In Response to Yesterday's Post

Ask and ye shall receive. Jack Welch, author of When Running Was Young and So Were We, sent along the following link to a write-up of a very cool running program started for kids in South Carolina.

SOUTH CAROLINA COACH EXPANDING YOUTH RUNNING OPPORTUNITIES

Since I don't know if I'll be coaching junior high xc next season*, this might be an avenue for me to explore. Probably can't get busy with it until after the Kenya trip though.

 (*There was a coaching change as long-time JRHS coach Steve Cowdrey stepped down and JRHS track coach Mark Thummel steps up to take the helm. Mark's a great teacher and coach, and I've offered to help, so we'll see. The school admin may have some input as well, plus Mark already has a cadre of experienced assistants from the track team.)

By the way, Jack Welch has had quite a year. First, he won the TAFWA award for his book, and this month landed in the Summer Reading List in Running Times.

Why are we leaving kids behind?

Bill Bowerman wrote, in his 1967 book Jogging, that the system for sports in the United States discriminates against people over the age of thirty and even the young. He stated, quite bluntly, "Professionals unwittingly discriminate further in that they spend little time on the youngsters with small talent or with those who do not care to compete." Fifty years later, not much has changed.

We now have clubs sports for youngsters, but the presumption in the clubs is that the competition is the important feature. At the six year-old level, we have, as a country, decent participation rates. Somewhere around junior high school, though, we lose kids by the bushel, both boys and girls.

Two reason account for two-thirds of the loss. First, the smaller of the components, injury,  accounts for 27 percent of the drop for girls, 29 percent of the drop for boys. That's a quarter of our youth athletes, physically broken. I'm going to get to this later in the week, so stay tuned.

The primary reason though, as any follower of Coach Bruce Brown will attest to, is that the athletes are not having fun. His DVD presentation, The Proper Role of Parents in Athletics, is pure gold and hits at this exact point. For more documentation, we can go to EPSN magazine. They're infographic shows the same thing. 39 percent of boys, 38 percent of girls, say they quit sports because they weren't having fun.

It's not just sour grapes for the benchwarmers. Most kids are not going to win a college scholarship and they know this probably fairly early in their sports careers, so their sole motivation is the pleasure they derive from the activity. I've watched too many cross country races with the kids at the back trying just as hard as the kids in the front to believe that it's about winning for the kids.

What I see are kids who are having fun, working hard, and have people around them - fellow athletes and adults - who respect their effort. At the end of those high school careers, they lose that support to a large extent. They leave the team and the coach to go to college. Even for the ones that stay close, they lose the connection to the team, looking on as an outsider. I suspect that the idea that running is an activity to be enjoyed gets obscured by the chase to the finish line.

And those are the ones that stayed in the sports pipeline. It doesn't take into account the large numbers that drop out from first grade to high school. (I'm disregarding, for the moment, the socio-economic issues that surround sports participation.)

For the running community, this presents both a challenge and a great opportunity. The opportunity is to create systems that will encourage those kids (and it wouldn't hurt to get the parents moving, either!) to stick with the sport, and by doing so, grow the base of the sport. Ideally this effort would start long before organized sports and work around and enhance the usual activities of growing up.

The challenge is that we continue to view running through the lens of sport, and not activity. In the words of Vince Lombardi, "Winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.” That's the essence of professional sports, except we as a nation have decreed that all sports shall be treated as professional sports, even when the athletes are 12 year-olds.

This message was reinforced recently by a new track club in the area, the Confluence Elite. The team was set up by Mike Collins, the coach for the LCSC Warriors. Coach Collins is a tremendous positive force in the community, and not just the running community. The Confluence Elite is a USATF team, and the focus is on training and improving for competition. The coaches associated with it are top-notch and, in talking to a couple of the runners, the kids are having fun. The purpose of the club is well-defined and I'm a big supporter of both it and the coaches involved.

Still, I think that this might represent a missed opportunity. One of the clubs that I follow is the Alice Springs Running Walking Club. Located in the middle of the outback, the town has a history of participation in sports, at all ages. Their constitution makes it clear:

A. to promote and encourage running and walking as sports, as a means of healthy exercise and the improvement of community fitness for individuals of all ages and abilities;

It's not until the fourth point on the statement of objectives do you find the development of talent.

They follow along the Lydiard model for a club. Arthur Lydiard was the inspiration for Bowerman's jogging program in Eugene. Designed to be inclusive of all, it was less sports oriented than activity based. The distinction is important. Sports ultimately are about winning, against yourself and the competition. Activities are open to all and the competition gets replaced by camaraderie.

The group of ultrarunners I hung out with in San Diego exemplified this. We'd head out for group runs in the Cuyamaca Mountains or out to the desert. We didn't run for good health and none of us were going to win much more than an age group medal. Instead, we shared the experiences, and had some fun while we covered miles.

People do those things that give them pleasure. I'd like to see clubs that applied more attention to the act of running as a way of doing something fun rather than see people, kids or adults, in constant training cycles. Some of the local running clubs come close, but are adult based, and most of the chatter is directed at training for races. 

There seems to be a gap there, one that I think would be important to fill, if someone knew how. I sure don't. Maybe it's time to create a different type of club, one that takes the approach that running, in and of itself, can be fun and encourages the kids to use the running as a component of play.

That, frankly, is a daunting thought.

A fair number of you read and never comment, but I would really like to hear your opinions on this, so please, use the comments or send me an email.

Imagine Sheehan and Thoreau Talking - a review of Poverty Creek Journal

Books about running rarely take on a literary cast, but Poverty Creek Journal does by stepping past the memoir, the how-to, and fiction to find room to introspect along the run. Set forth in short vignettes, Thomas Gardner explores the nature of both his environment and his running through a perceptive lens.

Most of the runs hark back to the trails around Blacksburg, Virginia, with excursions to the Outer Banks. The inner journey travels greater distances, from the joy of the run, the death of a brother, the joy of a daughter taking flight. At each stop, we get a taste of the outer, “Six miles, 41 degrees,” and the inner, “Something was waiting for me down there. All spring, I heard is calling me. Loafe with me on the grass . . . loose the stop from your throat.”

The last part is an allusion to Whitman’s Song of Myself. Gardner, a Professor of Literature at Virginia Tech, sprinkles his work liberally with the wisdom of the poet brought to the act of running. The mix is intriguing and provocative. Whitman gets a share of attention, and Dickinson, and Thoreau, Frost, Melville.

Gardner uses the daily run to challenge you to look below the surface as he does when running with Lasse Viren. He describes the scene, with Viren “even walking he was almost dancing . . . composing the trail.” Similar imagery threads through the pages, illuminating the passive and active, the nature of the ice on the pond or the sight of his daughter running away from him at the end of a run

Picture please, George Sheehan finishing a run and finding Henry Thoreau waiting. The two would sit and converse, compare points, probably long into night.

If one or the other were to write a volume of that conversation, it would resemble Poverty Creek Journal. The words written within its pages are less about the run itself than the essence of running. For Thomas Gardner, the path to the truth of the run lay outside the books on mechanics and pacing, or the truths in John Parker’s (or my) fiction, hidden in plain view if one knew where to look—and dared to.

Thirty-Three Years of Running in Circles - A review

Rand Mintzer, author of Thirty-three Years of Running in Circles, has penned a book that is one part memoir, one part training guide for the merely human, and one part exhortation, not in the hellfire and brimstone sense, but more as a “come on in, the water’s fine!”

Mintzer starts the book with his upbringing, talking frankly about being the “fat” kid at a time before the endemic obesity surge and the social isolation that he and his sister experienced living in a rural setting with a mother who did not drive. Unlike most memoirs of runners, there was no magic moment when he discovered he was fast. His legs were not his ticket off the ranch and out of St. Louis County. Instead, he describes himself as the last one picked for any sport.

Running did not factor into Mintzer’s life until his college years, and at his second college at that. Having scraped by and survived a year at the University of Missouri-St. Louis, he transferred to Arkansas State. Fortune paired him up with a roommate who was both a runner and a positive advocate for running, one who encouraged Mintzer in his desire to become a runner.

Mintzer chronicles his evolution as a runner, from his first 5K to first (and nearly last) marathon to ultras. In the process, he became an acolyte of the Galloway style of running. In the world of running, there have always been the two competing forces, the first of pure speed and the other in the joy of participation. Jeff Galloway’s programs are built to bring runners into the fold of the community by creating conditions that allow them to participate even if they’ll never set a record other than their own. Mintzer had found his niche.

The message woven into Mintzer’s story rings clear; if he, Rand Mintzer, could do it, so could any of us. As a reward, he also writes of the pleasures derived from the run, whether long or short.

The second half of the book is devoted to specific advice to new runners. Old hands will already recognize most of it, having learned either from other books or from the trial of miles. He touches on shoes, offering eminently sensible advice. So too, with clothes, as he takes us on an evolutionary tour from the old gray sweats of the seventies to the colorful combinations available today. As an accessory, perhaps nothing defines a runner as much as his watch, or lack thereof. Mintzer has a special affection for timepieces, and he spends a chapter detailing them.

Throughout Book II, Mintzer offers a range of advice, from hydration, nutrition, and the wealth of almost-overwhelming levels of information available. My favorite quote from this section shows Mintzer’s sense of community to runners: “Do not turn a thirsty runner away.” Having seen my fair share of desperate runners and given water, not to mention having had the favor return on an occasion or two, nothing speaks more to the running community than the sense of sharing and support.

Still running in circles, on tracks and looped trail courses, after all these years, Rand Mintzer runs his own race while encouraging others to step out and run theirs.  

Short Jaunt into the Seven Devils

Normally the Seven Devils Campground doesn't open until late June or early July. Unless we're in drought conditions, which we are. Up I went this weekend for a quick overnighter and long run.

The campground was nearly empty, exactly as I prefer it, and I had the tent set up by 5 PM. Then, I went for a short bushwhack up above Seven Devils Lake. Discovered along the way two things: first, the larger camera unbalances me on rock formations; and second, the mosquitos are out in force.

I ate a pre-cooked dinner, washed it down with fresh boiled tea, and called it a night in the tent with Thomas Gardner's Poverty Creek Journal. I will put up a review later in the week. Also, one on Rand Mintzer's Thirty-three Years of Running in Circles. I also brought Running the Rift with me. I'll get to it this week. Maybe.

Slept like a baby, up every three hours. Temperatures were surprisingly pleasant at night. This I noted on my way to the potty at 1:30 AM. The stars were bright enough to deliver a glow through the rain fly on the tent, and once I finished the necessary business, I spent a few minutes stargazing. Simply brilliant display with an occasional shooting star. I finally got chilled and went back to bed around 2AM and zonked out until dawn.

Light comes early in the mountains, so I hid under the edge of my sleeping bag and ignored it until about six. Saw an overcast sky when I crawled out of the tent. Took about five minutes to put together breakfast, oatmeal and coconut milk. Tasty enough, though I was aiming mostly for easy.

Cleaned everything up, and packed up the campsite. The original plan was to run from the campsite, then pack, but the one other camper in the park had a dog named Isis. I knew this because he was calling the damn thing’s name from the other side of the park while I stared at a growling dog. Mostly I was thinking “Good doggie” while looking for a good size rock. Isis had a partner, the strong silent type. Hence the decision to load up the FJ and drive the half-mile to the trailhead—running past two brutes unconstrained by rope or good doggie manners seemed an invitation to engage their predator/prey response.

So, at a little after seven, I’m at the trailhead. I’d already decided to head out on the north side of the loop. The south side drops about a thousand feet in a mile and a half right off the trailhead. Coming back up would be a grunt. North is slightly more forgiving with an initial drop of 400 feet, and climb up of 800 feet, and then a drop of 1400 feet over a bit more than two miles. Looking at the numbers, maybe the north side isn’t any easier, but psychologically, I like the return on this side better.

That first drop took me through a burn from 2007. It’s nice to see the growth returning. It will be decades before the trees fill back in, but the wildflowers and low shrubs carpet the ground with fresh exuberance. In less than a quarter mile, I encounter the first of the deadfall. It’s not the last, as the wooded areas start to resemble a mad forester’s steeplechase course with the jumps placed in rapid succession. It’s hard to build up any rhythm for running when you stop every twenty yards to clamber over, crawl under, or detour around, a log with pokey limbs intent on scoring your skin. Downhill at least left me the option of hurdling, an enjoyable change of pace provided everything goes right.

With a vertical jump measured in millimeters, hurdling uphill wasn’t an option. In the spots where the trees had retained a normal upright posture, the trails are eminently runnable.

There’s a promontory at top of that first climb with views extending a hundred miles for three points of the compass. I took a short break, drank some water, and snapped a picture or two.  Even on this escarpment, wildflower grew, and lined the trail head down to the West Fork of Sheep Creek. The top of the descent is a series of switchbacks before the line straightens and heads across a talus field. I kept the speed under control. Falling here would be a mite painful. It also gave my feet relearn the ways of the trail. Somewhere near the bottom, a glimmer of nimbleness returned.

I’ve usually run this train in the late summer or early fall. I wasn’t expecting the little water fall at the creek crossing to be a rushing cataract. The sound of it could be heard a half-mile away. I took another break to walk out onto a log to get a good shot of the waterfall. Wide log, good walking surface, but legs twitchy from the descent. Another clue that I wasn’t ready for the full loop yet.

I ran on for about another mile, trying to judge the turnaround point. I didn’t want to get back to the trailhead feeling as though I should have done more. Even more, I wanted to avoid a death march finish. Between those sat the ideal ‘happily tired.’ While I dithered, I drank and ate a small Larabar. Finally made the call, thinking that I could go farther up the trail, maybe to the connector with the Dry Diggins trail. Couldn’t be more than a mile but with another hill to climb in both directions. The hill, not the distance, decided the issue.

So back the way I came, splashing through the creek, trying not to slip on the algae covered rock that lined the creek bed. An idle thought went through my head, about movies, specifically ones where they show warriors plunging into the rivers and sprinting across. The movie I’m thinking of is The Eagle. How come they don’t fall? I’d be on my head or my ass five steps in. Decided they must put a runnable surface below the water level. Also decided I really like the acting of Jamie Bell.

Randomness, the brain meandering and making odd connections. I’m in my happy place.

Still, there’s a hill to climb. I ran up until I run out of air. At altitude, that takes very little time. I’ve made this climb before, a hundred meters at a time before resting, heart thumping, chest heaving, at the end of a thirty three mile run. Mostly what I remember is not the physical exertion but how much my feet hurt. 2008 and it was the last big solo run I did before gout tore my running world apart. Stitching it back together takes time, time and patience. I’m trying but I’m not very good at patience.

On the plus side of the ledger, my feet were holding up well. This was a test run of my Salomon Sense Mantras on these trails and it looked like they’re going to pass. Naturally, because I’ve found a shoe that I like, they’ve been discontinued. I swear shoe companies hate runners.

Moving right along, I make great progress uphill, even if I’m not running a lot of it. Check my heart rate, 136, walking, right in the target range. Finally hit the top, water up, eat a bit, and get ready for the fun part. The next mile is downhill and I played, hurdling the downed trees, skipping over rocks, and feeling very lucky. I hit the junction of Sheep Creek Trail, and turned uphill to the trailhead, doing the best I could on the ascent up to the trailhead.

Ten or twelve miles of running done, I hit the trailhead, ‘happily tired.’

Touching Loss

I am the dad I am because of the kids they are and the people they grew into.

Lauren Fleshman lost her dad a month ago. She talks about it here.

If you read it and don't feel the pain, and it doesn't bring tears, I'm saddened.

I remember an article Lauren wrote years ago, about the poor VO max tests, lactate thresholds, and like that she had in high school, relative to the other runners. She told her dad about the tests, what the tests said, what her limits were.

"You're a FLESHMAN!" was his response. And, paraphrasing, no "test can ever measure heart". And he was right and she proved it.

I picture him now, but whispering the same words. "You're a Fleshman." Then, more quietly, "This will hurt and it will heal, and you will find your way again. And when you do, LIVE with all you have."

I don't know either one of then, Lauren or her dad, but that would be what I would say to my girls.

And that I loved them, though I think they already suspect.

Is It Okay to Run Just for Fun?

A recent post went up at one of the blogs I follow which extolled the virtues of Gary Taubes and Mark Rippetoe. Both have books that I own and think highly of. I commented on the blog, with a mention that I'll never be a full Rippetoe acolyte. Quoting him, "An adult male weighs two hundred pounds." My comment was that I wasn't going to haul all that extra weight around on a 30 mile trail run. Another poster, completely serious, asked, "what health (or otherwise) benefit do you think you will get by running 30 miles?"

He wasn't doing to be mean, or even critical. It was an honest question. I tried replying on the blog but the computer went wonky and ate it. So, the longer version of the answer is here.

The health benefits of running that distance are decidedly questionable. As with lifting weights or any other physical activity, there is a point after which you reach your maximum potential, whether it is speed, endurance, strength, or flexibility. I suspect, and science isn't solid on it yet, that the point for running for the sake of fitness is considerably less than 30 miles. My guess would be closer to 8-10 miles at a crack, about an hour to an hour and a half of exercise time for endurance based training.

For the folks that prefer HIIT, that seems an enormous waste of time. High Intensity Interval Training is a well-developed concept that maximizes cost-benefit ratio of exercise by performing highly stressful (physiologically speaking) intervals in relative short durations to improve overall fitness, glucose utilization, and fat burning.

Except it doesn't work for everyone. Neither does running long and slow. Or lifting under the Rippetoe program. Or Taebo, Crossfit, or the thousand other programs that promise the holy grail of personal fitness, sexual attractiveness, and eternal life. For a fee, mind you.

Nope, not cynical. Realistic.

None are sufficient on their own for a fully rounded athlete, but by incorporating elements of all of them, you dramatically improve your overall fitness. That's why I lift and have Rippetoe's book. I enjoy my time in the gym and it's nice to be able to bench my body weight, even if my arms and chest are the weakest part of me. I also do speed work, the only time I wear a watch running now. I'm not too great at the flexibility part of the equation, though.

Which still doesn't explain why I do thirty mile trail runs. The key to that answer is in the parenthesis above, the or otherwise bit.

We live in a dysfunctional society that seeks to justify exercise solely on the benefits of health. The CDC berates Americans seemingly daily with a "you eat all wrong and you don't exercise enough" message. Various state governments have declared certain food categories evil and banned them. The news is filled with stories about the obesity crisis and the cost to society of ill-health. Even fit people, who should know better, hop on the "everyone else should do x" bandwagon.

Bah.

I don't run because it's good for me. Hell, I don't do much of anything because it's good for me, whether it's exercise or eating or any other the multitude of things that the life-hackers measure. I'm not alone. Most people don't perform exercise because it is good for them. They do it because it is fun. I fall back on the advice I read long ago in George Sheehan's On Running, "We must tailor the addiction to the addict."

That 30 mile trail run? It is my way of playing outside. The run this year is in the Seven Devils Mountains in Hells Canyon Wilderness Area with a trailhead that starts at 7500' of altitude and climbs as high as 8200'. I've run here before, and seen elk, and moose, and bears. I've made wrong turns and discovered beauty because of it. I'll hurdle small logs (smaller by the year it seems.) and splash through creeks. And I know that it will hurt at the end, like the last set of a lift-to-failure deadlift, only longer.

 There is a pleasure that comes from having a body that can do things, respond to very primal urges with a surge of strength or the steadiness of endurance. I know, too, that somewhere up in the mountains, I'll renew my sense of awe and wonder. I'll finish, worn and tired, and whole in a way that I wasn't before.

That makes all the difference.

Run gently, friends, if that's your preference. For the rest, find your (healthy) addiction, and play!

Serendipity, for the asking

I figure I lead a charmed life. It might lack a little in movie starlets, and gold fixtures a la Donald Trump, but I can live without those. Instead, I get to keep bumping into interesting people and circumstances.

The flight to Seattle this morning introduced me to Josh Adam, an assistant coach up at WSU who works with the rowing program. Did not know that when I asked if the compression socks he wore helped when travelling. (Also had Nikes on, so I figured he was one of my kind.)

Josh is headed out to Sarasota, Florida on a recruiting trip. The Nationals for high school rowing take place on Saturday and approximately 600 athletes get a chance to compete against the other top rowers.

Being runner-centric as I am, I asked Josh about the crossover from running to rowing. Turns out, a lot. We compared points back and forth on the sports. As with the other youth sports, the emphasis at many rowing programs has changed from teaching technique and character to winning.

Toward the end of the flight, when a combination of engine noise and altitude changes made hearing hard, the subject of visualization came up. I touch on it with the junior high kids. As it happened, Josh’s masters is in the juxtaposition of sports psychology and physiology (I think I got that right.) He was a little surprised that I used it but pointed out that the best of the best are all beautifully trained physically. The deciding difference is often what happens between the ears.

We kept chatting while we deplaned and headed our separate directions.

Yes, by the way, he says the compression socks help with longer (2+ hours) flights.

Then it was a drive up to the meeting for the State Building Code Council. The purpose of the code is to keep life as boring as possible. This starts with the meetings. Very, very smart people, but it takes a thousand words for them to say yes. Noes take considerably more and we got out a bit late.

I expected this so I requested a booking on a flight in the evening. Not in a hurry to get to the airport, which was a good thing. Seattle does not have freeways. Instead, everybody gets onto the road at the same time, virtually parks, and throws a massive party, minus the booze, the music, and the joy, with the other 200,000 people around them to share a hangover called ‘traffic’. No thanks, kemosabe. I’ll head back to the big empty where I dodge deer and farm combines.

 So I dipped off the main drag, so to speak, and headed to Lake Washington. My next novel is set over there and I figured I’d scoped out the locations again.

Glad I did. I found a couple of neat little paths through Seward Park I can play with. Last time I was here, I could see Rainier.

Pure luck, and not replicable, at least today. Crowds were different, too, fewer kids even though summer is starting. Did see a gray heron on a piling a hundred yards out on the lake. Very elegant.

I meandered off the lake because I was hungry. I also needed to get some writing done and stuck at an airport has writing time all over it. Plus there was enough time to have a couple of beers and still sober up before I had to drive. I’ve been here a couple of times, so I headed up Orcas Street toward Columbia City and saw a Neapolitan Pizzeria. That’s the way it advertised itself. What wasn’t advertised was how to find some parking, so I started a spiral search for decent parking. I have a parking angel. I usually don’t’ worry about parking, it just appears.

Not today.

Found a Kenyan restaurant, the Safari  while looking for parking and took this as a sign that I was not meant to eat ordinary pizza. Parking was close. Of course.

Ate mbuzi instead. And ugali. If you’re a runner, you have to try ugali, the food of the running gods. It’s denser than I expected, like a stiff flan made with very fine corn meal. Cut pieces off with my fork and added a bit of the sukumi, vegetables. Tasty.

Next to me sat a family, dad, mom, and 15 month old. The little girl made pretty little sounds and reminded me of my granddaughters. The parents spoke Swahili to each other and English to the toddler. There’s one white face in the whole place.

I also noticed another young man, diagonally across the restaurant, eating the ugali with his fingers dipping it into the mustard. All the tables had a mustard bottle.

Yeh, what the heck, I thought and squeezed some out onto my plate. A little chunky for mustard, and the wrong yellow. This is where prudent people look, and ignore.

I sampled, with the ugali, by fingers. Whoo-hoo, glad I like hot stuff. It wasn’t cook my brains, tears on the face hot, but had a nice zing anyway. The couple notices I’m eating with my fingers, emulating the man in the corner. They smile at each other.

I tell them I watched the others eating and copied them. Basic lesson from Robert Heinlein, Citizen of the Galaxy, on knowing when to put the blue mud in your belly button to fit in. I’m pretty sure the white face told them I wasn’t from their country, but hey, I’m trying.

We strike up a conversation, and I mention that I’m planning on going to Kenya next year. She’s from Kikiyu – I’ve heard of that, he’s from a place I don’t’ recognize. I have to ask where it’s at. North of Nairobi, apparently. They’re a nice couple and wish me well on my travels, and then head out the door and load the little one into a minivan.

I finished the mbuzi—it’s goat, with coastal spices and delicious—and eventually asked for the bill. They need to charge more, so I left a largish tip. The owner asked about my trip, so I told her about the story idea I had, of a girl who wants to go to school and to run and, if she can get out of the country, the culture shock coming from Kenya to the United States.

“The food,” says Jane. “I tell my friends when they come over, but they don’t believe me.”

Jane has lived in Seattle for 25 years. Her husband is the chef of the Safari Njema Restaurant

She tells of first coming to the country and getting hungry so she went to McDonald’s. She didn’t understand a hamburger, why mix the bread and the vegetables, and the disk-shaped thing.

She ate beans for a long time. Beans are safe, they don’t change. She tries to tell others following in her footsteps about the differences. They don’t believe her or don’t understand. I get it – I raised kids. You tell them. Later they remember the telling and nod. Now they get it, when they’re ready.

Jane is from Voi. About three quarters of the way from Nairobi to Mombasa. Her brother is still there and she suggests I visit his restaurant. There are gem mines by the score and I do love pretty shine-ys. I added it to the itinerary.

(I know shine-ys is not a real word. Roll with me, m‘kay.)

Now it’s back to the airport. I’ve got a flight back tonight. Work tomorrow, though I’m considering a career change to bellboy.

It’s been a great day, mostly because of the accidental events. Sitting next to Josh on the flight out. Having time to explore because I didn’t want to stress about the airport. Finding a great scene for the book. Having a parking angel save a spot for me to find a Kenyan restaurant and Jane so I could introduce myself.

All accidental. On purpose. Kinda.  

The Kids Moved Out, and the Dog Died. It's Time.

The title of today's post comes from a comment I've been making to friends for the last couple of years. I've wanted to make a trip to Kenya, but life considerations took precedence. First, I only get a limited amount of time to be a dad. Unless I ran into a pressing necessity, like putting food on the table, I wanted to be there for the girls. A two month trip, solo, didn't fit, so like many other things that parents put aside, this one got shoved onto the 'Someday' list.

The second was the dog. Stitch, the last of our dogs (until the next one), had enough health issues to depress any human. Being Stitch meant always being happy. He was happiest when I was around. I was his 'guy'. Probably didn't hurt that I'm the big softie in the family. Towards the end of his life, he would stress when I took business trips and greet me with exuberant barks on return. Then he would bring me all his special toys, and share. Until just near the end, he would follow me wherever I went in the house.

You don't abandon loyal partners, ever.  

Now I've reached the point where all the girls have moved out, and started their own families. They're busy crafting their own futures and creating their own memories with my grandkids. Pretty awesome to watch, but I'm no longer critical to the events. Nor do I have a faithful four-legged companion to feed, pet, and holler at when he'd be underfoot.

It's time. Yesterday I went down to the post office to start the paperwork for a passport. I haven't needed one in decades. I showed up with application and birth certificate in hand - and had the original birth certificate, the one given to my mother - rejected. Apparently, they need a certified copy. In 1962, no one thought it necessary to certify that the actual government-issued document needed additional certification. For a mere $52.25, this is fixable.

I don't expect that this will be the last roadblock that pops into view. In the meantime, I've started laying the groundwork for the visit. There's a surprising lack of detailed information on Kenya. I'm working my way through two travel guides, but they focus on the major touristy places. My story waits in the rural areas, far from Nairobi. Since it's a running story, I'll hit Eldoret and Iten, at least for visits.

I contacted the High Altitude Training Center, founded by Lornah Kiplagat, and have exchanged very pleasant emails with Kevin. There are a fair number of training centers in the region, catering to both Kenyans and Westerners looking to improve. Since that's not why I'm heading there, I sought out Lornah Kiplagat and the HATC because of the Lornah Kiplagat Foundation, a separate entity.

Kevin has been most helpful, inviting me to a tour of the facility when I get there and trying to find someone who can guide me into the rural communities so I can meet the families and being to understand their lives.

The story that I want to write involves Kenyans coming to the US and the resulting culture shock. Most of those runners are coming from the most impoverished regions, not the cities. As I considered the idea - and thought about people to reach out to in the US like Bernard Lagat - a growing realization struck me. Almost all the Kenyans coming this way are male.

Photo from the Lornah Kiiplagat Foundation website.

Why?

I have some ideas. Indeed, Lornah's foundation's site gives a goodly part of the answer:

Unlike the western world, participation in (primary) education is not a given in Kenya. Particularly girls are not always given the opportunities that are rightfully theirs. The large setup of most families means that parents often cannot afford to send all of their children to school. As a result, usually only the boys are sent to school and the girls lose out. A missed opportunity according to Lornah Kiplagat.

I could probably build a story just off that comment, but I'm betting that isn't the only factor. I could invent other stuff and pretend, but that would leave me with a story that isn't authentic. No bueno. I need to be in country and learn to think as a Kenyan. A couple of years would be nice, but I don't have that much time, so I'm starting with a six week trip.

Assuming they let me have a passport. I'll keep you posted. Target date for wheels-up and headed to Kenya is December 27th.

How to confuse the kids

I played hooky from work today so I could go to school. Which isn't that different than when I used to play hooky to get outside, though the first time was to avoid lunch. Didn't want pigs-in-a-blanket, so first grader me hid out under the steps until the bus left.

Instead of working, I went to Asotin Junior High School and talked to the 6th, 7th, and 8th grade classes about writing and publishing. Mrs. Beggs, one of my daughter's former teachers, was the teacher for the four periods I attended. She did a great job of bailing me out when the conversation would slow down by asking a few questions of her own.

The kids were also pretty terrific. Since I coached a bunch of them at one time or another, I wasn't surprised. I hadn't seen the 7th graders in a while - the girls en masse decided to play basketball last season instead of running cross country, and the head coach and I wished them the best of luck. Junior high is a little too early to worry about specialization. There's plenty of time for that later. Still, it was nice to see familiar faces. I suspect a couple were trying desperately not to be noticed. The sixth graders had a slew of my runners, including Thing 1 and Thing 2, Version 2.0.

The fun part for me, though, was getting introduced to them as an author since most of them had no idea that I had written a book, much less three. The ones that know me think of me as "Coach Paul." The second fun part was surprising my two beta readers, Carmen and Maia (the original Thing 1 and Thing 2 from cross country), by showing up. Carmen I had seen over the weekend at her sister's graduation party. It somehow slipped my mind to mention I might be presenting in her class. Pure accident that I forgot.

The cool thing about junior high kids is they will try to embarrass you. Maia introduce the whole class to the nickname she and Carmen gave me.

No, I'm not sharing it. Ever, if I can help it, but I got a good laugh and a lot of weird looks.

The kids also asked some great questions. Natalie wanted to know about my writing process. That answer could've taken the entire period, so I gave her the brief version. I'll write out a longer answer later.   

One asked why I always wrote from a female perspective. Interesting observation and question. I didn't have a great answer other than, that was were the story was.

Some of the questions were more traditional, who my favorite authors were (Hemingway, Heinlein, Doc Smith, Robert Parker), did I travel for my stories (not yet, planning a trip to Kenya next year), what was my style (darned if I know), why did you start writing (I wanted to actually finish a run without ideas distracting me. Hah, like that worked.)

One girl, and I'm afraid I didn't catch her name, wanted to know what to do when you didn't know how to end things. That led to an interesting discussion about never being nice to your characters.

More than a few like the brief synopsis of the book I'm working on now. One question directed by Mrs. Beggs concerned the lack of reading by boys. I gave a two part answer, based on my boyhood. First, I usually preferred to be outside and playing when the sun was up. Second, modern boys' books pretty much stink. The second generated a rousing shout of agreement from the boys. Time to figure out some ideas for the dudes. Got one already, so we'll see. Mysteries seemed popular with them.

The Kenya trip comment didn't draw a stir except with the eighth grade class and only from Carmen and Maia. Go figure, the two runners that made me look good as a coach want to go see the great runners. I'll have to remember to check my luggage for stowaways.

As usual, I ran out of time with each class.  Also as usual, visiting with the kids made my day.

Even though Maia, code name Thing 2, tried really hard to make me squirm.

His Hat Said "Leave Me Alone"

Asked an old man in a "Leave Me Alone" hat if I could share his table at SeaTac.

"Sure," he said, "I'll behave."

So I did, and because I never let a sign - or hat - boss me around, asked if he was heading out or heading home.

Home, it turns out, which is Missoula, or rather, the hills just north of Missoula. Turns out he ferries vehicles part-time (he's retired now) from Eastern Montana out to Seattle, then catches flights back. One more round, and he was taking some time off and heading to Durango, CO.

I mentioned I'd run (I fibbed, I ran some) a marathon in Pagosa Springs, nearly next door as we count things in the West.

He asked if I had ever rode the narrow gauge train from Durango to Silverton. I hadn't. He had advice. Take the trip, it was worth the time, and sit in the last car. It was open and you might get a few cinders in the eyes but the views were spectacular. Then dinner up Bar D Chuckwagon and make sure to catch the show.

Mentioned that I had a young lady I coached years ago headed to Silverton.

"Yep," he agreed, "mostly college kids working the line."

His son is a firefighter down that way. When one of the big fires hit, and everyone pulled out, the folks that run the Bar D didn't. Fire department came in, the restaurant lost a single tree. Firefighters ate free for a bit, because that's how things work.

The man running the restaurant, according to the guy in the hat, was "gettin' old, gotta be pushing 90." Man in the hat had to be at least 75. "He's a stubborn one." Big grin.

He's probably not the only one, I thought.

Had to go catch my flight, so I said goodbye to the cool old dude.

Glad I ignored the hat.

Competitive Running is Trying to Depress Me

Yesterday, news broke that the Beeb - BBC - was releasing a documentary that Coach Alberto Salazar had been doping the Nike Oregon Project team members for years. The alleged doping included Galen Rupp. More than one person came forward and they brought a slim bit of physical evidence with them.

This follows on the heels of the sudden departure of Mary Cain last week from the team. She headed back to Bronxville, NY. One reason was offered and her decision was one of the big topics of conversation, always hushed, at the PRE last week. Now the rumors are starting to swirl.

Along with the setbacks from Rita Jeptoo and the transgressions of the Russian Federation, this is one more sign of the rot that exists at the elite level, which begins to remind one of the peloton at the Tour d' France.

Since I coach at a much younger level, this normal doesn't hit home quite so closely, except that one of the allegations is that Rupp began doping back in high school. That would match the efforts of the Russians, if true. One of the reports suggested that the Russians began doping prior to the athletes reaching elite status to reset their biological passport, the set of individual parameters of blood work used by WADA and USADA to determine if an athlete has been cheating.

That frankly disgusts and depresses me. I send the kids out asking that they do their best. Not win, but compete hard, run with guts, and leave it on the course. If any wanted to cheat, I'd be distressed that I hadn't done my job properly.

As for the elites, maybe they need to go back to junior high.