My teams are in trouble. Not deep trouble, but we need to iron out some issues. In cross country, the top five runners from each school constitute the score. Each runner gets a single point for their finish (one point for first, fifty-one points for fifty-first, etc). Low score wins. Perfect score is fifteen points: 1-2-3-4-5. From a time point of view, it's best to have as few seconds as possible between the first scorer and the fifth....
Cross country season officially began last Saturday. As a forest fire raged in the mountains above Pasadena, the first gun of the season sounded. I am always reminded of “Hollywood” from Top Gun’s comment about dogfighting when I hear that first gun. It signifies so much that feels right to the world for me.
Calm down. Trust yourself. You've just met the girl of your dreams and you know it. Be your best. Let's not screw this one up. OK?That means you need to finally finish college. You keep dancing around the finale because you don't know what you want to do with the rest of your life. You say that's the purist in you talking, but it's fear.
It was one of those days when the jet lag was hitting hard like a bad hangover. Stuck between half-awake and desperate for a nap at 10 a.m., I went for a long walk to pump some fresh oxygen in my brain. I have a theory — never proven — that exercise after a long flight helps get your head straight. Something about the benefits of fresh air and getting the blood pumping.
Off to London for the World Championships this week. Travel is one of my vices (I have many, most of them healthy) and London is never dull. There's the morning run in Hyde Park, breakfast at the Russian place, the death march from my hotel to the Imperial War Museum, then on to the Tower Bridge, and a night cap at the Audley . . .
I started this blog by writing a lengthy and mean-spirited rant about the cancer known as club soccer. . . . In the name of positivity, and with full realization that my mental health is affected by this ongoing frustration far more than those I ridiculed, I hit delete. . . . Surprisingly, all of this started as a warmhearted story about my own befuddlement.
