'Worden Exposure'

I've made some recent additions to my wardrobe. Nothing fancy, a couple of shirts, some slacks, shorts and a pair of loafers. One of the shirts is in the camp shirt style. These are short-sleeved, straight-cut shirts with collars. They should not be tucked into trousers as they are too short to stay tucked-in.

Mine appeared to be too long. I asked around and my more fashion conscious coworkers had a ready answer. "You raise your arms and check for a 'Worden Exposure.'"

I'd never heard of such a thing. Neither had the source of all knowledge known to mankind--Wikipedia. Google was stumped as well. From that I must surmise it is a new term or neologism as Wikipedia explained.

Note the two gentlemen to the left. This is our baseline photograph. Not much to see here so we will continue on to the second photograph.

The second photograph, taken immediatly after the first clearly shows an example of what I now know is called the 'Worden Exposure'. For those of you struggling to locate the W.E., as some have shortened the expression, look for the red oval. The lower stomach area just above the beltline is exposed when someone wearing an untucked shirt that is too short raises their hands above their head.

Note that the gentleman wearing the lighter colored shirt on the left has no 'Worden Exposure' so we can conclude his shirt is of the correct minimum length. The one to the right is approximately four inches too short.

None of my coworker knew where the term originated, but all were adimant that is was the correct term.

While most of my post are of a humorous nature, this one is intended to be informational for all those suffering from the fashion condition know as 'Worden Exposure.'

The View from First Class

I’m a nervous traveler. With practice and conscience effort, I’ve learned how to hide most of the tells. When the gate agent called my name over the public address system all that practiced and artificial calm was no more.

“Mr. Douglas, can I change your seat assignment?”

I’m a nervous traveler, but not about seat assignments. “Sure.” I quickly returned to a state of calm.

She slid the new boarding pass across the counter and pointed to the seat assignment—3F, F-Cabin. “I hope you don’t mind.”

It took a moment for me to understand what this meant. Then it became clear. I would be taking my first trip by aircraft in first class. The nervousness returned with a vengence. Then the unspoken questioning began. Would I do everything right? Would the other passengers know that I did not belong in first class? Would I embarrass my Mother? Would the cabin staff know that they a regular person was mixed in with the travel elite? Would it be so obvious that all the others in first class would know?

The boarding and settling-in process went smoothly. The overhead bins had plenty of space. All of my fellow first class travelers did not appear to know that I had somehow been allowed into the front portion of the aircraft. So far, so good.

Something was wrong with my seat. It appeared to be a medium-sized, leather-covered love seat not a single person seat. Would I have to share the couch with someone else? How would that actually work? There appears to be only one lap belt. Would we have to share the belt. Lock all of us into the same belted/unbelted/rebelted schedule? I scanned the rest of the cabin and confirmed that only one person was sitting in each of the seats.

I tried to keep the sound of my exhaled relief to a minimum.

I sat down, buckled in and stretched out. Really stretched out. Tried to touch the seat in front of me and couldn’t stretched out. What would I do with all this extra space?

Had I known how much space I would have to myself, I might have considered renting it out to a small family that needed a vacation.

You can see in the picture that I am pointing my toes and am a mile away from the seat in front of me.

Now that I was seated, I began looking at all the accommodations I would have for the three hour flight. An extra wide armrest seperated 3E from 3F. It was made of two padded doors that I guessed might contain a secret compartment or some special first class only amenity.

And the secret was revealed—it was a phone. One dedicated for each seat. One per row would not be enough for the privileged folk in the front of the plane. Mine went unused, but it was comforting to know that is was right below my elbow if the need came up.

The aircraft was pushed back and we were soon airborne. I always enjoy watching the ground rush by at three or four times the speed I achieve on the freeway. Soon, my attention was back inside the cabin.

Hidden just ahead and slightly to the right of the phone was a small, retractable drink shelf. Much like a child opening presents on Christmas morning, I pulled the little tray out and giggled with delight. Some of the others in first class looked in my direction and scowled. Apparently giggling in first class is not approved behavior.

I cycled the drink tray in and out a few times just for fun. I planned to get a drink, even if I wasn’t thirsty just so that I could use the drink tray. Tray out. Tray in. Garrison giggles. Tray out. Tray in. More giggling.
I wondered what other special ammenities I would find. I looked to my right armrest and spotted another padded cover, similar to the one to my left.

I flipped the soft door up and spotted a machined aluminum contraption of unknown purpose. Was this some sort of safety device? Perhaps it was a handle to my own personal escape hatch? A well-worn leather handle looped out from the top of the metallic device. At the risk of being forcefully expelled from the aircraft I tugged on the handle. The assembly moved, stubbornly at first, then suddenly gained speed. At first I was worried that I might have damaged the unknown mechanism. No alarms went off. No lights were flashing. I pulled some more. The parts move higher. Another tug and the thing fell broken into my lap.

Now I was really worried—the white panel was cracked down the middle. Oh, shit, their gonna be really pissed when they find out I broke their airplane. I grabbed to top half of the broken panel to see if it was still attached to the other half, and to my delight, realized that the panel was hinged in the middle and not broken. I unfolded the ‘broken’ top half up, then moved it across to the left, and finally down flat. Ahhh, now I get it. It’s my service tray. My own personal, folding, hide-away service tray. I felt special. I closed the tray and continued to search for more goodies.

If you look closely you will see the small button you push to recline the seat back. I pushed the button and reclined. Pushed the button and reclined some more. A third push, and at the risk of getting a glimpse up the nostrils of the passenger behind me, I decided to move back just a little bit more. I never did recline the seat all the way.

The flight attendents came through the cabin, a female to the left and a male on the right side. They passed out small, steaming cloth towelettes from a tray. This was new to me. I was not sure what to do with the hot cloth. Since the attendent was passing it directly to me, I instinctively reach out and he placed it in the palm of my hand. As is my normal procedure when exposed to a new social situation that carried with it certain expected behaviors, I did what I have always done—I looked around and copied everyone else. They were all washing their hands and some were even covering their faces in the hot cloth. I mimicked their behaviors and stiffled a scream as I burned my sensitive face with the hot rag. Apparently the regular first-class travelers build up a tolerance to the steam-rag face-cover exercise.

I folded the cloth and placed in on the armrest. Soon the attendent came by with a different tray and a pair of tweasers to collect it. What challenge would I face next?

In no time at all, the attendents were back with what appeared to be linin bedsheets. Quickly scanning the cabin to see the expected behavior I realised that it was not a bedsheet, but a table cloth. A personal, made from freshly ironed linen, table cloth. Once again, I felt special.

Food orders were taken. I don’t remember what I said. My brain was swirling with all this new social behaviors and interactions I had been experiencing. My capability to process all the new experiences was taxing my ability to process and understand it all. I was not keeping up.

A tray of food appeared in front of me. And then a can of beer appeared. And then a glass—a real glass. A real glass made from break on the floor into a hundred foot-shredding-slivers, glass. It was almost too much for me to comprehend. My eyes started to glaze over and roll back in their sockets. I fought back and clung to the last shreds of the world that appeared to be slipping away.

After regaining some sense of normalcy, I calmed down slightly. Apparently I had ordered some sort of chicken dinner. Not a rubber chicken, serve the masses at a conference kind of chicken. It was a tasty, well seasoned, perfectly cooked chicken breast. Freshly steamed green beans in a light butter sauce were a nice contrast to the freshly mashed potatoes. These were potatoes that had never seen the inside of a bag or box. These were no factory processed, vacuum dehydrated potato surrogate that’s prepared in a microwave. Oh no, these were real potatoes—Grandma made ‘em for Thanksgiving potatoes.

I ate everything and would have had seconds if offered them. I was not offered seconds. I still felt special.

Then a craving for something sweet came over me. As if on queue, the attendant appeared with yet another tray, this time covered in small paper bags folded close so as to keep their contents hidden. Oh what could this be?
The bag was warm. It was as if the contents had just been removed from an oven then placed in the bag, then placed in my hand. Warm. In my hand. It was the chocolate chippiest cookie I had ever had.

The plane was soon on the ground and I made the difficult transition back to the real world. As I exited the aircraft I looked over my shoulder and with a tear forming in my eye, said my quiet goodbye to F-Cabin.

Avenue Two or Avenue 2.0?

Change is one of the constants in life. Living things are born, sprint through the growth phase of life, enjoy a few days in that ideal state called maturity, then begin the decline to the final end.

Then there are things that just change.

Going home can, at times, be difficult because of this change. Progress and 'improvements' can destroy the nature of those special places we enjoyed in our youth. The changes can even destroy the spirit of a place. Such is the experience I've recently had. Let's go back in time and visit my special place as it existed thirty years ago.

Avenue Two was a quiet little country road that wove through the almond orchards and dairy lands just outside of the developed limits of Atwater. I would drive my car on that narrow road to Merced. Sometimes I would just drive on the road for fun, with not real destination in mind, turn around and repeat the drive in the opposite direction. I'd do it all just for fun. I preferred the Atwater->Merced direction over the Merced->Atwater.

The long, straight approach would begin my run of Avenue Two at maximum speed. In my underpowered MG Midget, that meant fourth gear at 75 miles per hour.

With the almond trees in full bloom, the view to the right was blocked by white and pink leaves and branches of the almond trees. Down through the gears--fourth gear, left foot pushes the clutch in, break hard with the toe of my right foot, slip the gear shift lever forward into third, blip the throttle with the heal of my right foot to bring the engine RPMs up to 4500, clutch out. Repeat for second gear timing it so that at the corner turn-in the transmission would be in second hear with the clutch fully engaged and ready to pass the torque from the engine through the rear axle to the wheels as I speed through the first turn. Once clear of the turn and with the car pointed straight down the road, I floor the accelerator pedal and shift up, take the engine to the 6,000 RPM redline in an instant. Then down to second gear again as I approach the turn. I use the same heal-and-toe dance as before.

As the car approaches the heavily chambered left hand corner, a quick glance over the blackberry bushes confirms no traffic is approaching from the opposite direction and no dairy cows are in the middle of the road. Once the path forward is confirmed clear, I move over the centerline and use the positive chamber to gain additional lateral traction through the left. I can't go too deeply into the chambered corner or the left tires will drop off the pavement and into the loose dirt. The jagged edge of the asphalt would quickly shred the inner sidewall of the Dunlop radials.

At the corner apex I hammer the throttle flat to the floor. The engine RPM rises quickly. I watch for the mucky section on the corner exit. That's where the 1,200 lb black and white milk factories make their twice daily transit from pasture to milking barn. The cows always have the right of way, but leave a slippery road covering that can cause the backend of the car to step out under hard acceleration.

I point the car at the gentle left-right curve complex ahead while accelerating through third into fourth ultimately topping out somewhere north of 60 mph.

Finally it's time to engage the left turn signal and slow to a full and complete stop. I turn left and accelerate normally on Gerr Road and drive like a reasonable person.

But that's all gone, never to be repeated again. The road has been straightened. The dairy cows and milking barn are gone. Most of the almond trees have been removed too. Sometimes going home can be difficult.

Good thing I have those turns memorized. A three dimensional mental map of the turns exist in my memory. I can hear the engine sounds and feel the forces of the turn. I can see the roll of the car as it dives deep into the chamber of that second turn. I can feel the little twitch of the rear as it slides out in the cow muck. I can smell the almond blossoms and the smell from the dairy. I can remember the joy that driving that little car on that short section of road brought to me--then in action, and now in my memories.

Such a loss. I think I’ll call this new road Avenue 2.0.

No Excuses 5K

My healthy friend John sent me something to post for him. I don't get the whole running, walking, biking, exercise thing. I guess it works for him. I'll stick to furnature anchoring and moving picture box watching.

---

I've recently discovered walking as a low impact method of getting exercise. It only took 47 years for me to discover it. Well, rediscover it if I'm honest with you all. I was an active kid. Walking and running all over the place. As I got into my early teens, skateboards were all the rage, and that form of transportation quickly became my preferred approach.

Lately, it has been slower, longer, less impactful endevours from a skelatal system perspective--my old ankle, knee and hip joints can really support the jarring, cruching and grinding actions of running and skateboarding like they used to handle with ease a few decades ago.

Since completing my first half marathon I've been receiving email invitations to all sorts of other races. I'd like to participate in all of them if I could. The only thing preventing me is the entrance fee. Oh, don't get me wrong, the fees are worth it. Just try walking for 13.1 miles, or 5K, or any distance that causes you to become thirsty, you'll glad to pay $5 for a glass of water. Over 13.1 miles I would have been willing to pay $50 for ten glasses of water!

But the financial burden remains, so I was intrigued by an offer than came to me through email last week. It was for the No Excuses 5k Race. If you submit a clever excuse for not winning the race, and the race director is in a good mood, you can have a complimentary race entry. It all ties back to the name of the race you see--No Excuses 5k. Get it?

I came up with some excuses. Twenty to be exact. Here they are:

1. I was facing the wrong way at the starting line and had to run the whole race in reverse.
2. It was an early morning mix-up involving runners lube and super glue.
3. My regular stylist wasn’t available to give me my prerace aerodynamic haircut.
4. I had my socks on the wrong feet.
5. Shiny objects on the course distracted me.
6. 5K? Wha…I thought they said ‘5-day’.
7. I was apexing the corners, ran wide on the exit, got collected by the marbles, lost traction and spun into the gravel trap. {F1 car racing fans will get this one}
8. It was my plan to increase the average completion time.
9. One word—‘chaffing’.
10. As a professional foot model I have to avoid blisters at all times.
11. I was leading the peloton for most of the race and used all my energy pulling everyone along in my draft. {Cycling fans might like that one} Note that the attached hyperlink has two definitions. The first applies to this blog post. Not to say that I don't like the second, it's just not the appropriate definitions for the race excuse exercise.
12. I mixed my races up and showed up at the starting line in my wet suit.
13. I broke one of my shoe heals mid-race. Damn you Manolo Blahnik and your running stilettos.
14. Too many fans asking for my autograph. (This happens so often to me. Sheesh people, go chase after the Beabs or something.)
15. I stopped for a healthy breakfast.
16. My watch was broken so I used a runner’s metronome. I had it set on the wrong beats per minute.
17. If I win one more trophy, my wife will kick me out of the house. (Uh, not really, but it's still funny.)
18. The tails on my racing tuxedo slowed me down.
19. My shoes were tied too tight and all the blood rush to my head.
20. Race? What race?

I'm still waiting to hear from the race director.

---

Oh John, you silly, silly man. I worked up a good sweat just reading this list. I'll stick with my sedentary lifestyle behind the keyboard and leave all that exercise stuff to you and the other crazies.

Now your list was good, but I've come up with a list of my own. You can include these with a follow up email to the race director if you want. Go ahead and steal them from me--I'm getting used to that happening.

Here is my list (continuing from where you left off):

21. The Velcro couch would not release me.
22. I'm breaking in a new pair of house slippers and didn't want them to lose their shape.
23. Gilligan's Island marathon--'nuff said.
24. I had to eat all the leftover bean dip and chips before it went stale.
25. My workout routine was all about the 12oz curls.
26. I stopped to smell the roses.
27. I put my Breathe Right Extra strip on backwards and almost suffocated.
28. I'm more concerned with style than speed.
29. I don't sweat. It's not a condition, it's a choice.
30. My running shorts were at the dry cleaners so I had to run in a pair of cut off jeans.
31. I couldn't find a sweat band that matched my socks.
32. I'm so polite that I kept letting people go before me.
33. I stopped to tip all the volunteers helping out with the water and electrolyte cups.
34. I carbo loaded exclusively with Miller Lite.
35. My mani-pedi appointment ran late.
36. A broadcast storm in my nervous system shut down the run servers. I had to use the backup walk servers instead.
37. I'm more of a 0.5k type runner.
38. My bib pins kept poking me.
39. I was running so fast the CHP pulled me over for speeding.
40. The starting gun scared me so I hid in the bushes until it was all clear.

Who do you my dear readers think had the better list? John has the advantage as he has actually competed in more walking or running events (one) than I have. But I have an advantage as my sense of sarcasm is more finely developed.

Vote for John or Garrison in your reply comments.

-Garrison-

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Excuses 41-60 just showed up in my email from John. Shouldn't he be preparing for the race or resting?

41. GPS error. Went left—shoulda gone right.
42. I only used one lung in this race.
43. Some evil genius slipped a subliminal message into my iPod playlist commanding me to slow down.
44. Gravity was extra strong that day. Atmospheric oxygen was low that day. (Two excuses for the price of one. Both are weak yes, but I’ll accept half credit for both and call it even.)
45. With a revolutionary new stride I’ve reduced my ground contact time to zero. The downside is that it reduced my mph to zero as well.
46. Too aggressive stretching pre-race resulted in Gumby legs.
47. The sun was in my eyes.
48. Forgot to inject grease into the Zerk fittings in my knees.
49. Bunny hopping up the hills slowed me down.
50. Somersaulting down the hills didn’t work very well either.
51. Instead of following the official race course, I took the scenic, touristy path.
52. My clutch was slipping.
53. I was updating my blog as I ran.
54. It was my birthday and the free Denny’s breakfast I had was huge and full of awesomeness.
55. I cherish my mid-race naps and absolutely refuse to give them up.
56. Traction control on my shoes was turned off.
57. I enjoyed the first mile so much I did it twice.
58. Cosmic rays were spiking so I wore my lead-lined suit for extra protection.
59. I pulled my Eustachian tube.
60. My runner’s high turned into runner’s munchies so I stopped for pizza.

My First Half Marathon

Guest blogger John Newlyn is filling in for me today.  Enjoy his words. Or not. Your choice. 


Garrison

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I'll admit it, I was late to the whole active lifestyle, healthy living thing. Now, well past my youthful years and solidly in my middle age, I've decided to do something about actively managing my health. Had I known that things were going to go downhill so quickly I would have started earlier.

I've tried all sorts of health fads and tricks--treadmills, running, bicycle riding, low carbohydrate diets, you name it and I've tried it, or at least thought about trying it.

While at lunch with a group of coworkers, one of them mentioned she was planning to participate in a fundraising walk in the Sacramento area. I asked a few questions, and by the time lunch was over, I was committed to participating as well.

The fundraising portion of the program went well. Friends and coworkers contributed and my family really came through with both financial and emotional support. That's both good and bad. Good in that they made the financial part go smoothly. Bad in that had no way to gracefully back out once I realized how long a half marathon really is. For reference, it's the same round trip distance between my hometown of Atwater and the big city of Merced plus 1.1 miles. Yes, if you calculated that total distance correctly you came up with 13.1 miles. 13.1 miles!

I cut out the more gruesome details of the training and preparation for your benefit. Let's just leave it at it involved a lot of whining and crying and sniveling and blubbering. Then I would get out of bed and do the training walks. Well, most of them.

Time passed. I walked. My generous family and friends donated to the cause. Some of them donated more that once. I continued to walk.

Finally the week of the race arrived. I felt completely unprepared. I hitched a ride downtown with my coworker/co-walkers and picked up my high tech race shirt, race bib and race tag. This last time is a small, radio frequency tag used to track start and finish times.

The Saturday morning of the race arrived early. I needed to be in the park where the race would start and finish by 6:30AM at the start line at 7:45AM. I found my coworkers and we shared our nervous apprehension and fears. Would our legs hold out? Would we run out of energy? Would we be able to finish? 

The picture below shows three of the four D3 LED competitors and a friend. From left to right is Diana, her friend Kela, Richard and me. This was the peak of our collective energy levels for the day. It's all downhill from here.

As a way to document my heroic effort I had decided to photograph the route and myself throughout the entire event.

Two minutes before the race starts and Richard has given me his final bits of advice and encouragement. With perfect 20/20 hindsight I can now tell you I was overconfident and not worried nearly enough.

And finally, one last picture with the girls before we start. I noticed that my number bib was sticking out and looked puffy. Diana was kind enough to point out that the bib was laying tight against my tummy and that my tummy was puffy not the bib. Diana is too honest some of the time.

The announcer called all the walkers to the starting line. The Star Spangled Banner was sung. The countdown was completed. We were off.

My plan was to take photographs throughout the marathon as part of my documentation plan required. With all of the excitement of finally beginning the trial, I forgot to take pictures for the first third or so of the event. Here I am at mile five approximately by my own guess. I still look fresh. I'm in a good rhythm. "Man, this is going to be easy," I thought.

Here you start to see the stress of the event on my face. I've been pushing hard for seven or eight miles and it is starting to take a toll on me. I expected this to happen, but know that I'll be able to draw on my reserves for the final kick in the closing miles.

This mile marker appeared, then a cold chill ran down my spine.

This picture captures the rugged wilderness in which the event was held. It's not uncommon for ultra marathoners in extreme conditions such as this to hallucinate as a result of dehydration and the overwhelming stresses placed on the body, brain and central nervous system.

We will revisit this topic shortly.

There are times when the lighting in a place is perfect, the subject is exquisitely framed in a moment that comes and quickly passes. Ansel Adams perfected all of this in his photographic art and left of a wonderful archive of photographs that captured the moment.

Then there are times when you trip on a small crack in the trail and your point-and-shoot camera goes all full-auto on you.

I haven't mentioned that my allergies were acting up during all of this. It started three days before the race. Here I am mid-sneeze.

The race organizers were thoughtful in preparing the route with informational and motivational sayings posted on little signs throughout the route. This one says, "There are 82 miles of trails (in the Parkway), the same distance between Sacramento and Lake Tahoe."

I was inspired.

I don't remember what this diamond shaped sign said exactly. To the best of my recollection it was something like, "The weak shall die a thirsty death and be buried in the rocks of the trail." I think that's what it said.

Mile marker four appeared in the distance. My spirit fell. I began to look for shortcuts or a graceful way of quitting without my coworkers knowing I was a wimp. None was found. I continued to walk.

I decided to just focus on putting one foot in front of the other. Here, my right foot is in front of my left.

This sign says that the Parkway is used by X number of people a year. I think it was 47 billion, but I might be wrong.

I was inspired.

Here is a picture of one of those 47 billion people.

That full auto camera thing--yes, it happened again.

Here a bunch of people walk off into the distance and abandon me to a solo journey.

Mile marker five appeared. Just writing that brings back the horror.

I notice the river. It's right over there! Can I use it to get to the finish line quicker? No, it's flowing in the wrong direction. What if I walk to the halfway point upstream, construct a raft of twigs and discarded water  bottles tied together with the long grasses that border the river, could I float to the finish line? No, I take a firm stand and the high road, and avoid the low river.

"Do just once what others say you can't do and they will never pay attention to your limitations again."

I was inspired.

At this point I've realized I have to do something about my pace. I'd been listening to some relaxing Dave Mathews Band music on the iPod. It was putting me to sleep. I switched over to AC/DC. The good thing about using AC/DC to pace your walk is that all the songs are the same. Oh the words and melodies might be different, but really, at the core, same, same.

With both fists raised showing the devil's horn sign, I sang along at the top of my lungs to AC/DCs 'Back in Black' album. Or maybe I didn't. It was beginning to get a bit weird and my memory is a little fuzzy.

"May the course be with you." One of the organizers is a Star Wars fan.

I was inspired.

Then a little water angel appeared.

And then another.

I got greedy and tried to drink two cups at he same time. It didn't work.

If I don't make it to the finish, you'll be able to identify my body by the numbered bib. It's has number 419 carefully hidden in the design. You'll have to look closely to see it as it was hidden in the background like some sort of new age camouflage.

"How old are you?"

"Ten, Almost eleven."

"Is this your first marathon?"

"Yep."

"Me too."

She then walked off into the distance and disappeared around a corner. I never saw her again.

The sneezing didn't stop. I just stop taking pictures of them.

ACCESS PROHIBITED
MITIGATION SITE
RAFTING
<--

I was inspired.

Approaching the midpoint of the race, yet the point in the race that I thought I had achieved at picture #5, we had to cross under Sunrise Avenue. Note the tan Saturn at the left. I suspect someone cleverly planted that car the morning of the race, then used it to get back to the start/finish line. I bet they stopped at the Waffle House and had a leisurely breakfast of crisp bacon, scrambled eggs, french toast smothered in syrup and a hot cup of coffee.

(Note to self: research drop off locations for car in preparation for the 2012 Parkway Half Marathon.)

The Saturn was off. Mmmmm, the thought of crisp bacon reinvigorated me and provided internal encouragement to finish.

It's gettin' warm; time to take my beanie off.

This is what the halfway point looks like. Can you see the excitement in my expression?

Now I'm putting my left foot in front on my right. It's a repeating pattern you see.

Now back under Sunrise Avenue on the return trip.

There were packs of dogs on the trail. I think they were used to 'encourage' the back markers to pick up their pace. They all gave me a hard look as I passed. Some of the dogs had foam in the corners of their mouths.

Now under the second Sunrise Avenue bridge, the sun was at my back, the finish line of the race was in front of me. My car was in that direction too. Oh Electra Blue, with your comfortable seats and air conditioning, I hear you calling me. Soon we will be reunited.

I'll just keep on putting one foot in front of the other.

The OFFICIAL RACE VEHICLE.

The official race emergency response vehicle.

The official race course porta potty's in the distance. Official course cheerleaders are in the foreground.

Diana and Kela approach.

Diana taking a picture of me taking a picture of Diana take a picture...

Diana blinked first.

My occasional Saturday walking buddies Erin and Mary Lo approach. "Go ladies go. You're almost half way there!"

I think they were surprised that I was still in the race and competing.

I saw a unicorn here. (Reference picture #7 comments.)

"The miracle isn't that I Finished... The miracle is I had the courage to start"

I was inspired.

Mile marker 8; I double-checked it against the yellow spray paint on the asphalt Eight? Check. I must be at mile eight.

Full-auto pic.

"The greatest pleasure in life, is doing the things people say we cannot do"

I was inspired.

"Hello Cheeser's? Yes, I'd like twenty hot wings, a large order of chicken fettuccine alfredo, extra chicken and a two liter of Cherry Coke delivered to William Pond Park."

...

"Thirty minutes. No, no, make it at least an hour."

...

"Uh-huh. Ok. No, I don't know the address, it's a park. Just deliver it to the park."

...

"Huh? Why? All right, all right. Just cancel the order. Do you know the number to Mountain Mike's?"

...

"Hello? Hello"

Mile marker nine.

Nine miles! That means if have 4.1 MORE miles to go. Now I have achieved the appropriate level of concern.

Beanie back on for sun protection. Going bald has its downsides--scalp sunburn is a bitch.

Mile marker ten.

The circular concrete structure in the distance looked interesting. I have no idea of its purpose. Tell me if you know what it is used for or does. (This just in: Could have or still may be used as a survey tower or a small pump house. Thanks Sean for the info.)

This is the best smile I can come up with at this point.

I'm sure I saw Bigfoot in these trees. (Again, reference picture #7 comments.)

Mile marker eleven.

This sign reads, "Danger Electric Fence." Seriously, what need requires an electric fence between a park and an elementary school.

 A wild turkey was not impressed with my life and death struggle with the trail. She turned her back on me disrespectfully and walked into the three covering.

Mile marker twelve. Mile marker two for the 5K. Or is it Kilometer2 for the 5K? I'm confused.

Here's how the internal dialog then went: "Stop trying to make this a high level, cerebral exercise in logic and metacognition-thinking. This is a brain stem level event--legs, arms, lungs, heart, brain stem. Keep it simple John. Keep it simple."

This picture was photoshopped. The shading on my face and shirt were added effects. The trees were done post production.

The gentleman to the left of the trail is 84 years young. See that corner to the right? By the time I was through that corner he was out of sight and past the next bend in the trail.

It's been a humbling experience. Worthwhile, but humbling.

Mile marker thirteen. Only a tenth of a mile to go to the finish. I think I'll make it.

Mariachi's in the park area greeting me as I finish.

Here is the finisher medal. It's hefty and almost 3" by 3".

Would I do it again? Absolutely!

So how do they accurately time all those hundreds (or in larger races, thousands) of participants? Each runner, walker, stumbler is given a unique passive radio frequency ID (RFID) tag that is captured in time as it passes over the start and finish lines. My unofficial time to complete the race was three hours and fifty-one minutes. I'm happy with the 3.4 mph pace I kept up. Next half marathon I'll target a 3.5 mph pace, or even better.

Thanks for reading, now get out there and walk!