Ominous news out of Clearwater today. Tom Gordon is headed north, to be checked out by one of the Phillies’ approved orthopedic men. The team predictably poo-pooed this development as strictly precautionary, but the fact is that their entire season may hang in the balance. Gordon, the closer, is the only solid bullpen performer they have, despite a winter of trying unsuccessfully to deal for a set-up guy. He was old when they got him, and broke down at the end of last season—and the Phillies have no insurance! Without Gordon healthy at the start, their chances to jump out on the Mets, and even to be competitive, are approximately nil. Now the question is, will they panic and do something drastic, and further disrupt a team that seemed to be starting to jell? Will they trade away a position player they can’t afford to lose, like Aaron Rowand? Will the seemingly far-fetched idea of converting Brett Myers into a closer actually come to pass? Word is that Jon Lieber, the sixth of their five starters, the guy they were trying to shop, is pitching well. Does this make retooling Myers, possibly their best starter, a real option?
The other story lines from camp are painfully trivial: Pat Burrell can’t get used to his new contact lenses, the ones the team insists on him trying and he says he doesn’t need. Now begins the relentless questioning of his eyesight in earnest, started by a single epithet uttered in frustration behind the batting cage and rippling out across the vast ocean of chat rooms and call-in shows until the end of time, or he stops looking at called third strikes, whichever comes first. How does any human being withstand the endless kicking this guy takes as the Phillies designated scapegoat without either slitting his own throat or punching the remaining teeth down the throats of a half-dozen inebriated loudmouths in some foul-smelling Kensington taproom just before last call in the midst of a long home losing streak during which he’s gone 1 for 13? It almost makes his grossly overinflated salary seem justified.
The feel-good story is that of journeyman outfielder Greg Dobbs, who in dark-horse pursuit of the fifth outfield spot is evidently hitting the bejesus out of the ball. His would-be teammates have taken to calling him Roy Hobbs, after Malamud’s mythic slugger, or more accurately after Robert Redford’s. Even the skipper seems to be rooting for him.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Profiles in courage, and other virtues
There were three interesting obituaries in today's New York Times:
The first tells the story of William R. Anderson, the Navy commander who in August 1958 led the nuclear sub Nautilus on a historic voyage to the North Pole. "At a time of rivalry between the United States and the Soviet Union over who would first send humans into space," the paper says, "the accomplishment was greeted by banner headlines around the world." The Nautilus traveled 8,146 nautical miles in 21 days, "much of the way under the polar ice." The crew charted holes in the ice in case of emergency.
Anderson was a country boy from Tennessee, who later was elected to Congress. There in 1970 he stood up on the House floor to denounce J. Edgar Hoover for attacking Dan and Phil Berrigan for their opposition to the Vietnam War. Hoover's claim that the Berrigans were planning to kidnap a government official, Anderson said, was over-the-top McCarthyism. A Democrat, Anderson had been a supporter of the war, but changed his mind after visiting Vietnam.
The second remembers Henri Troyat, French writer of 105 books, whose name I have heard, whose books I may have, but who I have never read. "A day without writing made him feel like a sinner," remembers one of his comrades. Troyat claimed to have taught himself to write by reading paragraphs from Flaubert, then trying to rewrite them from memory. Then he would compare his version to the original, and "try to understand why what I had written was an affront to what I had read." He wrote mostly novels and biographies, and his style was "above all accessible." He was 95.
The third describes the AIDS-shortened life of Bob Hattoy, an adviser to Bill Clinton on gay issues. Hattoy is remembered as a fighter, someone who was never satisfied. In a televised speech at the 1992 Democratic National Convention, soon after he had learned he had the disease, he addressed himself to President George H.W.Bush: "I don't want to die," he said. "But I don't want to live in an America where the president sees me as the enemy." His words apparently gave many people hope. He was 56 when he died.
The first tells the story of William R. Anderson, the Navy commander who in August 1958 led the nuclear sub Nautilus on a historic voyage to the North Pole. "At a time of rivalry between the United States and the Soviet Union over who would first send humans into space," the paper says, "the accomplishment was greeted by banner headlines around the world." The Nautilus traveled 8,146 nautical miles in 21 days, "much of the way under the polar ice." The crew charted holes in the ice in case of emergency.
Anderson was a country boy from Tennessee, who later was elected to Congress. There in 1970 he stood up on the House floor to denounce J. Edgar Hoover for attacking Dan and Phil Berrigan for their opposition to the Vietnam War. Hoover's claim that the Berrigans were planning to kidnap a government official, Anderson said, was over-the-top McCarthyism. A Democrat, Anderson had been a supporter of the war, but changed his mind after visiting Vietnam.
The second remembers Henri Troyat, French writer of 105 books, whose name I have heard, whose books I may have, but who I have never read. "A day without writing made him feel like a sinner," remembers one of his comrades. Troyat claimed to have taught himself to write by reading paragraphs from Flaubert, then trying to rewrite them from memory. Then he would compare his version to the original, and "try to understand why what I had written was an affront to what I had read." He wrote mostly novels and biographies, and his style was "above all accessible." He was 95.
The third describes the AIDS-shortened life of Bob Hattoy, an adviser to Bill Clinton on gay issues. Hattoy is remembered as a fighter, someone who was never satisfied. In a televised speech at the 1992 Democratic National Convention, soon after he had learned he had the disease, he addressed himself to President George H.W.Bush: "I don't want to die," he said. "But I don't want to live in an America where the president sees me as the enemy." His words apparently gave many people hope. He was 56 when he died.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Impatient, ungrateful, critical. And happy.
An epic account of a very ordinary evening.
On Wednesday we went to the taco dinner put on by the Catholic students of “Mission Mexico.” They’ll be spending Spring break at an orphanage in Tijuana, and this is one of their major fundraisers. For us it’s a cheap dinner and a chance to socialize a little, as well as a good cause. Dante enjoys it, and so do Lola and I.
The dinner was held downtown, in the basement of St. Aelred's Episcopal. We had arranged that I would walk there from work and Dante and Lola would meet me. They arrived first, as I had hoped they would. Dante spotted me through the glass door, yelled “Dad!” and ran to hug me, and of course my heart melted. While he was still squeezing my neck, however, I looked up to see Lola counting her money. “Do you have any cash at all?” she asked weakly. Immediately I felt a wash of anger short-circuit the moment's tenderness. “Uh, no,” I shot back, shaking my head. Yet again, I was thinking, she has not thought things out. As though I never make a mistake. She continued, miserably, to recount a stack of wrinkled bills.
We were three dollars short. Lola timidly approached the ticket table, me looming behind her. Dante was oblivious, darting and jiving in the long hallway, running his fingers along the wall. The girl taking money was oblivious too. “Do children get in free?” Lola asked her, cringing slightly. The girl rolled her eyes, waived us in. “Go ahead,” she said wearily. Whatever. Uh…no sanks, as Dante would say. It was a fundraiser, after all. “I’ll go out and look in the car,” Lola said. “Wait here.”
Dante was getting tired of waiting. I was fit to be tied. “Let’s go. Help mom,” I snapped after a couple of minutes, but he didn’t want to go. I had to cajole him. Out in front of the church, Lola was rifling the van, all the usual places: the ashtray, the overheads, the undersides of the sun visors. Nothing. I could feel my face curdle into a sneer. “We’ll have to go to the bank,” Lola said, straining. “Hop in, Dante.”
I brooded all the way to the ATM and back. Tried half-heartedly to cut through the mood with a prayer for forbearance, it being Lent, but I was enjoying my righteous anger too much—even though I knew that to hold it much longer was risking a backlash. I held my tongue, but sighed exasperation when I had to step out into traffic in front of the bank. Lola was not responding.
Finally we were back at the church, paying our money, standing in line. The line was long. The room was crowded with students eating. The girls began to notice Dante, to point, to smile. Soon he noticed them. With only a little encouragement from Lola, he launched into an enthusiastic demonstration of the Chicken Dance, which he had learned earlier in the day at his pre-school afternoon enrichment class. More pointing. More smiles. Laughter. I folded my arms, forced a smile. The boil had been lanced, and the anger was draining. Lola apologized for not bringing enough money. “It’s okay,” I said quietly. Then, “Geez, this line is moving slowly.” She rolled her eyes.
When at last we sat down with our plates I quickly polished mine off, and soon felt a stitch from the fat and the additives. It was all canned stuff, and not even Goya. Mountains of stiff orange machine-shredded cheese, a white plastic bucket of imitation sour cream. Hard corn shells packed in cellophane that crumble at the first bite, leaving you with a handful of shards and greasy meat. Naturally I went back for seconds.
When I got back to the table Fr. Gary was visiting, talking to Lola about Dante, trying to talk to Dante. “How’s your dinner?” he asked. “Good,” Dante said. “How old is he now?” he asked Lola. He does this every time he sees us. Our conversations have never gone farther, and although he knows our faces, it’s clear that Fr. Gary doesn’t know our names. For some reason, though, (maybe it was the kitchen work that awaited him), he was in an expansive mood. He talked on about the Mission, the orphanage, the ragged little boys he sees again every year, the way they paw at his pockets for the bubble gum he keeps there for them, the time two of them doused him with a bucket of water. He was sitting right next to me, and I couldn’t help but focus on the thick tufts of hair protruding from his nose, the way he had just scarfed a taco while standing over the garbage can, the stories I’d heard of his laziness.
At last he got up to leave. “Have to go wash the dishes,” he said, mock incredulous. Soon Lola was done eating, and after a while Dante was done too. The room had almost cleared out. We got up, lingered briefly over the photo displays from previous Mission trips—they all included a group shot from an “R&R dinner” at some cantina in Rosarita—and talked to a few students about the clothing Lola had gathered to donate. She gave two of them hugs as we left; they thanked us for coming. I squatted to tie Dante’s shoe. He quickly rounded on me, a favorite move, and jumped on my back, arms round my neck. “A ride, a ride,” he chanted. I stood, slowly, and hoisted him up. We walked down the long hallway and out into the evening.
On Wednesday we went to the taco dinner put on by the Catholic students of “Mission Mexico.” They’ll be spending Spring break at an orphanage in Tijuana, and this is one of their major fundraisers. For us it’s a cheap dinner and a chance to socialize a little, as well as a good cause. Dante enjoys it, and so do Lola and I.
The dinner was held downtown, in the basement of St. Aelred's Episcopal. We had arranged that I would walk there from work and Dante and Lola would meet me. They arrived first, as I had hoped they would. Dante spotted me through the glass door, yelled “Dad!” and ran to hug me, and of course my heart melted. While he was still squeezing my neck, however, I looked up to see Lola counting her money. “Do you have any cash at all?” she asked weakly. Immediately I felt a wash of anger short-circuit the moment's tenderness. “Uh, no,” I shot back, shaking my head. Yet again, I was thinking, she has not thought things out. As though I never make a mistake. She continued, miserably, to recount a stack of wrinkled bills.
We were three dollars short. Lola timidly approached the ticket table, me looming behind her. Dante was oblivious, darting and jiving in the long hallway, running his fingers along the wall. The girl taking money was oblivious too. “Do children get in free?” Lola asked her, cringing slightly. The girl rolled her eyes, waived us in. “Go ahead,” she said wearily. Whatever. Uh…no sanks, as Dante would say. It was a fundraiser, after all. “I’ll go out and look in the car,” Lola said. “Wait here.”
Dante was getting tired of waiting. I was fit to be tied. “Let’s go. Help mom,” I snapped after a couple of minutes, but he didn’t want to go. I had to cajole him. Out in front of the church, Lola was rifling the van, all the usual places: the ashtray, the overheads, the undersides of the sun visors. Nothing. I could feel my face curdle into a sneer. “We’ll have to go to the bank,” Lola said, straining. “Hop in, Dante.”
I brooded all the way to the ATM and back. Tried half-heartedly to cut through the mood with a prayer for forbearance, it being Lent, but I was enjoying my righteous anger too much—even though I knew that to hold it much longer was risking a backlash. I held my tongue, but sighed exasperation when I had to step out into traffic in front of the bank. Lola was not responding.
Finally we were back at the church, paying our money, standing in line. The line was long. The room was crowded with students eating. The girls began to notice Dante, to point, to smile. Soon he noticed them. With only a little encouragement from Lola, he launched into an enthusiastic demonstration of the Chicken Dance, which he had learned earlier in the day at his pre-school afternoon enrichment class. More pointing. More smiles. Laughter. I folded my arms, forced a smile. The boil had been lanced, and the anger was draining. Lola apologized for not bringing enough money. “It’s okay,” I said quietly. Then, “Geez, this line is moving slowly.” She rolled her eyes.
When at last we sat down with our plates I quickly polished mine off, and soon felt a stitch from the fat and the additives. It was all canned stuff, and not even Goya. Mountains of stiff orange machine-shredded cheese, a white plastic bucket of imitation sour cream. Hard corn shells packed in cellophane that crumble at the first bite, leaving you with a handful of shards and greasy meat. Naturally I went back for seconds.
When I got back to the table Fr. Gary was visiting, talking to Lola about Dante, trying to talk to Dante. “How’s your dinner?” he asked. “Good,” Dante said. “How old is he now?” he asked Lola. He does this every time he sees us. Our conversations have never gone farther, and although he knows our faces, it’s clear that Fr. Gary doesn’t know our names. For some reason, though, (maybe it was the kitchen work that awaited him), he was in an expansive mood. He talked on about the Mission, the orphanage, the ragged little boys he sees again every year, the way they paw at his pockets for the bubble gum he keeps there for them, the time two of them doused him with a bucket of water. He was sitting right next to me, and I couldn’t help but focus on the thick tufts of hair protruding from his nose, the way he had just scarfed a taco while standing over the garbage can, the stories I’d heard of his laziness.
At last he got up to leave. “Have to go wash the dishes,” he said, mock incredulous. Soon Lola was done eating, and after a while Dante was done too. The room had almost cleared out. We got up, lingered briefly over the photo displays from previous Mission trips—they all included a group shot from an “R&R dinner” at some cantina in Rosarita—and talked to a few students about the clothing Lola had gathered to donate. She gave two of them hugs as we left; they thanked us for coming. I squatted to tie Dante’s shoe. He quickly rounded on me, a favorite move, and jumped on my back, arms round my neck. “A ride, a ride,” he chanted. I stood, slowly, and hoisted him up. We walked down the long hallway and out into the evening.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Not lost in translation
Jean Renoir’s 1945 drama The Southerner follows a family of sharecroppers as they struggle to launch a farm of their own. I can’t help but compare it to Ford’s The Grapes of Wrath, made five years earlier and long one of my absolute favorites. Amazingly, Renoir’s film more than holds its own.
Zachary Scott plays Sam Tucker, a strapping, laconic son of the dirt with a stubborn dream of something better for his family. Betty Field is his devoted, rough-and-ready wife Nona. Beulah Bondi is magnificent as the childish, hectoring Granny, whose selfishness is distilled from a lifetime of suffering, and J. Carroll Naish is equally good as the treacherous neighbor Devers, a crafty survivor whose soul has been curdled by hardship.
The harshness of their lot, and the family’s fundamental decency, are established in the opening scene, as they pick cotton together in the blazing sun. An elderly uncle collapses in the heat, and his dying words, “Own your own land,” are Sam’s catalyst. From there, Sam and Nona press on through innumerable obstacles, never losing their dignity.
There are unforgettable scenes. The family’s decrepit “new” home has the haunted alien look of Ford’s Dust Bowl shacks, but the scene balances pathos and humor with a subtlety that Ford seldom achieves. Likewise the moment when Scott brings home a possum for his starving family: The gleam in Granny’s eye as she ravens her share of this humble meal powerfully evokes a life of desperate poverty even as it invites a sympathetic laugh. The wedding party and the flood scene play like Faulkner or Dostoevsky.
Indeed it is the humorous ingredients that set the film apart, clarifying Renoir’s object as humanistic; unlike Ford, he does not aim to mythologize. Refreshing reversals of plot and tone undercut and temper the tragedy.
Renoir wrote the script, with help from Faulkner and others to catch the authentic speech and folkways of the American South. These particulars ring true. Yet The Southerner is also universal, a story of peasant struggle and survival that could well be laid in China, or in France, or in any mezzogiorno.
Zachary Scott plays Sam Tucker, a strapping, laconic son of the dirt with a stubborn dream of something better for his family. Betty Field is his devoted, rough-and-ready wife Nona. Beulah Bondi is magnificent as the childish, hectoring Granny, whose selfishness is distilled from a lifetime of suffering, and J. Carroll Naish is equally good as the treacherous neighbor Devers, a crafty survivor whose soul has been curdled by hardship.
The harshness of their lot, and the family’s fundamental decency, are established in the opening scene, as they pick cotton together in the blazing sun. An elderly uncle collapses in the heat, and his dying words, “Own your own land,” are Sam’s catalyst. From there, Sam and Nona press on through innumerable obstacles, never losing their dignity.
There are unforgettable scenes. The family’s decrepit “new” home has the haunted alien look of Ford’s Dust Bowl shacks, but the scene balances pathos and humor with a subtlety that Ford seldom achieves. Likewise the moment when Scott brings home a possum for his starving family: The gleam in Granny’s eye as she ravens her share of this humble meal powerfully evokes a life of desperate poverty even as it invites a sympathetic laugh. The wedding party and the flood scene play like Faulkner or Dostoevsky.
Indeed it is the humorous ingredients that set the film apart, clarifying Renoir’s object as humanistic; unlike Ford, he does not aim to mythologize. Refreshing reversals of plot and tone undercut and temper the tragedy.
Renoir wrote the script, with help from Faulkner and others to catch the authentic speech and folkways of the American South. These particulars ring true. Yet The Southerner is also universal, a story of peasant struggle and survival that could well be laid in China, or in France, or in any mezzogiorno.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
In memoriam
There’s a moving tribute in this week’s America to Robert Drinan, the Jesuit priest who served in Congress back in the ‘70s, then returned to legal scholarship at Georgetown when ordered to do so by the pope. The author, Ladislas Orsy, another Jesuit legal scholar (and one I’ve had the pleasure of meeting, a learned, gentle man), does not dwell on Drinan’s accomplishments, but on his love and generosity, his constant reaching out to people in need. Orsy paraphrases Aristotle and Aquinas in explaining Drinan’s drive and his vast impact, that “goodness cannot contain itself: it is expansive by nature like a wellspring with unlimited supply.” He imagines Drinan 60 years ago as a young Jesuit in Florence, reading Dante on divine love. From there, “he set out on an adventure to mend this broken world.” Requiescat in pace.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Sunday Dinner
I roasted a chicken, using a Mark Bittman recipe I cut from the Times maybe ten years ago. It’s a bare-bones approach (he is "The Minimalist," after all) that hinges on two things: high heat (450F) and preheating the roasting vessel to “jump-start” the cooking of the dark meat, so that everything comes out even. You simply put a cast iron skillet in the oven, turn it on, and salt and pepper the bird. When oven and pan are hot, you plop in the chicken, breast side up, and shove the pan back in the oven. What could be easier? Bittman suggests thirty minutes for a three-pound bird. Mine was four and a half, so I set the timer for 45 minutes, to be sure of doneness. I can’t stomach chicken pink at the bone.
Alas, this time Bittman’s minimalism turned out to be a bit excessive. Before twenty minutes passed L noticed smoke seeping from the oven. I opened the door and choked on a cloud. The bird’s skin was already brown, and the bottom of the pan was swimming in grease, which popped and spattered everywhere. I turned the oven fan on high and opened the kitchen window, but every time I cracked the oven door another billow of smoke rushed to the ceiling. I covered the pan loosely with foil, thinking that might catch the spattering and prevent burning grease, to no avail. Out of tricks, and hungry, I just hunkered down and willed the oven timer to get to zero, alternately cursing Bittman’s cavalier omission ("Warning: Burning grease!") and praying that I wouldn’t set off the smoke detector. In the middle of this ordeal I dimly remembered trying this recipe once before, probably ten years ago—and why I had never tried it again. Thus was reinforced the utility of making notes on recipes, and also that of throwing flawed recipes away.
In the end the bird turned out fine, better than fine even: 45 minutes produced breast meat so moist and juicy I was afraid it wasn’t done, though it had easily run the meat thermometer to 165F. L claimed it was the best chicken she’d ever had. The dark meat was done well, too. Still, despite the results at table, I don’t think I’ll try this recipe again--not indoors, or at least not in winter. My eyes are still smarting from the smoke.
P.S. It’s not often that my having made polenta ranks as an afterthought, but yeah, I made that too. Stirred it for a good 45 minutes while watching the chicken, not constantly, but every couple of minutes over a very low heat. When it was finished I swirled in some Parmesan cheese. It was thick, creamy, and rib-sticking good, nothing like the wretched pre-made stuff that comes in tubes, or the instant variety you buy in a box. The gulf between these impostors and the real thing is akin to that between instant coffee and good French pressed.
I also made some hot oil: red pepper flakes simmered briefly in olive oil which is then allowed to cool, so that the pepper infuses. My father remembers his grandfather keeping a bowl of this simple dressing on the table always, and drizzling it on everything. It added zip to the polenta, caro nonno!
Alas, this time Bittman’s minimalism turned out to be a bit excessive. Before twenty minutes passed L noticed smoke seeping from the oven. I opened the door and choked on a cloud. The bird’s skin was already brown, and the bottom of the pan was swimming in grease, which popped and spattered everywhere. I turned the oven fan on high and opened the kitchen window, but every time I cracked the oven door another billow of smoke rushed to the ceiling. I covered the pan loosely with foil, thinking that might catch the spattering and prevent burning grease, to no avail. Out of tricks, and hungry, I just hunkered down and willed the oven timer to get to zero, alternately cursing Bittman’s cavalier omission ("Warning: Burning grease!") and praying that I wouldn’t set off the smoke detector. In the middle of this ordeal I dimly remembered trying this recipe once before, probably ten years ago—and why I had never tried it again. Thus was reinforced the utility of making notes on recipes, and also that of throwing flawed recipes away.
In the end the bird turned out fine, better than fine even: 45 minutes produced breast meat so moist and juicy I was afraid it wasn’t done, though it had easily run the meat thermometer to 165F. L claimed it was the best chicken she’d ever had. The dark meat was done well, too. Still, despite the results at table, I don’t think I’ll try this recipe again--not indoors, or at least not in winter. My eyes are still smarting from the smoke.
P.S. It’s not often that my having made polenta ranks as an afterthought, but yeah, I made that too. Stirred it for a good 45 minutes while watching the chicken, not constantly, but every couple of minutes over a very low heat. When it was finished I swirled in some Parmesan cheese. It was thick, creamy, and rib-sticking good, nothing like the wretched pre-made stuff that comes in tubes, or the instant variety you buy in a box. The gulf between these impostors and the real thing is akin to that between instant coffee and good French pressed.
I also made some hot oil: red pepper flakes simmered briefly in olive oil which is then allowed to cool, so that the pepper infuses. My father remembers his grandfather keeping a bowl of this simple dressing on the table always, and drizzling it on everything. It added zip to the polenta, caro nonno!
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Getting a slow start
I continue to be surprised at how much difference it makes to start slowly. My bad runs, almost invariably, are those in which I am preoccupied or impatient and go out too fast.
Even a little bit too much pace at the start can be ruinous. It throws you off, locks you into a false rhythm of continued borrowing. Before you know it you’re too indebted to recover—and you can’t reset your equanimity. You can’t get it back, no matter how much you slow down. You’re spoiled, doomed to feel awful for the rest of the run
If I do hold the proper pace for at least the first mile, on the other hand, I am almost guaranteed a good run. It gives me some needed slack, allows me to sink past the early discomfort and uncoordination into a baseline that I can work from for the rest of the run. Once this groove is established, I am opened up to a reservoir of strength. I can push the pace when I want to, back it down when that feels right, and still feel that I’m running within myself, not straining.
The proper starting pace, it turns out, is slower than I want to go. So slow that I am conscious of holding back. It’s not an easy pace to hold; it requires attention and patience. I pay attention to the length of my stride, to my leg turnover, and to my posture. I try to be patient with my lack of coordination.
It’s remarkable to me how often I still make the mistake of going out too fast, even though I’ve been taught this lesson so many times. Used to be I would succumb to the temptations to keep up with people in races. The memory of pain makes me less susceptible now to these temptations. Now it’s a matter of getting burned by inattention.
The lesson is certainly translatable—to writing, to prayer. This is the value of any discipline, that by simplification and repetition it forces us to focus, moves us out of our numb habits and back to that relaxed state of attention that is the opening for grace.
Even a little bit too much pace at the start can be ruinous. It throws you off, locks you into a false rhythm of continued borrowing. Before you know it you’re too indebted to recover—and you can’t reset your equanimity. You can’t get it back, no matter how much you slow down. You’re spoiled, doomed to feel awful for the rest of the run
If I do hold the proper pace for at least the first mile, on the other hand, I am almost guaranteed a good run. It gives me some needed slack, allows me to sink past the early discomfort and uncoordination into a baseline that I can work from for the rest of the run. Once this groove is established, I am opened up to a reservoir of strength. I can push the pace when I want to, back it down when that feels right, and still feel that I’m running within myself, not straining.
The proper starting pace, it turns out, is slower than I want to go. So slow that I am conscious of holding back. It’s not an easy pace to hold; it requires attention and patience. I pay attention to the length of my stride, to my leg turnover, and to my posture. I try to be patient with my lack of coordination.
It’s remarkable to me how often I still make the mistake of going out too fast, even though I’ve been taught this lesson so many times. Used to be I would succumb to the temptations to keep up with people in races. The memory of pain makes me less susceptible now to these temptations. Now it’s a matter of getting burned by inattention.
The lesson is certainly translatable—to writing, to prayer. This is the value of any discipline, that by simplification and repetition it forces us to focus, moves us out of our numb habits and back to that relaxed state of attention that is the opening for grace.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Indoor track
I always feel a little ashamed to run on the indoor track. Not always. There are some days when running indoors is clearly the only sane option. It’s pouring down rain, or there are several inches of uncleared snow, or it’s ten below and the sidewalks are covered with ice. On all other days, my macho-meter tells me, running inside is a sign of weakness.
The track encircles the last row of seats at the top of the old gymnasium. I don’t enjoy running up there. It’s easier in some sense—it’s flat, controllable, there’s no wind. But the air is dry, and oxygen-starved. The hard-rubber track is short and banked. The walls are close, the scenery pale and dreary. I run awkwardly, my gait never quite falling in comfortably. I prefer even the treadmill.
The “real” runners—that loose group of a dozen master’s athletes who train together seriously, bound by a jokey humor—almost never run there. They don’t surrender to the elements. They look down at the rest of us weaklings, driven inside by a bit of a breeze. They laugh at us. Or do I only imagine this?
For 15 years I had a boss who actually gave voice to this scorn. Let’s call her Yolanda. She was far more macho than I was, and clearly enjoyed pointing this out to me. She defined herself by her fierce refusal to take the easy route, and by her superiority. The colder it was outside, the more she liked it.
I frequently hated Yolanda. I refused to compete with her, in part because I was afraid I’d lose. But I also admired her. Secretly, I sometimes wished I was more like her, that I had her toughness and ruthlessness and courage. She made me all-too-aware of my imperfections, and my tendency toward weakness. She made me ashamed of myself.
Yolanda returns whenever I’m faced with the choice of whether or not to run outside. She sits on my shoulder spouting ridicule. Those in-between days are the worst.
If I listen to her, I feel cowed, and react against that. If I try to ignore her I end up feeling guilty. How crazy is trying to spite—or appease—a ghost?
Pretty damn crazy. In my saner moments I am able to kick out of this paralysis, make a choice and live with it. Real” runners be damned. If I run long enough, I know, the choice won’t matter at all.
The track encircles the last row of seats at the top of the old gymnasium. I don’t enjoy running up there. It’s easier in some sense—it’s flat, controllable, there’s no wind. But the air is dry, and oxygen-starved. The hard-rubber track is short and banked. The walls are close, the scenery pale and dreary. I run awkwardly, my gait never quite falling in comfortably. I prefer even the treadmill.
The “real” runners—that loose group of a dozen master’s athletes who train together seriously, bound by a jokey humor—almost never run there. They don’t surrender to the elements. They look down at the rest of us weaklings, driven inside by a bit of a breeze. They laugh at us. Or do I only imagine this?
For 15 years I had a boss who actually gave voice to this scorn. Let’s call her Yolanda. She was far more macho than I was, and clearly enjoyed pointing this out to me. She defined herself by her fierce refusal to take the easy route, and by her superiority. The colder it was outside, the more she liked it.
I frequently hated Yolanda. I refused to compete with her, in part because I was afraid I’d lose. But I also admired her. Secretly, I sometimes wished I was more like her, that I had her toughness and ruthlessness and courage. She made me all-too-aware of my imperfections, and my tendency toward weakness. She made me ashamed of myself.
Yolanda returns whenever I’m faced with the choice of whether or not to run outside. She sits on my shoulder spouting ridicule. Those in-between days are the worst.
If I listen to her, I feel cowed, and react against that. If I try to ignore her I end up feeling guilty. How crazy is trying to spite—or appease—a ghost?
Pretty damn crazy. In my saner moments I am able to kick out of this paralysis, make a choice and live with it. Real” runners be damned. If I run long enough, I know, the choice won’t matter at all.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
How I run now
Some years ago I became intrigued by the science of running. Tempted, you might say. I was in the best shape of my life, and I began dreaming of what more I could accomplish.
I began poring over training charts, which told me exactly what I needed to do in order to run a 40-minute 10K. On paper, the requirements looked reasonable. How pleasant it was to fantasize about completing that fail-safe recipe!
And how different the reality! As I threw myself into the training, every assigned workout became an obstacle. What had looked like like a hill I could easily climb soon seemed insurmountable. Most foreign to me, and most difficult, were the track workouts: repeated fast intervals around a quarter-mile oval. I began each session—each interval—with fresh determination. And ended each in failure and heaving anaerobic distress. After a handful of these experiences I grew discouraged and gave up.
What happened? First, I was ignorant. I had no experience in running track, and knew no one who could reassure me, or translate those cold numbers into human terms that I could digest. Second, I was too impatient to go back and puzzle out what I was doing wrong. I lacked respect, started too fast, expected too much too soon.
But I think I was also turned off by the reduction of running to numbers. The rigidity of the goal drained the joy from running, made it a grind.
For me running had turned from torture to joy on the grace-filled day when I discovered what it felt like to run at my own pace. Since then, it had been a perfect escape, the pursuit of lightness, a rhythmic grace.
I remain intrigued by the science of performance. But for me to bind myself to a performance chart was and is to violate that spirit of freedom.
I began poring over training charts, which told me exactly what I needed to do in order to run a 40-minute 10K. On paper, the requirements looked reasonable. How pleasant it was to fantasize about completing that fail-safe recipe!
And how different the reality! As I threw myself into the training, every assigned workout became an obstacle. What had looked like like a hill I could easily climb soon seemed insurmountable. Most foreign to me, and most difficult, were the track workouts: repeated fast intervals around a quarter-mile oval. I began each session—each interval—with fresh determination. And ended each in failure and heaving anaerobic distress. After a handful of these experiences I grew discouraged and gave up.
What happened? First, I was ignorant. I had no experience in running track, and knew no one who could reassure me, or translate those cold numbers into human terms that I could digest. Second, I was too impatient to go back and puzzle out what I was doing wrong. I lacked respect, started too fast, expected too much too soon.
But I think I was also turned off by the reduction of running to numbers. The rigidity of the goal drained the joy from running, made it a grind.
For me running had turned from torture to joy on the grace-filled day when I discovered what it felt like to run at my own pace. Since then, it had been a perfect escape, the pursuit of lightness, a rhythmic grace.
I remain intrigued by the science of performance. But for me to bind myself to a performance chart was and is to violate that spirit of freedom.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
The gamut part
I have seen a number of running blogs. They are very focused, very similar. Here’s what I did today: Got up at 4:30, ran 17 miles in the dark at 9:00 pace, through the woods with a headlamp. Startled a bear. The 40 m.p.h. winds were a bit rough, but I carried on, and got home in time to make breakfast for the kids ....
Bragging? No. In fact, there’s a pervading humility in the tone, an unspoken agreement not to take oneself too seriously. There’s a code of camaraderie—in the sharing of accomplishments and support, the seeking of validation and inspiration. I have been following a dozen or so of these sites for the last month, and have been inspired, entertained, and occasionally astounded by them. The ultra runners, in particular—these guys (and gals) who run regularly in 50 and 100 mile races—have challenged my cautious estimates of what the body can withstand. And the ones my age and older. How do they do it without breaking down? I’ve also enjoyed the vicarious experience of running in far-off places: Rome, Germany, Ireland, the Washington coast, the Arizona desert.
I keep a training log myself. It becomes a part of your life, a tool, a source of inspiration. These blogs are an extension of that idea. An extension into community.
But here I want to do something different. Here I want not to report, but to observe, explore, reflect—on running, an old love renewed, and on other loves as well; indeed on any topic that catches my interest. To examine these things, and in examining to come to understand their meaning for me.
Running is definitely a rich starting point, worthy of unpacking. But in this blog I want to run the gamut.
Bragging? No. In fact, there’s a pervading humility in the tone, an unspoken agreement not to take oneself too seriously. There’s a code of camaraderie—in the sharing of accomplishments and support, the seeking of validation and inspiration. I have been following a dozen or so of these sites for the last month, and have been inspired, entertained, and occasionally astounded by them. The ultra runners, in particular—these guys (and gals) who run regularly in 50 and 100 mile races—have challenged my cautious estimates of what the body can withstand. And the ones my age and older. How do they do it without breaking down? I’ve also enjoyed the vicarious experience of running in far-off places: Rome, Germany, Ireland, the Washington coast, the Arizona desert.
I keep a training log myself. It becomes a part of your life, a tool, a source of inspiration. These blogs are an extension of that idea. An extension into community.
But here I want to do something different. Here I want not to report, but to observe, explore, reflect—on running, an old love renewed, and on other loves as well; indeed on any topic that catches my interest. To examine these things, and in examining to come to understand their meaning for me.
Running is definitely a rich starting point, worthy of unpacking. But in this blog I want to run the gamut.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Volume 1, Number 1
Here's where it starts.
What is it? I don't know yet. This I know: One of my inspirations for starting this blog, reflected in the name, was running, a sport (activity?) I've enjoyed off and on since college days, that is, for 25 years.
About four years ago, mostly because of some pain in my knees that I took as a warning, but also maybe because I was feeling bored, I stopped running. Took up yoga. Just left my gym bag behind my office door and never lifted it again.
A year ago, however, I began to think about running, to remember it fondly, to miss it. Beautiful memories of my greatest runs--along the ocean, on lonely country roads, in far-off sun-kissed places, California, Umbria--welled up in daydreams. I found myself reading about running again, pulling out my old faded copies of George Sheehan's books, leafing through Runners World at the library, bookmarking running sites on the Web.
At first I was afraid to start back. A big-boned 6-foot-3, I'd never really had the body for it, and three years of relative inactivity had brought my weight to 215. My knees just won't hold up, I thought.
I started anyway, urged at last by the encouragement on Jeff Galloway's website, the example of Thaddeus Kostrubala, the middle-aged doctor who wrote The Joy of Running, the tiny woman on my hall at work who ran Boston. I started slowly, on Memorial Day, alternating a minute of running with a minute of walking for a period of thirty minutes.
I kept at it, every other day, then four times a week, building the run/walk ratio to 2:1, 3:1, 6:1, 9:1, then adding minutes, until I was running over 20 miles per week (though not tracking miles at all). I began to feel strong. I lost weight. By the end of the summer I had even started racing again.
The important thing is this: At 47 I realized how much I loved running, how much it had meant to me over the years, how much it could still mean. I began to appreciate the sport in a way I never really had. Where before I had often fought myself, forced myself to run, now I looked forward to it, built my days and weeks around it, cherished every opportunity to get out on the road.
In a life that had become more complicated, more weighted with responsibility and age and sadness, running became a singular, unadulterated joy. Part of what I want to do here is simply to explore that.
What is it? I don't know yet. This I know: One of my inspirations for starting this blog, reflected in the name, was running, a sport (activity?) I've enjoyed off and on since college days, that is, for 25 years.
About four years ago, mostly because of some pain in my knees that I took as a warning, but also maybe because I was feeling bored, I stopped running. Took up yoga. Just left my gym bag behind my office door and never lifted it again.
A year ago, however, I began to think about running, to remember it fondly, to miss it. Beautiful memories of my greatest runs--along the ocean, on lonely country roads, in far-off sun-kissed places, California, Umbria--welled up in daydreams. I found myself reading about running again, pulling out my old faded copies of George Sheehan's books, leafing through Runners World at the library, bookmarking running sites on the Web.
At first I was afraid to start back. A big-boned 6-foot-3, I'd never really had the body for it, and three years of relative inactivity had brought my weight to 215. My knees just won't hold up, I thought.
I started anyway, urged at last by the encouragement on Jeff Galloway's website, the example of Thaddeus Kostrubala, the middle-aged doctor who wrote The Joy of Running, the tiny woman on my hall at work who ran Boston. I started slowly, on Memorial Day, alternating a minute of running with a minute of walking for a period of thirty minutes.
I kept at it, every other day, then four times a week, building the run/walk ratio to 2:1, 3:1, 6:1, 9:1, then adding minutes, until I was running over 20 miles per week (though not tracking miles at all). I began to feel strong. I lost weight. By the end of the summer I had even started racing again.
The important thing is this: At 47 I realized how much I loved running, how much it had meant to me over the years, how much it could still mean. I began to appreciate the sport in a way I never really had. Where before I had often fought myself, forced myself to run, now I looked forward to it, built my days and weeks around it, cherished every opportunity to get out on the road.
In a life that had become more complicated, more weighted with responsibility and age and sadness, running became a singular, unadulterated joy. Part of what I want to do here is simply to explore that.
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