Day dawned a bright, dry 80 degrees. The staging area was at a nice picnic area at the base of South Mountain. I don’t' know what the f*ck I was thinking, but I was a bit surprised when I saw that the road, which was the course, wound its way up the damn mountain.

I made my way to the back to be with others who'd likely be about my pace. There were about 600 or so runners, and I let most of them pass before I started moving for the front. My chip beeped when I crossed the timing line; I was off.

I had a little trouble finding my pace running with the pack. The steady sound of feet set the beat and I tried to follow. Soon enough, the pack was strung out as the ascent began. I forgot to bring a personal timing device, so I let my wind be the judge of run and rest breaks. I was a little disappointed at how quickly I started to huff and puff, but then I haven't run uphill like I was today. Soon I found a pace and a small pack who were close to the same pace.

The elite runners had covered 2/3 of the course by the time my pack was completing the first 1/3. From then on it was a steady two-way stream of traffic until my pack finally made it up the mountain to the water station. We rounded the turn and headed back down much to everyone's relief. Ii was at this point, when started heading back down the course, that I started enjoying the vistas, the landscape, and the mountains. On the way up, I was fixated on the ascent focusing on not much more than the backsides of the group that was in front of me.

Going downhill was better from an effort standpoint but required enough control to keep from careening off into desert or into people in front of me. As we were running down the course, a few of the elites were going for a second lap and they yelled encouragement to us as we worked our way down the hill. Work being the operative word here; the elites are fine-tuned machines. My pack was working on guts and determination.

I came to the finish line as the clock turned 40:00. I know I didn't start at 0:00, so I don't know my exact time, but, to my surprise, I was close to my 12:00/mile pace because I felt like I was going much slower. I'll chalk my perception up to a good, difficult for me course, the excitement of running with other bodies, and the fact that my body just must like the 12:00/mile pace.

I really liked the experience. For me, the race was well organized, friendly, and another challenge met.

What's not to like?

Race Post-Mortem

Here's my official time.


38:58 for 5K makes for a 12:31/mile pace. Gotta start somewhere. I am proud of the opportunity. The value of grasping opportunity and rising from the bottom isn't safe in a time when big government wants to mandate outcomes. That has to be a bummer for those who run 2.5x faster than me. Poor bastards.

Summertime in the UP. We're on a small lake just south of Lake Superior. We're visiting Frank Sarvello (spelling from memory) who at the time was Sheriff in Ishpeming. Frank had a big family, I am standing next to one of his thousands of daughters. Tiger hat squarely affixed to my dome. Holy Cross Crusaders sweat shirt representing the West Side.

The last 40 yards of Pat's Run, a 4.2 mile run/walk that honor's the memory of Pat Tillman, covers 42 yards of Sun Devil Stadium's playing field. Pat wore number 42 when he played so brilliantly for the Sun Devils.

I haven't run much in the last 30 years. Maybe a hop here or quick stride there. Arthritis came upon me in my early 20s. My knees ached; my feet and my hands killed me. There were times during the 70s that I used a cane to help me walk. But, I am lucky. My type of arthritis burns itself out over time. Mine has left me stiff and some motion is restricted, but the nasty, mind-numbing, anger-producing, self-loathing pain has passed. A year ago I told Lori that I was going to do the Pat Tillman Run. Today I did. I took the tiny photo above with my cell phone as I burst (not really) joyfully (this is true) through the tunnel and hit Frank Kush Field at Sun Devil Stadium. What a thrill!


My re-entry to competition has been fueled by the pain's passing. I have gradually stepped up my training activities. Last fall I began running in the pool. In January I began to run around the neighborhood once a week. At first I had no wind. I sucked air big time. Over time I found my wind and a pace that supported my rickety knees and tender toes. Around the Super Bowl I changed from running in the pool to swimming. Beginning in April I started running in the neighborhood 3-4 nights per week. I made only one promise to myself: I would not, regardless of how I felt, I would not finish last.

20,000 people ran or walked the race. The start was staggered based upon how a person's pace for mile. I started way in the back. I had no idea of how fast I would be. I never timed myself when I practiced instead I relished reconnecting with my inner player.

It took about 20 minutes for our group to make the start; during our wait, we watched the elite runners pass the start and head for the finish. "Oh shit," I said aloud to the nodding agreement of my fellow runners. After watching the gifted runner sprint for home we finally reached the starting line. Crossing the line was an emotional, triumphant, and personal moment for me, even among a crowd of 20,000.

The first mile was the worst. My legs felt like cement. As I ran, I passed many people, mostly walkers, who had started before me. There were about five people that I recognized through the run. We took turns passing one another through the course. Coursing through the walkers was good sport. I ran 2/3-3/4 of the race, which wound it's way north of the Sun Devil Stadium through the rolling streets that bound Papago Park. I knew I wouldn't run the entire 4.2 miles in my first race.

As I passed the 3-mile marker my left foot began to throb some. My new running shoes served me well, cushioning my plodding strides. I slowed my pace, the pain passed, and I headed for the finish. Entering the stadium was as cool as I thought it would be. ASU football players stood shoulder to shoulder encouraging us as we ran down the field. I gave everything I had once I reached the field heading toward the finish. Quickly, I went running in a crowd to running alone. No one was near me and I was heading down the sidelines all alone. I gave my best burst. Hit the finish just as a race official said 10,300. I didn't finish last. There were 20,000 of us at the start and 13,000 or so wore the timing chip.

My official time was 55:09. You may view my results below. Next year I'll improve my time. I played 18 holes the next day and broke 90 at the always testing Aguila. My shins barked pretty good for a couple of days. I got back in the pool on Monday to stretch and swim so as not to lose my wind. I'll start running again next week.

Here are the usual suspects in the backyard. Pansies and petunias are thriving with more light, moderate temps, and a few good soaking from the winter rains. I added geranium over the weekend. If you're a fan of wildflowers now's the time to be thinking about the Sonoran desert. The bucket on the right is a Chinese Water Bucket from the early part of the 20th century. Got it a place called Blue Crate Findings. The CWB has taken a few good soakings and it's hanging tough. I've got a bigger red one in front that's holding primrose. The folks at Blue Crate are always friendly and helpful.

You may remember shot of the yellow hisbiscus from last year. Here's a cousin of the yellow hibiscus, purple hibiscus. This is the year's first bloom of the purple hibiscus, which sit in our front yard, which is north facing. Purple hibiscus will prosper as the sun moves northward and expose the northern face bushes to more direct light.

The tree out front is an evergreen pear. It doesn't bring forth fruit but it does burst into blossom near the same weekend every year. The bloom are white and soft; however, rather than giving off the sweet bouquet that one associates with citrus, it gives off a sour aroma that is surprising more than unpleasant. The local wild bees don't mind. They're busy in the tree from dawn till dusk. You can see the ancient McDowell Mountains in the background.

Here's niece Di with one of planet's newest and gentlest souls, daughter Ellie. Di and Ellie made a quick trip from their Baltimore home to grace us with their presence. Ellie is a great kid and Di's a great mom. We're better people for having them on our team.

There's a ton going on in this photo. Its a picture shot by a photographer for the Lansing State Journal. It appeared front and center of the Society section of their Going Back to School Sunday issue.

The photo is meant to depict my brother Paul heading off to kindergarten. He's shaking hands with our dog Susie as our mother, purse on the ground, stand watch. I am on my way up the stairs of the Skywalk that spanned Saginaw Highway a couple of block south of Bretton Woods school. I have the half smile/sneer that kids my age had when they're last few days of summer vacation included monkey suits and picture posing.

The photo was taken about six weeks after my dad died. My mother was good friends with the society editor of the paper, and as a result, family members had appear before and would appear again in the society section. My mom had a thing for society. My dad didn't but society was quite fond of him. If you look at the picture carefully, the only two who seem to be enjoying themselves are my mom and Susie.

Susie was a gentle Golden who'd had a few litters and had mellowed except for when it thundered. Then she'd panic and shake and hide and/or jump through screen doors. We had no idea how to work with the poor girl. She had a son named Mike who lived a few blocks away. During that time, most family pets would occasionally roam the neighborhood. Our neighborhood was an unincoporated suburb with large lots and gravel roads. Mike was a monster-sized Golden. His head was the size of a large pumpkin. He come to meet Suzie with great leaping affection. They'd roll and nip and chase and, once in awhile, someone would let Mike in the house by mistake. Mike and Suzie would romp in the house and it drove my mother crazy. Wonder who it was that use to let Mike in the house?

The Skywalk was all about progress. Saginaw Highway was a four-lane racetrack. There were few stop lights. Speeds were high. Left turns were dangerous. Crossing on foot or on bike was a high-risk proposition. The Skywalk was the answer. Pedestrians were now safe. However, check out the steps on the Skywalk. Think any kid hauled his/her bike up and down the steps? They didn't. I didn't. Parents thought we were safe. We weren't. We back to the high-risk stuff. It beat wrestling your bike up and down the step twice a day.

However sneery-faced I was, it's hard to match the look on my brother's face. He looks as if he's just taken a bite from a lemon sandwich. I am not sure if he was all that jazzed about going to school. I know for a fact that I wasn't. Heck, who was?

What really grabs me about this photo is that there is no one else around. Those are my most lasting memories of that time. I went to Saint Gerards. I walked or rode by Bretton Woods evey day. Our starting time differed from theirs. I didn't have anyone near me who went to StGs. So, I rode, or walked, alone. I can still remember the sound of the wind whipping high and cold through the elm trees. It sounded like an angry Lake Michigan. Couple that with a low, gray, spiteful sky and you had a recipe for lonliness. Those were cold, lonely days even with my mug in this Society section.

Picture courtesy of the East Valley Tribune

Here's Tim Hightower crashing into the end zone for the Cardinals go ahead score in the NFC championship game versus the Eagles.

I would be lying if I told you I saw it coming. I didn't, which makes the Cardinals sweep of the conference playoff games such a thrill. Sure, I watched every game this year. Honestly, I had no idea this was coming.

My affection for the Cardinals has been gradual. The Cards came to town in '88. In those days I lived a couple of blocks from the stadium. It was easy to walk over to the stadium near kick-off, buy a less than face value seat, find a spot in the shade and watch the game. My first Cardinal memory is watching the elegant graceful Art Monk catch a ball over the middle and glide untouched 35-40 yards to the end zone.

The Cardinals have been in the Bidwill family since the 30s. Bill Bidwill, the current patriarch, of the Bidwill clan was a ballboy the last time the (Chicago) Cardinals won the NFL Championship. It was no small irony that on Sunday he held the George Halas Trophy. It is said that the Bidwills left Chicago for Saint Louis after losing a Chicago turf war with Halas.

Bidwill senior is much vilified among those who blab about football. He's a Milqtoastian-type of character, who doesn't mind giving off the aura that he's three-steps beyond a skinflint. Privately, it is said that he is a devout person who prefers to have his charity work to be anonymous. Believe what you like.

I am in the middle of enjoying this improbable run. I intend to keep on enjoying it. I am asking no questions, and I have no answers when anybody asks. It's the type of thing that happens in sports. For that, I am grateful.

An Editor’s Tribute to Her Own Working Mom

Elizabeth Hughes is the daughter of a good friend of mine. He can be proud of his daughter's beautifully written tribute to her mother, my friend's wife.

A noted writing expert wrote that good writing comes from clear thinking. Elizabeth wrote about one of life's greatest challenges and handled this difficult topic with grace, elegance, honesty, and clarity.

Congratulations Elizabeth and much love to your family.

(Click on the headline to link to Elizabeth's article.)

Al Kaline, the picture of youth. He went straight from the sandlot of Baltimore to become win the AL batting crown in 1955. I won't dull you with tales of this career--his stats are elegantly laid out here.

I do have one story about a day in Tiger Stadium that features Al. It was the summer of '68 and the Tigers were cruising toward their World Championship. Al broke his collarbone in the Spring and in late July/early August he made his return to the line-up. The Tigers were playing a Sunday doubleheader against the Oakland A's. We were sitting in the first row of the upper deck between third base and the left-field foul pole. The A's bullpen was directly below us.

Doubleheaders were a fan's delight. Two full games with plenty of time between games to make sure that all the Stroh's you needed came your way. Kaline was penciled in to start the second game, and, sure enough, he came out between games to stretch and to do a little running.

Our section was a typical Detroit crowd. Blue collar, couple of dogs and couple of beers, and much adoration for their dear bengals. Everyone loved Kaline and there was much buzz about seeing our dear Al in the nightcap. Except for one guy. Today we'd call him a little person. He referred to himself as a midget. He had smuggled in a pint of something and by the end of the first game he mixed most with a couple of cokes. By the beginning of the second game he was pulling directly from the bottle, sucking the last of the syrupy goodness down his gullet.

Mr Small Person became more agitated as time passed. Before the start of the second game he started to complain about Kaline. Seemed he sent Al a get well card when Al was hurt, and Al had not returned the favor when Mr. Small Guy was hospitalized with gall bladder trouble.

By the time the 2nd game had started our friend had has enough. He had climbed up and was now standing on his seat. Then he started yelling at Kaline, the rightfielder. Remember, our seats were in left so our friend was in no position to have an affect on Kaline's day. Nonetheless, our friend, now in fine state of agitation kept on. "Hey Kaline! Remember the Midget," he yelled. "I sent you a god damn get well card. Think you coulda sent one to me? NOOOOOOOOOOO! Mr. Bigshot doesn't have time for midgets."

And thus it went, until our friend finally ran out of gas. He and his date date had had enough, packed up what was salvageable of their dear and headed for the exit.

The Tigs swept the doubleheader against the young A's. Kaline got a couple of hits and much love from his adoring fans.

A cool part of the Insight Bowl is that its next door to downtown Tempe's new year's eve bash. Here's an action shot of newphew Mike rocking on the bash's air guitar stage. This was Mike's second year of wowing the crowd with his self-styled performance to the Police's Message in a Bottle.
Mike was not pleased with this year's air guitar organizers. Last year featured solo performers who were competing to win a Wii. This year it was a free-for-all, and organizers allowed multiple performers on stage simultaneously. Mike, who had been working on his routine for some time, felt as though the organizers had cheapened the event.

2008 passed with another trip to the Insight Bowl. Insight is a minor bowl that pits the 6th place finishers in the Big 10 and Big 12. Sixth place? Yup. Go figure.
Kansas and Minnesota, two venerable schools from the prarie, matched skills this year. Kansas had the better of the skills and won easily.
2008 passed gracefully and provided the sunset above which was a spectral delight. The phone camera shot above doesn't do justice to the calming hues thrown by the setting sun.
I saluted 2008's passing with a few cold beers and seat in Sun Devil stadiums west-facing upper deck. For most games, west-facing seats guarantee that you'll have your hide burned and handed back to you by the desert sun. This time of year, however, is tolerable, and the view provides the lucky few with a sunset that can't be beaten.