Up with The Concrete Guys this morning! Okay, not really. I'm going to put that off for a coupla hours, since I have to dig/mix/pour all by my lonesome. But we were up with The Crying Sickly Children this morning. Okay, so I didn't exactly get up, per se, rather I was merely awoken. Mrs. Ditchman did all the getting up, managing, and handling. I just lay there, thankful that she is such an attentive, conscientious mother.
So attentive and conscientious, in fact, that she chided me for yesterday's blog post. She doesn't often mention the blog around the house (leaving me wondering constantly about its own significance) so I take it seriously when it comes up. She said that she didn't like me referring to our friend Massimo as The Winemaker. "But he is the winemaker!" I cried. I think she was just annoyed that I had taken our family buddy and turned him into some sort of cultish, messianic figure defined by his vocation. I thought about it for a bit and came to the conclusion that I might be insulted if I was consistently referred to as The Blogger, or The Writer, or The Contractor, or worse: The Aluminum Patio Fabricator, even if it was in a cultish and messianic context. (Although, The Fabricator has a nice superhero ring to it. I think I would find it entertaining and funny if everyone started calling me The Fabricator. Feel free. "Look! In the backyard! It's a builder! It's an inventor! No! It's just a guy making sh!t up! It's... The Fabricator!") So I want to apologize for it: Sorry, Massimo. You will now be referred to only as The Italian Brother.
Thus ends our daily retraction.
[I want to add that I resisted the temptation to refer to Mrs. Ditchman as The Nagger, which had a comical ring to it, but I am wise enough to know that my new nickname as a result would soon be The Sufferer.]
It occurred to me how, interestingly, some vocations just become part of your name, like when you're a priest or a doctor, but become a General Contractor and no one ever calls you "Sir." Then it occurred to me, I wasn't a General Contractor as in "army officer of a very high rank," but rather a General Contractor as in "not specialized or limited in range of subject, application, and activity." And then I got kinda bummed out and wondered what all that extensive licensing was for.
Oh, I know exactly what it was all for: it was so I could go out and dig a bunch of holes today. I would call myself The Digger, but that name is already taken. Poor guy. Currently he is more apt to go by the moniker: The Snot Bearer.
~
Monday, June 8, 2009
I have a friend who ran a slew of marathons over a period of a couple months at one point. I remember asking him about it, and I think his response was something like: "It was stupid." And at the marathon expo recently I saw that guy who ran 52 marathons in 52 weeks. He was sitting (well-deserved) behind a little table and signing his book. At one point, he got up to get something and he leapt out of his chair like a deranged squirrel and bolted around, totally energized. I watched. I wanted to ask him something, like "What the hell is wrong with you?" but thought against it, thought it might be rude. Anyway, I am not like that man. I am more like the previously mentioned man.
Who was in his twenties when he did it. I'm at the threshold of 40, and it seems a mighty Big Door. I can do it, though. I can run these things, but the recovery period is a long haul of fatigue. With all the work, last week was a tough week. I'm surprised I didn't fall deathly ill from a diminished immune system (though I suppose I still could), and I feel a certain slowness even now, as I lift my arms up to the keyboard. I may benefit from a higher chair. Oh yes, A higher chair is in your future, read the fortune. (Of course, a vague fortune like that could also mean another baby, which would do me in for sure. These double meanings...)
So I didn't make it to the Camp Pendleton Mud Run this weekend, and left Mrs. Ditchman to her own devices. (When did we become the "running" family?) She did well, and phoned me from the beer tent, proudly bragging about how she conquered both wall obstacles without help from any Marines. My hero.
And then yesterday was a Home Show day, dammit. Hard as I tried, I couldn't get out of this one, and I lived through another day of setting-up and tearing-down our display, of avoiding obnoxious questions from potential customers, and of chasing the kids around in the sun, all while wearing my lamentable business polo shirt. I was glad we did it, however, because we are now more likely to have bacon on the table through August. Good. Very good.
And then last night's unexpected guest: The Winemaker! Hark: the herald angels sing! The Winemaker calls at the end of a long work day when you're atop the ladder and looking forward to full, all-out couch submission, and announces through the crackling receiver "I'm in town! Just a few minutes away! How about a drink?!" which is funny, given that he's been judging wine at some competition and tipping the stuff back for the last 48 hours. But only a damn fool turns down a visit from The Winemaker, so we went full throttle into clean house/feed babies mode, locating a second wind somewhere. "He's coming!" "He'll be here any minute!" Apparently, it is like having over the Bishop, and there is a certain amount of suburban purification that must happen before his arrival. Much to the chagrin of my wife, I wedged in a brief shower. (Incidentally, last week I broke the shower fixture. Lacking muscle control on a Thursday night, I ripped the thing clean off with my bare hand. Now we use an old rusty crescent wrench, which was a laugh in the hurried rush last night.) Also, I lit the barbecue. Put on music. Swept the local mess beneath the couch. The kids were screaming, wailing, spitting up. It's been a long, damn week, but I am not a damn fool.
The Winemaker arrives! He enters authoritatively, carrying a slab of tri-tip under one arm, and bottles of wine in the other. We now look swell, normal, composed yet expectant. The kids have calmed down and have engaged "charm" mode. We eventually get them to bath and bed after a fine meal, clear the dishes, and then sit around the big table like the adults that we are. We pour a few more glasses. I ask him how he does it, all the drinking, for work, (which I always ask him,) and he says, "Allow me to put it into terms you may understand. When you go run a marathon, do you just get up one morning and go run 26 miles, from nothing?"
"No," I say. "You train. You pace yourself." And with that, he clinked my glass and toasted me. We continue to talk, laugh, drink. It's been a while, Winemaker... We share The Secrets of the Small Business, like old corporate professionals, but we also talk of parenting. The Winemaker shows us impossibly cute pictures of his kids. At one point I get up to get another drink, but, surprisingly, The Winemaker has to go. I always brace myself for a long night of trying to keep up with The Winemaker, and this night he let us down easy. So we bade him farewell. Mrs. Ditchman went up to bed. I prepped the coffee for the morning. What a weekend. What a week. What a life.
I love The Winemaker. I think had he not arrived unexpected last night I would have fallen asleep on the couch, miserably considering the week past and week to come, but instead it was all forgotten for a few hours as we enjoyed each other's sudden company. He just blew through, intentionally/unintentionally leaving a couple unopened bottles of his wine, pre-release, (though I doubt I am allowed to report this) and as well leaving us all smiles. Anyway, I say again, I love The Winemaker.
And today you hit the ground running, adapting the schedule as it flies at you. Actually, we hit the ground jogging. You can't run forever. You've got to pace yourself. You get older and you get slower, but this all only means you're enjoying it longer.
At least, that's what The Winemaker preaches.
~
Who was in his twenties when he did it. I'm at the threshold of 40, and it seems a mighty Big Door. I can do it, though. I can run these things, but the recovery period is a long haul of fatigue. With all the work, last week was a tough week. I'm surprised I didn't fall deathly ill from a diminished immune system (though I suppose I still could), and I feel a certain slowness even now, as I lift my arms up to the keyboard. I may benefit from a higher chair. Oh yes, A higher chair is in your future, read the fortune. (Of course, a vague fortune like that could also mean another baby, which would do me in for sure. These double meanings...)
So I didn't make it to the Camp Pendleton Mud Run this weekend, and left Mrs. Ditchman to her own devices. (When did we become the "running" family?) She did well, and phoned me from the beer tent, proudly bragging about how she conquered both wall obstacles without help from any Marines. My hero.
And then yesterday was a Home Show day, dammit. Hard as I tried, I couldn't get out of this one, and I lived through another day of setting-up and tearing-down our display, of avoiding obnoxious questions from potential customers, and of chasing the kids around in the sun, all while wearing my lamentable business polo shirt. I was glad we did it, however, because we are now more likely to have bacon on the table through August. Good. Very good.
And then last night's unexpected guest: The Winemaker! Hark: the herald angels sing! The Winemaker calls at the end of a long work day when you're atop the ladder and looking forward to full, all-out couch submission, and announces through the crackling receiver "I'm in town! Just a few minutes away! How about a drink?!" which is funny, given that he's been judging wine at some competition and tipping the stuff back for the last 48 hours. But only a damn fool turns down a visit from The Winemaker, so we went full throttle into clean house/feed babies mode, locating a second wind somewhere. "He's coming!" "He'll be here any minute!" Apparently, it is like having over the Bishop, and there is a certain amount of suburban purification that must happen before his arrival. Much to the chagrin of my wife, I wedged in a brief shower. (Incidentally, last week I broke the shower fixture. Lacking muscle control on a Thursday night, I ripped the thing clean off with my bare hand. Now we use an old rusty crescent wrench, which was a laugh in the hurried rush last night.) Also, I lit the barbecue. Put on music. Swept the local mess beneath the couch. The kids were screaming, wailing, spitting up. It's been a long, damn week, but I am not a damn fool.
The Winemaker arrives! He enters authoritatively, carrying a slab of tri-tip under one arm, and bottles of wine in the other. We now look swell, normal, composed yet expectant. The kids have calmed down and have engaged "charm" mode. We eventually get them to bath and bed after a fine meal, clear the dishes, and then sit around the big table like the adults that we are. We pour a few more glasses. I ask him how he does it, all the drinking, for work, (which I always ask him,) and he says, "Allow me to put it into terms you may understand. When you go run a marathon, do you just get up one morning and go run 26 miles, from nothing?"
"No," I say. "You train. You pace yourself." And with that, he clinked my glass and toasted me. We continue to talk, laugh, drink. It's been a while, Winemaker... We share The Secrets of the Small Business, like old corporate professionals, but we also talk of parenting. The Winemaker shows us impossibly cute pictures of his kids. At one point I get up to get another drink, but, surprisingly, The Winemaker has to go. I always brace myself for a long night of trying to keep up with The Winemaker, and this night he let us down easy. So we bade him farewell. Mrs. Ditchman went up to bed. I prepped the coffee for the morning. What a weekend. What a week. What a life.
I love The Winemaker. I think had he not arrived unexpected last night I would have fallen asleep on the couch, miserably considering the week past and week to come, but instead it was all forgotten for a few hours as we enjoyed each other's sudden company. He just blew through, intentionally/unintentionally leaving a couple unopened bottles of his wine, pre-release, (though I doubt I am allowed to report this) and as well leaving us all smiles. Anyway, I say again, I love The Winemaker.
And today you hit the ground running, adapting the schedule as it flies at you. Actually, we hit the ground jogging. You can't run forever. You've got to pace yourself. You get older and you get slower, but this all only means you're enjoying it longer.
At least, that's what The Winemaker preaches.
~
Friday, June 5, 2009
Perusing Google Analytics the other day I noticed that someone in nearby Poway had visited both this blog and my business site, both of which are not linked to one another. I have only half-heartedly tried to keep the two separate, but how could I not blog about the misadventures of atomic element #13? (The light metal simply begs for it!) I don't mention this blog to my customers for the obvious reasons. I mean, hey, it's not like it says in any of the contracts WILL BUILD ALUMINUM PATIO COVER TO DELINEATED SPECS. ALSO: YOU ARE BEING OBSERVED. But some day -I just know it- someone is going to hire me to build them a patio cover solely because they read this blog, and then I will be the one being observed. It will be an unfortunate experience. And then The Great Blog War will ensue.
Yesterday I got a couple standard phone calls from a customer, wondering why the hell I wasn't there at 6AM like a proper contractor. And then it dawned on me: They're going to check to see if I posted to the blog! They're going to know why I'm not there building them an aluminum patio cover! I can just imagine the Angie's List write-up: Contractor does good work, but arrived late. Too busy posting about being late on his blog. Oh, well. It could be worse.
On Monday I built a freestanding cover precariously balanced on three square, paneled columns, in a triangle shape, but with a curved hypotenuse. On Wednesday I built a solid-ceilinged cover with double 3x8 mitered headers resting on two classic round Roman columns, in a thunderstorm. Yesterday I built a cover that had a mere 8 foot projection, but was thirty-seven feet long. There was a pool in the way, and I had to muscle the thirty-seven foot lengths of aluminum up and over the posts with one arm, extended out over the water. Today I am building a smaller cover, but one without posts and without headers, that spans between two buildings. And all of it all by my all lonesome self.
I don't even want to think about next week.
It happens like magic! I show up alone, late in the morning, with a bunch of aluminum, and the customer is standing there at the door, arms folded, and looking over my shoulder wondering where the other workers are. I can see it in their eyes as they look skinny me up and down, Dammit. I made a terrible mistake hiring this guy. And then I smile and say, "Well, I better get started! I'll have it finished at 6:00!" And then they laugh like it was a joke. A particularly unfunny joke, and one at their expense. Clearly, they don't appreciate the humor. (But that's the part that I find funny.)
Oh, but all the hard feelings go away in a few hours when they look out the kitchen window and see The Great Pyramid of Cheops taking shape in their backyard. Wow!
So has everyone, but I've been underestimated all my life. I have always liked it this way, for one reason or another, but I think I'm finally beginning to get sick of it. I guess I'm just looking for people who take you at your word and give you the benefit of the doubt, despite what they think they see through some proud prism of self-satisfied judgement. After forty-odd years of searching, it seems there aren't a lot of people like this. I wish I were one of them.
Moreso, I wish I was just back in college blowing everything off and throwing ping-pong balls into plastic cups.
Have a hooptastic weekend.
~
Yesterday I got a couple standard phone calls from a customer, wondering why the hell I wasn't there at 6AM like a proper contractor. And then it dawned on me: They're going to check to see if I posted to the blog! They're going to know why I'm not there building them an aluminum patio cover! I can just imagine the Angie's List write-up: Contractor does good work, but arrived late. Too busy posting about being late on his blog. Oh, well. It could be worse.
On Monday I built a freestanding cover precariously balanced on three square, paneled columns, in a triangle shape, but with a curved hypotenuse. On Wednesday I built a solid-ceilinged cover with double 3x8 mitered headers resting on two classic round Roman columns, in a thunderstorm. Yesterday I built a cover that had a mere 8 foot projection, but was thirty-seven feet long. There was a pool in the way, and I had to muscle the thirty-seven foot lengths of aluminum up and over the posts with one arm, extended out over the water. Today I am building a smaller cover, but one without posts and without headers, that spans between two buildings. And all of it all by my all lonesome self.
I don't even want to think about next week.
It happens like magic! I show up alone, late in the morning, with a bunch of aluminum, and the customer is standing there at the door, arms folded, and looking over my shoulder wondering where the other workers are. I can see it in their eyes as they look skinny me up and down, Dammit. I made a terrible mistake hiring this guy. And then I smile and say, "Well, I better get started! I'll have it finished at 6:00!" And then they laugh like it was a joke. A particularly unfunny joke, and one at their expense. Clearly, they don't appreciate the humor. (But that's the part that I find funny.)
Oh, but all the hard feelings go away in a few hours when they look out the kitchen window and see The Great Pyramid of Cheops taking shape in their backyard. Wow!
So has everyone, but I've been underestimated all my life. I have always liked it this way, for one reason or another, but I think I'm finally beginning to get sick of it. I guess I'm just looking for people who take you at your word and give you the benefit of the doubt, despite what they think they see through some proud prism of self-satisfied judgement. After forty-odd years of searching, it seems there aren't a lot of people like this. I wish I were one of them.
Moreso, I wish I was just back in college blowing everything off and throwing ping-pong balls into plastic cups.
Have a hooptastic weekend.
~
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Quick question: How come my bank can't remember what language I speak? I put my ATM card in the machine and it says my name and asks the password and remembers the thousands of transactions I have made over the years, computing it all in an instant, and never allowing me to take out more money than I have, or give away more money than I can, but always, before we get down to doing our business, it asks the inevitable question: English or Spanish? I'm always insulted. It's like your best friend asking if you've seen Star Wars. Response: I saw it with you, dumbass! Twice!
I should calm down about it all. Yesterday I got a voicemail from my wife telling me that there was a freakish thunderstorm in the area and that I should not be working with metal high atop a ladder. This was good advice. Since I leave my cel phone in the truck so as not to be disturbed with calls from my wife when I am high atop a ladder, I didn't get the message until I was on my way home. It's funny, because that afternoon I was standing on the notastep on a six-foot ladder holding a nine-foot metal post high above my head (so I could slide it down inside a column, you see) when I heard a kraccckkk! and saw lightning strike a nearby hilltop. I'm not kidding. Then it began to hail. So I narrowly avoided becoming a statistic yesterday, I guess, but then again, sooner or later we're all statistics, aren't we?
Some more newsworthy than others, unfortunately. A local landscaper was struck by lightning near our house here in the suburbs, yesterday. He was merely standing next to the palm tree, which was hit. As described by a fourteen-year-old boy who witnessed the whole God-smiting event, the lightning hit the palm tree and traveled down the trunk of it and then leaped off to blast the landscaper right out of his boots. There was no reason to doubt the stunned kid, as the news video showed the burn scars smoldering on the tree. The kid described it as "the loudest thing I have ever heard in my whole entire life" and "it sounded like an atomic bomb going off". The worker is doing okay. Passersby administered CPR until the paramedics arrived.
Got home, bloodless and breathing, from work yesterday and the Little Ditchman begged me to watch Star Wars, so, yes, we have brainwashed her sufficiently. I always flip around between episodes because I know she likes ewoks and R2D2 but not the stormtroopers or anyone getting their heads or limbs hacked off. Yesterday she said she wanted to see an episode with Annakin and Darth Vader (or "Darf Aider" as she refers to him.) Evidently, she has yet to grasp the subtle relationships and character arcs within the epic. We'll have to work on that.
So I just had to post this. It's brilliant. It's clever. It's creative. It's totally meaningless, and I wish I'd thought of it. Some day I will do a Star Wars mash-up of my own. That will be a day when the stars align and I have free time galore. I'm looking forward to it.
(Hat tip to TDR for emailing it to me.)
~
I should calm down about it all. Yesterday I got a voicemail from my wife telling me that there was a freakish thunderstorm in the area and that I should not be working with metal high atop a ladder. This was good advice. Since I leave my cel phone in the truck so as not to be disturbed with calls from my wife when I am high atop a ladder, I didn't get the message until I was on my way home. It's funny, because that afternoon I was standing on the notastep on a six-foot ladder holding a nine-foot metal post high above my head (so I could slide it down inside a column, you see) when I heard a kraccckkk! and saw lightning strike a nearby hilltop. I'm not kidding. Then it began to hail. So I narrowly avoided becoming a statistic yesterday, I guess, but then again, sooner or later we're all statistics, aren't we?
Some more newsworthy than others, unfortunately. A local landscaper was struck by lightning near our house here in the suburbs, yesterday. He was merely standing next to the palm tree, which was hit. As described by a fourteen-year-old boy who witnessed the whole God-smiting event, the lightning hit the palm tree and traveled down the trunk of it and then leaped off to blast the landscaper right out of his boots. There was no reason to doubt the stunned kid, as the news video showed the burn scars smoldering on the tree. The kid described it as "the loudest thing I have ever heard in my whole entire life" and "it sounded like an atomic bomb going off". The worker is doing okay. Passersby administered CPR until the paramedics arrived.
Got home, bloodless and breathing, from work yesterday and the Little Ditchman begged me to watch Star Wars, so, yes, we have brainwashed her sufficiently. I always flip around between episodes because I know she likes ewoks and R2D2 but not the stormtroopers or anyone getting their heads or limbs hacked off. Yesterday she said she wanted to see an episode with Annakin and Darth Vader (or "Darf Aider" as she refers to him.) Evidently, she has yet to grasp the subtle relationships and character arcs within the epic. We'll have to work on that.
So I just had to post this. It's brilliant. It's clever. It's creative. It's totally meaningless, and I wish I'd thought of it. Some day I will do a Star Wars mash-up of my own. That will be a day when the stars align and I have free time galore. I'm looking forward to it.
(Hat tip to TDR for emailing it to me.)
~
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
In that small window of time between a late dinner and passing out from a long day, I endured the unpleasant experience of viewing most of ABC's hearty "television event" Earth 2100. This pathetic and demented waste of entertainment dollars truly deserves my full analysis, but, oh, who cares? (he said with the dispassion of a litterbug.) Just check out the web site yourself, but be forewarned: if this is any indication of what lies in our future, then we are doomed for sure. (I'm speaking of the quality of future television programming, here.)
Earth 2100 follows the story of a baby, "Lucy", born at 9:05PM on June 2, 2009 (ohmygod that's, like, right now! Today! At the beginning of the show!) and then goes through her whole life as the planet around her descends into dystopian chaos as a result of global warming and over-population. It ends with the inevitable Malthusian catastrophe -where complete societal breakdown returns the last few gun-toting survivors to the pastoral dream of subsistence farming. Like in Star Trek: First Contact! Awesome!
The story is interspersed with scientists commenting on the veracity of the plot points (the belching sheep and farting cows have finally gotten the best of us.) I know they were scientists because there were title cards that read their names and then said "SCIENTIST" beneath them. Among the predictions, Lake Mead is an absurd, dry and empty blunder of civilization. (NO!) It was all very fascinating and depressing, and just when you were about to give up on the audacity of hope and go outside to loot and pillage, Bob Woodruff came onscreen again to tell us "But it doesn't have to end this way..." and the last ten minutes of the show were devoted to the glories of wind and solar power, plug-in cars, and matching synthetic jumpsuits.
Not saying that those are bad ideas. (At least, not today.) My neighbor recently hired a general contractor to remodel his house. He doubled the square footage and installed as many rooftop solar panels as he could fit up there. A few weeks ago we were chatting over the fence and he admitted that the solar panels cost him forty thousand dollars. And then he excitedly showed me the electric meter spinning in reverse. When we finished our conversation, he turned on his backyard swim-spa and jumped in, whereby his electric meter abruptly whiplashed in the other direction. Also, his contractor showed up at the end of the job driving a nice, new red Ford F-450. It seemed a hulking, waxed, gas-sucking pig in the face of it.
Why do I mention all this? No good reason. It's just funny to me. In the 60's there was a popular book called The Population Bomb, and it predicted that something like a billion people would starve to death in the '80s. And in the '70s there was the very real fear of "Global Cooling". An Ice Age was imminent. We would all be huddled together sucking ice cubes in tent cities by the next decade (around the time when I graduated from high school.).
But now the earth is warming up and population growth is on the decline (and some say irretrievably so.) I don't know where to start with any of this, except to say that things change. People change. Our adaptive nature and the interweaving of necessity, intellect, and invention make the future wholly unpredictable. All the same, one thing remains consistent: we get lame tv. It can always be counted on.
And hey, if you don't have the time or attention span to view the bitchin' fearmongering "unprecedented global television and internet event," you can read the annotated transcripts of the show on the web site. Or you can play Earth 2100: The Game. You are also invited to submit your own videos of what you think The End will be like. Awesome. Plug in simply everything for it.
I just wish Bob Woodruff had worn a paper-mâché donkey head for the whole show.
~
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
It's not in any of the marathon books, but one of the most difficult things about running these long distance races is all those aluminum patio covers you have to build in the following week. Does anyone else have this problem? I can't seem to find any supportive, clinical facts on the subject.
Legitimately: I do not have time for this. I would if I was a better manager of my time, and everyone came through problemless on their promises, but NO. Forces of guile and swindle have banded together in opposition of me and my work week. It would help not to have lingering, full-body fatigue and joint pain. It also would help not to have screaming, crying children around when I'm clearly trying to get something IMPORTANT done. Oh well. That which kills me only serves to make me stronger! (Wait- how does it go?)
It could be worse, I could be this guy. Just think about it. One moment, you're living your life, ho-hum, and the next it's your fault all those people died and how dare you deny it. Tomorrow we will discover that that deer I hit that night on the highway was actually the last surviving Bigfoot and all that paint thinner I poured down the drain killed the Loch Ness Monster. I am so sorry.
The Little Ditchman just handed me a Barbie of Swan Lake VHS tape and asked to watch it. I say: "Honey, antiques are not toys." and "Oh, no! We don't have a VCR!" Okay, actually, we do, but... how much fun would it be to hook up a VCR right now?
Can't. Got work. See you kids tomorrow, on my way to work. Love you.
~
Legitimately: I do not have time for this. I would if I was a better manager of my time, and everyone came through problemless on their promises, but NO. Forces of guile and swindle have banded together in opposition of me and my work week. It would help not to have lingering, full-body fatigue and joint pain. It also would help not to have screaming, crying children around when I'm clearly trying to get something IMPORTANT done. Oh well. That which kills me only serves to make me stronger! (Wait- how does it go?)
It could be worse, I could be this guy. Just think about it. One moment, you're living your life, ho-hum, and the next it's your fault all those people died and how dare you deny it. Tomorrow we will discover that that deer I hit that night on the highway was actually the last surviving Bigfoot and all that paint thinner I poured down the drain killed the Loch Ness Monster. I am so sorry.
The Little Ditchman just handed me a Barbie of Swan Lake VHS tape and asked to watch it. I say: "Honey, antiques are not toys." and "Oh, no! We don't have a VCR!" Okay, actually, we do, but... how much fun would it be to hook up a VCR right now?
Can't. Got work. See you kids tomorrow, on my way to work. Love you.
~
Monday, June 1, 2009
Ran the 2009 San Diego RocknRoll Marathon yesterday. Time: 3:50. Reason: ______.
That bug must still be up my butt. I could call Aaron, our friendly pest control guy, to blow out my colon with undiluted malathion, but I imagine he might charge extra for that service, and it might damage our burgeoning relationship. Anyway, I did it. Three marathons in a month, which is hard to do if you wish to schedule two weeks between each long run. (Months don't often have that many Sundays.)
I didn't do it to do three in a month, however. I did it because I just wanted to know. I actually thought I was in pretty good condition for it, but here's a news flash: there is something called "overtraining". I know because I did it. It affected my time.
Which wasn't half bad, actually, for this lanky, clumsy 39 year-old. And I matched my half-marathon time of 11 years ago, crossing the carpet at nearly exactly 1:40, which would qualify me for the Boston Half-Marathon, if there was one. It was all downhill from there, however, and I don't mean that literally.
Mrs. Ditchman, who is my staunch advocate, says I don't take in enough calories, and that may be part of it. I'm not one for Gu or PowerGel during a run, but I think I've hit a speed wall where if I run any faster than an 8:00/mile, I need to supplement. Perhaps I'm just that skinny. It's part of the theory I'm going with right now. Your thoughts and comments will be accepted and considered.
I was very good about hydrating and carbo-loading last week. I consumed no alcohol and limited myself to one cup of coffee each morning. I had previously instituted some speed work into my training regimen and was impressed by my performance. I ran less last week and tried to sleep well on the Friday before, (because the Saturday night before is always a bad sleep) and I tried to take it easy at work -though work did get in the way. (The books say using the stairmaster is a poor choice for crosstraining, and I was so disappointed to read this.) And race conditions were described as nearly perfect -all overcast, 60 degrees at the start and 70 at the finish- but there was some drizzle, and I was sweating furiously from the starting gun for the first half. (The Honolulu Marathon taught me that humidity can really sap you of energy.)
And then at the half I just slowly fell apart again, like at the OC race four weeks ago. Only this time it wasn't cramping and muscle pain, but rather depleted energy and plain exhaustion. I suppose I went out too hard in the beginning, and it all adds up. Mile 13 is right about when you're feeling great, but then there is a game changer, awoken by that foolish moment where you thought you could run forever. From there it's a slow cruel turning, when the pavement becomes so indifferent to your efforts that you begin to pre-suppose everything. It's not "running" anymore, it's something else: a heavy pushing of the mind and spirit, and a questioning of their governors. You don't know which limb or joint or muscle to trust, or whether you may have been wrong all along. Then there is a Great Reckoning with the endeavor. First-timers are always impressed by this unwelcome rendezvous, but Old-timers are awed by its enduring significance, like a return trip to the Grand Canyon -it's always big, it's eternally poignant, and it's still a long way across. And a long way down.
They say the average human body is made to run 18-22 miles. In some odd scientific calibration you take your body size and structure and figure how many calories are burned in running, and then you figure in the body's ability to store energy in its glycogen reserves, and I understand it adds up to about 18-22 miles, which marathoners refer to as The Wall. That's where the body starts burning fat, which is a painful transition. All of this is what makes a 26.2 mile race such a fantastic event. Train right and you can increase your glycogen reserves, trick your body, and pull off a super-human feat. Of course, there are a thousand more things to worry about -but you'll heal. Evidently, it now takes me more than a couple weeks to heal, so I see that my speed potential will only be added slowly, and in small increments. It runs contrary to the human condition where we want change overnight. We want to lose weight in a week, accomplish this or that in a day, transform our attitudes about something in an instant, but life doesn't work like that. It's a lesson I'm forever learning.
So I'll take the long, slow, focused haul until the next race. There aren't any marathons in the Southern California summer, which is one of the reasons why I decided to go for it yesterday. It was something of an experiment to learn about my capacity, and it was worth it: a $100 lesson on Running and My Body. Otherwise, I would have just wondered about it and trained all summer, not really knowing or fully understanding, until the next race, which is in October, and which I signed up for when I got home yesterday.
I'm not crazy. I just want to see and know, with proper training, discipline, and commitment, what I'm honestly capable of.
For a change.
~
That bug must still be up my butt. I could call Aaron, our friendly pest control guy, to blow out my colon with undiluted malathion, but I imagine he might charge extra for that service, and it might damage our burgeoning relationship. Anyway, I did it. Three marathons in a month, which is hard to do if you wish to schedule two weeks between each long run. (Months don't often have that many Sundays.)
I didn't do it to do three in a month, however. I did it because I just wanted to know. I actually thought I was in pretty good condition for it, but here's a news flash: there is something called "overtraining". I know because I did it. It affected my time.
Which wasn't half bad, actually, for this lanky, clumsy 39 year-old. And I matched my half-marathon time of 11 years ago, crossing the carpet at nearly exactly 1:40, which would qualify me for the Boston Half-Marathon, if there was one. It was all downhill from there, however, and I don't mean that literally.
Mrs. Ditchman, who is my staunch advocate, says I don't take in enough calories, and that may be part of it. I'm not one for Gu or PowerGel during a run, but I think I've hit a speed wall where if I run any faster than an 8:00/mile, I need to supplement. Perhaps I'm just that skinny. It's part of the theory I'm going with right now. Your thoughts and comments will be accepted and considered.
I was very good about hydrating and carbo-loading last week. I consumed no alcohol and limited myself to one cup of coffee each morning. I had previously instituted some speed work into my training regimen and was impressed by my performance. I ran less last week and tried to sleep well on the Friday before, (because the Saturday night before is always a bad sleep) and I tried to take it easy at work -though work did get in the way. (The books say using the stairmaster is a poor choice for crosstraining, and I was so disappointed to read this.) And race conditions were described as nearly perfect -all overcast, 60 degrees at the start and 70 at the finish- but there was some drizzle, and I was sweating furiously from the starting gun for the first half. (The Honolulu Marathon taught me that humidity can really sap you of energy.)
And then at the half I just slowly fell apart again, like at the OC race four weeks ago. Only this time it wasn't cramping and muscle pain, but rather depleted energy and plain exhaustion. I suppose I went out too hard in the beginning, and it all adds up. Mile 13 is right about when you're feeling great, but then there is a game changer, awoken by that foolish moment where you thought you could run forever. From there it's a slow cruel turning, when the pavement becomes so indifferent to your efforts that you begin to pre-suppose everything. It's not "running" anymore, it's something else: a heavy pushing of the mind and spirit, and a questioning of their governors. You don't know which limb or joint or muscle to trust, or whether you may have been wrong all along. Then there is a Great Reckoning with the endeavor. First-timers are always impressed by this unwelcome rendezvous, but Old-timers are awed by its enduring significance, like a return trip to the Grand Canyon -it's always big, it's eternally poignant, and it's still a long way across. And a long way down.
They say the average human body is made to run 18-22 miles. In some odd scientific calibration you take your body size and structure and figure how many calories are burned in running, and then you figure in the body's ability to store energy in its glycogen reserves, and I understand it adds up to about 18-22 miles, which marathoners refer to as The Wall. That's where the body starts burning fat, which is a painful transition. All of this is what makes a 26.2 mile race such a fantastic event. Train right and you can increase your glycogen reserves, trick your body, and pull off a super-human feat. Of course, there are a thousand more things to worry about -but you'll heal. Evidently, it now takes me more than a couple weeks to heal, so I see that my speed potential will only be added slowly, and in small increments. It runs contrary to the human condition where we want change overnight. We want to lose weight in a week, accomplish this or that in a day, transform our attitudes about something in an instant, but life doesn't work like that. It's a lesson I'm forever learning.
So I'll take the long, slow, focused haul until the next race. There aren't any marathons in the Southern California summer, which is one of the reasons why I decided to go for it yesterday. It was something of an experiment to learn about my capacity, and it was worth it: a $100 lesson on Running and My Body. Otherwise, I would have just wondered about it and trained all summer, not really knowing or fully understanding, until the next race, which is in October, and which I signed up for when I got home yesterday.
I'm not crazy. I just want to see and know, with proper training, discipline, and commitment, what I'm honestly capable of.
For a change.
~
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