I have half-heartedly committed to run in the Steamtown marathon in October. This is something I’ve wanted to do, toyed with doing, for a number of years. This year I’ll be turning 50. Seems like an added reason to try it.
I say “try it,” not “do it.” That’s a problem. I’m not fully on-board with this yet. Still testing the waters. What if I get tired of the training? What if I lose heart?
My cover now is injury. That’s a legitimate excuse for dropping out, right? I say to myself doubtfully, well, I’ll try, if my joints hold up, but I’m not sure they will. This weekend I said this to my parents, half to cover myself, and half to ease them into the idea of me running a marathon. I hadn’t planned on telling them anything. I had told Lori of my tentative plan, and sworn her to secrecy, but she forgot and told my mother!
My mother’s reaction was surprisingly positive, considering her propensity to worry. “Well, it’s a goal,” she said. “If you want to try it I’ll support you.” I don’t think she even said “Be careful.” My father’s reaction was similar. They respect my running, and have for some time. My father has even asked me in the past whether I ever thought about running a marathon. The idea intrigues him.
I wouldn’t even have considered it up until about two months ago. For the past several months, maybe a year, until then, my running had been desultory; I had felt heavy, sluggish. I wasn’t enjoying running much at all. Of late, though, there’s been a change for the better. I don’t know what occasioned it—was it slowing down my pace? Losing a few pounds? For whatever reason, I began to feel a marked improvement and, well, I ran with it. As I started to feel better and better, Steamtown began to seem like a real possibility. I looked up Hal Higdon’s training plan for novice marathoners on the Web and saw that I was just in time to start training, so I fell into it.
Already, I’m in the middle of the fourth week. It hasn’t even grown hard yet, but already, I’ve had to fight off some internal resistance. What do I want to do this for? I’ve asked myself. It’s too much of a commitment, I’ve complained. I don’t feel like it. I’ve anticipated other people voicing the same thoughts. But so far, I’ve made the effort to stick to the training, and I think that with every week I put in, my commitment will grow along with my investment.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Formidable
William F. Buckley died today, aged 82, at his desk. His cook found him at 10 a.m.
I found myself drawn to his intelligence, energy, immensity of output and influence, charm. By the greatness of the life he lived. By the idea that he was not like today’s conservatives, bullying, nasty, bankrupt, partisan, that he treated his opponents with respect, was decent, gracious, large.
This is the impression I’ve formed from a distance, not paying much attention. A certain fondness, even though I had no affinity for most of what he stood for, and to pick up a copy of the National Review made me clench my teeth with fear and loathing. To me Buckley was like a pope—his presence forced me to give consideration to what I didn’t agree with. He had that kind of ballast.
We grew up watching Buckley perform on Firing Line on our black-and-white TV, that sprawling presence, the darting tongue, flashing eyes, feral smile, the evident joy he took in measuring, pouncing on and dismantling his opponents, the sheer style and humor with which he did it. We didn’t like him, but we were mesmerized by him.
Our father expressed admiration for Buckley, along with amusement at his mannerisms. This led to a period of years when a Buckley book was regarded as the logical birthday and Christmas present for Dad; when these events came around we pooled our money and bought him one, until at last one Christmas, after he ripped off the wrapping paper, he couldn’t help exclaiming, in a somewhat exasperated voice, “Who told you guys I like Buckley anyway?” There was a pause for us all to gulp. Then the reprieve: “I mean I do,” he said, “but…” I don’t think he read any of them.
Here’s the other connection: Eudie, my mom’s friend from girlhood, worked for Buckley in the early years of the National Review, as a secretary. She spoke of him with reverence.
He was a figure from my childhood, one who in recent years I would turn to for a principled conservative opinion on the war in Iraq, at a time when I didn't know what to think. I probably wouldn’t agree with him but I had to take him seriously. I could trust in his integrity and had to respect his opinion. For whatever reason, I assigned him not just with intelligence but with wisdom.
I found myself drawn to his intelligence, energy, immensity of output and influence, charm. By the greatness of the life he lived. By the idea that he was not like today’s conservatives, bullying, nasty, bankrupt, partisan, that he treated his opponents with respect, was decent, gracious, large.
This is the impression I’ve formed from a distance, not paying much attention. A certain fondness, even though I had no affinity for most of what he stood for, and to pick up a copy of the National Review made me clench my teeth with fear and loathing. To me Buckley was like a pope—his presence forced me to give consideration to what I didn’t agree with. He had that kind of ballast.
We grew up watching Buckley perform on Firing Line on our black-and-white TV, that sprawling presence, the darting tongue, flashing eyes, feral smile, the evident joy he took in measuring, pouncing on and dismantling his opponents, the sheer style and humor with which he did it. We didn’t like him, but we were mesmerized by him.
Our father expressed admiration for Buckley, along with amusement at his mannerisms. This led to a period of years when a Buckley book was regarded as the logical birthday and Christmas present for Dad; when these events came around we pooled our money and bought him one, until at last one Christmas, after he ripped off the wrapping paper, he couldn’t help exclaiming, in a somewhat exasperated voice, “Who told you guys I like Buckley anyway?” There was a pause for us all to gulp. Then the reprieve: “I mean I do,” he said, “but…” I don’t think he read any of them.
Here’s the other connection: Eudie, my mom’s friend from girlhood, worked for Buckley in the early years of the National Review, as a secretary. She spoke of him with reverence.
He was a figure from my childhood, one who in recent years I would turn to for a principled conservative opinion on the war in Iraq, at a time when I didn't know what to think. I probably wouldn’t agree with him but I had to take him seriously. I could trust in his integrity and had to respect his opinion. For whatever reason, I assigned him not just with intelligence but with wisdom.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Remote control
It’s a curious thing how a switch in the mind can suddenly be turned on after long lying dormant. This happened to me recently with regard to the television in the kitchen. We installed the thing when the kitchen was remodeled, eight years ago now; it perches on a black metal stand at the end of a jointed arm bolted to the wall, so that it takes up no counter space. It is a somewhat guilty pleasure, but a pleasure indeed: cook’s companion, weather guide, boon to dish-washing. Many the Phillies game I have checked on, the political debate I have sampled, the episode of Scrubs I have caught the end of. Without this television I would have no experience of either Everybody Loves Raymond or Deal or No Deal.
Placing a television in the kitchen has its hazards, however. Chief among them is food spillage, which, except on Superbowl Sunday, is not as much of a threat in the den. When a television set sits suspended above the coffeemaker, when a busy cook or a dishwasher is handling the remote control on a daily basis, problems are bound to ensue. In our case, the poor remote suffered so many wet thumbs and splashes of spaghetti sauce over the years that it gradually ceased to function. First the number keys, then the mute, and finally the on-off button became stubborn and unreliable. We were left with a crippled TV. To turn it on or change the channel required accessing the controls on the front of the set itself. In an age of fewer channels and less obnoxious commercials, this might not have posed a problem. But when you have to toggle 28 times to get from CNN to MSNBC, and 40 to get from PBS to Nickelodeon, it becomes a source of considerable frustration.
The point is we lived with this frustration for a very long time. From the first refusal of the “Previous channel” button, when I thought we needed new batteries, to the current state of all-but-total paralysis, where only the “5” key works, the remote had been in a state of advancing failure for at least two years. And for the length of that time, we had suffered with it, toggling those arrow buttons up and down every time there was a commercial or other lull.
Finally, yesterday, when Lori said she had some things to pick up at the store, it occurred to me to ask her to purchase a new remote, the kind they call a universal, that can be programmed to work for anything. The very concept is amazing.
Anyway, she brought home the device, I quickly got it programmed, and our troubles were over. After two years of struggle, we instantly had a television that was no longer crippled. What a relief!
But the question I’m asking myself now is: What the hell took me so long? Why on Earth did I keep muddling along with the damaged remote for two years, shaking my head, lamenting, cursing, before it finally occurred to me to just replace the damn thing? Why did it take so long for the Sun to break through the clouds?
I can identify the precipitating event. I had started to worry that the accumulation of all that rapid-fire toggling, that rough handling, was going to end up damaging the television itself. And the next thought was that if the set broke we were not going to replace it; we didn’t have the money, and anyway how would we manage to get one that would fit in as well as this one did? It was the fear of losing the source of pleasure that finally pierced through the inertia. When that fear became real, the idea took shape.
A trivial example, perhaps, but it shows how we fall into ruts in our daily living.
Placing a television in the kitchen has its hazards, however. Chief among them is food spillage, which, except on Superbowl Sunday, is not as much of a threat in the den. When a television set sits suspended above the coffeemaker, when a busy cook or a dishwasher is handling the remote control on a daily basis, problems are bound to ensue. In our case, the poor remote suffered so many wet thumbs and splashes of spaghetti sauce over the years that it gradually ceased to function. First the number keys, then the mute, and finally the on-off button became stubborn and unreliable. We were left with a crippled TV. To turn it on or change the channel required accessing the controls on the front of the set itself. In an age of fewer channels and less obnoxious commercials, this might not have posed a problem. But when you have to toggle 28 times to get from CNN to MSNBC, and 40 to get from PBS to Nickelodeon, it becomes a source of considerable frustration.
The point is we lived with this frustration for a very long time. From the first refusal of the “Previous channel” button, when I thought we needed new batteries, to the current state of all-but-total paralysis, where only the “5” key works, the remote had been in a state of advancing failure for at least two years. And for the length of that time, we had suffered with it, toggling those arrow buttons up and down every time there was a commercial or other lull.
Finally, yesterday, when Lori said she had some things to pick up at the store, it occurred to me to ask her to purchase a new remote, the kind they call a universal, that can be programmed to work for anything. The very concept is amazing.
Anyway, she brought home the device, I quickly got it programmed, and our troubles were over. After two years of struggle, we instantly had a television that was no longer crippled. What a relief!
But the question I’m asking myself now is: What the hell took me so long? Why on Earth did I keep muddling along with the damaged remote for two years, shaking my head, lamenting, cursing, before it finally occurred to me to just replace the damn thing? Why did it take so long for the Sun to break through the clouds?
I can identify the precipitating event. I had started to worry that the accumulation of all that rapid-fire toggling, that rough handling, was going to end up damaging the television itself. And the next thought was that if the set broke we were not going to replace it; we didn’t have the money, and anyway how would we manage to get one that would fit in as well as this one did? It was the fear of losing the source of pleasure that finally pierced through the inertia. When that fear became real, the idea took shape.
A trivial example, perhaps, but it shows how we fall into ruts in our daily living.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Healthy perspective
This morning it was raining, a cold winter rain to melt the snow on the ground. I looked out the glass door and felt sorry for myself, knowing I’d have to walk in this. It’s fifteen minutes from the church parking lot where I leave the van to my office, I thought, and I don’t have a damn umbrella. What will I wear on my feet? I also lack a proper raincoat, I thought. My long topcoat lacks two of four buttons and a belt loop. My rainjacket is short for me, and the rain pours off it soaking my pants front and back at the upper thigh. Why does it have to be so wretched out, I groused? And why don’t I have the things I need? Because I don’t plan ahead. Because I don’t make enough money.
So things snowballed until I had myself good and miserable. There seemed no getting around a dismal start to the day. As we left the house I braced for the cold drops from the hemlock tree above the driveway that would no doubt find their way down the back of my collar. We got in the car and drove to the end of the street.
There, struggling to get out of his car, was the old retired guy who serves as our school crossing guard. A month ago he had a knee replaced, and now I could see him wincing as he tried to stand. By the time we reached him, though, and Lori rolled down her window, he had tottered over to his post, where he stood half-hidden under a red and white golf umbrella.
“Nice day, huh?” Lori said, sympathetically. The rain was beating on his umbrella.
“It is a nice day,” he shot back. “We’re alive, aren’t we?” He was grinning.
Lori and I both stood corrected. “We sure are,” she said. “Stay warm.”
I stopped feeling sorry for myself immediately. By the time I got to the church, the rain had pretty much stopped.
So things snowballed until I had myself good and miserable. There seemed no getting around a dismal start to the day. As we left the house I braced for the cold drops from the hemlock tree above the driveway that would no doubt find their way down the back of my collar. We got in the car and drove to the end of the street.
There, struggling to get out of his car, was the old retired guy who serves as our school crossing guard. A month ago he had a knee replaced, and now I could see him wincing as he tried to stand. By the time we reached him, though, and Lori rolled down her window, he had tottered over to his post, where he stood half-hidden under a red and white golf umbrella.
“Nice day, huh?” Lori said, sympathetically. The rain was beating on his umbrella.
“It is a nice day,” he shot back. “We’re alive, aren’t we?” He was grinning.
Lori and I both stood corrected. “We sure are,” she said. “Stay warm.”
I stopped feeling sorry for myself immediately. By the time I got to the church, the rain had pretty much stopped.
Friday, February 01, 2008
Indoor track
Ran inside today, for the second time this week. There was no getting around it. We had snow last night, and this morning freezing rain. By noon it had warmed up enough to be just rain, and the roads and sidewalks were covered in slush. It was run inside or don’t run at all. Even the big boys, the Boston Marathon boys, ran inside, which made me feel less of a wimp. That left only the monotony to deal with.
I’m grateful for the indoor option on a day like today, but that doesn’t make it pleasant. I go around and around that old banked track like a hamster on a wheel, breathing the stale dry air at the top of the old gymnasium, trying to find my rhythm.
It was easier today than on Wednesday. I felt better, for one thing, a little lighter, a little less duck-footed and clumsy. My new shoes felt spongy. I put myself in a sort of a trance and just ran the minutes down, where on Wednesday I was fighting it. It didn’t hurt that there was a shapely young baton twirler practicing on the deck below in short shorts and a tube top, a welcome sight at the end of every oval.
I have taken to praying when I run on the track, as a way to pass the time. Some days I pray for other people, devoting a lap to each one. I move from family to friends to enemies to special cases, accomplishing a kind of giant rosary, and sooner run out of laps than out of names. Today, though, I lacked the extra energy to be specific. I just tried to be open, receptive to whatever message God might have for me. There didn’t seem to be anything in particular, but that was okay. I was determined to be patient, even as I fretted over the monstrous lack of humility in this attitude. Me being patient with God! Ah, but God will understand, I thought. God just shakes his head and laughs at my childishness, as I sometimes laugh at Danny’s. He indulges me. He knows that I’m a helpless mess and he gives me points for trying.
I’m grateful for the indoor option on a day like today, but that doesn’t make it pleasant. I go around and around that old banked track like a hamster on a wheel, breathing the stale dry air at the top of the old gymnasium, trying to find my rhythm.
It was easier today than on Wednesday. I felt better, for one thing, a little lighter, a little less duck-footed and clumsy. My new shoes felt spongy. I put myself in a sort of a trance and just ran the minutes down, where on Wednesday I was fighting it. It didn’t hurt that there was a shapely young baton twirler practicing on the deck below in short shorts and a tube top, a welcome sight at the end of every oval.
I have taken to praying when I run on the track, as a way to pass the time. Some days I pray for other people, devoting a lap to each one. I move from family to friends to enemies to special cases, accomplishing a kind of giant rosary, and sooner run out of laps than out of names. Today, though, I lacked the extra energy to be specific. I just tried to be open, receptive to whatever message God might have for me. There didn’t seem to be anything in particular, but that was okay. I was determined to be patient, even as I fretted over the monstrous lack of humility in this attitude. Me being patient with God! Ah, but God will understand, I thought. God just shakes his head and laughs at my childishness, as I sometimes laugh at Danny’s. He indulges me. He knows that I’m a helpless mess and he gives me points for trying.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
The Third Man
It cheered me somewhat surprisingly last night to learn that the Phillies had signed a third baseman. Puzzled me that I had not heard of the guy, though. He’s a National Leaguer, after all; has played for the Giants for something like seven years. His name is Pedro Feliz (“Happy Peter,” one of the message-board fans was already calling him).
The opinions on Peter are mixed. Some of the Bay area fans have terrible things to say about him; how frustrating he is to watch, flailing at bad pitches in clutch situations. His batting average is only .250, and his on-base percentage is lousy, they point out. But he hits 20 home runs a year; in Philly’s small park they say he’ll hit more. He drives in 80 runs. And by most accounts he plays a terrific third base.
The paper said Rollins was juiced when he heard Feliz was coming. I wonder how that makes Dobbs and Helms, the incumbent third basemen, feel. Both were already sounding a little miffed at the strenuous efforts of management this off-season to replace them. Good riddance to Helms, I say. He was a real drag last year, the turd at third. But Dobbs is a scrapper, and a good clutch hitter. He may not be an everyday player, but I’d hate to see him go.
The opinions on Peter are mixed. Some of the Bay area fans have terrible things to say about him; how frustrating he is to watch, flailing at bad pitches in clutch situations. His batting average is only .250, and his on-base percentage is lousy, they point out. But he hits 20 home runs a year; in Philly’s small park they say he’ll hit more. He drives in 80 runs. And by most accounts he plays a terrific third base.
The paper said Rollins was juiced when he heard Feliz was coming. I wonder how that makes Dobbs and Helms, the incumbent third basemen, feel. Both were already sounding a little miffed at the strenuous efforts of management this off-season to replace them. Good riddance to Helms, I say. He was a real drag last year, the turd at third. But Dobbs is a scrapper, and a good clutch hitter. He may not be an everyday player, but I’d hate to see him go.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Examination
What are my motivations for running?
On a good day, it makes me feel good, both while I’m doing it and after. I enjoy the feeling of using my body and being in shape. Feeling good physically makes me feel younger, and gives me hope that I can stave off aging. Being in shape makes me feel more attractive. This raises my spirits.
I enjoy running. I would not do it if I took no pleasure in it. However, that pleasure can be elusive. There are some days when I have to force myself to get out and run; I just don’t feel like it. And there are some days, not always the same ones, when running feels plain lousy, no matter how much I take it easy. If there were more days and times when it felt lousy than there were days and times when it felt good I would stop running. It is harder to get back out there after a lousy day, easier after a good day.
Running requires effort. There is no guaranteed immediate reward. But there is the possibility of immediate reward. And there is a sort of guarantee that if you stick with it, you will get better at it. You may not become a good runner, but you’ll become a better one: the harder you work, the better you’ll become.
Are the same things true of prayer? Not exactly. Ultimately, improvement at prayer is a matter of grace, not of effort. Yet effort is required. Prayer, making yourself open to grace, is a discipline, in that it’s easier not to do it. One must be dedicated. And there is no promise of reward.
If I’m honest, I’ll admit that I pray mostly because it makes me feel good. But again, feeling good is not guaranteed. Grace will come when it comes; I can’t control it. I have only to put myself in the way of it, be patient and humble waiting for it, and be thankful when it comes and accepting when it doesn’t.
On a good day, it makes me feel good, both while I’m doing it and after. I enjoy the feeling of using my body and being in shape. Feeling good physically makes me feel younger, and gives me hope that I can stave off aging. Being in shape makes me feel more attractive. This raises my spirits.
I enjoy running. I would not do it if I took no pleasure in it. However, that pleasure can be elusive. There are some days when I have to force myself to get out and run; I just don’t feel like it. And there are some days, not always the same ones, when running feels plain lousy, no matter how much I take it easy. If there were more days and times when it felt lousy than there were days and times when it felt good I would stop running. It is harder to get back out there after a lousy day, easier after a good day.
Running requires effort. There is no guaranteed immediate reward. But there is the possibility of immediate reward. And there is a sort of guarantee that if you stick with it, you will get better at it. You may not become a good runner, but you’ll become a better one: the harder you work, the better you’ll become.
Are the same things true of prayer? Not exactly. Ultimately, improvement at prayer is a matter of grace, not of effort. Yet effort is required. Prayer, making yourself open to grace, is a discipline, in that it’s easier not to do it. One must be dedicated. And there is no promise of reward.
If I’m honest, I’ll admit that I pray mostly because it makes me feel good. But again, feeling good is not guaranteed. Grace will come when it comes; I can’t control it. I have only to put myself in the way of it, be patient and humble waiting for it, and be thankful when it comes and accepting when it doesn’t.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Money in the bank
Okay, so the honeymoon’s over. For the entirety of my lunchtime run today, I struggled as though I was carrying a cannonball. I huffed and I puffed and I felt like quitting, even though I was wearing a brand-new pair of shoes. Why the change from the time before? The day was cold, but no colder than it’s been. Had the glass of rye whiskey I sipped before dinner last night suddenly made me turn old? Serious runners talk about the “running gods,” who giveth and taketh away, without explanation. Some days you just feel lousy.
Before I’d finished a mile, a pretty good definition of “discipline” popped into my head. A discipline is something you do whether you feel like it or not. Doesn’t that about cover it? A discipline is something you practice. You do it over and over, regularly, with dedication. It’s something you set aside time for, something you plan for and commit to. Something you do “for your own good,” that is, your long-term good, as opposed to your short-term inclination, what you “feel like” doing.
Sometimes near lunchtime I will for one reason or another not feel like running: Maybe I’m hungry, or my blood sugar is low, or I’m tired or under stress. I’ll be tempted by excuses. My calf hurts, and I might get injured. I’m coming down with something. I have too much to do. It really would be better just to rest. Sometimes I’ll actually talk myself out of running, or spend so long at trading pros and cons that the opportunity is lost.
On the days when I manage to override the temptations and get myself out the door, I am "exercising" discipline. Giving it a work-out. Making it a little stronger. And that feels good. Not like scratching an itch feels good. More like putting money in a bank feels good.
It helps to remember this.
Before I’d finished a mile, a pretty good definition of “discipline” popped into my head. A discipline is something you do whether you feel like it or not. Doesn’t that about cover it? A discipline is something you practice. You do it over and over, regularly, with dedication. It’s something you set aside time for, something you plan for and commit to. Something you do “for your own good,” that is, your long-term good, as opposed to your short-term inclination, what you “feel like” doing.
Sometimes near lunchtime I will for one reason or another not feel like running: Maybe I’m hungry, or my blood sugar is low, or I’m tired or under stress. I’ll be tempted by excuses. My calf hurts, and I might get injured. I’m coming down with something. I have too much to do. It really would be better just to rest. Sometimes I’ll actually talk myself out of running, or spend so long at trading pros and cons that the opportunity is lost.
On the days when I manage to override the temptations and get myself out the door, I am "exercising" discipline. Giving it a work-out. Making it a little stronger. And that feels good. Not like scratching an itch feels good. More like putting money in a bank feels good.
It helps to remember this.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Back on the trail
It was snowing today at lunchtime. When I went out for my run, my co-worker said to me: “Wow, that’s dedication.”
If it is, I thought, it’s dedication to pleasure. Heading out for a leisurely run around the deserted golf course, by myself, when there’s snow falling and the black tree branches jut across the gun-metal sky, is the highlight of my day. It’s solitude. It’s peace. It’s honest work. It’s cleansing.
I am used to thinking of running as a discipline, like writing, like prayer. It requires effort. You have to keep it up. There is at least some temptation, every day, to let it go. But damn I love it. Damn I miss it when I don’t do it. I don’t know what I’d do if I had to give it up.
I’m just coming back to it, after a month off because of recurrent colds and a stubborn sinus infection, so in part at least this is honeymoon talk. But I welcome the stiffness I’ve been feeling in the morning. I cherish the controlled effort of setting out from Rec Hall. I enjoy facing the cold, and coming in from it all flushed and invigorated and feeling like I’ve done something.
I think of Jim, our local astronaut. When I went down to see him at Johnson Space Center, where he was working his ass off to get ready for his Shuttle mission, he told me that his tightly scheduled four-mile run, alone through the scrub pine, with the good possibility of seeing a deer, was the highlight of his day. For Jim, running was an escape from discipline. It was his daily chance to chuck everything and break free.
If it is, I thought, it’s dedication to pleasure. Heading out for a leisurely run around the deserted golf course, by myself, when there’s snow falling and the black tree branches jut across the gun-metal sky, is the highlight of my day. It’s solitude. It’s peace. It’s honest work. It’s cleansing.
I am used to thinking of running as a discipline, like writing, like prayer. It requires effort. You have to keep it up. There is at least some temptation, every day, to let it go. But damn I love it. Damn I miss it when I don’t do it. I don’t know what I’d do if I had to give it up.
I’m just coming back to it, after a month off because of recurrent colds and a stubborn sinus infection, so in part at least this is honeymoon talk. But I welcome the stiffness I’ve been feeling in the morning. I cherish the controlled effort of setting out from Rec Hall. I enjoy facing the cold, and coming in from it all flushed and invigorated and feeling like I’ve done something.
I think of Jim, our local astronaut. When I went down to see him at Johnson Space Center, where he was working his ass off to get ready for his Shuttle mission, he told me that his tightly scheduled four-mile run, alone through the scrub pine, with the good possibility of seeing a deer, was the highlight of his day. For Jim, running was an escape from discipline. It was his daily chance to chuck everything and break free.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Back to Cali
East Coast born and bred, I am always surprised by the friendliness of southern Californians. I react suspiciously, and then, ashamed of myself, I let my guard down probably too far.
The ringlet-headed Adonis who brings my bags to my motel room, the suntanned senior citizen who delivers my rental car: why are they smiling? Why are they happy? Why do they seem to be genuinely interested in what brings me to San Diego or La Jolla or Riverside?
Are they hustling for tips? I’d tip them anyway, just out of my overriding Eastern fear of doing something wrong—and I believe that they can smell this. Nor is there anything particular about me that would attract attention or stimulate sudden affection: I’m not a pretty girl, or a recognizable face. Why are they being so nice?
It seems to be just the norm out here, and probably I should know this—It’s no doubt a mark of my lack of sophistication that I don’t have a good handle on this thing called Western manners or California openness or whatever people call it—but still I wonder, where does it come from? What is the cause of it? When did it begin? Is it entirely a function of climate? Of geography? (Are people in Fresno and Indio as friendly as their counterparts in Laguna and Newport Beach?) Did it arrive with the gold rush? Is there some other cultural component at work?
Sometimes I think that these are the most American of Americans, suffused with optimism and tolerance, sun-kissed and feeling fortunate, living in paradise, suspended, not wanting the dream to ever end. Who can blame them? Open the motel-room door to go get breakfast and you’re blinded; you stand there blinking like an owl. As your eyes adjust, your spirit soars: Can the sky really be that blue? Can the breeze be that caressing? Is that sparkling swimming pool for me to use? How could this day not be sensational?
The stories were told of easterners (writers especially) being ruined out here, losing their bearings and their intensity among the Lotus Eaters. It’s easy to imagine. It’s easy to feel when you’re out here on assignment or vacation, and the sun warms your forearms, and you catch a whiff of eucalyptus as you cross the fresh-paved parking lot to an open-air cappucino bar where a blond-haired barista, suntanned and immaculate in her fifties, beams you a dazzling smile.
But at night in your room with the TV blaring, or sitting cramped on the plane ride back home, as you reflect on the traffic and the smog and the astronomical cost of living, don’t you wonder how people can relax out here at all?
How can they afford to be so mellow? Is the culture of the Sun so overwhelming?
The ringlet-headed Adonis who brings my bags to my motel room, the suntanned senior citizen who delivers my rental car: why are they smiling? Why are they happy? Why do they seem to be genuinely interested in what brings me to San Diego or La Jolla or Riverside?
Are they hustling for tips? I’d tip them anyway, just out of my overriding Eastern fear of doing something wrong—and I believe that they can smell this. Nor is there anything particular about me that would attract attention or stimulate sudden affection: I’m not a pretty girl, or a recognizable face. Why are they being so nice?
It seems to be just the norm out here, and probably I should know this—It’s no doubt a mark of my lack of sophistication that I don’t have a good handle on this thing called Western manners or California openness or whatever people call it—but still I wonder, where does it come from? What is the cause of it? When did it begin? Is it entirely a function of climate? Of geography? (Are people in Fresno and Indio as friendly as their counterparts in Laguna and Newport Beach?) Did it arrive with the gold rush? Is there some other cultural component at work?
Sometimes I think that these are the most American of Americans, suffused with optimism and tolerance, sun-kissed and feeling fortunate, living in paradise, suspended, not wanting the dream to ever end. Who can blame them? Open the motel-room door to go get breakfast and you’re blinded; you stand there blinking like an owl. As your eyes adjust, your spirit soars: Can the sky really be that blue? Can the breeze be that caressing? Is that sparkling swimming pool for me to use? How could this day not be sensational?
The stories were told of easterners (writers especially) being ruined out here, losing their bearings and their intensity among the Lotus Eaters. It’s easy to imagine. It’s easy to feel when you’re out here on assignment or vacation, and the sun warms your forearms, and you catch a whiff of eucalyptus as you cross the fresh-paved parking lot to an open-air cappucino bar where a blond-haired barista, suntanned and immaculate in her fifties, beams you a dazzling smile.
But at night in your room with the TV blaring, or sitting cramped on the plane ride back home, as you reflect on the traffic and the smog and the astronomical cost of living, don’t you wonder how people can relax out here at all?
How can they afford to be so mellow? Is the culture of the Sun so overwhelming?
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