Okay, this is the last marathon photo you’ll see. I promise.
That’s because there are no more marathon photos. This shot was on the front of the sports page of the Des Moines Register in April 1982. You can see the photo editor’s crop marks. The race was the Drake Marathon, and
it was mercifully my last marathon since my ankles were rapidly losing their enthusiasm for running at any distance. That’s me, #628. My good buddy Shane Dooley is 664. The guy who won the race, Pat McGuire, is in the bandana to my left. Pat tossed in a 4:50 mile from 16 to 17 and that broke Shane and I like twigs. Shane was 4th in 2:24 and I hobbled home in 5th in 2:25.
April 22, 2013
Ellen/Reid: It was bizarre writing last week’s letter about the Boston Marathon, and no sooner were things in the mailbox than the news hit about the explosions. I don’t suppose that I would have started over if the letters hadn’t been sent. It’s just the way it works sometimes. Two women from Charlotte were there to watch their mother finish the race and were in the wrong place at the wrong time. One lost a leg, the other had horrible leg injuries. What might possess someone to do such a deed is beyond me. There are no ways to guarantee this won’t happen again. Although not a right, we are free to move about as we please, and it’s impossible to take all the precautions necessary all of the time. We spent all Friday night in jammies glued to CNN on the tube as they surrounded the guy.
I’ll be out of town next week for a couple of days in Arizona for a staff meeting before heading to Minnesota. The St. Paul trip hopefully won’t be impacted too much. My new boss was very accommodating when I asked to leave the meeting early. “Family first” she said. It’s wild, but I get to meet people I’ve worked with for the better part of two and a half years but never met in person. That’s how disparate the operation is. People are spread out the hell all over the country.
Drove a couple of hours to Flat Rock, North Carolina yesterday to see my friend Peter Zandbergen from Omaha. Pete and I went to Nebraska together and for years he’s headed rowing in the U.S., been the Olympic team rowing manager and has been a domestic/international official of long standing. He was down in Clemson, South Carolina (about 45 minutes away) to officiate a big regatta for women. His parents had settled late in life in the Flat Rock – Tryon area and it’s where his sister, Nancy, runs an incredible summer camp – Camp Wayfarer – which draws kids from all over the U.S. and some other countries. It is unbelievable. Anyway, we had a chance to catch up for a few hours and that was fun. The camp draws from the fairly affluent – kids of PGA Tour pros, etc. They pull out all the stops. That part of North Carolina, sort of the gateway to the mountains, is nice. Not the Rockies, but still nice.
I spoke too soon about the blue birds abandoning their nesting box. Just this morning the female is sticking her head out of the box, which must signal her mate to “get me some food, stat” while she incubates her clutch. I hope the chicks make it this year. There are still feral cats roaming around and my pellet gun is at the ready to sting those bastards into submission, or at least long enough to get the message to stay away from the nesting pair. There was some newspaper article recently about feral cats being accountable for something like a billion bird deaths a year. Maybe I should up the firepower ante.
Reid, I must seem like a Bozo (a clown native to WGN in Chicago) to you about all this blog stuff. I only get about 30% of it but it’s the other 70% of it that matters most. Maybe we can kibitz over a beer or two while we’re in the Twin Cities. I just need to get out of the technology Stone Age. It’s frustrating, maddening and irritating all at once. There’s something substantive there but I just don’t know how to get it out, and I don’t want to make the same mistakes on Pick Up Your Path.
About to head online to buy tickets for Scottsdale and will keep you apprised of the itinerary as we go along. Emma looked cute this morning, Ellen, if it’s possible for a baby to look cute after being up-and-at-‘em from 1 to 4 a.m. When baby ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.