The Javelina Jundred

What better way to celebrate Jalloween than by running 100 miles...straight.
In circles.
In the desert.

Check it:


P.S. It's supposed to be black to start. It's art.

Reporting, Plastic Fish, and Neglecting Workouts

I had a midterm today. I'm 26. Something about that is wrong.
I also have roommates. I'm married. My husband is not one of them. Something about that is so wrong.
I didn't exercise for 3 days this week. I'm a triathlete. Something about that is so so wrong.

Welcome to the suck. The Stanford suck, that is.
(I watched Jarhead for the first time on FX last weekend, when coachubby and I escaped to a Best Western so he wouldn't have to sleep on the floor of my tiny campus housing room, or try to fit in my single bed, or wait in line while one of my roommates took a 30 minute shower. It happens every day. Sometimes twice a day. Disgusting.)

The reason I've been absent: I've been reporting!
Reporting is fun.
Without the excuse that I'm reporting, I would not have met Sue, an 81-year old Japanese American who lives in Mountain View.

I knocked on her door to get her reaction to having the Day Worker Center of MV move in across the street. She told me it might cause parking problems, then invited me to see her garden. Her ginormous, hidden garden. She made me eat her persimmons. I've never had a persimmon before. They were delicious. Then she made me eat a chocolate persimmon. I could not believe that a naturally occuring chocolate fruit exists. That made me very happy.

Then she told me that I was going to laugh at her because of how she's been keeping the animals from eating the food in her garden. She led me over to where some snow peas were growing and when we walked by, familiarly annoying music started to play.

Rock the boat, don't rock the boat, baby!

Billy the Big Mouthed Bass guards Sue's vegetables. He's set off by motion. He'd scare the crap out of any person creeping around in Sue's yard, too. Billy is a creepy fish.

Then she brought me inside to show me the pumpkin she'd been decorating. It had Chiquita Banana sticker eyes, a hat, and drawn on red lips. "Do you think it needs earrings?" she asked, before taking my armload of persimmons and peppers, putting them in a plastic bag for me and sending me on my way.

It had nothing to do with my story.

But I'm happy to have met Sue. And to have been introduced to persimmons.

Now to figure out how to squeeze in a 4 hour ride in addition to sleeping...

Collegiate Cycling Guilt

One hour ago, I was presented with boxes full of Stanford cycling gear to rummage through.

I was in spandexified heaven.

Now I'm mired in guilt. Money was not required to partake in the spandex binge--immediately. When I am slammed with the request to pay for the fun things I took with the school's name splashed all over it, as well as with cycling team dues, the party's over. (And then add, in a few weeks, triathlon spandex temptations, and triathlon team dues...oy ve.)

And thus I am faced with a paradox: I miss making money, but I wouldn't be in spandex-induced guilt if I weren't here, not making money.

But no self-respecting triathlete would miss the chance to fly her respective school's colors whenever mounting her noble, two-wheeled steeds, would she? WOULD SHE?

I didn't think so.

Comments that justify outrageous purchases for which I don't have the funds are warmly welcomed.

Being the White, Blonde Minority

I moved onto Stanford University's campus two weeks before classes started (today), and over a week before the undergrads overran the place.

In the spirit of "back to school", I went to "speed friending", an activity set up by grad student activity coordinators. Hundreds of new grad students met in a room filled with chairs in rows facing each other. Every three minutes, a whistle was blown, the person in front of me moved over, and was replaced with the person to his left.

I met about 10 people before the session came to a close, then we all met in a less formal social environment in the quad outside, where alcohol was being served to lessen the pain of smiling for hours on end, and repeating "core facts" about ourselves over and over again: Where do you live on campus? What are you studying? How long is your program?

I made two very important social observations early on: I was in probably a 3% white minority, a 1% female minority, and I was the only blonde.

What conclusions can I draw from these observations? Almost everyone I met was an engineer. That was to be expected as it's the largest graduate division on campus. But only one of them was a female, only a handful were white, and none of them were blonde.

The only other white females I met, actually (save for one), were in my communications program.

Does this mean that white people suck at engineering? Or that they all simply weren't brilliant enough to get into a top engineering grad school? Or does it simply mean that of all of the new engineers, a group of people stereotyped as socially awkward, the Indian and Asians and dudes are the most social? Is it true that bleach kills brain cells, and therefore a statistically insignificant number of blondes have been admitted to any Stanford graduate program this year?

It was an interesting phenomenon to be the minority for once. I didn't mind, but I did feel like I stuck out, particularly having just moved from Southern California, where 99% of the beachfront population is blond and white. (All percentages in this observational post have been entirely made up by the author.)

Having just read Schrag's Paradise Lost, about how California's social infrastructure had gotten so immensely clusterf***ed by the time he published the book in 1998, I was accutely aware that at some point, whites are going to be the minority, not just in California, but in the entire United States. I didn't think the change would manifest itself while I was still in my twenties. Is Stanford a forward-thinking microcosm of what California is to become?

By the time the undergrads arrived on campus, my status as an endangered species as a white blonde chick were annhilated. And what does that imply? That the majority of smart kids worthy of full-scholarship PhD study are not white, but the majority of paying students at this private university are?

Oh, what a social experiment University is!

How to Make Athletes Dislike Your Race Before Even Participating: The Santa Cruz Triathlon

I am a fan of race-morning packet pick-up. In fact, I believe it should be an immutable truth of racing for all races that don't involve ridiculous planning logistics (like an Ironman). No Olympic distance race should be without this option.

What if your car breaks down? What if you get there late the night before, because you're coming from some other family/work obligation? What if you simply can't afford to spend the night in your race's location, but are willing to get up at the butt crack of dawn to enthusiastically participate?

Santa Cruz Triathlon, I hope you're listening. This race ironically opened itself up as a collegiate race, offering a student discount, hoping to draw competition, while at the same time making packet pick-up available only until 3pm the day BEFORE the race. I say ironically, because a student discount will not cover the price of a hotel in Santa Cruz, where the cheapest, crappiest motels start at $130/night in September. To cover that, you'd have to offer entirely free entries.

That is how to make athletes dislike your organization before they have even participated in your race.

It is clear that you've made a promise to bring revenue into the city of Santa Cruz, as giving back to the community is your non-profit race's primary goal, but by making packet pick-up available only until 3pm the day before the race, and making it mandatory, you are grossly alienating the one faction of athletes you were so enthusiastically courting: college students. And, for that matter, you're ticking off anyone else who loves triathlon, and lives close enough to make the trek to participate in your race--but not twice in two days. The cost in gas alone to make the double trek is ridiculous.

We will still spend money in Santa Cruz. We will eat at Saturn Café. And we will be glad to pay the entry fee, knowing that it will help the local community. And we might have even gladly shelled out the cash to spend the night, but being forced to do so only embitters what would have been an otherwise enjoyable decision. Let us decide if we'd like to stay or not.

So, Santa Cruz Triathlon, your race looks fabulous. It is sure to be a ton of fun, and to do a lot of good for Santa Cruz, as was originally intended. But do not force your athletes into difficult financial decisions beyond deciding whether or not to pay your entry fee. The only difficult thing you should be forcing us to do is jump into the freezing ocean at 8am on Sunday.