I'm about to lift off from NYC to Montreal and, for some reason, am amazed that I am able to access the interwebs from onboard an aircraft as passengers file in.

Oh internet: Is there anything you can't do?

12/23/06

Here’s a wacky detail about me that you may not know:

I AM POSITIVE THAT I AM GOING TO DIE IN AN AIRLINE DISASTER.

I’m currently 2 vodka-tonics into my “self-medication” prior to my flight to New York City to visit my sister and her partner for Christmas, then on to Montreal for New Year’s, and, seated outside of United gate 72, I am starkly reminded that (as I may have mentioned) I AM GOING TO DIE IN AN AIRLINE DISASTER.

I know, I know, to some, it’s an irrational fear shared by millions of travelers, but they aren’t even remotely as positive as I that I AM GOING TO DIE IN AN AIRLINE DISASTER.

And I’m okay with it, mostly, because I know that I’ll be flying alone, without a friend or loved one going down in a fiery ball of twisted metal and smoke alongside me. The guilt of dragging down someone I care deeply about into a spiraling, screaming, horror-filled death would be overwhelming.

So the clock ticks closer to my boarding time, my 3rd vodka-tonic washes down my clenched throat, and the utmost assurance wells within my heart that I AM GOING TO DIE IN AN AIRLINE DISASTER.

Merry Christmas to all.

Yesterday, at the behest of my officemate and pal Jen Perry, I headed to the supermarket located one block from my desk to pick up foodstuffs to eat throughout the day. For some reason, I have a real hangup about having snacks at my disposal, even though I need to nearly be doubling my caloric intake as January's 50 miler approaches.

The store is a larger-chained "health-conscious" store (which equals overpriced regular groceries and many harder-to-find organic products), so I picked up some savory snacks (chips) and headed to the "sweet" section to see what I could scare up.

I'm not at all a sweet-tooth driven individual, but I know that, as the day normally progresses, my body starts demanding more calories, so I perused the healthier dessert options and came across, what I am currently snacking on, "Carob covered raisins".

Past history has proven to me that, well, carob tastes like honey-sweetened bunghole, but, I thought, "give it a try: Maybe your tastes have changed."

This just in: My tastes are the same. And carob still hosts the flavor of water dumped from a dirtied ashtray.

I did a little research, found this piece of information, and quickly discovered why carob, in it's health-minded, well-meaning way, makes my tongue feel like 20 chalkboard erasers have had their contents emptied on to it:

it is considered non-toxic to dogs, and is used in dog treats such as Carob Chip Cookies

There you have it. Dogs LOVE this stuff. And considering what dogs regularly lick, usually at the center of the living room during Christmas dinner, my assessment of the flavor being that of honey-sweetened bunghole isn't too far off.

I am officially an old man:

I now wear "comfortable shoes" because, well, not because they look fashionable, but because they are "comfortable shoes".

They're slightly cheaper versions of the trail shoes that I run in, so, in all fairness, they are "sporty", but my feet have swollen so much from my increased running mileage, I need - nay, DEMAND - flexible, padded footwear.

I guess the moment I felt slightly more aged (qualifier: pronounce the "ed" at the end of that word, please) was when I casually kicked off my "hip" Chuck Taylors at Sport Chalet, strapped on the Asics Gel trail runners and uttered the words, "Oooh, these are comfy!" to no one in particular.

Also, I am beginning to brag about how much/hard I slept.

Ohhhhh, sweet mystery of life
at last I've found you!

Today marks the passing of
Peter Boyle, known most recently as some dad on some tv show on some network, but forever, in many of our hearts, is immortalized as the Monster in Mel Brooks' 1974 classic Young Frankenstein.

Right now, my feet are kicked up and the black and white classic flickers on my screen, a beer opened in toast to an actor who, still, after literally dozens of viewings, can wrestle a chuckle out of me with a simple look.

Goodnight, funny man.

Here be some photos from the Ridgecrest 50k last weekend. Ann took some amazing shots that really captured each moment. In no particular order (in reverse order, because I'm too lazy to correct it now): Me and Bud the night before, picking up our race packets; Me and Bud pre-race; pulling into the aid station at mile 13.9; pulling out of that aid station; running up to the aid station at 16.5, running off from said aid station; sprinting to the finish; feeling like I might barf, and Bud and myself post-race.

Note: I did not vomit, but I did actually reach the point of feeling sick enough that I wished I would.

My coworker Jen Perry and I (by the way, she is "Jen Perry" to everyone: Not just "Jen" or "Jenny" or "Jennifer") were greeted by the delivery of an incredibly cushy, comfy sofa yesterday afternoon. Immediately, I dove upon the cushiony-goodness and propped my legs up on the arm, twisted onto my back, and proceeded to toss a fake baseball at the ceiling while fake brainstorming, as this is the "writer's room" where "ideas" are "hatched".

Unfortunately, the sofa is TOO comfortable.

Within 1 hour, we had no fewer than 3 people walk in and plop their butts on the thing, overstaying each of their welcomes by a good 5-10 minutes. These are life's little lessons: If you want to actually accomplish any work, make your workspace as unwelcoming as possible.

The iron maiden should be delivered today by noon.

Tucked away in the mountains of central Italy is a wee village called Roio Vecchia. This is the place on the planet where 1/2 of my ancestry has lived for centuries. I feel incredibly blessed to be able to nail down, within 2 generations, the location from whence my DNA emerged.

My grandmother Emilia and grandfather Antonio spent the beginnings of their lives here and, somehow, managed to muster up the guts to leave this village of (probably) less than 500 people for the shores of America.

Sure puts my "big, lifechanging move" from North Hollywood to Silverlake in perspective.

I visited Italy for 4 weeks when I was 5 years old with my grandmother. No one spoke english and all I remember about the tiny town where generations of my family were born, grew, and died are chickens running in the streets and snails crawling up the walls during a rainstorm.

I suppose I'll be going back soon.

This past weekend, I ran the Ridgecrest 50k, about 200 miles north of Los Angeles, as part of my training for the upcoming 50 miler I'm running on Catalina Island in January. Yes, I'm running 31.4 miles as a training run. I know. Sue me.

Ann and I (see previous post chastizing you for wondering if I'm dating someone) headed through the deserts north of the City of Angels towards (what seems like the end of planet Earth) the tiny, military town Saturday afternoon, hitting the booming villa at sunset. A massive moon hung in the skies, which seemed to span from the eastern seaboard to China from where we stood, and winds we re calm, the air was dry and cool, all combining to form a perfect pre-race eve.

My pal Bud (see previous posts where I talk about an insane 59 year old who has been running ultras for 20+ years) met up with us, we picked up our race packets and hit a local restaurant for dinner and a couple of beers. I was feeling really good, since my training has me pushing 60 miles/week, with back-to-back long runs on Sat and Sunday that have topped off around 19 on Saturdays and 26 on Sundays. 31 miles? Piece of cake (rrrrrriiiiiight). As I've learned: Always respect the distance.

Crashing out around 11:00, the alarm rang out in the darkness around 5:20 AM, and we popped out of bed, Ann excited to see who in the hell else would volunteer to do this to themselves in the name of a good time, me, thrilled to get my ass out on the hills and terrain. Bud met us at the lobby and we caravaned the 8 mns to the start.

Ridgecrest is the last big 50k of the year, so it's registration usually breaks 300, and at the start, the RD announced that this year, it hovered in the 350 mark. And hell, I believed it: The crowds were HUGE (for an ultra, where you're usually toeing the line with 80-100 others), everyone shivering in the 30 degree, sunless morning, but as it rose to expose the desert day, the gorgeous mountain peaks around us shimmered with awesome, pink, snowcapped tops, and before we knew it, the RD's husband issued a short prayer, and off we trotted!

Bud and I estimated finishing in 5:15-5:30, since we were "taking this as an easy training run" (remember that phrase) and the course is relatively fast, with a lot of gentle, long uphills and downhills; nothing too severe. The first 8 miles flew by, and before we knew it, we were clipping along to aid station 4 at the 13.9 mile marker, where Ann, a brilliant photographer, by the way, stood, snapping photos like crazy (I'll post when they come). Bud and I were having a blast, and hitting beyond the 1/2 marathon marker in 2:06 shocked the hell out of us. Ann seemed shocked herself: "You guys look like you're having the BEST time!" she yelled as we stopped to refill our bottles and grab PB and Js. And we were: We both were feeling strong, able to converse the entire run thus far, and somehow in the top 1/3 of the pack.

Bud told me having Ann at my first 100 miler next fall would come in handy, as she could take pics at the aid stations and tell me to "Get the hell moving, Candyass,", a phrase his wife coined years ago to get him out of the comfort of the aid stops. Sounded good to me - motivation can come in the strangest forms when you're exhausted and delirious and have 60 miles to go.

Running off, we continued with the agreement that if one of us was feeling particularly good, he should take off. I knew the pace was far below what was comfortable for me, so around mile 16, I started getting itchy ("Remember: THIS IS A TRAINING RUN," I kept reminding myself). Ann was at the next aid station, again snapping away, and as I hugged her, came to realize that my warnings about the "goat smell" were fairly accurate, if not spot-on.

Bud and I tromped uphill and rolled downhill, which, at mile 18, is when it all changed. He had to take an "extended bathroom break" and yelled to me over his shoulder, "Go for it!", and that's when the switch in my brain clicked. I checked my watch and began to reliaze that, not only was 5:15 totally possible, but close to 5 hours was not out of the question, and I've always dreamed of breaking 5 hours in a 50k.

"Okay," I chattered aloud, "you can push it, but this is a TRAINING R-," and before I could finish, my legs were pumping faster and faster. I began to cut the tangents on the turns and curves, saving a few yards here and there, and as I checked my watch, realized I was now running 8-8:30/mile, 20 miles into a race, and feeling freaking GREAT. As i hit the next aid station and checked in, I told the workers to tell #123 (Bud's number) to "get the hell moving, Candyass!" when he pulled in as I downed cookies and more PB and Js.

The following miles were stunning, and, as I am wont to do, I began to get emotional over the grandeur of the gift that nature has given us, and how as a trail runner, I get to be wholly immersed in it (what can I say: I'm a f*cking cry-baby). I passed through the aid station at the marathon mark and checked my time: Holy crap, I could break 5 hours without a problem!

Hauling ass, I began to overtake...and overtake...and overtake, probably chasing down and passing 20 rabbits ahead of me, and as I blew through the final aid station at mile 29.9 (poor guys - I bet NO ONE stopped there), I further picked it up and in my estimations, ran a final 1 1/2 miles at a 7 mn/mile pace...UPHILL, and hitting the parking lot where the finish was located, I kicked it even harder, passing into the chutes at 4 hours, 55 mns!

I. Was. DONE. I couldn't breath. My guts were churning and my legs were on fire. "THIS IS A TRAINING RUN!" echoed in my drained brain.

Ann and I waited at the chutes, and 30 minutes later, a beaming Bud was heading towards us, and as his feet hit the finish, yelled, "CANDYASS, huhn?!"

I guess my message got to him.

All in all, what a fantastic weekend and a run well run. I finished 43rd overall, behind the first place finisher of 3:27(!!!), and beers were poured, a hot shower heartily enjoyed, and the gift of a lovely, desert sunset-lighted drive back to Los Angeles appreciated.

Training run. RIGHT.