Done In By The Dutchman-Marathon No. 17

The self-questioning began around Mile 9.

I started conservatively Sunday at the Lost Dutchman Marathon in Apache Junction, Ariz., not letting the energy and excitement make me run too fast during the first six miles of rolling, twisting, unpaved dirt road.

Here's a link: http://www.lostdutchmanmarathon.org/

Spectacular scenery surrounded the early part of the course. Massive sororo cacti stood at attention along the road and cast eery shadows in the early morning light.

To get to the start, runners parked at the finish line and hopped buses to take them up into the mountains, where small fires and pre-race refreshments greeted them.

At 7 a.m., the gun for the 400 or so runners sounded, and I, despite being about 20 pounds over prime racing weight, was confident of a strong finish, thanks to a textbook, trouble-free training program that had me on track for a 3:30 marathon. Fatter and older people than me have run much faster marathons.

The dirt road rolled in and out of arroyos, a desert term for gullies carved out over time by fast-moving water and erosion.

The endless series of dips took their toll on my legs, but after emerging onto a highway frontage road and heading into a slight downhill around Mile 6, I believed the stiffness would subside and I could crank into a new gear.

I couldn't. I'd gone as fast as I was going to go during this quest to cross Arizona off my list in my quest to run a marathon in all 50 states. Arizona was No. 9, and a runner can't even join the 50 States Marathon Club until he gets 10 under his shorts. I picked Arizona so I could visit and stay with some friends, the Kashgarians, whom I hadn't seen in more than a half decade.

Despite the modest time goal, by Mile 9 I realized that not only was I not going to hit a 3:30, I doubted I'd break 4 hours and likely would have my worst marathon time ever.

The next 17.2 miles would prove to be a nightmare of self-doubt, pain and a previously unknown desire to just quit.

But having paid a fortune for air fare and a rental car - as well as the months of training investment - I figured the worse thing that could happen would be to walk or even crawl to the finish line if I had to.

So I trudged on, with me and most of the runners around me walking the water stops miles before the halfway point.

I could not understand what was happening, and whatever was going on affected other runners as well. Three weeks earlier, I had run at a 20-miler at a pace that I couldn't even muster by Mile 11 in Arizona. The next week, I hit the track and ran eight 800s, all around a pace of 3 minutes and 20 seconds.

Called "Yasso 800s," the times are supposed to be an indicator of marathon finishing, meaning that running the Yassos at around 3 minutes and 20 seconds translates into a marathon time of 3 hours and 20 minutes - good enough to qualify me for the Boston Marathon.

That prospect evaporated long before the halfway point, and everything after that was an exercise in just somehow gutting it out to the finish line.

Mile after agonizing mile went by, and my legs just got stiffer and stiffer.

The ultimate cruelty came after the route went back to rolling dirt road. At Mile 23, a group of Red Hat Ladies happily handed out water. Behind them rose a horrifying hill - called The Dutchman's Revenge - that ascended about 50 feet in less than a 10th of a mile.

I'd read about the hill, and I was determined to run rather than walk up it, and I did it. At the top, there was a man-made arch, and a photographer on the other side took pictures as runners passed through.

Here's a photo of it, courtesy of the race web site, of someone who is definitely not me:

The tribute to the hill spoke volumes about the level of accomplishment to just get to this point.

Finally, at 4 hours and 28 minutes, about 15 minutes beyond my previous worst marathon, I crossed the finish line.

I looked down to see huge salt deposits formed on my running shirt. My hair was encrusted with salt. I could barely walk.

In retrospect, I believe the perfect storm of failure awaited me in Arizona.

First off, I seriously underestimated the elevation effect. Apache Junction sits at around 2,000 feet, but the race started much higher than that, robbing my body of the ability to process the oxygen needed to keep my muscles from stiffening so quickly.

Also, the early rolling hills and then later long hills took their toll as well, followed by deceptively high temperatures. Every degree over about 55 degrees slows a runner, and the temperatures toward the last half of the race were pushing 70 degrees, masked in part by the near lack of any humidity. I also believe the dry desert air itself somehow hastened the dehydration process.

Excuses. Excuses.

Nevertheless, I crossed my 17th marathon finish line and crossed a ninth state off the list.

One thing marathoners should do in their lives is run a race for someone else. In this case, it was for my dad, who passed away last month. Despite witnessing his long, heartbreaking fight to survive - and a strong desire to just blow off this marathon - I got my ass out of bed in the mornings and ran, sometimes in the cold rain, thinking this is what he would have wanted me to do.

I felt his presence during the run. Part of me felt him saying, "Come on! You have to finish! You can do it!" Part of me felt him saying, "Ha ha ha! I'll bet you wish you had dropped 20 pounds and avoided the beer and burgers for a change!!!"

I don't know where this demoralized sea-level sailor will go next, but I'll probably avoid anything high, hot and hilly for a while.

And I'll think long and hard about those extra pounds.

Oh well. So long, Arizona.

A Dog-Gone Good Bill

A bill before the Texas Legislature would make it a felony if an unsecured and unprovoked dog attacks a person off the dog owner's property.
Under House Bill 1355, which State Rep. Dan Gattis, R-Georgetown, filed last week, the irresponsible owner could face a third-degree felony or even a second-degree felony if the dog-attack victim dies.
Having been in this business more than 20 years, I've seen my share of horrific dog-attack stories. Loose pit bulls have mauled, disfigured and even killed children. Perhaps the worst was when I was working in Killeen. Just west of the city, a trio of dogs killed a young woman out for a walk, tearing her body to pieces.
As I've written before, few things in this world anger me more than irresponsible dog owners, the kind of people who think their precious pooch wouldn't hurt a butterfly. They act shocked when their dogs attack, and they often blame it on something the victim has done.
Recently, while out for a morning run, I once again was surrounded by barking, snapping dogs. The trio of medium-sized dogs had bothered me before, but not like this time, and I have a feeling they were more motivated than usual because their owner was there, hauling his trash can to the street.
The slackjawed owner just stood there, watching, while his dogs circled, barked and snapped.
I stopped running for a moment, and when I tried to keep going, one of the dogs nipped at my foot.
I stopped again and called out to the owner.
"Are you going to do something about these dogs?" I hollered out.
He mumbled something I couldn't understand, but he did nothing to call off his dogs.
"I've got pepper spray, and if you don't get them to back off, I will," I said.
"You better not!" was his reply.
Angered, I fired back that I certainly had the right to use the public street without harassment from his dogs, and he contended it was my fault because the dogs were provoked by the flashlight I was carrying.
I told him the next time this happened, his dogs would get a face full of pepper spray - and he would get a visit from the sheriff's department. I said I'd also file a juicy lawsuit and own his sorry ass if I wound up getting bitten.
I haven't had a problem since then, but I am concerned that one day there will be a dog that really means business. Or perhaps a dog will attack one of my children.
Meanwhile, I see lots of people in my neighborhood carrying bats and sticks when they're out walking or running. I saw one guy the other day carrying a GUN.
I've never understood the mentality of irresponsible dog owners, who let their pets run loose without regard for other people's safety or just plain common courtesy. Also, if their dog had been raised correctly in the first place, it wouldn't be chasing down people in the street and biting them.
There are lots of friendly dogs that come out to greet me on my running route, and sometimes I'll even stop to pet them. Other dogs out there pay no attention to me at all.
HB1355 could make dog owners think twice about letting their dangerous animals run free. It also could avert the countless maulings and killings at the paws of bad dogs.
And if the bill passes, I might be tempted to run off a few thousand copies and mail them to all my neighbors.

Video Tribute

My brother-in-law, Mark Fusco, put together a fantastic slide show covering my dad's life.
The goal was to have it play at the funeral services, but due to equipment limitations in the chapel, it was decided to have the slide show playing during the reception.
I spent a heartbreaking afternoon scanning in a majority of the photos, which I wanted to capture his lifespan, from the time he was a baby, through young adulthood, into war, later family life and then old age.
It marked the peak of the grieving process for me because it helped put his whole grand life into perspective.
It even includes the last photo ever taken of him, using my camera phone. I hesitated to use it, due to the morbidity of it, but there is a touching beauty to it, with my mom holding his hand during the fleeting moments where we still believed he had a chance to survive.
Other siblings added some more pictures, and Mark put it all together.
At first, I thought about having Willie Nelson's "Blue Eyes Crying In The Rain" as the background music, but then I remembered something from my childhood, a classical guitar piece that John Williams (the guitar player, not the "Star Wars" composer) had on his greatest hits album.
Dad and I listened to a tape of it on our first adventure to Brady, Texas, home of the state championship muzzleloader competition. I was seeing the Hill Country for the first time, and the piece was playing, and all was well, beautiful and exciting. I'll never forget it.
Another version can be heard on the soundtrack of the Academy Award-winning John Wayne movie, "The Cowboys," a favorite that Dad and I watched together several times.
But finding the Williams performance of that piece proved to be difficult. I have it on album at home, but converting that for use in a DVD slide show would require some high-tech effort using my eight-track digital recorder. And I could not find "John Williams' Greatest Hits" anywhere on the Internet.
However, we managed to find the performance on another collection of Williams' performances, so "Concerto For Lute (Guitar), 2 Violins (Strings) And Basso Continuo InDMajor, R. 93: II. Largo" finally became the background music.
The video was a smash hit at the reception. People stood mesmerized. It's a fantastic work.
So here it is.
Grab some tissue:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-kTeTIDIC1k

1 Month Later

It was one month ago today that Dad passed away.
During this time of grief, obscure, fond memories have bubbled to the surface, moments I haven't thought about in years.
I worry about the memories fading, about me failing to pass on his story to my children. I grieve over not getting the chance to engage in one last adventure with him.
I feel his soul and spirit all around me, when I'm out running, when I'm trying to be a good father, when I'm challenging myself to do the kinds of things that would make him proud.
One of these challenges has been a backyard treehouse I've spent several months now toiling over. Heavy rains this winter slowed progress, but I'm close to getting it safe enough for the kids to climb on.
The treehouse idea started in the complicated mind of my son, Curt. Several years ago, after watching a "Little People" video, he asked me to built him a treehouse. At the time, potty training was an issue.
My construction skills also could be called into question. Dad could turn a piece of wood into a nuclear power plant. During recent visits home, I've noticed more and more all the guns, chests and frames that he built.
Amazing.
Meanwhile, my attempts at wood-working have been restricted to staining and installing shelves. I haven't had the patience to take a chisel and toil for hours over a 1-square-inch space of wood, like Dad did on so many of the muzzleloaders he built.
Instead, unlike anyone else in the family before me in recent memory, I've taken to music. I write it, play it, record it, produce it and put it on CD. I've probably got 100 songs in my musical Rolodex. Music is my muzzleloader.
It's not the kind of stuff worthy of a record contract, but it amuses and entertains me, as well as a handful of those around me, such as my children. They love to hear "Daddy's new song."
But crafting wood is another matter, hence my apprehention about my son's treehouse idea.
I got the clever idea of telling him I'd build him a treehouse when he pooped in the potty and abandoned diapers forever. We talked about a few times, but as the months of potty training wore on, the subject was dropped.
But then early last year, months and months later, it happened. He decided he'd had enough of the diapers and pooped on the potty.
And the first words out of his mouth?
"Now daddy gotta build me a treeshouse!"
So treehouse construction started in the fall. Little Curt and I picked out the perfect spot, and, without any kind of blueprint, I just started hammering boards. Sometimes, little Curt would join me, randomily hammering nails into wood. He's a good little hammerer.
My dad got to see the early stages of this, and he seemed pleased. Many of the suggestions he had were already taken care of.
"You might want to put a cross support there," he said.
"It's already there. Look under there," I replied.
"Excellent! Way to go! I'm proud of you," he said.
Now that he's gone, treehouse construction has taken on a whole new meaning. The treehouse must be sturdy. It must be impressive. It must be clever. It must look like a professional's work.
And I believe it's well on its way to being all that.
Last weekend, I finally got the floor in, aside from a few little places. Next, I'm going to put up railing and a staircase, and the children can play on it while I start adding the roof and assorted bells and whistles, perhaps a slide and few other creative ideas.
Some day soon, I'm going to sit atop my finished work, drink a beer and reflect as the excited children frolick around me.
And then I'll probably break down and cry.

BISD Bond Boondoggle Bears Fruit

I used to have an old Chevy Blazer, a hand-me-down from Dad.
Him and I had many adventures in that vehicle, built in 1984. After he gave it to me, I put a lot of miles on it. I made round trips to Michigan and Arizona. I drove it all over Texas. By the time I sold it, it had about a quarter-million miles on it.
One thing I realized early was not to let little repairs go for long. Whether it was shock absorbers, brake pads or some little light that stopped coming on, I'd get it taken care of immediately.
To do otherwise would result a vehicle with a whole lot of little problems that posed an insurmountable cost to fix all at once.
The Beaumont school district now stands at the base of such an overwhelming problem, much of which stems from a failed $150 million bond issue in 2002.
BISD went for too many marbles in that bond issue - and they went about it the wrong way. The district did a poor job of rallying public support, but a big ballot killer was, among other things, lumping a $4 million Lamar football stadium renovation into the mix. The measure failed to draw even chamber of commerce support.
What BISD should have done was present the bond under two options. Option 1 should have had all the critical needs, such as renovating or replacing horrifically outdated schools. You put all the bells and whistles - such as football stadiums, gyms and auditoriums - in the larger Option 2. If voters approve Option 2, then Option 1 is void.
I've seen myriad bond issues pass under this approach, often with Option 2 getting the thumbs up. It gives voters a choice and keeps the bells and whistles from dooming the absolute musts.
Voters in 2002 hammered the overconfident BISD's bond proposal, with 8,309, or 62 percent of the 13,408 ballots cast, going against it.
Ouch.
Later in the year, a group of residents calling itself Citizens United for Academic Excellence Committee formed to formulate a new bond strategy.
However, the committed didn't come up with a proposal until early 2005, almost three years after the 2002 bond disaster.
Now, two years and many construction-cost leaps later, BISD faces a wish list that started at an eye-exploding $1 billion that has been trimmed to still-jaw-dropping $653 million, some $23 million above the district's legal debt limit. A Houston consulting firm advised that a $450 million bond issue would be more realistic.
To make matters worse, the district is rushing toward a May election instead of waiting until November. BISD won't have much time to peddle what might be a make-or-break bond issue for the troubled school district, whose quality has caused real estate mayhem and forced desperate parents to camp out in line overnight to apply to have their children transferred to other schools.
Much of the possible taxpayer pocketbook pain of this could have been averted had BISD done a better job of selling the 2002 bond issue. It also should not have waited five years to put a new proposal on the ballot, thereby avoided the skyrocketing construction costs thanks to a terrible 2005 hurricane season.
There is no question that a bond issue is warranted. Schools are crowded and outdated. Portable buildings are everywhere. Academic performance is below standards. Parents are disgusted. Teacher morale has to be suffering.
With the Southeast Texas industrial explosion expected in the next five to 10 years, BISD must improve or risk seeing what so many parents - including myself - have done to ensure that their children are getting a quality education: buy a home elsewhere.
Yes, my wife and I felt we had no choice but to get our children out of BISD. We were so motivated to do so that we painfully shouldered a double mortgage for months. So many prospective buyers fled after learning the attendance zones for our Beaumont home, and we feel lucky to have sold the house at all, to a couple with grown children.
BISD's precarious situation could have been avoided, and now a do-or-die, albeit hefty, bond proposal looms this year.
With the BISD vehicle's windshield cracked, tires bald, alternator belt squeeling and muffler rusting, let's hope the district can somehow shoulder the weight of getting its smoking transmission fixed.

Super Bowl Commercials Not So Super

Super Bowl watchers year after year look forward to the commercials, sometimes more than they do the games, which tend to run somewhere between blowout and boring.
However, I can't remember the last time that a Super Bowl commercial made me laugh or make my jaw drop.
During the weeklong hype leading up to the game, news stories noted that advertisers this year were going back to their comedic roots, promising lots of laughs.
But despite spending millions of dollars on these ads, they failed to draw a chuckle in my house.
About the only commercial I found mildly amusing was the two scruffy dudes - much like the spaghetti scene in "Lady and the Tramp" - going after opposite ends of a Snickers bar. The usually solid and hilarious Budweiser commercials also disappointed.
Remember the frogs? Cedric the Entertainer? Clydesdales playing football?
And who could forget cat herding?
I remember when the non-comedy ads were at least interesting or entertaining.
Perhaps next year, instead of trying to be funny, they should shoot for nostalgia and bring back some of those old commercials.
That way, they'll have two years to come up with at least one funny idea.