Come With Me

This story starts with a question and ends with a question.  One from an inquiring grandmother, the other from a nervous grandson. 

But actually, it starts much earlier than that.

The year is 1913.   The day, June 13.   The day my grandfather entered the world.   His father—my great-grandfather—a Congressman from Illinois, wanted to commemorate the day.   He bought a ring for his wife.  The ring had thirteen diamonds in it. 

I never met my great-grandfather, or my great-grandmother.  And while my grandfather had met me, I don’t recall meeting him.  He died when I was only one.  I wish it were otherwise.  But I know his wife and daughters pretty well.  And because of them, his life, and the ring used to commemorate his life, changed mine.

I remember the phone call vividly.  It was August 2011.  I was just wrapping up the last few weeks of my summer internship.  I called home on a Sunday evening to catch up with my folks.  I don’t remember the first half of the conversation, but my memory of the conversation kicks in upon overhearing my dad ask my mom, “Should we tell him about Grandma?”  Oh, no, I thought.  Gram is sick.  But before my thoughts could spiral any further, I heard my mom chuckle. 

“Is Tracy around?” she asked.  “Yea, she’s in the other room,” I responded quickly.   “Okay,” she said in a hushed voice, “I visited Gram today, and I have a story for you…”

“What are Doug’s intentions?” Gram asked bluntly.

“I don’t know, Mom,” my mom responded, almost annoyed.  “I know that he loves Tracy very much and talks about the future with her.”  She knew this bought her some time, but not much.

My mom was on her weekly Saturday visit with Gram.   They had just come back from lunch and were sitting around watching golf in Gram’s apartment.  My grandma had become relentlessly curious about Tracy and my relationship in the preceding weeks.  There was a family wedding a few weeks prior that started it all.

Arrangements.  Where would Doug and Tracy stay for the wedding?  Gram had to know.  Where would Tracy sleep?  Would she have her own room? My mom would tell a few fibs to try to buy some time.  But she couldn’t keep it up forever.  She finally broke down and confessed. 

“They’re living together, Mom.  They have been for almost a year.”  A few moments of silence followed.  “Well, it sure is a different time,” Gram said, somewhat sadly.  And that was it.  Or at least that’s what we thought.

“Well, are they going to get married?” Gram asked on that Saturday afternoon, driving her point like a prosecutor on cross-exam.   

My mom squirms in her chair.  “Yes, Mom.  Yes, I think they will get married,” exasperated.  There! There you have it!

Gram takes a moment to consider my mother’s words.  Then she slowly lifts her arms, puts a hand on each arm of her chair, and begins to rise.  “Come with me,” she says. 

I came home two months later for a family-friends’ wedding.  It was early October. This time Tracy stayed up in San Francisco.  Therefore, Gram didn’t have to fuss over arrangements.  Instead, she had other things on her mind. 

“Well, I have the ring,” Gram says in a let’s-not-waste-time-with-formalities tone. 

We had just sat down for lunch.  I hadn’t even put the dressing on my salad.  I smiled and chuckled, unsure of what to say.  She smiled back and then started in on her navy bean soup.   We talked about golf, the books she’s read lately, and the last dumb movie she saw.  She gave me an update on all of my aunts, uncles, and cousins.   Then the food was gone and it was time to walk over to her apartment. 

We walk out of the Garden’s Dining Hall and make for the path toward Gram’s apartment.  Gram waives and says hello to a few senior passerby’s, knowing each by name.  Just before we arrive at Gram’s apartment, she slows and looks over at me. 

“So when are you going to give it to her?”

“Gosh, I’m not sure yet, Gram,” I say, fumbling for the right words.  

Thinking for a moment, she looks ahead and then again at me. “Well, does she have a birthday coming up?”

“Yes, actually.  Her birthday is next week.” 

“Well, that sounds like a perfect time to give it to her,” not wasting a second.   

I laugh as we open the door to her apartment.  We walk in and she sets her walker to the side.  “Come with me…”

I follow her to the back room of her apartment.  She walks over toward her dresser and pulls open the top drawer.   She reaches her hand in and pulls out a small box.  She opens the box.  With the look of a proud parent handing over her baby to be held, she handed the box over to me.  I wasfloored.  The ring was stunning.

Gram proceeded to tell me the story behind the ring.  My great-grandfather bought it for my great-grandmother to celebrate the birth of my grandfather.  The ring had 13 diamonds in it because my grandfather, Bill Gorman, was born on June 13, 1913.  My great-grandmother wore the ring until she died, and then she passed it on to her daughter, who wore the ring for a few years but never felt right about it.  She felt as though the ring should belong to Mary, my grandmother, because the ring was initially given to celebrate Bill’s birth in 1913.  About thirty or forty years ago, she gave the ring to Gram, who has had the ring ever since. 

I had known for quite some time before this moment that I would ask Tracy to marry me.  But I never thought about how or when I would do it, let alone what ring I would propose with.  But all of the sudden, I knew.  Sitting in Gram’s living room, I knew my whole world had completely changed.  My thoughts were spiraling from complete conviction to fear.  I felt like I was simultaneously floating and sinking.  My thoughts spiraled. 

“When did you say Tracy’s birthday was, Doug?” Gram asked, never losing sight of the mission.

“It’s next Thursday, October 13^th.”

“The 13^th?  Well, I think that’s an omen!”

I think so, Gram.  I think so.

This Blog Still Exists

This website has been "under construction" since the end of May while the author attempted to become a lawyer.  This attempt consumed most of the author's time.  But rest assured, this blog still exists. 

At the end of May, the author returned from the Brewskeeball National Championship in New York, licked his wounds from the crushing defeat, and dove straight into Bar exam preparation.  He also moved back in with his parents - another crushing loss of which he is still licking his wounds.  (He is looking for a place.)  He is also getting married in just a few months.  This is all to say that there is much to write and much to share.  So stick around.  

Lastly, we also want you to know that during this period of "construction" we, the editing team, have done absolutely nothing to improve this website.  Thanks for your continued support. 

- Editor's Note

The Origin of Skeecies

My flight departs at 6:55 am on Thursday morning and of course I push it.  Of course I was forced to scramble and sprint to be one of the last to board.  How else was this weekend supposed to start? This is the weekend, of course, that I fly to New York to compete in the Brewskeeball National Championships. 

Skeeball.  The game that is most commonly associated with Chuckee Cheese restaurants for west coasters, or Cony Island for east coasters.  It’s a game that is most likely associated with faint childhood memories. 

You're five.  You’re with your friends at your friend’s birthday party.  You’re stuffed with pie and sugar.  How does this experience get even better, you ask yourself.  That’s when you see them.  There they are, lit up on the other side of the restaurant, begging to be played.  You see the tickets and the toys.  You’re dying to play.  You run over to your mom and ask for some quarters, please, please pleassseee… You get the quarters and you roll the balls up the lane, off the ramp and into the numbered pockets.  The joy, the excitement, it’s all consuming.  You and your buddies pinky-promise to have every birthday party here, forever. 

The birthday parties come and go.  You lose track of some friends, and you gain new ones.  Less and less of the parties take place at Chuckee Cheese, unfortunately, as was initially promised.  Twenty years later and you have all but forgotten about those childhood endeavors.  Instead, more recent memories have all but taken their place, leaving just a flicker of nostalgia about an innocence lost.  Then, in the most unlikely way, and during the most necessary of times, that lost innocence is found, at the bottom of a pint glass at the Buckshot Bar and Gameroom in San Francisco.

I had just started my first few days of law school at USF.  I had moved from Southern California to a tiny studio apartment in the Richmond District of San Francisco.  I didn’t know anyone.  I was very excited, but equally nervous. 

The first friend I made in San Francisco was a guy named Dave.  He was a few years older than me and bore an uncanny resemblance to Matt Damon.  We had all the same classes together, we noticed.  We first met out in front of the school.  I went outside in between classes to make a phone call.  I noticed Dave was also outside.  It was just the two of us.  I saw him look over.  I decided to forgo the phone call and introduce myself to Dave.  After a few moments of awkward conversation, I realized we could be friends.  (I have a thing for Matt Damon.) 

Over the next few days of school, Dave and I hang out a lot, sitting next to each other in practically every class.  With the weekend approaching, we set some plans.  I tell him that my Dad recommended a bar near my apartment named the Buckshot that is supposed to be good fun.  (My Dad had learned of this bar from one of his 30 year-old colleagues who used to live in the Richmond District.) 

We meet at the Buckshot on a Friday night.  Neither of us had ever come across a bar like this.  Deer heads lined every slab of the walls.  Stuffed birds hung from the ceiling.  The few small TV screens played Japanese horror films. The kitchen served burgers and chicken fried bacon.  The smell of garlic and beer permeated throughout.

We sit at the bar and order a drink.  Our drinks are downed before we know it.  We swivel around on our barstools so we can take in the whole bar.  A pool table, a shuffle board table, and, and… on the right side of the bar, two glimmering skeeball machines.  We both laugh, unable to contain our smiles.  “Wanna give it a shot?” one of us asks.  “Yea, why not.”

The Buckshot became of a staple of our weekends during that first semester, especially as we gained more friends and brought them to our promise land.  In particular, our new law school friends, Nick and Ryan, instantly became infatuated with the bar and the skeeball fun. There was rarely a weekend where we didn’t at least stop by for a drink and roll a game of skeeball.  It was our refuge, our Mecca.  But as I sit aboard the Virgin Airlines flight to New York for the Brewskeeball National Championship, with Nick a few rows behind me, Ryan a few flights behind us, and Dave already in New York, I think it’s fair to say that none of us could have imagined what happened over the next two and a half years.

It wasn’t until our friend Robin brought it to our attention, during our second semester of school, that there was a “skeeball league” at Buckshot.  Laughter was the unanimous response.  But Robin, after having a few stellar performances on the skeeball lanes one weekend night, wanted to take her skills to the next level and join the league.  “Brewskeeball” is what the league was called, Robin explained.  In order to enter to league, you had to form a team of three (or more, if you want alternates, but only three can compete in a match), come up with a witty team name, and $60.  We decided we would join. 

The six of us—Dave, Nick, Ryan, Robin, Ted, and I—formed a team and became the “Notorious Skee.I.G.”  We decided to be a team of six so we wouldn’t have to show up every Sunday night, but could alternate instead—three per match. 

[This is as good a time as any to explain how the game works.  It’s a rather simple game logistically, but it can get confusing if not explained properly.  And in order to understand the more “technical” language later, it is necessary to start with basics and move from there…

Step 1: Walk up to the lane and put a dollar bill into the slot.  Down the chute on the right side of the machine come nine wooden balls—bigger than a baseball, smaller than a softball.

Step 2:  Roll the ball, one at a time, up the lane, off the ramp, and into a numbered pocket—preferably the 40 or 50 pocket, but we’ll get to that later.

Step 3:  Repeat step 2 until you’ve rolled all nine balls.

Step 4:  Find your score being shown in bright red numbers on top of the machine.  The higher score the better.  This score is called “a frame”

Step 5:  Find teammate (or skeemmate) and record score on scoresheet, leaving the lane open for your competitor to try his hand.

This is essentially how a skeeball match takes place.  One team of three against the other team of three.  The highest team score at the end of ten frames wins.]

Our team, Notorious Skee-I.G., had a shaky start.  Some of us performed better under the strictures and pressure of league competition than others.  Some of us looked forward to each Sunday;, some stopped showing up altogether.  A couple weeks into the “skeeson,” and we were down to four—me, Dave, Ryan, and Nick.  This is when our scores started picking up.  The four of us started getting pretty good, all the while appreciating how ridiculous this whole thing was.  We won some matches and, at the end of the eight-week skeeson, we qualified for the playoffs.  

We won our first playoff match, and then our second.  Before we knew it we were in the semi-finals against the defending champs, “Skee-Unit.”  Putting up our highest score ever, we stunned everyone and beat Skee Unit, advancing to the finals against the powerhouse “Big Johnson’s Skeeball Team.” 

In the finals, we battled “Big Johnson” throughout the ten frames and were neck-and-neck.  At the end of the tenth frame, we thought we had won.  We celebrated.  We hugged, embraced, and took photos.  But due to a miscalculation on our part, we learned that we didn’t win, but had tied.  Since there is no such thing as a tie in Brewskeeball, there needed to be a “roll off.” Overtime.  Each of their guys would roll a game and each of us three would roll a game—highest team score total wins. 

But it wasn’t meant to be.  We ended up losing in the roll off.  But while we didn’t get to chug from the Brewskeeball Mugs, that night lit a fire in our bellies.  We could almost taste the Mugs, but the rug was pulled out from under us.  Sure, we wanted the mugs and we couldn’t wait for another attempt, but more than anything we realized that we had fallen for this game. It wasn’t just some silly thing we did.  It became more than that.  It channeled those faint memories of childhood, of being with your closest friends and making new ones. It was good, fun competition.  The weekly matches forced us to get together, even if we truly didn’t have time for it.  And in the end, as a law student, being pulled out your room and out of your head can be life saving.  Being pulled out of the bubble of law school and into the world of teachers, artists, consultants, designers, and carpenters was sanity preservation.  We became hooked. 

The last two years have rolled by quickly.  We continued to pursue the mugs and strategized all sorts of ways in which we could finally grasp them.  After investing only God knows how many dollars bills into the machines, the four of us have become scary good at the game, or sport, as I’ll refer to it from here on.  We consistently put up some of the top averages for the San Francisco league.  Along the way, Nick won the BROTY (the Best Roller Of The Year tournament).  I set a San Francisco record for most “full circles” in a skeeson at 32.  (A roller gets a full circle when he or she drills all nine balls in the 40 pocket, thus resulting in a 360; hence, a full circle.)  And, finally, this past skeeson we chugged from the long sought after mugs, achieving the dream. 

Not only have our individual averages scored in the top 10 in San Francisco, but our numbers are also some of the best in the nation.  Yes, nation.  This league crosses state lines!  There are Brewskeeball leagues in Brooklyn, New York, Austin, Texas, and Wilmington, North Carolina—each league consisting of about 70 or so rollers, give or take.

So that’s how I got on this flight.  I’m here because we all qualified for the Brewskeeball National Championship (BBNC).  This weekend we see who is the best.  We are here to settle once and for all—or just until next year—who is the best team in the country and who is the best individual roller in the country.  On Saturday, sixteen teams will compete in the World Mug Tournament at both Full Circle Bar and the Knitting Factory in Brooklyn.  On Sunday, sixty-four individual rollers will duke it out at the same venues in the Rollers Tournament to settle who is the best skeeballer in the country. 

It's absurd.  It's silly.   Trust me, I know.  But this weekend is the final hooray.  This weekend is about more than just the competition.  After graduating last weekend and moving out of my San Francisco apartment and into my parent's place in LA to study for the bar, I'm not sure where we'll all end up after this.  Dave took a job in Louisiana and leaves in a few months.  Nick is staying in SF, and Ryan is likely to stay in the city as well, but I could end up anywhere in California after the bar.  This is the last time we'll be able to do this.  

At the end of this weekend, we will walk away from a (children's) game that rekindled a childhood innocence and camaraderie that I couldn't have imagined going through law school without.  But before we do, there is still more work to be done...

De-Faced

Since deleting my Facebook account, a few of my friends have been curious as to why I left.  Some have been supportive and understanding, others less so.  Those friends who have been less supportive suggest, with scrunched faces and cocked heads, bafflement at my decision.  They convey to me that I am committing social suicide, that I am cutting myself off from the world.  When I try to convince them otherwise, they tend to walk away unconvinced.  I've taken this as a sign that, instead of being wrong, I just haven't been articulating myself well enough.

I have tried to sit down and write this a few times already, but each time I sit down, my thoughts spiral into an annoying rant.  I sound didactic, douchy, and preachy.  This is my latest attempt.  I can't promise it won't sound like a rant, or that you won't think me douchy, but I have to try.

My reasons for quitting are not revelatory.  They are most likely things that anyone who has used Facebook will have thought of at some point.  Some people more frequently than others.  In my case, I thought about them often.  So often that I couldn't do it anymore.  The positive aspects of Facebook couldn't overcome what I saw as the overwhelming negatives.

What are the negatives?  It's addicting.  It's a distraction.  It's creepy.  People say and share crazy things - often.  And I think it's making us less connected to one another.

The Addiction
I started feeling like a junky.  I would feel weird, withdrawal-like symptoms if I hadn't checked my Facebook in more than a few hours.  I would check it on my computer and my phone.  There was no place I couldn't get my fix.

The scene of Mark Zuckerburg's character at the end of "Social Network" where he sends out a friend request and seconds later is shown clicking refresh over and over again is emblematic of the addiction.  Whether it's a friend request, or a status update that is just dying for a few "likes," we've all been there, getting that jolt of excitement when that little red notification appears.


The Distraction
I often wonder how many times I've jumped on my computer with a specific goal in mind, and then thirty minutes later think to myself, what the hell just happened?  I went online to do [X].  I still haven't done [X].  (Resenting self.)  

Instead, I've learned that a college friend is in Europe while I'm in the library.  "Check out my 6,000 photos of Brussels/Amsterdam/Sweden!"  I do.  Or that a friend is in sunny Arizona watching the Giants play spring training games.  His status leads me to his page, where I scan his photos, and then see my friends who are tagged, and then click on the friends in the photos, which then leads me to their page, and then to their photos, and so on and so on.

[I graduate in a few weeks and will then spend the summer studying for the bar exam.  The less distractions the better.]

The Shit
The incessant updates.  The person you just can't seem to get out of your news feed.  The bad politics.  The image projections.  The photos of people you thought (and hoped) you'd never see again.   You know what I mean.

I'd often log on and feel the need to shower immediately.

Sure, you can "block" people, but I found that the moment I tried blocking someone, another, stronger force of shit appears.  And what, de-friend them?  No chance.  What if you run into that person?  It's happened.  It's painful.

The Creepiness Factor
I'm not sure when it happened, but I think it was more of a cumulative escalation.  Facebook wasn't always so creepy.  People weren't able to track you, or your every move, down so quickly.  Every comment of yours on someone else's photo or wall didn't appear in someone else's news feed.

The timeline was the final straw.  The past six years of my activity on Facebook accessible to people who I haven't talked to once or haven't talked to since middle school?  I'd rather not.

And it's not just the creepiness of other people that concerned me.  My own feelings of creepiness were troubling.

How do I know this about this person?  Is it really healthy for me to have this much information about someone I met once?  Or haven't even met?!  Should I really be looking at their photos from their most recent vacation to Hawaii?

Probably not.  But I did it anyway.  And you do too.

The Disconnection
Becoming more and more connected to one another through social networking sites like Facebook, are we actually feeling more connected to each other?  Or does it have the opposite effect?  Do these sites actually separate us and create a false sense of connection?  Since college, I've been convinced that this issue would be the theme of our generation.

Within the past few years, through Facebook, I felt like I knew more information about my friends - where they were and what  they were doing - but less and less about them at the same time.  It was easier to keep tabs on everyone.  But I noticed that as we all started using Facebook more frequently, other forms of communication or interaction dropped off.  Less phone calls were made. We spoke less and hung out even less.  Why call someone to see what they are up to or how they have been when you can just look at their most recent status update or photo album?

Within the past few weeks the New Yorker and the Atlantic ran big stories on this issue.  The consensus is that Facebook is having a huge impact on society.  Some say it is making us lonelier, others say that it all depends on how it is used.  If people use Facebook as a tool for getting together with people face-to-face, then it is good for us.  But most people don't, and the effects have been pretty clear.  More of us are living alone and more of us are becoming lonelier.

God, this has been a depressing post.

Happy!
When I quit Facebook, I said that my shorthand reason for logging off was that I felt I would be happier and that I would be a better friend.  How have I fared?

My theory was that I would be happier because I would seek people out more.  Instead of feeling like I had already had enough of people after a few minutes of "news-feeding," maybe I would try to spend time with the people I care about.  Maybe I would call my friends and family more often.  Or if not call, then write a personal email - no more of the mutual stalking.  Maybe I would try to arrange things with friends.  Maybe I would read more thoughtful articles and essays instead of aimless floating around Facebook.

After more than a few weeks, I can say that I'm definitely happier.  As far as being a better friend?  I don't know.  You'll have to ask them.

This all being said, you can now follow me on Twitter!

What?!

We Did It!

It's been a long and difficult journey over these past three years. There have been many ups and downs. There have been times where self-doubt and cynicism have overcome any glimmer of faith and hope. It has not been easy. 

There have been many failures, and just enough victories to keep us going. But we kept our heads down and continued to pursue our goal. 

The days were long and the nights were often sleepless. But all the hard work finally paid off. 

Last night, we won the Brewskeeball Mug Tournament! 

(What?  You thought I was talking about law school?!)

Big numbers were put up all night on Championship Sunday.

Lane 1 (left) was more kind to us than Lane 2 (right) thoughout the night.

"Balls Quiet on the Western Front" intently watches the final roll.

"Johnny Haze" of "Skeenut Butter and Jelly Time" needed to put up a 480 to tie in the final roll, a 490 to win.

The victors embrace.

Both teams embrace, embodying the essence of SKEE (Spirit, Kinship, Esteem, and Excellence).

The dream realized. Skeeson XII Champs.

"Gene Parmesan" tasting victory.

World record chug by "The Cautious Rancher."

"Old Balls" had the dual task of drinking both his beer and his own tears.

The best photo.

We might vomit.

In the upcoming weeks, when law school is over, I intend to write a detailed history (historskee?) of our love affair with skeeball - from our humble beginnings to our rise to prominence. 

Furthermore, my financer (mother) is flying me out to New York over Memorial Day weekend to both cover and participate in the Brewskeeball National Championship in New York.

Passing It On

I started and finished the race in a dead sprint.  It started that way because of my stupidity.  It ended that way because my manliness was called into question.  And then, I nearly face-planted.

Pre-Race
It's not that I woke up late.  I just didn't take into account how long everything takes between the drive, the bathroom pit-stops, the changing into and out of clothes, the registration, the transition station set up, and the wetsuit.  We pulled into Granite Bay State Park in Folsom, Ca at 8:20am.  The clouds were parting and the sun was breaking through.  The air had a strong chill, but the warmth of the sun had a calming effect on my nerves.  The race began at 9:00, but I was in no rush.

I took my time gathering everything from the heap of a laundry bin that had become the back of our car.  Bag full of biking gear?  Check.  Towels?  Check.   Spandex?  Check.  Wetsuit?  Got it.  Everything seems to be in order.

I pull my head out and look to my left to see my cousin Jenny and Jonathan.  We embrace and shoot the breeze for a minute. The first thing Jonathan wants to see are my legs.  Earlier in the week I told them they were shaved.  But I lied, hoping that, this being his first triathlon and all, he would follow suit.  He didn't.  (Personally, I think he would have if he didn't have a bad case of poison oak on his left side.)  Jenny and Jonathan had been at Granite Bay for at least an hour already.  Jonathan had his transition station set up and was looking ready to roll.

I get back to getting everything in order.  Then we head over to transition station to set up.  Jonathan had carved out a nice spot for me right next to him.  Tracy helps me organize while I run over to go check-in.  I look down at my watch and see that it's 8:50.  I have ten minutes before the race starts.  Panic has not set in but is clearly on the horizon.  I'm not in my wetsuit yet.  I haven't checked in.

I run across the parking lot to the registration booth.  I line up (there's no line at this time, obviously) under the "Last Name R-Z" sign.  I tell the woman working, let's call her Nancy, in a hurried voice, that I need to register.  Nancy gives me an odd look.  I take this as her judging me for being here so late.  Noted.  Then she hands me two forms to fill out.  In scrambled thoughts, I do not question this but just try to fill it out as quickly as possible.  I figured they were just your standard release of liability forms.  It takes me more than a few minutes to fill out, my scribble becoming less and less intelligible as time burns.  I look up and see a different woman at the desk.  I hand the woman, let's call her Linda, the forms and she looks it over.

"Okay, that will be $110 dollars please," Linda says.

"Oh, no. See, I've already paid.  I registered online," I plead.

Linda rips the forms in half and gives me a look like I just called her daughter a fatty.  "You needed to check in, not register.  You need to go over there."

I shuffle over and find Nancy.  She asks what's wrong.  I tell her that I already registered online.  Nancy apologizes, realizing the miscommunication.  A few seconds later, I hear Linda, who's a few feet away with her back turned to me, telling her co-worker something.

"Apparently, that guy can't read!" says Linda, with the tone of a bitchy eighth-grader.  I see Linda's co-worker give her a "he's standing right there" look.  Linda turns around and sees me.  She starts walking away with an embarrassed look.  I wanted to pull her hair and call her mean names.  But instead, with Linda still in earshot, I accept Nancy's apology and tell her, "it's not your fault.  I can't read."

I'm finally checked-in.  I grab get my goodie-bag and race numbers, one for each leg of the event.  I sprint over to the transition station where Tracy is helping to organize.  It's 8:57.

"Three minutes until race time!" the man on the PA painfully reminds me.  I don't say a word to Tracy.  I start slathering Body Glide all over my legs, arms, and wrists, so the tight wetsuit can slide on easier and faster.  It does.

"One minute till race time!" booms the voice from the PA.

I slide my booties over my feet, grab my head warmer and goggles.  I give Tracy a smooch and she wishes me luck. I start sprinting down the hill toward the Lake.  

The Swim
Apparently, the guy on the PA was lying.  It was more like two minutes until the race started.  When I got down to the lake, amazingly, Jonathan and Jenny were the first two I saw.  We snapped a few photos and began dialing in.  The look of intensity on Jonathan's face helped me appreciate the moment.  I thought to myself that's how I must have looked last year.  But then I realized that part of where that look came from was knowing what we both learned a few months ago.  A few months ago, the Washington Post published an article about recent deaths in triathlon.  The article detailed a few recent deaths that have taken place during the swim leg of the event and how they have been related to cold water, unclear water, and panic attacks.  Not having done another triathlon since reading this article in November, I felt the anxiety sit hard in the pit of my stomach.  Knowing that Jonathan had also read this article before having done a triathlon, I could only imagine where his thoughts were.  (Especially since the person who had sent us this article was watching us from shore.)  At least I knew what to expect.  But even then, the swim kept me up at night.  We resolved to take a slow start and stay together during the swim.

The whistle blew and everyone took off.  As planned, we hung back a bit and treaded slowly into the icy 48-degree water, letting the vets lead the way.   The two of us learned quickly, that once your head ducks into that cold of water, all thoughts of plan - or simply having any thoughts at all - go to shit. Within our first few strokes in the icy water, we had already lost track of each other.  Between swallowing the choppy water when coming up for breath, the hyperventilation that automatically kicks in, the inevitable fogging of your goggles, the clamoring under, over and between your fellow swimmers, and the fact that every swimmer looks exactly the same, we quickly found it was impossible to swim together.

Once my breathing finally calmed from the initial shock of the cold, I was able to keep my head fully immersed in the water and settle into a normal swim stroke, coming up for air on my right side every other stroke.  I attribute much of this quick adaptation to the cold to the ridiculous-looking hoodie head-warmer I purchased a few days before the race.  (Imagine a 1920's football player's helmet but instead of leather it is made of mesh insulating material.)  The booties on my feet were quite helpful too.    In settling into a good pace, I found myself drifting to the right-side of the pack.  This gave me some freedom from the group and stiller water to swim through.  Before I knew it, I noticed the group moving closer to me.  They were funneling closer and closer together into somewhat of a traffic jam.  I looked up and realized we were rounding the orange buoy.

After rounding the buoy and feeling the field open up again, it finally hit me:  I'm doing a fucking triathlon.  Arriving at the race late and literally sprinting to the starting line had provided me with no time to think about the race or its significance.  I couldn't get too amped or too nervous.  It was like getting the call to pinch hit when the pitcher was already in his wind-up.  No real strategy, just reaction.

As I head for the shore, and catch glimpses of the warm sun on each right turn for air, one calm stroke at a time, I appreciate how far I had come from last year.

The Bike
There is no better feeling than feet on sand.  Honestly, I think the race could end right after the swim and most of us would be happy and proud.  But of course it doesn't.  So we enjoy the moment for a minute and then start running and stripping onward to the transition station.

When I got to my bike, noticing that Jonathan's bike was still here, I took my time changing out of my wetsuit and into my biking gear.  I wanted to make sure Jonathan had made it out of the lake in one piece before I took off.  A few minutes later, as I buckled the strap to my helmet and grabbed my bike off the rack, I saw Jonathan heading toward me in his half-stripped wetsuit.  The look on his face conveyed what we were all feeling, like he had just gotten punched in the stomach while experiencing a horrendous brainfreeze.  Or in his words, "That was the most horribly cool thing I've ever done in my life!"

I hopped on my bike and headed toward the trail.  Within seconds, I was treading through deep puddles of mud surrounded by trees.  Here we go again, I thought.  A repeat of last year.   A 16-mile trail ride that in effect equals 22 or 24 miles due to the conditions.  The few days leading up to the event had experienced some hard rain, but I convinced myself that in no way could it be like last year, where it rained for two weeks straight leading up to the event.

I took my time with the first few climbs and descents, thinking that I will need every ounce of energy just to get through the ride.  Each drop in, or each turn, I mentally anticipated a swamp that I'd need to drive through, making sure I took the right angle into each pit.  But each time I anticipated the worst, I got something much better in return.  Maybe a quick mud puddle or no puddle at all.  Imagine that?  On the first 8-mile lap I kept telling myself, just wait for it.  Just wait.  There will be a tire-derailing rut packed with mud waiting to grab your tire and pull you to the ground.  So don't get cocky.  I didn't.  But by the time I hit the second lap, I realized that my worries were in vain.  It was all fine, nowhere near as bad as last year.  Now?  Enjoy this shit.

Just as I'm making my second lap and turning up the energy, I hear a voice yell from behind me, "Hey Anchorsteam!"  I figured it was a guy who was just really into Anchorsteam.  So I gave a nod in acknowledgement.  But as the person rode up alongside me, I realized it was Jonathan!  I was pumped. I was impressed with how much time he made up on the ride.

The next few minutes we set a great pace together with him leading the way and the guy who he was following throughout the first lap in front of him.  The trail narrowed and I followed close behind.

The trail took a sharp right turn into a descent.  We leaned into the turn and dropped in, gaining speed for the uphill climb that ensued.  The sound of gears changing, pedals squeaking, and accelerated breaths drowned out the songs of the birds in the trees.

When our bikes became more and more vertical as the hill escalated, we each searched to find the right gear.  In doing so, I hear Jonathan yell, "Shit!"  I redirect my bike to the right of him and he nearly falls off his bike the left.  I realize that his chain slipped.  "You alright?  Need anything?" I ask.  "Fine! Go ahead!" Jonathan responds.  I keep climbing.  Moments later I pass the guy who was ahead of Jonathan.  Now having a sense of the terrain on this second 8-mile lap, I take advantage of my newfound confidence and hit each turn harder and each hill faster.  On the downhills, I feel like a downhill skier traversing trees and moguls.  On the uphills, my pedals fly and my breath pants like I'm climbing Everest.  The rest of the ride I spend alone.

This is one of the amazing things about competing in these Xterra events.  The amount of time a racer can spend alone during the race is so unique to Xterra.  I've never run a full marathon, but any photo I've ever see of a friend or family member running one, there is always a ton of people surrounding the runner, either those participating in the race or those cheering for the runners on the sidelines.  Xterra races take place in relative obscurity.  There is one or two photographers set up somewhere on the trail and the support staff is pretty much relegated to a half-mile radius around the transition station.  I find this to be one of the best and worst things about these races.

This solitude is great because of the opportunity it presents for reflection.  You can reflect on all the training that took place in preparation for the race or the things you overcame in order to get to this point.  Or you can appreciate the beauty of the ever-changing tree-covered landscape and the sun reflecting off the lake and mountains.  But I'm immediately reminded of the downsides of this solitude when I make my final stretch and see Tracy, her parents, and Jenny cheering me through the final stretch and onto the run.

The Run
I planned on running in my Vibrams.  But my feet never recovered from the cold swim.  When I clipped out of my bike and took off my biking shoes, I still couldn't feel my feet.  They never had a chance to recover because every half mile throughout the ride there was a puddle that couldn't be avoided, and, as a result, my feet never dried.   As I made the decision at the transition station to go with my running shoes instead, Jonathan was just pulling up on his bike.  He saw that I was going with the running shoes.  Needless to say, with me being an influence behind him getting Vibrams in the first place, he was disappointed.  As was I, but I wasn't willing to risk it.  As Jonathan fidgeted with his Vibrams, I took off toward the trail.

A mile later I was all alone and lost in thought.  I was in an exhaustion-induced trance-like state, surrounded by trees with the lake to my left.  My thighs and groins tightening on each climb and descent. A half-mile later, I had a running partner.  Jonathan caught up with me and I couldn't have been happier.  We set a good pace for what would turn out to be the rest of the run.

For what seemed like the longest four mile run of our lives, when we had some oxygen to spare, we tried to convey to one another how awesome this was.  He thanked me for me inviting him.  I thanked him for pushing me during the race and throughout the past four months.  We passed a few runners, ran through a few more puddles, and prayed to see the finish line at the next turn.  We agreed we would cross the finish line together.  But just like our earlier agreement about sticking together during the swim, this plan also blew up.

We were on the final stretch with about a thousand yards to go.  We both see the finish line and are keeping in lock-step.  With about 150 yards to go, we hear my "buddy" on the PA.  I anticipate that he is about to call out our names and numbers as we head in.  Instead, we hear, "Hey, this isn't a running club!  This is a race!"

Jonathan and I look at each other, and without saying a word, we smile and both take off on a full-on sprint.  I hear the noise levels of the crowd increase with cheers and laughter.  Fifty yards to go and we're in a deadlock.  Jonathan pulls ahead slightly.  Then I pull ahead.  Then we're dead-even!

With five yards to the finish I lean my body weight forward to slightly edge him out.  The cheers and laughter continues, but as I soon discover that I no longer have the leg strength left to stop my momentum, I prepare for a full face-first encounter with the dirt.  The crowd's cheers turn to a concerned, "Ooooooohhh!"

Somehow, I manage to grab the shoulder of the volunteer worker who is coming for my number.  Amazingly, and regrettably for the audience, I avoid the face-plant and my ego retains its pride.

Post-Race
During my last race, last year in Tahoe, you'll recall, I was bailed out during the ride after my back tire went flat.  I was helped by two guys who suppressed their own self-interest in order to help me get through the race.  All that was asked in return was to "pay it forward."

So this race I was on the lookout.  I had a spare bag full of equipment so I could help out last year's me.  During the ride, anytime I saw someone pulled off to the side, I would ask, "Y'alright?  Need some help?"  The response was always the same, that they didn't need help.  So when I finished the race and I hadn't come to anyone's rescue, I was kind of disappointed.

Then I went over to Jonathan as we packed up after the race.  The first words out of his mouth were, "So, when's the next race?"  He was buzzing.  The look on his face said everything.

"I wanted to feel like an athlete again.  I now feel like one again.  Thank you."

Last year, my brother John gave me a gift.  Not just the Anchorsteam jersey, or the registration for the Folsom Xterra.  He gave me the gift of triathlon, of feeling like an athlete again.  This is a gift that Tracy and I have been able to share together.  And now, I learned, without realizing it before, that I had passed that gift on.

So who's next?

Exciting Things to Come

This is a very exciting time.  Here's a few reasons why, in no particular order:

1.  Tracy and I are a few weeks away from graduating law school.

2.  Tracy is one phone call away from a job offer in Sacramento - any day now!  I am one email away from getting someone to just open my job application. 

3.  We could move up to Sacramento in a few short weeks, or alternatively, we could move to LA to study for the bar.  Either way we are moving out of our apartment in San Francisco. 

4.  Tracy and I are getting married in October in South Lake Tahoe!

5.  We are competing in the Folsom Xterra Triathlon this Sunday, April 1st, with special guests.

6.  Last, but certainly not least, I am competing in the Brewskeeball National Championship in New York City on Memorial Day Weekend (May 24-26).

More to come, more to come...