You'll Want to Sprint to the Finish

Born to Run: A Hidden Tribe, Superathletes, and the Greatest Race the World Has Never Seen by Christopher McDougall

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Born to Run is quite possibly the best new book I've read in over a year. McDougall is an engaging writer with a sharp sense of humor. As the author seeks out answers to what makes injury-free running, he discovers unbelievable - though perfectly real - cultures where running (not walking or sitting) is the norm. The individual characters in his book jump off the pages in full 3D - appropriate, though rare, in a book about running. The bottom line of the book: 1) humans evolved/were designed to run; 2) running makes us better, more compassionate people. The story and storytelling are educational, hilarious, heartbreaking and consummately inspirational. Those who do not run will want to start. Those who do will find themselves questioning the mentally self-imposed limitations we put on ourselves, both in running and in all aspects of our lives. Highly recommended.

[The book contains a tiny bit of non-family-friendly-language and adult content which may make a young audience uncomfortable. Read it first before deciding to whom to recommend it.:]

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Vanity (Eccl 1:2)

So, being somewhat vain, I googled myself. Turns out I'm a lawyer, an actor, a singer, and several criminals.

To be honest, this is nothing new. I've done it a few times before, with similar results.

It also turns out, though, that the real me is starting to show up in all the right places for my career. If you google "[my name] crusades saint louis university," then suddenly a few conference papers I've delivered (and will soon deliver) come to light. Yes, I'm vain: no, there's no real justification for my overt vanity... yet. Still, it makes me smile. :)

Monarchy and Dynastic Inheritance

A few months ago (back in the high days of summer) Beemer was playing in the back yard as I grilled some burgers. Sometime during the process where raw ground cow metamorphoses into caramelized juicy goodness, Beemer shouted "Daddy, Daddy! I found a cocoon!" I was busy flipping the meat, or something, and so to distract her/postpone any direct involvement I said, "Cool. What kind of cocoon is it?" There was a pause of maybe 15 seconds, then she declared, "It's a Monarch!" "How do you know that?" Without missing a beat she came back with, "Because it's green. With gold dots. And there's orange and black wings inside it."

I had been telling her a few weeks prior about how her grandma (my mother) and I used to collect a few monarch caterpillars, feed them and raise them into chrysalides (chrysalises, if you prefer), hatch them and release them. I was impressed with her memory. I was more impressed, though, when I finished grilling and found this:

So, we continued the dynastic tradition (thanks again, mom) and brought it inside. This was the result.

We released it later that day. Tender mercies, indeed.

Proud Daddy Moment

A few months before we abandoned the comforts of hearth, home, kith and kin, Beemer & I had spent quite a lot of time outdoors. I had taken her to a couple Audubon events, and she loved birds. Once, when we were driving through Hyrum to the proverbial nest (i.e., my folk’s house), I spotted an American Kestrel on a power-line. I said, “Beemer! What’s that bird?” She looked at it and said, “A kestrel!” It was a proud moment.

Of course, if it had been a robin or magpie she would probably still have called it a kestrel. She knew that I loved kestrels and was eager to make me happy.

Well, a couple days ago Beemer came up to me with this feather in her fingers.

I asked her what bird she thought it came from and she replied that “it’s mostly red, but with some brown, so it’s from a female cardinal.” Honest. Entirely her own logic & her own words. My eyes misted over. That’s my girl.

Saturday is a Special Day

it's the day we get ready for Sunday:

I don't know how this could be more cliché.

At Bat, on Deck, and in the Hole

In an attempt to change our dating routine a bit, Pulcheria and I decided to forgo our usual eateries and go mini-golfing, last night, instead. We finished quickly – she beat me by two strokes – and still had time before picking the girls up. We tried the batting cages at the same place. It’s been so long, I thought softball was just the ticket. I hit every one, with only one foul ball, then Jan was up. She got in a few solid hits (one good one got a piece of her finger), too.

We took Beemer back, today, and she loved golfing. I tried fast-pitch baseball and very thoroughly and completely sucked (I’ll go back and try the slow-pitched machine, though I’ll have to wait for all those talented six-year-olds to go first)! Bree wasn’t ready to go in, so we snapped this shot instead.

Solipsism

Eyes closed, he moves in,
squeezes tight,
prepares lips -
and kisses.

Then she kisses.

One thousand three hundred fourteen miles
between them,
discrete pillows
soak up their owners’ saliva,
indifferent.

-11 August 2008

Wall-E

Just saw Wall-E. Loved it. Chris & Lish are right about the short: their best yet. But, I must say, I thought the film itself was great, and contained a full, complete story.

The subliminal (though not subtle) commentary on today's consumer-society wishing to return to the protection of the womb/infant state was provoking - but that wasn't the story. The message about being good stewards over the earth was timely - but that wasn't the story.

At heart it was a LOVE STORY explaining how one person/thing relates to someone/something s/he loves. The love story is complex, and illustrates the dangers of loving someone/something more beautiful/powerful than yourself; how media affects the way affection is shown; how a united loving unit (i.e. family) can overcome nearly insurmountable odds. Indeed, I thought it well worth my time (though a bit expensive). Everything not directly related to this main plot-line is merely the canvas upon this work was painted.

To be sure, it doesn't beat out The Incredibles for the #1 Pixar movie, in my book. Even so, it's still a great show. Any flick that can go - what was it? like 20 minutes? - without dialog (and I don't even notice it) has got to have something special going on.

So: what’s your prime directive? Do you control it, or does it control you?

Paternal Passion

In my family there was no clear line between education and athletics. My father is a teacher and a ball-player who plays his own sports and teaches others.

I’ve spent much of my “adult” (quotation marks used conscientiously) life trying to distance myself from my youthful escapades, and nowhere is that more obvious than in the realm of sports. As a kid, I played soccer, basketball, baseball, and even golfed a couple of times. This was largely due to the fact that my dad is a sports fan extraordinaire. Behind every one of these forays into the world of athletics, my father was my guide. Quite literally. He never hesitated to sign up as coach, if one was needed. In fact, I can’t think of a time that he has ever hesitated to step up and take the lead.

Given that I’ve spent the last 1.5 decades of my life studiously avoiding all things athletic, I was shocked when I found my mouth agreeing to a departmental softball game [Is that my voice? Is that my voice? Oh, well.] about a month ago. I’m glad, now, that my mouth was so agreeable. Not only was it a great time, but I also found myself remembering lessons my dad had taught me. That, and the fabled love-of-the-game actually resurrected itself in me. I ended up hitting 3 homers, and fielding pretty decently too. The result: the grad students squashed the faculty.

It is one of life’s quiet victories to realize that lessons, once despised, are, in fact, invaluable and irreplaceable. My two left-hand-only gloves (the softball mitt and the falconer’s gauntlet) are now peaceably reconciled.

I am grateful my dad taught me how to break-in a mitt. I am more grateful he taught me how to play a few of his most prized games. But most of all I’m grateful for his example of fatherhood: lovingly passing along his passions and teaching something much, much more than sports to the next generation.

Thanks for teaching me to throw and catch;
Thanks for showing me how to overcome seemingly insurmountable challenges, from a severe stroke to (heaven help us) raising two red-heads;
Thanks for being such a worthy hero, pops: I’ll try to teach my young’ns as well as you taught me;
Thanks for still being my teacher.

Local Locomotion

Pulcheria posted that the morning of St. Louis' big quake, I was on the train to Chicago.

Well, the girls went for their first train ride on Saturday, and it was generally conceded to be a big hit. Bree especially loved it. Amtrak, in their usual practice of dys-ficiency, was running nearly two hours behind schedule. They tried to make up time, though, so the scheduled 48 minute trip into downtown Saint Louis took 26 minutes. Bree loved how fast the train went! Adria was not impressed, but bore it in silence.

Ode on January

the month freezes streets
harnesses arctic winds
the person warms hearts, heats my bed’s covers
looks wonderful
hot

the month is harbinger of deep dark nights
the person’s brilliance illuminates desire

the month fights survivors
fosters brittle frigidity
the person encourages life
causes to thrive

the month drags-on
all that grows is frigid
frost
the person changes always
increases in beauty, strength, wisdom
grace

the month is on every calendar
printed paper
gone with turn of the page
the person dwells with me and mine
merged
with my soul

the month sucks happiness like a dementor
the person nourishes joy –
alma sponsa, alma mater



Thank you for nine wonderful years, Pulcheria.

Need a Map?

Okay, here's a real update. I'll make it quick since I'm still working on final projects.

So, on 2 May 2008 I ordered a T-shirt. It was funny and I value humor as a proper exchange of monetary equivalency. Especially if I can wear it. Anyway, I had ordered from the site before, so I knew it was quality.

Here's the tracking information.

Keep in mind that Earth City, MO is only a 25 minute drive from my doorstep. Can you figure out this delivery-path? Grrr. Frustration.

Update

Pulcheria said I needed a new post.

something's afoot

Photo by WildBound ©

Pop-Quiz

As the proud father of two gorgeous girls, I thought I’d use this post to see if you can identify which one of these little ones is not, in fact, my offspring. Any guesses?

Prizes for the Fam

Sometimes inspiration comes at the most unexpected times… and is twice blessed for it. My friend and colleague, Erin (a PhD student focusing on medieval Ireland), brought presents for my family today. Pulcheria’s comment tells the story: “you can tell she’s a mom!” She gave us diapers (sooo necessary - and nice not to have to buy myself) and a device to capture Adria’s size (figuratively speaking). But, she also got Beemer a prize: mess-less markers and finger-paints! She was so excited she insisted upon opening and using them immediately. Here she is showing Grandma how to use the paints.

Thanks again, Erin!

Nomen Ultimum

It turns out that, after I told Beemer her "very own baby sister's" name, she had two comments – one about the first name and one about the middle:

a) Bruno? Like the doggie in Cinderella?

b) Borga? Like the Proletariat and the Bourgeoisie? We're Bourgeois, right Daddy?

Not wishing to encourage too much Marxist/Disney indoctrination (at least not before she is able to explain how both Marx and Rand are opposite sides of the same-exact-erroneous coin), Pulcheria and I now have an official name, and it’s too late to change because the paperwork has already been submitted. This time it’s for real – the post below was merely a joke, and I got some great reactions to it, too!

The name of Beemer’s “very own baby sister” is officially: Adriana Zoe. Pulcheria and I are still working out whether to nick-name her Adri (Aid – ree) or Adria. Beemer, however, has it all figured out: “I’ll call her Anna Montana.”

Grandma, who graciously flew in to supplement my efforts, agrees that she's beautiful, and loves the name (it's Adria, BTW).

B. I. Webb

I’ve decided that 6:00 in the morning, after being up for almost 24 hours, is not the most ideal time to make a decision on a new baby’s name. Pulcheria and I really hope they’ll let us change it. I’m about to go back to the hospital to see if they’ve already filed the paperwork with the notary public. If, for some horrible reason, the Missouri bureaucracy is more efficient than the Utah, then we’ll be stuck. That, or we’ll have to pay to change it. At any rate, in case we’re stuck with the name allow me introduce you to the new daughter of Pulcheria and me – Beemer's “very own baby sister:”

Brunhilde Ingeborg Webb.

Leaving on a Jet Plane

With the notable exception of making the bed (which I can't do until morning, anyway), my to-do list is a has-been-done list. My first semester of graduate work is done. Only nine more to go... Well, hopefully it'll only be nine more.

But, that's all in the future. For now, I'll simply relish the fact that there are no assignments hanging over my head, I get to see my family again, and I can relax for a while. [Breathe deeply - Smile]

World Bird Sanctuary

As per requests and promises, on Friday I took a couple photos of where I volunteer. The Turkey Vulture’s name is Turk, and she really likes to bite. You can tell she's a bigger bird by how far I'm leaning back to counter-balance. The Great Horned Owl’s name is Coal, and he’s a sweetie who likes to hoot. Coal is, quite possibly, the messiest bird at the Sanctuary, frequently dirtying up his furniture, and thus my hands when I handle him.