comes. Who'd have thought it?)

Medical students sometimes develop the symptoms of the pathologies they are studying, and I am far from immune to this: when I try a case involving a back injury, for example, I often find myself hobbled with back pain. You can't call it sympathy pain exactly: as a rule I am on the defense side, arguing that the pathetic crippled plaintiff should rub some dirt on it and get on with his life. I don't think of myself as a hypochondriac, but I have to confess that tendonitis was not what I was thinking about for the rest of the day, as I flexed and extended the toe, trying to see what made it hurt, and how much I could make it hurt. "If you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras," is what they say, but I was worried about gout anyway. I'd look good in a smoking jacket with my foot on a silk ottoman to be sure, but I'm really not ready for the most luxurious (and painful) of the joint diseases, even if I have earned it.

Fortunately my travel schedule this week meant that I was not able to put in many miles, and my complaints seem to have responded to rest and ibuprofen. I'm looking forward to the Ridge this weekend.

Yesterday in Boston:

1. Boston Marathon

2. Sox beat Yanks at Fenway, win three of four, A-Rod still doesn't hit

3. Patriots trade for Corey Dillon

4. Number 2 seed Bruins lose in seven to number 7 seed Canadiens

Today's Boston sports pages will be fun to read.

One of the things I enjoy about travel is the opportunity it presents to read different newspapers. I don't care enough about what is happening in Baltimore all the time to pick up a copy of The Sun from the out of town rack; my interest in the Cubs can be sated by the agate print; but when I am in a place, the local paper puts me in the proper context. Abroad I need the Trib, domestically, the Times is essential, but even on my day trips to New York, I find that Newsday or The News help me get into the rhythm on the ground. This weekend's visit with EGA made The Boston Globe available. Not as much like the Times as one might guess, and abuse over the Yankees' visit to Fenway, the other big topic was Monday's Marathon. On the front page today was a feature about specialized running shoes, including Nike's Mayfly, a limited- edition sneaker that's good only for 62.1 miles. Three and a half ounces, good for a one percent increase in efficiency, $50 bucks-- I don't see how I can not buy a pair, especially since I held off on buying a pair of Icebugs last winter.

I can, without too much difficulty, imagine myself as R.W. Apple, the NY Times reporter who used to cover politics but now writes mostly about food. I always got the sense reading him that the reason he covered politics in the first place was that it got him out to places where he could try whatever the regional specialty might happen to be. He impresses me as the kind of guy who, finding himself in Omaha or some place for the first time would say, "Hey, you know, I've always wanted to try..." and know where the best steakhouse or ice cream parlor or whatever was. I think of him as red-faced and porcine, the kind of fat man whose face is always glistening as though freshly buttered., and whose manners are always dainty.

He had a lengthy piece in the paper yesterday about Chicago's contribution to the frankfurter arts. I had intended to sample a Chicago hot dog when I went last Fall: warmed poppy-seed bun dressed with a crisp pickle spear, sweet green relish, a wedge of raw tomato, chopped onions, yellow mustard, celery salt and two or three hot little green chilies-- pressed for time I went to the Billy Goat Tavern instead. Neither of these are training table fare, and I don't want to go to Harry Caray's, either-- I've been there twice, and found it undistinguished. So, where are we going to eat?

Shorts and a long sleeved tee shirt today-- if I'd had tights, I'd have worn them. I started out thinking "This is too cold." Outside is where the miles are, though, and the first mile hadn't clicked over before I realized that it was fine, and not too cold at all. I figure that at least once a week I'm going to follow this route: out Delaware to X, (where X= two blocks farther than the week before), over to Main and back.

On an unrelated topic, this Monday is the Boston Marathon. Leave aside the fact that to qualify we'd have to have run a marathon at 8:00 minute mile pace (Dave, you get a break). Think about December 13 last year, and what running has been like over the course of the 18 weeks that followed. There is a school of thought that says it is easier to train for a Spring marathon, because you don't have to train in the heat, but I'm not buying it. I think of this as a sport that can be done in my underwear, and I like it that way.

The Spotted Pig sounds like it might be worth checking out following Thursday's deposition. I think I'll have the gnudi, and either the chicken liver mousse, or the grilled skirt steak, but I will probably check the specials first.

I went into Saturday's run at the Ridge better prepared for it than I have ever been, if a little behind in my sleep for the week. Even so, it left me absolutely wiped out. It's funny, there are times when you run, and it's just running; and there are times that you run and you know you have done something to make yourself stronger. Ideally, that's what the Ridge does. I came home, ate a big breakfast, and took LCA to an Easter Egg hunt at Ellicott Creek Park feeling leg sore but good, like I'd licked my weight in wildcats. Then it was naptime.

It looks like it is warming enough to start getting serious about getting outside, and it sounds like Tom is already putting in the serious distance. Sunday was my rest day-- I'm going to go 4 today, and I'll try to fit six in Wednesday. Thursday and Friday are travel days, so Tuesday will have to be my fartlek day. I'll do some hills in Northhampton Saturday, but it won't be the same.

Nice post, but name this tune:

"Now you're telling me
You're not nostalgic
Then give me another word for it
You who was so good with words"

Back then, schoolboys ran two and a half miles for Cross Country. There were three courses: the Suffolk County schools raced at Sunken Meadow, the Nassau County schools ran at Bethpage, and races in the City were held at Van Cortland Park. The Meadow was our home course, and there was a little bit of an edge to that: Bethpage was flat as a pancake (the first bit was a loop around a polo field), which favored speedsters. Because Sunken Meadow had hills, it was where the league championships and the big invitational meets were held-- having it as our base meant that we were conditioned to hills, and familiar with the quirks of the course.

It started at the end of a long field-- maybe a couple of hundred yards, before turning right and going over a narrow wooden footbridge. The planks on the bridge are scared with the marks of the millions of spikes that have crossed it over the years-- we used to joke that the bridge had to be replaced every few years because our spikes tore it up so much. The bridge was the first tactical point-- you wanted to be able to break fast from the start to get on the inside, because there was a sharp left on the other end, and you didn't want to get bottlenecked.

In the great tradition of hills, this one had a name: it was "Cardiac Hill", a long incline that gets steeper and steeper as you climb, with a sharp right at the top, where it was almost like climbing a wall. The trail up the hill is narrow, without much more room than it would take to pass another runner. By Long Island standards, or to a Dutchman, I suppose, it is a pretty big hill. Off to the left was the Sound, but I never really was aware of the view. The path widened somewhat for the descent, which is more abrupt than the way up, ending with a left turn then another left into the woods. There's a series of more or less rolling, small hills in there, culminating with "Lil' Cardiac", a shorter, steeper hill that was often the place where people were caught short. A brief downhill, then into a meadow that was flat. You could see Pilgrim State Hospital, at that time the tallest building on Long Island-- a fitting view, given the insanity of the overall endeavor. At this point if there were any speedsters that had anything left, the flat gave them a chance to make up some ground. If you had used the hills wisely you could put some distance behind you. The meadow felt like a respite after the relentless climbing, but you didn't dare use it that way. You emerged from there at the base of the hill, and ran back towards the bridge. There is a gap in the fence, and you go through that, and out along a narrow inlet. The finish chute was on the opposite side, about a half mile away, and spectators lined the fence and watched for glimpses of the runners through the gaps in the trees along the water: the red and white of St. John's, the sky blue of Maria Regina, black and gold for St. Anthony's, red and gold for Chaminade, green for Holy Trinity.

It's funny how memory works-- how many times over four years did I run that course? At least once, and usually twice a week. Was it a ten week season? That sounds about right, and it adds up. Some of it was as familiar to me as the back of my teeth is to my tongue, even though it has changed; some of it could have been another planet.

At the top of the inlet yesterday I surprised a large white wading bird. It flopped its wings and moved off into the middle of the water, and I dug in and tore down the last stretch, serene in the knowledge that it didn't mean anything, that I had cruised through it with more ease than I ever had all that time ago, happy for once that my performance wasn't going to disappoint me.

I do not go in for nostalgia, so I rationalized this by telling myself that I needed a little tune-up before we start our hill training Saturday. Besides, it is not as though I was returning to the site of any past triumph-- far from that.

The bus ride home always smelled like oranges and Atomic Balm.

Use Super Bites in a sentence:

"No matter how many times you run up the Mother, it always super-bites!"

Wednesday night, Dave and I had a conversation about running this morning:

DAVE: I haven't run in a week because I was in Las Vegas, and then I had the flu and it's still bothering me. But I need to get a run in before we go to Chestnut Ridge Saturday.

ME: (Ironically) Don't worry, I'll run slow just for you.

DAVE: I can always count on you to NOT suck it up.

The Big Bike starts where it starts, but you get going in the Japanese Garden behind the Historical Society. The path forks as you approach Elmwood: one way takes you uphill, towards the parking lot, and the other takes you under the overpass, and out into a meadow behind McKinley High School. The bike path runs along the Scajaquada Creek, taking you behind Wegman's, and past playgrounds that only the neighbors ever knew about. I never saw the alligator, but I hear there's a beaver there now, and depending on the time of day it might be something that gets spotted-- one of the cool things about the bike is that it doesn't seem to startle the wildlife quite as much as running does. In high summer this stretch is notable for the prolificacy of the rabbits, which almost seem to spray out in front of you. You come out by the Polish Falcons' Hall, across the street from Tops; when you cross Grant, you follow the trail around to the left, past the parking lot, and into a stretch of almost completely abandoned industrial Buffalo. You are running under the Scajaquada expressway now, past plants that are empty, and streets that look like they haven't been used by anyone who wasn't lost for years. This stretch emerges on Niagara Street, and it looks like they have done a little work connecting this up with the next major part of the trail: according to Michael Beebe the trail will be linked directly to the Riverwalk. This is great news: the stretch that ran along Niagara Street was the only part of the trip that was unpleasant, with traffic that was fast enough, and heedless enough to make riding on the narrow, glass-strewn sidewalk preferable. Once you're on the Riverwalk, you are home free, and you are able to ride without really having to worry about cars all the way to Old Man River and beyond, to the bike path at UB.

If I worked at UB, and lived in the city, I might consider trying to turn my commute home into a cross training opportunity once a week.

I'm at my office downtown, on April 4th. It's snowing, it's blowing, it's . . . sucking. Yesterday it was raining, so I ran 3.6 miles (in order to duplicate two laps around Delaware Park) on the treadmill. I figure it takes me about five minutes longer to do that distance on the treadmill compared to running at the Park. Today I hoped to do seven miles outside, but I'll be inside instead. I may well die of boredom running that long inside. However, I did two weightroom/ab workouts this week.

Maceo, take me to the Ridge, Yow!

As bad as my upcoming week looks, I have the consolation of being near enough to Sunken Meadow State Park for most of it to be able, with luck, to return to the scene of my high school cross country days. Sunken Meadow is on the Sound, and is notable for its hills, notwithstanding (a) the fact that it is on Long Island; (2) the name of the place. If I can get a run or two in there while I'm on the Rock, I will consider the week a success.