tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22612628028538358712024-03-12T17:45:33.454-07:00Sometimes I YogMr. Calveshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03409048670645941430noreply@blogger.comBlogger43125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2261262802853835871.post-14025142346794161132015-11-02T10:44:00.000-08:002015-11-05T09:15:31.434-08:00PoetryFacebook, twitter, instagram, blog<br />
Nobody, nobody, cares about your yog<br />
<br />
My garmin data, my training log<br />
Nobody, nobody, cares about your yog<br />
<br />
Through mountains, desert, snow, and fog<br />
Nobody, nobody, cares about your yog<br />
<br />
A slow kerplopple, an all night slog<br />
Nobody, nobody, cares about your yog<br />
<br />
My buckles! My revolutionary nutrition strategy! My race reports! My FKT!<br />
Clearly sir, you're an attention hog<br />
And perhaps in some small community, you are the top dog<br />
But nobody, nobody cares about your yogMr. Calveshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03409048670645941430noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2261262802853835871.post-4028160508459584062013-10-22T10:23:00.000-07:002013-10-22T10:28:57.620-07:00What is that awful stench? It's Trent RichardsonMy 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.<br />
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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! <br />
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I then broke out of my little daydream, shook my head at myself and mumbled, "I'm losing my fucking mind."<br />
<br />
"Don't say that Daddy!", Maya admonishes me. "You're silly. You're silly Daddy."<br />
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Yes. Yes I am. Mr. Calveshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03409048670645941430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2261262802853835871.post-69875364953244285332013-10-14T08:27:00.000-07:002013-10-14T08:27:11.998-07:00Weekend RecapOn 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. <br />
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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. <br />
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Mr. Calveshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03409048670645941430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2261262802853835871.post-32046741223513575032013-09-26T15:43:00.000-07:002013-09-26T15:43:03.277-07:00Football SeasonI 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. <br />
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4 pictures, 3 games thus far, although picture #4 anticipates the result of the upcoming encounter with Peyton Manning and crew. <br />
Mr. Calveshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03409048670645941430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2261262802853835871.post-40149629689553739402013-09-25T10:54:00.002-07:002013-09-25T11:07:18.392-07:00Just when it seems hopelessI 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! <br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
<br />Mr. Calveshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03409048670645941430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2261262802853835871.post-56031326073228915902013-08-22T11:33:00.000-07:002013-08-22T11:33:49.204-07:00Giant Penis Growing Out of My ForeheadWow. 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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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 <strong><em>That Look</em></strong>. You know that look. A mix of blank stare, confusion, horror, and disgust all rolled into one. <br />
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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? <em><strong>That Look.</strong></em> <br />
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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. <strong><em>That Look.</em></strong> <br />
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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 <em><strong>That Look</strong></em>. <br />
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So, thoughtful analysis being my bag baby, I took to trying to understand why I've been getting <strong><em>That Look </em></strong>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. <br />
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I also wonder if there should be a separate division for me when I yog in OTCYs. I bet I'd dominate. Mr. Calveshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03409048670645941430noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2261262802853835871.post-17653219950432664462013-05-06T10:26:00.001-07:002013-05-06T10:26:42.729-07:00Hodge Podge<strong>Leona</strong><br />
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 <strong>not</strong> 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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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<strong>Fathering/Uncling</strong><br />
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.<br />
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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 <em>quite</em> figured out the wiping part yet." I immediately knew that I would never forget that sentence, and would never let her forget it either. <br />
<br />Scene from yesterday evening. Situation in my home reminded me of a Jeff Foxworthy punchline... <strong><em>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!</em></strong>Mr. Calveshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03409048670645941430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2261262802853835871.post-39366071072630379602013-04-25T09:46:00.001-07:002013-04-25T09:48:31.855-07:00Leona, I shall yog theeI 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 <em>race </em>one. <br />
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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. <br />
<br />Mr. Calveshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03409048670645941430noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2261262802853835871.post-38338726249172408592013-03-14T10:16:00.001-07:002013-03-14T10:18:50.502-07:00Scene from Monday Evening<span style="color: #1f497d;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #1f497d;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I then collected myself and the garbage and finished the
job. The end.</span> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />Mr. Calveshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03409048670645941430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2261262802853835871.post-46671251501455661002013-03-11T14:44:00.001-07:002013-03-11T14:44:36.745-07:00I AM IN CHARGEThey 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). <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
Oh well. Onwards and forwards. Mr. Calveshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03409048670645941430noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2261262802853835871.post-82938184092434713362013-02-18T17:09:00.001-08:002013-04-25T08:41:31.811-07:0010 Commandments of YogI'll try to amend these regularly as needed, but I think it's important to get started with the founding 10 commandments of yog. <br />
<br />
<em>Commandments</em><br />
1. Always yog.<br />
2. Never not yog.<br />
3. When considering not yogging, don't do it.<br />
4. When yogging longer distances, consume a Carls Jr breakfast burger prior to yog.<br />
5. Make sure people know that you yog.<br />
6. Use whatever means necessary to communicate that you are here for yog (H4Y). <br />
7. Put stickers on your vehicle indicating that you yog. <br />
8. Tattoo your body in conspicuous locations to celebrate your yogs.<br />
9. If you are not sure where exactly the yog begins, ask politely for directions to yog.<br />
10. Blog. About your yog. <br />
<br />
<em>Additional rules</em><br />
11. When dumped by your spouse/fiance/significant other, now is the time for more yog.<br />
12. Less yoga, more yog.<br />
13. When out of shape, sign up for the next organized, timed, competititive yog (OTCY) anyway. <br />
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. <br />
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. <br />
16. Frequently announce your retirement from yog.<br />
17. There is no retirement from yog. Always more. <br />
18. Buy photos of yourself yogging. Frame them and put them on your wall, to remind you of the time that you yogged. <br />
19. If people are not interested in hearing about your yog, keep talking about it anyway. <br />
20. There is no shame in crapping your pants during yog.<br />
21. If you are displeased with the result of an OTCY, make stupid sounding excuses, or claim that you weren't racing.<br />
22. If you are pleased with the result of an OTCY, claim that you are not. <br />
23. Before yogging, waver back and forth several times on whether or not you will actually yog. Mr. Calveshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03409048670645941430noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2261262802853835871.post-83259251786586488912013-02-12T14:16:00.004-08:002013-02-18T09:52:50.520-08:00San Dieguito OTCY reportThere 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. <br />
<br />
<strong>The Leadup</strong><br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
<strong>Yog</strong><br />
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. <br />
<br />
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:<br />
<br />
<strong>Mile 1</strong> - 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. <br />
<strong>Mile 2</strong> - 11:57. Ok. We're climbing. My rested, untrained legs are burning a tiny bit, but my stomach is churning, burning and hating me.<br />
<strong>Mile 3</strong> - 18:10. More of the same. At least this section of climbing is over soon. <br />
<strong>Mile 4</strong> - 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. <br />
<strong>Mile 5</strong> - 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. <br />
<strong>Mile 6</strong> - Forget the exact time. My shoelace comes untied for a 2nd time and I totally lose touch with my former group. <br />
<strong>Mile 7</strong> - 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. <br />
<strong>Mile 8</strong> - 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.<br />
<strong>Mile 9 </strong>- Forget the time. I pass the Shoulder Toucher. He's starting to struggle.<br />
<strong>Mile 10</strong> - 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. <br />
<strong>Mile 12 -</strong> 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.<br />
<strong>Finish</strong> - 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. <br />
<br />
<strong>Post Yog</strong><br />
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. <br />
<br />
In other news, the return of Walking Dead on Sunday night sucked hard. Very disappointing. Mr. Calveshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03409048670645941430noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2261262802853835871.post-52683054878268582182012-12-13T11:55:00.001-08:002012-12-13T11:55:17.196-08:00No gifts part 2: charlatans unwelcomeOverall I don't have a strong sense of entitlement. Presenting myself as something more than I am, or asking for something that I don't feel I truly deserve are things that make me feel disgusting, and unsurprisingly I find them difficult to do. However, I do have a fascination with minimally accomplished, shameless, narcissistic, handout-seeking self promoters. I admire their innate ability to do the things I find so difficult, and have a grudging respect for the number of people they're able to hoodwink and the places in life they are often able to take themselves. Nevertheless, I do feel a basic gratification when a charlatan, identified for exactly what they are, gets the door slammed right in their face. Even if that charlatan is me. Let's proceed to the anecdote. <br />
<br />
A few weeks ago the great BSK sent out an e-mail to our yogging team with a link to apply for free complimentary elite entry to the Carlsbad HM or Marathon. I did a quick scan of the elite standards and saw that they demanded a sub 1:12 HM or sub 2:30 Marathon within the last two years at a bonafide organized, timed, competitive yog (OTCY). I have not yogged these times. I have not yogged all that closely to those standards that any reasonable person would be tempted to make an exception. I sent out a flippant reply-all e-mail to the team asking if lying was acceptable on the application and thought no more of it. Then I saw Mr. BSK at a track workout and he encouraged me to ignore the standards and apply anyway. Fluff up my accomplishments. "Tell them who you are!" Ok. Sure. That'll happen. <br />
<br />
A few days later I found myself chatting online with the Suffer Seeker, sarcastically talking about applying as an elite, admitting how disgusting that would make me feel, and bemoaning the fact that an OTCY in my back yard that I'd like to do is now so unappealing because of the near triple digit price tag that I'd have to pay just to compete along one of my regular yogging routes. I surmised that as a relative front of the packer, I take up a minimal amount of resources, and wisted away for a reduced entry fee, perhaps $40, that would allow me to take part without being gouged. The Suffer Seeker offered up an idea. How about he spice up my elite application and submit it on my behalf, and I pay him the $40 when it was accepted. Interesting. A loophole around my conscience! I need more of these. I accepted the terms of the Suffer Seeker's offer, provided him some personal information and accurate OTCY times across varying distances, and he informed me that the application had been sent, with his overwhelming confidence that I would be granted a free yog. The next day I received the following e-mail from the OTCY co-ordinator:<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<em>Hello Yogger,<u></u><u></u></em></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u></u><em> <u></u></em></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<em>Thank you so much for your interest in running at our 2013 Tri-City Medical Center Carlsbad Half Marathon. Unfortunately your PR does not qualify for a complimentary race entry, even though it is a very impressive and respectable time! At this time, our half marathon is sold out but there are still a couple options for obtaining an entry:<u></u><u></u></em></div>
<u></u><em><span style="font-family: Symbol;"><span>·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><u></u>Partner with one of our official charities to obtain a spot- click </em><a href="http://www.carlsbadmarathon.com/" target="_blank"><em>HERE</em></a><em> To learn more<u></u><u></u></em><br />
<u></u><em><span style="font-family: Symbol;"><span>·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><u></u>Obtain a bib transfer from a participant who is unable to run- learn about our transfer policy </em><a href="http://www.carlsbadmarathon.com/Participant_Information/FAQ_s.htm" target="_blank"><em>HERE</em></a><em>.<u></u><u></u></em><br />
<u></u><em><span style="font-family: Symbol;"><span>·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><u></u>Our full marathon is still open for registration if you are interested in running a longer race.<u></u><u></u></em><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u></u><em> <u></u></em></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<em>Thanks again for your interest, and congrats on the new coaching responsibilities! Please don’t hesitate to contact me with any questions or concerns.<u></u><u></u></em></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u></u><em> <u></u></em></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<em>Take care,<u></u><u></u></em></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="il"><em>XXX</em></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="il"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="il">I read the e-mail and was immediately filled with joy and warmth that radiated throughout my body. Justice served! Charlatanism defeated! Sleazeball with loose moral underpinnings denied at the outer gates! I needed to thank this woman and pay my respects. Not that easy to do without sounding bitter, so I took a moment to think and came up with this reply:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="il"></span> </div>
<span class="il"><div>
<em>Thanks for the quick response <span class="il">XXX</span>! You are absolutely correct in that my times are in no way worthy of a complimentary entry, and I commend your decision to keep a handout seeking charlatan such as myself out of the elite field. I've always enjoyed your race and I'm sure you'll put on another great event this year! </em></div>
<div>
<em>-Yogger</em></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
And she in response to that:</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="color: #1f497d;"><em><span style="color: black;">Thank you for one of the best responses I have yet received, and please don’t refer to yourself as a “charlatan”! Your time may not qualify, but your speed and endurance are still extremely admirable. You are surely no fraud.</span></em></span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #1f497d;"><em><span style="color: black;"></span></em></span> </div>
<div>
<span style="color: #1f497d;"><span style="color: black;">Aww. What a sweetheart. But. Let's call a spade a spade here. I am the Yogging Charlatan. </span></span></div>
<div>
</div>
</span>Mr. Calveshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03409048670645941430noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2261262802853835871.post-56188140363796297472012-12-06T11:12:00.000-08:002012-12-06T11:12:49.446-08:00Less Yoga, More Yog<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
So I tell the child, but she defies me. Here she is practicing her craft with cousin Arianna, who is one month older than her. Aside from the hair and melanin levels, I'm convinced they actually look quite alike. I'm also convinced that if we could all find a partner and play in similar fashion to these two for just 10 minutes a day, all of the hostility in the world would cease and we'd all maintain a continous, cheesy, giggling euphoria right to our death beds. Mr. Calveshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03409048670645941430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2261262802853835871.post-30926242624920782852012-11-28T17:19:00.001-08:002012-11-28T17:19:23.194-08:00No giftsThe last few weeks of my life have been a celebration of the idea that getting something, or giving someone else something that they don't deserve, especially when competition is involved, is just an icky, yucky, disrespectful abomination of everything decent people stand for and should be avoided at all costs. There have been a series of events where I've had the opportunity to observe and celebrate this concept, but we'll start with the big one. <br />
<br />
<u>Krispy Kreme Challenge West 2012</u><br />
I won KKCW 2011 in dominant fashion. It was an exciting victory for me. The yog was respectable and the donuts just slid right down. The future seemed so bright! I figured with some eating technique work I could shave another 1+ minute off the eating split, and if I was in peaking OTCY shape, probably yog 30+ seconds faster too. I basically decided that this event would be my legacy in life. I thought of all the small competitions that a single person simply dominates. The club tennis championship from my youth that some guy won 14 times, Bill McDermott owning the Catalina Marathon for decades, Matt Carpenter unbeatable at the Pikes Peak Marathon for the last 20 years, etc... Well, the Krispy Kreme Challenge West would be MINE. Notice to all challengers; To be the man, you've gotta beat the man. Woo! So on to the race.<br />
<br />
Last year's tutu was left at home in favor of a traditional Indian Diwali outfit, but I did break out the Prince style mullet wig again. We showed up bright and early and I surveyed the small group of competitors warming up. There were a few fit looking characters, but the main competition was Patrick Sweeney, the famed barefoot, vegan, aspiring alcoholic and owner of several oddball yogging titles and records. Conspicuously missing from his trophy collection however is a KKCW championship plaque, having been denied last year by yours truly. He had returned this year looking fit, focused, and ready for redemption. We lined up and off we went. I felt like shit. A small group surged out and quickly gapped me, but they quickly came back and before the 1 mile turn around I had taken the lead. After the turnaround, we got hit with a vicious headwind that just about stopped me in my tracks. Ugh. The very baggy Diwali outfit didn't help me much, but overall my lack of fitness and power just got exposed by the conditions. Sweeney overtook me and I had no ability to respond. I got into the eating area about 10-15 seconds behind. <br />
<br />
Last year's magic eating performance was not to be repeated. The donuts got into my mouth and had no intention of sliding down my throat. I had visions of repeating my long forgotten shameful performance of 2 years ago when I took 19 minutes to eat all of the donuts. Trying to win this event, an event which is so blatantly obviously retarded in concept, seemed even more stupid while I was in the middle of it. But two things allowed me to push away the negative thoughts. First, I was secure in the knowledge that at some point I would hate myself for not forcing through the discomfort. Yeah this was dumb, but I had known this for a while and still decided it was important to try to win, so no matter what I'm thinking and feeling now, I needed to trust my former idiot thoughts. Secondly, the competition. Mr Sweeney had made the trip from Manhattan Beach and taken a one day reprieve from vegan living to claim this title, and claim it from me. Not providing legitimate competition in the face of such sacrifice would be terribly disrespectful and basically unconscionable. So I forced them down. Stuff stuff stuff more donuts. Force swallow. Gag. Cover my mouth with my hands to prevent any regurgitation, and repeat the process again. I got out of the eating tent first.<br />
<br />
My legs were still dead for the second part of the run, but it was a little better being mentally prepared for the headwind on the 2nd mile. After the turnaround, I kept track of the competition and was a little relieved when I saw Sweeney running by that I figured the gap was large enough that even if he ran a sub 4 minute mile on the way back he couldn't catch me. I tried to keep a decent turnover into the headwind to still put in a respectable finishing time, waved to the throngs of adoring fans, crossed the finish line and puked. A lot. I knew at that point that I was done with this competition forever. So fucking stupid. I have since reconsidered. To be the man, you've gotta beat the man. Woo! Mr. Calveshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03409048670645941430noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2261262802853835871.post-5905074498494813402012-11-21T11:46:00.000-08:002012-11-21T11:46:17.889-08:00Walking DeadI watch Walking Dead. I know it's based on a comic but I haven't read it at all and have no idea how closely the show follows the plot line of the comic. Anyway, the first season started off well enough. I mean really, how can you go wrong with a zombie show? Lots of thrilling violent confrontations and escapes and more gore than ever seen before on network television. Sweet. Then came the second season. What a downer. The plot slows to a halt, never getting anywhere because of an endless series of mini side crises and internal group conflicts, the longterm end goal/ survival plan is still completely up in the air, and there's not a single truly interesting or likeable character on the show. Nevertheless, I was in too deep, so I've been tuning in to season 3, and I've really enjoyed it! Where they've gone with it really justifies the tedious nature of season 2. Frustrated as all hell in getting through the last season, I now find the show to be an excellent exploration of the fundamental nature of humanity, how we relate to eachother and choose to organize ourselves to maximize our chances of survival, and the struggle to find meaning in it all. The longterm battle for existence in the face of the zombie apocalypse actually makes a great backdrop for this study. Sure there are a lot of Lord of the Flies parallels, but the ubiquitous zombie threat really does add another dimension. I can't remember ever watching a show or movie where I've had such disregard for the individual characters but been so fascinated by the evolution of the group as a whole. <br />
<br />
While I don't necessarily agree with the show's assessment of humanity, here's what we've learned so far:<br />
-In the early days of post-apocalyptic living, many will attempt to cling to the higher ideals of civilized living. They'll go out of their way to help strangers, and put themselves and the larger group at risk to protect individual lives under the principle that you do not leave people behind. Some level of acknowledgment and respect will remain for individual property rights, and groups will experiment with democratic decision making. <br />
-As time passes and lives are lost, the higher ideals are shed. People become more calculating and economical about the sacrifices that can be made for individuals. Democratic decision making leads to gridlock and endangers everyone. The alpha males battle for control.<br />
-The groups that emerge as long term survivors are characterized by a single, dominant, authoritarian leader. A new fierce tribalism emerges, characterized by tremendous distrust for any survivors outside of the group and a severely diminished respect for the lives and property of outsiders. Rather than leveraging the talents of others to build a stronger, more sustainable group, the tendency is towards violence and scavenging of precious remaining supplies. <br />
-While most survivors come to accept the absolutely authority of the group leader as essential to their survival, there is the very rare outsider who seeks to neither rule nor be ruled and is content to rely fully on their own competence and abilities to continue to hack out an existence. Go Michonne! Libertarian to the end! The groups have difficulty understanding how to deal with such a person, and they're definitely seen as threats. <br />
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So there you have it. As the season 3 episodes have gone along, I've greatly enjoyed noting the parallels between Rick's group at the prison and the Governor's at Woodbury. I continue to wonder, are these common characteristics of the surviving groups really the foundation of any organized society? Are the rest of our modern civilized principles just a facade, just lipstick on a pig? Furthermore, as the characters struggle with their own desires to continue on, maintain relationships or bring children into the world, by not addressing any real longterm goal, the show instead asks us, hey, what really is the point of all of this? It's just a question of severity of the situation, but really not so different for any of us when it really comes down to it. <br />
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Anyway, it appears the show may be taking a turn, ramping up the plot developments with some exciting confrontations straight ahead, but I really hope they continue to explore some of these prominent themes. It's been fun. Mr. Calveshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03409048670645941430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2261262802853835871.post-16244580492600524722012-11-13T11:10:00.001-08:002012-11-13T11:13:51.576-08:00Weekend Shit ShowsShit show. What a wonderful phrase. Undoubtedly one of my favorite in the English language. The most popular definition in the urban dictionary is:<br />
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<em>A description of an event or situation which is characterized by an ridiculously inordinate amount of frenetic activity. Disorganization and chaos to an absurd degree. Often associated with extreme ineptitude/incompetence and or sudden and unexpected failure.</em><br />
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Several other definitions seem to demand drunken debauchery and related behavior in order to render a series of activites a shit show. Hm. I guess. I suppose everyone is entitled to their own definition, but that is never the way I thought of it and certainly not why I fell in love with the phrase. The image that has always popped into my mind is of a late 19th century type traveling circus, where you could pay a penny to access a tent where some freak of nature would drop a horse sized dump right in front of you. To me, anything in modern day life that elicits a similar reaction to what you would have felt sitting in that tent is a bonafide shit show. <br />
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According to the urban dictionary, my behavior two weekends prior would probably more aptly fit the traditional definition of a shit show. Making the trip up to Sonoma wine country to attend an old Taipei friend's wedding, I arrived on Friday to the rehearsal dinner relieved to be done with the 500something mile drive, giddy to be free of parenting responsibilities for a long weekend, and just generally cheerful to see an assortment of old friends, most of whom I had seen extremely sparingly or not at all for the last 17 years. Accordingly, I drank like an overeager 14 year old whose parents are out of town, fearlessly mixing wine, tequila, whiskey and 9% beer. Becky had similar inclinations but smartly destroyed herself within the first two hours and made it back to the hotel while I lingered. I got a ride to an after party at some palatial estate my friends were renting that was tucked back somewhere amongst the winding roads and endless vineyards outside of Healdsburg. When I inevitably found myself violently ill but sufficiently refreshed by an undetermined amount of time spent face down in the front yard, I decided that the optimal play was to wander off into the darkness, using the GPS on my smart phone to guide me what I estimated to be 6-10 miles back to the hotel. After making it barely beyond the front gate, I looked at my phone to see the battery at 2% for just a moment before the screen went dark. Fuck it. I took my best directional guess and began running, dress shirt, jeans and dress shoes. I'll never know for sure, but I believe I held a damned respectable pace for those miles. Nevertheless, after a while I decided to explore the hitchhiking option, so every few minutes when a vehicle would pass I'd do my best to indicate my need for help. Wouldn't you know, after only 20 or so passing vehicles and a few more miles, a nice guy decided to stop for me. Turns out I was in fact going the right direction and was less than 2 miles from the hotel! Becky was apparently worried about me. Why, I don't know. I'm a big boy. Things are under control. And in case anyone ever stumbles upon this blog, you're obviously wondering, so yes, I had to blow the guy. But I was getting tired, and the terrain was getting hilly. Those last 2 miles would have been tough. <br />
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This past weekend however better fit my personal definition of a shit show. That was what I was originally going to write about, but now I'm over it. So I'll save that for tomorrow or whenever I get around to it. Mr. Calveshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03409048670645941430noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2261262802853835871.post-18090069315611019782012-11-07T17:05:00.000-08:002012-11-07T17:07:09.063-08:00I am in terrible shapeIt's amazing how being in horrible shape can just kind of creep up on you. I yog without a watch or GPS, so every now and then when doing a workout, after a repeat I ask someone, "hey, what was our time on that one?" Invariably, I hear the answer and think, hmm, really? It sure felt a lot faster than that! Oh well. GPSes aren't that accurate anyway. That mile repeat was probably 30 meters long. And I shouldn't be killing myself in these workouts anyway. I'm saving it for race day (even though I have no plans to race)! Then, when I randomly find myself toeing the line at some OTCY and stink it up, I convince myself that I was holding back, sore, untapered and not ready to race there was no way I was going to put it all out there. Then finally, there's an OTCY where I show up, put in a real effort, dig in mentally and work hard through the pain, push myself to the point of near blackout over the last 1/2 mile, then look up at the finish clock and see that my yogging has regressed about 3 years. That's truly an awesome experience. The satisfaction of knowing that I put in a real effort and didn't puss out coupled with the cold, hard reality that I'm terrible (even more than I thought I was) and that my best stinks. The basic satisfaction of the good effort usually dominates for about 20 minutes before the stench of my horribleness starts taking over and overwhelms my senses over the next few days. But, if I can resist the urge to make some obvious changes to the lifestyle habits that have brought me to this point, and instead decide to make the transition from regular drinker to borderline alcoholic and glutton, then the horribleness stops being a temporary situation and takes on a firm, permanent presence. That's what I did and this is where I am. <br />
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I look forward to defending my Krispy Kreme West title this Saturday. Then look out Turkey Trot and Honolulu! Racing season bitches! Mr. Calveshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03409048670645941430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2261262802853835871.post-45826944438239163732012-10-03T15:56:00.000-07:002012-10-03T16:36:34.819-07:00Savor the victoriesPeople often ask if my daughter is doing anything new. Well, a few days shy of 18 months, I can't think of any more major "firsts" she needs to accomplish. First roll over, first crawl, first steps, first major face plant and bloody nose, first teeth, first words, first dance moves, first poopy on the potty, all firmly in the rear view mirror. Yet, despite the absence of any major firsts, her capabilities are growing faster than ever, to the extent that I'm beginning to treat her like a toddler much more than a baby. Indeed, along those lines, I've decided that it is the time for the child to RESPECT MY AUTHORITUH! Battle lines are drawn daily, and the combat is often ferocious. Let's revisit a scene from the bathroom last night. <br />
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Daddy and Maya are hanging out at home by ourselves, and Maya excitedly announces the need for a visit to the potty. We hurriedly rush to the bathroom, get her up on her seat and await the fireworks. She then requests to be read a book out of her ample pile of bathroom literature. I begin picking up books, opening and beginning to read them to her, but she has her heart set on one particular book, and she denotes her displeasure with my choices by grabbing the books out of my hands and throwing them to the ground. Battle line, drawn. This aggression will not stand man. The expression on my face and the tone of my voice go dark. Deep intimidation mode baby. I seriously explain to her that this is no longer acceptable, and that "no thank you" is the only acceptable response if she wants a different book read. She averts her eyes to my ominous stare, and I move my face so close that she can't turn away. She responds by raising her right hand and bopping me on my nose. Extremely pleased with herself, she explodes into a giggling fit. I double down on the anger. I raise the volume of my voice and pelt her with a vigorous series of "NOs!!" and finger shakes. I win a brief moment of silence from her, after which she continues insisting on a book, obviously after her current favorite, a large picture book full of Mickey Mouse and friends doing various stuff. I grab hold of the book, begin to raise it, but instruct her that it's appropriate to say "please", and that I need to hear that word if she wants to be read the book. She stares at me, and for a moment she presses her lips smack together as if she's preparing to make the P sound, but then she backs off. "Out!!" she says, and slides herself off the potty, opting instead to grab the book by herself and plopping down on the bathroom floor to peruse it on her own. <br />
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I sat there in silence, thinking over the severity of my defeat, pondering future strategies, and reminding myself that it's but a minor battle in a multi-decade war to come. Then Maya looks at me from the floor, and with a hint of hostility and defiance still in her tiny voice, hands the book in my direction and exclaims "Peese!!". <br />
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You're god damned right, Peese. <br />
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Daddy 1, Maya 0. Mr. Calveshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03409048670645941430noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2261262802853835871.post-19057155261328808632012-09-24T08:50:00.000-07:002012-09-24T08:50:15.398-07:00Courtesy reminder to all NFL enthusiastsThe elite professional refs who are currently on strike also really suck. Like, really, Really, REALLY suck. There seems to be some confusion on this point, especially in the media, so I'm happy to be able to clarify things. Mr. Calveshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03409048670645941430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2261262802853835871.post-57663413933230253772012-09-10T08:52:00.000-07:002012-09-10T08:52:50.605-07:00Preliminary Fatherhood Grade<span style="font-size: x-large;">F.</span><br />
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<em>Sometimes I am walking with my daughter, I’m talking to my daughter, I’m looking at her, I’m pushing her in the stroller. And sometimes I pick her up and I just stare at her and I realize my only job in life is to keep her off the pole. --</em><strong>Chris Rock</strong>Mr. Calveshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03409048670645941430noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2261262802853835871.post-720433679751625192012-08-31T10:28:00.002-07:002012-08-31T10:31:14.453-07:00Happy 21st Mike Powell!One of the longer standing records in men's track and field turned 21 yesterday. In the 1991 world championships, Mike Powell bettered Bob Beamon's legendary mark of 8.90m with a jump 8.95m (or 29ft 4 1/2in). Powell was jumping against Carl Lewis that day, who in additional to being one of the most unimaginable douchebags of all time, was almost impossibly good at the long jump. Going into those championships, Lewis was riding a 10 year, 65 event winning streak, and on that night he gave the best performance of his life and the best series of all time, laying down 4 absolutely massive jumps. Powell and Lewis were clearly a class above the others, though it appears that Lewis was even another class above until Powell unloaded his world record jump in the 5th of 6 rounds. <br />
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I love this video. I've watched it for years for inspiration or just a happy thought. I love the focus, determination, and concentration of Mike Powell before the jump. He's up against a guy who he's 0-15 against, and who is having the best day of his life, but he shrugs it off, believing he's capable of more, that it's still his time and today his day. Then after nailing the monstrous jump, there's the initial emotional outburst and excitement but having to collect himself while waiting for the measurement, the short cut out to see the stunned, nervous look on Carl Lewis' stupid ass face, and finally the roar of the crowd and celebration after the world record is confirmed. It's just perfect. A concise video reminder of exactly what I love about sports and why we keep going out there. Despite what the odds may tell me, work hard, prepare, go out with the right state of mind, and something special just may be in store for me today. I'll probably never have a Mike Powell type moment, and if I do it'll be on a vastly reduced scale, but it's still a hell of a feeling to chase. Well done Mr. Powell. Hope you enjoyed another year on the record books. <br />
<br />Mr. Calveshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03409048670645941430noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2261262802853835871.post-74508678775257461062012-08-27T14:40:00.000-07:002012-08-27T14:40:06.359-07:00Western States 2 month late yog reportMore than 2 months since the race, I should probably jot down a few of my thoughts before they disappear forever out the back of my aging mind. <br />
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<strong>Pre-Race</strong><br />
Great idea to go up Monday and enjoy a week in Tahoe and acclimate to the altitude. Tuesday morning run was death, Wednesday morning run was already feeling a lot better. But really most of the week my mind was anywhere but on the yog. Geronimo's beautiful, extremely bright, energetic, inquisitive daughter had me constantly on my toes, and often thinking about the current stage of my life and fatherhood and what I have in store in a few years. It made me marvel to think about my own daughter, who at 14+ months of age had been making rapid progress by every metric imaginable, but I hadn't quite wrapped my head around how that exponential rate of progress will continue on and on (assuming I do my job). The girls got along great and were pretty darn cute together.<br />
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<strong>Yog</strong> <br />
I never felt good. I never felt terrible. The cold weather of the early miles didn't make for bad yogging, but were generally miserable, and numb fingers really screw you over when your plan is to eat constantly out of a group of 3 quart sized zip lock bags all stuffed within a single gallon sized zip lock bag. I had it in my head that there was a lot of good yogging to be done once I got over the top of the first climb. Not so. Red Star Ridge was pretty tough, and since it was still relatively bunched up, it was kind of awkward to constantly pass and get repassed, be forced to hike when I wanted to yog, hold my bladder because I finally started to find a groove and didn't want to get passed again, bla bla bla. My hamstrings cramped around mile 15. Of all the things I expected to go wrong, this was not anywhere on the list, and had me pretty worried, because they're pretty debilitating. Fortunately they just kind of dissolved with changes in the terrain. When I got to Robinson Flat the dull aches were really starting to set in and the rain was pouring as hard as it had all day. I didn't realize just how out of it I was until the medical guy at the weigh-in station asked me where I was from and I had to think about it for about 5 seconds. What was the question, why was he asking it, and what was the answer? Each segment had to be slowly, individually processed before I was able to blurt out, "uhhh, Carlsbad". Damned pleased with myself, I was deemed fit to continue. I saw the crew for the first time, and got sock, shoe, shirt changes as well as the addition of a trash bag. My fingers were totally frozen and I was a completely helpless bystander in this changes process. It was a ridiculously long stop, and I lost something like 23 spots between Robinson and Miller's Defeat. <br />
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The section between Robinson Flat and Last Chance offers skilled and fit yoggers the chance to do some good work. Being neither, I suffered through it. Based on my previous 50 milers, I was expecting to feel good during this stretch and really have to focus on staying slow and saving energy for the canyons. No such restraint was necessary, as the slowness came naturally. It was around this stretch that I first thought about how much farther I had to go, how generally achy and uncomfortable I was, and how poorly I was moving. I imagined somehow making it to the Placer HS track and receiving a silver buckle (I've never cared about this before) and got all choked up. This reminded me of the Suffer Seeker saying he knew he was in trouble at Leona Yog when he saw a sign with some inspirational quote on it and he got all emotional. Looks like it's my turn! I laughed at myself and carried on. <br />
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It was a relief to finally get to the canyons. I caught up to Ben right as we were beginning the steep descent towards Swinging Bridge. We had talked about starting the race together and hanging for the early miles, but I had lost him in the commotion before the start with my family and friends wanting picture after motherfucking pre-race cocksucking picture, and he had performed much better than me in the high country. We stayed together for about a mile and I did my only non-pacer socializing of the race, and his comment that "This is a serious downhill course!" made me chuckle thinking about how the fun had just begun. By the time I got to the top of Devil's Thumb I knew I'd be ok. Only 7 miles to see my crew again at Michigan Bluff, then 5 more before picking up Dr E and heading for Cal St, and from there it would be an entirely doable series of aid station to aid station stretches that I was very familiar with. Two things that I held on to the rest of the way were 1) Geronimo and the way he handled the last 40 miles a few years prior. Total confidence, total calm. I tried to convince myself several times that I was emulating his approach and moving as well as he was through similar sections, but upon a later review of the splits it was humbling how far off I was. 2) The American Hero, in a random online chat a few months prior, while discussing lessons learned from previous WS yog attempts, had said something to the effect of ,"I was so worried about what would happen to me out there. I realize now there's nothing to fear. It's just pain." <br />
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It's just pain. If you can wrap your head around that, nothing too terrible can possibly be in store for you. The miles went on, pain lessened and worsened periodically, pacers and emotions changed occasionally, but I knew I'd get there and eventually did. Geronimo took video of the home stretch. I don't think watching my yog in that reduced state will ever fail to amuse me. I guess not so bad considering the 10lbs of weight gain during the OTCY. Perhaps 65 S Caps was a tad much. <br />
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<strong>Afterthoughts</strong><br />
<strong>-</strong>Hanging around the ultra scene and especially the Suffer Seeker and American Hero, I kind of forgot that there are people out there who can't actually rip off the name of every Western States aid station backwards and forwards after 11 Bud Lights at the California Club. I definitely didn't realize that to co-workers, extended family members, and friends of friends, I would now be "the guy who ran 100 miles". It seemed like such a normal thing to do. I never thought it would be so difficult to convince people that it's not that big of a deal. <br />
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-I have no plans to do more 100 mile ultra yogs, nor was it a bucket list item that has now been checked. Under the right conditions I could see doing it again, but I don't feel any great allure to the distance. In fact, the amount of support one demands from the volunteers, crew and pacers during the OTCY is extremely humbling and for me a very uncomfortable spot. <br />
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-I was pretty conservative most of the day, and don't regret that at all. Robinson Flat, Foresthill and Green Gate were exceptionally long aid station stops, and I regret not being better prepared to get through those faster. A cranky shuttle bus driver decided to quit and my crew wasn't able to make it to the river in time as a result. Being cold and tired at the river crossing and not having the dry change of clothes I was expecting had me sulking and not giving an honest effort in the hike up to Green Gate. I regret the effort I put in during that section. Maybe 20-30 minutes total cost for those mistakes. I didn't give a shit at the finish line, but wish I had that time back now. <br />
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-I really want to see the American Hero get back there and have a satisfying race. Hopefully I can be part of the team the makes that happen. <br />
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-I do love Western States. The effort it takes and the logistics that go into managing a point to point 100 mile yog of this magnitude is as amazing to me as the performances at the very front of the pack. And you can tell just how much everyone who is involved with the event truly loves it. It's just an incredible vibe to share in. I'm entirely ok with paying $370 for the experience. I'm sure they needed it. I may or may not race again, but I'd love to become part of this OTCY in some way. <br />
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-I didn't know Ben extremely well, but I enjoyed talking to him a lot, and hearing of his death in the Cordillera Blancas only a few weeks after the race was a stiff blow. We had some similar personality traits, especially the analytical minds and passion for training and the outdoors, and I remember thinking to myself how easily I would have gotten sucked up into his lifestyle had I originally decided to come to UCSD for grad school (I choose Philadelphia instead where I mostly focused on being a boozing, bitter sports fan and degenerate gambler). This was certainly not the first time that I've seen someone die far too young, but his passing more than any I can remember accentuated the temporary and fragile nature of my own life, something I know logically but rarely ever truly <em>feel</em>. RIP. Mr. Calveshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03409048670645941430noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2261262802853835871.post-63437908612698925362012-05-30T13:49:00.000-07:002012-05-30T13:49:15.638-07:00The Wisdom of the ChineseAs I was just about done inhaling my lunch plate and fortune cookie from Panda Express, I quickly scanned my "fortune" out of the corner of my idea and was blown away by how perfectly they had me pegged. I even had the nervous tingles run up my spine as I sat there in stunned silence. Then I looked at it again and realized that in my haste I had mistaken the "G" in the last word for a "T". Alas. Wrong again. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-AB5PDRTMxmVaw-NW0NN1WExsSKs_8SMfmxFkfyFP-c-r8czbTSofYZKhFdCP98EOwYPpIFoY63x8WGV5Xtc4A03yGJTAmrqDpG1xJ4m71AVam38HClV8sxQNORwTNnjdVcnp5Vbg_5k/s1600/fortune+cookie.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-AB5PDRTMxmVaw-NW0NN1WExsSKs_8SMfmxFkfyFP-c-r8czbTSofYZKhFdCP98EOwYPpIFoY63x8WGV5Xtc4A03yGJTAmrqDpG1xJ4m71AVam38HClV8sxQNORwTNnjdVcnp5Vbg_5k/s320/fortune+cookie.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Mr. Calveshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03409048670645941430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2261262802853835871.post-78406300198254374122012-05-22T16:49:00.004-07:002012-05-22T16:49:30.658-07:00Uck. This is terrible! Here, taste it.No. Mr. Calveshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03409048670645941430noreply@blogger.com0