Running Commentary

I think it was in 2005 (maybe 2004?) that Z and I embarked on a series of Saturday trips to various regional trails to run and then have a picnic lunch. Those times we carved out of our busy schedules were magical mini-vacations, almost as good as getting out of town for a week. We took to calling them "extravaganzas," and looked forward to them a lot. We probably only managed three or four in all, but since that summer they have stayed in both our minds as special days. Fast forward from then to now. In 2007 we're older, a little more creaky, and busier than ever. But we still think with fondness of the extravaganzas. So much that, a couple of weeks ago, Z said to me, "Let's go down to Coyote Hills for a hike. We could take lunch." "Yes!" was my immediate reply. "A Hike-aganza!" So we did it. We picked a sparkling, cloudless day (see photo, above). A hike-aganza wasn't an extravaganza, but it was a fine thing, nevertheless. So today

Yesterday was Z's birthday, and I was thinking about how the story of us is at its heart a running story. About eleven and a half years ago, I was working the registration table at my running club's Fourth Sunday Run , and a guy came up to the table to register for the race. I asked him if he was a club member, and he said "No, but I'm going to change that right now," so I gave him a membership form to fill out. What happened after that is a story that has often been mis-told by others, but I'm here to give you the correct version--after all, I was there. I was running the 10K that week. The race started, and it wasn't long (maybe half a mile?) before I noticed that up ahead of me two of the club's most talented and winsome older women runners were schlepping along with the new guy (who was stylishly attired in purple sweatpants), chatting up a storm. "Those two," I thought. They always talk to the cutest guys." I ran along behind them f

A very warm day. Like a summer's day elsewhere in this country, but a perfect Bay Area fall day (read: no fog). Upon awaking this morning I decided I was bored with my same ol', same ol'. So I headed up the hill, which in Berkeley can really mean up. I zigzagged up to the UC campus, running slow but steady. Zigged north, ducked under some trees and took a path into the groves of academe. This, keep in mind, was Sunday morning around 6:30. Peace wasn't a temporary condition resulting from a lack of traffic, rather, it was the world itself. Birds. Air. Silence. Me. I dipped my head as I ran by the Campanile , paying it the obligatory homage that is every landmark's due. I made my way east, puffing as I scaled stairs and pounded vertical pavement. Finally I was there--at the track above Clark Kerr Campus. The track was still in shadow, but from its western rim I could see all of Berkeley and all of the the Bay spread out below me and already basking in the dawn's e