Category Archives: Uncategorized

Vexation Lullaby, Justin Tussing

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Wonderful surprise; a rock-n-roll novel that feels true and real while transcending its setting and subject to reveal real thought and humanity, rising beyond the stereotypes and neuroses.

As much as I enjoyed the dissolute rock-star Jimmy Cross – skillfully complexified by Tussing – and the protagonist Peter Silver, it is the exploration of obsessive fan Arthur Pennyman (‘Everyman’?) which jolts this out of genre, as he gains a love interest and a life. Or perhaps it is really the women – Arthur’s Rosslyn, Peter’s Maya and Jimmy’s Judith – who humanize the men and the novel. In any case, it is the relationships and dynamics that surprise and reward here, not the drunken debauchery, which comes across mostly as habit and self-medication rather than joyful or even truly sordid.

A human and humane story set in a milieu not typically known for either, spun out with a sure hand, even down to Pennyman’s obsession with footnoting.

(Footnote – I look forward to checking out ‘The Best People in the World’ Tussing’s earlier novel, which is listed as winner of a Ken Kesey Award)

And the Beat Goes On…

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Plenty of runners use a GPS watch, and plenty of those offer heart-rate monitoring. As a mid-pack runner, I didn’t give it much attention for years, but lately I’ve found that, even when not using it as a primary guide for training and progress, this data offers a window into what’s going on inside our bodies as we run.

The most practical info I’ve gotten so far is about warming up. Over time I’ve noticed that if I just lace up and start running, even at a very easy pace, my heart ramps up quickly to a rate that usually comes with a full-on sprint. If I keep running, it takes quite a while to settle down to a normal cruising rate, which is fatiguing and seems like it must waste energy. If, on the other hand, I stop running for even a little while, the rate drops down quickly and when I start up again it settles right into normal cruising range. I can’t speak to the exact cause here, but what it feels like is that, to run efficiently, my body needs to adjust its internal settings and biochemical processes from what they are in lighter activity. When I jump right in, the machine is trying to put out high power while still set to ‘idle,’ and that over-work makes it take longer to reset itself. Signaling the body that an effort is coming by just a little bit of running, and then allowing it a brief pause, provides time for biology to catch up with intent

With that info, I’ve been trying a new warm-up on days when I’m aiming for my best performance. Instead of just starting slow and increasing speed as I feel more loose, I alternate a minute or two of running with a similar period of walking around, then run some more, then walk, and so on. Over ten or fifteen minutes, I work those short spurts up from very gentle to almost a sprint. None of that is enough to drain reserves or feel fatigue, but when I start the day’s real work all the internal dials and knobs are on their ‘RUN’ settings and I can put out whatever level of effort is desired at a reasonable heart rate, not the frantic over-revving I’d get from a cold-start. I used that strategy before a recent 5-K and had a really satisfying run, so I’m gonna keep at it.

Another thing I’ve noticed: as a long run goes on, my heart rate slowly goes up, even though I’m holding the same pace (or, more likely, slowing down!). In other words, the longer I run, the higher the heart rate for any given pace. Again, I’m no physiologist, so I can’t say exactly why that is, and I haven’t figured out how to make use of it, but it’s definitely interesting.

Each body is unique and so is each person’s heart rate profile. There are tables out there that say what the resting and exercising rate is likely to be for a certain age (rates generally decrease with age) but they may not apply to you. I happen to be a smallish person and my heart rates run considerably higher than the tables indicate for my age – I call it hummingbird syndrome. To get the most out of any heart rate monitoring, follow it long enough and frequently enough to have a good idea of your own individual resting range, steady-state-running range and high-exertion or maximum range.

(Besides, checking heart rate now and then is a useful way to get your mind off of how hard you’re is working and sweating!).

And the beat goes on…

What Can Go Wrong, Will. (Part I)

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The New York City Marathon is one of the so-called Majors – six big events in famous locales that some runners aim to bag. Having grown up in the greater NYC area (on ‘Lawn-Guy-Land,’ as our loving offspring tell me I still pronounce it) I toyed with the idea, but not seriously, until our eldest son moved to Harlem and offered me a free bed (actually a small rectangle of floor, but hey, I expect Pheidippides slept on the ground the night before his big run…), so in late 2018 I sent in my application. The lottery for open entries was formidable, with 117,708 applications for 10,510 available slots – a 1-out-of-11 chance – but I got lucky.

I arrived at my Airbnb two days ahead (having allowed for potential winter travel delays, a lesson I learned several years ago when I had to literally run the streets of Boston to reach the expo as security was shutting the doors and volunteers packing away unclaimed bibs and packets). That left Saturday for touring with Owen and Sunday for a gentle shake-out run, a carbo load dinner and laying out my clothes and gear for the early start. I think I left the apartment at 3:30 AM, for a 10:30 wave gun, but I could be wrong, those hours are a blur…

Anyway, after a long cold wait, helped immensely by the coffee, fleece beanies, bagels and other treats TCS and Dunkin Donuts so generously provided, we set off. Which is when the ‘ugh’ started, as I discovered I’d somehow gotten my GPS set up so that instead of recording each mile as a lap and letting me know what pace I’d run it, the thing was cycling every 1.61 miles instead.

That may not seem like much, but when you’ve trained for years by pace, it’s an important tool to tell a stressed-out brain when it’s OK to maintain cruising speed, and when it’s time to suck it up and work a bit harder. Now, instead of instantly knowing I’d just completed that last mile in, say 9:26, I was faced with long division of times: quick, what’s 14 minutes and 31 seconds divided by 1.61, anybody? Don’t all raise your hands at once, I know mine’re in my lap. What’s the difference in pace between 15:11/1.61 and 14.31/1.61? Beats me, Prof, can we go to the pub now?

Another thing about NYCM, is the field size, over 50,000 runners. Even with wave starts grouped by expected pace, that means a crowded course and constant pace changes: speed up to get around someone before the slot closes, then slow down to wait for an opening to get around the next knot. Comparing my starting place with my finishing place, it appears I passed nearly 4400 runners along the way – not because I was fast, I’m not – but just because every day is a new day for every runner. In any case, with that many bodies on that much real estate, settling into a smooth efficient pace was out of the question.

About the time I was accepting those two distractions, I reached for the snack-baggie I carry on long runs, full of electrolyte capsules and a few Ibuprofen. I prefer to carry water rather than electrolyte drink; the better to wash down the gels and chews I use for fueling. Also because I’d rather pour plain H2O over my head and neck when it gets hot than Powerade or Propel!  In any case, when I reached for the baggie, I found I’d brought along an identical one, containing instead, the daily vitamins I’d counted out for the trip…so goodbye regular electrolyte hits.

The best laid plans, they say, are the most fragile (do they say that? I think they should. I’m gonna start saying it…), and at that point I lost control of pace, nutrition and incentive. Hopes of a good time were replaced by simply finishing, especially when we turned north onto First Avenue, eerily clear of its perpetual traffic snarl, and could look almost three miles straight ahead to the Bronx, and see for ourselves that up–town is not  flat-bush.

All’s well that ends well, though; I was able to finish the run and enjoy again the thrill of completing something which, for most of my life, I could never have imagined even attempting. Lessons learned? Be even more careful about checking gear the night before (maybe two different types of snack-baggie?) and think carefully before entering events with more than 1000 starters per mile: leave the broken-field running to the NFL, if you ‘re a mid-pack-runner and hope to find your ‘zone’.

BTW, there was an unexpected pay-off: that slower pace meant my legs felt better the next day than after any other marathon I’ve run. Staying in a sixth- floor walk-up to avoid NYC hotel prices? No Problem!

Thank you New York City Marathon, first responders and citizens. Thank you TCS for sponsoring a great event, and thank our lucky stars for every day we can run, no matter what goes sideways.

Cheers,

The Death of Politics, Peter Wehner

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Subtitled ‘How to Heal our Frayed Republic After Trump,’ this comes from a former speechwriter to Ronald Reagan, protégé of Wm. Bennet and official in both Bush administrations.  Credentials which would have made him a credible conservative and Republican in earlier years, but not today, as he would likely be labeled a RINO for calling out the willfully-ignorant behavior of the current administration and its enablers. Call it out he does though, beginning with a brief history of the term ‘politics’ (the affairs of the City, to the ancient Greeks) and progressing to analyze what has led to such contempt for the actual hard work of governing and for those persons who commit themselves to an honest effort to get it right. The ‘death’ to which the title refers is more an assassination, by those who’ve given up hope of getting anything right through diligence and have turned instead to destruction, or who’ve seized on past dysfunction as an opportunity to advance for their own agendas/celebrity through claiming to hold the magic wand that will make it all better, effortlessly.

Wehner presents himself also as a Christian, and includes a chapter on Politics and Faith, which will probably prevent the loudest current voices in that realm from hearing his arguments either, as he has no truck with their support for Trump. Religion is, in the author’s view, a necessary component of a decent life and an integral basis for ‘Politics’ with a capital ‘P.’ Agree or disagree with that (I disagree…) but it is refreshing to hear one of such beliefs who is not fooled by Trump’s charade of piety for the sake of votes.

All that goes down very well with this reader; Wehner seems knowledgeable and reasonable (except his defense of the invasion of Iraq, but that is more of an afterthought, something he seems to feel needs defense for sake of his overall credibility).  Unfortunately though, his prescription for ‘healing’ the situation is minimal; basically an exhortation for us all to be more rational, more committed and to work harder. There is precious little specific advice on how to get the nearly-half of the populace that voted for and still supports Trump to change their behavior. Except perhaps to wait out the generational shift which is in progress, until enough of us old white males have died off to allow the rest of you to return the nation to some level of reason and endeavor – if it survives the wait.

Remarkable Creatures, Tracy Chevalier

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This volume extends Chevalier’s genre: novelized accounts of moments in cultural history, told not through the typical male icons we are used to hearing so much about, but from the perspective of women who participated in ways that have not yet been given the same recognition.  In this case the focus is on  Mary Anning and Elizabeth Philpot, whose excavation of fossils along the beaches around Lyme Regis, England, helped spawn the field of paleontology and with it, our modern understandings of evolution, zoology and biology.  This the author does with grace and generosity, if somewhat of a Hallmark Channel/young adult vibe.

The tale is told in alternating first person narratives, with Annie’s broken grammar the main indicator of who is speaking as each section begins.  Despite the intimacy of the first person, one never feels a visceral connection with either woman, likely due to the formality and reticence which characterize their era (the early- to mid-nineteenth century). Yes, their romantic disappointments are addressed, but there is little reflection or revelation, Chevalier’s concentration is very much on the science and sociology of the story, and it is there, in the women’s interactions with the men who rule those spheres, that more heat is produced. Anning’s loss of repute for being ‘on beach’ with a man, Philpot’s need to secure a male escort for any public errand in London, these are clear and impactful; a woman’s life was in large-part a prison, and when gender did not suffice to complete its enclosure, then drudgery did, witness Anne’s mother, Molly Anning, or Philpot’s servant, Bessy.  It is so telling that the novel’s high points of suspense and drama are Philpot’s unescorted excursion to overhear a lecture (she must hide on a back stair to do so), and her later boldness in approaching the Geological Society, even with her young nephew as escort. While a couple of the ‘scientists’ show nascent traces of open-mindedness, the men in this story are by and large smug, self-satisfied and uninterested in the world around them, except for their narrow spheres of ‘expertise’. The most interesting of them, Mary’s Dad and Elizabeth’s nephew, are only minor players.

This, in retrospect, is the most important message of the novel; not what these two intelligent and driven women discovered, but what they had to overcome to do so, and then to attain even modest recognition in their lifetimes. Remarkable Creatures is, in effect, a prison-break story; The Great Escape for women imprisoned by custom, manners and gender. Bittersweet, as it must be, but very well worth the telling and remembering.

Sweet Tooth, Ian McEwan

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McEwan still has the power to surprise; to anticipate what his reader will be thinking and make hay of it.

All through this I wondered at the reason behind his writing in Serena’s first person and what sort of personal whimsy or predilection might be behind it. That he (she ) wonders if there might be a hint of gender issues in Tom Haley’s writing (and persona) led me to wonder (not for the first time) just the same about McEwan. Then here she comes in the final epistle to toy again with the theme, but now from Tom’s point of view,and at the same time, reveal the he (McEwan) has, all the time, been writing in Tom’s persona as he (Tom) attempts to write from Serena’s point of view! Almost more fun in the diagram than in the execution, still, McEwan’s Serena is mostly credible ( and where not, one can grant that it is just Tom’s failure, not McEwan’s). Interesting and just kinky enough to add spice.

No masterpiece, but a fun spy story with more human insight and value then any but the best of its genre.

Sweet Caress, by William Boyd

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William Boyd secured my admiration with Any Human Heart, and this novel only ratchets that higher.  In a deceptively low-key manner, it tells nothing less than the full story of a human life, packed with incident and accident, the monumental and the mundane.  Zelig-like, Amory Clay’s story intersects with many events of the twentieth century,  so this is also an historical fiction – and at times a bit of a thriller – but mostly it is a wise and thoughtful examination of a (fictional) life well-lived.

Impressively, Boyd upped the ante on himself this time by taking on a female protagonist with, at least to this reader, great success. While Amory is not a ‘typical’ stereotyped woman of her era, she feels real and true to her gender, especially in his scenes of romance, sex and simple lustful arousal. One wonders at the research or consultation he may have employed to get there.

The novel employs another conceit as well: Clay is a lifelong photographer, and throughout the text Boyd has sprinkled in what are purported to be her photos, dated from 1928 to 1968.  Internet research reveals they are found-photos, mostly fitted to the narrative but a little bit the other way round as well.  In any case, they add another dimension and credibility, without feeling gimmicky. (Unlike some novels told all in correspondence, or with wild typographical explorations running up and down and sideways across nearly-blank pages).

A real inspiration, and a challenge to other authors to do anywhere near as well.

Wow!

Pushing Down

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The arrival of spring this year found this runner looking-forward eagerly to a long event that started up in the mountains and ended down in town. With a couple thousand feet of overall drop, I figured it was a sure formula for a fast pace and an ego-boost to start the season. Sure enough, I crushed my goal pace on the first half (which contained nearly all the downhill) but when I got to the flats…ouch! Turned out my enthusiasm had gotten the better of me and my legs were already shot. By the last few miles I could barely get my feet off the ground as I watched shufflers pass me by and ended up with the worst finish I’d had at that distance in years.

Looking back on it now, I see several things I did wrong. First off, after years of living and training in a mountain region where up and down is a fact of life, I’d taken my fitness in that regard for granted.   Ignoring the fact I’d spend half the last year living in a city where a highway overpass counts as a scenic overlook, I just assumed running all that downhill at an eager pace would still be my thing. Wrong!

Second, because that city sojourn had been at sea level and my regular home and running are all above 6000’ elevation, since my return I’d focused my training on pace work to get re-acclimatized to thin air with less oxygen. Add in the long runs needed to prepare for the event distance, and I completely ignored the kind of up and down runs that would have prepared my legs for this event.

As I mentally beat myself up for that overconfidence, I recalled that an event in which I’d DNF’d a few years ago also had a big downhill in the first half, and that time too, I’d been proud of my pace on those drops, self-image swelling as I wove my way around slower runners and watched the valley floor come rising up to greet me. There too, once we got back on the level, my legs were noodles, only that day, on top of the fatigue I discovered I had no idea how many miles were left to run, thanks to poor signage and a course that looped around and crossed-over itself like a pre-schooler’s shoelaces. Pretty sure my car was closer than the finish line, I bailed and snuck away in shame ( well, maybe just embarrassment…). So much for that earlier flash of ego!

Putting those two together, I’ve resolved to spend this winter on uphill runs and treadmills with the incline set high. And, never again to be deceived by an early downhill. It’s one thing to let it all hang out on a downslope at the end of a run ( thank you to all those race-planners who lay out their courses for a downhill finish, you let us mid-pack runners feel like heroes!). From now on I’ll read the entire elevation profile (another thank you to all the race directors who include that vital info on their web site), and take just a little help from gravity’s boost, while preserving my legs for what comes after.

Pushing downhill, I’ve discovered, is a drug best-taken in controlled doses!

Shakespeare’s Pub – A Barstool History of London as Seen Through the Windows of Its Oldest Pub – The George Inn

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This amusing blend of history and anecdote traces not just the George, but all the coaching inns of Southwick, down through the centuries. Brown, who has made a career of writing about British beers and the people who brew, serve and consume them, has an obvious love of his subject and that translates into an enjoyable read, even with an iconoclastic glass of wine in one’s hand.

Has a decent eye also, for how individual history reflects that of the surrounding economy and culture. One of his revelations concerns the effects which the invention and rapid spread of railroad trains had on a wide range of industries, from the freight wagon trade, to passenger-carrying stagecoaches, stables and liveries, lodges/hotels, the hop trade, ports and the very patterns of settlement geography. Not gradual change either, but rapid and accelerating, able to wipe out an industry in one lifetime. That some of the trades displaced had done similar violence to other, earlier ones, suggests poetic justice when the trains themselves are later displaced by automobile and truck traffic (on roadways which necessarily evolved almost beyond recognition from the muddy and undisciplined things they had once been – ‘imagine, needing to make actual rules for which side of the road to drive on! Imagine!’).  Which reflects nicely on our current fearless leader’s proposal to preserve the coal trade. Really?

Touching on literature, cuisine, habit and morality, Brown suggests that the history of the George is only tenuously concerned with its physical manifestation, examining the existential question, if you replace only one small piece at a time, but eventually have replaced every piece of any object, is it still the original object? A question he answers in the affirmative – as he must, for the book’s topic to have merit…

My favorite bit though, is when a George-lover asserts that the ghost of Same Weller (of Dickens’ Pickwick Papers), has been seen around the place, allowing Brown a wonderful riff on the mental contortions required first to believe in ghosts, then in the ghost of a fictional character who never lived in the first place, and then that said ghost would haunt not the pub which the author named as his character’s locale but the one which some readers like to think the author may have had in mind when he created his fictional location, despite giving it the not-at-all fictional name of another actual pub down the street!

I like the way this author’s mind works, and will be seeking out his other beery books. Not to mention seeking out The George one again, as soon as we return to London-town.

Running with a Nine-year-old

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“Never go on stage with a kid or a dog,” some famous actor once said ( I think it was W. C. Fields, but I’m not sure, and it’s probably a paraphrase, anyway, so who’s counting?)

The sentiment comes to mind after taking part in a local Turkey Trot which had been set up in tight back-and-forth over a grassy meadow covered by about two inches of stale snow and which attracted over 400 participants despite temperatures in the 20’s. Seeing the start line occupied by the usual lean young men (in t-shirts despite the cold), I set myself back among the ‘faster than a walk, but definitely not going to take any awards’ crowd and awaited the gun. The first mile was purely a matter of traffic control; weaving a path through runners who were already losing their initial steam, and trying not to impede those who thought the same of me, as we all hogged the thin strip of muddy grass we were carving into semi-secure footing among all that snow.

By the second mile, things had thinned out as we each found our pace, and somewhere along the way I found mine matched very closely by a slight young woman in a pink jacket, huffing along with admirable intensity.   Focusing on steady level-of-effort as the course rolled up and down around multiple hairpin turns, I found myself easily passing this youngster, and offered a heartfelt ‘way to go’ as I did. Turn-about being fair play, she passed me a little later, which was when I began to really take note. Over the next mile, we traded places several times and I began to appreciate that besides strong lungs and legs, this kid possessed a spirit that did not readily accept being left behind.

Approaching the last turn, she was just ahead of me, within easy reach if I hit the pedal for a good finish. There’s neither honor nor pleasure in passing a youngster in the final yards though, so I told myself if I did not pull past her naturally before the last hundred, I would hang back and follow her in. Around the turn, her pace slackened and she fell behind, with about two-hundred yards to the finish.

Secure in the notion I was not going to make a fool of myself competing with ‘a little kid,’ I accelerated, savoring release from the discipline of pacing (and anticipating the joy of stopping…) when, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a shiny pink object not only come near, but quickly pulling ahead!

Long story short, I could not have matched that finishing sprint even if I’d wanted to, so gladly followed her across the red line spray-painted on the snow. A few minutes later, after making sure she had been joined by an adult, I made my way over and offered very sincere congratulations and encouragement to the smiling youngster and her parents.

Only when the results were posted, did I learn that the person who’d kept me honest and made sure I did my best that day was all of nine-years old.

Any day we can run is a good day; and well worth a Thanksgiving.