Running Form

Yes, I know that the title of this blog is "Keeping Pace", and yet I rarely talk about athletics or training. I would like to remedy that, at least temporarily, by talking about the sport of running for a bit, before I go back to my regular ranting about politics, social phenomena, and why Kirk is better than Picard.

Background: I'm reading the book "Born to Run", and at the same time am participating in our company's "Healthworks Steps" challenge. I'm wearing a pedometer everywhere I go and am determined to record the 7000 steps per day that the challenge requires.

[Side comment: There are times when being a nerd has its advantages. For those of you who actually had dates for your prom and know what colors to wear after Labor Day, etc., the unsightly knob of a pedometer on your belt would aesthetically conflict with the lines in your impeccably-coordinated ensemble, creating a fashion faux pas that would materially lower your social status. For a nerd like myself, though, it distracts the attention from the spaghetti stains on my shirt and the mismatched Spongebob socks. It makes me look vaguely like a cyborg, or perhaps a K-Mart version of Bruce Wayne who forgot to remove his utility belt when changing back into his street clothes. In either case, it's a benefit to my social standing rather than a detriment.]

The Healthworks campaign is the company's latest attempt to increase the health and fitness of its employees. If I walk (or run) 7000 steps each day, I receive entries into a drawing for cool tech toys like iPads, iPods, and GPSs. I'm not sure what all I'd do with an iPad, but after my recent experiences in California, I know I sure could use a space-age navigational tool. So, even though I'm not really the target demographic for the Healthworks campaign, I'm enthusiastically participating for the slim chance of winning a useful electronic toy.

Unfortunately, most of the folks I've seen wearing the pedometers are the ones who work out anyway, whether the company provides incentives or not. So while the program may indeed be helping the healthy people be even healthier, the ones who could most use the exercise seem to remain at their desks, slamming down the Cheetos and Tums.

So, into this current environment where I'm momentarily focused on foot-based self-propulsion, I've become engrossed in a bestselling book about ultra-runners and people who can go 7 million steps without knee problems, hamstring glitches, or developing a seething hatred for the sport. In fact, "Born to Run" describes folks who garner intense joy from running, and uses them as effective evangelists for the beauty and perfection to be gained by returning to simpler ways. The author points out that humans have a deeply ingrained and historical genetic relationship with running—prior to the invention of sneakers, man's ability to outrun prey and escape from predators equated to survival...and everybody who managed to stay alive must've been pretty good at putting one foot in front of the other.

Now we have $150 shoes, Segways, golf carts...and a country full of Jabba the Hutts, interspersed with whining runner wanna-bees like myself hobbling around wearing ace bandages and smelling of BenGay. I would love to run like a panther and leap like a gazelle the way my ancestors did, but if I ever went hunting, the crunching and popping in my knees and ankles would give me away long before the beasties saw me coming.

Sigh.

Still, with the inspiration from the book and some running-form advice from friends, I'm cautiously optimistic that I'll be able to work through my current decrepit condition and someday regain my status as "Not a Complete Embarrassment". It will take discipline, commitment, and...

...Aw, who am I kidding? Doing all that stretching and stride modification stuff probably won't happen. I'm too lazy and I don't handle pain and discomfort well at all.

But...dadgummit. I have all these friends whose love for running is really a tad contagious. And there are books and videos and other inspirational materials I can tap into. And just because I'm realistic enough to know that I'm no ultra-athlete, it doesn't mean I have to just completely give up. Maybe I'll add just a little bit more running-related discipline into my schedule.

Perhaps I'll use my spiffy new bike trainer. And run, I don't know, one more day a week. And remember to touch my toes a couple of times during each workday. Get a massage every now and then. And then, take more hikes, play more tennis, and slam down entire jars of the most expensive vitamins. That should do it, don't you think?


I don't know for sure. But I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, have a great day!

Adventures with Mimes

Since it's topical, some people may read the subject line and misread it as "Miners". They just finished rescuing those subterranean dudes in Chile, and I'm very happy for the workers and their families. But that story has been adequately covered by other media, so the only comment I'll make is to observe that our news reporters are becoming more sophisticated: They all pronounced the country's name as "Chee-lay" rather than "Chilly", which surprised me. (I still bet that very few of them could find the country on a map, or identify whether it's closer to Yure-a-gway or Venz-oo-ayla.) Anyway, kudos to the rescue crews for a job well done, and to the news media for once again successfully turning human suffering into huge ratings.

(One more comment: I heard one speaker say that the rescue effort was comparable to the Apollo program. Um, OK. I think that's a bit like comparing Lou Bega to Led Zeppelin, but...whatever.)

Anyway, today's topic really is Mimes -- you know, those creepy guys with the face paint who always seem to get trapped in glass boxes and strong winds and stuff.

Don't worry, I didn't go to France without telling you. I'm still talking about my recent trip to San Francisco. It truly is an international city, though, and I heard dozens of different languages while I was there. (OK, I'm just guessing. Since I can't distinguish between, say, Armenian and Latvian, I could've heard the same languages over and over again. Even certain dialects of Spanish are all Greek to me.) And the mimes I want to discuss had a uniquely American flavor to them anyway. But we'll get to that. First, let me set the stage for the tale that follows:

I was traveling for a special project in Sunnyvale, CA, but didn't have to work over the weekend. Therefore...it's tourist time! Using the hotel's "Local Attractions" rack, I plotted out my adventures for both Saturday and Sunday. Saturday was when I ran the Bay Trail, which I've already discussed. After my run, I also toured the Intel Museum to see a bunch of circuit chips, and then drove out to Half Moon Bay. Traffic was horrid and the weather was crummy, so my visit at the bay was very short and involved no beach activities worth talking about. I did see the ocean, but overall it was a pretty dull Saturday.

Ah, but Sunday -- Sunday was rich in bloggable activity. After all, what could be more exciting than a trip to Alcatraz? The legendary home of such notables as Al Capone, "Machine Gun" Kelly, Clint Eastwood, and that 'Birdman' dude, Alcatraz promised a day full of history, chilling tales of crime and punishment, and likely encounters with a ghost or two. (If you've ever watched "Ghosthunters", then you know that every prison in the world is haunted by spirits of multiple murder victims, a couple of corrupt wardens, and at least one fair young maiden who mysteriously fell out a window while pining away for a loyal lover lost at sea.) I was really looking forward to it!


Of course, there was nothing in the brochure about the "34th Annual Glide Floss Bridge-to-Bridge 12K Run" being that morning, and drawing thousands of runners (and their vehicles) down to the piers.


Amazingly, I did manage to find a parking spot, and after a only few wrong turns and some significant walking, I was finally able to navigate the crowds and the irrational pier numbering system to find my way to the Alcatraz tour station. (Seriously, one section of piers go in the following order: 7, 3, 1, 24, 28...?? Apparently the San Francisco city planners somehow managed to skip 2nd grade arithmetic.) The tour site had many interesting signs explaining the history of the island, the harshness of imprisonment on "the Rock", and the statistics of escape attempts vs. bloated corpses floating in the harbor, and more. But the sign that really got my attention read "Next Available Tour: MONDAY!"

Bummer. Can't go to 'Traz, eh? So it's time for Plan B, then. Except that I didn't have a Plan B, and had no idea how to get anywhere other than back to my car. But being a good tourist with decent shoes, I decided to walk around and see what there was to see.

Pier 39 had restaurants and shops (and more importantly, restrooms). But the shops seemed to be aimed at folks who enjoyed fine dining and exotic jewelry, rather than those of us whose tastes run more toward twizzlers and 3 Stooges marathons. I didn't spend much time there.

But as I was leaving, I heard a voice aimed in my direction: "Say, Meester, you wanna ride biyseekle over Golden Get breeje?" I have to admit I was intrigued; a expatriot European selling chances to get up close and personal with legendary American iconography? OK, lady, let's hear your spiel.

For thurty-seex American Dollars, I could rent a mountain bike and ride it across the famous bridge, or anywhere else I wanted to go. They'd provide a map, a ferryboat ticket for a return trip, and a Kryptonite lock...and promised not to actually charge my credit card until I returned with the bike later in the day. The map was about as useful as one of the mazes on a Bob's Big Boy placemat, and I didn't have a water bottle, sunscreen, or any sort of flat tire contingency plan. But it was a lovely overcast day and I figured there'd be plenty of places to stop for a drink if I wanted...so I handed over my MasterCard, put a rubber band around my ankle to keep my jeans from getting caught in the chain, adjusted the seat height, and headed for the bridge.

I was not the only tourist with this idea. The bike lane across the bridge was one massive peloton, with most of the riders being overweight and dangerously inexperienced retirees who jabbered away in various eastern European dialects and gestured toward the various landmarks and sea vessels visible below. I would have no problem with such über-touristing, except for the fact that pack bicycling can be dangerous even for Lance Armstrong and company...and they are generally not one thin railing away from an 800-foot plunge into the Pacific Ocean. Not only that, but it was a two-way bike lane and there were commuter cyclists coming from the other direction in a much bigger hurry than camera-happy Franz, Liesl and Company going our way. I fully expected to see someone catapulted off the bridge, with their rented bicycle spinning down in a graceful arc beside them.

But despite the narrowness of the lane, the nearness to oblivion, and the potential road-rage of the frustrated commuter cyclists, I didn't see any accidents. It was just slow going. But we made it across, and I cruised on into downtown Sausalito. It was a bike-friendly place, but since I'm not much of a shopper nor connoisseur of seafood-based confectionery, I didn't spend a lot of time there.

Instead, I spent most of the rest of the afternoon being lost. And by "lost", I mean that I had a map and knew where I was going, but since the map didn't show any of the streets that actually had street signs posted, I had no idea where I was relative to my destination. The locals were nice, though, and didn't seem to be too surprised when yet another dimwit out-of-towner with a rubber band around his pantleg stopped them to ask for navigational assistance. After a few such impromptu conversations and a brief stop for some ice cream, I found my way to "Old Mill Park", home of "some of the world's tallest trees".

They weren't kidding. These trees were VERY tall, and gorgeous. The park itself was especially lovely now that the clouds had burned off and the afternoon sun could poke its way through the tree branches to sprinkle glitter across the picnic tables and pathways. But as usual when I'm vacationing solo, I stood there about two minutes and thought, "Well, this is great, but I really have no reason to hang around."

I did get involved in a brief conversation with a 10-year-old kid who had somehow missed the standard lecture against the dangers of talking to strangers. "Hey, Mister," he said, "do you know how to fix brake cables?" Well, surely I do, son. Let me take a look. "Oh wait," he said, "I figured it out." He snapped the cable back into its clip and then yelled "Mom! I need a new bike!" From somewhere in the woods, I heard his mom reply with the standard line parents have been using for centuries: "Then get a job!"

Not wishing to get involved in someone else's domestic disputes, I hopped back on the bike and tooled off the way I came. Sausalito was having an antique car show, complete with a crappy CCR cover band, so I hung around there for a bit, taking time to decide whether I should ride my bike back across the bridge, or spend the $10 for a ferry boat ticket. I knew I would enjoy the bike ride and would benefit from the exercise, but then again...when was I ever going to take a ferry boat across the Bay? Should be fun.

They stacked the bikes next to each other in the lower deck of the ferryboat and sent the tourists up into the open air of the upper two levels. I had some concern that there'd be problems identifying which bike belongs to whom at the end of the ride; indeed, the only way I'd recognize my rental was by the half-finished Diet Coke in the handlebar bag. Otherwise, all the rentals were identical. Then again, the rental company didn't note the serial number of the bike I left with, so I suppose as long as I came back with something that had two wheels, they wouldn't care.

We saw the Golden Gate Bridge, of course.

Alcatraz.

And of course, the San Francisco skyline.

It was a great ride! And because we passed a parked submarine and a much larger "liberty ship" in the harbor, I now knew of a couple of other tourist attractions I could visit if I decided to come back another time.

I turned in the bike, took some video of the sea lions, and spend a few moments pondering why they were barking so much and shoving each other around. There were clearly "King of the Hill" battles going on among the critters, but it appeared to me that there was plenty of room for them all to spread out and have space to stretch and catch rays without elbowing each other. (Wait, do sea lions have elbows? I have no idea.) Perhaps they're just like human kids, daring their siblings to cross the line onto "my" side of the car seat or whatever. In any case, their belly-aching sure seemed to entertain the tourists.

And there we go -- we've come neatly back to the focus of today's entry: tourist entertainment (AKA, mimes). Sure, there are bridges and boats and animals and probably even a wax museum or two down along the harbor. But wherever there are excess dollars engorging tourist pockets, you're also going to have street performers. There are folks like the saxophone player who had decent chops and swung the groove on "Take 5" with aplomb and was taking in a pretty good chunk of well-deserved cash, and there are the skateboarders who simply annoy everyone. But music and athletics are easy to understand compared to the baffling concept of the "living statue".

These guys cover themselves with metallic paint, and then stand on the sidewalk as if they're made of bronze, attempting not to move until it appears that either someone is going to put some money in their tin can, or an innocent and unsuspecting child is going to wander close enough to have the bejeezus scared out of him when the creepy thing suddenly comes to life. As with Irish folk dancing, armpit farting, or yodeling like Yoko Ono, you are forced to admit that it requires some practice to achieve expertise in the field. But that does not answer the question as to WHY? What could possibly possess a person to think that slathering himself with Sherwin Williams and standing still could ever be considered a "profession"? It's creepy, perverted, and just plain wrong...like facism and rap music.

Nevertheless, they're out there. And while I suppose that a motionless madman in metalpaint is preferable to a white-faced, stripey-shirted, suspender-wearin' goomer who's moonwalking in a nonexistent wind, they're still pretty annoying. So please consider this a warning; if you go to San Francisco and want to hang out by the piers, you'd better prepare yourself to see these unholy modernist mimes gathering near the sea lions. Take precautions, and think about how you'll explain this to your children if they happen to see one. "If you don't finish college and therefore can't get a job, this is what happens to you," etc.

In the meantime, please enjoy the changing of the seasons, and have a great day!

Shore Birds

Based on comments I've made in the past, you may get the idea that I'm not all that fond of California. Oh sure, they had a chance to have Gary Coleman as their Governor and they messed it up. And their ultra-nanny whacko-ism does make you question their good sense (I mean, do we really need placards every ten feet along the Golden Gate bridge saying "Jumping from this bridge is recognized by the State of California to be potentially hazardous to your human structural integrity: All jumpers must wash hands with soap and water before leaping."?) They want to ban Happy Meals because toys make kids fat. The visibility of their street signage is abysmal, their traffic moves like aspen leaves in a rain gutter, and for some inexplicable reason they continue to allow Oakland to exist. They obviously have their problems.

But there are great things about the state, as well. I mean, if you can't have Gary Coleman, then Arnold is probably the next best thing, right? And they've got some impressive big ol' trees, some gorgeous beaches, and enough sea lions to feed John Goodman; not to mention some spectacular vistas of both mountains and seashore. And the San Francisco Bay is encircled by a fabulous trail system.

My "offsite office" is located in Sunnyvale, a few hundred yards south of the innermost tip of the Bay. I asked my local coworkers if there were any good running paths in the neighborhood, and was told about the Bay Trail. Perfect! It literally follows the bay's shoreline, passes right behind the building I'm working in, and continues for more miles than I'd ever want to run. I decided to check it out by doing a ten-mile workout over the weekend.

My first surprise was the goats. There was a nice trailhead parking lot, but when I pulled in, I noticed a gaggle of goats grazing in the grass. At first I was a little disoriented, since in Colorado the only goats you'll see will be way up high in the mountains. Then I became a little nervous, because those things have weird, demented-looking eyeballs, and very sharp horns. Were they guarding the trail with the intention of preventing access? I had a vision of Tim the Enchanter taking the place of the Black Knight and bleating "None shall paa-aa-aaahhs".

But then I remembered hearing something about Californians using goats for weed control. And as I approached the actual trailhead, I could see that the behorned ruminants were actually behind a fence and couldn't spear me with their horrible head-tusks anyway. Therefore, I began my run.


The trail followed the shore, but also crossed over a few levees, which you can see in this photo. To the north, I could see the other side of the bay. To the south were buildings belonging to government agencies and defense contractors. There were signs all along the fence that said something to the effect of "Anyone taking pictures of these buildings (or even staring in this general direction for too long) will be considered a commie spy, and will be dealt with harshly." There were some very interesting buildings there, but you'll have to use your imagination for that part of the trail.

I'm not sure what the levees were for; they just seemed to divide this corner of the bay into smaller puddles, which didn't appear to be very deep. As with most non-flowing seawater areas, there was a distinctive odor of brine, decaying vegetation, and raw fish. Dozens of different kinds of birds waded in these pools and dined upon whatever lurked therein. It kinda made me wish I knew something about birds so I could identify their species.

Nah, just kidding. The only birds I care about are the chickens that end up in my burritos.

Mmmm, chicken burritos!

Anyway, since there's no waves crashing upon the shore in these still waters, it was pretty quiet. But the aforementioned birds did do their share of squawking, tweeting, and hooting. If I were Doctor Doolittle, I'd have told them to relax as I ran by; I'm just some harmless dude getting some exercise. But without such reassurances, I guess they had to respond with the standard "Hmmm, he's higher on the food chain -- guess I'd better fly away before he gets too close" reaction. Some of them were probably getting irritated with me, cuz they'd fly 100 yards down the shoreline and alight...only to take off again as I approached. A couple of these white, storky-looking goomers must've done that a half dozen times before they finally tried a different direction.

So, here I am running along with my GPS watch ticking off the miles for me. But I keep hearing the watch beeping when I'm not anywhere near the point where it should beep. What's that all about? Hmm.

Well, after this happened a few times, I finally figured it out -- some of the birds happened to chirp at the exact same frequency as the watch, and were just doing their little beepy birdcalls at random times as I passed, causing me to think I was passing a mile mark when I obviously wasn't. So puzzle me this, Darwinians: What mechanism would cause an avian species to evolve a chirp that sounds exactly like an electronic device? What survival mechanism is enabled by the ability to imitate a watch alarm?

HA! I caught you actually thinking about it, didn't I? Well, I hate to tell you this, but it's a logical fallacy to even ponder the question, because the REAL question is why the watchmakers chose to emit sounds that mimic shore birds: So there.

The answer is simple: What's annoying is annoying. And certain frequencies cut right through the human ability to ignore ambient noise. (Think of the McDonalds French Fry Vat Alarm...is there a more annoying sound on the entire planet? The machine's designer probably had pet canaries or something.)

Of course, after I had worked through this thoughtful analysis, a friend pointed out that I didn't know for a fact that the sound I was hearing was actually a bird. "Maybe it was a bug," she said. A bug??

Well, she is from Florida, and for all I know they have bugs down there that can carry on conversations and play the trombone. After all, crickets and cicadas can create a racket loud enough to rival a motel air conditioner, so why couldn't some San Francisco Bay bug be able to beep like a Garmin? It is plausible, I suppose.

Anyway, the point is that I had a lovely run along the Bay, and would recommend the trail to anyone who wants to exercise in that part of California. That's all I'm sayin'. Next topic: The new breed of mimes. Stay tuned, and have a great day!

Travel Adaptations

Yeah, I know -- It's not at all like the Pioneers or Columbus or anything. The modern traveler does not have to worry about scurvy, sea serpents, injuns, ba'ars, or Buford "Mad Dog" Tannen. Nonetheless, we have our challenges. I've already mentioned the annoyance generated by hotel pillows sized for Peter Mayhew and airplane seats sized for Kenny Baker, as well as the difficulties inherent in finding restaurants (and non-rap radio stations) while driving a retarded rental car on poorly-marked streets.

Today I shall talk about a few more traveler's traumas. But before you fill my inbox with comments about how your great-grandfather had to eat Alferd Packer's leftovers and then brush his teeth with porcupine quills, let me assure you that I am 100% aware that my tribulations are trivial, and that that my worst day of suffering is still ten times better than the finest day a Norweigian could ever have. Still, regardless of my relative catbird-seatedness compared to the Third World, I see no reason this should prevent me from pointing out where things I encounter could be improved. I mean, just because Donald Trump has millions of dollars and dozens of wives, it doesn't mean he can't go out and look for a better barber, right?

Here are a few of my observations:

• While I appreciate the idea of individual room climate controls, I do wonder why motels always seem to invest in "Sound-O-Niagara" brand window air conditioners. Even on the "Low Fan" setting, these units typically output decibels with astounding generosity, rattling your fillings and making the coins you tossed on the desk twitch around like an electric football game. With some minor fiddling, it's usually possible to achieve a comfortable room temperature, but there is often a compromise between this comfort and the desire to pass the night without the constant feeling that there's a Luftwaffe landing strip beside your bed.



• In a previous post, I complained about rooms that have the useless and annoying bathroom vent fan hardwired into the light switch, so there's no need to rehash that topic here. But there is a potential side effect that I will mention: Being left in the dark while taking a bath.
  
  How does this happen, you ask? Well, this particular hotel has motion detectors in line with the room's light switches -- so if nobody moves for a while, the lights turn themselves off. While I normally think these things are idiotic because I'm perfectly capable of turning out the lights myself when I'm finished in a room...in the case of a hotel, it makes sense to me. But because I didn't want to use the bathroom light because of the chainsaw-esque fan noise, I turned on the front hall light to illuminate the book I was reading while soaking in the bathtub. Worked fine...until the requisite "no motion" period had passed and the light extinguished itself. Based on previous experience, I knew that it would come back on if there was motion within about 10 seconds or so, so I reached out of the tub, grabbed my towel, and tossed it out into the now-dark hallway.
  
  Which of course resulted in me being in the tub in the dark, and without a towel. I'd probably break my neck slipping on the invisible wet floor trying to get the lights back on; and it's all the electrician's fault.
  
  
  
  As you may have deduced, though, I survived. So my next question would be this: Does anyone actually use the iron and ironing board they sometimes put in hotel rooms? I've certainly opened my luggage to find wrinkles galore, yet have never quite managed to motivate myself to fire up the ol' institutional steam iron. Does anyone?
  


• Until I started renting cars for business travel, I had never noticed that a car's fuel gage typically has a graphic indicator showing which side of the car contains the fuel tank and gas cap. That's handy to know...but it does raise the question of why such things aren't standardized. Same with headlight switches, windshield wiper controls, and turn signals. I mean, we were able to standardize the position of accelerator pedals vs. brakes, right? And we all drive on the same side of the road, etc., so why can't we agree on where to put these all these common controls?
  
  (Well, OK, I guess the countries in the Southern Hemisphere drive on the wrong side of the road, but I think they have to because of the Coriolis effect. It's like the toilets that swirl backwards when they flush -- I'm sure no one would choose to drive southpaw or use the Metric System, or any of those other commie weirdo things they do down there. Right?)



• There are many other small challenges to one's adaptability. For example: When you're away from your hometown, the TV newscasters may appear to be siblings (or clones) of the VO5-plastered animatronic teleprompter readers you're familiar with...but they talk of streets, towns, and politicians that you've never heard of. It can be disorienting. And when you go to the hotel lobby for your morning cheerios and pomegranate juice, your only choice of reading material is USA Today, rather than -- well, OK, I haven't subscribed to a newspaper for years, but you know what I mean. The Cartoon Network isn't on the same channel it is at home, and the icemaker doesn't have a "crushed" setting like the unit in your house -- and you really don't walk down the hall to get ice anyway, because you didn't bring your favorite bunny slippers.

Yep, you sure have to be flexible when you're on the road. I know that I suggested earlier that our forefathers had it tougher because the conditions were more challenging (no phone, no lights, no motorcars, etc)...but I think I'm going to change my position on that topic. After all, they had to deal with bedbugs, inadequate HVAC, and pre-Charmin personal hygiene challenges even when they were at home -- so adapting to life on the road was a far smaller shift for them. It's when you get used to all the personal comforts of modern American life that encountering excursion-related differences becomes a hardship. (This fact does not bode well for our ability to survive a Mad-Max/Zombie Apocalypse world, but that's a topic for a different essay.)

Anyway, now that I've identified some of the difficulties encountered during travel, I might well become better able to deal with whatever arises during future trips. I'll be sure to let you know. In the meantime, be sure to take your slippers with you, and have a great day!