Summer photos

There are some new pictures of recent adventures up in the Business Casual Shutterbug's lair:

Livermore Rodeo
Independence Day
Seattle

And now it's long past time for bed. There can't be anything about a cold and achy quads that a few solid nights of rest won't fix.

Plus a case of Emergen-C, that nectar of the homeopathic gods.

Sleep tight.

Second half

My legs are achy and my belly is full of pancakes. That's right, today was San Francisco Marathon day.

I woke up at 5:24—not to my alarm, since I forgot to turn it on (oops)—but the old internal clock served me well. Zipped into the city on deserted streets, then caught the shuttle to the starting line for the second half of the race.

Then I spent 45 minutes standing around in the rain waiting for it to start. Let's not dwell on that part. We'll just say I got some really good stretching in.

Mile 1 passed by like water. Miles 2 and 3 were strangely hard, but after that I found a zone and didn't really notice miles 4 to 7. The course is blessedly flat, with only a few minor upgrades and several significant downgrades about halfway through.

The section through the Haight and the Mission was pretty cool—the slightly illicit feeling that we were running where only cars are supposed to go. Then miles 9 to 11 ticked by like torture, especially when I mistook mile 11 for mile 12, and pushed faster than I should have.

The last 1.2 miles were like doing endless sprints in high school during preseason soccer, having to talk my way (yes, out loud) through each step. "I'll never do this again," I swore.

Then it was over! And the repulsive electrolyte drinks flowed like...um...nectar. Or anything that tastes better than electrolytes.

Here are my official results:

Bib: 20141
Age: 29
Hometown: Oakland CA
Place overall: 919 out of 2050
Women: 400 out of 1227
F 20-29: 150 out of 372
Finish: 2:05:43
Pace: 9:36

So I won't be representing you in the Olympics anytime soon, but I'm proud of improving my time by about 10 minutes over the Nike Women's Marathon half last fall. It's a direct result of the course—no big hills, compared to five brutal ones in the Nike route, including a really evil climb at mile 11.

After a trip to the hot tubs and the sauna this afternoon, plus an excellent dinner and the refreshing G&T that's a critical part of any training program, I feel great. Drained, mind you, but hearty enough that I can almost forget the pain of the final stretch.

Maybe I'll run the first half next year.

Dear Gibson...

You saucy devil. I'm finally done paying for you.

In exchange for the return of your soul from the credit union, will you please lay off the check engine light? I bought you from a dealer, man. I know your repair history. Stop being coy. The guys at Frank's are very nice, but I don't need to visit them quite so much.

But come to think of it—if you're planning any major electric illnesses, do me a favor and cough them up before the end of the year. That's when your extended warranty expires, and it'll take much more than a dashboard light for me to fix your pricey li'l bod then.

You're a young buck with a lot of good years left. Let's not spend them at the Golf hospital when we could be on Highway 1.

Love,
The BCB

p.s. Also: You're the greatest! Turbo still rules, and you're so green and shiny. Don't ever change, except maybe be a little less grumpy. Thanks.

Eighth circle, sort of.

I mean, if you're going to get dramatic about it. And by you, I mean me.

Every time I fly Alaska Airlines, I fool myself into thinking: This time, it won't be delayed. Even though every single flight (truly) I've ever been stupid enough to purchase from them has been anywhere from one to three hours late taking off, they're the primary carrier between Oakland and Seattle, and my big brother lives up north, so . . . this would be an awesome time to rant about monopolies.

But I just paid $10 for this scant 25 minutes of Wi-Fi time—no, really, because I've been sitting in this sweaty chair for an hour and a half and that's just how bored I am—and it'd be a crying shame if I didn't entertain you somehow. Whining is not the way.

So here's a story about a different monopoly, and if you wanted to draw some kind of parallel, who would I be to stop you?

In the 15ish-minute walk from the Montgomery BART stop up Sansome to my new office, I pass half a dozen Starbucks and about eight other places to get coffee. If I split the walk between Sansome and Battery, I can totally double that number. Even the places that aren't Starbucks pretty much feel like Starbucks, except they don't carry the new McCartney album with a no-way-I'm-65-now-what-about-all-the-LSD title that references computers. You know, so the kids can relate.

I also pass the city's central Immigration Services office, which always has a long line out the door of nervous-looking people holding sheaves of documents. Why do they make everyone line up on the sidewalk? Today I thought about photographing the scene, the juxtaposition of American greed and the quantities of good people trying to become part of it.

But if I were uncertain about my immigration status, I probably wouldn't want some curious local chick taking my picture.

Ah, they're calling my flight. Alaska, you're semi-forgiven. Just get me up there, let me sleep, don't drop into the sea, and we're back in business.

On turning 29

It's funny to have been around this long and still be ridiculously young.

Edging toward three decades of memories and reshuffled details, still counting on friends I made 20 years ago (or at least 20 days). You'd think we'd all be seasoned and wise now.

It doesn't seem to work that way, but I do know their insights keep gaining value, like triple-cream illegal French cheese.

Thank goodness other people can write poems.

When I snap my fingers

You will wake in a dear yet unfamiliar place
You will scarcely remember your travail
You will be eating green caterpillars over a small fire
An awesome congeries of youthful men and women
Will be brushing these very tracks away

—C.D. Wright—

New job!

Goodbye, zbufs.

Hello, San Francisco.

It may take a little while to get used to the quintupling of my commute time and the return to cube-dwelling, but it's all to the good.

Now if I could just figure out the voicemail system. Why is that always the hardest part?