Hot shoes hammered hotter asphalt. I was only on mile five of the half marathon, yet already feeling fatigued. In the last three months I had run an average of forty or more miles a week, so how was this possible? My calf injury was not bothering me, and I kept a slow, even pace to make sure of that. I was well rested, so that left only the heat.
The heat. Yes, that was it. I had a hunch a normal person would have recognized it immediately. After all, my shoes were beginning to melt and I constantly doused my head in ice water just to avoid heatstroke. I had gotten so used to training around 100 degrees that I no longer even consciously thought of the heat. Why, just yesterday my wife and I had cuddled under a blanket on the couch when it was 98 degrees. Yet Vegas had endured a horrible, bizarre cold snap this last several weeks. We had been plagued with unnatural, low 80s and, gasp, clouds!
I laughed aloud at the sun-blasted brown surrounding me. Of course! This was a full thirty degrees hotter than what I had gotten used to over the last month.
I began catching up to a runner ahead of me. The hill I had been slowly ascending for half a mile was getting steeper and he had slowed to nearly a walk. I was running stronger than ever, actually, because I had trained on some bruiser hills in the Red Rock Canyon. The poor man puffed and blew and wheezed, and his running stride was actually the same speed as a walk. That was a funny thing about running: sometimes we slow such that a speed walker could beat us, but we won't change up our gait and admit we are walking. Like everyone else, runners live in a constant state of denial.
As I approached, he picked up his pace to match mine. He was a skinny, twenty-something man with surprisingly tiny sunglasses on. They were little, round and blue a la John Lennon. His hat was so large I presumed he thought it would block the sun, but he had since learned the errors of his ways. I could easily see him squinting at me, then drooping with disappointment.
“Good job, marathoner,” I called to him. “Look, the water station is right up ahead.”
“I don't feel great. I've never run in heat like this before, and I'm dyin'.”
“Well, you know the old marathoner's mantra, 'pain is certain, suffering is optional.' Dying isn't in there anywhere.”
“When I heard you approaching, I thought you were the hot babe. I saw her behind earlier.”
“Man oh man, did I see her behind earlier, too. I'm about ready to pass out, but it's her ass that makes me want to cry. I'm not sure how that fits into the mantra, though.”
“I'm right behind you,” a feminine voice called out.
“Gotta slow down now!” the young man said, instantly abandoning me. “Good luck!”
Sure enough, I turned to see that the footsteps behind me for the last two miles were those of the demon temptress. I smiled sheepishly at her, but it likely never surfaced beyond my racing grimace. Before she could say another word, however, I was saved by the water station. We both thumped to a halt in the flimsy shade offered by a large tent.
Several barrels of ice water awaited, as did four volunteers. They snatched our bottles and filled them with sports drink. One volunteer, a girl of perhaps twelve, offered up a bowl of sliced oranges or pretzels. Salt tablets were offered, but I regretfully declined on behalf of my dear mother. Having read somewhere that America's processed foods have too much sodium, she had barred the seasoning from the house during my entire youth and made it clear that no child of hers would be allowed to consume such a sinful substance. No doubt it never occurred to her that a thirty-something athlete running in 110 degree heat for several hours may have different nutritional needs than a retired homemaker in 65 degree air conditioning. Funny how she screeched louder at salt than at my cigar smoking.
Fortunately, the demon temptress had to remove her hydration backpack again, which required more time to refill than my 20 ounce bottle. I was actually embarrassed at having been caught saying something naughty about her, though mostly because I had not been able to say it directly to her. Flirtations weren't fun when they were wistfully offered to the air. I couldn't tell if she was grimacing from the run or glaring at me, so I fled just to be safe. I rushed out into the 'safety' of being alone in the crippling sun.
To my surprise, the half way point was not where the final aid station was. Even as my water bottle was being filled with cool, clear loveliness, I watched with alarm at the runners departing further down the road. I had assumed we were somewhere around mile six, but in fact it was closer to merely mile five. While such a short distance may seem silly to fret over, the heartbreak of slashed expectations can be rough.
So onward I slogged. The hill dropped into a deep valley where the heat simmered and boiled even hotter. Just as my legs began to get used to the sweetness of downhill, a sudden upsweep of land made me struggle every step. I kept scanning the shifting distance for the turnaround, but could not find it. When I finally did arrive, I saw that it was merely a road cone with a small but clear sign printed upon it: ½ marathon turn around.
Waiting behind the cone was a photographer. He stood in the road beside his idling van, using a portable stand to snap pictures like crazy. I had no time to wonder how hot he was in that heavy photographer's jacket with the dozens of pockets because he was taking pictures of me. I had to suck in my gut, to stand up straighter, the whole ritual. I was surprised that he snapped off picture after picture, turning the camera this way and that as if with a model in a studio. Usually photographers snap one or two and quickly move on.
“You look great, baby!” he shouted. Only then did I realize the demon temptress was running right behind me again. Upon reflection, he had not taken a single photo of me, but entirely of her!
Together she and I spun around the cone and rushed off for the second half of the race. We were now running side by side. The pounding of our footsteps was the only sound for a while, and it was obvious that she was comfortable in silence. It was all but impossible for me to not talk when there was a waiting ear, and definitely impossible for me to not dig myself in deeper while trying to escape the hole I was already in.
“It's really not fair, you know,” I said to her as we panted and sweat. “I need to run a lot faster, but I just don't have it in me. And until I do, the photographer will only take pictures of you. My wife won't believe I actually did the race at all.”
She chuckled, but said nothing. As if on cue, a carload of young men and women on the way to the beach drove by in an SUV pulling a boat. They honked their horn and everyone inside, men and women alike, raucously shouted encouragement to her. What was I, chopped liver?
“Isn't it hot wearing that backpack out here?” I asked her as we slogged ever uphill. “Then again, I guess you have to wear a sports bra anyway.”
“Exactly,” she said. “It's not any hotter than that brace on your leg.”
Another truck drove by, this time with a DNR man. He stuck his head out the window and shouted, “Way to go, ranger!”
She waved to him, then poured water over her head with the wet cloth she carried with her. Occasionally she would slap the exposed parts of her body with the towel, clapping cool water onto her tanned skin. Here I was, miles out in the heat, watching a model spanking herself. Life truly was beautiful!
“Why do they call you ranger?” I asked. “I've heard a couple people say that.”
“I am a park ranger,” she replied. “I know them.”
“No kidding? That's gotta be a cool job!”
“Not exactly. I work on Lake Mead near Bullhead City, Arizona. It's always over 120 degrees in the summer. Say, I'm not forcing you off the road am I?”
“No, I prefer to run on the gravel shoulder. Less impact than concrete, you know?”
“Well, if I'm crowding you, just say so.”
Of course, she could crowd me all she wanted, but I didn't say that. We ground through the miles, chatting. I learned about being a park ranger, which I thought was fascinating, and she learned about being a writer, which she thought was mildly interesting. We had been pacing each other unknowingly for the first six and a half miles, why not enjoy each others' company on the return? Runners frequently made new friends on races, especially during those long, lonely middle miles of a full marathon. The extremes of this race made our little half marathon feel longer, though, and we were both grateful for conversation to take our minds off the heat.
And then came the snap. We were ascending a particularly long hill on mile eight and a half, when my calf gave out. I had been expecting it for mile after heated mile, but it mischievously chose to go out when I was finally flirting with the hot babe. Story of my life. I sensed, rather than felt or heard, a slight snap in my left leg. Instantly each footfall included a jabbing, icy jolt of pain.
“There it goes!” I called out in frustration. “Damn it!”
“You OK?” she asked, slowing a step.
“Fine, fine. I knew this injury would flare up, but had hoped if I kept this pace it would be OK. Guess not. Go kick some ass, ranger!”
She pushed on ahead, and I limped up the seemingly endless hill. I wanted to round up and say I reached mile nine before my injury, but it was actually barely eight and a half. Funny how that bothered me more than the injury itself. I had known it would happen, and all my frustration and disappointment had already been voiced a week ago when I lost the marathon before even starting. I found that I could still run, if very slowly and funny and limping. Well, of course I would keep going... I was still five miles from my car!
The next two miles I pushed onward, feeling the heat. Now that the worst had happened, I found myself dwelling on the negatives. It felt like work now, whereas before the pain had a note of adventure in it. I saw an ambulance rushing by at one point, and realized that yes, this is serious stuff. Then something nice happened... downhill. Somehow I began catching up to the demon temptress. Funny how I still didn't know her name, or even ask.
“You seem to be doing OK,” she called to me as I paced to within twenty feet of her. Her speech came in short quips. At this point, long sentences became tortuous. Though only twenty feet apart, I made no effort to bridge the gap. That would have been foolish on any number of levels. I noticed she was slightly limping herself.
“I am OK downhill,” I answered through my panting. “My soleus injury is very specific. It only hurts when I push off with my leg bent. Accelerating uphill is what snapped it. No more accelerating uphill for Bri Bri.”
A ranger's truck rushed past intently, and she frowned. She stared after it, observing in silence. She reminded me of a panther. She was slender and lithe and powerful... and patient. She observed everything without hurry, despite the pain and the heat. Further, as a ranger she was no doubt comfortable being alone for long periods of time. Her eyes squinted at a series of cones on the Lake Mead side of the road, where the parking lot for a boat ramp long since dried up and abandoned was marked with red flags.
“This is bad,” she said finally. “Setting up an air lift. Maybe a runner, maybe someone from the lake. Maybe a near drowning.”
“This too much alcohol? I hear most drowning are from that.”
“Sometimes,” she admitted. “Frequently the heat and the cold water. After basking in 110 degrees, a deep dive from a boat in the middle of the lake will kill you. The shock of the cold water shocks the system and it locks up. You just won't come up again. Happens a lot.”
Lovely. All I could think about right now was jumping in the lake to cool off, and now I hear this?
We both paused at the last water station only shortly. We knew there was only about three miles left and thought we would push it. I refilled my water bottle, of course, and downed three classes of 'room temperature' sports drink. We rushed off into the heat, both limping and trying not to let it bother us. The heat was becoming brutal, and within half a mile I had already dumped half of the my ice water onto my head. At our pace, we were still going to be out here for perhaps twenty five minutes. I began to get nervous as the sweat sprang out of my body and instantly evaporated. The demoness herself was in constant motion squeezing water onto her head and over her body.
We labored around a long curve and suddenly saw that oncoming traffic was stopped. A cluster of people hovered at the shoulder and park rangers swarmed over the scene. Oh so slowly we reached the point of commotion and saw what had happened. A runner was lying on the hot rocks beside the road, surrounded by three people administering an IV into his arm. He was being fanned by a concerned volunteer, and then we were past.
“He'll be fine,” she commented. “Help is everywhere and he is getting the fluids he needs directly. Don't worry for him.”
“I'm worried for me.”
My leg was throbbing and my entire body was stiffening. I realized that my limping was putting a strain on every other muscle in my body to compensate for my bum leg. My back and, strangely, my shoulders, were screaming with fatigue. I straightened my posture, not having realized I was slouching. Instantly I felt energy surge through me, as well as an icy lance of pain from my leg. I spent more and more effort wiping the sweat from my eyes and trying not to think of the heat. The long line of halted, idling cars added to the heat. Now not only the asphalt projected heat at us, but steaming metal automobiles. Their exhaust wafted over us, filling each gasping breath with toxicity. After a few hundred yards the line of cars ended when a park ranger ordered traffic to turn around.
We were within two miles of the finish now, and the scattered runners were beginning to converge. We passed many runners, many likely full marathoners who were running very, very slowly. One last monstrous hill rose before us, and I slowed my pace to barely moving. Each step of incline was a painful chore, and I urged the demon temptress onward with a few gritty words of encouragement. In fact, she slowed as well, and we both engaged in our own battles, mere feet yet entire worlds apart.
“We're almost done,” I struggled to say.
“Not yet. Not til it's over.”
“I meant almost done with the hill.”
“I know.”
She was right, of course. Finishing a long race was a series of smaller challenges overcome, but this hill was slowing everyone down. Then, a mere twenty yards ahead of us, a man collapsed. He fell directly into the road and lay crumpled on the pavement. I could almost hear his skin sizzling on the hot asphalt, but he did not move at all. Fortunately a park ranger was nearby directing traffic and rushed to the man's aid. Neither the temptress nor I said anything, barely able to speak between ragged, searing breaths.
'Pain is certain, suffering is optional', I thought. I think I'll add to the marathoner's mantra, 'Safe return doubtful.'
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Running with the Devil, Part 1
Floating dust forced me to roll up the car windows, shooting the temperature inside up to triple digits. Reluctantly I set aside my steaming coffee, as it seemed no longer appropriate. A normal man would not be drinking coffee before a race, I thought. A normal man would not be embarking upon this race at all. The tires of my car crunched onto a dirt parking lot labeled Calico Racing. The racing organization was named after a cat. Was that an omen?
The clock read 11:25 AM. The thermometer read 99 degrees. This was just the beginning of the heat and of the race that would force me to face my own limits. Oh, and to face my inability to comprehend women.
The parking lot of Boulder Beach on Lake Mead, just outside of Las Vegas, was an ugly thing. It was bleak and beaten, rocky and unpleasant... not unlike my first marriage. The surrounding countryside was similar, if unleveled by heavy machinery. Everything was brown, uglier brown, or black. Nothing grew; no grass, no trees, nor even scrub. Sage brush was far too demanding for this area, and I even saw a Joshua tree that had uprooted itself rather than remain here. Really, what kind of a place was it where even cacti chose to end it all? Near the sun-bleached pavilions an occasional palm punctured the sheer infertility of the place: obviously an immigrant to the area and dependent upon the proximity of man-made Lake Mead. Nothing was meant to survive here. Yet many of us were here to try.
The parking lot was packed with men preparing behind opened hatch-backs and car doors. Sunscreen was liberally applied to faces and necks, bandanas were tied around heads and hats were filled with ice. Shoes were laced aggressively and bib numbers were pinned on. Most faces were grim with the chore that lay ahead, eyes squinting at the asphalt as it stretched into deeper, broader, hotter brownness. Two young women wearing devil horns took pictures of each other, but they, too, were subdued. Joy was for later, when the ice was on our knees and not on our heads.
I, too, prepared. I strung the timing chip through my shoe laces and tightened them up, ripped off my T-shirt and sprayed sun block everywhere. I tied the bandana around my head, sans ice, and pinned my number to the thigh of my spandex shorts. Though no longer in the shape to be topless and in spandex shorts, I didn’t know anyone here, so why should I care?
This, of course, was the first creeping sign of the advancement of my age… or of being married, anyway. Had I still been single my ego would never allow such a display of my sagging physique. This race was a form of mid-life denial. Another was the new tattoo. I eyed the ebony ink glistening on my arm regretfully. I was supposed to keep it out of the sun for at least a week, and really should wear my T-shirt. I just didn’t want to. I sprayed sun block on the pattern until it ran off in rivulets down my arm. It stung mightily, but if that was the worst pain of the day, I would be thrilled.
I wish my wife was here, I thought. Though accepting, she never really understood that I was a lusty man, passionate for extremes, rum, cigars, and women. Perhaps here she could begin to discover my lust for running, for pushing the envelope. The camaraderie of runners was heady stuff and I wanted her to experience it. This race in particular would weed out the posers because it was designed to be as brutal as possible: outside Las Vegas in summer; temperatures averaging 110 degrees; no clouds, no wind; starting at noon. This was called Running with the Devil for a reason.
All runners had to weigh in before the race. The marathoners were required to re-weigh at the halfway point to ensure they had not lost too much body weight. If so, they were not allowed to finish the race or they would likely die. Forcing us wimpy half marathoners to weigh in was merely to assuage our egos, no doubt.
“Number 333,” I said as I stepped onto the scale. The elderly, clipboard-wielding volunteer wrote down ‘204 lbs’. I blanched, having been only 190 a week ago.
Wandering among the crowd that gathered ice water, I noticed that I was only one of about half a dozen men running shirtless. To a man they put my physique to shame, despite varying in age from early twenties to early forties. Considering the amount of training I devoted my life to, I marveled at how these older guys could look so good. I consoled myself, however, by noting that I was taller than all of them. Except him. Or him. Shit.
Then I saw her.
Stretching on the hill above was an unbelievably gorgeous woman. Suddenly I was glad my wife wasn’t here. Now I could just sit on a bench and ogle. She was very tall and slender and was surely a professional dancer. Her long legs were tanned muscle that shivered with pent-up power as she stretched. She wore spandex short shorts and a sports bra that left her sculpted torso bare. Her brown hair was pulled back into a pony tail, revealing an intensely focused look on her pretty face. This was no mere human, I realized, but a demon temptress. It was the only explanation. I quickly resolved to run at whatever pace she held, regardless of my training or injury.
“Ugh, would you look at her?” said the woman beside me on the bench, with obvious disgust.
“Oh, I’m looking all right.”
Her frown deepened, but she did not bother to look at me. In fact, she ignored everything in favor of the demon on the hill. Even the shirtless Adonis standing nearby did not faze her. Jeez, he even caught my eye”.
“I’m married” I defended lightheartedly. “Looking is all I’ve got.”
“Absolutely demeaning herself for all to see…” she muttered with surprising vitriol.
“Hey, if you’ve got it, flaunt it,” I said. “Sure, she knows she’s hot, but she also knows we’re all here for the same reason. We’re all athletes here.”
Finally Ms. Bitter spared a glance at me. “You don’t look so athletic to me.”
I wondered idly about this woman. She was in her early thirties and obviously an athlete herself. Her attire was extremely modest, with loose shorts and a baggy T-shirt that made her look frumpy. She was pretty enough and certainly fit: she need not be threatened by the demon’s magnificence. Was she just jealous of her self-confidence, perhaps?
“Well, a little beauty makes the world a better place, right?”
“This is a place for personal achievement!” she snapped, rounding on me. “Not for picking up shameless hussies! That strumpet on the hill is up there in the best spot to get attention, and she knows you are staring, drooling like the dog you are.”
I blinked at her. So much for runner’s camaraderie. I wish my wife was here to defend me.
“Why,” she puffed angrily, “I’ll bet you’d even sacrifice your race time just to run beside her, you pig.”
“Uh, do we know each other?”
Then she just stood up and left. Since I had been called a boor by at least a dozen critics and readers in the last month alone, it no longer bothered me. This left me free to return to my field study of a demon in the wild.
“OK everybody!” a voice called via bullhorn. “Two minutes to go. Make your way to the starting line.”
Joyce, the spunky coordinator of the event and of Calico Racing Organization, was a petite and powerful woman wearing a red tank top with the word ‘Devil’ printed prominently across the bosom. Though not running today, she wore a bib with the number 666 and capped herself with a pair of devil horns.
“Get ice in your hat,” she commanded. “Soak your towels and bandanas and self in ice water, do what you can. I want everyone dripping at the starting line. No one runs without a water bottle with them. Remember, water stations in this race are refill stations. Carry all the ice water you can.”
En masse about one hundred runners shuffled to the road. Bright blue mats lay on the hot asphalt, as if a genie had been doing yoga there just moments before. The gun went off with little fanfare and the crowd merely spilled across the start, rather than the usual surge. The heat was affecting everyone before we had even begun!
Actually, the desire to sprint at the start of a race is hard to control. Pent up anxiety and excitement flush through you, but a marathon means discipline. I settled easily into my full marathon pace of a nine minute mile. I knew this pace without needing a watch to gauge it and could carry it through to the end. I had trained four months for the 26.2 mile marathon, but fate had erected several barriers for me.
A mere ten days earlier, my old calf injury had reared its ugly head anew. Months of grueling hours in the Las Vegas heat had all vanished in a flash. Overcome with enthusiasm for this event, I refused to abandon it and rested the next eight days. The day before the race I had run a short five miles to test my calf. I felt like a Ferrari with a flat tire: my whole body was primed and ready, but that one muscle in my leg was obviously weak. Yet after having already run a dozen half marathons in 95 degree heat, how hard could it be to squeeze out one more? Ironically, I had gotten my first-ever blister on a heel from that test. An omen, perhaps?
Being stuck midway in the thick crowd, all I noticed were elbows and knees and feet. We had run half a mile before I actually looked up from my footing and took in the situation. As usual, the beginning of a race was crowded, but soon enough people’s varying paces would spread them out. With as small a crowd as this, one mile was enough.
The race was on a desert highway that was open to traffic, so runners were relegated to the blisteringly hot shoulder. Two could run abreast if they chose, but the majority of us ran single-file along the hot asphalt. By mile two it was clear who was where and in what order.
The heat was already a factor. Though weather forecasts had promised a mere 104 degrees, I had already seen two thermometers declaring 111. The heat pummeled the land mercilessly and wrapped us puny humans thoroughly in its powerful, destroying embrace. The distant mountains shimmered, and the asphalt radiated heat upwards, doubling the effect of the sun. Any experienced desert runner knew that sun block was as necessary on your undersides as well as topside. There was no shade anywhere to break the heat. The rocks radiated enough heat to make their sauna-bound cousins jealous.
The new tattoo seared into my arm, and I nervously wondered if I was wasting the hours of discomfort it had entailed. Mimicking some of the other runners, I poured water onto my bandana and felt the coolness spread across my head. These bandanas were designed to spread the water efficiently to every corner, and I was pleasantly surprised at its effectiveness. Yet my feet were already smarting from contact with the blazing asphalt. I had never experienced this before, even when I ran a full marathon in the northern Nevada wastes years back. I had heard that shoes sometimes melted on the roads out here, and suddenly I realized it was not exaggeration. Nervously I ignored the unpleasant sensation.
By mile two I found myself pacing with one other runner directly in front of me. We two were fairly apart from the others and it was clear we would run a while at this same pace together. I usually stare at the feet in front of me to keep pace and let my mind wander, but this time my eyes strayed up the back of those long, curvaceous legs to a pair of spandex shorts. I couldn’t take my eyes off that solidly muscled, perfectly sculpted bottom.
The demon temptress from the hill!
Running with the Devil indeed. I was already thinking sinful thoughts. I would chase that sexy devil’s tail no matter how hot it got!
For the first quarter of the race, my mind revolved somewhat guiltily around how I could spin into a story my following this woman. I had a solid reputation for following women needlessly into Hell, after all. While the books I wrote were necessarily accurate, did I feel the same compulsion for a blog?
The first water station changed up our paces. The sexy devil took longer to refill her hydration backpack than it took me to refill my hand-held bottle. Strangely disappointed for no real reason, I rushed off into the shimmering waves of heat. I passed a lonely shrub that had a confused appearance. No doubt it was wondering how it ended up here and where everyone else was. I empathized with the beaten, wilting little guy. Marathoners always ended a race alone. Surprisingly, that was not how this race was to end.
The clock read 11:25 AM. The thermometer read 99 degrees. This was just the beginning of the heat and of the race that would force me to face my own limits. Oh, and to face my inability to comprehend women.
The parking lot of Boulder Beach on Lake Mead, just outside of Las Vegas, was an ugly thing. It was bleak and beaten, rocky and unpleasant... not unlike my first marriage. The surrounding countryside was similar, if unleveled by heavy machinery. Everything was brown, uglier brown, or black. Nothing grew; no grass, no trees, nor even scrub. Sage brush was far too demanding for this area, and I even saw a Joshua tree that had uprooted itself rather than remain here. Really, what kind of a place was it where even cacti chose to end it all? Near the sun-bleached pavilions an occasional palm punctured the sheer infertility of the place: obviously an immigrant to the area and dependent upon the proximity of man-made Lake Mead. Nothing was meant to survive here. Yet many of us were here to try.
The parking lot was packed with men preparing behind opened hatch-backs and car doors. Sunscreen was liberally applied to faces and necks, bandanas were tied around heads and hats were filled with ice. Shoes were laced aggressively and bib numbers were pinned on. Most faces were grim with the chore that lay ahead, eyes squinting at the asphalt as it stretched into deeper, broader, hotter brownness. Two young women wearing devil horns took pictures of each other, but they, too, were subdued. Joy was for later, when the ice was on our knees and not on our heads.
I, too, prepared. I strung the timing chip through my shoe laces and tightened them up, ripped off my T-shirt and sprayed sun block everywhere. I tied the bandana around my head, sans ice, and pinned my number to the thigh of my spandex shorts. Though no longer in the shape to be topless and in spandex shorts, I didn’t know anyone here, so why should I care?
This, of course, was the first creeping sign of the advancement of my age… or of being married, anyway. Had I still been single my ego would never allow such a display of my sagging physique. This race was a form of mid-life denial. Another was the new tattoo. I eyed the ebony ink glistening on my arm regretfully. I was supposed to keep it out of the sun for at least a week, and really should wear my T-shirt. I just didn’t want to. I sprayed sun block on the pattern until it ran off in rivulets down my arm. It stung mightily, but if that was the worst pain of the day, I would be thrilled.
I wish my wife was here, I thought. Though accepting, she never really understood that I was a lusty man, passionate for extremes, rum, cigars, and women. Perhaps here she could begin to discover my lust for running, for pushing the envelope. The camaraderie of runners was heady stuff and I wanted her to experience it. This race in particular would weed out the posers because it was designed to be as brutal as possible: outside Las Vegas in summer; temperatures averaging 110 degrees; no clouds, no wind; starting at noon. This was called Running with the Devil for a reason.
All runners had to weigh in before the race. The marathoners were required to re-weigh at the halfway point to ensure they had not lost too much body weight. If so, they were not allowed to finish the race or they would likely die. Forcing us wimpy half marathoners to weigh in was merely to assuage our egos, no doubt.
“Number 333,” I said as I stepped onto the scale. The elderly, clipboard-wielding volunteer wrote down ‘204 lbs’. I blanched, having been only 190 a week ago.
Wandering among the crowd that gathered ice water, I noticed that I was only one of about half a dozen men running shirtless. To a man they put my physique to shame, despite varying in age from early twenties to early forties. Considering the amount of training I devoted my life to, I marveled at how these older guys could look so good. I consoled myself, however, by noting that I was taller than all of them. Except him. Or him. Shit.
Then I saw her.
Stretching on the hill above was an unbelievably gorgeous woman. Suddenly I was glad my wife wasn’t here. Now I could just sit on a bench and ogle. She was very tall and slender and was surely a professional dancer. Her long legs were tanned muscle that shivered with pent-up power as she stretched. She wore spandex short shorts and a sports bra that left her sculpted torso bare. Her brown hair was pulled back into a pony tail, revealing an intensely focused look on her pretty face. This was no mere human, I realized, but a demon temptress. It was the only explanation. I quickly resolved to run at whatever pace she held, regardless of my training or injury.
“Ugh, would you look at her?” said the woman beside me on the bench, with obvious disgust.
“Oh, I’m looking all right.”
Her frown deepened, but she did not bother to look at me. In fact, she ignored everything in favor of the demon on the hill. Even the shirtless Adonis standing nearby did not faze her. Jeez, he even caught my eye”.
“I’m married” I defended lightheartedly. “Looking is all I’ve got.”
“Absolutely demeaning herself for all to see…” she muttered with surprising vitriol.
“Hey, if you’ve got it, flaunt it,” I said. “Sure, she knows she’s hot, but she also knows we’re all here for the same reason. We’re all athletes here.”
Finally Ms. Bitter spared a glance at me. “You don’t look so athletic to me.”
I wondered idly about this woman. She was in her early thirties and obviously an athlete herself. Her attire was extremely modest, with loose shorts and a baggy T-shirt that made her look frumpy. She was pretty enough and certainly fit: she need not be threatened by the demon’s magnificence. Was she just jealous of her self-confidence, perhaps?
“Well, a little beauty makes the world a better place, right?”
“This is a place for personal achievement!” she snapped, rounding on me. “Not for picking up shameless hussies! That strumpet on the hill is up there in the best spot to get attention, and she knows you are staring, drooling like the dog you are.”
I blinked at her. So much for runner’s camaraderie. I wish my wife was here to defend me.
“Why,” she puffed angrily, “I’ll bet you’d even sacrifice your race time just to run beside her, you pig.”
“Uh, do we know each other?”
Then she just stood up and left. Since I had been called a boor by at least a dozen critics and readers in the last month alone, it no longer bothered me. This left me free to return to my field study of a demon in the wild.
“OK everybody!” a voice called via bullhorn. “Two minutes to go. Make your way to the starting line.”
Joyce, the spunky coordinator of the event and of Calico Racing Organization, was a petite and powerful woman wearing a red tank top with the word ‘Devil’ printed prominently across the bosom. Though not running today, she wore a bib with the number 666 and capped herself with a pair of devil horns.
“Get ice in your hat,” she commanded. “Soak your towels and bandanas and self in ice water, do what you can. I want everyone dripping at the starting line. No one runs without a water bottle with them. Remember, water stations in this race are refill stations. Carry all the ice water you can.”
En masse about one hundred runners shuffled to the road. Bright blue mats lay on the hot asphalt, as if a genie had been doing yoga there just moments before. The gun went off with little fanfare and the crowd merely spilled across the start, rather than the usual surge. The heat was affecting everyone before we had even begun!
Actually, the desire to sprint at the start of a race is hard to control. Pent up anxiety and excitement flush through you, but a marathon means discipline. I settled easily into my full marathon pace of a nine minute mile. I knew this pace without needing a watch to gauge it and could carry it through to the end. I had trained four months for the 26.2 mile marathon, but fate had erected several barriers for me.
A mere ten days earlier, my old calf injury had reared its ugly head anew. Months of grueling hours in the Las Vegas heat had all vanished in a flash. Overcome with enthusiasm for this event, I refused to abandon it and rested the next eight days. The day before the race I had run a short five miles to test my calf. I felt like a Ferrari with a flat tire: my whole body was primed and ready, but that one muscle in my leg was obviously weak. Yet after having already run a dozen half marathons in 95 degree heat, how hard could it be to squeeze out one more? Ironically, I had gotten my first-ever blister on a heel from that test. An omen, perhaps?
Being stuck midway in the thick crowd, all I noticed were elbows and knees and feet. We had run half a mile before I actually looked up from my footing and took in the situation. As usual, the beginning of a race was crowded, but soon enough people’s varying paces would spread them out. With as small a crowd as this, one mile was enough.
The race was on a desert highway that was open to traffic, so runners were relegated to the blisteringly hot shoulder. Two could run abreast if they chose, but the majority of us ran single-file along the hot asphalt. By mile two it was clear who was where and in what order.
The heat was already a factor. Though weather forecasts had promised a mere 104 degrees, I had already seen two thermometers declaring 111. The heat pummeled the land mercilessly and wrapped us puny humans thoroughly in its powerful, destroying embrace. The distant mountains shimmered, and the asphalt radiated heat upwards, doubling the effect of the sun. Any experienced desert runner knew that sun block was as necessary on your undersides as well as topside. There was no shade anywhere to break the heat. The rocks radiated enough heat to make their sauna-bound cousins jealous.
The new tattoo seared into my arm, and I nervously wondered if I was wasting the hours of discomfort it had entailed. Mimicking some of the other runners, I poured water onto my bandana and felt the coolness spread across my head. These bandanas were designed to spread the water efficiently to every corner, and I was pleasantly surprised at its effectiveness. Yet my feet were already smarting from contact with the blazing asphalt. I had never experienced this before, even when I ran a full marathon in the northern Nevada wastes years back. I had heard that shoes sometimes melted on the roads out here, and suddenly I realized it was not exaggeration. Nervously I ignored the unpleasant sensation.
By mile two I found myself pacing with one other runner directly in front of me. We two were fairly apart from the others and it was clear we would run a while at this same pace together. I usually stare at the feet in front of me to keep pace and let my mind wander, but this time my eyes strayed up the back of those long, curvaceous legs to a pair of spandex shorts. I couldn’t take my eyes off that solidly muscled, perfectly sculpted bottom.
The demon temptress from the hill!
Running with the Devil indeed. I was already thinking sinful thoughts. I would chase that sexy devil’s tail no matter how hot it got!
For the first quarter of the race, my mind revolved somewhat guiltily around how I could spin into a story my following this woman. I had a solid reputation for following women needlessly into Hell, after all. While the books I wrote were necessarily accurate, did I feel the same compulsion for a blog?
The first water station changed up our paces. The sexy devil took longer to refill her hydration backpack than it took me to refill my hand-held bottle. Strangely disappointed for no real reason, I rushed off into the shimmering waves of heat. I passed a lonely shrub that had a confused appearance. No doubt it was wondering how it ended up here and where everyone else was. I empathized with the beaten, wilting little guy. Marathoners always ended a race alone. Surprisingly, that was not how this race was to end.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Thanks for selling out entire edition of Cruise Confidential!
What a rush for me. I have discovered the phenomenally large and phenomenally pro-active members of Cruise Critic. Apparently they has already discovered me, because when they began discussing Cruise Confidential on their boards, the sales went through the roof. My publisher had trouble providing enough books out there, and suddenly it was backordered. I think that is the fantasy of every author, to have a book so popular that it is back ordered. Well, Cruise Critic fans took it to a whole new level after Cruise took the gold at the Book Expo America for humor, and now it is completely and utterly sold out.
Fortunately, my publisher is baking a whole new load of goodies for us, and they will be out probably by mid June. They are heading to the distributors now, for those who are waiting. I am truly thrilled and humbled by all this. Yes, humility is something that I am aware of, despite my many critics who think otherwise. It is a thing I take great pains to avoid, to be sure.
So for those many who helped propel Cruise Confidential forward, I thank you humbly. I promise to roam the boards on Cruise Critic as often as I can, and try to answer some of those excellent, random questions thrown through the void at me.
Fortunately, my publisher is baking a whole new load of goodies for us, and they will be out probably by mid June. They are heading to the distributors now, for those who are waiting. I am truly thrilled and humbled by all this. Yes, humility is something that I am aware of, despite my many critics who think otherwise. It is a thing I take great pains to avoid, to be sure.
So for those many who helped propel Cruise Confidential forward, I thank you humbly. I promise to roam the boards on Cruise Critic as often as I can, and try to answer some of those excellent, random questions thrown through the void at me.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Cruise book takes the Gold
Holy Cat! When I wrote Cruise Confidential, it was for many reasons. I can honestly say that nowhere in that big list was to win contests. Sure, we all would love to win a contest and get that stamp of approval, but it's really just sugar on top, you know? The book itself and the fans are what it's all about. Yeah, well, forget that... it's all about the gold now, baby. I just won the Gold at ForeWord's Humor Book of the Year, beating out a dozen finalists from all over the States. Coolness!
At the Book Expo America this weekend in NYC, I was pleasantly surprised to take two national awards. The 21st Annual Ben Franklin Humor Book of the Year was another fantastic pat on the back. One of the other finalists, David Desmond of "The Misadventures of Oliver Booth" fame, was actually in attendance and informed me first about that one. His book is next on my reading list.
So, for those critics who say I suck... well, I guess this doesn't change anything, but it sure helps my case!
At the Book Expo America this weekend in NYC, I was pleasantly surprised to take two national awards. The 21st Annual Ben Franklin Humor Book of the Year was another fantastic pat on the back. One of the other finalists, David Desmond of "The Misadventures of Oliver Booth" fame, was actually in attendance and informed me first about that one. His book is next on my reading list.
So, for those critics who say I suck... well, I guess this doesn't change anything, but it sure helps my case!
Friday, April 24, 2009
A Teacher Shall Lead the Way
Writing is, and should be, its own reward. The need for constructive criticism creates thick skin for a writer, though invariably there is no intention of assistance by readers. Certainly most professional reviewers are serving their own agendas. In my case, I have exposed a part of my life to the scrutiny of anyone so inclined to judge me. Sometimes its tough to be a writer.
But then, just when you need it, a brilliant spear of sunlight breaks through the clouds and gives you what you need. In my case, a fan gave me the single greatest compliment I have ever received. For those who adore education like myself, you may find this refreshing.
"I am currently teaching 12th grade English in a suburb of Allentown, PA. It's a challenge to keep them interested in any way, so I find that being able to tell them stories helps keep them listening... even if they're only semi-related to the curriculum. We just got done reading Hamlet (which is why it was so cool to be reading your book at the same time).
Aside from the obvious humor and intrigue of your stories, I have to tell you, it has been a valuable tool in my classroom. One of my goals is to teach my students that what we're learning in the classroom is actually relevant in the real world because they insist that 'nobody actually uses vocab words' and 'Shakespeare has no use in the real world.' Therefore, I always encourage them to look for and share examples of what we're discussing. It seems like every day I have been going into class saying 'I found one!!' And then I would share with them the vocab word you used in the chapter I had just read, or yet *another* Hamlet reference you had made in your book. So I guess I just wanted to say it's really nice to see a 'non-school book' that shows me and my students just how relevant our boring lessons can be."
Now, when I was younger I had a tremendous internal debate about whether I wanted to be a teacher or a writer. My college degree is in Art History, after all. In the end my lust for adventure won out and I chose the latter, also figuring that I could teach through writing. I have always believed that we need to raise the bar, and that even regular, pop entertainment need not be dummed down to the point of oblivion. Once a friend gave me a general reading schoolbook for twelve year-olds, from 1924. The level of erudition was so high I could not read it comfortably. Teacher Sandy Utsch of Pennsylvania, this blog goes out to you.
But then, just when you need it, a brilliant spear of sunlight breaks through the clouds and gives you what you need. In my case, a fan gave me the single greatest compliment I have ever received. For those who adore education like myself, you may find this refreshing.
"I am currently teaching 12th grade English in a suburb of Allentown, PA. It's a challenge to keep them interested in any way, so I find that being able to tell them stories helps keep them listening... even if they're only semi-related to the curriculum. We just got done reading Hamlet (which is why it was so cool to be reading your book at the same time).
Aside from the obvious humor and intrigue of your stories, I have to tell you, it has been a valuable tool in my classroom. One of my goals is to teach my students that what we're learning in the classroom is actually relevant in the real world because they insist that 'nobody actually uses vocab words' and 'Shakespeare has no use in the real world.' Therefore, I always encourage them to look for and share examples of what we're discussing. It seems like every day I have been going into class saying 'I found one!!' And then I would share with them the vocab word you used in the chapter I had just read, or yet *another* Hamlet reference you had made in your book. So I guess I just wanted to say it's really nice to see a 'non-school book' that shows me and my students just how relevant our boring lessons can be."
Now, when I was younger I had a tremendous internal debate about whether I wanted to be a teacher or a writer. My college degree is in Art History, after all. In the end my lust for adventure won out and I chose the latter, also figuring that I could teach through writing. I have always believed that we need to raise the bar, and that even regular, pop entertainment need not be dummed down to the point of oblivion. Once a friend gave me a general reading schoolbook for twelve year-olds, from 1924. The level of erudition was so high I could not read it comfortably. Teacher Sandy Utsch of Pennsylvania, this blog goes out to you.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Criticism, its benefits, and beautiful people
I am well aware that an author should never read reviews of his/her work. Being a champion of constructive criticism I thought I could glean something useful from my readers reviews and comments, not to mention the professionals who did so. Boy, was I wrong! Actually, I have learned a lot from this rather painful process. There seem to be three schools of thought regarding criticism of my book Cruise Confidential. I am open to all of them. Well, most of them.
School #1: those who expect me to be an investigative journalist. Some readers expect a 60 Minutes-style expose and are shocked when the story is, in fact, simply not dirty laundry but a man's life. Had any of those folks read any of the blurbs on the front or the back cover of the book, they would see I had no intention of being an investigative journalist. Descriptions like ANIMAL HOUSE should have been a clue. 'nuf said.
School #2: those who feel they are morally superior to me. Many readers are disgusted by the level of drinking described, as if sailors have a reputation for saintly behavior while in port. Some stop reading immediately after I mention my religion. Many attribute to me the behaviors I observe in others, making me guilty by association. That's all fine and to be expected. This school also encompasses all us Americans who bristle at any even hint that America is not being a shining pillar of perfection in all things. Everyone makes mistakes, people, governments, all. Some choose to acknowledge the obvious, while others choose to ignore it. 'nuf said.
School #3: there are many who refuse to believe there are as many attractive people on Carnival ships as I say. I like this one! For the record, some were only pretty on the outside. A little ethnocentrism happens here, and certainly beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Cruise ships are in the entertainment industry, and how many fat pop stars and actors do you know? When hiring internationally, you can hire based solely on appearance if you want, and many cruise lines do. Like everyone else who is no longer college-age, I was and am jealous of all the hot people around me that are, well, hotter than me. That's life.
I decided to give a little treat to my fans who want to see some of the people I speak of. Many of the juicier, more personal tales I cannot reveal who they are out of courtesy, but I thought a sampling of some of the beautiful people I hung around with would be fun. My new, stream-lined website has pictures of Leo, Xenia, Juci, and a few others. And to think, this was from before I hung out with the entertainers on the ships!
CruiseConfidential.info
School #1: those who expect me to be an investigative journalist. Some readers expect a 60 Minutes-style expose and are shocked when the story is, in fact, simply not dirty laundry but a man's life. Had any of those folks read any of the blurbs on the front or the back cover of the book, they would see I had no intention of being an investigative journalist. Descriptions like ANIMAL HOUSE should have been a clue. 'nuf said.
School #2: those who feel they are morally superior to me. Many readers are disgusted by the level of drinking described, as if sailors have a reputation for saintly behavior while in port. Some stop reading immediately after I mention my religion. Many attribute to me the behaviors I observe in others, making me guilty by association. That's all fine and to be expected. This school also encompasses all us Americans who bristle at any even hint that America is not being a shining pillar of perfection in all things. Everyone makes mistakes, people, governments, all. Some choose to acknowledge the obvious, while others choose to ignore it. 'nuf said.
School #3: there are many who refuse to believe there are as many attractive people on Carnival ships as I say. I like this one! For the record, some were only pretty on the outside. A little ethnocentrism happens here, and certainly beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Cruise ships are in the entertainment industry, and how many fat pop stars and actors do you know? When hiring internationally, you can hire based solely on appearance if you want, and many cruise lines do. Like everyone else who is no longer college-age, I was and am jealous of all the hot people around me that are, well, hotter than me. That's life.
I decided to give a little treat to my fans who want to see some of the people I speak of. Many of the juicier, more personal tales I cannot reveal who they are out of courtesy, but I thought a sampling of some of the beautiful people I hung around with would be fun. My new, stream-lined website has pictures of Leo, Xenia, Juci, and a few others. And to think, this was from before I hung out with the entertainers on the ships!
CruiseConfidential.info
Friday, April 3, 2009
Wanderlust and Lipstick
Is it just me, or is that the coolest name for a travel blog ever? While this very well-done blog offers the talents of numerous writers, I was thrilled to see a review of Cruise Confidential by Myscha Theriault. She is a food enthusiast after my own heart, and loves those ethnic cuisines. It was Romanian food (actually the produce harvested the old-fashioned way by yes, peasants) that lured me to Romania as much as my chasing after the women. I guess my first marriage to a vegetarian chef had some benefit!
Read what Myscha has to say about Cruise Confidential, then follow the link to the wonderful Wanderlust and Lipstick site. You'll find some of Myscha's other food-related blogs, too. Bon appetit, or rather as they say in Transylvania, pofta buna!
Read what Myscha has to say about Cruise Confidential, then follow the link to the wonderful Wanderlust and Lipstick site. You'll find some of Myscha's other food-related blogs, too. Bon appetit, or rather as they say in Transylvania, pofta buna!
Review from Wanderlust and Lipstick:
This Traveler’s Tales title by Brian David Bruns chronicles the author’s crazy year working for a cruise line and living aboard ship. Following his heart and going where most Americans fear to tread, Brun suffers through a brutal training period to follow his love interest who works for the same ship line.
An inside peek at the industry in general, Cruise Confidential also provides international insight through numerous stories of multicultural interaction between crew members from countries all over the world. Because the story is so personal and the living and working conditions so intimate and intense, perspectives of various cultural groups are illustrated in a way that can only come from living and working in constant close contact for an extended period of time. A helpful read for those considering employment in the cruise industry.
Click here for Wanderlust and Lipstick: Your Destination for Women's Travel
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
