86 minutes. At least 12 miles. Sprinted 7 cul-de-sacs. 84 miles for the week. ----------------------------- To not err on the side of Oley Valley. Am I missing something here? Or Here? Well guess what time I rolled on into the race? 9:10. 50 minutes for Rollins, Zen, and Reznor as well as some striders. The parking lot was full. The race clock was ticking 8:01...8:02. Finish line officials were standing around with their hands in their pockets milling about spitting tobacco purchased at the mini mart that doubles as a deer butchery. Somehow it's fitting to end this prolific, high-testoserone racing year with a vapid DNS. The race started at 9. I, of course, was oblivious to it all and sauntered into the gym. I caught sight of the race marshal of the Oley 10 miler and he looked at me and then looked down at his watch. I walked over to the registration table. The race took place in some agricultural 4H complex. The registration table was under banners hand sewn by 4H members depicting cows, horses, farm machinery, and other disappearing segments of our country. I kindly asked the registration woman, who was organizing the age group mason jars filled with jams and other canned victuals, if I could register. Her Adam's apple lumped down and then back in surprised recoil. "Sir, the race started 15 minutes ago!" I didn't protest. I didn't say anything. I didn't confront the race director. I just went into my car and drove out of the parking lot. I drove through Reading and past the Oley Valley. I thought about many things as I gazed upon bucolic farms, endless rail yards and brushy, leafless scrub oak forests chaotically appearing to the side of the car and then zipping by out of sight. I was geared up for this race. Getting the mind and body to suffer together takes quite an effort. Concentrated preparation. Visualization. Negotiation. To DNS and drive away from competition is the military equivalent of progagandizing a man to death, handing him a gun to kill the Hun, and then tapping him on the shoulder as he lines up the enemy in his sights and telling him its just a joke and that the war's over; he was born a year to late for adventure. I continued to drive out of the rust belt. I passed green, raised ranches with plastic archery deer in the backyard and plastic Magi in the front yard; these same houses offered to notarize anything; please? I noticed sad taverns with dilapidated fronts and padded doors opened by men in flannel out for a Sunday morning toast to the Eagles. I crossed a river, half frozen, with rusting barges collapsed and draped on forgotten docks where the hobnailed boots of proud men once scratched and scraped under the weight of precious coal. Ridgelines appeared in the distance. The scrub oak cleared, forming a white-green demilitarized zone of melting snow under plush, slumbering grass giving way to a view of the other side -- endless rows upon rows of townhouses and condos forming straight lines up and down the vastness as far as the eye can see -- a Starbucks here and a Mercedes dealership there. I was home. ----------------------- I changed up my workout today by sprinting 7 cul-de-sacs. My neighborhood resembles a pictoral diagram of the chaos theory of fractals so I am limited in my options. As I would pass a cul-de-sac, I'd sprint into it. The length of the cul-de-sacs varied from 200m to about 800m. My legs were toast at the end. I've also timed the loop around McWorld and got it down to what I think is about 1 mile exactly. This, naturally would be my McTrack to do mile repeats past the onlooking and suprised eyes of the beautiful people in their warm , comfortable rooms. ---------------------- While a cadet at West Point, Patton is said to have worked at the firing range with the sole purpose of standing up downrange. He did this to get the feeling of what being fired at is all about. Bullets apparently zip, buzz, and pop. I crawled under a canned basic training range with M-60s fixed in tripods firing at you about 30 feet above while myself a cadet. I can attest to the fact that a bullet cracks. It's an eerie, sinister report that is unfathomable when realizing that this very noise has been the last thing heard by men in the millions throughout time. So my daughter takes after Patton. Tonight she insisted that I hurl these pink cushions at her. We purchased them at Bed, Bath, and Materialism on sale. The exercise entails me throwing them at varying speeds with level 1 to level 20. Level 20 was all out wailing about 5 feet from her. She sticks her chest out and takes the full force of the cushion while doing karate blocks. She's one tough girl; she's already been through hell and back so pink cushions in the face ain't shit. This has nothing to do with running. I have nowhere else to stick it.