Old school, like me

The Marques Carroll Quintet is like straight out of late '50s early '60s hard bop, which is actually when I was meant to be haunting jazz clubs anyway. Then again, I was age 0-6 in the late '50s and early '60s so they probably wouldn't have let me in jazz clubs...even with the beard.

It's the journey, not the destination

I passed the guy at the top of the hill, not working at it mind you, just moving along in rhythm, and I think he really really wanted to pass me back. I didn't have the heart to tell him I ran 8 before I even lined up at the start. End of the Boilermaker Half Saturday. (I ran 1 after, too. 22.1 mile day. And taper.)

The tribe

When I cross paths with some other wayward soul, light strapped on, running against the dark and the rain, I feel all tribal.

Way down hill

Coming down that damn near vertical hill looming over my shoulders at France Park Saturday.

Relentless forward progress

Looking at the daunting week ahead I am keeping in mind the sage words of the great Shalane Flanagan: Let's fuck shit up!

Trail eyes

Lesson learned on the hilly (we even had a couple kind of mountain goaty paths to traverse under cliff faces) rocky and rooty (and sneakily covered by leaves) trails at France Park: racing this stuff is like whitewater canoeing. You've got to keep your eyes aimed downstream to see the obstacles in time to react. Learn something everyday. And I didn't hit the dirt once today.

Nice work if I could get it

If somebody said to me, "Hey, we want to hire you to sit under a clear blue sky, with a nice breeze blowing over you, drink beer and listen to live music" I might have to take a femtosecond to think it over, but I probably would decide to do it. I'm adaptable that way.

I could have danced all night

I could have sat there drinking to that pulse St. Vincent was laying down all afternoon. But one of us would have passed out. I like to think it was her.

ACL me

It's on!