Saturday, April 28, 2007

Spring Musings

Three inches of rain this week. Went morel hunting with my friends Steve and Judy yesterday afternoon. We've had the moisture but not the warmth. Strike out. Still had fun traipsing about the woods alone Mill Creek. Saw our first big patch of bluebells for the season. Late in getting here with all sub-freezing temps of late. Purple aster starting to bloom. Unidentified white flowers. Flushed a male and female pheasant out of the brome. Drove out to the Mackinaw, trespassed and bushwhacked around the old gravel mine area (that's all you get, sorry no gps coordinates). Those are some magnificent oaks. But alas, no morels. That will surely change with 80 degrees coming Monday.

Ran the Eureka Heart House 4 miler last Saturday. Sunny morning, strong wind from the south, but that made it a crosswind and no big deal. Actually ran negative splits for 33:48. Fun time.

20 miler tomorrow at McNaughton, then run some shorter tempo stuff before the Berryman race on May 19.

Soundtrack: The Weakerthans "Reconstruction Site:"

I want to call requests through heating-vents, and hear them answered with a whisper, "No." To crack the code of muscle, slacken, tense. Let every second step in boots on snow complete your name with accents I can't place, that stumble where the syllables combine. Take depositions from a stranger's face. Paint every insignificance a sign. So tell me nothing matters, less or more. Say, "Whatever we think actions are, we'll never know what anything was for." If "Near is just as far away as far," and I'm permitted one act I can save, I choose to sit here next to you and wave

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

McNaughton Park 2007

Signed up to do the 50 back in August knowing full well baby was coming, training time most likely limited, but what the heck. Baby came, training time was limited, but I started the race anyway. A measly 22 miles before dropping, considering it a training run for Berryman. Still was a fun day. First loop fine, the usual running and chatting with the other slow folks. Second loop the rain came. And the trail was a mudpit. Literally a mudpit. You could barely stand on the slopes, much less run up or down. Low spots were turned into shoe-sucking bogs. Entire new trail systems sprung up as folks bushwhacked off the main single track just to make it down the hills unscathed. But it was fun. Ran with this guy from South Bend pretty much the whole way. Much exchange of stories and power hiking in the mud. Started a third loop but dropped shortly after.

I came back at night to help Dave out at the start/finish aid station from 8-3. Volunteering is every bit as fun as running. Seeing the amazing 100 and 150 milers occupy their different universe. Metzler won the 100, got to see that, amazing stuff.

50 next year. I promise.

Berryman marathon in May.

Soundtrack: GZA, "Liquid Swords"

Tuesday, April 03, 2007

Arturo Gatti

A little piece I wrote for a boxing website:

Dear Arturo Gatti,

Please stop fighting. You have nothing to prove to us or to yourself anymore. We will remember you, we have the tapes and the memories.

We remember you blasting out touted prospect Pete Taliafero on TNF, what a stunner that was. Who is this kid?

Both eyes closed, guessing the fingers the doc held up, scamming one more round, then destroying Wilson Rodriguez with that textbook left hook.

The 1920's movie star looks, the blood, the guts. Gabriel Ruelas had you out on your feet. Gatti can't possibly take anymore ref, stop this damn thing. Bam--There's that hook again.

Angel Manfredy was on that night. Punching through the cuts and the plasma, it just wasn't enough.

And Ivan Robinson, just a bit too slick, but oh were they wars.

All we have to say is Gatti/Ward. Like Ali/Frazier, immortalized, our collective jaws on the floor in that 9th round. Sublime stuff.

The golden boy was a little too golden, the pretty boy a little too great, but you took the punishment, christians to the lions, yet we didn't care. You are still our generation's Lamotta/Graziano/Zale/Fullmer, and we love you for that.

For a decade we were transformed back to a time when boxing was a different game, a rough trade in a rough and tumble country, before million dollar contracts and ballgames on the tube 24/7, two gladiators in a squared circle telling truths about themselves.

Arturo, you're our gladiator. But, for every gladiator there is an end. The end is here. For your sake and ours, don't let it be on your sword.

Stop fighting now, and we promise we won't forget where you've taken us with you on your journey. It may be decades before we go there again.