Fifty Miles Per Hour

Charlie Brown would have loved this. A dollar to get into the ballpark. A dollar for a hotdog with a baseball game in front of it.

At one o'clock on Memorial Day I was at the G. Richard Pfitzner Stadium in Prince William County (VA) with a friend, watching the Potomac Nationals, a single A entry in the Carolina League, club the Lynchburg Hillcats 12-4. Driving the 40 miles to the game at $4 a gallon was a lot more expensive than getting in and dining there. It was a beautiful sunny day and a thoroughly enjoyable experience. Most refreshing was the lack of prohibition at the stadium on bringing food or water in.

Like many minor league stadiums, the seating is restricted to a ring of bleachers rimming the home plate area and extending out to just beyond the third and first base areas. The Man was guarding the entry points to the $14 seats behind home plate and the double row of club seats right alongside third base and first base, but the $1 seats (normally $8-$13) were any other seat that was currently unoccupied. We alternated between sitting over by first base with most of the fans, and third base with the fans from Lynchburg. The sight lines were excellent, and we could sit a mere dozen feet off the field down low, or further back by surmounting the bleachers.

The stadium itself has nothing to distinguish it. Set off the road in a copse of trees, there is no view from it of anything except the trees beyond the outfield fences. My friend kept commenting on how young the players looked and how much she just loves "little boys." I think she meant they were cute. Since I'm a guy, their young, studly appearances didn't interest me much, although I marvelled at how often they all practiced their crotch-grabs.

Their baseball skills were mostly unhoned (this is Single A after all) but the game was an exciting offensive display, with several home runs. There was one bizarre play where the batter hit a line drive back at the pitcher, who turned his back in defense. The ball careened off him and flew over to the third baseman who made a leaping grab of the re-directed line drive for an out. The pitcher came out of the game after being hit. It was time anyway because he couldn't get anyone out.

The bullpens, which were merely a row of chairs for the players set along the warning tracks beyond the bases, saw plenty of action. The home team bullpen had a rubber at least, the visiting team bullpen did not. Whenever anyone warmed up, a spare fielder would have to stand behind him looking towards home plate to guard his back from any errant line drives.

Gangs of teenagers roamed the corridors behind the home plate stands looking for private places. The only diversion I saw at the stadium, besides various silly races on the field between innings, was a baseball toss with a radar gun. I know better than to do one of those things, because men are always surprised at how wimpy their throws are. My friend insisted though, and paid the dollar for three balls for me. My first toss was an embarrassing 31 MPH. I wound up on the second pitch and hummed in a strike. 33 MPH. Daunted, I did a windmill windup and, in effect, uncorked a wild pitch straight into the dirt. Bingo, 50 MPH. Relieved to have hit the half-century mark, I went off to buy another dollar hot dog.

Going to see a Minor League baseball game is always economical and a lot of fun. It was a perfect way to end a nice long weekend.

More Shi**y Divorce Stuff

On the morning of Memorial Day, after the Falls Church 3K Fun Run, I paused at the local USMC Memorial Plaque on the town hall grounds to reflect upon all the sacrifices of the former Marines in my family (my father and uncle in WW2, and my brother in Beirut). Then I went home to get ready to attend dollar day at the minor league baseball stadium in Woodbridge. Plus I wanted to see what the boxes on my porch were that I had noticed when I ran by my house during the 3K race. I thought that maybe a pizza deliveryman had left four or five pizza pies there on Sunday night by mistake. Do you believe that during the race I considered whether I'd eat them?

I received a real surprise. Placed on my front porch, on Memorial Day, were four falling-apart, taped-at-the-corners boxes of old board games from the sixties, with partial contents inside. All related to warfare, three being American Heritage games representing the War of 1812 (Broadside), the Civil War (Battle Cry) and WW I (Dogfight). The fourth was based upon the sixties TV series Combat. On top of the stack was the Landmark Book Medal of Honor Winners. The Landmark Books were a series of illustrated history books written for children, mostly boys, in the fifties and sixties on obscure topics like The Winter at Valley Forge and Wild Bill Hickok Tames the West. I devoured them as a boy, and I have a full collection of them now.

There was no note. Just a stack of decrepit boxes placed upon my porch, secretly and anonymously, in a fashion (set near the front edge) that made it clear the delivery person had likely not set foot upon my porch.

The Landmark book was not mine. Three of the games were unfamiliar. They had all been acquired, apparently, by my former family when we were together. We used to go yardsaling and flea marketing a lot when we were on vacation in Maine during the late nineties. One box had a yardsale price sticker on it.

Then a half-decade of nuclear divorce litigation began, and in my opinion, my children became victims of PAS or parental alienation syndrome. This is where the custodial parent actively turns the malleable minor children against the other parent. The children view it as a form of support for the parent they spend most of their time with, and hence are most dependent upon. The domestic law courts are the great enablers of this very real tragedy. Research indicates that PAS has a devastating effect upon children for all of their lives. Some regard it as a form of child abuse. Others deny that it even exists.

My children haven't spoken with me, or anyone on my side of the family, for years even though I provide for full college tuition for them and they have residence a mere two miles away at their Mother's house. What do you think, is PAS real?

The fourth game, Dogfight, had been my family's when I was a boy. On the inside of the box, in my handwriting, was a log of a series of games I had played with my brother forty summers ago. Since he was eight and I was sixteen at the time, the score was 35 games to zero, mine. But I almost lost the last game. I still remember that he had several planes left to my one, so I had to take the 50-50 chance of flying through his AA batteries to destroy his fleet on the ground. Then I quit while I was ahead. Do you think I scarred him? My bad!

Obviously the boxes left on my porch came from my children's Mother's house in Arlington. From whom? Them? One of them? Her?

What did it mean? When half of you out there go through your divorces, you'll see how paranoid it makes you. Because it's an incredibly vicious free-for-all. It has no rules that anyone abides by, and the divorce lawyers rip and tear at the estate until it's an empty husk, whereupon they finally settle the damn thing. Feel free to email me if you would you like to know how I really feel.

The last thing my children or their agent ever left on my porch was a Motion for an Injunction. It was taped to my door, announcing that "they" had filed a "fiduciary" lawsuit against me during my divorce. Talk about piling on! I found it after work on a Friday. I had a grand weekend, and a really fun subsequent three years while it was being litigated and appealed.

The court later threw "their" petition out, finding after a full evidentiary hearing that it was a harassment suit, an unconscionable attempt by their Mother to interfere with my relationship with my minor children. It was appealed, of course. The appellate court found it was an unjustified appeal and socked her full court costs. But the matter was kept alive for years and that, my friends, is how PAS is done.

So I had concerns. My children haven't communicated a Christmas, Thanksgiving, Birthday, Fathers Day or Easter greeting to me in years. They haven't acknowledged a Christmas, birthday or graduation gift from me or anyone on my side of the family in years. They haven't responded to any offers to attend their graduations or take them to lunch or dinner. They have stonily ignored offers to take them to see David Beckham, any sporting event, or their cousin (on my side) who is a professional bull rider (he competed in an event in Virginia). What was the purpose of placing this pile of boxes silently upon my porch? My thoughts on this ranged far afield, from they're moving to they're dissing me by sending me war games on Memorial Day to they're thinking about me. Why no note or voice mail?

I asked two friends, a man and a woman, what they thought. The man said it wasn't nice; since there was no note I couldn't tell who it was from or what it signified. The woman merely said it was odd.

That's what the boxes on my porch were. More shi**y divorce stuff.

3K Fun Run, and what were those boxes

Memorial Day was nice. When I woke up on Monday I lay in bed for a moment and thought of my Dad, who died in 1986, and his sacrifices on Peleliu and Okinawa. I thought of Uncle Bill, who died in 1988, and his sacrifices in the Philippines. I thought of Uncle Harry, who lives in Colorado, and his sacrifices aboard the fast carrier strike force at both Battles of the Philippine Sea and in attacks against island garrisons and the Japanese homeland. I thought of Sy, who lives in Florida, and his sacrifices with Patton’s Third Army at the Battle of the Bulge and in Germany.

Then I thought about how I hate kids. Well, not really, but how I hate kids in races. Because they start out fast, get ahead of you, and then get underfoot as they suddenly veer here and there looking for friends or slowing down because they’re tired.

Falls Church has a free Memorial Day 3K Fun Run that is flat and fast. It is untimed, other than the fact that the clock at the finish line displays race time. There you receive an unnumbered slip of paper which you exchange for a free race t-shirt, provided by ex-Lt. Governor Don Beyer. There are no bibs, and no results are posted anywhere.

The run starts in front of the Community Center, and everyone in town, it seems, runs it. This seems to includes every single pre-teen in Falls Church. They all jam to the front. The first half-mile of this run is very treacherous with so many inexperienced runners in front. The last time I started downtown, I ran with my heart in my throat and my eyes locked on the roadway six feet ahead. It's a couple of minutes of high-stress running as youngsters dart underfoot until you get away from them.

To rectify this hazard, I have developed a mile run around my neighborhood that starts just down the block, runs past my house and hits the race course right at MP1. So at 9 o'clock on Memorial Day morning I line up by myself on my street and take off. A mile later I hit the race at the midway point, ostensibly joining the pack of runners exactly where I should be anyway. At least that’s the theory. Then I run the last 0.86 miles with everyone else to the finish line.

Thus I miss the chaotic start and avoid the real danger of going down hard on asphalt from tripping over some runner who doesn’t have a clue about race protocol. I can get a fast workout in, getting up to race speed quickly without having to work my way through a crush of people at the start. Plus I can drink coffee in my kitchen until two minutes before race time.

At 9 am I took off down the street. As I ran past my house, I noticed a pile of pizza-size cardboard boxes stacked on my porch. I thought that was odd and determined to check it out after the race. (I noticed this stack of boxes left on my porch as I ran by my house during the 3K race on Memorial Day.)

As I burned off a mile, I could see the race course two hundred yards ahead. The street was empty, with no runners streaming by. That was not good, as I certainly didn’t want to join the course ahead of the race leaders.

With a hundred yards to go, I saw the lead motorcycle cop go by, then the lead runner, then two more. Another two men ran by just as I crashed the course at MP 1, the first mile down in 7:00 according to my watch. I was sixth! Woo hoo! Not!

This was embarrassing to be so far up front, so I picked up my pace and hung onto the lead runners as best as I could. It wasn’t like I joined the course standing still. Slowly the five leaders drew off and other runners started passing me. The runners going by were easy to count that last 0.8 mile. Fourteen ran by, including a woman. I finished 20th out of, probably, 1,000 or more participants.

But of course my finishing place was a fraud. But since there are no places in this race anyway, it didn't matter. It’s unofficial.

But my time was real. My watch said 12:51 (6:54) when I finished the 3K run. The race clock, however, said 10:48. Either I started over two minutes early, or the race start got a little delayed. Sorry!

As I collected my t-shirt, I ran into D behind me on line, who is about my age and very fit. Our oldest children played soccer together. I coached the team. I asked about his son, and D said he had just graduated from college. Memories of five years of ruinous divorce litigation came flooding back. These contemporaries could be posterboys for the life-altering and family-destroying state of American domestic law.

My oldest never went to college despite graduating from the premier high school in the country, bar none. For the last four years he has lived with his Mother and worked as a gopher for the divorce lawyer who was retained, supposedly, by my three minor sons when "they" filed a "fiduciary" suit against me before the divorce action was even complete. The court found that the petition was an unconscionable harassment suit, an attempt by their Mother to interfere with my relationship with my children, and ultimately she was sanctioned and assessed costs of almost $50,000. But her actively involving our minor children in the divorce action so affected them that, in effect, none of my kids has seen me or talked to me or anyone on my side of the family since then, and my oldest changed his last name from mine to hers on his 21st birthday. The divorce lawyer supposedly representing these minor children, who is a past President of the Virginia State Bar, did a good job in "their" litigation against their father, don't you think? He presented a bill to these children of over $22,000 for his services.

D asked me how I did. I said 12:51. He looked puzzled and asked how he had finished behind me since he had run a 12:01. I congratulated him for beating me and told him that if he thought he had seen me finish ahead of him, it was only because I had run my race in a parallel universe. He looked even more puzzled.

The 2008 Falls Church Memorial 3K was in the books, and I headed home. I had a full day ahead of me still. I wanted to see what those boxes were that were left on my porch. And it was dollar admission day at the minor league baseball stadium in Prince William County (Woodbridge, VA) for the Potomac Nationals (Single A) game at 1 pm. As an added bonus, hot dogs were only a dollar.

Afraid.

Jade Lady and Shirley Perly recently posted interesting entries about how fear motivates or hinders runners. That got me to thinking about what I am afraid of and how I overcome my fears.

I am afraid of getting injured, because that would interfere with my running. So although I do take some calculated risks in running, I'm careful and try to be prudent about them. I may run some signal lights but I don't weave through moving traffic. I will run in snow and icy conditions, but if the footing is slippery I'll stop. Outside of running, I won't play basketball or football or leg out infield hits anymore. That fast start/stop is a young man's game and ruinous at my age. Can you spell Achilles rupture? Do you know how long six months is? Several of my friends can, and do.

In terms of running, and perhaps life, I'm not particularly afraid of things so much as I'm afraid of failure. That's why when I started running at age 48, it transformed me.

I started running to lose weight, but then running gripped me. Continuing to run got me over my subsequent fear of not keeping the ensuing weight loss off.

Then I started running in races, and running with people. Although my racing is in the also-ran category, running races gives me a set of numbers (times) that are immutable gauges of what I can do. I started fearing that I would embarrass myself, or not fulfil my friends' expectations, or that I wouldn't meet my goals. I became afraid of giving in to fatigue or letting doubt hold me back.

But I continued to run races so I could confront and overcome these fears, and not succumb to them. Having put in the work of some training, I went out and tried to achieve results.

Usually it works out in some way, although usually not as I hope or expect. For instance, my half-marathon PR is 1:44:18 at the Inaugural Disneyland Half-Marathon. Because I was in the peak condition of my life then, I was hoping to approach 1:40 in the race, but the crush of runners within the narrow theme park the first three miles prevented this. But if I had paralyzed myself by saying I couldn't do a 1:40 and so why try, I wouldn't have a 1:44.

Sometimes it doesn't work out at at all and I have to reassess. My 4:34 debacle at Chicago last fall taught me things, not the least of which was not to try to run 26 miles when you're on antibiotics. But I overcame my fear of embarrassing myself and not fulfilling my friends' expectations by lining up at the start line.

Occasionally the stars line up. My 1:14:34 at Army in 2006, the culmination of my most fit period, is perhaps the best race I have ever run. But to do it, I had to put aside the fear that I would be slower than the 1:18 I had run at the Cherry Blossom Ten-Miler earlier that year.

I do about 40 races a year and practically every week I put my fears to the side, again. Because if I don't, I have become afraid. I have let fear change my life.

Old Cop Cars

A few posts ago, during National Police Week here in DC, I tole you about Colorado State Trooper Zach Templeton, who was taken from us in October at age 27 by a careless teen-age driver. He left behind a daughter, who was the joy of his life.

I didn't know Zach, but I worked with his type when I was a Colorado State Patrolman from 1980 to 1987 and I would have trusted Zach with my life. I always say, if you need help immediately because you're in desperate straits, find a trooper. S/he will act right away to resolve your problem.

Here is Zach's name on the National Law Enforcement Memorial wall here in DC.

I got my pictures back from that week. Enjoy.

Here is the Massachusetts State Police band.

Next is an old squad car. Its hood is up, the universal sign of trouble on the highway. Somebody call a trooper.
Here's another old police car. When I started work for the state patrol, we had two dome lights on top, one blue and one red. That was quite an advancement from the single flashing light on top. You didn't turn them on, you activated them. By the time I left to go to law school, we had a bar of emergency equipment across the top. Progress.

The National Police Week in DC was international. Here are some London bobbies attending the tribute to fallen officers at the the memorial. Do you know why they're called bobbies? I do. Because Sir Robert Peel was responsible for putting the first policemen on the beat in London. Don't know who Robert Peel was? I can't do everything for you. Google him. Or as Stephen Colbert would say, check his wikiality.

Lastly, here's another old squad car. Doesn't it look fast? When I started with State Patrol, we had standard old Chrysler six-cylinders. Man were they powerful. They could get up to speed real fast and go 140 MPH.

Myself, I didn't like going over 90 MPH, and the once or twice I actually went 130 MPH, when there was no traffic and I thought an officer might be in trouble, terrified me. Grimly I went, hands compressing the steering wheel. But you gotta get there. Any trooper would have done the same for me.

Another Wednesday, Another Run

Today was the third Wednesday of the month. Time for the monthly noontime Tidal Basin 3K run, which dates back to 1974.

I consider this fast and furious 1.86 mile race to be my speed work. I usually run a low 7-minute pace for the near two mile distance. This is after a 2.6 mile warmup run getting there from my office. After the race I have a 2.6 mile cooldown run back to work. Lately I have been throwing a third-of-a-mile charge up Capitol Hill into the cooldown run so I can get a little hillwork in. This is because I am getting ready for the hilly Lake Tahoe Relay Race in three and a half weeks, where I'm going to run on Bex's team. I have been assigned a leg that goes over a mountain pass, topping out at 6800 feet after climbing 500 feet in two miles. (Left: The "hill" on the course, running on the sidewalk up past the Tulip Library.)

This staple on my race calendar (I have done 83 of these hummers in the last 92 months) is my great strategical laboratory. I have a shadow in this race named Peter who is always nearby and usually beats me. He beat me by nine seconds in the 3K race on Sunday, after we had both run a race during the previous hour.

Peter is only three years younger and near my speed, although he has a different style than me. He utilizes a powerful finish whereas I prefer to go out strong and hold on.

I view him in my binary view of the world as faster than me. However, because I am capable of beating him, I can’t shrug his usual success away to the work of the gods.

Today was a nice day for running although there was a slight breeze. When the race started, Peter took off as usual. Today I decided to match his early charge. Usually I let him go and catch him mid-race, hoping I can put enough distance on him from there that I won’t succumb to his signature final furious finish. (Right: Here's another view of the "hill," looking back at the where the runners come from as they run up the sidewalk on the left. Notice the Tidal Basin off to the left beyond the trees.)

I pressed at the start and passed him at the quarter mile mark. He fell away behind me as I uncharacteristically hung with the back-of-the-front-packers for awhile. Soon I was really laboring though and I fell away from that group.

I passed the mile marker at 6:59. Although I felt like I was definitely slowing down, Peter was still behind me, too far back for me glimpse when I glanced back.

In the final leg, two men ran by me and I could hear two more closing in. This last stretch is interminably long, a slog down a flat straightway that just goes on forever for a runner like me who typically doesn’t do negative splits. I feel like a fly in amber on it, running numbly while getting caught by fast finishers.

I started swivelling to locate Peter. I spotted him back there but thought I was too far ahead for him to catch me. I had some payback in mind for last Sunday.

The finish clock was reading in the 12:50s as I approached. I like to break 13 minutes but I was too far away for that. I finished in 13:01 (6:59), two seconds faster than the time I had on Sunday. Peter finished fourteen seconds later. I was 29th out of 66 runners.

I had evolved a strategy in this race of starting fast in order to beat Peter, but I didn’t break 13:00 which always used to be my goal. My fast start robbed me of the endurance I needed for a stronger push during the last half of the race and a surge at the end.

When I go by Peter late, as I usually do, he hangs onto me then, and kills me with his finishing charge. This time I got away from him and he couldn't run me down. I wonder if I am focusing on the wrong thing in this race. What do you think?

2008 Capitol Hill Classic 3K

An hour after I finished the Capitol Hill Classic 10K on Sunday morning, I lined up for the Capitol Hill Classic 3K. This is supposedly a fun run, although it is chip timed. Plus they have a fun run for the kids after this fun run. Even though this race is loaded with kids, it’s competitive.

Two years ago I finished 19th in 13:20 (7:09) and took my age group. Last year I added the challenge of running a double and finished 13th in 13:40 (7:20), again winning my age group. (Right: The 2007 Capitol Hill Classic 10K/3K course.)

This year the usual gaggle of kids crowded to the front at the start line. At the Go command, they all burst off down the road, receding rapidly. It looked like someone had thrown open the door to a dark dank basement and a multitude of bugs were scurrying away to keep ahead of the advancing sunlight.

A quarter mile into the race the street became really congested with pint-sized runners flaming out and veering unpredictably all over the roadway. This is the dangerous point in this race that calls for the exercise of caution.

I safely picked my way through the flame-outs and the real race started. There were a half-dozen little kids still ahead who never came back to me. They relentlessly ran to the finish line and I never saw any of them again. There were also five women up there and not a one of them ever came back to me either, including an eight-year old girl. And a 51-year old woman. Oh well. (Left: Last year in the 3K, I couldn't get away from all the street urchins.)

Also ahead was my doppelganger, Peter. A 3K specialist about my age with the same first name, he’s about my speed except that he’s slightly faster.

He runs every monthly noontime Tidal Basin 3K race, just as I do. We’re like the Odd Couple with our familiar routine. He breaks off the start line, I pass him mid-way through the race and then he goes postal in the last quarter mile and puts me away. Occasionally, though, I put enough distance on him first that he can't catch me.

We’re good competitors and good friends. Back in 2001 in my third race ever, I won my age group and received a medal in a small 5K on a hot, humid day on a hilly course in the Shenandoah Valley. I didn’t win another medal for four more years. The person I beat out for that medal, by a mere four seconds, was Peter, although I didn’t know him at the time. Ours are special battles.

We had spoken before the 3K race, and I let him know that I had already run a 10K race that morning and he let me know that he had already run a 3K race that morning. Let the true games begin! (Right: The 2008 Capitol Hill Classic 10K/3K course.)

As I approached Peter late in the race, I got picked off by a very polite 12-year old who greeted me by name as he went by. He beat me by 22 seconds. Last year I beat him by 22 seconds. What a difference a year makes.

This youth’s adult running buddy, another regular at the monthly Tidal Basin 3K, also came by then. He went on to finish ahead of Peter also. The exact routine that was unfolding is scripted in almost all of the 3Ks the three of us run in.

I passed Peter. A minute later he passed me back but then he didn’t put me away. He merely settled in directly in front of me. So I passed him again, and tried to run it in the last quarter mile. Nope, Peter went postal.

I can hear this coming. I have come to recognize the sound of Peter's breathing and footfalls as he approaches, and the change in his breathing when he really revs it up. He flew by and finished nine seconds ahead of me. I strained to bring it home in 13:03 (7:00) in 15th place, first in my age group again. I felt good about my effort, even though five pre-teenage boys did beat me.

When the results were posted, on a whim I searched the 10K results for everyone who finished ahead of me in the 3K, to see if any of them had run the 10K. I thought that I might be the first Capitol Hill Classic doubler to finish the 3K.

Nope, there was T, nine places ahead of me in 12:16. But he had run his 10K in 1:11:07 whereas I had run my 10K in 47:31 (7:39) so my total time was way better than his total time.

The real problem with being smug about this factoid? T is eight years old.