The Dedalus Log

Sucking wind,
I'm slipping down the back road once again.
And I'm on the run,
Slipping down the back road in the sun.
And I'm taking flight,
Oh I'm slipping down the back road in the night.
And I'm running still,
Slipping down and over the hill.

For so long,
Oh, I've been out there looking for a song.
And it's just insane,
It's like trying to run and chase a moving train.
And you understand,
Oh, aren't you trying to find the Promised Land.
And you will,
Slipping down and over the hill.

Oh, it’s over the hill,
Over the hill.
And oh, yes I will.
Slipping down and over the hill.
(Over The Hill by John Stewart)

“Damn, 10:52!” I thought in surprise at the one mile marker. Trying to keep my balance, I rechecked my watch again. Now it read 10 minutes and 53 seconds! “Too slow, too slow” I muttered silently, steadying my stride and trying to breathe naturally. I shook my head as if to loosen the causes for this slow, troubling time: the bottle neck of runners that forced me to walk after the starting horn sounded; the riptide of casual walkers and skittish child-runners stopping my momentum and directing me sideways, as I looked frantically for breakaway opportunities; or my inadequate training for this race. These excuses rattled around in my head, but they were poor justifications for my disappointing start. I was frustrated. I usually averaged 9:50 a mile in my regular workouts at home. Here I was in a competitive race, full of adrenaline, surrounded by serious runners, and I was clocking a snail-like, 11 minute pace. I was off, and I knew it. My breathing was ragged and unsteady, my pacing was uneven, and I was getting angry. Moreover, a runner had attached himself to me, and his antics were driving me crazy. He was a short, portly gentleman, in an old running T-shirt, with a shock of gray hair, and looking about my age (although I felt he was younger). I’d caught up to him at the half mile point, and we jogged along together for awhile. At first I thought we’d meld into a steady rhythm and just flow into the race, but he wasn’t having any of that. He sped up, fell back, pushed forward again, and then drew even with me. He repeated this sequence over and over. I didn’t get it. Were these actions thoughtless or intentional? Had my catching him provoked these antics? What was his story? Just posing these questions was a troubling sign. Self-examination and effortless running don’t mix. It’s like designing a house while practicing meditation; it won’t work. I was thinking too much, and not relaxing into the race. Somewhere in the midst of my mental maelstrom, the portly runner sped up and disappeared from sight.

Sucking air in and gasping it out, I labored for another half mile. When I’m struggling, a race drags on and on, and every stride is torture. I was taking no notice of my surroundings; not the race, the Rose Bowl, nor the scenery along the Brookside Golf Course. I just kept my head down, brooding about my start, my irregular pace, my conditioning, my time, and the runners around me. Only once did I bother to gaze up at the lush green hills overlooking this arroyo, with their gleaming cliff side homes, topped off by the prominent steeple of the Sacred Heart chapel. The race was looking pretty grim until I reached the loop at West Washington Blvd. As I curved to the left, I caught sight of my portly nemesis, and saw he was walking! With all of his restless maneuvers and gamesmanship, he had, apparently, exhausted himself and was trying to recover. I passed him with a smile. I lifted my head, looked forward, and decided: “No more thinking. No more brooding. Let’s enjoy this run!” I fixed my sights on a far off signpost at the opposite bend of the road, and, flipping a mental switch, I entered a timeless dimension.

I’ve been in these time-suspended states of running before. I recall a few times finishing the back 3 of a 6 mile course along San Vicente Blvd, and once during the final two miles of the Brentwood 5K(kilometer) race. I’d characterize them as meditative states. All distractions fall away as my mind focuses on some faraway object, and all my running functions revert to automatic pilot. I stop being aware of my arms, legs, chest, lungs, eyes, mouth, and nose. I’m just breathing and moving through space, without conscious effort or control, and with no sense of time or distance. Figures and images are transformed into colorful shadows, which seem to dissolve as I pass them. I become motion without substance. The auto-pilot monitors my path and adjusts to obstacles and markers. When I approach my once faraway target, it simply alters my gaze toward a new goal, another street sign, a light post, or a gnarled tree, and I flow towards it.

I turned south on West Street and streamed along the western side of the arroyo. I only interrupted my unconscious glide long enough to note the 2 mile marker and my time, 20:06. I’d improved the second mile by 1:39, and I was feeling great. I resumed my focusing practice, and sped forward. I was running in the Kids on the Run 5K/10K Race held at the Rose Bowl/Brookside Park, located on N. Arroyo Blvd, in Pasadena. It is an annual event on behalf of Children’s Hospital Los Angeles, and I was there with two, of my seven sisters-in-laws, Meg and Beth.

I married into a family of 10 children, 8 girls and two boys. The siblings sort themselves, hang out, and unite in a variety of fashions, but the one I find most interesting is the “Big sister” grouping. Mary Ellen is the official “big sister” of the family, the first and eldest child. She was followed a year later by Debbie. These two girls constituted the War Time Siblings, and, I believe, they differentiated themselves by their unique relationship to their parents, their personal rivalries and competitions, and their generational attitudes and biases. They were born in 1944-45, grew up and went to school in the early Cold War years of the 1950’s, and were out of college and married by 1967. Kathy was the third child, and the “baby sister” to Mary Ellen and Debbie, who were 6 and 5 years older. However, Kathy became the first of a new group of siblings who were born in rapid succession: Mike, Patti, Greg, Meg, Beth, Tootie, and Tere. I’d call this division the Baby Boom Siblings (1949-1961) and it formed around their own “big sister”, Kathy. This was the sibling group that I knew when I met, dated, courted, and married Kathy. By then, Mary Ellen and Debbie had husbands, children, and families of their own, and I saw them infrequently at formal family occasions. But it was the younger siblings who were always at hand. For a time I felt like an interloper, a Mexican-American stranger seeking to share, or take, the attentions and affection of their “big sis”. I even imagined that they were inspecting, comparing, and judging me as a worthy suitor, but that apprehension soon passed. When it became apparent that I was in love with their big sister, and that she loved me (which was the important part), they embraced me into their family, and inducted me into this Baby Boom Sibling (BBS) group.

The BBS group was, and continues being a fun-loving group to be around. In the early days of our marriage, they were a moveable feast. If we were hosting a party or gathering of some sort that was losing its zest and vitality, Kathy would call her younger sibs to join and rescue us. If they were free (and out of seven siblings, some always were), they would arrive with energy, charm, humor, and curiosity for a new adventure. They would captivate everyone. I especially loved the “after-party” conversations, with just family members. It was here that I learned how this group survived, bonded, and flourished. They employed a self-deprecating, Irish humor, which never allowed them to take themselves, their good fortunes, or their problems, too seriously. They would find humor in the most serious or ridiculous situations. They would turn pain into giggles, and sorrow into laughter. They loved to laugh, and I loved being around them.

Kathy always took her role as “big sis” seriously. She had (and has) a natural inclination to guide and protect her family, and keep the siblings interconnected. Our home was always open and available to her brothers and sisters, and they always felt comfortable enough to visit or stay, especially when they were single, bored, or troubled. As they married and formed families of their own, Kathy continued arranging occasions to get together and celebrate (or commiserate). I love them as a group, and I have a special relationship with each of Kathy’s brothers and sisters, but there is a unique professional connection with Meg and Beth (the seventh and eighth siblings).Not only are we all teachers, but they were my first opportunity to practice “enlightened nepotism”.

Meg and Beth were both regular visitors to our home in Reseda while they were going to college, majoring in English, and working after graduation (Meg went to Loyola Marymount University and Beth to UCLA). They babysat for Tonito and Prisa, visited, swam in the pool, and introduced us to their serious boyfriends, fiancés, and eventual husbands. When things were difficult at home, school, or work, they would visit, talk, and ask for advice (and occasionally, they took it). Kathy and I were the professional teachers in the family (Kathy in English as a Second Language, ESL, and I in History), until she took an extended childcare leave to raise our kids. Helping Meg and Beth get full time teaching jobs in the city’s public school system, gave me the chance to exercise my professional leadership and discretion, and increased my status in the family, especially with the BBS group.

After college, Meg taught English in a variety of places; a catholic high school in the South bay area (in fact, Prisa’s current school); in Cuernavaca, Mexico, and finally at a private school in the San Fernando Valley. With her intelligence, energetic enthusiasm, and natural talent, Meg was always successful with her students and colleagues, but was still unsure about where she wanted to work and settle. It was 1982, and I had just been promoted to the position of Instructional Specialist in Bilingual Education for Local District 8, in the Los Angeles Unified School District (LAUSD). I worked with middle and high school principals, coordinators, and ESL teachers in the mid Valley, guiding their implementation of the ESL curriculum, helping them meet the requirements of the Bilingual program, and occasionally giving advice on personnel. However, when Dan Isaacs, the principal of Grant High School, asked me to recommend a candidate to fill a vacancy in his ESL program, I was flattered. Dan was a dynamic and charismatic principal who demanded excellence, and got it. He was going places in the District, and “did not brook fools”. The ESL and English programs at Grant were the finest in the Valley, so when he asked me, there was an expectation that I could deliver the best. The first person I thought of was Meg. The hardest part was convincing her to apply. Although Meg had a credential, solid experience, excellent references, and the family personality, she had never taught ESL. It took some cajoling, reassuring, and promising to help and support her, but Kathy and I finally convinced Meg to interview with Dan Isaacs. She got the job.

Three years later (after a stint as Dean of Students at Ritchie Valens Middle School), I was working as a Teacher Advisor for the Senior High Schools Division of LAUSD, at the downtown Personnel Office. It was a heady time for me, being in a position where I was meeting, interviewing, and contracting new teachers in a single day. This temporary situation gave me the opportunity to help Beth, who was just coming off of a maternity leave and preparing to return to a catholic school teaching job. Beth had married right after graduation, and started working immediately, while her husband attended law school. Without a credential or prior experience, Beth had, gamely, tried the teaching profession, and discovered that she was very capable. I was now in a position where I could double her salary, increase her family’s health benefits, and get her into a subsidized credential program. With the encouragement and support of Meg, Tootie, and Kathy, we convinced Beth that she could make the leap into high school education. On a weekday morning, Tootie drove Beth to the Grand Avenue Personnel Office, where I greeted her, hired her, and signed her to a district contract before noon. In September she was teaching English and ESL at Roosevelt High School in Boyle Heights.

I racked up major family points with Kathy (and her mom) for my willingness to use my professional position to help her siblings. My actions were concrete examples of my faith in her sisters, and my commitment to her family. She saw, I think, for the first time, just how strong was my sense of family loyalty and obligation. In Mexican families, we learn very early about our duty to help each other in every way, and that using one’s position, power, or influence to assist family members (especially brothers and sisters) is expected. Nepotism (nepotismo) does not have a negative connotation in Spanish. I knew Meg and Beth would do fine jobs as teachers. They were smart, talented, beautiful, and fearless. All I had to do was open the door, and stand back. What was most rewarding was being in a position where I could see them grow and mature as professionals. As a Bilingual and Teacher Advisor I was able to visit their classrooms, see them teach, watch them interact with students, meet their co-workers, and help them gain confidence. Those early connections with their careers as teachers, developed into a special relationship that exists only with Meg and Beth.

33 years later, I’m running a 5K race with them. Meg is now a Reading Specialist for the Archdiocese, and Beth is teaching 5^th grade at a parish school. The last time I ran a 5K was the South Pasadena 5K/10K Tiger Run in 2004. Beth joined me on that run. She was working at getting back into regular running, and we felt that committing to a race would be good incentive for training and exercise. It also gave me a great opportunity to see her new apartment in South Pas. We had a good time at the event (felt great, won a raffle, met old friends), boasted about our athletic prowess at family gatherings, and promised each other to do it again. Unfortunately, we hadn’t been in an organized race since. This latest effort was a result of converging interests at just the right time. At the family Christmas Day party at Tootie and John’s house, the three of us got to talking about running, and how we were each struggling to establish regular patterns of conditioning. It was Meg who proposed we run a 10K race together. I was fine with the concept, but I thought a 10K (6.25 miles) race was a little too extreme to start with. I countered that a 5K (3.25 miles) race, scheduled in February or March would allow more time to train. They both agreed.

With Meg and Beth participating, the race did not follow any pattern that I had previously experienced. Kathy drove us to the registration site, planning to find us at the finish line. After receiving our souvenir t-shirts and picking up our racing bibs and pins, we still had 35 minutes before the start of the race. Keeping Meg and Beth company didn’t give me a chance to perform any of my usual pre-race rituals. I didn’t have a car to deposit my warm-up gear. I didn’t make my way to the starting line to warm up, stretch, and silently focus myself before the race. I didn’t look for a clear launching spot near the starting line, to avoid the crush of racers, and the congestion that occurs when the horn sounds. Instead, I stayed with them, and took a long walk along Seco Street, near the Rose Bowl, listening to the family news and happenings. At some point in the walk, Meg released us from the obligation of keeping pace with each other during the race, and encouraged us to run at our own speeds. Beth and I were relieved with this pacing exemption. Of the three of us, Meg was probably in the best condition, but had not participated in many organized races. I’d gotten in two practice runs of 4 and 5 miles the week before, but I was still not in shape. Beth was vague about the extent of her training, but I sensed that it was even more sporadic and infrequent than mine. However, what Beth lacked in practice she made up in grit and determination. She had committed to this race and she would run it, in shape or not. As the starting time approached, I decided to walk back to the finish line and deposit my warm-up gear with a kindly vendor. I didn’t want to wear any additional clothing while running. The jog back to the starting line was refreshing and invigorating. It gave me a chance to warm up, breathe hard, and stretch my legs. The three of us were together at the beginning, but, once the race started, I lost track of the girls as I jogged off.

As my autopilot caught sight of the three mile marker, the mental switch flipped back, and I was again aware of time, distance, and surroundings. My watch now read 28:29. I’d run this last mile in 8:24! I only had a quarter of a mile to go! The possibility of finishing this race under 30 minutes was slowly beginning to dawn on me. Because of the proximity to the finish line, the three mile marker also serves as a hazard warning sign. It’s like an ocean buoy alerting racing yachts to the sirens song that might tempt them into losing their focus and faltering along the last leg of the course. Some runners are lured into giving up at three miles. Fear and exhaustion seeps into their consciousness and muscles, causing them to hesitate and lose hope. They think that they went out too fast, sped up too soon, and didn’t conserve their strength. Then they start feeling tired, winded, dispirited, and believe that they can’t finish. Other runners are beguiled into speeding up; trying to set a new personal best, or getting past one more runner. I was prey to this temptation in 1992, when Lou, Meg’s husband, joined me in running my first El Sereno 5K race. We had paced each other nicely for three miles, when the natural competitor in Lou proposed that we pass two grey-haired, older gentlemen who were running in front of us. We kicked forward and fought through groaning muscles, straining sinews, and bursting lungs to beat them at the finish line – but the effort wiped me out (I placed third in my division in that race). The best course for the irregular racer is to ignore the allure of the sirens and just stay within yourself – finishing the race on an even, steady pace. This is the sound advice I did not follow on my odyssey at the Rose Bowl.

Realizing that I was within striking distance of a sub-30 minute racing time, I sped up. Gritting my teeth, I lengthened my stride, trying to cover more ground in less time. I kicked into a higher gear when I entered the familiar asphalt path leading to the finish line. At the last turn before the final straight away, I felt it – a slight pinching in my left rear upper leg. It was a localized twinge, just above the knee, but it wouldn’t stop. It was as though a screw was being turned, stretching a muscle wire tighter and tighter. Suddenly I felt the same sensation in my right rear upper leg. Now there were two turning screws, two tightening muscles, and at least two strands of wires ready to pop. In all my years running, I’d never felt these sensations. So close to the finish, after such a blissful second half, I refused to believe that it was happening. “Ignore it, ignore it”, I said to myself. “It will pass, don’t stop”. I was within sight of the finish line banner when a wire snapped, and a vice-like grip clamped onto my back left leg muscle (hamstring?). Scalding flashes coursed through the synapses of my brain. I stopped; and when I did, the pain ceased. I had seen runners cramp up and fall during races. Images of marathoners strewn out on sidewalks, clutching their thighs and back leg muscles, were imprinted in my mind. But I was still standing. In fact there was no pain when I walked. I massaged my upper back leg muscle and continued along the side of the path. For the first time, I became aware of the many spectators lined up along this final stretch, clapping and shouting encouragement. “You can do it, you can make it”, they chanted. Could I? As there was no pain, I pushed off on my right leg to resume running. When my left foot hit the ground a plume of fire shot up the exposed nerve endings. I hopped to a stop and resumed walking. I was humbled and hurt, but I had never ended a race by walking to the finish line. I couldn’t do it now. I massaged my left leg as I walked, and then gingerly tried jogging. “Tolerable, tolerable”, I whispered, “I can do this”. I entered the runners stocks in a soft jog, and then walked to the spotters who were tearing the identification tabs from our racing bibs.

“Tony, Tony”, I heard a voice calling out, “over here”. Looking toward a gallery of spectators around the watering table at the end of the cordoned area, I spotted Kathy waving at me. She beamed a big, welcoming smile as I walked to her. “How did you do?” she asked.
“I don’t know”, I said. I had forgotten to note my time on the clock next to the finishers’ stockade upon my arrival. “I pulled a muscle as I was coming in, so I lost track of time”, I said, explaining my oversight.
“Oh, how do you feel?” she responded, sympathetically.
“Actually, fine, it doesn’t hurt at all, except when I try to run. It’s pretty strange”.
“Oh, look, there’s Meg. She wasn’t too far behind you”.
Meg came bounding through the stocks, glowing with excitement, and sporting a proud smile.
“That was fabulous”, she exclaimed, greeting Kathy with a kiss, and then excusing herself to find a bathroom. “I’ll be right back” she said jogging off in the direction of the Aquatic Center.
“I’m going to look out for Beth”, Kathy said, as she walked towards the finish line. “Lend me your camera, and I‘ll get some photos as she arrives”.

As Kathy walked away, I was left to brood in solitude about my injury. I continued massaging the back of my left leg. There was no pain and no mark on my leg, only a minor, residual ache in the spot where I imagined a nerve or muscle tear (a black and blue bruise spot would appear in the injured area a few days later). I was beginning to suspect that this injury was not a cramp or muscle spasm, caused by insufficient warm-up or training. This was an equipment failure; a cord had worn out, a wire had frayed, or a cable had snapped. My legs were getting old and fatigued. This was my first year in the 60 to 64 Year Old Division, and I was feeling like an archaic, obsolete machine, whose parts were wearing out, one by one, with no replacements in stock. I was over the hill.

“Here she comes!” shouted Kathy, pointing towards the finishers’ gate.
“Woohoo!” cheered Meg, who had joined her to greet their sister Beth as she finished the race, and walked through the gates.
I picked up a water bottle from the table nearby and walked to the band of sisters who were whooping it up and deconstructing the race for Kathy in excited tones. Handing Beth a bottle, I said “Before we go to breakfast, let’s find out what our times were”.
“Great!” chimed in Meg, “Where do we find them?”
I pointed to a bannered pavilion, where a small crowd of runners were gathering. Bottles in hand, we walked over to the people who were looking at four sheets of paper taped onto an overhead poster board.
“Look”, cried Kathy, staring at the small print on the second sheet, “here’s Tony’s time”.
“Here’s mine”, said Meg, pointing at the next listing.
I’d finished with a time of 30:52, at a pace of 9:58 a lap. Meg had a time of 31:55, on a pace of 10:18 per lap.
As we were noting our times, a fifth results list of the latest runners was being posted.
“Here’s Beth”, I said. She had finished with a time of 40:14, at a pace of 12:59.
“How did you do, Beth?” asked Meg, coming over to look at the latest listings.
“Not good” said Beth, frowning as she looked at the numbers.
“Nonsense” I said, “for a baseline race, you did fine”.
“I think we all did great” exclaimed Meg, “and our story deserves a blog. What do you think, Tony, do you feel a blog coming?”
“We’ll see” I said. In the meantime I went back to recheck the listings.
“You know what?” I said. “I think we medaled!”
“What” exclaimed Meg.
“You’re kidding” said Kathy.
“Look” I said pointing at the second column of each page, “under Division. Third place for me, and 4^th place for Meg. We placed in our divisions. We might get medals”.
“Holy Cow” said Meg, “I need to call someone”. She whipped out her cell phone and called her husband. “Lou!” exclaimed Meg, “Guess what? We did really well in the race. Tony came in 3^rd in his division, I came in 4^th, and Beth came in …..” Her voice trailed off, when she realized she didn’t have that fact.
“She came in seventh” I whispered, having looked it up while she was dialing.
“Seventh. Isn’t that great, Lou? The race was awesome! We have to do another”.

The energy and excitement emanating from the three sisters was dispelling my melancholy. My injury no longer seemed quite as fatal as I feared. Perhaps I just needed to stop running for a while, heal, and perform alternative workouts to keep in shape (going to the gym would be good). Going to breakfast with these three long-time companions seemed the perfect antidote to the aging blues I was feeling. Hmmm, perhaps Meg was right; perhaps I did feel a blog coming.