the great turkey challenge 5K

In 2006, on Thanksgiving morning, I agreed to join my friends and family in a 5K in Helotes, TX. If I was in the business of making bad jokes, I would say I went into the race “cold turkey” – no training, no watch, and shoes that barely passed for trainers. I had watched my friend Natsuki finish the San Antonio marathon two weeks beforehand and was motivated to start running. It was a bad decision. My fitness level at the time was on par with a beached whale. I ended up nearly puking a lung meters before the finish and when I had nothing in my stomach left, dry-heaved my way to a 24:22 finish. This was my first 5K experience.

But that was 3 years ago. And I’m a runner now. So at least I had that going for me when I toed the line at the Great Turkey Challenge 5K last week.

My twin brother, Martin, my Dad, and my Mom all decided to run that morning. It was cool, crisp and about to become sunny. Martin and I arrived early to register. We went through the business of paying and received our timing chips and bibs. We then engaged in the business of porta-potty use. But I’ll spare the details.

Although it took a sincere effort on my part to get my brother to join me (he has ceased being competitive), I could tell the race atmosphere was having an effect on him. Martin was always faster than me; he was the runner of the family. I remember starting alongside him at our old cross country races, but have no memory finishing anywhere close to him. It never happened. That’s why. But like I said, I’m a runner now.

The warm-up run was kept around 9:30-10:00 minute pace. It felt right. Martin and Dad bailed around the one mile mark, but I continued for another half mile or so. I wanted to run the entire course, but with the jacket, arm-warmers, and wind pants on, I was plenty warm by the halfway point. I returned to the car and proceeded to shamelessly strip down to my singlet and tights. I switched out shoes to a new pair of racing flats – the Brooks T6. If anything, I looked like a runner now. Martin confirmed this.

I recognized a guy at the starting line. He looked fit and wore shoes that were splitting at the seams. I knew instantly I was going to lose to this guy. We got to talking. Jorge was his name. Sure enough, he planned on running “somewhere around 18.” That means the potential to go below 18 was a reality for him. It wasn’t for me. So I conceded right then and there – the last thing I needed was to go out too fast in an attempt to catch someone I couldn’t.

“Sub-19 and I’m happy. I ran the marathon a couple weeks ago,” I said, “I don’t expect much.”
“Oh yeah, me too man,” he responded, “my hamstrings locked up at mile 19 and it was over after that.”

I told him about my stomach/side issue. About how I finished with a 3:29 when I was shooting for a 3:10. He said he came through the half in 1:28, and was possibly looking for a sub-3. He came in 4 minutes behind me. That’s why I recognized him. As terribly as I felt, there were people who felt worse. He was one of guys I passed in the final miles.

Shit happens, man. He agreed. And then the horn sounded.

I went out quickly, but Jorge set out at a blazing speed. Perhaps around 4:50 – 5:10. After the first 200 meters, I tried to slow the pace down. 5:20s became 5:30s, but it felt slow. Still, I was in second. A younger guy came flying past me around 400 meters in, only to fall back just as fast. I’m not sure what his intent was.

The first mile was about as fast as I assumed it would be: 5:46. Absurd. I ran a 2-miler in 5:46 pace once, but not 11 days removed from a marathon. And not with an extra 1.1 miles added on to the end of it. I decided to slow down.

I managed a 5:58 second mile which felt very comfortable. I wasn’t gaining too much on Jorge, but the gap had stopped growing. That was a plus. But right around the end of the second mile, I noticed a family (wife and child) cheering along the side of the road. I waved to them as it appeared they were waving to me. As I was about to say “thank you!” the little girl yelled, “Go Daddy!” Uh oh. Either my illegitimate child was playing a cruel joke on me, or someone was actually making a move behind me. Thankfully, it was the latter.

Out of nowhere, the little girl’s Daddy was right on my tail. How did a 5:58 mile allow someone in a race this small get this close? I sized everyone up beforehand, the only one that looked fit enough to beat me was Jorge. And he was in front of me. Still, I didn’t turn around. I didn’t want to acknowledge the dude’s hard work (because it provides impetus to run even harder…I learned this somewhere…really). So I just dropped the pace when I heard his labored breathing grow closer.

For a while, I thought I had lost him. I was running a solid 5:40 pace and the sounds of footfalls or breathing were no longer there. After rounding the last turn, however, it came back: huff, puff, huff, puff. I was deflated. And it grew louder and louder until we were running side by side. I was set in a good stride, but he was flying just as fast. Who the HELL is this?! I thought. He was somewhat fleshy, pale, wore a tight singlet that looked like it was from high school, and had trainers on that looked as heavy as bricks. But there he was, running stronger and faster than me. Lesson learned, I thought to myself. And then he passed me, arms swinging comfortably.

But that’s when I remembered: I’m a runner now. I kicked a bit to catch up to him – we only had 600 meters left. I ran on his left shoulder to draft for a while, but decided that I had doubted his abilities for too long already. I didn’t want to be on the wrong side of a Daddy with a mean finishing sprint, so I passed him. My plan was to make him run out of his comfort zone. That would give me a chance – because I was confident I can hold on to a lead once I got it. The pull away was gradual at first, but I could sense he knew I wasn’t interested in a sit-and-kick finish. I wanted to end this now. I dropped the pace to 5:10 with about 400 meters to go. He came along for the ride, but I continued to gap him. I pushed harder and harder; I was redlining. And then the finish line finally came into view. I saw Jorge cross it, but some people were blocking the clock. I could only make out a “17,” but assumed it referred to the seconds. It wasn’t. It read: 17:36. Counting down.

I opened the throttle and burned the last remnants of gas. Fumes, really. My stride had widened and my arms were pumping as fast as they could. I was the embodiment of “controlled fury” – my Dad’s advice on how to run a 5K race. I finished second overall. 17:56. I was able to hold off the third place runner and, in the process, picked up a new personal record.
Martin finished 10th overall with a 20:47 (6:46 pace) on minimal training and no watch. When I attempted to do that three years ago, well, simply reread the opening part of this blog. Still, I suspected Martin would perform like this. He’s got skills.

My Dad, however, was a surprise. He finished in 68th place (out of 410) and ran a 25:39 (8:15 pace). In the 2006 Turkey Day race, my Dad posted a 27:37 (8:53 pace). Three years older and nearly two minutes faster. Skills.

it was the worst of times...


On Sunday, I raced 16 miles of a marathon. I ran a portion of the remaining distance from miles 18-20, but only mustered something resembling a jog/walk from miles 21 to 26. This is the story of how I finished the most difficult race of my life.

The temperatures had begun to rise earlier during the week and all the weather reports for Sunday were singing the same tune: mid 70’s for the high, mid 60’s for the low and overcast with a 30% chance of rain. Surely, these were not ideal conditions for a marathon, but they were far from impossible. My last 20-mile training run took place during a certifiable deluge, so I felt confident I would perform well despite possible precipitation. I carb-loaded throughout the week, drank water, and went to bed early on most nights. I was ready.

Race morning. I woke up at 4am to take Buster outside. Immediately upon exiting the door, my confidence took a shot – it was humid. 100%. A fog had developed and it didn’t look like it was going anywhere. There was no wind. I could feel my palms sweat. A bead developed under my armpit. I was losing it.

I decided to abandon these feelings through the mindless business of race preparation. I have developed quite the ritual – band-aids, moleskin, body-glide, sunglasses. Check. By the time I laced up my trainers, I was ready. Again.

Dad and Adam swung by the house at approximately 5:45. We were in the car and heading to the drop off point before long. After a couple of arguments concerning directions, we arrived at the corner of St. Mary’s and 281. We started the half-mile walk down to Broadway. In the dim light of an overcast morning, I listened to the conversations of other runners. I gave Adam some last minute advice. I repeated to myself I was ready.

I queued up at the porta-potties and got to work. I made small talk with the ladies in line and handed out jokes like rolls of toilet paper. Gold. Dad, Adam and I then walked the corrals and made our way to the front. My corral. #1. Nothing too spectacular going on – racers going through their preparations. Perhaps a bit more mindful than I do, but only because it’s worth more to them. Literally.

With 20 minutes left, we parted ways. I performed a couple of shake-out stretches off to the side – leg swings, high steps, some skipping. I looked around and saw all the familiar faces: Westley Keating (who would go on to win the half in 1:05), Joshua Keena (from Austin), Chris Layman, and Robert Michell. All looked to go under 3 easily, if not under 2:50. As I lined up in the corral, I saw Gary Guerrero and we nodded to each other. He was gunning for a sub 2:50 and went on to smash it: 2:47.

Right before the national anthem, my Dad appeared along the corral fence. He put his hand on my shoulder and wished me luck. It was brief and not many words were exchanged. How do you feel? Ready? You’ll do great. I tried to hide my nervousness, but I wanted nothing more for him to be right. You too, Dad. I could tell he was anxious as well. I’m not sure I was convincing enough, but I tried. I told him to hurry back to his corral, but he refused. He said he’d be fine. And so we stood there for a while longer. Father and son. Two runners.

After parting ways, I lined up towards the middle of the corral and went through another routine: pat the thighs, kick out the legs, roll the ankles, and stretch the shoulders. Not long after, the horn blew.

I got out to a quick start and then settled in, I was being passed very quickly by all the half marathon runners, but I stayed on pace. The 3:10 pace group was on my left shoulder making noises and laughing. The 1:35 pace group consisted of Roger Soler in a odd-looking hat running alongside that girl who wore the same shoes as I did in a recent 5K (refer to SNIPSA 5K for comment I made to her). I wanted to run beside her, show her my shoes and say, “SEE?! I’m not a creep!” But then again, given the lack of context, it would have probably creeped out anyone close enough to hear. I decided to keep running.

My goal was a 1:35-36 opening half and a 1:33 closing. I allowed the 3:10 group to gap me a bit, but always kept them within striking distance. After the second mile, though, it was obvious they were running faster than a 7:17 pace. We clicked a 7:09 mile without blinking. Not my race. I slowed down.

Maki and Mom snapped a couple of shots of me at miles 1.5 and 3. I made silly gestures to entertain them. I felt sharp. Fast. And a tad bit high on pent up glycogen. I understand this means nothing to non-runners, but make it through a couple weeks of tapering and you’ll know how I felt.

After cresting the only real hills on the course and running past several people I knew, I hit the first GU (energy gel). It didn’t sit well and I immediately knew something was off. It took more energy to consume and I burped a lot after I guzzled the mandatory 5 ounces of water. I wrote it off as nerves. Likewise, I was coming upon the 7-mile mark and I had to determine what sort of jack-ass photo I should have my Mom take. Obviously, I felt good enough.

After that last photo op, I knew I was not going to see everyone until the end. I focused on turnover and developed a good stride. I was clicking off 7:10-12s with ease. I talked to people as if I was jogging 7:50s and felt even better. This is the race I was looking for. A breakout.

Then, things changed. I started to develop a slight stitch on my left side towards mile 8. This occurred immediately after a Cytomax stop. By the way, cytomax is what you get when you mix demon urine with baby gravy. Disgusting. But that was the only electrolyte drink offered, so I dealt. I shrugged off the stitch and maintained the 7:10 clip throughout the first half.

I dropped a 1:34 half marathon. I was about a minute under schedule, but I felt good enough that it didn’t worry me. Then, all of a sudden, I was worried. My stitch developed into a steady, sharp pain and it wasn’t getting any better. It wasn’t affecting my stride at that point, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to ignore it forever. At mile 14, I saw Natsuki, Yuka and their children. He made a sign for me: “Go Paul, ボストンや!”
Boston it read. Perhaps. I was so happy to see him. I wanted him to be there, but I knew how seriously he took his familial obligations. Ever since the birth of Kazu-kun, he’s stopped running entirely. Terrible timing! we used to joke. We could have made each other great.

And there we were, 3 years after his 2006 San Antonio marathon, running together on the same course. He asked me how I felt. Better I mustered, but I’m not sure what’s going on. I can’t breathe. My chest and side hurt. Thank you so much for showing up. He asked me more questions. Told me my pace was still impressive. Somewhere around 7:20. He asked me the question I knew was coming, “行けそう?” Could I make it? I’m not sure. Not if this continues, I responded. It’s funny. I was asking myself this question starting from mile 8. This was the first time I really answered it.

The real answer came at the end of mile 15. I tried to ease the pace to around 7:20-30 for a couple of miles to ease the stress, but the pain had only increased. It was causing me to alter my stride, breathing, and posture. I was running slightly hunched and taking in shallow breaths. My stride was shortened. This was at the 15.2 marker. I remember because I looked down at my watch. I wanted to remember at one point in the marathon I stopped racing.

I attempted to run/jog in hopes of having a couple of bad, yet recoverable miles. Perhaps 3:10 was out of the question, but I could turn around a 3:12 I thought. When the water began to hurt going down, I knew all was lost. Still, I kept going. I tried to walk the water stops, but people urged me not to. Losers! I wanted to scream. But their intentions were pure. Ignorant, but pure.

By mile 20, I was a walking, jogging mess of a man. The 3:10 pacers were well out of sight and the 3:15 balloon was approaching from behind me quickly. It didn’t even take a quarter mile for them to catch and pass me. I let them. How could I do anything else? I was barely fit enough to stand straight. Still, I had been able to hold on to somewhat decent splits. Hovering right above and below 8 minute miles. Then, my watch beeped. The end of mile 20: 8:23. This number is special. It represents the slowest mile I ran at Big Sur. It was the slowest mile I ran during marathon training during a fast-finish long run – uphill, into a wind, and hung-over. I always thought, at the very least, I will never, ever run any mile slower than 8:23. Today, however, it felt fast. And that’s when I knew it was truly over.

After that mile, I decided I was OK with a “DNF” (did not finish) next to my name. This was not running, let alone racing. This isn’t you, I kept repeating. You don’t hit the wall. You don’t cramp. Your legs still feel great. Why this? Why now? Naturally, I didn’t have the answers to any of these questions. I had a crippled torso, weakening mind, strong legs, and 5.2 more miles left. That’s it.

Given this state, I declined quickly. The pain intensified. I had stitches on both sides of my torso and an awkward pain began developing in my right chest. The walking breaks grew in length. I was done. I needed to find a medical tent. I could be in trouble. And then Natsuki showed up again. Get away from me! Was my first thought. I wanted to suffer this breakdown alone. Self-pity is not named group-pity for a reason. But he yelled. Yuka yelled. Kazu and Mana would have yelled too if they knew how. Natsuki started to jog with me. He didn’t lie to me. He didn’t say I was doing great. You’re almost there. Great pace. He told me, “大丈夫や. 無理するなよ.” It’s OK. Don’t overdo it. I told him the pain was worse. I couldn’t breathe or stand straight. He repeated his phrase: Don’t overdo it. And then he made me smile with his comment: “俺のペースじゃん.” This is my pace. He cramped terribly in ’06 and ran 10-minute splits to the finish. He was right. I had run exactly two 10-minute splits back-to-back. He jogged alongside me while I walked again. He didn’t walk. That’s Natsuki. He has never walked in a marathon. So I started up again. As I ran under the I-10 Bridge, I heard him shout an extended “頑張れ!” A rally cry. I put a thumb up and kept the slog fest going.

For the next two miles, I didn’t walk as much. I managed a couple of miles under 10, but all the stopping and starting began to affect my legs. I’m a mess if I stop. A couple more miles of this and I’m done, I thought. But I realized I was only a mile out. 25?! Seriously? I started down Durango with people lining every available standing spot. I heard the yells, but don’t remember a single word. They weren’t necessarily for me, but for the effort that I embodied. I didn’t appreciate the effort, though, so naturally I tuned everyone out.

I knew things were bad when I had to walk on a downhill coming into the Alamodome. It was like a nightmare. I couldn’t even run downhill. And then I saw a sea of people. Camera flashes. Open mouths. Fists pumping in the air. My feet had started to move and I went along for the ride. I was clutching my side because the second I released it, I felt nauseas with pain. I turned the corner. I had one more hill. I looked to the right and saw Seth. I heard his voice among all the screaming. “Good job Paul.” Perhaps that is what he said. Perhaps that is what I wanted to hear. I really appreciated him being there.
I turned the corner to the finish and immediately saw my Mom, Martin and Maki. The look on my brother’s face was priceless. He was the only one in the entire crowd who knew how I felt. I looked to him through my sunglasses and nodded. I looked to my Mom who looked sorrowful. Come now, it isn’t that bad, I thought. I tried to release the grip on my side, but almost threw up when I did. I decided to let go right before the finish. They have a video of me coming across. In it, I almost threw up. 3:29:40.
I went through a range of emotions during and immediately after the race – frustration, depression, anger, sorrow, self-pity, and then, finally, elation (only because it was over…don’t get any ideas that in pain I found some profound meaning to all this crap). This sucked. In every way and at every conceivable angle, this sucked. I trained for months, put in nearly double the mileage and ran more efficiently than I ever did for Big Sur, only to run 2 minutes slower. Most people have told me that I succeeded because I finished. Not really. I didn’t want my parents to have to pick me up anywhere. Traffic was a nightmare. That’s why I finished.

But here it goes: I came to realize that finishing was the best thing I could have done. The race was just as important to all the people who woke up early to watch me, to cheer for me, to see me finish. More importantly, I wanted to finish for my Dad. So I did. He finished as well. Because runner’s run. That’s it.

BQ or bust

It's taper time. I dropped down to 58 this week and plan on running around 35ish this week. No more than 12 miles next week – around 3 days. It worked for Big Sur. I toed the line feeling fresh and completely charged. I’ll attempt to do that again.

I've put in some serious training over the last 14 weeks. I have dragged myself from bed hungover and on less than 4 hours of sleep to stamp out 15+ mile runs more times than I wish to count. I have run in 100+ degree weather, 100% humidity, and certifiable monsoons. I have been sunburned, wind burned, drenched and chafed. I have been attacked by poisonous snakes, wild dogs, and a mocking bird. I have been heckled by homeless people, insecure men, overly secure gay men, and the occasional cougar.

But I will start the 2009 San Antonio Rock N’ Roll Marathon with exactly 801 miles logged since August 1st. Although I only have 7 runs of over 15 miles, I have run a total of 32 times over 10. I have averaged 57 miles a week with a weekly high of 77. For Big Sur, I averaged fewer than 26 and never ran more than 44 miles in one week. I ran only 3 total runs of 15 miles or more and only 10 runs over 10 miles. It was enough to land me a 3:27:58 in windy, hilly conditions.

I have switched from the Brooks Ghost to the Brooks Launch. They weigh approximately 3 ounces lighter. They own a more minimal construction. They are brighter. Faster. I have also stopped wearing shorts over my tights (‘compression shorts’ when I’m explaining what I’m wearing to non-runners). Free is better. I will switch from the Mizuno Creation singlet to the ’09 Adidas adizero singlet (red). The only difference is that the Adidas singlet doesn’t retain water quite as much as the Mizuno does. The other accessories don’t matter much. Socks are the same.

I’m attempting to qualify for the 2010 Boston Marathon. As far as I know, I am the first in my family to do so. My Dad came close in 1987 with a spectacular 3:22:11 debut, but fell just short of the required time of 3:15. He did this in San Antonio on a very similar course. I don’t think he even gave thought to Boston. He just ran. That’s what runners did back then. I plan to do the same, but I need to run 5 minutes faster. I need a 3:10. This requires that I average no slower than 7:17 per mile. My goal is to average anywhere from 7:05 – 7:12 pace. I want to open up with a sub 1:34 half marathon, and then finish with a sub 1:33. These are my times. This is my goal.

Let’s do this thing.

big man japan review - 10.14.09


Hitoshi Matsumoto’s directorial debut is a “mockumentary.” There is no better way to explain this film; but its comedic nature is not in the least bit surprising. Macchan, as he is more widely known, is one of Japan’s most famous entertainers. His on-air persona specializes in crude, often violent humor, and he is more often clumsy than clever. When I began watching this film, I anticipated I was in for two straight hours of slapstick. I was pleasantly surprised. The pacing and rhythm of the opening shots were quiet and unobtrusive. The camera panned along a small neighborhood street and into a tiny, dilapidated yard of a small residence. We were introduced to the main character cooking in a cramped kitchen with books and packages lining every available space. This was Japan at its smallest.

The literal translation of the film is, “Large Japanese person.” Although I appreciate the humor in the American title, I think it detracts from what Matsumoto attempted to convey. The main character, Masaru Daisato, comes from a long line of “big men” who are employed by the government to fight off invading monsters. Japan has a lot of them it seems; however, the work has dwindled over the last several years and it appears that Masaru is the last of his kind. He is a lonely man of indistinguishable qualities (save the ridiculously dated outfits he chooses to wear at times). Some people recognize who he is, but many more could care less. His wife left him and took their only child, his salary is laughable, and his house is constantly vandalized. In the beginning, the only thing grand about him is how terribly pathetic he is.

And then he gets a call. A monster is attacking. In order to grow large, Masaru must be electrocuted. The camera follows him to a downtrodden power station. He drives a small motorbike up a long, winding road littered with trash and signs calling him names and even calling for his death. His abilities have branded him a nuisance. Masaru ignores them all.

We are then introduced to the Big Man. His hair stands straight up and his body is tattooed. Although he looks somewhat imposing, his only weapon is a small stick. His opponents, however, rarely offer any notable resistance. Not because the Big Man is a skilled fighter, though, but because the monsters themselves rarely transcend the comic. There is one who likes to destroy buildings, but focuses a lot of his energy ensuring his comb-over remains properly set. Another monster holds a giant, retracting eye where his genitals should be. He throws it around, pulls it back…you get the idea.

The most intense battles, I would argue, are fought when he is a normal size. He is constantly arguing with (and losing to) his agent; he is fighting a custody case he cannot win; he is fighting off waves of depression, a drinking problem and his own insecurities. In every scenario, he loses. When confronted with his only real opponent (from North Korea we discover later), he flees. Arguably, this was his biggest defeat. But his sponsors and television ratings soared. Everybody wants someone else to lose. It’s the only way to win.

Things get markedly different from here. The final several scenes culminate into something wholly unlike the first 90% of the film that I feel a completely separate review might be necessary. Still, it was one of the most hilarious skits I have ever witnessed on screen. Purely Japanese. Purely Macchan. This was finally the film I expected (but to be honest was a bit disappointed arrived). To an American audience with no background in the comedic duo of Matsumoto and Hamada, I argue this final scene won’t even make sense. It shouldn’t, really. But it does somehow. And in that is precisely why Big Man Japan remains ultimately and unashamedly victorious. Most of the time.


SNIPSA - part two...thousand nine

I raced a 5K over the weekend. This was my 4th official 5K race of 2009 and 9th total in my short career.

The race benefits the Spay, Neuter, Inject, Protect San Antonio organization. They rescue dogs and cats that have hit bottom (via abuse, abandonment, etc.) and invest time, energy, and love in order to get them back to the top. It’s a good cause run by good people (literally in this case).

I ran the SNIPSA event last year in the midst of my IT band (illiotibial band…not computer geek heavy metal) injury/recovery nightmare. Although I dealt with pain during and after that run in 2008, it provided a string of “firsts”: first sub-21 minute 5K, first top 10 overall place, and first time receiving a physical prize (outside cheap medal or cheaper ribbon) for an age group placing. For second place in the 25-29 age group I landed high-end dog shampoo (for sensitive skin), a year supply of flea medicine, multiple discount coupons/gift certificates and some organic treats (unfortunately still for the dog). I want to believe I am a person whose soul cries out for all the abused pets in the world, but I’ll be honest -- a majority of the motivation behind this year’s race was because we were running out of doggie shampoo. Don’t judge me.

I showed up around an hour before the race and went through the normal race day registration procedure. I received my bib, pins, some Frisbee looking thing and my shirt. “We’re all out of sizes except medium,” the man told me. “OK. I’ll take one,” I responded. And I did, but I have no use for it. In fact, the 2008 version of the race shirt remained in my trunk until June of this year – I ran out of towels to dry my car one day and, well…

I threw the shirt in my trunk and pinned the bib on the right side of my tights. Right, I wear running tights for races. There are never any issues with chafing and I don’t have to worry about wind making my 3” inseam shorts any shorter. So the bib went on, my wind pants came off and I started my warm-up run. For a 5K, I like to run the entire course for a warm-up. I understand some will assume this defeats the purpose, but on most training runs 3 miles is roughly what it takes for things to start clicking. So there.

The course was difficult to follow. There were arrows marked with flour, other arrows marked with spray paint, and what appeared to be arrows from races past. Despite which direction I followed, though, the course was beginning to reveal its true nature – hilly. They were steep. Some were long. I was starting to grow genuinely nervous about my chances.

After I finished the warm-up and changed into my race gear (racing flats, singlet, etc.), I made my way over to the starting area. I saw quite a few people I knew were going to be there, but was surprised to see my cousin, Adam. This was his second 5K. He had logged a 23:36 the week before and was looking to lower that time here. I warned him to take it easy the first two miles, but that the second was net downhill – go nuts. He listened: 21:59 was his chip time. Very fine run.

I didn’t find Bob until right before the gun sounded. Bob and I run together a lot. At the 4th of July race, we went out together, but he flashed his speed and dropped me at mile 2. Although I had been training a bit more diligently than he had recently, I didn’t fully believe him when he said he wanted to stay around 10 – 15 seconds behind me. Bob is a short/middle distance runner with explosive finishing speed and a penchant for downhill running. Anything less than 30 seconds on this course wouldn’t be enough to hold him off. Still, I thought, I was here to run my own race. We wished each other luck and took our starting positions.

After the patriotic shout out, the gun sounded. I started 3-4 rows back from the start for the first time ever in such a short distance race. I love getting out in front early; it helps me establish a solid pace without having to worry about running in/around people. Still, it’s hilarious how many people treat a 5K like a 400 meter race. So much speed, so many elbows flying. I hung back until I saw an opening.

It came on the first downhill. We were only 0.3 miles in or so, but I was already passing people who were breathing heavily. I was working my way through the crowd and when we hit the hill, I opened my stride like Bob had showed me. Gravity let me pick off another 5 or so runners. At the bottom of the hill I heard quick, long steps approaching fast. I knew it was Bob. “Hey,” he acknowledged. “What’s up?” I responded. A couple breaths later Bob mentioned, “I’m tired.” I laughed under paced breaths, because he didn’t sound tired at all. Regardless, he dropped back soon after. I heard him off my right shoulder for a while (his Nike shoes popped a flat recently and hiss air with every footfall), but lost him in the sounds of the race behind me not long after.

With ¾ of the first mile in the bag, I was running in solo 6th. It appeared I had put some space between the runners behind me. Two runners were immediately in front of me and the 3rd place runner, a woman, was about 20 yards away. I took care of business with runners 4 and 5 on the first uphill, dropping them fast. The woman, however, proved to be pretty strong. When I got closer, I noticed a tattoo of a beetle on her back. I remembered her (and the tattoo) from the July 4th race. She was running in some pink Brooks Burn shoes at the time that I thought were cool. Today she was in the Launch, a shoe I also use for training. When I was close enough for her to notice I was there I mentioned, “Those are great shoes.” At the time I thought this was a valid comment to make. Upon writing it, however, it does sound a bit creepy. I’m not sure if she huffed and ignored me because she was deep in concentration, or because it was such an awkward comment to make during such a high-energy endeavor. Regardless, I pulled away and dropped her on the next turn feeling a little embarrassed.

Right around the time I turned the corner, a funny thing happened: my legs ceased feeling tired and my breathing became completely relaxed. In the midst of a hard, hilly 5K, I hit a runner’s high. For the first time ever. It only lasted for a couple of climbs and descents, but I was able to put some distance on the rest of the field. By mile 2, I couldn’t hear a single person behind me – no one was close. I didn’t help my pursuers, however, when I took the wrong turn. Instead of taking a left down the hill I went right and uphill. I stopped when I couldn’t find the arrows and turned on the following cross street. After running on this for a while, I came upon the course again – I had made the race roughly .1 miles longer and hillier. Sigh.

Still, there is nothing like getting lost to fuel the fire of urgency. I had given up around 10-15 seconds stopping and looking for the proper route, so I floored it. I had just around a half mile left to the finish and I was burning fuel fast. I saw the 2nd place runner making his way up the last hill. I was about 30-40 seconds out. That deflated the tires a bit, but I finished at a good clip. They took a picture of me right before the finish. I was tired.

Manu Ginobili handed me my award. The medal was nice and heavy, but the PR was worth gold.

18:25 - 3rd OA - 1st AG.

zoo run - 2 miles



I raced in Brackenridge Park yesterday. It was here, under a bridge and along the brick walls lining the San Antonio River, where I learned to fish. On a stone picnic table several feet from the banks is where I learned of my parents’ decision to divorce. In front of the main pavilion is where, for the first time, I crossed the finish line in under 20 minutes for a 5K race. The park is famous for vagabonds and feral cats.

This race only had 60 or so people. Perhaps less. Weekly races don't tend to draw huge numbers, but the quality of patrons was unquestionable. Everyone was nice. Accommodating. People called out to one another by name. At the starting line, an older man balanced on a curb while a shirtless kid stood below him. He was needling him: “I’m going to beat you. Perhaps not today, but some day. Just you wait.” “Ha. Nah uh. You’re never going to beat me," the boy responded. I believed him.

Perhaps because of my similar shirtless appearance, the kid came up to me after I arrived from my warm-up jog – two miles and change. “I’ve seen you at a lot of races,” I called out to break the ice. “Yeah, I run a lot. Were you at the Freedom 4-miler?” I acknowledged I was. “Yeah, everyone was at that one. I think I remember seeing you, too. I finished with a 6:30 pace. You?” After complaining of the number of unaccommodating walkers in that race, I told him my time: 6:19 pace. “That’s fast.”

I previously raced at this park earlier in the year and the starting line was in the exact same place. I lined up as the race announcer began the countdown. “On your mark…” I noticed everyone was facing me; I felt immediately self-conscious. But I quickly realized why – I was facing the wrong way. “Get set…” I leaped across the line and turned to face the opposite direction. “GO!”

The kid took off at a break neck speed. He cut the corner under a twisted oak tree at the start, but I flared to the outside. The roots of this tree had caused the concrete and asphalt surrounding it to crack and swell. It looked like waves receding from a cliff face. Another silent victory for nature. It wasn’t too long until the tree was no longer a focus. I glanced at the watch on the second turn; the kid and I were running around 5:20 pace. This was too fast for me. Too fast for him. I decided to slow down.

We crossed the bridge over the San Antonio River where a man was fishing. Some ducks were patiently waiting by the shore anticipating bread to be thrown their way. Someone was bound to do it. They always do.

We wrapped around the public bathrooms and headed back up the only hill in the entire park. It lasts for 50ft. This is when the kid started to drop back. He didn’t have a watch on, but he must have known he was running through his fitness. I fashioned a peace sign as if to say, “see you later” or “good luck,” or both. I wanted to be a friend to the kid. I wanted to show him that there is always room for kindness – even during a race. I’m not sure the peace sign conveyed that, but it was worth a shot.

After around 0.3 miles we were running on the trails. I’m not as fast on trails as I am on road, but I maintained focus on my turnover. I was following the lead bike and it felt good. As it was my first time in the lead at any race, it felt more foreign than anything. It wasn’t long, however, that I heard the sound of someone on my heels. The kid gave me a heads up before the race: “Gabriel is probably going to win this, even with the stroller.” I listened intently for the sound of wheels. Unmistakable – it was him. First the large front wheel appeared in my peripheral vision, but it wasn’t soon after that dad and son were in front of me. I was surprisingly comfortable with this.

For the next mile or so I remained close. The turns would slow him down slightly, but any attempt to catch up would be met with a surge or two on his part. He never looked back to see where I was, but he must have known. We were racing after all. With a quarter mile left to go, I dropped the hammer. It was in a straight-away that I often run my intervals – I knew the distance perfectly. The previous acute-angled turn had slowed me down to just above 6-minute pace. I started to widen the stride and move the arms more. 5:50…5:40. I was gaining ground, but not enough to retake first. I knew I would come in second, but I wanted it to be close. 5:30…5:22.

I finish 6 seconds behind the man with the stroller -- Gabriel Guerrero. And son. After congratulating each other on a good performance, I discovered he had attended St. Anthony. He was in the class of ’89. I was ’98. His mentor and coach was J.G. Well, I thought, that’s alright then. I saw the kid, Conrad, come in third. He’s only 12 and averaged a 6:12 pace. He’s going to be unstoppable in high school.

After I inhaled several cups of water, Gabe invited me on a cool down run around the park. I accepted and we started shortly after the last racer crossed the line. Along the way we talked of his upcoming 20-year reunion. Had it been that long? He mentioned Father Salas and Dr. Higgins. After forgetting his name for the last two years, I asked if he remembered a Father Hall. Richard Hall. He said no. Yeah, he was a young guy I mentioned. We ran past the kiddie park. The canopy above the carousel housing the fighter planes had a hole in it. The 10-foot high roller coaster was completely rusted out and any remaining paint was cracked and peeling away. As if attempting to flee from the place. We turned the corner and ran away too.

We passed some runners Gabriel knew and I noticed a girl with a Boston marathon shirt. Technical. I’ll be there, I thought. Give me time. We then turned onto River Road. So many feral cats. I used to feel sad for them all, but then I met the kid, Conrad. Before the start of the race we joked about how many there were. He responded, “My dad comes out and picks them up. Gets them fixed. He sometimes releases them back out here, but sometimes he doesn’t.” I nodded in appreciation. There are still a couple left, I thought.

We passed the pavilion and the stone bench where my parents said “I don’t.” Running back over the bridge, the man was still fishing. His 5 gallon bucket was empty. As an inebriated man once told me along Town Lake in Austin, he “needs to get busy catching.” We finished the run and I received a blue ribbon for my achievements. I stayed and clapped for everyone. It was difficult to find who to pay. One dollar. That’s all it cost. Well worth it.

2-miles – 11:31 – 5:46 pace.
2nd Overall

9 film review


On 9/9/09 of this year, I sat in the front row of theater 9 (really) at the Drafthouse and watched the movie “9.” This is my review of the film. It will most likely be the first of many reviews, but I don’t purport to be a critic per se. I am, however, terribly critical, which should give me all the tools I need.

“9” begins with images from a flashback that seek to figuratively and literally weave a story of creation. We are witness to human hands delicately working on a rag doll--setting robotic eyes into empty sockets, stitching together seams, and painting the number 9 on its back. The rest of the film, however, focuses on telling a story of destruction. The initial images of a room awash in loose papers, displaced books, and warped wood provide an ominous tone that is soon confirmed when the character opens a nearby window. The camera draws back from the window to reveal a landscape painted with thick strokes of apocalyptic imagery: blown out buildings with exposed frames, blackened vehicles, rusted metal and rolling hills of crumbled concrete.

The imagery and artwork were instantly compelling, but the film’s greatest strength was its initial silence. Without life’s background noise, the audience was wholly immersed in the aloneness of the character. The abundance of nothingness caused everything to echo. Loudly. To the extent we could hear the character’s emotions. To my disappointment, however, 9 quickly runs into another numbered doll who provides him a voice box. This meeting ushers in what would become the dominant theme of the film: unbridled action.

Through a series of fortunes and misfortunes (all too convenient to be plausible), 9 finds himself in the company of other numbered, sentient dolls. Although each of these dolls own a particular set of attributes and personality traits (along with different numbers), the development of these characters is driven solely by their reaction and relation to 9. They might as well have never existed before 9 appeared. Still, the director covered all the archetypal bases – there is the over-protective father figure, the muscle, the love interest, the slightly insane yet curiously cute oddball, etc. I’m sure you get it.

Back to the action. Once it started, it never seemed to stop. Although I don’t imagine most one-eyed, saw-wielding robots would offer “time outs” in their quest for ultimate destruction, the pacing was such a departure from the opening first half of the film. The director attempted to slow things down by developing tie-ins – the character was shown newspaper clippings and news reels depicted how the world came to an end – but that just begged more questions and exposed obvious plot gaps. What had started as a profoundly quiet film was growing uncomfortably mind-numbing. For me.

I hope I don’t dissuade many readers with this next comment, but “9” the character is a typical non-heroic hero. Cue in spear-wielding love interest that also acts as party strong-(wo)man. I normally have no problems with this dichotomy, if only the director didn’t belabor the point by having 9 become a victim to the over-produced love at first sight shot – pupils get large, slight gasp, hold the breath, pan in slowly to capture expression. The story pretty much writes itself after this. Still, I couldn't help but think that the asexual construction of the dolls wouldn't really lend itself to a useful relationship. Feeling the love would be an issue. Not to sound crass.

Now that I have spent the better part of this review falling just shy of berating many aspects of the film, I’m going to pull an about face. I thoroughly enjoyed this film. As a fan of anything post-apocalyptic, animated and artistic, “9” sung to my soul. Sure, there were plot deficiencies. The characters, too, may have suffered from lack of depth, and the dialogue seemed to work against itself at times, but I’m willing to look past all that. Why? Because to develop an idea of this nature and produce it as visually artistic as this is commendable. It’s also important. Why? Because very few films can succeed at grasping the human conundrum without featuring a single human being. It challenges us to ponder – can humanity exist without being?

17 and a life to go...

Holy shitzl. I have never wanted to NOT run more than this morning. Martin came in yesterday, which means we were in a Mexican restaurant having ritas by 2pm. We had 2.5 each. He had an allergic reaction to something either in the chips, salsa, or drink. It made his face red and blotchy. Hilarious -- if not for the not being able to breathe aspect of the reaction.

After watching Longhorn football at the Fox and Hound and having dinner at Dough I had consumed a total of 7 alcoholic beverages including Tequila, Texas-made beer, and Italian wine (Feudi). I was carbed out. And pissed. Drunk.

I woke up after an odd night of sleep. Buster whining. Too hot. Too cold. I wrestled back and forth with the idea of scrapping the long run. After about an hour of this, I quietly laced up the trainers and left.

I opened up well enough -- easy. Thankfully, the detox came quicker than expected. I had forced myself to drink as much water as possible before bed. Note to self: this works. Like clockwork, though, I felt a pain in my gut indicating that I needed to drop a deuce. I remember looking at the watch to see how far I had run -- only 1.8. Funny, I thought, right before "2." I soldiered on.

Somewhere along mile 4 or 5 I started to hit a stride. Clicking off 7:45s, I was fully committed. I then came upon a guy setting out cones for runners. He was nice and acknowledged me with a "good job runner." I nodded and said thank you. He eventually passed me later in his car; I assumed he was heading out to set the next marker. What surprised me, however, was when he stopped in the middle of the road a little less than a quarter mile away. Already another marker? Can't be I thought. In fact, he had stopped because 4 or 5 feral dogs were laying near the street. I had already picked several rocks up and was fondling their grooves in order to become familiar with how I would defend myself. The dogs never attacked. In fact, my presence barely registered a response from any of them. I appreciated their disinterest, but I really appreciated the act of kindness from the guy in the car. I waved and he drove off when the situation appeared safe.

At around the time I turned back, I was oiled and ready to roll. I started hitting 7:30 - 7:35 miles. I was hardly breathing and my legs felt sharp -- transition was smooth. On the return route I ran past scores of joggers and bikers. Although there were a few cordial riders, the rest gave me no reason to withdraw my criticism and bias towards them. If they rode in groups, they chatted one another's faces off. If they rode alone, their seriousness was akin to Floyd Landis in his doping hearings. C'mon people. Perhaps they were still frustrated from trying to fit their fleshy mass into those compression suits. Who knows. I sure don't.

I finished a bit tired, but strong enough that if I was pressed to do 26.2, I could have finished it at an even lower pace. This is the first time I have ever felt this way. Trust me; I have run MANY hung over long runs. Now, on to bigger and better.

17 miles - 2:12:16 - 7:47 pace

Soft Baller - 8.22.09


On Saturday morning, I played softball. Given the general theme of this blog, however, it was not without a run. Roughly 8.1 miles from house to home, as it were.

I started at 6:30am as 8 miles usually takes anywhere from 55 minutes (when I’m feeling it) to 1:05 (when I’m not). It was 78 degrees with 80% humidity and a dew point that was equally disturbing. My plan was to arrive around 7:45 at Normoyle Park, wipe down, cool off, and get swinging. I planned the route the day before at work – the normal St. Mary’s route through Downtown, out and about in the King William district, and then the West Side. What a story. Ha.

As the sun had barely crested the skyline, not a lot of folks were up. It was quiet. I saw quite a few runners, but they had opted to take other routes. I was alone on the road I chose. Given the high number of abandoned dogs, buildings, and cars, things came to the West side to die. Or biodegrade. Whatever.

The dogs were a bother. Oddly enough, the most prominent breed (if this term even applies) to give chase was the Chihuahua. Scary little things. I never ran without two or three rocks in my hand, but then again I never needed to throw them. Most of the wild dogs were either emaciated or bloated – natural world’s version of the have and have-nots I suppose. It was easy to discern which were female; their swollen nipples hung low and swung in synch with their apprehensive strides. Forced to bear life, but perpetually scared of most living things. Man, that was sad.

After turning on Theo St., I knew it was around 2 miles of boring straight. I dropped the pace to around 6:50 to make it to the softball field in time. Perhaps a part of me needed to leave that area as fast as possible. Regardless, I made it with plenty of time to spare. I was received with a bit of fanfare: “You ran from where?!” – “Not the entire 8 miles, right?!” – “And you can still stand?!” As it was Japanese people asking me these questions, I did my best to downplay my achievements and even apologized. There are reasons I had to do this, but they won’t be included in this entry.

I changed into some dryer technical stuff and put on the soccer cleats. Wrong sport, but they work just the same. As I began the walk from the parking lot, I noticed that another colleague also was wearing a red Adidas top, with black shorts, and white shoes. Damn; I’m going to hear it, I thought. I did.

Despite wide smiles and booming laughter, a Japanese ex-high school baseball players’ seriousness is crystal clear. Drop a ball, and you’ll hear it. Make a good play, however, and you are showered with reserved praise. It’s a rollercoaster and the ride can easily make one sick. After making some plays that ranged from bone-headed to Mantle-esque, I decided to get off – lay back a bit. I don’t like team sports. Never have. Reviewing what I’m good at (track & field, golf, fishing, running, tennis) I realized I didn’t belong on the field. Heck, I was wearing a running top, tennis shorts and soccer cleats. I was all wrong in right field.

Still, I play for Maki. As an ex-captain on a Japanese softball team, she lives for this stuff. Teamwork. Double plays. Single homer to left. I like to talk about it and even believe I have an advantage (given the abilities gained from individual sport), but I’m just not warming up to softball. It doesn’t help when the captain of the Japanese team lined up the players to pick and eventually placed me with the ‘tard’ team. It’s not that I can’t play, but because I’m not Japanese. Conveniently, though, I’m not American, either. This way, he assumes I won’t take the under the bus throw as harshly. Underhanded as it may be.

I played on a team with other Americans. We have a game scheduled for this weekend: Team Japan vs. Team America (f yeah). Some players from the other team came to get a bit of practice in. Although I enjoyed their attitude, some are more serious than others. I hate losing, but I’m not good enough to consider myself immune to it. Still, I made some plays. Left my mark, as it were. I tripled once, got on base a bunch of times, and played defense well enough. Sadly, though, I was making the more impressive stops at the expense of Maki. She likes to yank down the foul line. I stood there waiting like a glorified lamp post.
Here are pictures. Of M and myself. I’ll post later about the results of the “Friendship Match” between countries.




Give or take a couple of days, I got 13 weeks left.

The San Antonio Rock ‘N Roll will be my second marathon. Although it doesn’t boast an impressive elevation profile like Big Sur, 26.2 flat miles measure the same distance. Still, I haven’t slacked off too terribly much. Excluding the week after Big Sur and the burnout week two weeks ago (I’ll get into this later), I have never dropped below 26 miles per week. Overall, I am averaging 33 miles with a high of 49. I have posted five 40+ weeks after Big Sur and would have continued with this trend if not plagued with a recurring injury. In contrast, I only ever breached the 40-mile mark twice during the spring. Point of departure, I call it. On to bigger and better.

Immediately after the marathon in April, I ran several races of varying length: 25K trail, 10K paved trail/road hybrid, and 4-mile road/sidewalk. I was looking for diversity and I found it. Although I was somewhat happy with the trail performance, every other race fell short of expectations. I just didn’t have it when I needed it. In fact, this string of sub-par performances compelled me to question if “it” was ever in my possession to begin with. I hated this feeling.

This probably led me to abandon the heavy race schedule I had laid out immediately after Big Sur. And then came the heat. Like a righteous plague from heaven, it consumed everything. Merciless in its quest. I became as fragile as a flower exposed to nuclear fallout. Any excuse to opt out of a run or race and I jumped on it – too much wine; not enough wine; date night; night of fighting; Tiger Wood’s leading a tournament; early-morning golf; post-golf frustration; laundry; grocery shopping; picking up antibiotics for my dog’s urinary tract infection. I could have opened up a business creating excuses.

Running is, by its very nature, a self-centered endeavor. Or so my self-pity led me to believe. Around the time that I thought I would never get my groove back, Bob and I began running together. We then joined a marathon training group at a running store. Although I used to discredit these sorts of things (cool people like Clint Eastwood never needed to go on group rides), I discovered that my resolve was stronger than ever. It became much easier to define my individual strengths and weakness in this collective context. Another runner friend of mine mentioned, “I don’t believe you were looking for validation, but calibration.” Point of departure, I called it. Perhaps it’s really just as simple as the old adage asserts: “Misery loves company.”

japan diaries - vol. 7

My last run.

M and I woke up at six and got ready. She was tired and I could tell she wanted to sleep by the way she kept squinting. It was sweet of her to come along. Her on the bike. For the last time.

We set a course for Asuka based on the directions her father gave us the day before. Asuka is a part of Nara that boasts old temples, lush farmland and a series of nature trails. It remains quite a popular attraction and most of the tourists travel the area on bicycle. As such, the streets and sidewalks were very accommodating.

I enjoyed the looks M and I received. Given my appearance, I must have looked like either a professional runner being timed and photographed, or simply a foreigner chasing a Japanese woman on a bike. I never shied away from saying good morning or hello. Given that we were not in or around Tokyo, my acknowledgements were almost always well received.

We arrived in Asuka after 3 or so miles and came upon a series of paved hiking trails. I stopped the watch and implored M to go on a hike with me. She was already beginning to show signs of fatigue. Asuka draws its beauty from its hilly terrain. And it was draining her. Still, she agreed and we set out into the park.

Only several steps into the walk and we were heading up a major incline. We stopped occasionally for a picture or two. A Buddha statue with an accompanying offering table. An excavation site of an ancient kofun. M swatting at mosquitoes with hormone problems. The kind that make Chinese people over 8ft. tall. Huge.

At the top of this hill was a lookout. The steps were made out of earth and framed by wood. I walked them one by one. No need to rush. I had an idea what was in store at the top. I could hear M taking pictures of me perhaps two or three steps behind. I pretended not to notice. She prided herself on taking shots when I wasn’t aware.

A man, covered in sweat, was sitting on one of the seats fashioned from cut tree trunks. There were many of them. Maybe 9 altogether. No particular order. He was breathing heavily and wearing a bright orange shirt. He had a radio strapped around his neck and seemed to be listening to the news. I heard voices. Not singing. The radio was old and covered in a worn black leather case. Holes were cut out where the single speaker was. My grandparents used to have a radio like this. Always set on the A/M stations. It was played during ironing sessions, or in the workshop. I never really listened to what was being played. I nodded and said good morning to the man on the seat. He responded as clearly as his scratchy radio. He needed water.

At the center of the circle was a larger tree trunk with a series of carvings. Names of the surrounding cities and their corresponding directions. Looking out, houses and buildings, temples and towers rose in the few places a mountain did not reside. The sun was burning the last remnants of the morning haze. But it lingered. Like incense around a gravestone. Cigarette smoke in a pachinko parlor. I snapped a couple of pictures and we made our way down the hill.

After a couple of more shots, M had had enough. She was being assaulted by mosquitoes and, in between all the swatting and slapping, couldn’t appreciate the beauty of the place. It was time to go.

We made our way back to the parking lot where we locked the bike and headed toward Asuka temple. It was closed. Nonetheless, I leaped across the small moat and took a picture of the courtyard over the wall. It would have been nice to visit there during the fall I thought, but I wasn’t to put off about not being able to enter. A corresponding gate picture and shot of M looking tired and bitten and we left.

I stopped to take more pictures of random things and eventually came upon a temple. I ran up the stone steps as M waited. She didn’t know how many steps there would be and didn’t like the idea of heading back into another densely wooded area with, most likely, standing water. After not too many stairs, I came upon a temple with a priest praying inside. I decided to quietly snap a few pictures and head back. He looked serious. And I didn’t want to disturb.

After those last few pictures, M and I settled into the run/bike back and finished strong up the last hill before her house. The one I ran the first full day in Japan. It is even more oppressive when the base comes at the start of the 10th mile. But we made it. And not too much longer we made it home. Hitomi and M’s dad were still sleeping. I cooled off outside while M brought me some water. She asked if it was OK if she left me to take a shower. “Yes,” I responded, “it’s OK. Thanks for coming with me.” “Un,” she responded. And slid the door closed.

japan diaries - vol. 6

Yesterday was a big loss on the pachinko boards. We are still positive for the trip, but barely. It seemed so easy to win the first three days that I thought it must not be a very lucrative business. Not so. Especially after I witnessed other people slamming the machines in frustration. Japanese people.

Outside dumping large amounts of cash waiting for M to get her hair done, her dad and I ate some ramen, gyoza and had some beers at around noon. Thats it. No new pictures.

Here are a few videos, though. One of the automatic golf cart.

Another of the wind playing with the stalks of rice. I could watch this all day.

japan diaries - vol. 5

Yesterday we went to Osaka. The drive was pretty much non-descript. A couple of toll roads, a bridge or two, lots of small cars, and then a sprawling metropolis home to millions of people living obscenely close together. Par for the course. As it was approaching lunch time, we made our way directly to the sushi restaurant. This was the main reason we were in town. We drove to the dock where fish is unloaded and processed. The air was thick with the smell of fish oil and salt water. The building that housed the restaurant was an architectural hiccup. I didnt even notice it until we parked nearly 20 feet away. I assumed a wrong turn had been made and we were using the parking lot as a turn around. Not so.

The entrance was adequate. There was room for 8-10 people to sit against the wall and only 6 people at the bar. There were 7 patrons when we entered and it never dropped below that. We ordered some beer and their omakase option. They choose what we eat. It started with 5 pieces. Followed by another 5. And then followed by, you guessed it, 5 more. I have never had more than 10 pieces of sushi, but by the end of the last plate, I wanted 15 more. Needed 15 more. Incredible. I have had sushi many times in my life, but I have never had that. Given the large number of autographs from celebrities, sports stars, and even sumo rikishi that decorate the walls, I assume I am not alone. I have a picture of me after the event.

M's dad then dropped us off downtown and M and I went shopping. We first went below ground and shopped in a place called Namba City. There was a Paul Smith store where the shoes were too small and the jeans too tight. I picked up some underwear and am wearing them now. Too tight. We then walked to the 5-story shopping mecca called Namba Parks. I found a lot of things I would have liked to make mine, but staying consistent with theme that is Japanese fashion -- too small. M picked up some Birkenstocks, I picked up a Porter purse for myself (me stealing the thunder from someone who will undoubtedly make this comment when I return) and some Japan-edition Levi 501 jeans. I like the color, and the fact it was half off, but they need work. I plan to sand them down and get them a bit more worn. Good color.

After a tako yaki dinner and some beers, we decided to go to the Pachinko parlor again. I understand no one wins all the time, but I have yet to be witness to that. We walked into a crowded room and took a seat at the older Sea Story boards. M and I were just not lucky. Before we knew it, we had burned through $200. M's dad was not having any more luck either. Down $150. M abandoned her board and moved to another machine, but I stuck with mine. Patience. M's dad slipped into her chair and decided to put in another $100. He got down to only $20 left when I had exhausted my board. We were down nearly $500. That's a lot of jackpots necessary just to break even. He then told me to use all the remaining money in his board and left to find another machine. Find some luck in the joint. With only $10 left, I hit the first jackpot of the night. Its an odd number, so that guarantees another jackpot. I hit another odd. And then another. And then an even, but it turned into an odd. And this continues for the better part of 2 hours. 14 total jackpots. $770. After we split the earnings, I pocket $100. Sweet.

Another run this morning. 5:15am. Sun already risen for the better part of 20 minutes. I started along the path I always run and felt good. Great. I dropped the pace and hit a 7:40 opening mile. I continued with the speed session and strung multiple sub 7-minute splits. Breathing was paced. I followed the alleyway route and listened to the slaps of my shoes echo along narrow corridors. Water flowing from an unknown location to an unknown location. With purpose. Bellows of bullfrogs along the river. Crickets singing to one another. I forgot how accommodating nature could be in such an urban sprawl.

9.5 miles. 1 hour 8 minutes.

M's sister arrives later tonight. We plan to eat and drink a lot. Enjoy ourselves. Finding it more and more difficult not to do this. In no particular order.

japan diaries - vol. 4

Although I continue to wake up at 5:30 every morning, I have decided to run only every other day. Yesterday was a good day to run. So I ran. M joined me behind on the bike recently dropped off by her aunt. Herself a runner of over three marathons. We started on the same route and although it was M's intention to show me around, I led for the first three miles. I took her through the side streets that I discovered on my first run, which eventually led us past her grandmother's haka. We stopped to wash the stone and the offering cups. And pray.
It took only another 5 or so minutes of running along the river to reach the large toori gate. This time M helped me capture it's size. Only two and a half miles into the run, though. I was craving distance. We decided to turn around and run to the Miwa temple. The route became decidedly historic and the houses aged the closer we drew. The last 1000 meters were uphill. M and I raced. I won.
The temple grounds were much larger than I had imagined. Not only was the main temple impressive, but the surrounding grounds were also noteworthy. I love these places. The smell of pine. Incense. Architecture completely devoid of plaster and cheap materials. The sound of walking on crushed stone. Echoes of a steel bell. The residue of history.
After several pictures and a well-timed bathroom break -- thank the gods -- we decided to continue the run. M's uncle had told us that her grandpa would be on one of his farm lands this morning. As they were not spaced too terribly far from one another, we decided to run/bike to each one. The first plot was only two miles away. We started down the hill and away from Miwa.
More pictures of the temple and surrounding area:
M was not too sure of the location of the first plot. Still, after about five minutes of searching in the area she was certain of we found it. He was not there. Which was not much of a problem. The next plot was less than a mile away. I forgot to mention, I was running low 7-minute miles by this time and feeling great. The run, surprisingly, was not a main focus.
Found. We looked across the length of field to see M's grandpa working in a squat. He had his back to us. With his poor hearing, we were going to have to make our way across the field. As we approached, M called out. He didnt hear the initial attempt, but the second one was successful. In fact, Im sure there was at least one other grandpa in the area that turned around. She was intent.
You sure did well to find me! he exclaimed from behind a beaming smile. He loves his granddaughter and she does he. All the way out here, come come! I've got some great tomatoes and cucumbers for you.
Before we even reached the spot where he was working, he was busy collecting items to give to us. Like my grandpa, he will never know that the greatest gift is himself. His love. But we took his offerings just the same. He immediately went to collect items from his bike. Still riding at 87.
Here, here. Lots of cucumbers. They are really good for you.
But we can't take all of these. There are over twenty!
Oh yeah? Hmm. Well take them anyway. Just throw away what you cant eat.
Grandpa!!
Logic will always find defeat in the arena of kindness. M took eight. He then sat down in his tomato garden and began picking the ones that were ripe. He carefully selected them. M squatted next to him and kept him company. We then received a tour of his plot. Azuki beans, watermelon, cucumbers, cantelope. There were much more planted, but my understanding of Japanese food stuffs is weak. There were also insects I had never seen as well.
After promising to watch some Sumo and show up to a farmers event on Friday we left. He did as well. M couldnt have been happier. We set a course for home and I started clicking off some really fast splits. We stopped at a convenience store and picked up breakfast. Another great run.
More pictures: