Tuesday, October 22, 2013

What is that awful stench? It's Trent Richardson

My first two years of fantasy football were very successful and involved a large amount of luck.  I get that. I accept that.  I knew it couldn't go on for ever.  So for the most part, I can live with the abomination that has been my current fantasy season.  But one thing I just can't bring myself to accept is Trent Richardson.  There is simply no acceptable explanation for the degree of ass that he has sucked.  No, I did not actually watch any Browns football last year, but how could everyone have been so wrong about this guy?  He was productive last season, and all I read this year is about how he's come into camp in great shape, looking explosive, good hands out of the backfield, centerpiece of the offense, blah blah blah.  So he starts the year unproductively on a crappy team, then amazingly gets traded to a good team where he's handed the starting role, and many knowledgeable fantasy losers start claiming he's a top 5 back now.  He proceeds to completely shit the bed.  Like, he doesn't even belong in the league in any capacity.  What a turd.

So as I checked the score of the Monday night game last night, and saw that indeed no miracles had happened and another humiliating defeat for my fantasy team was in the books, I began to think about Trent Richardson and how I felt about his 1.7 pt contribution this week.  I knew very quickly that our toxic relationship could not continue.  Would I just put him on the bench and let him rot?  No.  Absolutely not.  There is an awful Trent Richardson stench that is hanging over my entire roster.  It needs to be scrubbed clean.  So trade him for something?  Anything?  No!  I will not lower myself to pretending for one second that Trent Richardson has any value whatsoever.  He will be unceremoniously dumped on his ass and that's the end of it.  A warm satisfaction pumped through my veins as I thought about my revenge.  I imagined a sullen Trent Richardson, sitting on the bench, thinking about his failure and overcome with embarrassment and remorse by the way I had discarded him.  He'd do anything, ANYTHING to earn his way back into my good graces.  No.  No Trent Richardson!  It's over.  You've failed.  Failed! 

I then broke out of my little daydream, shook my head at myself and mumbled, "I'm losing my fucking mind."

"Don't say that Daddy!", Maya admonishes me.  "You're silly.  You're silly Daddy."

Yes.  Yes I am. 

Monday, October 14, 2013

Weekend Recap

On Saturday I raced a x-country OTCY.  My goal was simply to show some resilience and courage when the pain rained down.  I failed.  Miserably.  I have absolutely no balls.  Nothing new there. 

On Sunday, I had a nice morning yog with the Shoulder Toucher, the Well Man, and the Mexican Assassin.  Very enjoyable.  Upon finishing, I was informed that I had been assigned babysitting duty for Maya and her two cousins and needed to make it home asap.  It went pretty well I think. 

Thursday, September 26, 2013

Football Season

I was going through some pictures on my phone and found it amusing that 4 consecutive photos that I had snapped of Maya pretty much perfectly sum up the progression of the Eagles season thus far. 

4 pictures, 3 games thus far, although picture #4 anticipates the result of the upcoming encounter with Peyton Manning and crew. 

Wednesday, September 25, 2013

Just when it seems hopeless

I went golfing with Dr Evil a few weeks ago.  Redhawk.  Temecula.  Temperature forecast is for a high of 102.  We're teeing it up at 2pm.  Don't insult me with your god damned golf carts, we're walking.  I've got a water bottle filled with vodka and grape juice (all I had in the fridge) and 6 cold beers stuffed into my golf bag.  We are men and we shall golf! 

We get set to tee off and life is splendid.  The only problem is, my lower back is inflamed.  It's either from the uber manly big weights I've been dead lifting lately, or from constantly kowtowing to Maya's demands to be carried everywhere even though she's probably closing in on 40lbs.  No matter the cause, my back hurts and that is not good for golf.  Over the 17 years of my golf career, all without a lesson, I've developed a baseline skill set that lets me hack it around with enough consistency to make the game enjoyable.  Today however, the immobility of my lower back has me trying to overcompensate with my hands, resulting in repeated, hideous, very much not enjoyable snap hooks.  I've also committed the critical strategic error of offering to drive Dr E to the course, thus preventing myself from getting pre-shitfaced and adequately numbing the pain.  So, here I am, playing the worst fucking round that I've ever played with Dr E.  He, meanwhile, is playing the best round that he's ever played with me.  He smoothly goes fairway to green while I meander through the bushes in an interminable series of golfing misadventures.  I'm feeling the frustration build, and build, and build, and I'm barely holding it together.  I'd say that I beat Dr E about 70% of the time that we go golfing, but as we walk up to the 8th green, he's looking at a birdie putt to go back to -1 and I'm 16 strokes behind.  I bet him drinks and dinner that I will beat him on the back 9.  He does not take long to accept the bet.  Dr E chokes his way to a +1 37 on the front 9, while I card a smoooooth 54. 

The back 9 commences and the alcohol is starting to settle in a little.  I'm done with my vodka and have moved on to my beer, and the fresh start that comes with my bet has temporarily relieved some of my frustration.  Through the first 3 holes of the back 9, I find myself one stroke behind.  Manageable.  I tee off on the 13th, make decent contact with the ball, which starts off to the right and then hooks back sharply into the fairway.  Ugly, but I'll take it.  Dr E then steps up and hits a pretty high fade that settles right into the middle of the fairway.  He immediately starts gushing over himself,  blathering about how that is exactly how he envisioned his swing, his contact with the ball, and the ball flight, and the whole experience just satisfies him immensely.  Shithead.  We trudge towards our balls, and I set up over my shot, which had come to rest a good 30 yards behind Dr E's masterpiece.  I hit a miserable semi-shank into the rough to the right of the green, while Dr E puts his ball to about 12 feet of the cup.  I walk up to the green, find my ball in a shitty lie, and hit a shitty pitch that overshoots the green.  Steam.  Pressure.  Rising.  This is rapidly falling apart.  I walk over to my ball and promptly hit another pitch that overshoots the flag by about 30 feet.  Dr E smirks, as he's marked his ball and is enjoying watching my odyssey while he awaits his birdie putt.  Fuck it.  I take my pitching wedge and throw it as far as I can.  It bounces and cartwheels a few times and comes to rest in the street adjacent to the course.  Oh GAWD that felt good.  I grab another iron from my bag and throw that one too.  Squirt, squirt.  I frantically grab another one and fling that too.  Squirt, squirt, squirt.  Oh, what a release!   After changing my underwear, I march over to my ball infinitely more prepared for the inevitable 3 putt that will just about guarantee my doom.  At this point Dr E calmly mentions, "I think I hit your ball."  I look at the ball in his hand, and look at the ball I'm about to putt, and realize that he's right.  With the spectacle he created by fawning all over himself after his first shot, both of us temporarily forgot that he's a giant pussy with no distance off the tee.  What do we do?  We decide that after I retrieve my clubs, especially the one still lying in the street, we will go back and replay our shots from the correct spots on fairway, disregarding the two stroke penalty both of us should take.  Fuck you USGA.  Second time around, I put mine to the middle of the green and two putt for par.  Dr E hacks it around for a double bogey and falls off from there.  My 41 on the back easily wins the bet.  Victory. 

Thursday, August 22, 2013

Giant Penis Growing Out of My Forehead

Wow.  Over three months since a blog.  Plenty of thoughts and experiences have occurred in that period that would have been worthy of summarizing and randomly posting on the internet for no one to read, but I just haven't been able to muster the effort.  But a few other long dormant bloggers have recently sprung back to life, and I'll follow their lead and spew some nonsensical clap trap of my own. 

I don't have many unshakeable convictions.  It might seem like I do with the way I act, but I really only stand up for ideas to the extent that I've thought them through and have convinced myself that they're right.  When I argue, even if I seem like I'm in total disagreement, I'm still incorporating opposing ideas, and often revisit them after the fact and rethink them from several different angles.  I sometimes find that they had more merit than I originally thought, and sometimes they change or develop my opinions on something only loosely related.  I don't live in the world I wish I did, I'm not the person I wish I was, and I have to come to terms with things I don't like and don't understand. 

It's along the lines of the previous paragraph that I've recently had to accept that fact that there's a giant penis growing out of my forehead.  I can't see it, but after carefully reconstructing the events of the last few months, I've come to the conclusion that it must be there, and I need to deal with it.  So be it.  It starts at home.  The last few months I've had the chance to spend a lot of time with my daughter.  The terrible twos are not a myth.  The interactions have been challenging, exhausting and sometimes maddening, and so I've been fairly analytical about how I'm dealing with this and how my parenting needs to evolve to deal with it all.  I'm very intentional with the way I explain things, the instructions I give, and my disciplinary approach.  Yet all I get back is That Look.  You know that look.  A mix of blank stare, confusion, horror, and disgust all rolled into one. 

My thoughtful approach has rolled into other areas of life too.  At track, we're working out at the lake during the summer, and I make an attempt to incorporate a full variety of trails into each workout.  I draw a map, mark the beginning and end of intervals, color code it with effort levels and arrows showing the direction, post a written description a few days before the workout and then describe the workout in detail immediately before it starts.  The invariable response of each of the 20-30 faces who show up every week?  That Look. 

At work, after carefully preparing and presenting my thoughts, whether on technical project issues or more general discussions, the response to my ideas is the same.  That Look. 

I've greatly enjoyed the media shit storms of the past few months.  Zimmerman.  Snowden.  Riley Cooper.  Bob Filner.  Not so much the incidents themselves, but people's reactions and opinions on the matter.  I don't actively engage people on these issues, but in the few cases where I've been asked and have had the opportunity to give my carefully balanced thoughts on these circuses, almost impossibly, the response has simply been That Look

So, thoughtful analysis being my bag baby, I took to trying to understand why I've been getting That Look with such shocking consistency.  The more I thought and the more explanations I considered, the more it boiled down to one simple, inescapable conclusion.  Giant penis growing out of forehead.  Nothing else makes sense.  It's not an easy reality to accept, but I can't let the fact that I can't see it let me ignore the overwhelming evidence from the outside any longer.  Time to move forward and figure out a way to not let this massive cranio-phallus deprive the world from my crystal clear communication skills any longer.  It's a challenge I think I'm up to. 

I also wonder if there should be a separate division for me when I yog in OTCYs.  I bet I'd dominate. 

Monday, May 6, 2013

Hodge Podge

I did not yog thee.  I DNF thee.  I finally contracted Maya's stomach flu, and if not for the fact that Geronimo came to life and I was giving him and Jason a ride to the race, and for my burning disgust with the Suffer Seeker and American Hero for the way they backed out, I never would have gotten out of bed.  Rising up at 1:15a.m., I sat on the couch for an hour, analyzing my shooting stomach pains, dull headache, full body aches, raw skin, and overwhelming exhaustion and tried to force myself to the conclusion that I was in fact not sick.  I couldn't muster the energy to walk 20 feet and get a glass of water, so the task of driving 150 miles and then running 50 more seemed a bit daunting.  But I'm glad I tried. 

I got to spend 16 silent miles fully focused on my misery and wrapping my head around the specific aspects of discomfort that makes one decide to quit instead of soldiering on.  After quitting, I enjoyed analyzing my reaction, and specifically how in ultra, quitting after 16 miles feels like going out the door for a run in the morning and quitting after one block.  I reminded myself a few times that 16 miles on trail with a few thousand feet of climbing is actually a nice weekend long run.  It felt like  zero.  It felt like less than zero, if that's possible.  It felt like a complete abortion. 

I got to see Rob Krar's dominant victory, crossing the finish line in front of about 10 spectators in the finish area who provided him with a few scattered claps, everyone assuming that he was a middle of the packer in the 50k.  He crossed the line, dropped his head, softly muttered "Oh shit", then found a partially shaded area in the dirt and collapsed.  Slowly a few whispers came on, "Did he just destroy the course record?  I think he might have.  Who is that?"  Stunning effort, 50 minute victory in a Montrail race, a course record on a very hot day when everyone else melted, and it went completely unacknowledged.  So fitting for ultra. 

I got to see Geronimo suffer like I never have before in ultra.  He tried Muscle Milk for the first time at mile 42 and was a puking mess for the rest of the race and the first half of the car ride home.  We were truly a sorry bunch, but the humor of our reduced condition wasn't lost on me, and I reminded him a few times that at some point, we would realize that this was fun.  Jason was a hero for chauffeuring us home. 

Maya spent 10 days with the stomach flu, spraying it from both ends, including a few horrific events in the middle of the night.  I would joke about it, but it was entirely true that the smell of diarrhea and vomit was burned into my nostrils.  It stayed with me everywhere I went, and it was particularly strange to continually experience the subconscious urge to recoil in disgust from the stench every time I went to hug and hold Maya.  Glad that's over.

Scene from yesterday afternoon.  I was babysitting Maya and her two older cousins, girls 3 1/2 and 6 1/2.  The 6 1/2 year old announces that she has to go to the bathroom, as if this required some kind of response out of me.  Somewhat surprised, I say, "Okayyy, can you handle everything on your own?".  Her response, and I quote, "Wellll, I haven't quite figured out the wiping part yet."  I immediately knew that I would never forget that sentence, and would never let her forget it either. 

Scene from yesterday evening.  Situation in my home reminded me of a Jeff Foxworthy punchline...  You know you're a redneck (or in my case, you know you have a 2 year old) when your clogged kitchen sink drain backs up and spews out all over the floor, and it actually makes it cleaner!

Thursday, April 25, 2013

Leona, I shall yog thee

I signed up for Leona Yog several months ago.  I was really looking forward to it, as it had a ton of stuff going for it.  The American Hero decided the event would mark his return to the ultra scene for the first time since defiantly tearing off his wristband at mile 93 of Western States in 2011.  The Suffer Seeker signed up, needing redemption after last year's shameful DNF.  Geronimo quietly added himself to the entrant's list.  Even legendary distance yog dabbler/ Insanity workout enthusiast Scott Sundahl decided to make his 50 mile debut.  The course itself is about as gentle and painless as you could ever imagine while still being a legit 50 miler.  I've survived four 50 mile OTCYs up to this point, and this would be a perfect opportunity to put in a wee bit of training and actually try to race one. 

Then stuff started happening.  The American Hero and Suffer Seeker, showing the lack of resolve that has marked their recent DNFs, slithered into the darkness and declared their intentions to DNS.  Geronimo refused to answer my calls or e-mails about whether or not he was going, and if he wanted to carpool.  The advent of Maya's terrible twos and a series of other life factors limited my preparation to one single Lake Hodges 'thon yog a few weeks ago.  The race director sent out a mind boggling e-mail indicating that much like Stevie Janowski at the cookout in season 1 of Eastbound and Down, she was one of the only cool people around and was very disappointed to find herself surrounded by a bunch of posers and hos and shitheads.  There was a brief glimmer of positivity when the great BSK decided to take the Suffer Seeker's bib and make his ultra debut, but then he flip flopped and decided against it.  If I were the type to look for signs, everything imaginable would be telling me, "DO NOT YOG LEONA".  But it's all had the opposite effect on me.  I'm going.  I'm fucking going.  If every force on earth is trying to keep me away from this event, then that's exactly where I'm going to go.  Something worthwhile is going to happen there.  I'm sure of it.  Screw you guys...I'm yogging Leona. 

Thursday, March 14, 2013

Scene from Monday Evening

For my domicile, there used to be 2 community sized dumpsters and about 8 individual sized recycling trash cans that were inconveniently placed in a parking lot about 200 yards and down a hill from my condo.  Somebody at the HOA recently had the genius idea to remove all of the recycling dumpsters and just label one of the two existing community sized dumpsters as recycling only.  So the 20ish homes sharing this setup now have half of the capacity to put their trash in, and the dumpsters have been overflowing as people literally just place their garbage on the ground next to the dumpsters.  I decided not to contribute to this mess on the ground with my disgusting diaper filled trash bags and so I had been letting my garbage build up to the point that the trash can on my patio was overflowing. 

On Monday when I got home I decided I had had enough, as the lid could no longer even close on my trash can and so I decided to roll the thing down the hill and deposit the garbage whether there was room or not.  I was managing ok rolling this stinking heap down the hill when I felt a small tickle on my right hand and looked down to see a giant field mouse escape from the depths of my trash can, jumping onto my hand then down off my leg before scurrying away into the street.  I stopped, cursed, laughed, then proceeded to kick the can a few times and demand to know if any more little fuckers were hiding in there.  Satisfied that I heard no squeaks or other movements, I continued, more cautiously this time, to roll the trash can down the hill.  Because I was now being more attentive, I immediately saw when the next giant behemoth of a well fed field mouse emerged.  I shrieked like an 8 year old girl, threw my hands up, dropping the entire trash can, sending all of the putrid contents spilling out onto the sidewalk, and then clutched myself and writhed in horror as I watched the mouse speed away to safety. 

I then collected myself and the garbage and finished the job.  The end. 

Monday, March 11, 2013


They say if you repeat a lie often enough it becomes the truth.  Well, I'm not sure they actually say that, but it certainly sounds like something they might say doesn't it?  In any case, I'm vigorously testing the veracity of this statement.  Long ago I decided that when it comes to parenting, it's of the utmost important to establish dominance during the toddler years.  This obviously doesn't guarantee success (relative, of course) for the remainder of the child rearing process, but if the child doesn't respect your authority early on, you've got a deep pit to climb out of by the time the kid is a school aged monster.  So, with 2 just around the corner, my approach to becoming a credible authority figure is simply to continually claim that it is so.  When Maya is at the height of her disobedience, I conjure my most dominant energy, pound my index finger into my chest multiple times and assert that "Maya, I AM IN CHARGE.  YOU, are NOT in charge!"  Then I lay out my next set of commands, and come hell or high water, make sure that my will is actualized, because I AM IN CHARGE (Mommy is also in charge). 

But here's the thing.  I'm not in charge.  Not remotely.  Not even a little.  Not in any aspect of my life.  In fact, in the history of life on this planet, it's hard to imagine that there's ever been a living organism less in charge than I am.  Usually the  moments when I'm pounding my chest with false bravado are the very moments when the degree to which I'm not in charge is at its zenith.  The idea of a person like myself trying their best to prop up this charade of authority is so absurd that it's almost overwhelmingly hilarious sometimes. 

Oh well.  Onwards and forwards. 

Monday, February 18, 2013

10 Commandments of Yog

I'll try to amend these regularly as needed, but I think it's important to get started with the founding 10 commandments of yog. 

1.  Always yog.
2.  Never not yog.
3.  When considering not yogging, don't do it.
4.  When yogging longer distances, consume a Carls Jr breakfast burger prior to yog.
5.  Make sure people know that you yog.
6.  Use whatever means necessary to communicate that you are here for yog (H4Y). 
7.  Put stickers on your vehicle indicating that you yog.
8.  Tattoo your body in conspicuous locations to celebrate your yogs.
9.  If you are not sure where exactly the yog begins, ask politely for directions to yog.
10.  Blog.  About your yog. 

Additional rules
11.  When dumped by your spouse/fiance/significant other, now is the time for more yog.
12.  Less yoga, more yog.
13.  When out of shape, sign up for the next organized, timed, competititive yog (OTCY) anyway. 
14.  When signing up for an OTCY, expect to pay $10/mile of paved road and $4/mile of trail.  This is the price for yog.  Beware of OTCYs that will let you yog for less than this. 
15.  When just starting out in yogging, sign up for a marathon that is less than 6 months away.  Especially if you're significantly overweight. 
16.  Frequently announce your retirement from yog.
17.  There is no retirement from yog.  Always more. 
18.  Buy photos of yourself yogging.  Frame them and put them on your wall, to remind you of the time that you yogged. 
19.  If people are not interested in hearing about your yog, keep talking about it anyway. 
20.  There is no shame in crapping your pants during yog.
21.  If you are displeased with the result of an OTCY, make stupid sounding excuses, or claim that you weren't racing.
22.  If you are pleased with the result of an OTCY, claim that you are not. 
23.  Before yogging, waver back and forth several times on whether or not you will actually yog. 

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

San Dieguito OTCY report

There are two types of people in this world.  Those who are here for yog (H4Y), and those who are not.  On Sunday, I was one of the former. 

The Leadup
Last year my yog was poor.  I made a decent attempt at training for the bench-your-marathon challenge before dislocating my shoulder for the 12th time and scrapping those plans, and was consistent about squats and dead lifts in an attempt to stay balanced and injury free.  Injury prevention was successful, but I was also miserably sore 5 days a week.  Week after week, I was just too fucking sore to stand up out of a chair or walk down a hallway without looking like a geriatric, and certainly way too sore to scrape everything possible out of my minimal talents during an OTCY, which is always the goal.

Somewhere along the way in 2012 I also became bitter and crotchety about the trend of rampant price increases at OTCYs.  So the priorities for 2013 seemed clear;  1) Figure out a way to be active, healthy and strong without feeling destroyed so much of the time, and 2) Stop overpaying for yog.  This allowed only 3 OTCYs to enter my schedule, the first of which was the San Dieguito Half Marathon.  I got hit with the realization a few weeks ago that I had forgotten to train and it was now too late to train, but I wasn't feeling horrible during my infrequent yogs either and had entirely neutral expectations.  Then last week I got sucked into a busy work week leading to less than 1 hr of total exercise combined with continuous consumption of alcohol and comfort foods.  On Wednesday I noticed that my normal belt notch was becoming a little bit more snug.  I was downright sucking it in to keep using that notch by Friday, and by Saturday I had to relent and loosen my belt.  Increasing pessimism towards yog resulted.  At about 10:30pm Saturday night as I was nursing my 5th or 6th beer I decided I would not yog.  I felt good about the decision. 

Nevertheless, I found myself driving towards the ranch the next morning, not exactly sure why.  Thoughts of an appropriate drinking challenge to combine with half marathon yogging filled my head.  The obvious one seemed to be more beers the night before than minutes-per-mile pace during the race.  Drink 7 beers the night before, average sub 7 min miles during half marathon.  Decent right?  But the problem with that is it seems to get easier and easier the more you drink.  So to counteract that, I decided to insert a time clause the challenge.  Drink X number of beers in 13-X hours before the yog, and average under X minutes-per-mile for the OTCY.  Mmkay?  For example, if you drink 7 beers, you must drink them all in 13-7=6 hours before the race, and then average under 7 min pace.  10 beers in 3hrs before the race and 10 min miles.  I think that's a credible challenge.  I did not qualify for the challenge this time around, but I'll keep it in mind for the future. 

I was kind of late for the start, didn't get to warm up, said hi to a few friendly faces and toed the line.  The Shoulder Toucher arrived just a few moments before the start, looking kind of ragged and sporting a fresh shiner on his right eye.  I asked if he had gotten into a fight, and he informed me that his friend's 3 year old had taken the liberty of jumping on his face while he was sitting on a couch.  He described the incident with his signature vivacity and Matthew McConaughey style laugh, the horn sounded, and we began to yog. 

I do not yog with a garmin, but usually pay decent attention to the splits if someone is calling them out.  To the best of my recollection:

Mile 1 - 5:43.  Not terrible.  It's a significant downhill.  Expect to get slower as the climbing begins.  I settle into a group of 4 with the Shoulder Toucher, track club Bobby and unknown older guy. 
Mile 2 - 11:57.  Ok.  We're climbing.  My rested, untrained legs are burning a tiny bit, but my stomach is churning, burning and hating me.
Mile 3 - 18:10.  More of the same.  At least this section of climbing is over soon. 
Mile 4 - 24:11.  Wait a minute, the hill ended a while ago and we're running downhill.  I'm still over 6 min pace?  Ugh.  Oh well, I guess that's reality. 
Mile 5 - Forget the exact time.  My shoelace comes untied and I have to pull off.  The group gaps me.  Legs burn as I try to get back into the rhythm of my yog.  I like running alone better anyway.  I see the ranch boys (Suffer Seeker, Todd and Luc).  They are not H4Y.  They are here to heckle.  Good.  I'm pathetic.  I wish I could explain that the lost shoelace time has me looking worse than it really is, but there's no time. 
Mile 6 - Forget the exact time.  My shoelace comes untied for a 2nd time and I totally lose touch with my former group. 
Mile 7 - 42:51.  Getting wayyyy behind 6 min pace here, but at least I'm done with climbing for a bit and my stomach is feeling better.  Starting to reel in my former group, which has splintered. 
Mile 8 - 49:00.  Oh my.  I feel like I'm finding a groove and I'm definitely going to swallow up the Shoulder Toucher soon, but a 6:09 mile?  My pace is declining and I'm on pace for >1:20.  Whatever.  It is what it is, but it still sucks a little bit.  When I decided years ago to make some consistent effort to improve my yog, there were several long term goals in my head.  Sub 5min mile, sub 17 5k, sub 35 10k, sub 1:20 HM, sub 3 Marathon.  I wasn't particularly close to any of those when I started, and there was a reasonable satisfaction a few years later to know that I not only got all of them, but put them all significantly in the rearview mirror.  So going back above any of those lines in an OTCY stings a bit.  On the bright side, the humiliations are a big part of what keeps me coming back.  I'm committed to putting in my best effort for the rest of the OTCY but I'm fully prepared for the time to be ugly.
Mile 9 - Forget the time.  I pass the Shoulder Toucher.  He's starting to struggle.
Mile 10 - 1:00:30.  I felt like I sustained a good effort going up the 2nd to last significant hill.  I see the ranch boys again, who this time give me a more positive reception.  I give them the H4Y sign(cheerleader H, flash 4 fingers, cheerleader Y) as I go by, so they would know why I was there, but they don't seem to understand. 
Mile 12 -  1:11:32.  Mile 11 and 12 are downhill and fast.  I clear my mind, and just keep thinking relax, relax, relax.  Relaxed shoulders, relaxed legs, relaxed turnover.  Imagine that red line in my head, and put my effort right up against it and keep it there without going over.  I see Healy around Mile 11.5 and he screams not to save it for the last hill.  Absolute best advice ever and he's standing at the perfect spot that the yoggers need hear it.  I'm stunned after making my peace with running ~1:20 to hear the time at mile 12 and know I'm going to run 1:18.
Finish - 1:18:10.  The last hill in reality isn't all that bad, but feels like an absolute monster at this point of the OTCY.  I'm closing on one guy, the unknown older guy from earlier in the race, but he's got a sizable gap.  I keep my head down and focus on the effort.  No trying to close the gap and then giving up when it's too big, or looking at the top of the hill and getting discouraged by how it never seems to get any closer.  Just be here right now, getting what I can from every step forward and doing it without enough effort that I won't be disgusted with myself later.  I didn't catch unknown older guy.  I've pussed out on the hill many times, but I'm ok with my effort this year. 

Post Yog
I was pleasantly surprised with the finish clock.  With very humble expectations, a good workout on a nice morning and a tiny PR at the distance after 4 years, even though it's still weak, was all I could hope for.  Beer tasted great afterwards.  All you can drink Green Flash, Stone, Ballast Point and Lost Abbey.  Unbeatable.  There was no Queen this year, just a woman with a sign saying "Queen Wannabe".  I hope the real Queen is ok.  Two days later, my legs are still wrecked, in the most satisfying way possible.  Every single usable muscle in my legs is still raw to the touch.  Unfit and rested is a fun way to race.  Get off the couch, crush yourself, and back to the couch with you. 

In other news, the return of Walking Dead on Sunday night sucked hard.  Very disappointing.