Slow Down and Enjoy the Ride. But Not Too Much. The Good Life in Pulaski, Virginia.

  

Bostonians are known as being ridiculously aggressive drivers and, more generally, just assholes. I spend an inordinate amount of time defending the locals against these allegations. On the driving front, I’m constantly explaining to people that the pervasive aggression just has to do with the fact that Boston roads are built on cow paths from the 1600s. The city layout was literally designed by bovines. The roads are such a hodgepodge of lunacy that if you waited patiently to pull out into an intersection, by the time it was your turn, you would be long dead and decomposed – a pile of dust in your cup holder. You have to be aggressive. It’s just how it works here.

But then, in spite of my generally forgiving disposition towards drivers here, I started to change my mind. In one day, I saw three people honk at cars in front of them for not driving fast enough, and a fourth guy honk at a car for not rolling fast enough through a stop sign. I can’t even imagine what would happen if, God forbid, someone visiting from out of town actually came to a full stop at a stop sign. He would probably get dragged out of his car and beaten to death. And then there are red light issues, which are particularly terrifying for an early-morning runner like myself. On the main road through my neighborhood, during the morning commute, a yellow light doesn’t mean anything at all. A fresh red light means you should still speed up and try to nose out anyone who might be thinking about pulling out under the corresponding freshly green light. To really play it safe as a pedestrian, you have to give drivers a full five count after a light turns red before being confident that it’s OK to cross the street.

What I don’t understand is, don’t people realize that you can’t beat traffic flow? A case study: Driver A blows through red lights at 60 MPH, zigzags through traffic, plows over a group of school children, forces some geriatrics to toss their walkers in the air and jump for cover. Driver B rolls leisurely along, says hello to the crossing guard, stops to help someone fix a flat, pulls over to reply safely to a text message. And eleven minutes later, they’re both next to each other at the same traffic light three miles down the road. You can’t beat the stock market. Or gravity. Or rush hour traffic.

So, first of all, if everyone’s just going to work, what’s the big rush? And second of all, if being hyper aggressive doesn’t actually get you where you’re going any faster, why be that way? Maybe Bostonians are assholes. Let’s examine some of the non-driving facets of life here: Northerners have the reputation of being more aggressive, competitive, in your face and fast paced than people elsewhere in the country. More so in New England. Even more so in Massachusetts. And really really even more so in Boston. When you ask someone where they went to school (a question that, incidentally, gets asked more in metro Boston than anywhere else in the industrialized world, other than, possibly, Washington DC), the response you often get is, “here.” What “here” means is, "Harvard." It’s as if the name of such a sacred credential is itself just too much to be spoken in mixed company. The unparalleled achievement represented by having blossomed through an institution of such renown should be known to the world without the word so much as having to pass through ones esteemed lips. But I digress. Implied academic braggadocio is just one example of being aggressive and competitive.  Let’s just say that people around here like to size up one another and tend to be somewhat pathologically focused on advancement and achievement, even when they’re not behind the wheel.

People must be more laid back somewhere. And they are in, for example, Jackson, Mississippi where I ended up a few months ago for a race. Things are just slower in the South. People take more time to chat. And they’re just so damn friendly and sincere that, coming from Boston, it’s a bit off-putting. During lunch at a little restaurant downtown, the owner came over to welcome us. You wouldn’t think there was that much to say about a Greek salad and a tuna melt, but after about half an hour we had learned enough about the ingredients and where they came from and who was involved in the distribution chain that we could have written a short book. And during the race, volunteers and other runners were so appreciative of one another that passing conversations turned into almost infinite feedback-loop thank-fests. “Thanks for volunteering!” “Thanks for running!!” “Thanks for coming out so early to pour water!!!” “Thanks for visiting our city!!!!” “Thanks for hosting us all!!!!!” “Thanks for looking so great after so many miles!!!!!!” It was all very nice at first, but after a while I started to feel like George Carlin at the grocery store check-out (Check Out Girl: “have a nice day.” George Carlin: “yeah yeah, just give me my fucking change.”).

The last straw was at the airport when we were trying to leave Jackson. After the plane pulled from the gate, the pilot announced that our flight had been re-routed to Houston and that, because the route was longer, we needed to get loaded up with a little extra fuel. He came on again later to say that he was being told from the control tower that they couldn’t exactly find the guy who drove the truck for the sub-contractor that provided fueling services, but that someone in the control tower knew someone who knew him and thought he could track him down. So we waited. And waited. And I imagined Rufus the fuel truck driver taking his time chatting up Ruth-Ann the Piggly Wiggly clerk: “yup, well I reckon I should git on over to the tarmac to fuel up that 727 with them 189 passengers fixin’ to git to Houston, but don’t you forgit that Bobbie-Sue’s rhubarb pie is still the best in the county and you better c’mon by for a heapin’ helpin’ or she’ll be madder’n a shampooed chicken in July…” And, in the meantime, the 189 type-As on the plane were asking whether there definitely wasn’t enough fuel, or just maybe not enough fuel, and if it’s just maybe, whether we shouldn’t just go ahead and give it a shot, and if the plane falls out of the sky somewhere over western Louisiana, well, so be it, as long as we can just GET THIS FUCKING PLANE UP INTO THE AIR WHILE WE’RE YOUNG.

So maybe Jackson, Mississippi is a little too slow.

There must be a middle ground, some paradise town where you can roll slowly through a stop sign without fearing for your physical safety, and at the same time corral the people you need to get a commercial jet in the air sometime remotely on schedule. Boston is too aggressive. Jackson is too laid back. What’s right in the middle? Looks from the map like Pulaski, Virginia. I’ve never been to Pulaski, but it’s in the dead center – 726 miles to Boston; 692 miles to Jackson. My research shows that Pulaski’s got a Hardees, a Presbyterian church, a golf club, a nice swimming hole, a stately-looking county maintenance building and 9,086 residents. It must be perfect. People are probably nice, but not infuriatingly nice. Hard-working but not crushingly competitive. Moving along at a pace that’s perfectly in synch with the cosmos. Well that’s it. I’m moving. So long manic overdrive Bostonians. See you later molasses-slow deep South. I’ll send my address when I get settled into the perfect equilibrium of Pulaski, Virginia.

Confessions of a Neophyte Marathon Maniac

Well, I did it. I’ve become an official Marathon Maniac! My friend Scott told me about the group a while ago, and when I looked at their website, this is what I found:

“Are you addicted to running marathons?

·       Do your thoughts switch to the next scheduled race immediately after finishing a marathon?

·       Are you signed up for more than one race right now?

·       Do you look at the race schedule more than once a week?

·       Do you start to feel down when you haven't run a marathon in a while?

·       Are your closets and dressers filled with marathon t-shirts?

·       When asked about your racing from non running people, do you find yourself talking with great passion to the point that the person that asked the question regrets ever asking?

·       Do you plan all your vacations around a marathon race?”

And my answers were: yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes and yes. It was clear that these were my people. Clinically obsessed marathoners who are just in it for the good times, and who don’t take any of it too seriously. So the seed was planted, and I set up a race schedule that would get me into the club. To meet the lowest level admission requirements, you have to run three marathons in 90 days. I did St. Louis on October 19, Rehoboth Beach on December 6 and Jackson, Mississippi on January 10. When I got done with the race in Jackson, I went back to the hotel and showered, and before I even got dressed, zapped off the e-mail with my racing bona fides to the Marathon Maniacs admissions committee. The response came two days later. I was in! Maniac #10,578. The welcome e-mail said it all:

“Dan, at last you have found refuge, a place where you can call home, where the Maniacal can feel Normal again, and once again be treated like a normal human being. Welcome To The Marathon Maniacs AsyLum!!!! [sic]”

I was so excited. In the club! I told all my friends and went immediately on-line to buy $50 worth of Marathon Maniacs stickers and low-quality running-wear. Maniacs are always very visible at races because they all wear absolutely hideous bright yellow shirts. And they all hang out together and look like they’re having the best time of anyone. I always kept an eye on the group, nonchalantly sneaking glances out of the corner of my eye. But I was a little intimidated. Didn’t think I could really engage since I wasn’t a member.

What’s fun about the Maniacs, and unique in the running world, is that their focus is on longevity and fun, not pace and rankings. As a group, they’re not particularly fast. Some finish races way up at the top of the list, but a lot of them just slog along at whatever pace they like. More important than setting a personal best time is saving enough energy to throw back some beers and party with their friends after the race. And a lot of them are old, which, to me, is the most inspiring thing of all. If I ever become one of the sinewy 80 year-olds who runs 10 marathons in a year, which are commonplace at any Maniac gathering, I’ll feel like I have succeeded in life.  

It’s refreshing not to talk about numbers all the time. People are just inherently very competitive. And when you do something that is very obviously quantifiable, like running races, people always want to know about the numbers. When someone asks “how did the race go,” and you tell them that it was great because you met some really nice people and the scenery was magnificent and the hills were just right and there was an awesome sense of camaraderie at the after-party, they look at you like you’re an idiot. What they mean is, what was your time and pace and overall ranking.

As even the most neophyte-level Buddhist can tell you, the key to happiness is to stop comparing yourself to others. Live your life as it is. Stop trying to perpetually figure out how great you are relative to others. However gorgeous and rich and brilliant and talented you are, there will always be people out there who are better. And however bad you think you have it, there will always be two billion people who are much worse off.

Maniacs are much more about good times and community. It’s not about the numbers. And yet…

My three marathons in 90 days earned me the very lowliest Maniac membership status available – one star, bronze. There are ten levels. To get one level up – two star, silver – you have to run three marathons in 16 days, six marathons in six months or eight marathons in a year. To get to the top level – ten star, titanium – you have to run 52 marathons in one year, 30 marathons in 30 states in one year or 20 marathons in 20 countries in one year [Note from my editor, Leslie, “don’t even fucking think about it”]. Once you become a Maniac, you’re in for life (or for as long as you continue to pay your $15 annual dues). You never have to re-qualify. The initial bliss and excitement of getting my official Maniac number lasted about a week. And then, of course, I started thinking, wouldn’t it be kinda cool to move up just one star? It’s great to be in the group, but who wants to be a one star anything? Sure, we’re in it for the good times. And yeah, the whole experience is not something to be quantified. But c’mon, let’s face it, isn’t two always better than one?

And so it goes. I’ve found my home in the Marathon Maniacs. I made it into the club. And I hope to keep running and running for as long as I can, and drinking beer with awesome, enthusiastic compatriots every time I cross a finish line. But maybe someday, somehow, I’ll figure out how to move my ranking up just one tiny little notch.

Holy Fucking Shit is Modern Commercial Air Travel Awesome! A Short Treatise on Complaints from First World 2015.

Dedicated to Leslie, who flies a lot and never bitches about it.

It’s so annoying when people complain about everything. But I guess it’s something I need to get over since about 96% of all human communication is complaining. There are varying degrees. Not all complaining is really complaining. A lot of it is just a way of interacting with our fellow humans. People like to talk to each other. Coming up with things to talk about is hard. Finding something to complain about is easy.

Complaining can happen anywhere. But the cosmic-epicenter-universal-ground-zero-hub of complaining is the airport. If you were new to this planet and stopped in at an airport, you’d think that life on earth was so horribly, unbearably oppressive that continuing to live would hardly be worth the effort. You’d be amazed that more people didn’t drown themselves in a vat of Orange Julius just to make it all end.

On the one hand, it’s true. Air travel sucks. The overhead bins always get filled before your lowly scumbag zone 4 boarding group gets called. The sandwiches are shitty and stale and not even free. The guy in front of you put his seat back, and yours is in front of the urinal puck-smelling toilet and doesn’t recline. Your civil rights are violated by some TSA teenager in another city looking at x-ray pictures of your tits / balls when you go through security. It’s an all around bubbling inferno of horribleness.

On the other hand, flying is vastly more accessible than it was a generation ago. If you focus less on the horror of add-on fees and focus for a second on the overall cost of a ticket, even with a checked bag, a premium gang-banger mucho legroom class seat and a seven dollar lite beer, flights today cost a fraction of what they used to. And, in the larger picture, whereas if your great grandparents wanted to cross the country they had to rustle up a posse and wagon train along a dirt path for nine months, you can now swipe through a few screens on your iPhone app, pop onto a 3,000 ton 747 (which somehow, unfathomably, can actually get up off of the ground and fly six miles above the Earth, which is unbelievable on a whole ‘nother level) and be just about anywhere in the country in four hours. Oh, and there’s wifi. If you want to go visit your grammie or follow your bliss or escape to an all-inclusive Sandals resort with a pool bar or do whatever it is that you people do, it’s exponentially easier now than ever before.

Some things truly, objectively suck. When your body rejects a heart transplant because someone accidentally wrote the wrong blood type on the label on the transport cooler, that sucks. When your mom gets shot to death in a carjacking gone awry, that sucks. When your malaria vaccine spoils because the nearest refrigerator to your village is fifty miles away, that sucks. And some things are clearly first world problems. Slow wifi. When your entrée is served so soon after your appetizer that you hardly had time to take two bites. Starch on your shirt when you specifically said no starch.

But most things only suck or don’t suck relative to other things. If you compare air travel to a first class trip 30 years ago, it sucks. If you compare it to how things always worked from around the time of recorded history until 1950, it’s pretty mind-bendingly astonishing. And if you compare almost anything in life to the way 95% of the world lives, chances are it’s relatively phenomenal.

“Oh, well – first world problem” is a useful expression. If you say it before you complain about something, it’s an acknowledgement that you have some tiny modicum of self awareness and that, while it may not prevent you from complaining, you at least understand that your complaint may not, in fact, be all that massively troubling in the grand scheme of things. If someone else says it to you, what they may be saying, in a slightly more polite way, is “yeah, well, um, how ‘bout shutting the fuck up.”

So, no need for everyone to stop complaining. The world would be eerily quiet if that happened. A little more self-awareness is all. Similar to “don’t sweat the small stuff, and it’s all the small stuff,” I’d say “don’t complain too loudly about first world problems, and they’re all first world problems.” If you’re moderately healthy, have enough money to feed yourself and buy a magazine, aren’t living in fear of someone in your own house, and have one or two friends, things are probably pretty much OK. Complain for entertainment purposes, but don’t take it to heart. Consider spending a tiny little bit more energy appreciating how outrageously fucking amazing so much of the world is, and a tiny little bit less energy complaining about soggy airplane food.