On Running

Running is hard. At least, that has been my experience. 

Granted, I am not runner. This is true despite the fact that I can boast of having run two seasons of cross-country in junior high/high school: 7th grade (no idea what I was thinking) and 11th grade (my knees kept me out of football -- and I was mostly chasing a girl).  And the latter year left me with two claims to fame: (1) I never walked in a race; and (2) I never finished last.

But despite my success, I still essentially had to arm wrestle our coach into giving me a varsity letter.  And no one has ever accused me of having a runner's build (my friends tell me my body is more naturally suited for consuming pastries and massive quantities of ice cream).  In fact my size, body type, and knee problems are usually exhibits A, B, and C for why I should not run. At all. 

 

[Nobody told this guy that marathons and donuts are mutually exclusive]

 

So while I am willing to acknowledge that there may be a subset of the population for which running is not hard, the simple fact is that I have never been one of those people.  This makes it all the more curious that I keep returning to it.

In two days, I'll pit myself against 26.2 miles of elevation and (mostly) winding descent in the Utah Valley Marathon.  Yes, I know.  I all but swore off marathons in my last post, wherein I chronicled the brutality that was the 2012 Wasatch Back Marathon Relay.  The prospect of doubling such torture seems well beyond anything my limited mind and body can endure.  Yet here I am, spurred again to action by the prospect of sharing the experience with siblings and attempting what, in many ways, really does seem impossible.

Someone posited on Facebook recently that for races such as these, just getting to the starting line means you've already won.  I say "just" as though it's as simple as paying the entry fee and showing up the morning of the race.  But anyone who has tried to meaningfully prepare for a half-marathon or marathon knows of the sacrifice and commitment required "just" to get yourself to the point where you're brave enough to show up to attempt the impossible.  And after three months of the ups and downs of preparing for this race myself, it's no light thing for me to say that this sentiment is pretty close to the mark.

There seems to be something redemptive in running that keeps me coming back.  Of course, there's usually something redemptive in all physical exercise.  Basketball, weight lifting, and even elliptical work (when done properly) each push me to my limits in different ways.  And each usually leave me feeling better about myself than before I began.  But running -- especially outdoor running -- has been a different animal entirely for me.  Particularly those stretching long runs that begin before dawn and end well after the sun is up.  Each is quite literally a journey.  And there's something to being outside, taking in the smell of the flowers, the gentle (or not so gentle) winds pushing you forward or backward, finding companionship in the rising sun and the rabbits that dart away at the sound of your coming, and pressing forward with the thoughts that weigh on you over the course of an hour (or two or three).  These elements tend to give my runs (plodding as they are) a quality and sense of accomplishment that I have not found in any other form of exercise.  I say this readily acknowledging that there's rarely ever been a run that I've looked forward to (and most anyone can attest that I feel the same way about lifting).  But I'll also note that there's rarely ever been a run that has not changed and centered me, and lifted me just a little bit closer to God -- notwithstanding what may be on my running playlist.  That doesn't seem to happen so much in a gym.

Of course, with all that, it still takes the prodding of siblings (and the prospect of their company) to get me to sign up and train for these races.  But I suppose that's just the nature of things: the things we least want to do are usually the things we're most grateful for having done in the aftermath.  Doing hard things seems to give life its meaning and quality -- justifying (perhaps mostly to ourselves) our existence.

Hopefully I'll be able to same the same after Saturday's ordeal.  Actually, hopefully I'll still be alive.

 

If not, Michelle asks that you send the family donuts in lieu of flowers. Preferably Randy's Donuts.

On The Wasatch Back Marathon (Relay)

Somehow I've wound up in a family of runners.  That is to say, in recent years, a number of my siblings have taken to regularly running long, long distances and pretending they enjoy it.

And the effects of all this running haven't been entirely lost on me. I've been inspired.  So a few months ago, after settling on a summer vacation to Utah, I coaxed a few siblings to pair up and run the Wasatch Back Marathon Relay with me.

The problem for someone like me was, this was no ordinary marathon, since the race begins at 5,613 ft. elevation and peaks at 8,221 ft. by mile 7.  But even if it wasn't something entirely suited to someone with my frame (much less someone of my frame who had to train at sea level in San Diego), we pressed forward, since Bryan was willing to run up the mountain for the first leg of the event (12.8 miles).  Surely I could run down and around the the other side without much trouble -- even if my 13.4 mile leg did start at 7500 ft.  Besides, I would be wearing a Superman shirt.

 

Since I survived the endeavor (barely), I thought I'd share my running diary of the event:

June 29, 2012 (Race Day Eve):

• 6:45 p.m. -- A pot roast dinner, complete with mashed potatoes and rolls.  I pat myself on the back for only having 1 roll.

• 7:30 p.m. -- A rousing wiffle ball game (in which I strike out twice), which is my last ditch effort to acclimate to Utah's elevation.  I've been here two days, so I should be good to go. I repeat this to myself more than once.

• 9:00 p.m. -- The sun is still up, but I head to bed (and I'm the only one in house full of 25 people heading to bed that early).  The elevation, the ascent, the heat that awaits my leg of the race hold no sway over me, and I'm excited!  If a reporter interviewed me now, you might've sensed the same blissful, ignorant bravado of Apollo Creed just before he fought Ivan Drago in Rocky IV: "I'm in the best shape of my life!"  Yeah. . . sure you are Apollo.

June 30, 2012 (Race Day):

• 2:45 a.m. -- Up, and not for the first time. Well before the 3:15 alarm.  Did I sleep at all?  I don the Superman shirt, but I do not feel like running.   Not. At. All.  Why do people do this?  Why am I doing this? Still, I did only have one roll last night.

• 3:15 a.m. -- The rest of the racing crew rouses.  They're dressed like real runners in warm up gear.  I'm dressed like a guy in red shorts and Superman shirt that didn't think through things enough to pack anything resembling warm up attire.  And I'm already tired again.  Cold (it's apparently chilly even in June at 3:15 a.m.) and tired. 

• 3:45 a.m. -- The four of us start in on the 70 mile drive to Midway, UT.  Matt starts in on his pretzels.  He says the only thing he can eat the morning of a race are pretzels (the salt helps him stay hydrated).  I nod like I know what he's talking about -- like I've been there, too.  I'm pretending (again), and for no good reason.  They all know I've only run 1 half marathon before.  I'm also still trying to pretend I'm not cold.

• 4:15 a.m. -- We've talked for the 67th time about how tough the incline will be from miles 3-7 for the first leg runners (Matt and Bryan).  It never gets old.  Something like a 2,300 foot elevation change in that four mile stretch.  I kind of feel bad, but I'm mostly amused at this point.  I tell Bryan I only need 7 minute splits from him, and I'll carry our team the rest of the way.  I float the idea (again) that my mass will give me enough momentum on the downhill to average 7 minute splits of my own. 

• 4:45 a.m. -- We're in Midway, but there's no sign of a race.  It's still dark.  Things look dead. Wait . . . after a second pass around what looks to be the town square, we see a guy standing at a table lighted by the headlights of a truck.  We're here.  But it seems like we're the only ones.

• 5:00 a.m. --  We're not the only ones, but there aren't many.  And they don't have my race packet.  I'm on the registration, but either someone's already grabbed my number or they didn't make me a packet.  This annoys me, but it seems to annoy Bryan more.  He seems to want the guy to acknowledge that this mishap can't be my fault.  The guy promises to make it right somehow, but I already feel relegated to 2nd class racer status.  It doesn't help that I've already been up for two hours.

• 5:15 a.m. -- Not much else to do (especially for those of us running the 2nd leg of the race), so we huddle in the car. . .and turn on the heat.  Maybe I kind of drift off to sleep. 

• 5:25 a.m. -- They found my race packet; someone had taken mine by mistake.  All is right in the world.  Mostly.

• 5:35 a.m. -- No one knows where the starting line for the race is.  Someone says it's a block away from the town square near a stake center (LDS church building), and that we'll all walk over there together.  That seems a little odd.

• 5:45 a.m. -- The four of us follow a group of people over to where we think the starting line is.  Then the people we're following say they don't know where it is, so they hope we're not following them.  No, of course we weren't following you. . .

• 6:00 a.m. -- The race is supposed to start now.  But we still don't know where the starting line is.  Nothing's marked.  Lots of people mill about the church parking lot in confusion. 

• 6:05 a.m. -- The race organizers and a mass of people make their way over and delineate a starting line.  It's someone's birthday, so people start singing "Happy Birthday to You."  I'm not inclined to sing; I reason it's because I'm so focused. 

• 6:07 a.m. -- They've sung "Happy Birthday."  One of the organizers explains the course.  He reckons people should plan on adding an hour to whatever their normal marathon time is.  It's that tough.  He also tries to scare those of us running the second leg.  He says that the first miles of the 2nd leg of the race will have their own steep uphill challenges.  Nobody told me about this before.  Matt gives me a look that I'd later learn meant "Why did you do this to us?"

• 6:10 a.m. -- The runners are off.

• 6:12 a.m. -- Leanne and I and the rest of the non-starting pack meander back to the town square.  We've got to find some meaningful way to kill time.  Matt's letting me wear his purple Nike pull over that feels insanely comfortable.

• 6:40 a.m. -- Leanne and I get word that the transport to the relay exchange point will happen sometime after 7 a.m.  I wonder whether it's worse to be waiting around aimlessly or running right now.  Meanwhile, Bryan's in the middle miles 3-7, thinking unkind thoughts of me (since I suggested the race), and trying very hard not to swear.  Bryan would tell me later he had to walk just about all of miles 3-7.

• 7:30 a.m. -- We're on our way to the relay exchange point in a GMC Yukon, taking on a dirt road with lots of switch backs.  I don't really take note of just how high we're climbing.  One of the runners in the vehicle is 14 years old and (literally) half my size.  I decide that probably means he can take me -- even if I am wearing a Superman shirt.  We'd learn later this was his first half-marathon.

• 7:35 a.m. -- Leanne and I and several others are positioned at the relay exchange point, milling around again.  It's sort of a valley between two parts of a mountain.  The oncoming runners face a significant descent to get to where we're at (and you can see the trail wind down the mountain from about 1/2 a mile away).  Then our leg starts with an immediate, steep ascent.  That'll be fun.  Kind of.

• 7:45 a.m. -- Signs of the first runner.  He's moving fast and there's no one anywhere near him.

• 7:50 a.m. -- The first runner reach and passes us.  He had two pace setters waiting for him at the half-way point to run the rest of the race with him.  They all seem to be sprinting up the hill, so I figure I should be able to do the same.  Probably just like Apollo figured he'd be able to take Ivan Drago.

• 7:57 a.m. -- A second runner passes us.  Leanne and I wonder which one of our brothers will be the first to get here: Matt (seasoned marathoner with a killer time at the Utah Valley marathon weeks before, but who hurt is knee in a basketball tournament two weeks ago) or Bryan (in the middle of what he's deemed his "Summer of Thor" and a personal mission to fill out his frame to look just like Chris Hemsworth -- minus the long locks).  The odds on favorite among the family has been Bryan, particularly because of Matt's knee injury.  But I wonder openly if Matt's possibly played up the injury, and if he's not still got a few speedy tricks of his own.

• 8:05 a.m. -- The first relay runner reaches the exchange point.  He might be the 14 year old kid's dad.  Either way, the 14 year old is off and running up the hill.  In my heart I know I won't be able to catch him.

• 8:15 a.m. --  We see Bryan striding down the mountain in his Superman shirt.  He's running really fast. No sign of Matt and his bright yellow shirt.

• 8:18 a.m. -- Bryan reaches me. . .and keeps running?  We make him stop.  My Garmin GPS is ready, but my iPod's not set yet.  Ah, there it is.  The music's pumping -- a freebie song from the Avengers Assemble album I got after buying a movie ticket to The Avengers online a few months ago.  I don't really like the song, but I haven't gotten rid of it yet, and the beat helps me take off sprinting up the hill, pumping with adrenaline.  I'm only the 2nd relay person to set out, and there've only been a handful of runners that have come through at all.

• 8:19 a.m. -- I pass one of the marathoners.  He's walking up the hill.  I don't really want to embarass him by sprinting by.  Poor guy.  He's already run half the course.  But I've got a 14 year old to catch!  So I run past.

• 8:22 a.m. -- Still more hill?  Adrenaline is gone. My chest is on fire.  The incline is too steep.  I don't want to do it but. . . I'm walking.  Four minutes into the race, and I'm walking.  I didn't walk at all with the last half-marathon.  This doesn't bode well, in part because I don't have any "walk the hill" music in my playlist.

• 8:25 a.m. -- Steep ascents and steep descents one after another.  I've tried running some more, but the ascents put me right back to walking very quickly.  I honestly wonder if I can finish in the time allotted for the marathon (6 hours), and if I'm possibly in the middle of one of the most foolish things I've ever done in my life.  Random orange tape guides my way.  By the way, the walking marathoner passes me (running now).  He earns a gold star for not mocking me as he passes.

• 8:30 a.m. -- Chest still burns.  My ears hurt (the iPod is not helpful -- so I take the earbuds out).  I feel like I'm breathing smoke (there'd been a few fires in other parts of the state in the days before the race).  Walking suits me now and "running" seems like something I used to do in another life.  I wonder if I'll be walking the whole race.  Things flatten out briefly at the top.  No one is anywhere around me.  It seems like I'm walking the course alone.

• 8:35 a.m. -- The downhill starts in earnest, and the view is breath-taking (in more than one sense) with the Deer Creek Resevoir to the left, and Mt. Timpanogos to the right.  I want to take in the scenery more, but the trail is all loose rock, and I'm in serious jeopardy of spraining my ankle.  So. . .I walk.  Walking the downhill was definitely not in the plans.  Someone passes me.  I'd learn after the race that Matt finished his leg around this time, so Leanne was just starting out.

[One of the flatter, less rocky portions of this part of the trail. Photo courtesy of Amy Donaldson and her Deseret News article here]


• 8:45 a.m. -- It's hot now.  But a few bursts of a cool breeze bring hope and encouragement.  I'm able to keep something of a jogging pace, and that feels like no small miracle.  I'm also able to listen to my iPod again, and one of the songs that come up is "Burning Heart" from Survivor (part of the always relevant Rocky IV soundtrack).  Yep, "burning heart" about sums up my experience thus far.

• 8:55 a.m. -- I'm headed down the backside of the mountain now.  A man in a red shirt passes me and wonders if I'm part of a relay team.  He seems nice, particularly as he offers encouragement as he strides by.

• 9:05 a.m. -- Just about to mile 17 (mile 4 for me).  The terrain has (mostly) leveled out, and I reach the first water station (there were far too few water stations on the course).  I've survived the hardest part of the course and it's almost like a normal run again.  Things feel hopeful -- and by hopeful I mean "I think I'm going to survive." It helps if I try not to comprehend the 9+ miles I still have in front of me.  I worry about Leanne going up and then down that mountain, and I worry how she's going to survive it.  I wonder where she's at and what she's going through.  And amid my worries, a thought occurs to me that, in my current state, feels like it holds much deeper meaning: "I can't run Leanne's race for her.  No matter how hard it is and no matter how much I may worry, she has to run her own race. I can only run my own."

• 9:10 a.m. -- The course has evolved into rolling hills and a dirt road that winds around the side of the mountain.  To the right is Deer Creek Resevoir.  It's beautiful, but the sun feels hot, and there's no escaping it.  I pass the nice guy in the red shirt (who is walking), and he cheers me on as I do.  He gets a gold star, too.  He's the only other runner I see on the course.

• 9:25 a.m. -- Hot. The winding road only lets you see your path a few hundred yards ahead, and I start hoping more and more that on the other side of each bend is the end of this particular part of the course.  I'm several hundred yards ahead of the red shirt guy. But I don't have any water, and I've started having to walk -- even the small hills.  My face feels encrusted with salt, and I seem to have stopped sweating.  Oh, and my legs mostly feel like lead.

[Photo courtesy of Amy Donaldson and her Deseret News article here]

• 9:36 a.m. -- Still so hot.  I reach the mile 20 water station (mile 7 for me), and I feel like I've already given all I have.  But there are still 6+ miles in front of me.  The guy manning the water station calls me Superman, which I always appreciate.  I then indulge in several cups of water, including pouring a few over my head and arms.  With the refreshment, I start out again, catching the song "Hero" by Chad Kroeger (from the original Spiderman soundtrack) on my playlist.  The combined effect gives me a good boost of energy, so I run up the hill in front of me.

• 9:50 a.m. -- The miles have been coming much slower, and I'm still on this winding dirt road.  The guy in the red shirt now has a companion, and while they're still behind me, it's clear they're going to catch and pass me.  What would sun stroke/dehydration feel like?  Something's clearly wrong because Journey's "Send Her My Love" now seems like one of the most meaningful songs I've ever heard.

• 10:15 a.m. -- Completely, completely exhausted.  The end of the dirt road is just ahead, and I'm coming up on the mile 23 marker, a water station, and a small crowd of people.  Three cups of water are all I can manage, and I try taking one cup for the road.  It turns out that doesn't work out so well.

• 10:20 a.m. -- A long stretch of paved road that looks endless. The guy in the red shirt is now hundreds of yards ahead.  I have no energy for extraneous thought.  My whole world is the next 50 yards, or the next 25.  I find I can jog 100-200 yards, and then walk 100-200.  So it's slow going.  The guy in the red shirt and his friend are hundreds of yards ahead and doing the same thing.  That transition from a jog to a walk is painful now, and there's yet another timely song from the Rocky IV soundtrack up on the playlist: "There's No Easy Way Out."

• 10:43 a.m. -- Too tired to care about cliche, I'm on my last leg.  I turn a corner and unexpectedly see familiar faces: a niece, a nephew, and my kids start shouting for me, along with a hulking younger brother who is practically bursting through his Captain America t-shirt.  Before I'd seen them, I'd figured I needed at least one last walk, but I can't now.  They're all running with me (albeit in flip-flops) and carrying me to the finish line.  That kind of attention seems undeserved for a guy like -- a guy who had to walk so much.  But I relish it anyway.

[Not quite a sprinting stride, but it'll do.  Photo courtesy of Andrea Page Photography]
 
• 10:46 a.m. -- Finished.  

[This and the rest of the photos courtesy of Alisha Clark]

 

Team Superman finished with a time of 4:36:44.8.  My split was 2:28:13.5.  As it happens, this meant a second place finish in the men's relay (there were only three men's relay teams). 

In the aftermath, Bryan, Matt, and I would trade stories of our respective runs with doting family members while we all anxiously waited for Leanne to finish.  The race organizers scored extra points for having a bevy of quality donuts (among other treats) waiting for the runners.  Yes, I ate four of them.

[Chocolate cake donuts with toasted coconut?  How did they know?]

Leanne (running the anchor leg for Team Over the Top) would finish at 5:30:47, with a split of 3:05:10.8.  That's about the time I'd finally be able to bend my legs enough stretch my quads.   

[Team Over the Top and Team Superman]

The race confirmed a few things for me.  For one, I'll likely never attempt a full marathon. A 13.1 mile run (or in this case, 13.4) is already plenty long enough to push my body farther than it wants to run.  Doubling that distance (and training to be able to double that distance) strikes me as unnecessary insanity, especially for someone my size (and my knees).  But the race, as grueling as it was -- and perhaps because it was as grueling as it was -- also confirmed how much more enjoyable they can be when running with family and friends.  Not just because of the shared experience of the race, but the shared experience in the training and race preparation, too.  In the two weeks since the run, I've missed the email updates every few days between siblings about how the training runs are going.  I miss the connection it gave the four of us.  And I'm actually looking forward to doing another one.

All in all, the experience was unforgettable!

On Milkshake Contests

We Clarks often pretend to know a lot about things that don't really matter.  This blog is a reflection of that.  But it's best to not trifle with us on the subject of milkshakes. Take even more care if you want to talk about milkshake making contests.

I've offered up many of the details elsewhere, but as we near the 11th Annual Clark Family Milkshake Making Contest at end of the month, I feel like ruminating on and/or revisting a few highlights:

• The contest now enters its 13th year (11th actual contest). And it'll be the first contest since 2009 that we will all be together. What began as a simple post-mission effort to bond with family (and imbibe milkshakes) has evolved into an elaborate, creative, and often heated contest for the top prize. In other words, the days of the simple vanilla or chocolate shake are long gone.

How did it come to this?

• As the picture above indicates, Bryan took home the top prize last year (with "Orange Dreamsicle").  And he's obviously grown very fond of the trophy.  In fact, there are more than rumors that he's been carrying it around the BYU campus muttering, in a hissy voice, "my own. . .my. . .presshhious." 

• Of course, that's happened before:

Michelle and The Precious, circa 2007

• And then there was this back in 2005:

• With a record number of participants expected this year, we're now opting for a three judge format.*  It's doubtful the contest has ever been more anticipated, and it's almost certainly never been more competitive.  Planning among contestants for the next contest's entry often begins shortly after the last one ends as ideas are bandied about, embraced, rejected, and embraced again (all outside the earshot of the judges).  Hence, my family is holding a practice session tomorrow night for family home evening to test out our ideas.

May the best milkshake win (as long as it means the trophy returns to San Diego)!

* As one might imagine, being a judge is initially a great honor. . .until the contest is over.  A milkshake judge has to be prepared to engender controversy (whether or not it's warranted) and, for better or worse, be ready to be an object of scorn and ridicule for the hours, days, and weeks following the contest.  Indeed, some of us are still better at the 2005 milkshake contest judges for failing to address a certain contestant's use of illegal ice cream.

Nothing Bundt Cakes

Yeah, so it's been a year and a half.  Even longer since I've put out anything meaningful. 

Ah well.  It happens that way sometimes when you've been dabbling in the dark arts of chocolate chip cookies and molasses spice crisps, or working your way toward a new truth in homemade pizza margherita.  One simply loses track of time.

The truth is, I've had little intention of coming back here.  But here I am, drawn back in almost on a dare. 

I was contented enough this evening at a chili cookoff and pinewood derby for the Boy Scouts.  The company at my table was mostly pleasant, 'til the topic turned to cupcakes. 

The women across from me, respectable in every way, seemed to have lost their minds.  Somehow, someway, they scoffed at my affinity for Sprinkles cupcakes, claiming they could name a handful of superior cake/cupcake shops in San Diego.  Maybe.  Yeah, maybe.  I left open the possibility.

So on the way home tonight, we tried one: Nothing Bundt Cakes.   We bought two "bundlets" -- marble cake (particularly recommended), and pecan prailine, totaling nearly $9.

As with the donut tastes we've done in the past, Michelle divided up the bundtlets between the five of us.  My review needs only a few lines:  the cream cheese icing was completely unremarkable.  But I'd been warned of this -- it's the cake itself that was supposed to be amazing.*  And the cake was moist.  But my praise ends there.  Both the marble and pecan praline cakes were fine, but nothing much better than fine.  And nothing, really, that I couldn't have had at home.  So I paid $9 for two small, moist cakes -- with mediocre icing -- that I could've had at home at a fraction of the cost.

Ah well.  After putting the kids to bed, I made a quick trip to Sprinkles (fantastic strawberry and dark chocolate frosting, even if some of the chocolate cake was a little dry).  Yeah, those women, otherwise perfectly respectable, were out of their minds.



*I take issue with this concept generally.  The right kind of cake without frosting can be fine.  More than fine even (I'm thinking of a friend's chocolate hazelnut cake).  But a cake is not meant to outshine its frosting.  It's just not.  It sets up the frosting and creates an atmosphere in which the frosting can shine.  Deserved or not, when you frost a cake, you set up the frosting to be the star.  When this works properly, life is bliss, and all is right in the world.  But it's against the laws of nature to frost a cake and expect that cake to shine any more than it's frosting allows it.   

Day 16

Ok, so no marathon.  It took a little less than a week for that goal to fall by the wayside.  While there were nay sayers (you know who you are), I gave up the March marathon idea mostly because I realized (again) that I don't like running that much.  The 5-6 mile runs were fine, but the prospect of giving up my Saturday mornings (and hence Friday nights) to 10-20 mile long runs was stressing me out.  And since the goal was mostly just push me to lose the extra pounds I've put on, the 5-6 mile runs were more than adequate.  So I'd like to think I'm happier for having decided not to run it, or at least less unhappy, but the trick will be to stay motivated enough to lose those pounds the fat.  That was one of the nice things about the pressures of training for a marathon -- there were no shortage of demands to stay on track.

My streak of treatless days conveniently ended about the same time I decided not to run a marathon.  Michelle and I have since taken to testing recipes from the book Martha Stewart's Cookies.  [More on that to come.]

A little more than two weeks into the New Year, though, what seems to be sticking the most is my goal to flip the number of exercise days (166) and treat days (259) from last year.  For whatever reason, it's thus far proven motivating enough to keep me stretching for it, but flexible enough to keep me from burning out.  Time (and my scale) will soon tell whether it's enough, or whether I need to put something akin to that marathon back on my plate.

Day Five

According to my records, I exercised on 166 days in 2010.  Hooray. . . except I ate treats on 259.  Without accounting for just how many treats I ate on some of those 259 days, I found those figures both sobering and surprisingly motivating.  Couldn't I just try to flip those numbers for 2011?

With that thinking, a Garmin Forerunner 305 for Christmas, and an impulsive commitment to run the Catalina Marathon (my first marathon) in mid-March, I've had my work cut out for me since January 1.  And perhaps what's left me so dog tired these last five days is that I've actually had some modest success: no treats and four exercise days.  I'm batting a thousand.

Of course, I have no real hope of keeping this kind of pace up.  And I don't think I really want to. [It's been all I could do the last few days to keep from whipping up a few dozen sugar cookies to eat with our leftover icing.]  I do hope, though, to have enough success under my belt that when I eventually fall back to Earth (probably this weekend), I'll either feel more inclined toward moderation or at least be quicker to get back on the wagon.  But so far, it's been a good year.

A Long December II

Fourteen years ago, I was a freshman at a small college in Upstate New York that most outside of the area have probably never heard of.  I lived at home, commuted a 1/2 hour to school every day, and was readying for missionary service for the LDS church the following summer.  I was also on the basketball team and had enjoyed some success, but my most prominent memories of the time were of a painfully lonely winter break at home.  The girl I had dated in high school had moved on, but I had not.

The Counting Crows had put out their second CD -- Recovering the Satellites -- earlier that Fall, and the song "A Long December" resonated with me during those lonely months as I looked cathartically backward and, from that reverie, steadied myself to move ahead.  

I have felt similar stirrings as I've looked back on the year 2010.  Not feelings of loneliness or lost love, but of a year that, in many ways, never really got off the ground.  There are the 10 lbs. I put on over Christmas break last year that never came off (and the other 5 I've put on this Christmas), a major back injury in July (and I haven't played basketball since), and a host of New Year's "To Do" resolutions that I either gave up on quickly (e.g., a Peanut M&M fast) or never seemed to get around to (e.g., blogging more frequently).  Though there was lots of good food this year.



From Pink's Hot Dogs in LA from left to right -- a chili dog, the Mulholland Drive Dog, the Pastrami Reuben dog, the America the Beautiful Dog, and a regular hot dog (bottom) .  We only had to wait in line two hours for these dogs! (a small consolation prize after Pizzeria Mozza turned away my party of six).



My "America the Beautiful Dog" -- 12 inch jalapeno dog, pastrami, bacon, lettuce, and tomatoes.



Does this look like a man whose had all he can eat?



The Peanut Butter and Fresh Banana Donut with Chocolate Chips from Stan's Doughnut Corner in Westwood Village.  Creative and tasty, but not really one of the Top 10 Donuts in the United States.



Of course all was not lost this year.  There were advancements at work, a move to a spacious three bedroom condo (as opposed to the two bedrooms I'd been cramming my family of five into), and even my first half-marathon.

Looking ahead, there's reason to believe maybe this year will be better than the last.  I'm hoping to run a full marathon, use at least some of my free time more wisely, shake off the added 15 lbs., exercise a little more eating restraint, and post more faithfully here when I don't.

Happy New Year!

Pizzeria Bianco

Every man eventually finds himself at a crossroads in life when he's forced to answer tough questions, the answers for which may forever alter his future: Whom should I marry? Where should I go to law school? Where should I go after law school? Should I write Santa that threatening letter to try to force him to give me the presents I really want this year?

I faced one such crossroads this weekend: Should I spend two hours of a Friday afternoon in late May waiting in the hot Phoenix sun for what many claim is the best pizza in the country?


A few weeks ago I ran across an article on MSN purporting to list the best pizza places in the United States. Pizzeria Bianco, in downtown Phoenix, made the list. When I learned a few days later that some of my siblings planned to spend a weekend in Phoenix catching a few baseball games, it didn't take long to make the connection. The next thing I knew I had invited myself to tag along and was dropping not-so-subtle hints on where I thought we should eat.


Yet there were some hurdles. Pizzeria Bianco only takes reservations for parties of 6-10, and even then, only one reservation per day. The online local reviews further made it clear that the place is tiny, and you have to wait at least an hour and a half ahead of opening [it's open Tues-Sat 5-10 p.m.] to have much hope of getting in. I wasn't sure my brothers would be up for the wait.


They were (and they didn't even know I was paying yet).


Last Friday we set about heading to Pizzeria Bianco at 2:30 p.m. We found the place and parked nearby, finding our place in line just after 3 p.m. By the time we got there, we were fourth in line. Mercifully, there was at least a canopy set up to shield us from the sun. Those ahead of us in line assured us that the pizza would be worth the wait.

[3:21 p.m.]

As we got closer to 5 p.m., the line grew.

[4:15 p.m.]

And grew.

[4:15 p.m. – The other part of the line]

And grew.

[5:02 p.m. – Now That's a Man in a Confident Mustache!]

And grew.

The place opened just after 5 p.m., and, being fourth in line, we were a few of the fortunate ones who got in at opening. [There were people who had been waiting well over an hour that had to content themselves with placing their names on a waiting list.]

Once we were seated, the excitement built up over the course of that two-hour wait had us giddy. The restaurant itself was quaint, with a single wood-fired oven, and apparently only one person, Chris Bianco himself, actually baking the pizzas.

The menu at Pizzeria Bianco is simple.* There are six pizza offerings:

Pizza
MARGHERITA - Tomato Sauce, Fresh Mozzarella, Basil
MARINARA - Tomato Sauce, Oregano, Garlic (No Cheese)
ROSA - Red Onion, Parmigiano Reggiano, Rosemary, AZ Pistachios
SONNY BOY - Tomato Sauce, Fresh Mozzarella, Salami, Gaeta Olives
BIANCOVERDE - Fresh Mozzarella, Parmigiano Reggiano, Ricotta, Arugula
WISEGUY - Wood Roasted Onion, House Smoked Mozzarella, Fennel Sausage

When our waiter came by to take drink orders, I felt a bit sheepish when we all ordered waters – almost as though we were letting the waiter down.

I was also a little sheepish because of the order we were about to place, since there were so many hungry people and only one guy cooking the pizzas. Not sure when, if ever, we'd be back for a second round of sampling, when the waiter came back to take our orders, I said, making every effort not to flinch: "We'll have one of each [of the pizzas], except for the Marinara. Oh, and we'll have two of the Pizza Margherita."

I waited for him to bristle at the size of the order, but he didn't bat an eye.

Perhaps because we didn't order any appetizers or salads, our pizzas were first out of the oven. They looked beautiful.

When he set the pizzas before us, the waiter's only instructions were: "Eat the Rosa and the Bianco Verde first. After that, eat the rest."

[Bianco Verde]

The Bianco Verde was the first pizza I tried, and probably my favorite. I would not say that it, or any of the pizzas for that matter, exactly "melted in my mouth", but it was really, really good. I loved the way the cheese almost seemed to melt into the crust (rather than just on it), and the Arugula was a great touch.

[Rosa]

If the Bianco Verde wasn't my favorite, then the Rosa certainly was. The Parmigiano Reggiano – and maybe the red onions too -- gave this pizza a playful tang. The pistachios were fun, the pizza was too hot for me to discern much flavor from them.

[Margherita]

I liked the Margherita, but I wasn't blown away by it. Maybe my memories of the pizza Margherita at Grimaldi's have expanded over the years, but on the first slice, this pizza tasted comparatively ordinary. When I went back to it later for a second slice, it tasted much better than the first. It's left me wanting to try the Grimaldi's version again and compare.

[Wiseguy]

The Wiseguy was my least favorite of the five. Any subtleties in the fennel sausage or the house smoked mozzarella were lost on me. It was good pizza, but I wouldn't get it again when offered the choice of any of the other five. Ironically, this is the pizza the MSN article suggests you start with.

[Sonny Boy]

The salami on the Sonny Boy was crispier than your standard pepperoni. The Gaeta olives were nice. This was a good pizza, though not nearly as memorable as the Bianco Verde and the Rosa, or even the Margherita the 2^nd time around.

Having now visited Pizzeria Bianco and tasted all it has to offer, two questions that need answering. I can only really speak to one.

1.  Is it the best pizza in the country?

 

I don't know. It might be. It's the best I've had (at least until I taste Grimaldi's Margherita again).

2.  Is it worth the two hour wait?

 

Definitely at least once. Probably twice. It's the kind of place I'd offer to take out-of-town guests if I lived in the Phoenix area. What was interesting was how many regulars I was in line with – people who seem to routinely wait the two hours to get their slice(s) of heaven. The bell hop and waiters greeted them warmly by their first names and they caught up with each other on the highlights of the past few weeks. I'm not sure I could be one of those people. I'm the guy who is usually contented with Little Caesar's (whose $5 large pepperoni are always "Hot and Ready"), and blissfully happy with a $10 Costco combo pizza. When it comes down to it, it would have to be a rare or special occasion indeed that, on any given night, would have me saying "No" to a $10 Costco pizza that I could have in the next 15 minutes, to instead have the promise of Pizzeria Bianco if only I'm willing to wait out the next two hours in the hot Phoenix sun.

* I'm sure it's not been lost on many of you that menu simplicity often seems to be one of the first signs of great food (besides, of course, having to wait outside for two hours before opening just to get a seat). The confidence manifest in such simplicity speaks volumes.

A Long December

Nearly six months ago now as I set about mapping my New Year's Resolutions, I decided to be bold: Though I'd managed only a handful of postings in 2009, I resolved to blog weekly here in the coming year.

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Now here we are nearing June, and I haven't got a word or a picture to my name.

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Back when I started this blog in 2005, there was no Facebook (at least that I was aware of) that offered the chance for pithy quips to instantly update my connected friends on all of my comings and goings. Blogging itself was still relatively novel (though en vogue enough that I felt some of the "you don't want to make it look like you're following the crowd even though you are" internal resistance). As I've noted before, I started this blog then because I wanted to connect better with family and friends, and because I wanted the challenge of exposing some of my thoughts and writings in a public, somewhat permanent, medium. Facebook seems to satisfy most of the former now, though, and lately I've had so much less energy or interest in the latter.

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Additionally, the fact that my posts have grown more sparse in recent years seems to be indicative of a few things. For one, I've felt like I've been running out of material. After all, there's only so much traction one can get out of a Peanut M&M, sugar cookie, Breyer's ice cream, Oreo cookie, donut, and half-priced holiday candy fetish. There seems to be less need, too, for simply posting pictures and relating the family's most recent silliness. Maybe not, though.

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For those thoughts and ideas that have stretched beyond the trivial or self-depricating, I've also noticed growing increasingly more cautious about sharing them in this setting.

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Maybe it's not just this setting, though. Maybe those thoughts and ideas I might have otherwise been inclined to share over the years have themselves become more cautious. And there isn't much traction or material in a cautious approach to the world, either.

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Maybe experience has just made me more tentative.

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Whatever the case may be, I'm not about to abandon this blog. I am, after all, just getting around to starting my New Year's Resolutions. I will be more diligent here, and we'll see where that leads. Whether that diligence gives way to more devoted thoughts on donuts, cinnamon rolls, and agonizing weight gain, or whether perhaps it leads something more dangerous, who can tell? I can assure you, however, that it will give way to something more than the silence of these past six months.

Ninth Annual Clark Family Milkshake Making Contest

Amid all of the candy canes and sugar cookies, we held the Ninth Annual Clark Family Milkshake Making Contest today. Despite a record 17 entrants, and a field of milkshakes as elaborate and innovative as any we've ever seen, the final standings had some familiar faces with Michelle winning her third consecutive milkshake title with a key lime pie shake. Bryan took home second place with a coconut cream pie milkshake, finishing only a point behind Michelle in the standings. Matt, placing for the first time, took home third place with his milkshake "Sludge", a chocolate peanut butter concoction. My shake, Atomic Fireball, did not place, though it did take home the coveted creativity award this year.

Here's a rundown of the milkshakes:

• "Peppermint" by Leanne – Leanne's vanilla-based shake with crush candy canes. Leanne did not talk to reporters after the judges announced the final standings.
• "Chocolate Dream" – Alisha's chocolate-based shake with Oreos, chocolate chips, chocolate syrup, and chocolate sprinkles. The first milkshake to actually reach the judges, they complained it wasn't thick enough.
• "Sludge" – Matt's chocolate-based peanut butter, condensed milk, and Oreo shake. Matt only decided on the shake when his name was called to throw it together. The name seemed to take even less thought. Still, he didn't seem surprised when the judges called his name for 3^rd place, wondering openly why he didn't place higher. The shake was only two points shy of the first place shake, "Key Lime Pie."
• "Key Lime Pie" – Michelle's winning milkshake, a vanilla-based shake boasting condensed milk, lime juice, lime zest, heavy cream, and garnished with a dollop of whipped cream, toasted coconut, and another dash of lime zest. Michelle claims she only came up with the idea the night before, and actually apologized to the family when her name was announced. [Family members actually booed her as she approached to reclaim the trophy. She has now officially become the New York Yankees of the milkshake world.] Her husband, though smarting from not winning himself, is excited the trophy is again headed to San Diego.
• "P.OO.CH Shake" – The title of Leslie's vanilla-based shake stood for peanut butter, Oreos, and chocolate chips. The shake scored well on taste, but apparently wasn't thick enough for the judges' tastes to be able to place.
• "Scottish Delight" – Dad's vanilla based shake with butterscotch (hence the "Scotchish" theme). The shake scored well in creativity.
• "Let Them Eat Cake" – Sarah's vanilla-based shake included Funfetti cake batter, vanilla extract, and chocolate chips. The judges lauded her milkshake, though apparently found it too runny. The shake was runner up for the creativity award, losing out because one of the judges noted Coldstone Creamery has a similar offering.
• "The Great Chocolate Shake" – Jared's second milkshake entry had a chocolate base and included Oreos, a candy cane, chocolate syrup, coconut, and strawberries (I had to stop him at that). Jared's milkshake finished second in the new children's category.
• "Not Your Typical Cookies N' Cream" – Nichole's vanilla-based shake had melted butter, Oreo crumbs, and peppermint extract. A solid entry, though eerily similar to previous shakes she's submitted.
• "Atomic Fireball" – My vanilla-based shake included several drops of Cinnamon Bark Essential Oil and red food coloring. I submitted it knowing it could not win, but feeling duty bound to add it to the pantheon of memorable milkshakes. [Evenso, some laudatory comments from fellow participants managed to get my hopes up for the top prize.] The shake looked and tasted like an Atomic Fireball, though I couldn't get the color a deep enough red, nor could I get the cinnamon "hot" enough. The creativity prize is the first award any milkshake of mine has taken home in the last 6 years.
• "Coconut Cream Pie" – Bryan's vanilla-based milkshake had coconut pudding, toasted coconut, and dulce de leche. Bryan is a perennial top finisher, though an LDS mission to Uruguay kept him out of the last contest. He was magnanimous in defeat, despite losing to Michelle by only a point. The mission seems to have softened him in that regard.
• "Strawberry Peachy Surprise" – James' vanilla-based milkshake boasted frozen strawberries and peaches. A solid entry for James' first ever entry (and his first milkshake contest, for that matter). The judges couldn't seem to taste much peach.
• "Fruit Kind" – Emily's chocolate-based shake had everything from chocolate chips to strawberries, oatmeal cookies, and sprinkles. This was Emily's first entry, and she seemed happy just to be competing.
• "Orange Sunshine" – Mom's vanilla-based shake had orange Crystal Light and mandarin oranges. The shake had a zing to it.
• "Citrus Blast" – Nathan's vanilla-based shake had a lemonade packet, Stephen's Wassail Mix, and a great deal of artificial lemon juice. If "Orange Sunshine" had zing, "Citrus Blast" had zing on steroids. Tasting this shake – which was like Sweet Tart ice cream – perhaps helps explain why we caught him running barefoot outside in the snow yesterday morning.
• "Chocolate Explosion" – Kaylie's chocolate-based shake had peanut butter, Oreos, and chocolate syrup. The shake won the children's division title.
• "Choco-Strawberry" – Carter's chocolate-based shake boasted chocolate and strawberries. Carter's shake rounded out the children's division.

Melissa and Peter (last year's champion and creativity winners) aptly judged this year's contest and largely managed to avoid controversy -- this despite a long history of judicial abuse by disgruntled contestants. The only criticism of today's event came from two sources: (1) Michelle took nearly ½ hour to make her shake; and (2) one of the judges was unusually brutal in some of his critiques. [We may be instituting time limits in future contests as a result.] This was relatively minor compared to the accusations leveled in past years. Three video cameras recorded the event this year, including a camera inside the judges' chambers as they tasted and scored the shakes.

As alluded to above, the field of milkshakes this year was beyond anything I've ever seen in the history of the contest. In fact, Michelle was so giddy about it that she was bouncing around at one point during the contest shouting "I love this family! I love this family!" (I think maybe she'd had a little too much of "Citrus Blast"). It's hard to be sure when we'll get together again for the next contest, but either way, we'll be talking about the milkshakes from today's contest for a long time.

Peanut M&Ms Revisited

It's hard to say exactly what possessed me last night. We visited Costco early in the evening to buy a few necessities, and, as we waited in the checkout line, I left Michelle and the kids and grabbed a last minute 52 oz. bag of Peanut M&Ms. At $9, it was quite the impulse buy. And since I opened the bag last night, there's no returning it now. I'm stuck with it.

My weakness for Peanut M&Ms is well documented and seems to know no bounds (well, save for the size of the bag). As even a cursory review of these posts reveals, self-control has inevitably eroded, and I've eaten them and eaten them far past the point when they no longer tasted good.

Still, it has been a few months since I last purchased a bag, and since that time, I devised and implemented our exercise for treat days program. Maybe it's foolish, but I'm optimistic I'll have at least a modicum eating control this time around. That I managed to stop short of eating myself sick last night was encouraging. The truth is, if the bag survives a week, that'd be about normal (Yes, I know.) Two weeks might well be a record. Three weeks would be unheard of.

So I'm guardedly optimistic, but history is not on my side.

The 70,000 Calorie Challenge

A few weeks ago I posted about a new approaching to reviewing donuts. Here's the problem: I haven't been so hot on donuts lately.

First it was the oil soaked butter log from Peterson's Donut Corner that kind of shook my faith (and thoroughly disgusted me). How could a donut shop that I've heaped such lavish praises on in the past (including calling them the best donut shop in San Diego County) turn on me with such lazy craftsmanship on a late July afternoon? After paying for and tasting that batch of donuts, I had to battle the thought: I don't really like donuts that much.

Then I had three experiences with Randy's Donuts (in Los Angeles) over the course of a month or so, due entirely to the generosity of traveling friends. Even absent the Peterson's oil soaked butter log experience, Randy's Donuts revealed everything else here in San Diego County to be so decidedly inferior that I've started to genuinely question why I bother. To satisfy my sweet tooth, of course, but I've started resorting to other means (like these giant chocolate chip cookies that I've started making).

Ah, but there are other reasons, too, why I haven't really blogged much about donuts lately -- chiefly because I've been trying (again) to reign in treats.

Granted, it's a much kinder world in that arena when I'm hovering around 5 lbs. of my target weight [as opposed to years and years I spent weekly resolving to lose 40, 50, or 60+ lbs.] Since July, Michelle and I have taken to another exercise incentive plan. It's devastatingly simple: 4 days of exercise a week = 1 treat day; 5 days of exercise a week = 2 treat days; 6 days of exercise a week = 3 treat days. The treat days carry over from week to week, and they never expire. This was working very well for me, at least until things got terribly busy at work, and I was out of town a few weeks.

Now, with roughly four months until Christmas, I'm trying to layer in yet another goal into my exercise routine – the 70,000 calorie challenge. My goal is through exercise and extra activities (like taking the stairs at work) to burn an extra 70,000 calories by Christmas. This amounts to roughly 17,500 calories a month, or roughly 673 calories a day (exempting Sundays). That may be a bit much given the effects of my work schedule lately on my exercise routine, but I'd like to think there's something noteworthy just in the attempt.

Care to join me?

On Hamburgers

Let me be plain: Five Guys has passed In-N-Out on my list of favorite burger joints.

I returned to Five Guys this evening after visiting it about 18 months ago (the last time I was in Columbia, South Carolina). I got the cheeseburger ($4.99), which at Five Guys means two 1/4 lb. patties. On the burger I elected to have pickles, tomatoes, lettuce, and jalpenos. The jalapenos, my friends, made all the difference. Placed underneath the patties and apart from the other toppings, their delayed heat enhanced the rest of the burger.

Now, in fairness, my meal at Five Guys -- burger, regular fries, medium drink -- cost me almost double what I can get for the same at In-N-Out. And that would probably matter if I was taking my whole family out to dinner.

But tonight I don't care. Maybe I'm just too familiar with In-N-Out, but their burgers don't thrill me anymore. The jalapeno cheese burger from Five Guys tonight did.

On Donuts

It's been nearly four years now since I started this blog. At the time, I had just finished the California Bar exam [and the sixth Harry Potter book] and was about to start my legal career. I had one child, and relatively few church responsibilities. I wanted some kind of creative outlet that could provoke a different style of writing, though I was hesitant to start blogging, both because everyone seemed to be doing it, and because I had doubts that my writing would only expose me for a fool. Despite, those concerns however, my views on donuts, ice cream, and day old bakery items seemed novel enough that, with a healthy dose of self-deprecating humor, they might warrant their own little corner of cyberspace. Hence, the Forbidden Donut.

As the years have passed, my taste in treats – particularly donuts -- seems to have evolved. So too has the nature and purpose of this blog. What once was my primary outlet for playful communication with friends and family has taken on a more subdued, often now backseat role, to other media, other responsibilities, and other habits. I have three children now, and since the start of 2008, I have also felt pressed to make daily entries in a journal. The window of time available to post seems to be all the time shrinking, and with it, the creative energy necessary to muster even these feeble posts. I used to strive for two posts a week. Lately, I've been lucky if I can manage one a month. [I stopped feeling guilty about that about a year ago.] Michelle also started her own blog, which has served to narrow the scope of my own somewhat.

With all this said, I am happy to note that I have decided to take on a more focused effort to review the donuts and pastries in the San Diego area and beyond as it suits me. Oh I will still allow myself room to post here just about anything I feel like, but my donut reviews in particular will be guided by four general criteria:

Price: Donuts can be wonderful things. It should go without saying, however, that the price of a donut is important. All things being equal, a free donut is far more wonderful than a donut that costs me something. And the more I have to pay for a donut, the more I expect from it (and consequently, the less forgiving I'm inclined to be for any shortcomings).

Taste: Donuts that taste good – particularly on the fourth or fifth helping – will generally score better than those that don't.

Character: The character of a donut takes into account those sensory perceptions apart from taste: appearance, smell, texture, and sound.* Yes, yes, I agree with you. The appearance and smell of a donut often have an impact on how that donut tastes. These categories are not meant to be mutually exclusive. Character, however, also encompasses the flavor of the bakery itself, including the atmosphere, the attention, care, and creativity put in to making the donuts, and even the personalities of those serving them up.

Value: My overall opinion of the donuts, taking into account the three categories above and anything else that affects the donut tasting experience.

These structured criteria should prove more helpful in comparing donuts (and any other food, for that matter) across the board. It also gives me a good excuse to revisit several shops I've already tried.

See you soon!

* Yes, sound. As in what the donut says to you when you first make eye contact in the bakery, or while it sits in the passenger seat on the drive home, or on a plate in the dining room table while you're waiting for your spouse to get out of bed so you can finally start sampling.