Category Archives: Life

General life topics

My Porch Front Days

In January I teeter on the edge of my porch as sheets of rain flow from the overhang and beyond. It is my life raft amid the growing storm. I imagine sailing off on a grand adventure of survival, so I run upstairs to gather my supplies and my plastic glow-in-the-dark sword.

In February I sit on my porch eating Sweetheart candies from classmates as my dad parks the VW Rabbit in the driveway. He has the box of Whitman’s chocolates for my mom and sneaks off to the garage to swap out one of the chocolates with a gold chain before he presents it to her.

In March I run straight off the porch like Wile E Coyote running off a cliff. Behind me is my enraged grandmother in hot pursuit with a rolled up newspaper. I’m not sure what I did to make her so angry, I’m just thankful that I can still run faster than her. This will not earn me a good review when my parents return tomorrow.

In April Johnny West and Geronimo slug it out theatrically on the cliff of my porch trying the toss one another into the canyon below.   Old Mrs. Scott from across the street sees me playing and comes over to deliver one of the traditional sugar eggs with vignettes of little bunnies.

In May I sit on my porch playing with the miniature cap gun fashioned like a western derringer that I just got for my birthday.   The smell of fresh popcorn drifts from the front door as my sister comes out to join me. We wait for the station wagon to back out of the garage so we can pile in for the ride to the drive-in.

In June I fidget on the front step of my porch, watching my dad push the rotary mower. I’ve been pressed into service, required to rake up once he is done, and not permitted to play in my room while I wait; though it seemed a reasonable request to me.

In July I pound on the door frantically pleading with my giggling sister on the other side. After convincing me to play dress up she shoved me onto the porch wearing one of her old dresses and a gaudy assortment of costume jewelry. I need to get back inside before anyone sees me, also I think I hear the ice cream truck.

In August great armies of miniature plastic battle fiercely on the porch, trying to resolve the ongoing conflicts that have raged throughout the summer. A short-lived cease-fire is called so I can sample my mom’s macaroni salad and offer some expert suggestions for improvement.

In September as the acorns begin to fall tiny villages sprout up made entirely of acorn cap structures. I breathe deep the autumn air laced with damp leaves and wood smoke admiring one such village just below my perch. I launch off the step of the porch, crushing the puny village beneath my giant feet with a satisfying crunch.

In October I strike a heroic pose in the doorway before leaping over the already sagging pumpkin on my porch. The unseasonable heat has sweat and condensation already dripping from the inside of my Superman mask before I hit the grass. I press forward knowing there is candy at stake.

In November my porch is the distant safe haven as a neighborhood dog from across the street takes sudden interest in me on my way home from school. The dog gives eager chase to my fleeing form. After his hunt is called off I’m soothed with chicken noodle soup and, ironically, my favorite cartoon, Underdog.

In December the postman makes his daily stop on my porch to stuff our mailbox with holiday cards that we will later shake down for dollar bills. My mom rushes out with holiday greetings and presents him with a box of fresh chocolate chip cookies for his service.

In later years I teeter on the edge of my porch, remembering the fleeting joy of childhood, and wondering what lies beyond. I imagine sailing off on the grand adventure of life, and must leave the safety of the porch to pursue it.

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Less to the Story

There I was, fidgeting on one those folding metal chairs that only plague school gymnasiums and juror waiting rooms. The lights dimmed as the principle welcomed us to the annual Dance Show where proud parents spend $20, and an hour of their life to watch mostly kids they don’t know in an attempt to capture that one blurry picture of their child doing the coffee-grinder so they can post it to Instagram. While I waited for my daughter to grace the stage with “Who Let the Dogs Out”, I amused myself by watching the other children and imaging what was going through their minds as they struggled to keep pace with their classmates.   And then I had a moment that caught me off guard; I noticed a kid with no hair, he looked thin, and maybe a bit pale under the stage lighting. A scene played out in my head, of how he struggled against illness and bravely fought to take the stage with the rest of his class. I was moved by his courage and resilience in the face of adversity, wanting that one chance to shine and find a small slice of happiness amidst all his suffering. As I sat there, awash in emotions and trying to fight back tears, he fell out of step and began vigorously scratching his head. And then I thought “maybe he just has lice”.

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Planning to Death

I like to plan ahead. I’m a planner, an over-thinker. I like to know life has in store, and I do my best to be one step ahead of whatever it has to offer. There is however this one nagging detail that I haven’t been able to get in front of. Death. Mortality. The final exclamation point. The big send off. How does one really prepare for the end?

Now this isn’t meant as a somber walk down a dark morbid trail. I’m blessed to be healthy and have no immediate plans to attend any funerals. I’m talking about high level stuff; as an ongoing preoccupation that resurfaces when life’s other minutia settles down to a dull hum. It comes down to a question of what comes next after this great journey we call life. Is there life after death? Do we take a stairway to heaven and enter the pearly gates? Do we come back for another go around as a monarch butterfly in Mexico or a future sheep herder in France? Do we stumble through the afterlife as a restless spirit haunting the family home and animating creepy clown dolls? Does our energy transition into another form, contributing to a universal stockpile to be tapped for future creation? Or is it all just lost to entropy?

We are indoctrinated about these concerns from an early age. The simple bedtime prayer for kids starts right off with mention of death;

“If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.”

This was the sort of thing that scared the crap out of me as a child. Surrendering to even that brief bit of oblivion was difficult enough, acknowledging that we may not even make it to sunrise was simply terrifying. I sided with Edgar Allan Poe on this one;

“Sleep, those little slices of death — how I loathe them.”

As we grow up our understanding of death and dying becomes an integral part of our early development. We experience the death of a goldfish, a family dog, a grandparent.   These are defining moments in our childhood. We try to come to terms with death without fully realizing the implications on our own lives; we are wrapped in the perceived immortality of youth with little thought of confronting the inevitable.

I imagine kids growing up on a farm might have a different perspective on the whole “circle of life” thing. They collect the unfertilized chicken eggs in the morning for breakfast and then break the infertile chicken’s neck in the evening for dinner. Farm to fork. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. They witness life coming into the world in spring and life passing from the world in winter. Everything has a natural ebb and flow, all in its own time.

Then there are the less fortunate kids; the ones who grow up facing atrocities in war-torn nations or battling a serious diseases in children’s hospitals. For them death and dying is a harsh reality that they cannot be sheltered from. They cannot escape it, and often cannot justify it, trying to make sense of life’s wild injustice and trying to find gods hand in some universal order. For them more than any I pray there is a perpetual circuit of souls that, with each trip through life, is meant to teach us an essential lesson. If that could by any hope be true then those brave kids at least can look forward to a full, rich, life in their next go-around.

I remember back when I was a teenager I found a book of questions that were meant to inspire soul-searching and generate lively discussions among friends and family. The one that stuck out most in my mind asked “would you risk being diagnosed with cancer if it would give you a better appreciation of life?” My immediate gut reaction had been “absolutely!” before considering the implication that this newly found perception of life may not be long-lasting.   I imagine that bit of uncertainty is exactly what precipitates the change in the first place. We’re told all the time to make every moment count, treat each day like it’s our last, live like you were dying, but without a real end in sight it’s hard to stray from the safe and narrow. If faith is believing without being able to know, facing death is knowing without being able to believe.

Speaking of faith, though, this had always struck me as one of the greatest gifts one could have; the unquestioning certainty that the afterlife offers every abundance of love and acceptance without a trace of suffering or hardship. I had a close friend back in high school who was a devote Mormon and carried with her such a sense of peace even at that early age. There was an underlying confidence that everything would work out in this world or the next. Jesus will provide. Jesus will protect. Jesus will welcome you when you close your eyes on this life and join him in the next. You are covered, baby! I was raised in the Jewish faith where the focus was on living a good life without consideration for what comes next. I don’t recall any talk of heaven or salvation. We would watch grim footage from the holocaust; newsreels of bodies and bulldozers with no talk of those poor souls going to a better place or assurances that they now sat at the hand of god.   So without faith what should we be preparing for?

Just before my son was born I was having a difficult time with this very topic. It was a few years after my father had passed away and it struck me that I was about to welcome the birth of the generation that would one day outlive me. You think about all the generations that came before you were born and all the ones that are yet to come after you pass away and one’s lifetime starts to feel all the more fleeting. It was in this context that I sought out a counselor to speak with. After a couple of sessions speaking about my dad we got down to the mortality issue. Turns out the counselor I had selected at random had advanced prostate cancer and was facing some of the same questions. I tried to ask if he’d found any answers, but being true to his profession he ducked most of my questions with related questions redirected back at me. What he did offer though was something like this;

“Think back to your childhood and the things you remember. Think back further to your oldest earliest memory. Think back to when you were born. Now think back before then to when you didn’t yet exist. How did it feel? What was it like? Think to that and perhaps that is what you will return to.”

What I did take away from those meetings was not about what will happen to me, but what will happen after me. Knowing my children remain behind to grow and prosper does offer a touch of immortality. Knowing that I will be remembered and in some way have made an impact on the people who continue after me is some small sense of comfort. I guess in the end that’s all we can hope for. Benjamin Franklin said the only two things that are certain are death and taxes and while I can save all of my receipts and organize my statements each year, there’s really not much prep I can do on the death front.   Not like I’ll get audited for being unprepared.

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Christmas Passed

My first experience with Christmas wasn’t until I was in high school. Sure, I knew what it was and it was hard to deny its presence once the pumpkin patches turned to tree lots, but I only had a high level concept of the event gleaned from beloved TV specials and movie classics like A Christmas Story. I imagined it was something like a combination of a Thanksgiving Day feast, a well-stocked birthday party and a ride on “It’s a Small World” (with slightly less repetitious music). Whatever it was, it sounded awesome and I wanted a piece of it.

I realized I was on a different life path when my mother would make her annual trip to our elementary school to embarrass the crap out of me and my sister,… or, from my mom’s perspective, “to share ethnic diversity” in the form of potato latkes with our Christian / Catholic counterparts. Turned out we were the only Jews in the entire district so my mother saw it as her duty to spread the word of God and try to make Hanukkah sound cool. Not an easy sell down on the school yard.

Historically Hanukkah was more of a minor festival, somewhere between Easter and Groundhogs Day. It was meant to celebrate the miracle of a deep fryer that kept the home fries cooking for over a week while the chosen people hid under their table trying to wait out some particularly persistent Mormon missionaries that came knocking at the door. Ok so maybe the fryer was an oil lamp, the table was a temple and the Mormon’s were Maccabees, but you get the idea. The telling of this tale is not nearly as catchy as “the birth of our lord and savior”. The first Christmas would become such a defining moment that we would change our very measure of time from that point forward. The first Hanukkah,… they may have invented shadow puppets, who knows, I wasn’t there, but you see the disparity; Hanukkah is like the Coors Lite to the rich thick Guinness of Christmas.

My parents tried to up the game and keep up with the gentiles. We got some blue string lights and decorated a Hanukkah bush. My dad, being the handy electrician, made a 3 foot wide menorah with light up candles that we would set in the front window, just in case people were wondering where that one crazy Jewish family lived. Like all Jewish (American) parents they would try to play up the fact that we got eight nights of presents while our friends only got one.   That might sound great in theory, but think about Christmas morning when you’re faced with a pile of presents and then have to wait so everyone can take turns opening one present at a time. Imagine the torment of waiting your turn,… now imagine opening just one single present and then being asked to wait entire day before you can open another; That would be Hanukkah. To make matters worse a lot of those early presents were nothing to write Santa about, they were either necessities such as socks and underwear, or just plain sucky gifts like coloring books with some B-list cartoon characters like “Dastardly and Muttley”. I can remember waiting all day for the sun to go down so my mom could light the candles and then waiting again after dinner for the candles to finally burn out. Then, and only then, were we ready for the big event. We’d retire to the family room as my mom dug around in the closet for a suitable present du jour. The day long torment and anticipation culminated in this one exciting moment; “Yay, my very own Hot Wheel! I’m going to sleep. Wake me at sundown”.

Don’t get me wrong I do have many fond memories of Hanukkah as well. The Sunday brunch that my mom would host with fresh bagels and an assortment of weird salads and Jell-O concoctions that were all amazing together. Teaching my friends how to gamble with the dreidel and eating the chocolate gelt (coins) as we played. The few times when the final big present was a trip to King Norman’s Toy Store at the mall and we got to pick out our own present.

But still I always wondered what lay behind the curtain, how did the other half,… or the other seven-eighths live? I got to see the aftermath growing up, going over to my friends’ houses following the big day while still on Christmas break (before schools changed the name to “Winter Break” so as not to offend). They all had amazing piles of loot to show off, not to mention a healthy dose of candy and other random leftovers that still littered the living room days after the tree had been pillaged. Everyone was happy in the post-holiday glow. Everything about it seemed magical, and a night much better spent then our traditional Christmas Eve of Chinese food and a movie. “Wanna see my Hot Wheel?”

When I was in high school, one of my friends, Pat invited me over to experience their family ritual. Pat was the youngest of four kids, and each of his siblings was married or engaged by this time. Combine that with a couple of grandkids and a few other friends and relatives and you got one very full house. For them Christmas Eve brought the sentimental exchange of gifts between family members, opening all of the presents under the tree. On Christmas morning Santa would leave a fresh batch of special bonus presents to round out the holiday.   It was a warm, cozy, boisterous night filled with love and laughter. It was everything I’d ever dreamed off, with one small exception; as welcome as they made me feel it still wasn’t really “mine”.

I celebrated my first Christmas about five years later when I’d turned 21. Appropriately it was spent with my first real girlfriend. We went out on a blustery morning to pick out a tree of our own. We decorated our tree together (something I’d never done before) as we drank hot cocoa in holiday mugs. I put presents under the tree. I listened to Christmas carols freely. I embraced the holiday.

After I was married there was no turning back. Christmas would explode all over the house on the first of December. I happily hung lights from the roof (at least as much as I could reach with a ladder), lined the windows and sprung for some festive lawn ornaments.   When kids came along they enjoyed both holidays; a sampling of Hanukkah throughout the week, including a traditional first night dinner of brisket and latkes with doughnuts for dessert and then a full Christmas experience with all the trimmings.

At this point I can’t imagine a year without Xmas. Even after the divorce, with some of the established customs disrupted and kids only appearing on alternate years, I still enjoy all the moments leading up to the big day. For me it’s not about religion; I celebrate the spirit of Christmas; peace on earth, goodwill towards man, all that sappy stuff. I don’t go to Midnight mass and I don’t have to trade in my mezuzah for a crucifix. I still love and respect my heritage and all that comes with it. But there are only so many times I can listen to the one Hanukkah song by Adam Sandler on the radio while I could play A Charlie Brown Christmas on a continuous loop. It warms my heart, and this is a time of year to share your heart with your friends and family in whatever way feels best to you. So Happy Christmas to all and to all a good night,… l’chaim.

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Motivation

Someone asked me what my primary motivation in life was. I don’t think I’ve ever been asked that directly. I know for some it’s as simple as faith. For others it can come from inspiration born of tragedy; an inner artistic voice that cries out to be free; a drive to be better than a sibling or to rise above the means of your parents. I don’t ththrowback_thursday1_largeink any of these really apply to me. It’s like I’m missing a compelling back story that would account for where I am today and lay out everything I have yet to accomplish.   The answer that I came up with is something more indirect. I love watching kids playing the games I’ve made or see people read comic strips I’ve drawn. At home this extends to just watching my kids thrive and be happy. Knowing that something I do can positively affect someone is the most satisfying motivation for me. Then I wonder, as I do about everything, is that enough? Is that a real motivation? How does that help me when I have no timelines or deadlines? I think I have trouble inspiring myself with the indirect motivation that maybe someone will someday see this something I’m spending hours on and appreciate my creation. It should be more internal shouldn’t it? Or maybe more transcendent? More inspired? More soulful? Like others with an artistic voice I should want to create simply for the sake of creating. The mere act of creation should bring me peace and joy. Nirvana. Lacking that how does one change their primary motivation,… or improve upon an existing one? Maybe I need to focus on the “positive affect” and keep that as a mantra whenever it comes time to draw. Maybe I need to find motivation to find a better motivation.

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Patient Be Where

So let’s say you do happen to wake up in that seedy hotel bathroom in an ice filled tub with a throbbing pain where your kidney should be; what’s a guy to do? Well naturally your first thought would be to travel with all haste to the nearest purveyor of compassionate health care; the town doctor, nestled behind his white picket fence in the heart of the community, waiting diligently to tend to the needs of his flock with swift alacrity.   The wise doctor who brought you into this world and has seen you through all the trials and tribulation of life like he were a member of the family. The noble doctor who has only your best interests at heart.

Of course such a doctor no longer exists so instead you direct the GPS towards the nearest emergency room and hope for the best.   The welcoming glow of the ER signs (along with the commercial marketing campaign funded by the conglomerate that owns the hospital) promises a blissful resolution to whatever ails you and beckons you into its safe harbor just behind the sliding doors. Take that first step beyond the threshold however and all of your expectations come to a screeching halt along with your concept of space and time; in your mind you try and make conservative estimates on how much of your life you will be sacrificing to this visit but in this at least the hospital will certainly exceed your expectations.

You shuffle forward to the admissions desk where you are greeted with all the warmth of a frozen pizza. Trained by the palace guards at Buckingham Palace the job of this receiving nurse is to respond to your symptoms with poker-faced neutrality. You could report that an alien probe has dislodged your spleen and get the same regard as if you’d just shown her a shallow paper cut. She calmly takes your information, tags you like a wild seal and then sends you out into the vast ocean of the waiting room where everyone idles about, attempting to make limited contact with people, furniture and door knobs.   You navigate the germ encrusted surfaces, tune out the sounds of intestinal distress and take a seat until called by the triage nurse.

Triage is an important concept in the ER. This is where the nurses try sort the priority of your treatment based on your likeness to croak or to generate a lawsuit before your name can be called. If you have anything about to fall off your body or shoot out of your body you’ve got a better chance of being elevated to the top of the stack. Anything short of that and you get sorted into amorphous categories along with the rest of the wannabe patients. In general the healthier you are (or should I say ‘the less sick you are’), the longer you’re gonna have to wait. One would assume then if you walked into the ER completely healthy you’d never leave.

Put another way, there is a math concept called Zeno’s Paradox that basically says if you needed to reach a destination you’d first have to travel half way across the total distance, and to reach that half way mark you’d first have to travel half of that distance and so on. So if you always had to cross half the remaining distance you’d never reach your final destination since there are infinite ways to repeatedly divide the remaining distance in half. This is what the triage system brings to mind as you endlessly inch ever closer to being “next” without ever actually being called.

Once in this situation, I repeatedly asked the nurse for a status. She informed me that we were “next up in our category”. Apparently this category was “people we’ll call when hell freezes over”. It’s like the waiting room in the DMV or the courthouse where they do the similarly mysterious break down by category; you stare at your ticket with H112 on it feeling pretty good that they are now serving H110. After you see H111 called to the window you breathe a little easier with the knowledge that you’ll be the next one called. And then comes the parade of random tickets from every other possible category; X102, X103, F242, D117, X104, B001, D118,… on and on with no further mention of our precious H group. And so it goes in the ER as time stretches onward.

After several long hours of waiting to be next, you finally get called up to the big league. They announce your name and the thick double doors to the inner sanctum part with an internal glow of healthy radiance. Overwhelmed by the sheer sense of relief to finally be called you forget all about the pain that brought you here in the first place. You rise to your feet triumphantly wanting to pump your fist in the air or thank the academy, or some other display of wild exuberance. Instead you just shuffle on through to the other side and take a seat in a smaller room where you can continue your wait.

Having arrive in your new waiting place, the ER nurse now directs you to strip down and put on one of their swanky hospital gowns. It does not matter what you’re being seen for they just want you to get naked and experience the ass-numbing draft from their rear-opening apparel. Actually there’s an ulterior motive; without the gown they would have no way of knowing who was a patient, who was a visitor and who was doctor or nurse. Uniforms are very important in a hospital and you’re just being asked to play your part.

Another hour goes by. An entire shift of nurses has come and gone since you entered the building. You’ve been poked and probed (though leaving your spleen in place) and shuffled about to get you where you are right now. It’s all built up to this moment when you finally get to see an actual doctor. The selfless doctor that will care for you, empathize with you and cure you with his gentle healing hands. Instead you get the speedy doctor that flies in, assails you faster than a pick pocket groping for loose change, and then flies off again through the curtain like a ripple in the wind.   If you made a pie chart of the time you spent in the ER with the wedge of time you spent with the doctor you would have one very sad and very small slice of pie and the same sense of the lingering disappointment that the doctor leaves in his wake. His parting words are something about waiting for discharge (a horrible choice of words considering the context of your current situation) and the final paperwork from the dismissive nurse (not to be confused with the naughty submissive nurse from the Halloween store). When you have the stack of papers in hand they officially set you free by cutting off your bracelet and shuffling you back towards the big double doors.

The last thing you see as you head out for the parking lot is the collection of poor souls still stuck in the waiting room; some still waiting for relatives that went in before you, some just starting their own long adventures in waiting. You’re struck with mixed emotions, not sure if you should wave a flippant “so long suckers” or pat someone sympathetically on the shoulder. The ER is misery without the courtesy of dignity. Surviving it and the ailment that brought you here fills you with a sense of euphoria. In the big picture everything feels a little better and easier to endure. Maybe living with just one kidney isn’t so bad after all,… beats sitting in the ER.

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Dry Run (fiction)

I remember lining up for my first race beneath dark clouds with the promise of rain. “Piano Man” played over the sound system mixing with the energetic announcer who counted down the time until the next wave of runners. I was corralled near the inflatable starting gate with my fellow participants bouncing and stretching to ward off the chill. There was a buzz of nervous conversation and eager anticipation. The annual Folsom Lake “Mud Run” attracted crowds from all walks of life, eager to get down and dirty. I looked around at the faces of strangers and felt a sense of kinship as we shuffled towards the starting line waiting to begin our adventure. Everyone joined in for the final countdown that ended with a long blast from an air horn. We were off.

Twelve years later, there is no place to go. All here is quiet and still. It would have been race time and already the temperature is in the low 80s, promising to be well above the October average of 84. If we hit the 90 degree mark they probably would have issued an evap warning, and cancelled the race anyway. That was just one of the many reasons the race might have been cancelled. I knew the chances of having one last race was slim but I was hoping to end on number 12. I always liked ending things on an even number. It just felt right.

That first race was in 2010 (I liked starting things on an even number too). The Mud Run wasn’t the longest or most difficult race out there. The emphasis was more on fun with a few challenges sprinkled in to keep things interesting. This was more my speed having not competed in anything since high school swim team, and never being a big fan of running in the first place. I was so nervous when that air horn sounded that my mouth ran dry and I almost hyperventilated before the first obstacle, a cargo net climbing structure.   Once I powered through that, putting aside any fear of heights, I was able to settle into the race and set a better pace going forward. Next up was the first of three mud crawls; vast pools of chilled chocolate colored water. I spider walked through the waves it to protect my knees from the gravely bottom, but still emerged dripping wet and coated with a thin layer of diluted mud. I remember feeling uncomfortable with the weight of the water on my clothes and the sticky mud caked to my shoes.

I would grow to miss that feeling more then I knew. The oil based mud they started using in the pits were predictably slimy but were meant to be easily absorbed by the skin leaving just a residue of colored dust. More often than not though perspiration would prevent absorption leaving it to clump in oily rivulets that were difficult to wash off and contaminated what was left of the lake water. Eventually the pits were lined with a gel bottom to simulate the texture of mud though without the muddy mess, or oil slicks in the lake.

If nothing else we knew eventually the Mud Run would have to be moved. After just my second year racing they had already started affectionately referring to this as the Folsom Puddle. The lake levels started dropping quickly as the drought worsened. Each year there was optimism that the rainfall would come to fill the lake and the snow packs would return to keep it stocked. But even the consecutive El Nino years in 2015 and 2016 weren’t enough to make up for the dry years and rising temperatures. By my third year they stopped bringing in the water tankers for the post-race rinse-stations. I remember the decadent use of water prior to that; miles of hoses snaking from a network of pipes, big inflatable structures set up like old car washes that you walked through to get clean under constant streams of liquid water. By my fifth year even the water cups they hand out along the race required purchase of premium wristbands, as well as a deduction of rations two years later.

My friend Luke started running with me on my fourth race. Though he was an avid runner he pretended to “bow to my experience” and let me set the pace. It was good to have the company after my previous solo runs, having someone to playfully mock and challenge along the way also pushed me beyond my own sluggish pace. I fared better with some of the more physical obstacles, such as the sandbag pulley or the medicine ball carry, but he was quicker over the walls and, of course, running between obstacles. Ironically the one destination Luke dreaded the most was the lake crossing. Having the lean runners build he was left with no defense against the mountain snow melt that filled the lake, and back then late October mornings would be chilly in their own right. As we descended down towards the lake shore Luke would begin his ritual of psyching himself out and sprinting in little circles trying to raise his core temperature. It made no difference in the end though, he would still squeal like a little girl as soon as he took that first deep step that submerged him past his private parts.

Each year, the course would adjust as the distance to the lake shore got further and further away replaced by fields of cracked earth broken up by the occasional tire tracks. The boat ramps once filled with recreational speed boats and jet skis were replaced by quads and dirt bikes.   On my 10th run the lake was officially dry. The lake crossing obstacle became the last real mud pit, however since it was covered in plastic to prevent evap it wasn’t much different from the gel bottoms in the other pits. It seemed fitting to make that my final race, and mark the passing of Folsom Lake.

Ironically Luke had a different reaction to the news and after a four-year absence he decided to run again the following year as a way to thumb his nose at the lake crossing that used to taunt him. He was convinced this would make everything better and I felt compelled to join him as long as he promised to do it the following year so I could end even. It was a rather poor performance for both of us as we were feeling our years. My unexpected entry hadn’t left me much time to train properly and Luke’s health issues had degraded his runners’ physique.   This left us with ample opportunity to laugh at each other as we struggled with even the easier obstacles; floundering over the short walls, getting stuck in the crawling tubes and drunkenly stumbling across the balance beams.   We got a better work out from belly laughs then from anything the course had to offer. We had fun doing backstroke in the gel pools and dancing over the fire strips, one of the new obstacles added to replace the mud. It was all well worth the price of admission.

Today was to be our last run. Tickets were just about to go up for sale when we heard about the plans to renovate Folsom Lakebed. They promised the event could continue, though probably by a different name, once the construction was complete. It made no difference; Luke’s doctor didn’t green light him for another race anyway, he thought it would be too much of a strain on his kidneys. Maybe it’s for the best though. The memories we made last year would be hard to match. Maybe that’s a more fitting end to our Mud Run days; to remember the better days of joy and prosperity and be optimistic for the rain to come. An optimism that would be easier if hadn’t ended with an odd number.

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