Portland, Oregon

I have been sick the last couple of days. I have never been ill so many times in a one year period. Dating back to my run-in with strep throat after racing at Cascade Edge I have been sick at least 3 times including this year. I blame it mostly on my work. I am in constant contact with a plethora of people, all of them with their own set of plagues. Now I am sick again, not training, watching a lot of tv, interneting (I will take the liberty to call this new word a verb, infinitive form), and being glad I again live in the Pacific Northwest.

Last year at this time I was in Boston, freezing my ass off as I waited for the T to pick me up and take me to work. Those subarctic mornings seem to me a distant memory. Now I live in Portland = Paradise. If you don't believe: Portland.

I will be be better soon. I am going to train hard this week and through the next weekend. Then it will be off to Belize.

Empty Spaces

My grandfather, Howard George Jasperson, died on the morning of December 26, 2007. He was a loving and caring man. He was man with a tremendously generous heart. He will be sorely missed.

The past two weeks have been rough emotionally, physically, and mentally. I have been exhausted by the contemplation of mortality. I was charged with the task of writing my grandfather's obituary and addressing the throng at his funeral with words that somehow were to be a brief summation of this man's character. I did the same for my grandmother when she left this world. In both cases I have been lauded by those who both knew my grandparents and heard my words. I hope they have taken some solace in them. However, I am not completely certain whether, for me, this process has been cathartic. Everyday presents new challenges in filling the empty space left behind.

As I have had the opportunity to reflect on his life, his accomplishments, and his family, I can't help but wonder whether he knew it was time. He had spent the last three days of his life amongst his family, whom he loved with all his heart. Those days were filled with the conversation he loved, filled with his endearing laugh, and an unforced congeniality that set him at ease. I think he knew we would be alright. I think he knew that he had shepherded his family through times good and bad. I think he knew he had taught us values that would endure, that his legacy was secure. We will always love him, for he taught us how to love.

W.H. Auden

FUNERAL BLUES

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crepe bows around the necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working weak and my Sunday Rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out everyone;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Again with the Proust.

Although it is rightly said that there can be no progress, no discovery in art, but only in the sciences, and that each artist starting afresh on an individual effort cannot be either helped or hindered therein by the efforts of any other, it must none the less be acknowledged that, in so far as art brings to light certain laws, once and industry has popularized them, the art that was first in the field looses retrospectively a little of its originality.

It doesn't seem that long ago.

Today, on my run, I realized that when I was in college it would have been about now, my friend Phil and I would load up his truck with all the essential items, and make the trek from Seattle to Vancouver for the Holidays. (For me, essential items included a couple books so as to look studious, as I was a college student, and every article of clothing I owned. The main reason for main reason for the clothing is that everything, and I mean everything was now dirty. I took pride in my ability to time my last wash day so that the day we left I would be wear my last clean t-shirt.) I don't know what it was about today, the light seemed right. The temperature was cool. I could see my breath, just as I would have seen my breath when we stopped for gas in Chehalis or Tumwater or Lacey. Nostalgia is a tricky mistress always residing in that long lost corner of our minds. She shows her face only when we least expect it, and appears mostly to complicate our perceptions of the reality in front of us. For it is not behind us that, in that world of the past, that we make our lives, but rather now and in what lies ahead. That trick of nostalgia relies on the complications of emotion to make opaque the task at hand.

R E L I E F

As I mentioned in my previous post. I hired a coach. He seems good, although I am now only 4 days into my newly scheduled training. I will say however, one of the unintended benefits from this investment is more time. You see, it takes a lot of time to work out training plans, research races, etc. It is a huge relief to have a consultant in this process. Before, it felt as if I was on my own, which I was, in figuring it all out. Now, things are different. It already feels like I can put more into just about every other aspect of my life. This includes training, but is not limited to it.

I also noticed today, that Wilco is playing FIVE shows at the Riviera in Chicago. I will not be in attendance, but if I were in the area...MAN!!!...this is going to be awesome. Check this link:

Wilco Winter Residency 2008

If you are a member of Wilco or someone who knows or is connected to the band or its label, PLEASE release make these shows available, in some format (dvd, cd, mp3, etc) for those of us who can't make it. That is all.

Luck is the Residue of Design

In the spirit, I hired a coach today. Scott McMillan.

Check out the site: Factor 9

I am excited.