OT: "Give me a thousand words on Black Sabbath."

I swore I'd never write again.

After my last experience as a professional writer, the process had me so turned off that I vowed I never wanted to make a living by the printed word. The thought of creating a single coherent sentence in the name of putting food on my table, clothes on my rumpled body, and a roof over my messy mop made me ill.

But then I saw a close-cropped brunette lead singer in a maroon/champagne/crimson velvet dress, black fishnets and calf-high Doc Martens screaming obscenities at slights real and imagined. I saw her bandmates rotate instruments between each 2-minute rant disguised as music.

Maybe that chick is my new muse. Maybe it was just time to let it all out. I don't know.

The pixie in the dress sang lead for DIkes of Holland. I don't know if she plays for the other team or if she's of Dutch lineage; doubtful, since those people are tall. Anyway, they rocked the Fulling Station in Bozeman for about 35 minutes. In one form or another punk rock is still alive, even if it involves a keyboard and spooky sounds emanating from same. The Dikes reminded me of punk rock by Queens of the Stone Age or White Stripes (I'm fully aware they're not punk groups per se, but if they did punk it would sound like the Dikes. There.) written for the soundtrack to Scooby Doo. Good, angry, fun stuff. Maybe if Adele were into punk she'd sound like this woman.

Anyway, they warmed up for the Sheepdogs, out of Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. From the lead guitarist's Montana-themed t-shirt with three-quarter sleeves to the bassist's yellow western-style shirt and low-rise jeans to the guitar duets, it was 1975 all over again. Every influence I heard in their music was from a band of that vintage — Allman Brothers Band (they had the Betts-Allman guitar interplay more than once), Lynyrd Skynyrd, Doobie Brothers, Neil Young and Crazy Horse (another plains-based Canuck outfit). Not that it's a bad thing, though; I grew up with that stuff and these guys were faithful to it.

Just that they were an odd choice to open up for Black Joe Lewis and the Honeybears, a James Brown-styled Motown-esque rock band from Austin (like the Dikes). They opened with an old blues standard, "You Don't Love Me," and away we went. The horns had their synchronized moves, the bass line thumped, the guitars crackled, Joe Lewis screamed, and the drums drove the bus close to the edge but never over. I picked up a playlist after the show and it made no mention of the 10-minutes of "Louie Louie" and "Surfin' Bird," punctuated with toke breaks. They jammed, they grooved, they popped.

And they made me write, those assholes.

Update?

I quit my job.

I botched an interview (see pvs).

I spent 3-and-a-half weeks drifting (aside from no travel it was the greatest 3-and-a-half weeks of my adult life).

I found and started work at one of my old haunts.

I put together a string of ... several days of working out.

I haven't been in the water since late August.

I bought a house.

I've been commuting 50 miles each way five days a week for five weeks.

I've switched my hours from 8-5 M-F to 3-12 F-Tu.

I had no idea how much it would take out of me mentally and physically.

I've treated a sore knee for a couple of months, and pondering a bike fit to remedy same.

That about covers it.

OT: "We have some concerns about your lack of stability..."

When I graduated journalism school, I was told I'd likely start my career in some podunk outpost on the edge of the universe. Some of my peers nonetheless set their sights on New York, Philadelphia, Boston, D.C., et al, while I looked westward toward these small towns, like Horace Greeley suggested many years before. I just knew I'd get the "call" after years of toil in these small towns where I perfected my craft and showed I had the writing ability to hang in the big cities.

Needless to say, that's not exactly how things turned out.

I first ended up in Winnemucca, Nevada, as the sports editor of The Humboldt Sun, the only daily newspaper in a county roughly the size of Vermont. I knew I wouldn't spend my career there because there's only so much you can do with one high school in the town and one out in the county, so when I applied for and was offered a job as a sports writer at the Denton Record-Chronicle, I took it.

I moved to Denton for the chance to cover some of the best high school sports in the country, and maybe do a sidebar on the University of North Texas before perhaps taking on one of those beats myself. When the sports editor position came open, I put in for it, but the managing editor had already hired someone, telling me he didn't think I was "management material," nor did he realize I had "any inkling" of being a manager. With the glass ceiling being paved over, I had no reason to stick around in Denton.

So then I moved to Lubbock, Texas, to cover minor-league hockey and high school sports at the Avalanche-Journal. Again, when one of the big-time college beats came open, I put in for it, the sports editor hemmed and hawed, and he brought in someone from a nearby paper to do the job. The things he said (or maybe the way he said them) made clear that he had no intention of considering me for any of the high-profile college beats, so I had no reason to stick around there for any length of time.

So then I moved to Cheyenne, Wyoming, to cover the University of Wyoming men's basketball team; I hired on for football, then switched spots with my sports editor. I had the title of assistant sports editor, and I got a little management experience, but the thrust of my job was covering a shitty college basketball team. I burned out on it after three seasons and one near-miss of a coaching search, and after I found religion in regard to work-life balance, I headed for the copy desk...

...in Bellingham, Washington. There, I wreaked the havoc of designing a sports section five nights a week, taking game calls, the usual stuff. I bristled under an overbearing editor, a my-way-or-the-highway kind of guy at a paper run like the Bush administration — this is what we're doing, and you're either with us or against us. That might work on a 20-something eager to please, but not a veteran journalist, so I moved on again.

This time, it was to Davenport, Iowa, where management had a lighter hand, and I learned a little more about designing pages. I hit a bit of a wall, though, and admittedly I muddled through my life there, taking on a second job to pay the bills, until a friend called with an offer to edit a university magazine. Onward.

I came to Laramie, Wyoming, to edit UWyo, the magazine for alumni and friends of the University of Wyoming. After two-and-a-half years, oversight of the magazine changed, my job description changed, I bristled some more, and I'm now looking to move on again.

Save for a few minor tweaks (aka "spin"), this is what I told some people at a job interview a few days ago in response to the title of this blog, a comment from one of the hiring editors. She saw my résumé a few weeks ago and never mentioned my job-hopping, until I sat in her office a little after 10 EDT on Thursday morning. Over lunch a couple hours later I walked her through it, then did the same for someone else that same day. This was the first time in my career anyone had a problem with my transience.

I would have loved to hire into the perfect situation straight out of college, a place where I got the necessary guidance and room to improve, plus management that really tried to help people succeed within those walls. It would be great to mark 15 years (or 10, or even 5) at one place and earn that extra week of vacation and the resulting raise, as well as a cake in the breakroom, a nameplate on the desk, or a place in the parking lot. It doesn't work that way, though. Journalism is transient — you have to go where you find work, as opposed to teaching or law or medicine, where you can find work wherever you go — and clearly I've embraced that transience. For better or for worse, I've bounced around.

So how many people drop into the ideal situation early in their careers and then stick around forever? How justified was this interviewer in extrapolating from her own heavily-tenured staff that everyone should have X number of jobs on their résumé after X years? And who would have guessed that my constant searching of that ideal situation, that sweet spot, would someday work against me?

Season opener(s)

When not slagging the World Triathlon Corporation, you can usually find me doing their races. But once I finish and regain my soul, I feel the need to race off the beaten path (figuratively anyway) to restore the necessary balance to my universe.

That's how the early part of my race season has gone. I raced the California half-Ironman on April 2, and then the Razor City Splash and Dash in Gillette on May 7. One packs 2,000 athletes into a town that could pass for a winter escape paradise, the other packs less than 100 athletes into a town that struggles to fight off winter deep into May. One offers a sheltered bay swim, the other offers a pool swim. One cycle leg takes athletes over four righteous climbs through a military installation, the other takes athletes through empty fields dotted with oil derricks and mines. One run leg takes athletes along one of the most beautiful beaches in a state full of them, the other takes athletes along a set of railroad tracks in a glorified trailer park of a neighborhood.

The first one required some begging just get the time off, but I did it, and I'll spare another rant about my desire to take my time off when I damned well please. I flew into San Diego, which always thrills me, what with the approach amongst the buildings downtown. I stayed in Oceanside, California, with my friends Jacob and Tracy and their cat, Nixey. I owe them an incredible debt of gratitude for putting up with me and my bizarre habits for three days, and I repaid them with a pot of my mediocre spaghetti. I really need to learn to cook something else for when I'm crashing at someone's pad.

Anyway, I got all the sleep and transportation I needed before the race, and I was well-rested on race morning, if not well-trained. After my week in Tucson the shit hit the fan at work and I felt like I needed to go in every morning rather than train, and then I managed to short my training at night and on the weekends, meaning I never did more than I felt like because I had to hit trainer and treadmill for my fixes. Shit's gotta change, no doubt.

So the swim does indeed take place in Oceanside Harbor. Surprisingly, the water was fairly clean, minimal boat fuels, maximal salt content. My wave went last of 23, so I also got to swim through everyone else's pee — always a joy, when you expect the water to be quite a bit cooler, and you know why it's warmer. I hammered through about a half-mile of the 1.2-mile swim when my goggles snapped. The nosepiece, really just a piece of rubber strap connecting the two lenses, broke, and as I bobbed in the chop of the exposed part of the course, there was no MacGuyvering a repair. I tossed the goggles to a lifeguard, and after chuckling at the assurance that I had "plenty of time to finish, dude," I went on my way, sidestroking and breaststroking. Then I figured out that I could see much in the water when I had the goggles, so I closed my eyes, put my head down, and went back to swimming freestyle, opening my eyes to sight every now and then. Came out of the water in 34:40, not my fastest but not my slowest, either. I heard one of the volunteers comment that I was hardcore for going without goggles. Thanks to the salt, I must have looked like a pothead.

The bike starts with a brisk criterium-style loop around the harbor before getting on to Camp Pendleton, a Marine Corps installation. I pounded the flats going north parallel to I-5, not realizing a tailwind was pushing me along. That meant that when we turned toward the mountains in the base the tailwind became a crosswind, and then for much of the second half of the race, we had a headwind. That meant that for the four climbs, we were uphill into the wind, which took way more out of me than I would have liked. We were rewarded with some screaming descents, but naturally my head was out of it for all the climbing we did. I did the ride in 3 hours and something, glacial by my standards, so I was looking forward to a stellar run.

For about five miles, I had it right. Per the results I did the first 3.75-mile leg at 8:23 per mile, which felt quick but manageable. I stayed on top of my hydration on the bike, enough that I visited the loo twice out on the road, and once in transition. So I thought I could keep that early run pace indefinitely — run 8:23 per mile until I couldn't anymore. That shit came to a halt at mile 5, where I felt like crashing on the beach and taking a nap on someone's towel. I walked significant portions of the next five miles before starting the cola and pretzels at every aid station. Rocket fuel. I started running again at 10, and finished up that way, but not before clocking a 2:05 half-marathon — again, wars are fought and won in that time. Hey, at least the 5:54 overall time allowed me to maximize my time in the California sun and get a nice pink layer on the pasty whiteness of my body.

Four weeks later I was in Gillette, blowing off UW's commencement to defend an age-group title. The drive up alternates scenic (Sybille Canyon between Laramie and Wheatland) and yucky (WY-59 from Douglas to Gillette), but doesn't take long if you feel like testing the state patrol on commencement weekend, which I never do.

I saw many of the same people I saw the year before, and had that feeling of security and familiarity in a place I'd been only a couple of times. Doesn't take much when you've bounced around as much as I have. This time I split the lane with a couple of younger dudes, and we determined our order. The gun went off, we plowed through the water, and we all stayed on the same lap, amazingly. Now, when circle-swimming, etiquette dictates that one swimmer wishing to pass another tap the foot of the swimmer in front of them. I did that, and no dice. Meanwhile, the guy behind me at one point pulled out into the middle of the lane and passed me on a turn. So I learned that lap swimming etiquette apparently doesn't apply in a race situation; good to know.

I got out into the transition area in roughly seventh place. Per usual, I was glacial in transition and got passed before heading out on the bike. I enjoyed a strong south wind blowing me northward for much of the first half of the bike. Then I hit the turnaround and came to a virtual halt. By then I was in fifth, and trying to hold on to the guys in third and fourth. Another lesson became clear during the second half of the bike — if the race is not USA Triathlon sanctioned, drafting is legal. Indeed, I was in third briefly as I pulled these two guys over a couple of brief hills. Then they made a move and worked a two-man paceline for the rest of the bike while I dealt with the wind on my own.

Much like a non-USAT race I did a couple years back where I pulled a competitor through much of the bike before yielding a spot on the run on tired legs, I had no jump and couldn't bridge the gap on the run. I stayed in fifth place, but I ran a 21:48 5K (7:01 per mile). I take solace in that after fighting the wind in the countryside north of Gillette. Oddly, in terms of placing, last year I was fifth overall, fourth man (yes, I got chicked), first in my age group. This year, I was 3:30 faster, finished fifth overall, fifth man, and third in my age group. Yep, the two guys working the paceline were both 35. That's how it goes sometimes.

While there never was any rule about drafting in the prerace literature, the debate here is the letter of the law (such as it is) against the spirit of the law (in triathlon, there. is. no. drafting.). Far as I'm concerned, I raced honestly and took my medal home with a certain amount of pride in that. What could I have done, anyway, other than telling them to get the fuck off my wheel? Or hooked them (used my book to nudge them off the road)? Guess I can be content to sleep well with my principles.

Tomorrow is the 30-somethingth Bolder Boulder, a race I swore I'd always do as long as I was in this part of the country. For some reason, running a 10K in Boulder with 50,000 other people has lost its appeal, and I won't go back until I have the wheels to pull off a PR. Seriously, if I start in one of the first couple of waves, I only have a couple hundred people in front of me to shove out of the way — er, I mean, slalom through on my way from Pearl and 28th to Folsom Field. So maybe next year if I'm not ass-deep in Ironman training.

Guest bloggers!

In my desire to not talk about my first two races this season, I'll let a couple of other people take over briefly. Or maybe I'll make this a habit.

I saw a couple of things this week that hit home, the most recent of which came over tonight via triathlon coach Paulo Sousa's twitter feed. Remember my comments a while back about being coachable? Well, David Wendkos of TriSwimCoach.com expands on it. The money graf:

Being coachable is agreeing to follow the guidance of another, without questioning it, without needing to first understand why, without needing to analyze it, and without trying to adapt it. It is putting full faith in the person teaching you to show you a new way of doing something, and being open to learning it exactly that way. Trying their way, without question, for long enough to properly determine its merit. That does not mean you don’t use your brain. It simply means that for an appropriate period of time, you allow yourself to be fully guided to experience a new way of doing something. By the way, this can be really, really difficult. As people, we naturally want to understand. We want to ‘get it’. But sometimes, the best way to reach our goals is by finding a teacher we can believe in, and then following their instructions without an explanation. Understanding will come . . .later.

Sorry, that's just not how I work. Maybe my lack of coachability will be the death of me, or at least the reason I never fulfill my potential. In the words of someone, I've tried things my way for two decades and I haven't accomplished what I've desired, so something has to give. And my vain insistence on living on my own terms won't allow it to happen.

The second recent worthwhile read is from my friend Molly Zahr, on training and motivation. Anyone who wakes up with snow in the ground well into May knows what it's like to struggle with motivation. It doesn't matter what carrot dangles in front of you, there are any number of excuses we can make to not get out the door for a workout. Believe me, I've used most of them, but Molly reminded me that the motivation has to come from within. Simple as that. And for that I thank her.

OT: My sports boycott

With the Cubs in spring training, the Wild in sixth (or 11th, depending on the hour) place, the Orange headed for the dance, and the Texans in the offseason to end all offseasons, I got to thinking about my relationship with sport.

First of all, let's talk about language. In the U.S. we refer to the red section of USA Today as sports, while the mother tongue refers to the back pages of the Daily Mail as sport. Same thing in translation from other languages. I can go either way, since the sports I like the most originated in other cultures, yet when faced with an alternate spelling (e.g. honour, centre, faeces) I'm one of the first to say, "She's not our queen, so don't expect us to speak her English." One of the many contradictions that makes me me. Call it a push.

As an athlete I was mediocre at best. I played baseball, floor hockey, soccer, flag football — what you'd expect, I suppose. Basketball conflicted with floor hockey, and swimming later on, so I never played that at an organized level. I just didn't have the hand-eye coordination to succeed at any of the ball sports, though had we not moved from the small town where I played soccer to a town that had no soccer I might have done something (maybe played in high school or at a small college) with that sport. Fortunately I discovered running and swimming fairly young, though not young enough to make myself a robot for those sports and excel enough to get to another level.

That said, I still run, bike, and swim, and I follow the other sports, probably to an extent bordering on obsession. Thus, the satellite dish on the roof over my apartment beams my teams into the TV — when they're on a network I get. More often than not, I'll piddle away an afternoon or an evening watching such contests, and sometimes even when I have no stake in the outcome; sometimes I just want to see a game.

So look at the list of teams I cheer for. You have a college team stocked with sociopaths and miscreants, a baseball team that hasn't won a World Series since the Teddy Roosevelt administration, a hockey team that has sold out every home game in its existence without having won squat, and a football team that has yet to make the playoffs in nine seasons of existence (despite playing in a league whose rules make it impossible to suck for very long). I can pick 'em, can't I?

It wears on a guy, seeing such incompetence year in and year out, especially when there are far more worthy things to which to devote one's time. I've always enjoyed the drama of sports, especially this time of year during the college tournament, and the esoteric aspects of an individual effort sometimes blow the mind. To truly appreciate what the human body is capable of, watch an NFL running back to run through a tackle; or an outfielder throw a ball 260 feet into the equivalent of a plastic grocery sack on one bounce; or a goalie bend himself like Gumby to keep a hard rubber disc out of the net; or a tennis player hit a tiny ball while on the fly, landing it on a postage-stamp-sized piece of ground. Or to see what a group of individuals can accomplish with a clear goal in mind, watch a college basketball team with no chance of victory send a group of future NBA players back home next weekend. What, you think Congress would be a better example here? I don't know what to tell you, then.

I learned early on that every contest has a winner and a loser, which is not always the case away from sports. In a world of gray it's kind of nice sometimes to have a black-or-white distinction to that. Granted, there are judgement calls by a supposedly objective observer every minute of every game, and sometimes those calls will determine the outcome. Ultimately the actual participants decide the issue, though, which, in the words of former NFL coach Herm Edwards, is the great thing about sports. All this leads to why I'm boycotting sports for the foreseeable future.

My teams don't win. Yeah, call me whatever you want for taking my damned ball and going home. Consider again at who I root for, and you can't blame me for being frustrated. If that makes me "not a true fan," as I've been told, fine. I can live with that.

During the offseason, after a 75-85 2010, the Cubs did fuck-all. They got rid of one mediocre pitcher (Tom Gorzelanny, 7-9, 4.09 ERA) to acquire another mediocre pitcher (Matt Garza, 15-10, 3.91). Otherwise, they made no changes. In the words of one Yahoo sports blogger, why fix a fourth-place, 75-win team if it ain't broke? More to the point, if the Cubs aren't trying to win a World Series, why do they bother taking the field? Wait, don't answer that. I will. During 20-odd years of Tribune ownership, Trib ran the Cubs like one of its newspapers — give the customers a shitty product, count the money, rinse, repeat. New ownership has shown me no evidence it plans to do anything differently. Make it 103 years since the last championship. I'm done.

March 1 marked the trade deadline in the NHL. Most teams sniffing the playoffs looked for that missing element, that one (or more) player that would push them into the realm of contenders. Not the Wild. (Insert Minnesooooota accent) Oh no, sixth place is just fine. Eight go to the playoffs, right? Well, the team looks good. Why change anything now? (End Minnesoooooota accent). You make a change because the team could be better. You make a change because sometimes it takes just a player or two to make a good team great. When five points separate places 4-11, a team needs whatever edge it can get, especially one with such a loyal and knowledgeable fan base. Leave it to the cheapskate ownership to accept the status quo, and that's not good enough given that two other recent expansion teams have won Stanley Cups in the Wild's 10 years of existence. I'm done.

In 2010, the Texans were a trendy pick to win the AFC South and make their first playoff appearance, and why not? The Titans and Jaguars were down, and the Colts were racked with injuries. Nonetheless, the Colts found a running back, the Jags got lucky, the Titans did whatever they did, and the Texans choked. There's no other way to describe a season in which a team loses FIVE games on either the last play or opponents' last drive of the game. So what changes so far? Replaced the defensive coordinator. OK. Coach remains on staff. Isn't a team's performance in crunch time a reflection of the coach? The draft takes place in about five weeks but I'm not hopeful. Yet another franchise content with mediocrity in the name of a profit, which is inexcusable with the way the NFL sets up its rules for player acquisitions; the difference between 6-10 and a high draft pick and 10-6 and the playoffs (aside from four wins, smartasses) is minuscule. The Texans are the only team in the league to not make the playoffs in their nine years of existence. I'm done.

In the case of college teams, the point there is to give people a chance to further their educations while also competing for the glory of old SU. Er, something. I can't type that without wanting to barf given some of the winners who have suited up for my alma mater over the years. College sports is a cesspool of corruption, period. The news out of Ohio State this week should put to rest any questions about the motivation of college sports executives. And that's what the bureaucrats are — executives. They have as much to do with the educational component of colleges as the custodians in the classroom buildings. They have as much desire to see their charges earn degrees as they do to lose money. My alma mater's one championship in men's basketball came courtesy of a mercenary player who in one year might have spent less time in Bird Library than I did s a freshman. Part of me was happy with the result in 2003, especially since donations to the general fund surged, and applications for admission went through the roof; seriously, that's what good sports teams can do for a university. But what's the cost? Too few people are willing to examine that. I'm... sigh... done.

While in Tucson last month a friend laughed at my goal to ween myself off sports. "It's too much a part of who you are," she said. "It'll never happen." I suppose I can appreciate a good game every now and then. Last year's World Cup was thrilling, and next year's an Olympic year I'll deal with in due time, but my days of rearranging social and meal plans, fussing with my workout schedule, to accommodate games are over. I feel like I need to grow up or something, stop reading the sports page first, give up the satellite dish since all I watch is live sports (and the occasional movie on IFC). Don't get me wrong, I won't buy a house or get married or anything like that, but it's time to let this go.

Finally, I'm done.

Dateline, Tucson

“Why don’t you find yourself a life that’s real/Too lazy to work/Too nervous to steal.” BR5-49

The seasons have reversed.

It’s in the mid-60s here in Southern Arizona, with bright sun and a stiff west wind. Some days, that’s a beautiful summer day in Wyoming. But it’s February 11, not August 11. Either place, six months apart, would be the perfect place to train.

Thus, I’ve fled my frigid home for the sun and warmth of Tucson, the self-described winter training capital of the world. And train I do. I brought my bike, my running shoes, my red mesh swimsuit, and nine days’ worth of workout clothes. I crash at the elegant bi-level condo of Gail and Kevin, my friends for life for nothing more than putting sheets on the futon in their guest room and laying out a comforter and a pillow. The debt of gratitude for this respite is infinite.

In the pre-dawn chill and darkness, I swam at the Tucson Jewish Community Center, where steam rises from the water surface when some swimmers churn things up. After the sun comes up (more on this later), I have breakfast, change clothes, air my tires, and put rubber to the road. Other days (or sometimes on the same day) I lace up the running shoes and put EVA midsole to the road.

Regardless, I’ve taken a week to clear my head of some bullshit and just train. Chop wood, carry water. Swim, bike, run. It’s all the same. I swam with some faster people, rode with a faster person, and have taken initiative in crushing myself on my own in the run. In between I’ve hung out with a Ph.D. student in archaeology, road tripped to Tombstone and Bisbee with same, dined well, laughed a lot, drank a bit.

It hasn’t been all warmth, though. It’s been all sunshine, but the warmth takes its time about showing up each day. Hours after my arrival, Gail sent me off to the trails around Mount Lemmon with her coworkers Eric and Crystal. I wondered just how cold it would be at 9 a.m., so I went in shorts, long sleeves, a ball cap, and gloves. Eric wore an ear warmer and wind pants, while Crystal (native to the area) donned two pairs of tights, gloves, a base layer, t-shirt and jacket, and stocking cap. I ditched the gloves halfway through the grueling 9-mile run on steep grades and shifting ground.

The next morning, I dutifully woke up at 6 a.m. (vacation notwithstanding), dressed (if you must know, shorts, leg warmers, cycling jersey, jacket, full-finger gloves, synthetic beanie, helmet, socks, shoes), and headed out on my bike by 6:20. Within five minutes I was chilled. Another five minutes passed before my hands and feet went numb. And my concern was the lack of light, so I stood at an intersection waiting for the sun. My hands and feet lost feeling, so I went back to a Circle K and warmed up inside for about 15 minutes. Then I headed back out on my bike toward Oracle.

I turned back at Stone Loop. Fuck this, I thought, it’s too fucking cold. I’m going to Tucson, Arizona, I thought the week before, why would I need bigger gloves and shoe coverings? I forgot about the 30-degree turnaround between night and day in the desert. Gail and Kevin gave me some shit when I got back, but I headed back out in the afternoon, still somewhat bundled up and far more comfortable.

No vacation I’ve taken has been more necessary or more beneficial than this one. While I’m obviously on my computer and checking in at work, I don’t feel affected by anything in Laramie. I’ll return refreshed and ready to tackle the aforementioned work bullshit and hopefully save my job in the process.

More importantly to me, though, I’ll have a stronger training base established. The lower altitude here has allowed me to push harder than I can in oxygen-poor Wyoming, and the warmth lets me peel away some clothing layers for the sake of body movement. A five-mile run in tights, base layer, jacket, gloves, and a beanie feels a hell of a lot different than the same run in shorts, t-shirt, and ball cap. Hint: not better.

The toughest thing, aside from letting go of work, has been letting go of the Tucson summers. It’s brutally cold in Wyoming as I write this — single digits temperatures, double-digit-below-zero wind chill, stiff westerly winds blowing snow across any smooth surface — so it’s easy to embrace the warm, sunny days here in the desert. The vegetation is different, thinner than the thick evergreens that surround my office. The greens of the prickly pear and cypress trees have faded in the sun, and the red rocks stand out against the brown mountains. All those things remind me that it’s brutally hot in the summer, and that I would want to kill someone after about the third week of 110-plus degrees in May or June.

But this is a cool place. All the main roads have bike lanes, and all the bike lanes get used every day. Whole Foods is around the corner from Gail and Kevin’s; eclectic local restaurants line the strip two blocks west of the University of Arizona campus; the mountains linger to the north, east, and west; saguaro cacti seem to stretch their arms to the perpetually blue sky; palm trees (!) sway in the breezes and stiffen when the wind kicks up.

Yeah, it might be the coolest place I could never live. Because there’s no work for me here.

Blowing off the dust

Wow, this thing is still here. Who would've guessed stuff on the Internet has staying power? Sometimes I wondered if there was an eviction process, where if your blog stayed inactive long enough someone would come by with papers to sign and a truck to move your stuff out; I saw more evictions in the year at the prison block in Davenport, Iowa, then I ever had and learned way more about the process than any college-educated human should know.

So where to start? How do I catch up the six of you of on three months' worth of stuff when I've been good about updating my Facebook and Twitter feeds?

A week after the last entry, I headed out for a little three-day weekend to Georgia, where I watched two nieces and one nephew compete in the state cross country meet. I knew those kids had some ability but to have Lauren, Alex, and Ryan (Samantha, 11, is a couple years away from being there herself) running in the same meet was just amazing. Even my sister Diana (Lauren and Ryan's mom) said she thought it was nuts to think Starr's Mill would make it to state, and that Lauren and Ryan would run on the same day as Alex.

While pricing plane tickets, it crossed my mind that Lauren's a junior and Alex and Ryan are freshmen, so I have another year to see them all run at state. No, it doesn't always work that way. Funny things happen in sport, and I won't get into those things here. I've seen them happen. So thanks to 40,000 United miles left over from my days as a college basketball beat writer I got to see this:

Long story short, Alex got third, and Ryan and Lauren ran well. I'm trying not to be too proud and uncle because there's more to all these kids than their athletic accomplishments, but watching them all run in the state meet was an unmatched thrill. Ryan said he started out too fast, but acknowledged he was a little fired up for his first state meet, and that happens. Now he's a Prefontaine-quoting, bona fide high school runner with three years left to chase the dream.

Lauren observed "there are 112 other people in the state faster than me, and one of them is my cousin. Pretty cool." Even cooler is that Lauren, within the last year, had intoned that she hated running. Now she's giving up lacrosse to go out for track, and gave up swimming to run through the winter. No one saw that coming.

Alex attacked a hill with less than a mile left to move into third, wearing a scowl I haven't seen before; well, there was her early childhood where, upon her mom's request that she "give me a LOOK," she'd furrow her brow and purse her lips and wrinkle her nose and put her hands on her hips, and that way only 3- and 4-year-old girls can do. No, this time was serious. Later that same night she played trumpet with her high school marching band. Awesome.

After that, I went back to discover that my magazine was financially insolvent and the UW foundation hadn't delivered the funds they'd promised (they did, in fucking January). Then there was Thanksgiving, where I brought record cold to the Atlanta area. Then at Christmas, I brought record cold and snow to the Atlanta area. Even that place looks good with snow on the ground, trees, and rooftops.

In the meantime, I've been struggling at work, but not with training consistency. There hasn't been much keeping me from doing something every day — swimming three times a week, biking and running twice each. Tucson and its resultant sunshine beckons next week for my bike and I. My friend Gail, a triathlon coach, retail person, and camp counselor with TriSports, offered up a futon and spare room for a winter-weary soul and I took her up on it. Even offered to take on some of her brutal workouts, so I'll probably need a nap when I get home. The guillotine of California half-Ironman looms on April 2, but it has kept me training through the typically brutal Wyoming winter.