Is He Our Neighbor?

Two stories juxtaposed, on the chance there might be value (and some redemption) in the comparison:

 

"And, behold, a certain lawyer stood up, and tempted him, saying, Master, what shall I do to inherit eternal life?

 

"He said unto him, What is written in the law? how readest thou?

 

"And he answering said, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy strength, and with all thy mind; and thy neighbour as thyself.

 

"And he said unto him, Thou hast answered right: this do, and thou shalt live.

 

"But he, willing to justify‍ himself, said unto Jesus, And who is my neighbor?" [Luke 10:25-29]

 

The Beggar Doctrine

 

Nearly fifteen years ago, as a newly minted returned missionary attending BYU, I took a Book of Mormon class from Joseph Fielding McConkie.  His style was brash, and he thrived on upending typical Mormon dogma – especially the kind promulgated by so many return missionaries (like me).* 

One of his more memorable Book of Mormon classes was his lecture on Mosiah 4, during which he discussed King Bejamin’s “Beggar Doctrine” (Brother McConkie’s term), which included this teaching:

“And also, ye yourselves will succor those that stand in need of your succor; ye will administer of your substance unto him that standeth in need; and ye will not suffer that the beggar putteth up his petition to you in vain, and turn him out to perish.” (Mosiah 4:16). 

With a dry kind of condescension, Brother McConkie read this scripture and some that follow, then picked up a waste basket from the back of the room.  He mentioned some lavish expense for his wife (a vacation or a new wing on his house or something), and asked us to pull out our cash, credit cards, and checks and place them in the waste basket as he passed.  “She needs it,” he said in dead panned seriousness, and reminded us of the scriptures we’d just read apparently commanding us that we should not say “no,” lest we cause this beggar to put up his petition in vain. 

Of course, no one got out their wallet.  He let the idea play out for a few moments, though, to demonstrate the potential absurdity of taking the scripture at face value and out of context.  He mentioned something, too, about Utah leading the nation, per capita, in the number of people taken for fraud, and he seemed to think this kind of mentality had something to do with it.

Eventually, once he’d had enough fun with the idea, Brother McConkie then pointed us to the limiting principle of the beggar doctrine later in verse 27: “And see that all these things are done in wisdom and order. . . .” 

This, according to Brother McConkie, was the reason we should not be filling up his waste basket with our credit cards and cash to help buy his wife a luxury vacation: it was neither wise nor orderly to do so.  And, he suggested, this limiting principle should guide our actions when other “beggars” put up their petition to us. Essentially, King Benjamin’s sermon should not be an excuse to be taken for fools. 

At the time, I found this notion quite liberating,  and I discussed it on several occasions with Michelle and other friends.

A Petition in Vain

Some time later, while Michelle and I were still newlyweds, we took an evening shopping trip to Macey’s in Provo, UT for groceries.  For some reason, the commercials of the day made me decide that I needed a Grilled Stuft Burritto from Taco Bell on the way home.  Michelle was kind of ok with the idea, and I’d made sure to have enough cash in my wallet to make it happen.

Once we’d made our grocery purchases that evening, we took them out to the car and loaded them.  I think we were still driving "Old Paint" then.  It was dark.  And as we both piled into the car, a woman approached my window.  She bent down, and I remember her having a worn face (late 30’s to early 40’s) with longer, dirty blonde hair.  She described to us some distressing situation, the details of which escape me, and then briefly mentioned her hope to gather enough money to stay in a hotel that evening.  Did we have any money that we might be able to give her to help?

 

Callously, and feeling foolishly empowered by Brother McConkie that I was now exempted from any such charitable petitions, I said we had no money. 

 

But it wasn’t true.  It wasn’t even close to true.  And, surely aware of the groceries we’d just loaded in the car (and the fact that we’d come from the store), I could hear her voice sink in disappointment at the lie, “Oh. Ok.”

 

She left us.  I felt small, but tried to cling to the "beggar doctrine" to feel better, wondering openly if her story could even be true and if a hotel room really was her aim.  I mentioned all this to Michelle directly as we pulled out and drove off toward Taco Bell.  But, she noted, my answer that we had no money was simply not true.  I had cash in my pocket.  No -- there was no getting around that, and the weight of what I’d just done, and the possibility of her petition being in earnest wore on me very quickly (with Michelle’s help).  We still drove the block or two toward Taco Bell, but by the time we got the parking lot, I’d already given way to the feeling that I had done something awful. 

 

So almost as soon as we got to the Taco Bell parking lot, we turned around.  I raced back to Macey’s, hoping the woman would still be lingering in the parking lot. But she was gone.  We could not find her.  And I went home in bitterness of soul.

My failings that evening still stir great anguish.  And just about any time since that someone has asked me for money, I remember her.

 

Is He Our Neighbor?

 

So it was approximately three years ago when Natalie (who was then 3) and I went on a daddy/daughter date.  She got to decide our activity, and following her siblings’ lead, she pointed us to In-N-Out. 

 

We walked to the counter and ordered our food – there wasn’t a line.  Nats got some stickers, we filled up our cup with lemonade, then found some open seats in a corner of the restaurant.  We took turns sipping our lemonade and working on sticker projects while I tried to give her my full attention.

 

After a few minutes, I noticed an older haggard-looking man, perhaps in his late 40s, approach and sit at the table next to ours.  He sat across from a younger man in his 20’s who was sitting next to us.  By the way the older man sat down (or perhaps just by the fact that he sat down at the two-person table), I initially thought the two must be friends who’d come together.  But after a moment’s observation, I noted the older man was asking for money to buy food.

It’s the kind of scene I want to avert my eyes from in embarrassment, and that evening was no different.  So I don’t know exactly how the young man responded to older man’s entreaty, except that he must have turned the man down, since I watched the older man make the rounds from table to table afterward.  He then approached people in line or standing to wait for their orders.  It seemed clear he wasn’t meeting with much success, and I marveled, in an uncomfortable way, at the brazenness of his approach after approach.

 

For my part, I was surprised that he’d passed my table.  Maybe it was because of Natalie or because of my averted gaze.  As it was, I had no cash in my pocket, but I still hadn’t looked forward to turning him down.  And as I thought of all the patrons enjoying or waiting for their food without much thought, I wanted him not to be left wanting.  But Nats was sitting with me, and I couldn’t very well leave her.  And he hadn’t asked me.  So I sat and watched and did nothing.

 

Our food came, and I went to pick it up, leaving Natalie in her seat, sipping the lemonade.  I don’t remember when it happened, but at some point in those few minutes, I resolved to try to help.  I prayed the man would still be around when it was time for me to pick up my food.  But when I got up, he seemed to be gone.  It was only when I looked outside that I saw him.

 

I put the food in front of Natalie, who was blissfully unaware of anything but the lemonade, and now her cheeseburger and fries.  I told her I’d be back in a moment, then I quickly went outside and approached the man.  I asked him if he was hungry, and when he noticed me, he gave some kind of muted sales pitch that I don’t remember.  As Natalie started on her food, I took the man to the counter and invited him to order what he wanted.  He seemed a bit drunk.  He wanted a cheeseburger with “the works” and then wondered if he could have a whole meal.  Yes, he could.  He then told me he had a friend he was with, and might he have something, too?  I nodded again, and he ordered two cheeseburger meals. 

 

In between talking with the cashier, who seemed only to understand slightly what was going on, the man thanked me several times and spoke of Jesus.  Once he had his cups and receipt, I patted him on the back, and told him he was welcome, then I sat back down with Nats (who I’d been watching the whole time). 

 

I expected that to be the end of our interaction, and I sat down to enjoy my meal.  But quickly after I sat down, a balding man with glasses (in his late 30’s/early 40’s) approached us.  He said he saw what I’d done, and in an odd sort of interaction, he expressed his admiration.  I thanked him, awkwardly, and then, not knowing where the conversation should go from there, the man looked at Natalie and told her what a good father she had.  He then walked away.  Nats seemed too interested in her food to pay much attention.

 

A few moments later, the older man I’d ordered food for wandered over to our table and started making conversation.  We talked about where he was from and some of his life story.  He was apparently once a corps men in the marines “a long time ago,” and he had a son somewhere in the Midwest that he hadn’t seen in a long time.  He’d also recently come to San Diego from Oregon, and he liked it here.  At some point, he retrieved his friend, who looked even more disheveled than he did (and seemed even more drunk).

 

When his order was ready and his number called, the man left us to get his food.  It was then Natalie asked, with all the innocence and interest of a three year old, “Is he our neighbor?”

 

I almost did a double take at the question, because it caught me off guard and seemed as if she were quoting scripture.

 

“Yes, he is,” I responded after a few moments.

 

“Where does he live?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

The man eventually brought over his food and sat next to us.  He and his friend ate happily, thanking us and praising God with the boisterousness of two drunken, hungry men.  Two beggars, in a sense, whom my three year old had reminded me were also my neighbors.

* The grading in Brother McConkie's classes depended only and entirely on a few multiple choice tests throughout the semester -- tests that thrived on deception.  The key to his classes had almost nothing to do with outside study, but instead to never missing his classes, taking meticulous notes, then outsmarting everyone else on those tests.  In short, he suited me perfectly.

Standing on the Shoulders of Giants

Address given at Dad's funeral, January 24, 2015:

Dad told me a few years ago that he wanted me to speak at his funeral.  Ever since, every funeral I went to I always thought about him and what I would say when the time came.  I thought I would have a little more time.

I was going through some of Dad's things this week, and I stumbled across this quote in his office.  It is a thought attributed to Isaac Newton: "If I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders of giants." 

Dad had first shared that thought with me years ago when I was a young teenager.  At the time, I didn't really know what he meant. I didn't know then who the "giants" were in his life, and I hadn't the sense enough to ask.  After all these years, I think I know a little better now.

To me, Dad is a giant upon whose shoulders I have stood.  That's became more apparent, ironically, in the last few years as his body began to give out on him.

Now, that praise would've made Dad a little uncomfortable -- at least if I told him out loud.  He wouldn't quite know what to do with it, and he probably he would've found some self-deprecating way to shift the attention.

The Desire to Feel Valued

Most of you know that Dad was a decorated journalist.  It may surprise you to know that privately Dad struggled during long stretches of his life with feelings that he didn't measure up.  He knew almost as well as anyone how droughts of unemployment erode self-confidence, and Dad seemed to crave feeling valued.  And for a long, long time, I had wanted as much as anything for him to know and feel just how valuable he was. 

Because of that, I know that it meant so much to him and to us in these last weeks as, perhaps recognizing his mortality, many of you reached out to him and let him know just how much he meant to you.  And I know seeing you all here would have delighted him.

Dad didn’t just want to feel valued, though.  He wanted to be valuable.  That desire, I think, is part of why Dad was always up so early in the morning.  He was most alive (and most productive) before sunrise, and in his final weeks, it was not uncommon to wake up find a flurry of emails from Dad that he’d sent in the early hours of the morning.  Dad used to recite often that if he could get to the 3 R's in a day, Reading (scripture), Writing (a journal entry), and Running (or exercise), it was a good day.  It's just that Dad prided himself on getting all of those things done and out of the way before anyone else was up in the morning. 

Deadlines and Connecting With People

Dad absolutely loved having deadlines to meet, and he talked often of the adrenaline rush he got attending city meetings and legislative sessions or of landing an interview and having just a few minutes to race home and file a story.

As you know, Dad also loved connecting with people.  The audience here is a tribute to the fact that. I used to hate it growing up, because it was so embarrassing to be with him as he talked to people (often strangers) and both picked their brains and shared his thoughts (while I tried to slink into the background).  But he seemed to have no fear.  And there was no one too important or so beneath him that they weren't worth talking to. 

I have wondered since if that trait was simply an outgrowth of the journalist/reporter in him, or whether being a reporter was simply an outgrowth of his ability to connect with people.

 A Disciple of Christ

All of this, though, would feel hollow were it not for the integrity that was the bedrock of his character.  Dad was first a disciple of Jesus Christ.  I have known few people in life who more faithfully sought to live the scripture, "But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto him" [Matthew 6:33].  That is not inflated funeral hyperbole.  If God asked something of him, he found a way to do it.  I learned first from Dad to love the scriptures and read them daily.  I learned first from Him that the Gospel of Jesus Christ is the Pearl of Great Price, worth giving all we have to possess.  I learned first from Him to trust God with all my heart.  And I learned first at his hand a steadiness in times of trouble.  I could always, always count on his steadiness, and to find in his perspective an eye of faith.

When I learned of Dad's passing early Sunday morning, I had to make my way into work to gather a few things for the trip here.  On the way, I instinctively sought comfort in some hymns.  Then I remembered then that this was what Dad had always done: He confronted life's difficulties with sacred music.  

Not Perfect

Now, Dad was not perfect.  In this respect, I have been thinking of one Saturday afternoon in upstate New York when we were all much younger. Ice cream and other treats never lasted long in our house, and that was usually because one or several of us children would sneak into it.  The trick was to avoid getting caught.

Dad was a humble guy, but he still had some bravado around his children.  And he used to tell us that because he was a journalist, he could tell when we were telling the truth or not.

Well, that Saturday afternoon I had helped myself to a bit of the ice cream in the freezer.  Not long after, Dad noticed, and he came storming out of the kitchen into the living room demanding to know who had done it. 

I wasn't about to own to it, and I denied it the best way I knew how.  Dad studied my face for a moment, and just as I was bracing myself for punishment, Dad spoke confidently (in a tone that only he could muster) that he knew it wasn't me because I would've used a bigger spoon.  He then marched upstairs to punish one of my younger siblings.   His journalism skills fell a few notches in my mind that day. 

Seriously, though, when I think of my father and what praise might be worthy of his life, I think of the line from the play The King and I. The King of Siam lay dying. With him is Anna, his English tutor, whose son asks her the question, “Was he as good … as he could have been?” Anna then answered thoughtfully, “I don’t think any man has ever been as good … as he could have been—but this one [really] tried.” [Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II, The King and I (n.p.: Williamson Music, Inc., 1951).

A Thousand Memories

Oh, I have a thousand thoughts and memories I could share of him – attending my basketball games growing up (and keeping stats. . . to ensure the newspapers got them right), writing me every day on my mission, wiffle ball games in the back yard or home run derby at a nearby Little League field -- games that he seemed to look forward to as much as I did. There are countless others.

It seems telling to me that none of these memories have anything to do with how much money he made, or of any prominence he knew in the world or in the church. 

I will miss those wiffle ball games in the back yard.  I will miss his giddiness at Christmas.  I will his false bravado in games of RISK and Monopoly, even if I still have a few uncles to carry on the tradition.  I will miss the doting grandfather who made his grandkids feel like they were the most important people in the world. I will miss just being able to talk with him.

I feel so lucky that he is my dad.  And I will miss him terribly in the years before we are together again.

You Did So Well

In closing, Wilford Woodruff included this line in his last will and testament: "If the laws of the spirit world permit, and I shall be governed by them, I should like to attend my own funeral."

As Dad went to the trouble of planning out most of this service, I have to think he is here.  Should Dad be here, I would say this:

We love you, Dad.  You did so very well. May God grant us strength enough to finish the race half as well as you did, that one day where He is, and where you are, we may be also, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

The Broken Yolk Challenge

Don't you want a little taste of the glory? See what it tastes like?

-Nacho Libre

I was supposed to be retired.  Just like Apollo Creed.*  But there it was.  Again.  The prospect of glory, something close to immortality, in another seemingly impossible food challenge.  I had tried ignore it.  I’d fought it off several times.  But no longer.  It was time to step back into the ring.  
 

We don’t often go out to eat, but over the years we’ve enjoyed taking friends and family to The Broken Yolk.  That’s partly because of their generous portion sizes and better than average fare, but also because of the restaurant’s notoriety for the Broken Yolk Challenge, which was featured a few years ago in a San Diego episode of the Travel Channel’s “Man vs. Food.” 

 

The challenge is set on a 15 inch pizza pan, half covered with a 12 egg omelet “filled with mushrooms, onions and American cheese smothered with our own house-made chili and more cheese.”  The other half of the pan is filled with “a generous pile of home fries,” which is to say, as many as home fries as the cooks feel like piling on.  Then there are two enormous biscuits. 

 

In the Man vs. Food episode , Adam Richman completed the challenge with some difficulty but in 32 minutes.  You can watch the pertinent portion of the episode here. 

 

I hadn’t attempted a food challenge since the Big Texan (in Amarillo, Texas) back in 2002.  That meal is legendary, centering around a 72 oz. steak, with an accompanying baked potato, salad, roll, and shrimp cocktail.  I had an hour to eat it, and they set me on a table that seemed to be center stage for the restaurant.  It was quite the steak (and almost completely raw in the middle), but I was quite a bit heavier then.  I ultimately finished the meal in 52 minutes, and was sick for several days following.  Depending on how you look at it, it was either a high point or low point of my life.  Either way, though, I’ve achieved a bit of immortality by making their hall of fame (my accomplishment is listed on page 18 – the fact that they listed me as being 34 probably reflects the fact that the meal took off 10 years of my life).

 

In the last few years, as we've taken people to the Broken Yolk, I’ve had a few brothers on the cusp of taking on the challenge, only to ultimately be dissuaded – either by the waitress or other family members.

 

Most recently Jared (who was not alive when I ate the Big Texan) began asking me if he thought I could handle the challenge.  I cooly assured him I could -- I just didn’t want to get sick.  But after my brother Nathan backed out of the challenge last month (much to the disappointment of my kids), I heard myself comfort my son by tell him that I’d one day take on the challenge for him.

 

The fated day arrived a few weeks ago.  We had some encouraging/enabling friends in town, and the timing seemed just about as right as any.  With the hubris of an Apollo Creed before his charity bout with Ivan Drago, I figured I was in the best shape of my life, even though I hadn’t practiced for it at all and had never really even seen what the challenge looked like beyond the Man vs. Food episode.

 

We opted to make it happen over a Saturday lunch.  The kids peppered me with questions all the evening before and the morning.  Jared adopted my confidence that completing the challenge was just about a foregone conclusion.  Emily, though, was terribly concerned that I would end up on the “Wall of Shame” (those who can’t complete the challenge still have their picture taken, but it ends up there).  She didn’t want me to do it.

 

At the restaurant, as the waitress took our orders, everyone else ordered normal things. I looked over the menu and ordered the Broken Yolk challenge, trying to get out those words as nonchalantly as possible.  The waitress eyed me and smiled – the kind of smile that seemed to suppress an impulse to giggle.  Michelle was to my left, half-amused, half-appropriately disdainful of my foolishness.  Jared was to my right, and couldn’t have seemed more proud of his father.

 

[Waiting for the Challenge]

 

I watched the waitress then walk back to the kitchen and relay the orders to the cooks.  The cooks then looked over to our table, sized me up, and smiled.  That was a little disconcerting, since I knew there were no real limitations on how much food (specifically the potatoes) they could pile onto my plate.  The only real parameters were the 12 eggs in the omelet and the size of the pizza pan.  Everything else was up to the discretion of the cooks.  

 

We waited 20 minutes or so and then finally they brought out everyone’s orders.  Everyone’s but mine.  Then, with a bit more spectacle than I’d hoped for (i.e., any spectacle at all), a server picked up my meal from the cooks, called everyone’s attention in the restaurant, and paraded the meal around the restaurant as he announced that challenge’s parameters and that they had a contestant.   

 

I wanted to shrink away and hide.  My cheeks probably went red, and it was the first time that the foolishness of my endeavor crossed my mind with any real force.  The server set the meal in front me amid several onlookers, told me I had an hour, and left me to my work.

 

[Why do I see fear behind your eyes?]

 

 

For all I had heard and read, I truly was not prepared for the enormity of that meal.  The cooks had not been kind.  The omelet itself looked huge, but of greatest concern was the giant mound of potatoes that filled the other have the pan.  It looked like they’d intentionally made the challenge impossible for me.  On the TV show, the owner of the Broken Yolk in Pacific Beach mentioned that they put a pound a half of home fries on the plate.  That was not a pound a half on mine!  It looked closer to 3-4 lbs.!**  And the biscuits!  The biscuits looked like 3 giants biscuits devilishly cobbled into two super giants biscuits.   

 

I felt some sense of foreboding, but I put on a brave face for Jared.  I still held out hope that if anyone could finish the meal, I could.  After all, $28 was a stake.

 

 

The meal was initially delicious.  I loved the crispy out edges of the home fries and the saltiness of omelet.  But it only took a few bites of the potatoes and omelet for me to realize that there was no way I was finishing this meal. 
 

[So many calories, and I could taste every one.]

 

I had no set strategy for consumption, only a rough idea to mix things together.  That was foolish on my part. 

 

What was pleasured eating for 5-7 minutes soon became labored.  Then forced. And finally impossible.  After 20 minutes or so, all the American Cheese in the omelet made it so salty that it was almost completely unpalatable.

 

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

 

 

Throughout the entire ordeal, there was encouragement from Jared, from our friends the Myers, and even from Michelle (in no small part, I suspect, because she didn’t want to have to pay for the meal any more than I did).

 

After 10-15 minutes, as I began openly expressing doubt about my ability to eat the whole thing, they only got more encouraging.  In fact, at one point, after I’d pretty much decided to quit, Michelle started calling some of my brothers for reinforcements -- hoping they would give me new inspiration.  Perhaps they’d help me find the Eye of the Tiger.
 

 

["You don't stop this fight no matter what.  No matter what."]

 

But it was not to be.  No amount of motivational speaking, pithy inspirational quotes, of force feeding from Michelle and Jared would make any further dent into that enormous omelet.  I had failed, and it was time to ask for a take out box (actually two take out boxes).

 

[Throwing in the towel]

 

Jared was completely deflated.  When I started to falter, he reminded me that I’d assured him I could do it.  And when I gave up, he hid his face from me in tears.  Apollo Creed was down, and he wasn’t moving.

 

After I’d started the challenge, the waitress mentioned to Michelle that she felt like their location (the Point Loma location) gave the largest portions of any in the franchise, and that the challenge there was probably harder than anywhere else.  And once it was over, the manager came out to visit and take my picture, noting that the challenge at his location usually consisted of 8-10 lbs. of food.

 

In the end, Emily took my placement on the wall of shame better than expected.  Jared may never look at me the same.  But while I was overly full, I at least hadn’t eaten myself sick this time around.  Which was good because we went boogie boarding immediately after.

It's time to go back into retirement.
 

 

*If I have to tell you what movie I’m referencing (Rocky IV), we may have trouble being friends. 

 

** Take a look at the pictures of my meal, then take a look at the meal during the Man vs. Food episode.  I defy you to try and convince me the meal I had was not substantially larger than what was featured on the show.

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!