Rachel Toor

Featured athlete: Me

2012-01-16T16:01:00.000-08:00

Hard to believe, but I will be a sponsored athlete the year I turn 50. I may be old, but at least I'll have some great new clothes. Here's my first post on the Athleta Chi Blog.

Recent Publications

2011-07-13T20:07:00.000-07:00

"Accepting the Way You Work," The Chronicle of Higher Education, January 30, 2011.
"Imposter Syndrome," Athleta Chi Blog, January 19, 2012.
"A Good Montanan," Montana, December/January 2012.
"The Gift of Being Coached," Running Times, January 2011.
"The Art of 'The Ask,'" The Chronicle of Higher Education, November 28, 2011.
"Why Are Some Academics Conversational Ball Hogs?" The Chronicle of Higher Education, November 3, 2011.
"Face Lines and Tight Behinds," Running Times, October, 2011.
"What Looks Like Productivity," The Chronicle of Higher Education, October 2, 2011.

“TheProblem Is: You Write Too Well,” The Chronicle of Higher Education, September 6, 2011.

“A Trans-Bitterroot Run,” Marathon&Beyond, September/October, 2011.

"Shame in Academic Writing," The Chronicle of Higher Education, August 3, 2011.
"The Perfect Training Partner," Running Times, July/August, 2011.
"Unconscious Plagiarism," The Chronicle of Higher Education, June 20, 2011.
"Fixing A Cranky Butt," Running Times, May, 2011.

“The Joys Of Being The Dumbest Person In The Room,” The Chronicle of Higher Education, May 6, 2011.

"The Writers' Workshop at Work," The Chronicle of Higher Education, April 6, 2011.
"Think of Yourself as A Writer," The Chronicle of Higher Education, March 8, 2011.
"Selling Yourself and Your Book,” The Chronicle of Higher Education, February 15, 2011.

“Race Travels,” Running Times, March, 2011.

“Learning to Write from Uncle Ben,” The Chronicle of Higher Education, January 18, 2011.

“Single-Serving Dad,” Trail Runner, January 2011.

“A Writing Group of Two,” The Chronicle of Higher Education, December 17, 2010.

“A Helping Hand,” Runner’s World, December, 2010.

“The Competitive Urge,” Running Times, December, 2010.

“It Can Thereby Be Shown,” The Chronicle of Higher Education, November 19, 2010.

“Teaching in the Pokey,” The Chronicle of Higher Education, October 26, 2010.

“Hearing the Voice of a 51-Year-Old Man in the Essay of a 17-Year Old Girl,” The New York Times, October 19, 2010.

“Resonant Routes,” Running Times, October 2010.

“Ode to Dirt,” Runner’s World, October 2010.

“Lingo of the Trail,” Runner’s World, October 2010.

“How Do You Learn To Edit Yourself?” The Chronicle of Higher Education, September 28, 2010.

“Resolve to Stop Saying Yes,” The Chronicle of Higher Education, August 31, 2010

“The Singapore Sling,” Running Times, July/August 2010.

“On the Pleasures of Summer Reading,” The Chronicle of Higher Education, July 28, 2010.

“Wondering How You Stack Up Intellectually?” Chronicle of Higher Education, June 27, 2010.

“Hymne a l’ete et a la beaute,” Runner’s World, France, No. 17 Mai-Juin, 2010.

“The Colossal Crack,” Running Times, June, 2010.

“’Only Connect the Prose and the Passion,’” The Chronicle of Higher Education, May 23, 2010

“Dissing Dean,” Running Times, May, 2010.

“Bad Writing and Bad Thinking,"The Chronicle of Higher Education, April 16, 2010

“Riding an Elephant,” Ascent, April 19, 2010.

“Cutting the Flab,” The Chronicle of Higher Education, March 16, 2010

“Shirtless Days,” Running Times, March, 2010.

“The Habit of Writing,” The Chronicle of Higher Education, February 11, 2010.

“The Good Reader: Remembering Howard Zinn,” Inside Higher Ed, February 3, 2010.

“Cover Stories,” The Chronicle of Higher Education, January 18, 2010.

“Pacing as Soulcraft,” Marathon&Beyond, January/February 2010.

“Floating Deadlines,” The Chronicle of Higher Education, December 7, 2009.

“Fluke Fitness,” Running Times, December, 2009.

“Your Review was Brutal,” The Chronicle of Higher Education, November 10, 2009.

“Why I Can’t Hate Shannon Farar-Griefer,” Running Times, November, 2009.

“How to Experience the Western States 100,” Running Times, November, 2009

“Fashion Lessons for Graduate Students,” The Chronicle of Higher Education, October 12, 2009.

“Running Back the Clock,” Running Times, October, 2009.

“Kindling Changes for the Reader and the Writer,” The Chronicle of Higher Education, September 11, 2009.

Review of Collections of Nothing by William Davies King, Ploughshares, Fall 2009.

“I Just Wrote this Last Night,” The Chronicle of Higher Education, August 3, 2009.

“Beauty by the Book,” Spokane Metro, July 2009.

“Confessions of a DNRR,” Running Times, July/August, 2009.

“Writing Like a Doctor,” The Chronicle of Higher Education, June 9, 2009.

“Reading Like a Graduate Student,” The Chronicle of Higher Education May 12, 2009.

“Interpreting Editorese,” The Chronicle of Higher Education, April 6, 2009.

“Can’t We Be Smart and Look Good, Too?” The Chronicle of Higher Education, April 3, 2009.

“A New Chapter,” Montana magazine, March/April, 2009.

“Me and My Fibroid,” JAMA (Journal of the American Medical Association). 2009;301:1208-1209.

“Pre-Race Couture,” Running Times, May 2009.

“Apostrophe,” JAMA (Journal of the American Medical Association). 2009;301(11):1105-1106.

“The Response Dilemma,” The Chronicle of Higher Education, February 2, 2009.

“The Hope of Audacity,” Inside Higher Ed, January 27, 2008.

“The Body as Gear,” Running Times, March 2009.

http://chronicle.com/article/Accepting-the-Way-You-Work/130465/

Latest Chronicle column

2011-01-27T18:26:00.002-08:00

Lucky me. Last quarter I got to re-read Ben Franklin's autobiography with a class full of really smart graduate students. And I got a column out of it.

Dinosaur tracks on the other side of Castle Valley

2010-12-24T16:47:00.000-08:00

so we went around back. Sitting in dino track.

Rock hounding for malachite and azurite.

Those are not clouds--they're the La Sals.

Some interesting geological feature.

Dogs Playing Soccer

2010-12-24T16:38:00.000-08:00

Where You'll Find Me

2010-12-21T15:42:00.000-08:00

Feels a little like Munchkinland.

Helen

2010-12-21T15:36:00.000-08:00

Zooming down.

Scrambling up.

Ah, sweet mystery of life.

Leaping big rocks in a single bound.

Snow Day in Castle Valley (with new friend Lexi)

2010-12-21T15:24:00.001-08:00

New Chronicle column

2010-12-17T09:21:00.000-08:00

I post these here so I can keep track of them. This one is about my friend Nancy and our Writing Group of Two. I'm running out of academic friends to write about. Volunteers?

This is just a brief interruption in the unending stream of Helen photos.

Castle Valley game trails

2010-12-16T13:43:00.000-08:00

I never knew I had a documentary urge. Actually, that's not true. I write nonfiction. But since my BFF said I was "visually retarded" (in the nicest possible way), and even though I come from a family of artists, I've never been visually oriented. But now I cannot have enough photos of my precious baby. And it's pretty clear to see that I am not the photographer in the family.

For today's hike, we stayed close to home.

Magellan redux.

Yummy horse poop.

The ears are trying to stand up, cattle dog style.


The girl lives dangerously. Much to her mama's dismay.

Bill Jones Canyon

2010-12-16T08:25:00.002-08:00

Okay, so the real name of this trail is "Negro Bill Canyon." The sign at the trailhead gives his whole name, but before I saw that I decided to call it Bill Jones. We took Helen on a great hike, where she crossed her first stream, climbed slick rock, and dug in the sand (to find the nothing that was not there).


Here's the dirty dog sitting for a treat.


Geologist John: "Dog looking at crossbeds." His blog is very different.

Red rock red heeler

2010-12-15T13:04:00.001-08:00

Here are some of John's excellent photos of Helen's first hike at Fisher Towers.

Caught in the act. But what was the act?

Noble creature

Helen Magellan, the explorer

Castle Valley

2010-12-15T12:56:00.001-08:00

If I look out one of the windows, I see Castleton Tower:

If I look out the other window, there are the La Sal mountains.

Winter in Castle Valley doesn't suck.

The Dean

2010-12-06T12:20:00.000-08:00

Skiing in the backyard with Lynn.

This is the essay I wrote about her.

I'm running out of friends to write about.

Up next, Nancy.

Snow Puppy

2010-11-28T13:49:00.002-08:00

Thanksgiving

2010-11-27T12:18:00.000-08:00

Just don't sign off a letter to me with "cheers"

2010-11-19T08:46:00.002-08:00

This month's Chronicle piece, lambasting the academic pose.

Runner's World

2010-11-16T13:42:00.000-08:00

My essay about giving the gift of running. Kind of hokey for December, I know.

Helen at ten weeks

2010-11-02T08:35:00.000-07:00

My time in prison

2010-10-25T18:50:00.002-07:00

Latest Chronicle column on teaching creative writing in the pokey.

The face that launched a thousand ships

2010-10-25T08:37:00.001-07:00

My new baby, Helen. Born August 23. Adopted October 22. Cattle dog (red heeler) mix. Happiness really is a warm puppy.

Nat and Roo

2010-10-22T10:20:00.000-07:00

Madonna and baby walleroo.

In today's New York Times

2010-10-19T09:59:00.000-07:00

My essay about the college application essay.

You Can't Go Home Again

2010-10-14T15:27:00.000-07:00

But you can go running when you go back to visit. My October Personal Record column from Running Times.

Writing By the Book

2010-10-06T07:39:00.002-07:00

Chronicle column on learning how to edit yourself.

Runner's World essay about dirt

2010-09-13T12:28:00.001-07:00

Yes, it's true. I really do have the body of a T. Rex. Photo proves it. (This is one of many reasons why I hate having my picture taken: it makes it harder to deny the truth.)

David: Just a boy who can't say No

2010-09-05T09:26:00.002-07:00

Latest Chronicle column about the drug of flattery.

This Gun for Hire

2010-08-23T08:55:00.001-07:00

The workshop I've developed for TAA (the Text and Academic Authors Association) is now available. If you feed me, I will come.

Now in paperback

2010-08-23T08:53:00.002-07:00

Just in time to stuff Christmas stockings (you could probably fit ten copies of this little book into one and still have room for lots of candy), Personal Record is now available in paper.

Singapore Marathon

2010-08-12T06:35:00.003-07:00

Last December seems like years away. But I was in Singapore. The proof from the July/August Running Times.

Workshops for Academics

2010-08-10T09:04:00.003-07:00

I've been asked by the Text and Academic Authors Association (TAA) to develop workshops for them to offer. They will pay my expenses to universities who want me to come to yell at--I mean help--academics about writing and publishing. The universities pay me a fee. So far I will be going to Furman University (September 26-28) and University of Virginia (February 11).

Here's the description:

Book-worthy: How Smart Academics Write To Get Published

This workshop is for people who understand that all writers, especially good ones, struggle to be better. Are you a careful writer? Do you care about your sentences? Do you know how to use a semi-colon? (Are you sure?) Do you sometimes slip into the passive voice and not realize why that can be a problem? Do you use paragraphs to give your reader a break? Do you know how to create a narrative arc? What are the bad habits of academic prose and how can you avoid them to write a book that is publishable?

This workshop will attempt to help you determine
- If your topic is actually book-worthy (and adapt it if it’s not)
- How to write (so that somebody other than your mother will be willing to read you)
- How to approach publishers and what to expect from the process
- What attitudes, behaviors and disciplines are required to write and publish a book

We’re all enamored with our topics. Most academic writers deliver content in a way that fails to keep the reader in mind. This workshop will address, in a way that should not be too painful, how to move through your infatuation—or desperation—to figure out what is worth writing about, how best to present your material, and how to get it published.

Our focus will be on the craft of writing. Who are the good writers in your field? What makes reading their books a pleasure? What tricks and moves do they use that you can steal in your own work? What are the practices and habits of successful writers?

We will also discuss the publishing process, including how to talk to editors at conferences (please do not try to give them copies of your manuscript), how to write query letters, how to respond to reader’s reports, what you need to know about contracts, and the sad fact that your work isn’t finished when you hand in a final manuscript.

Rachel Toor was for a dozen years an acquisitions editor at Oxford and Duke University Presses. She currently teaches creative writing in Eastern Washington University’s MFA program and is on the faculty of Pacific University’s low-residency MFA program. A cum laude graduate of Yale University, with an MFA from the University of Montana, she is the author of three books (Admissions Confidential: An Insider’s Account of the Elite College Selection Process, The Pig and I, and Personal Record: A Love Affair with Running) and writes a monthly column on issues in writing and publishing for The Chronicle of Higher Education. Her work has appeared in Inside Higher Ed, Glamour, Reader’s Digest, Ploughshares, The LA Times, JAMA (The Journal of the American Medical Association) Running Times, Marathon&Beyond, and Runner’s World among other publications.

Runner's World Photo Shoot

2010-07-29T09:00:00.012-07:00

Tony Demin, fantastic photog, came over to the Rancho Valeo in Missoula (where I've been happily staying) and took some photos of me to go with my Runner's World essay scheduled for the October issue.

It's not all fun

2010-07-28T07:41:00.001-07:00

But in the summer, it mostly is. My fluffy new column from The Chronicle.

Trans-Bitterroot Run

2010-07-27T22:29:00.006-07:00

If you don't want to get your feet wet in the first five miles, you have to find someone willing to treat you like a sack of potatoes.

Seven people; two dogs (a beagle and a Cairn terrier--think Toto); amazing views; 26.44 miles; nine hours; lots of falls; even more bruises and scrapes; a great time.

Montana Summer

2010-07-23T09:32:00.005-07:00

I have become very adept at driving what I like to refer to as the ATM.

Putt Putt Polo

2010-07-01T11:09:00.002-07:00

I think I played too much miniature golf as a kid. This isn't the way polo shots are supposed to look.

The Sport of Kings

2010-06-29T17:02:00.004-07:00

My new favorite thing. I played my first chukkas ever of polo last night. Now I need to marry money so I can support this developing passion.

Oh, and I need to work on the hand-eye coordination thing. I'm scrappy, fearless, and can get to the ball first, but when it comes to hitting, well, I need some practice.

Saccharine insight of the day

2010-06-15T18:12:00.001-07:00

Just appreciating how fortunate I am to have such great people in my life.

Life is good. (It's not just a brand.)

I won! I won! I won!

2010-06-14T16:00:00.002-07:00

The very first piece I ever wrote for Running Times was called "Did you win?"

Since then, I've trained my brother not to ask that awful question.

Today I called him up and asked him to ask me that awful question I trained him not to ask.

He did.

Yes, I said. I won! I won! I won! The Deepwater Marathon in Farragut State Park in Northern Idaho. All on trails. Around Lake Pend Oreille. Gorgeous.

Now, I said, ask me how many people were entered.

He did.

The answer was four. All women, all aged 40-49.

Everyone else had entered the half, 50K or 50 miler. It was one of those races where I had to hang my wimpy head when asked which event I was doing: only the marathon.

The day before (when I'd learned about the marathon and decided to run it), I assured my friend Mo that I no longer cared to compete. That I was past the days when I could expect to win races. That I had other reasons to run. That I had less narcissistic goals.

And then, for 26.2 miles, I led the race terrified that whoever was in second place was going to catch me.

Guess I still have a bit of competitive spirit in me.

Running and My Dead Mother

2010-06-09T11:33:00.000-07:00

From the June issue of Running Times.

our collective alienation

2010-06-04T10:14:00.002-07:00

Expressed on a bumper sticker: "A PBS mind in a Fox News world."

En francais

2010-06-03T18:44:00.004-07:00

Just got my copy of the most recent Runner's World-France. There I am. In French. Email me if you want a PDF version. (My French isn't good enough anymore to know if the translation makes me sound dumber or smarter.) But still, c'est vachement chouette to be in there.

Play Freebird, man

2010-05-24T19:42:00.004-07:00

Got a lovely email from a professor of English at Yale this morning about my latest Chronicle column. He reminded me that being a rock star wouldn't be so great after all, and quoted Joni Mitchell (from Miles of Aisle, which I pretty much listened to non-stop freshman year):

“That's one thing that's always, like, been a difference between, like, the performing arts, and being a painter, you know. A painter does a painting, and he paints it, and that's it, you know. He has the joy of creating it, it hangs on a wall, and somebody buys it, and maybe somebody buys it again, or maybe nobody buys it and it sits up in a loft somewhere until he dies. But he never, you know, nobody ever, nobody ever said to Van Gogh, 'Paint a Starry Night again, man!' You know? He painted it and that was it.”

A New PR

2010-05-12T09:25:00.005-07:00

The amazing thing about this column (from the May Running Times) is that I had people writing to yell at me for defending Dean Karnazes, and just as many upset because they thought I was criticizing him. Dean himself wrote to the editor to say that his sponsors were angry because (he said) they said it was a "scathing and biased article." Make me wonder about literacy levels.

Fortunately, my very smart editor wrote back a reply that I wish I could post here, saying that he has turned down many articles arguing that Dean's fame is in disproportion to his athletic achievements, that he participates in "stunts" rather than racing against the top ultrarunners. Snap.

Now I'm a Real Writing Professor

2010-04-19T08:54:00.004-07:00

My first foray into the world of small literary journals.

"Riding an Elephant" has been published in Ascent.

My Hero, GO

2010-04-15T19:19:00.004-07:00

This latest Chronicle column is an homage to (or a rip-off of) George Orwell. If you haven't read "Politics and the English Language" do yourself a favor.

Abbey's Country

2010-03-30T10:11:00.006-07:00

While I don't love Edward Abbey's Desert Solitaire, I can't argue that it's not an important and well-written book. He starts, "This is the most beautiful place on earth."

He might be right.

I just spent a week in the canyonlands of southern Utah, staying in Castle Valley, a suburb of Moab, and hiking every day under the desert sun. A good springy break.

Diets for Prose

2010-03-16T07:44:00.002-07:00

Here's this month's Chronicle column on slimming down your manuscript.

The Happiest of Valentine's Days

2010-02-14T11:43:00.006-08:00

Valentine's Day is pretty much a set-up for failure. Pity the men who have been made miserable--often for weeks in advance--by this mandated (and yes, commercialized) expression of syrupy sentiment.

Pity the man who is involved with me on the fourteenth day of February. He wouldn't have expected that a cynical, demanding bitch would be expecting a Valentine's Day present. (He will have been made aware of this, and directed to an essay I wrote explaining that the best Valentine's Day present I ever got was a stapler.) Since he is a geek (of course he's a geek; I go only for geeks), he will be perhaps unpracticed in the courtly arts of shopping for romantic presents that don't wax trite. He will be all-too-aware of how hard I am to please, how quick I am to edit. He will be daunted by the challenge, but not cowed.

And then he will come through. He will embrace the biggest cliche of the holiday and turn it--the geologist presents a piece of beauty that is also a pun.

This Valentine's Day, I got a selenite (or desert) rose.

You can pity the man. (Who wouldn't?) But I appreciate him more than I can say.

While Running the Grand Canyon Rim to Rim to Rim

2010-02-11T07:39:00.002-08:00

I didn't stop working. Here's my latest Chronicle column on the habit of writing.

Personal Record: The Column

2010-02-09T09:49:00.003-08:00

Now that I'm no longer sharing the back page of Running Times with my buddy Jim Gerweck, my column will be called "Personal Record."

Here's the first one, called "Shirtless Days."

My Old Friend, Howard Zinn

2010-02-03T08:27:00.002-08:00

Howard Zinn was, everyone knows, a lucid writer, a tenured radical, and a man who introduced many to different ways of looking at history, politics, and the world. He was also, for me, a good father figure. Here's my essay about him from Inside Higher Ed.

Column

2010-01-22T14:27:00.001-08:00

Here's my latest Chronicle column.

My Nazi Elephant Guide

2010-01-03T18:40:00.002-08:00

In case you didn't believe my post below, here is the photo that so shocked me when I dismounted from my elephant ride in Thailand.

Too much water, too many fish

2009-12-18T06:55:00.003-08:00

My BFF Mike said, "Why would you go snorkeling? You hate water and you're afraid of oogies."

This is true.

But I thought I should try new things, things that lots of normal people enjoy.

So I got in an air-conditioned mini-van and traveled three hours to the attenuated part of Thailand, to Bangsaphan. If Thailand were a Bit O Honey, this would be the yummy part in the middle, if you eat your Bit O Honey the right way.

Then we got on a speed boat, me, a handful of Finns, and an older Dutch couple, and zoomed to Koh Talu. A sort of deserted island. It had a bunch of huts, nice huts, that people could stay overnight in, though why they would want to do that I have no earthly idea.

When I envisioned snorkeling, I thought I would just wade into shallow water and put my face in it. Nope. It never occurred to me that I'd have to jump off a boat.

At least the life jacket made me buoyant. But still, I had to jump into the water. The water was cold. I thought it was cold, anyway.

There were fish. Many, many fish, many colored fish with buggy eyes and opening and closing mouths swarming around me. Coming at me. (I thought that big ones kept biting me in the butt, and yelped a bunch of times, but it turned out that a line from my life vest was doing that.) I yelled at them to go away, and got big gulps of salty water.

We got back on the boat and motored to another spot. More fish. Bigger fish. More water. So damn much water.

The 6 year-old Finnish boy and I both got cold. We stood on the boat shivering, while the normal people laughed at us. The dad told me that it is -20 degrees (Celsius) in Helsinki now. "This is why we need Thailand," he said.

When we got safely to land, I put on my running shoes and went.

I followed a trail that led to a tree that had lengths of string with bunches of coral tied to it, kind of Gilligan's Island-esque. No one could tell me what it meant.

I found the dump. So much for the eco-tourism boasted of by the tour. It was filled with plastic bottles.

I got high. I searched for a trail that would take me to the highest point on the island and was rewarded for my efforts. After about a half hour of climbing, I got a fantastic view.

Lunch was delicious. I ate a huge amount of squid, some pad thai, bunches of prawns, and some kind of fish with black pepper sauce (serves you right, you little swarming fishy bastards, I thought).

It was a good day. No work done. No Nazis. (I no longer take that for granted.)

And when I got back, I went for an hour-long foot massage.

My time here is winding down. Oh dear. Don't know how I'll manage to get back to the cold hard world of real life.

Good Things

2009-12-16T21:42:00.006-08:00

Mango and sticky rice for dinner.

Mango and sticky rice for breakfast.

BBQ chicken backs on a stick for 15 cents.

Writing for five hours in the morning and then running on the beach.

Phone call from "landlord" checking in to make sure everything is A-okay.

Being able to tell him it couldn't be better.

Thai massage.

Oil massage.

Foot massage.

Sweet, sentimental, funny e-postcard from southern Utah. I miss u 2, John.

Last "Finishing Kick"

2009-12-15T04:51:00.002-08:00

My column in Running Times will now be called "Personal Record." And I'll no longer be alternating with my wonderful friend (and the great guru of running) Jim Gerweck.

Here's the last Kick.

Fluke fitness, by the way, is a distant memory. Elephant riding, however, is quite vivid.

All Work + No Play = Wrong

2009-12-14T02:33:00.004-08:00

I have become boring to myself. Despite getting loads of writing done, I realized that I am, in fact, on vacation. So I took today off. Had coffee in town. Wandered around. Ran on the beach for 30 minutes without shoes (a la the Tarahumara runners) and wearing just a jog bra and bikini bottoms. (Hey, it's the beach. It's Thailand.)

Then my feet hurt (big surprise), so I stopped for an hour-long foot massage, which is really foot and leg massage with oil and some Ben-Gay like smelly shit. Had to pony up $7.50 and got a banana and a bottle of cold water at the end.

For tomorrow I booked a day trip to go and see the bridge on the river Kwai (when I get home I'll have to see, again, The Bridge on the River Kwai), some elephant trekking, and what sounds like an unappealing raft ride through the jungle.

This means that I will get no work done. For two days. I'm trying not to freak out. I'm trying not to be such a workaholic freak. If I can't do it here, there's no hope.

My biggest worry is that I won't have time to get a massage tomorrow.

As I said, if I can't relax here, there's no hope.

On Going on a Run While Listening to Hazlitt’s On Going on a Journey

2009-12-12T19:33:00.003-08:00

Yesterday morning, before setting out to run, I thought about what would be the perfect way to travel. To go someplace warm and beautiful (check), to spend the mornings writing (check), to spend the afternoons running and exploring (check) and then to have an interesting companion with whom to dine (oops) and enjoy other nocturnal entertainments (oops).

I like the solitude of being in a foreign place, and I like seeing sights under the power of my own endurance-fit legs. But I was thinking, yesterday morning, that it would be nice to have a partner here in my tropical paradise; someone who would know to give me space enough to create, allow me time to be alone with my thoughts, but who could join me at the end of the day (or earlier, on days when the work is not going well).

Then I went for a long run. I ran along the beach until I ran out of beach, and ran through town until I ran out of town. I looked up and saw a hill, and knew that was where I wanted to go. I ran past an encampment of monkeys attacking a turned over garage bucket, and past many bored dogs.

If I knew what frangipani was, I might have seen some. For days I’ve experienced how the fancy people stay in this Thai beach resort; on my run I was able to catch a glimpse into the homes and lives of those less fortunate.

As I ran I listened to my iPod. Currently I am nearing the end of a collection called “Favourite Essays.” It starts with Montaigne, goes through Bacon, the dirty Dean Swift, The Spectator’s Addison and Steele, Johnson, Goldsmith up through Dickens and ends with Chesterton—the greatest hits, really, of mostly English 18th and 19th century writers (and thinkers—what makes them such good writers is that most of them were such good thinkers).

Yesterday I started out by listening, again, to Charles Lamb’s wonderful “Old China,” a meditation on the struggles of having enough money, on aging and youth, on the value and beauty of material things. And then I was on to Hazlitt. And then my whole experience of being in Thailand changed.

“On Going on a Journey” starts out “One of the pleasantest things in the world is going a journey; but I like to do it myself. I can enjoy society in a room; but out of doors, nature is company for me.” Hazlitt goes on to extol the virtues of solitary travel in a way that is playful, insightful, and delicious. He continues, “The soul of a journey is liberty, perfect liberty, to think, feel, do just as one pleases. We go a journey chiefly to be free of all impediments and of all inconveniences; to leave ourselves behind, much more to get rid of others.”

The only thing worth talking about when traveling, according to Hazlitt, is what to eat for dinner. Amen, brother.

“I should not feel confident in venturing on a journey in a foreign country without a companion,” Hazlitt writes. “I should want at intervals to hear the sound of my own language. There is an involuntary antipathy in the mind of an Englishmen to foreign manners and notions that requires the assistance of social sympathy to carry it off. As the distance from home increases, this relief, which was at first a luxury, becomes a passion and an appetite.”

I am still at the luxury stage of this foreign travel, and hearing the words of Hazlitt in the voice of a good English reader became more than enough company for me yesterday. What a companionable way, really, to pass an afternoon. After my run, I ended up three hours later back on the beach, where I paid seven dollars for an hour of massage. I walked back to my apartment at dusk.

I’ve thought about why I wanted to do this trip the way I have, to plan what is in fact a dull and boring vacation. I realized that, like so many things have been in recent months, this trip is about my dead mother.

Thanksgiving was my first holiday without her, the holiday, in fact, that our family celebrated most vigorously. The Thankgiving Wars usually started around August. Where would we do it? Between three of us, my mother, my brother and me, you wouldn’t think it would have been that hard. But you would be wrong. For many years, it was that hard. And then, for the years she was sick, we went, my brother and I, without question, to her.

Thanksgiving, like many things involving family, was often better in the anticipation than in the reality. There were minor squabbles and major blow ups. My brother always cooked, but menu planning could become blood sport. Often there were ancillary invitees, spouses, step-siblings, friends. There were usually equal amounts of fun and irritation.

This year I dreaded the coming of November.

I had said to a friend that I wished I could leave the country for Thanksgiving, to go somewhere it wasn’t a holiday. My desire became a plan, my wish a reality. We drove a handful of hours north to Canada.

My friend’s wife had died of cancer two years before on Thanksgiving Day; it was the holiday most likely to make me feel motherless. What a sad pair we could have been. But there were no tears, no irritation, even.

I ate sable that Thursday night. I didn’t know that you could get fresh sable; it was a fish of my youth, always smoked, always consumed in my grandparents’ Manhattan apartment with lox and whitefish on bagels and bialys. We hiked in mountains through snow and then soaked for hours in hot springs. I ate a whole lot of Canadian candy bars. We had fun. We had a surprising amount of fun. I got through the holiday and remembered that I could have fun.

When I was invited to come to the Singapore marathon I realized that I could make the trip coincide with my winter break and that, for the first time in five years, I could take a vacation to someplace other than to Ithaca, where my mother had lived.

I wanted to leave, and to not leave. I wanted to work, but to be in a different place. I was frazzled from a hard quarter, tired of trying to get back to feeling normal, and was still unmoored—without family, with close friends too far away. I wanted to be alone.

Yesterday, while running, I had to stop and listen twice to the end of Hazlitt’s essay. There’s a phrase I repeat often to my students, to remind them of how their work is likely to be received. “The reader is always in it for herself,” I say, over and over, when someone asks that there be more about the grandma (“I want—I need—to hear more about the grandma” they’ll say, and will add that they had a grandma much like the one in the piece).

The truth is, the reader is always in it for herself. The best you can hope for is that your insights will resonate, even if the stories—the grandmas—are different.

And so this is how Hazlitt ends his 1822 essay “On Going on a Journey”:

“Dr. Johnson remarked how little foreign travel added to the facilities of conversation in those who had been abroad. In fact, the time we have spent there is both delightful and in one sense, instructive; but it appears to be cut out of our substantial, downright existence, and never to join kindly on to it. We are not the same, but another, and perhaps more enviable individual, all the time we are out of our own country. We are lost to ourselves, as well as our friends. So the poet somewhat quaintly sings,

"Out of my country and myself I go."

Those who wish to forget painful thoughts, do well to absent themselves of a while from the ties and objects that recall them; but we can be said only to fulfill our destiny in the place that gave us birth. I should on this account like well enough to spend the whole of my life in travelling abroad, if I could anywhere borrow another life to spend afterwards at home!”

The Most Boring Asian Vacation Ever

2009-12-11T21:46:00.007-08:00

Here I am, day three in paradise, and I'm exhausted, lonely and bored. Well, not bored so much--more on that later. But I have, by design, planned a stay in Asia that is about as dull as it can get.

During the fall quarter, I got very little writing done. I traveled a lot for work (as much as running marathons and then writing about them can be considered work), taught one undergraduate course and one graduate writing workshop, and also did a course at the state prison. I embarked on the terrifying and time-consuming project of being in a romantic relationship and have been reminded of the many rewards of this normal (if occasionally terrifying) human endeavor.

But I have two regular deadlines to meet. The Chronicle of Higher Education column is due once a month and the one for Running Times every other month. Because I am a neurotic producer, I get twitchy if I don't have a couple in reserve (there's always a possibility that an editor won't like one, and if so, I don't ever want to have to produce at the last minute). That leaves little time to work on other stuff.

So when I was offered a trip to Singapore for the marathon, I decided that it would be good to take advantage of the warm weather to hang out in this part of the world for a while. I've always been most productive when I go away by myself to a place where I know no one. I wrote my first book while house-sitting in a dull suburb of Santa Cruz. I'd write in the mornings, go for a run on the beach at noon, and read in the afternoons (and evenings, and nights). I wrote my second book while house-sitting in the suburbs of Nevada City, CA, living in a tiny miner's shack, looking after some horses, a one-eyed dog, and a one-eyed cat. I'd work in the mornings, go for a run around noon, and read in the afternoons (evenings, and nights). I wrote my third book while house-sitting in Missoula, MT. You can probably guess what my schedule was like, though since I had lived there before, it was a bit more social. And truth be told, I prefer running in the mountains to the beach.

While I'm not yet ready to commit to another book project, I decided to take advantage of a borrowed condo to do the same thing here in Thailand. It's working. I am just as exhausted, lonely and bored as I was in Santa Cruz that first summer as a writer. There my longest conversations were "Thank you very much. You have a nice day too." In a country where little English is spoken, my interactions here are mostly a nodding of the head, hands pressed together, and a quick Kob Kun Ka, which usually inspires a giggle.

I've been writing in the mornings. Today, for example, I banged out a 5000 word first draft of an essay about creative nonfiction, journalism, and the essayists of the 18th and 19th centuries. I've been reading a lot of The Spectator, The Idler, and Ben Franklin. It makes for a certain amount of cognitive dissonance when rambling around (oh, yes, The Rambler, as well) Hua Hin, but I'm okay with that.

To clear my head I have been running--though everyone stares at me, as I tend not to run on the beach like the other tourists, but try to use my runs as opportunities to explore. Yesterday, for example, I ran out of town through a local fishing market. It was smelly. Then I ran up a big honkin' hill and found a temple on top. I didn't go into the temple (running clothes are not appropriate for religious sites), but I spent a lot of time watching the monkeys. There were a whole lot of monkeys.

They mostly ignored me, except for some of the kids, who, like typical kids, were simultaneously interested and frightened, until one mother started charging at me. I got kind of scared. Then she ran right past me. I realized she has seen a tuk-tuk, an open air touristy bus, pull up and was headed right for it. Then a whole swarm of monkeys joined her. They had learned that tourists come bearing bags of bananas. It was fascinating and repulsive to watch this.

The condo is located between the Chiva Som International Health Resort (favorite of movie stars) and the Hyatt (way ritzy). So it's a high end kind of place. The pool meanders for about 100 meters, maybe more, and goes almost up to the beach. On the beach each day about 50 guys troll on horseback (well, many are on pony-back) for tourists who want a ride. Mostly there are no takers. When there are, you see the Thai guys dragging their horses by the bridle, with people uncomfortably perched atop, wearing bathing suits and looking happy only for the camera.

The first day I was here, one of the guys approached me. It was late in the day, and the surf was in. I told him I'd go the next day. The next day, as I was walking on the beach, he found me. We negotiated an hour ride for an astronomical sum of 500 bhat. (It costs 200-250 bhat for an hour massage.) That's fifteen bucks! But I said okay, as long as I could take the horse by myself.

Then I realized that this wasn't a horse, but a pony. The guy told me that the horses are more expensive because they are easier.

If I had a pony, I'd ride it on a boat. Because that would be more comfortable than riding a pony. The little guy (whose name I heard as Seymour, which can't be right because it's isn't very Thai, but it amuses me to think he's named after my great uncle)had an egg-beater choppy gait. His tiny hooves moved so quickly I could barely post a trot (and certainly couldn't sit one), so I urged him into a canter, which was slightly less uncomfortable. So for an hour, we cantered up and then back down the beach. It was like being in a condom commercial, splashing through the surf, my mane and his tail flying, all romantic and shit. Except, of course, that I was alone.

Then the stirrup leathers started to cut into my (bare) legs. I've been riding in shorts for a long time, but usually on an endurance saddle covered with fleece. I'd forgotten what chafing is like. So I crossed the stirrups over Seymour's little neck and rode the rest of the way without.

When I cantered back up to the guy, he said "You cowboy."

I said, "You right."

Then I was exhausted and had to get another Thai massage.

Which isn't as relaxing as you'd think. It's kind of like yoga without having to do any of the work. Which could be relaxing, unless your leg muscles are as tight as mine. So it manages to hurt and to make me yelp, which makes the Thai ladies laugh, which makes me laugh, and then we're all laughing but I'm still hurting.

The other massage options are an oil massage, which is less painful but also, for a runner, less useful, a facial, and a foot massage--which is reflexology. The last time I was in Thailand I had a foot massage and remember feeling like an hour was too long. But I'm game to try again. You can't walk more than a few yards without hitting another massage place.

As usual, I think I'm invisible when I run. It always surprises me when I'm in Spokane and someone says "Oh, I saw you running yesterday." I think that if I don't notice others, they won't notice me. This is, apparently, not the case. I suspect that I stand out a bit more here than I do in Spokane. This was confirmed when I went to a massage place on the main drag here, not far from the (gated) entrance to the condo. Before she started working on me (and make no mistake, these women work hard for their 250 bhat an hour) she said, "I see you jogging all the time." Now I'm going to feel guilty every time I pass and don't go in for a massage.

The first day I was here, I overate exotic Thai fruits I love so much. I never thought it would be possible, but I can't look at another mangosteen or rambutan. Yesterday when I went to the shiny fancy shopping mall to get supplies (water, pretzels, Oreos) I stopped at a stand and got mango with sticky rice. I've become a little leery of eating out. Not because I'm not a fearless eater (though just looking at some of the grilled meats on carts on the streets can make me queasy) but because I am so reactive to MSG.

On the beach the other day I had an amazing lunch of spicy green papaya salad with dried prawns and tom yum soup. It was so spicy I had tears coming down my face. It was delicious. But after a few bites, I also had a familiar tightening in my jaw. Because it was so good, and because I am a pig, I kept eating. Then I got the full-on headache and it lingered for the rest of the day and night. So I'm trying to be careful. I've got a lot of work to do and can't afford to be wiped out by a migraine.

It's now 1:30 in the afternoon. It's sunny out again, and quite warm (I have a balcony; I can tell). Warm enough, in fact, to go for a trot. So I'll head out to explore. If I get lost, I know I'm good for about four hours of running before I get really tired. (Yesterday I bought two bottles of water at the halfway point to get myself home.) The Singapore marathon took more out of me than I had expected, so I'm still taking it pretty easy. Just "jogging" around, poking about, seeing what I can see.

Then I'll go have a massage. This time on the beach. This time, with oil. After writing all morning, I've had enough pain for the day.

Friends, if you are reading this, please send email. As William Carlos Williams wrote in "Danse Russe":

"I am lonely, lonely.
I was born to be lonely,
I am best so!"

Oh, a note: I find it nearly impossible to proofread these blog posts. There will be typos. Maybe even mindos. I apologize.

In case you missed the last reference

2009-12-10T17:28:00.002-08:00

I often have lines of Wallace Stevens' poetry running through my head. Last Sunday morning, during the Singapore Marathon, it was "Sunday Morning." It took over my mind like a jingle.

Here it is, for those who have somehow missed this beautiful poem.

Is There No Change of Death in Paradise?

2009-12-09T19:54:00.004-08:00

Does ripe fruit never fall?

I'm writing from the balcony of a luxury condo in Hua Hin, described to me as the Palm Beach of Thailand. I'll be here for a couple of weeks, hoping to get bored and lonely and therefore be really productive. I have much writing to do, and while exciting travel to interesting countries is always fun, deadlines loom.

So I'm taking advantage of the generous offer of a friend to settle in here at what I'm calling the Hua Hin Writer's Colony (of one). This morning, for example, I started working on my syllabus for winter quarter and the craft lecture I have to give at Pacific University in January. Soon I'll go lie by the pool and try to think up some ideas for Chronicle columns. When that doesn't work (it won't), I'll walk along the sea and hope that the thoughts will come (they will). I'll eat eight more mangosteens (the "queen of fruits"), another half dozen rambutan (they look like hairy eyeballs), and then go get another hour of Thai massage for six dollars. I already ran this morning before it got hot.

I'd forgotten how much the Thai people love their king and how there are pictures of him everywhere, often with a camera strap around his neck. (It's nice to feel warmly, finally, about my own president.) I'd forgotten how beautiful Thai writing looks, how the temples are filled with flowers and how there are scrappy dogs everywhere. I hadn't forgotten how much Thai massage hurts, or how the tiny women who pound me with their feet and elbows laugh when I yelp and growl. For six dollars an hour, there are worse things I could do to my body.

I ran into town this morning, though the curbs are high and my legs are still tired from the Singapore marathon, and back along the beach. It's lovely here, just lovely.

I don't know how I got to be someone who gets to do things like this. Fortune smiles.

I Thought I Would Be Bigger Here

2009-12-07T16:30:00.002-08:00

In Singapore, I expected to feel like a giant.

There are so many ways I was wrong about what this country would be like. During the marathon on Sunday I spit, chewed gum, and even did the "farmer blow" (if you don't know what that is, ask a runner). I wore a jog bra and running shorts. No shirt. No caning.

Doing a marathon in 90 degree heat with 90 percent humidity wasn't easy. I drank two cups of water at every aid station and dumped one over my head. It took me a half hour longer than my easy jog through the five boroughs of NYC last month. And I've been whupped and sore ever since. When I get to Thailand it may take a few days before I let any of those tiny people beat on my body. Well, maybe I'll get a foot massage.

But Singapore is such a strange brew of cultures that I am normal- to small-sized here. My XS marathon finisher's shirt is still too big. I guess I'll have to wait until tomorrow to be able to purchase chunky XL girl clothes.

Being a member of the "foreign media" has been a treat (am reporting in from my work space in the sumptuous Ritz Carlton dining room). Tomorrow I go to Thailand to stay in a friend's beach condo (next door, he says, to the resort where Brangelina go to recover from plastic surgery) where I will enjoy my own Writer's Colony of One. Looking forward to reading, writing, running (when I stop being sore) and lots of exotic fruit.

In the meantime, life goes on at home. Here is my latest Chronicle column, which I would have titled "Friends Don't Let Friends Miss Deadlines."

Lost in Singapore

2009-12-04T18:58:00.002-08:00

Okay, well then, not really that lost: I can run the entire length of the country, and will do pretty much that tomorrow morning at 5:30 during the Singapore marathon.

I planned to go out for a little jog to get the many hours of flying (12 hours to Narita; seven more to Singapore) out of my legs. But I found interesting things along the way, got a little confused about directions (so what else is new?), and accidentally ran for an hour and a half.

Each time I stopped to ask someone directions, he would point me back in the direction I'd just come, having been directed that way by another well-intentioned but misguided Singaporean. Finally I found aguy who could get me home: he told me to go straight down the street I was on and hang a right after the theatre that looks like a durian fruit.

The city is, not surprisingly, clean and beautiful, without any of the l'air du Asia that you find in many cities in this part of the world. It's also hip and groovy. The Time Out Singapore feels no different in tone from Time Out London or NY; maybe even a little racier--far from the repressive and strict regime I'd been told to expect.

Plus, how can you not like a country that at passport control offers you Jolly Ranchers. Or the Asian version of Jolly Ranchers. Welcome to Singapore; have some candy. I love it.

I could live in a city-state like this. Except that my hair is now big as a house. I forgot what humidity is like. But it's worth it for the warmth. I am loose-limbed and an easy mover in the heat and am not missing the frigid northwest. Though I am missing some of the people there.

Great Expectations

2009-11-13T16:13:00.003-08:00

In an item in the most recent Ride and Tie newsletter (What? you haven't read it yet?) my last-minute partner wrote about the horrors of riding Pip, a young horse who was generously loaned to us by Don and Annie Betts, for the Championship race.

To set the record straight about what a monster this animal is, here's a photo of me on him. No saddle, no bridle, no problems. Oh, and I was wearing a running skirt. A month or so later, my friend Brandi and I won another race--by an hour--on this unruly beast. Just saying.

Still Recovering from the Trauma of Last Year's AWP Conference

2009-11-10T14:09:00.002-08:00

My latest Chronicle column.

While You Were Sleeping

2009-11-07T13:48:00.001-08:00

It's a good thing I was in NYC last weekend; otherwise I would have been awakened by a car coming over the cliff and landing right next to my building. It was a wild Halloween in Spokane. Glad I missed it. Now I wish the car would go away.

Cry Me a River

2009-11-02T16:34:00.007-08:00

I love New York. Even though I had very little time to be out and about this weekend, just walking around the City makes me happy. It thrums and buzzes and doesn’t even stink anymore. I kind of miss the stink.

The marathon Expo was predictably exhausting—especially since the Moeben booth was so busy. But the reward for a hard day’s work was hanging with my peeps, Shannon Farar-Grier and Lynne VandenBos. We had an incredible dinner at SushiSamba (where it was so dark and hip that none of us could read the menu and Shannon treated us by leaving the choices up to the waitperson and the sommelier) on Thursday night, and then, after the the swanky Runner’s World party on Saturday, we went with the editors of Runner’s World France and Runner’s World Italy—two clever, charming and Eurotrashily handsome guys—to drink in the “Living Room” of the W Hotel for drinks. Shannon knows not only how to live strong, but how to live well.

At the Runner’s World party I had a chance to have a conversation with my third Olympic medalist in two weeks. Lorraine Moller, who ran in four Olympic Games, and I rat-holed in a corner and had a real and meaningful conversation about success, nationalism, and where and how to find meaning in it all.

(For the record, I avoided being introduced to a fourth Olympian: Deena Kastor’s husband guilelessly related to me a naive and mildly snarky remark she made to him about something I had written, so while we stood near each other—I’m sure she’s very nice; spouses shouldn’t reveal each other’s true feelings, especially to journalists, even bad ones—I had no interest in meeting Deena.)

Two weeks ago, I was invited to San Francisco to attend the Nike Global Running Summit, where we stayed at the too-cool-for-school Clift Hotel, arrived to bags of Nike swag when we entered the room (so hiply and dimly lit that I may well have put on too much makeup—I couldn’t see a thing in the bathroom), and got an entry to the race.

I had asked the Nike folks to sign me up for the marathon, but there was a snafu and the number I got was for the half. Instead of bothering to change my registration, I changed races since 1) I’d done a marathon the week before and knew I was doing NYC two weeks later and 2) you get the same silver Tiffany necklace, presented by a fireman in a tux at the finish (I also asked for and got a kiss), no matter which distance you do. I run for Shiny Metal Objects, especially when they come in robin’s egg blue boxes and you can wear them.

But before the race, I got to talk to two Olympic gold medalists. Another person would be embarrassed by these stories. I suppose I should be, but I am not.

You will not be surprised to know that Nike hosts a great cocktail party.

A number of running journalists from around the world (there were as many international writers as there were national ones) were invited for a preview of their new spring line. This is nothing new. They do it pretty much every year, as do all the other major shoe and apparel companies.

What was different this year was that I got to go. I am not a gear girl. It’s pretty much true that I don’t know a last from a midsole; I don’t know the lingo. What’s a tread? What’s an upper?

At the party, we were able to use Nike computer technology to design our own shoes. You got to sit down with a rep and pick your components. Then, when you were finished, they printed out a piece of plastic with your shoe on it. A few weeks later, they’d mail the shoes.

Because I am, shall we say, not afraid of attention, I made mine in an in-your-face orange, with a neon yellow swoosh. Even though my friends refer to me as “visually retarded,” I was darned proud of my fashion design.

When I’ve achieved something that I think is great, I like to share. So I bounded over, second glass of wine in hand, to where my fellow Running Times columnist Jim Gerweck was sitting, chatting quietly with a young woman whom I assumed to be a college student. Maybe an intern at a magazine; maybe a Nike staffer.

I interrupted their conversation to show off my credit-card photo, my passport as a designer of my own footwear. They were both appropriately impressed and enthusiastic.

Jim did not introduce me to the young woman. Because he knows everyone in the sport, sometimes he forgets that I don’t. So I stuck out my hand and did the polite thing. She said her name was Kara. I asked who she was there for (no nametags, oddly enough at this event).

She said Nike.

Oh, I said, do you work for them? Are you in publicity?

She smiled and kind of laughed. She may have said she was a runner.

I wasn’t looking at Jim. I’m not sure what I would have seen if I had.

Our colleague Brian Metzler came over just as I was asking if she ran marathons.

Yes, she said, as Jim slouched further down in his chair.

Finally it hit me. Minutes before Brian had introduced me to a skinny runner guy named Adam.

Oh. Oops.

Poor colleagues. Poor embarrassed colleagues.

Brian looked at me with shock and awe and said “Who are you?”

Well, I’m someone who is visually retarded. I like to say that I have prosopagnosia (it’s a real diagnosis; look it up in the DSM), but the truth is I don’t recognize faces, even when they’re plastered on magazine covers and in gigantic billboards. And I don’t pay much attention to elite runners. Even when they win Olympic gold. Even when they’re the fastest woman marathoner in America.

Kara Goucher could not have been more gracious. In fact, she seemed relieved not to have another person gushing over her, telling her “You’re Kara Goucher!” as if she didn’t know, cooing about how amazing she is. We talked about the fact that she is not running now because she’s trying to get pregnant.

When I went off to get another drink, I told the other journalists (there was a fantastic group of women at this thing) about our encounter and they were, let’s say, surprised, rightly wondering how I’d gotten invited to this gig. Since Kara was my new BFF, I said I’d make introductions and brought them over en masse. The real journalists were professional and admiring but not gushy and had lots of advice for her on how to get pregnant. I offered that she and Adam should leave right now and go to their room and—well, you know.

The next day Kara and Sammy Wanjiru did a Q&A for the assembled writers. Kara was charming; Sammy, the first Kenyan to win Olympic gold, was unintelligible. I couldn’t tell if it was a language issue, an accent problem, or that he was dumb as a post.

That night, as Jim and I were walking through the lobby on our way back from dinner, we ran into the little Olympian. Jim had been in a flock of journalists who were interviewing Sammy in a group, the running world’s version of paparazzi, shoving recording devices out from extended arms as he answered shouted out questions. Jim said he hadn’t gotten much good stuff and was regretful, since our editor, Jonathan Beverly had tried without success to interview Sammy after he won the Chicago marathon the week before.

So we went up to him and started talking. Jim made a few comments about running, and then I acted like me. I didn’t understand his story. He is Kenyan, right? But he went to high school in Japan? Yes, he said.

Why?

He had a scholarship.

For what?

Economics.

So you were good in school?

Yes.

Then why aren’t you going to university?

Because, he said, he was being paid by Toyota to run; more school could come later. He needed to run now, when he was fast.

I asked what language he dreams in.

He said Japanese.

Jim couldn’t believe I’d asked Sammy Wanjiru what language he dreams in. But we both found his response interesting.

A small group approached and wanted to have their photo taken with the cocky young runner.

He agreed. They snapped. They left.

I told him he had to work on his celebrity chops. I told him about how Bill Rodgers makes every person he meets feel like they’re his best friend, that once you can no longer run fast, you can still be you, an Olympian, a movie star of sorts. Bill Rodgers makes a living being Bill Rodgers.

Shake hands, I said. Look them in the eye. Ask them questions.

Smile more. You may even get some chicks that way, a cute guy like you. No, he said. He’s married. And he has a kid. I wanted to know what language they speak at home. He’s married to a Kenyan, so the answer was not revealing.

I asked Sammy what he does when he isn’t running. He’s running pretty much all the time.
I pushed, and he said he liked movies. Which ones? Action, dude. He’s a big fan of the Terminator series. We agreed that T2 is by far the best. I pointed out that it’s a feminist action flick. He smiled with his eyes this time.

I asked what he had coming up. He lives in Japan and his travel schedule is world-wide and grueling; races and appearances for Nike, plus visits back to his home in Kenya. All the races he rattled off were half marathons. I asked how fast he was going to run them.

Fast, he said. Like 58 or 59 minutes.

Why so many halfs?

Poor Jim. He cringed again like a beaten dog and supplied the answer: Um, because he has the world record in the half marathon?

Sammy’s accent—Japanese-inflected English with a dash of Kenyan—was harder to understand when he was miked on stage than it was in the lobby of the Clift. He was as delightful and arrogant and sweet as a 21 year-old wunderkind can be. It was great fun to chat with him.

But, I realized once again, I am the world’s most ignorant running journalist.

In New York City, it didn’t matter. I wasn’t there to write—I was there to sell what I’ve already written. Shannon, who is not only a small business owner but also a philanthropist, offered to let me give away a pair of arm sleeves to everyone who bought a copy of my book.

My book costs $25. The sleeves are $28. Not surprisingly, I sold all the copies I brought. Some of the people who bought the book may not even be able to read. But those arm sleeves sure are terrific.

I took some time off to walk across town to lunch with my former literary agent.

We talked for a while about my writing projects, my career, and then she said: “Here’s
what your problem is, Rachel.”

She told me. She was right.

After we discussed this for a while, she asked me to point out her flaws. I thought for a while and did.

She said, Oh my God, you’re right. How did I get to be so old without knowing it?

You don’t often get to have conversations—or friends—like this.

On Saturday I got in a taxi to go to another swanky restaurant for the reception for the Multiple Myeloma Research Foundation runners. Last year there were 10 runners at the NYC marathon raising money for this bitch of a disease. This year they had 113, who had, among them, raised more than a million bucks.

I started crying in the cab and didn’t stop. I wiped my eyes through the recitation of the fundraising statistics; I choked when the newly-appointed director of development mentioned, in passing, that his dad had died of the disease; I sniffled through a short video on myeloma. Worst, worst of all, I started crying about seven seconds into my own talk. I had to cover my mouth to keep deep sobs from escaping. I did not want to be that girl. But I was.

Afterward, seated at a table behind stacks of my books, I cried when Allison came up to tell me that she too had been close to her mother. Her mother had died in December.

Allison bought a book and wanted a photo of the two of us; when it was taken, our eyes were red, and not from a bad flash.

Then Susan came up and said her dad had died in May. There were now three of us crying.I managed to recover, until Naimah, a young woman who had grown up in NY (her mother, now dead, taught poetry in the MFA program at Syracuse) but moved to LA to work on re-writing scripts, bought a copy and told me she was running for her godmother, Mittie.

Then I met Mittie. And then I really lost it.

Mittie was diagnosed with this “universally fatal” disease in 1995. Most people live five years after getting the news. Mittie has undergone two stem cell transplants and she looked fantastic.

I said to her, “I am so sorry. I don’t know what it’s like for you. I can only try to imagine how hard it is.”

Then Mittie cried.

She said, “You’re right. You don’t know. No one knows.”

This is something my mother said often. She told me that I was the only one she could speak with about how she felt, who would let her speak with honesty, but even so, she said, I couldn’t understand how bad it felt.

I sold a book to a guy named Alvin, an oncologist who now has a company working on clinical trials for myeloma meds. He struck me as the smartest guy in the room and we talked for a nice while. His wife was supposed to be there too, but she had broken her toe. She’s also a researcher, working for a cure.

People said I did a good job with the talk/reading. It’s impossible to say.

It was the hardest speaking engagement I’ve ever had.

I thanked the women who had invited me, former Running Times colleagues Alicia O’Neill and Jane Hoffman, both fellow marathoners, and walked back to the hotel sobbing my way south.

The thing is, if you’re crying your eyes out in NYC on Halloween, elbowing through costumed hordes in Times Square, no one even notices.

When I got back to the room I was going to lie around and continue to dehydrate myself. But then I got a call from Nikki Kimball, by all measures the best woman ultramarathoner in the US, and one of the best in the world. Nikki is the best ambassador this crazy niche sport could ever hope for. She is also someone to whom I feel extremely connected, but do not see or talk to enough. If neither of us ran, we would still be close. I cannot say this for all my ultrarunning friends.

She was having dinner with her North Face sponsors that night and invited me along.

As we walked (fast, we walk fast) to the restaurant we caught up. Her year also has been horrible—loved ones dying everywhere, all the time. We ended up laughing at just how awful it can get, and by the time we arrived at the restaurant (another groovy, swanky Manhattan spot), we were both kind of okay, better for being together.

When we got there one of the guys from the advertising agency that handles the North Face said to me, as we were introduced, “You wrote that essay about going back to your college reunion. You’re wild.”

True, and less true than I may appear in print. But it was nice to know that someone reads those columns.

At dinner we sat at a big round table and Nikki and I continued to gossip like girls and talk like women. With a certain kind of friend, lots of time with no contact can elapse but still, you are able to pick up in the middle of a conversation you’d started years before. Nikki’s that kind of friend.

Finally I began to pay attention to the skinny middle-aged guy on my left, a bloke named David. He was something like the brand manager for the North Face. I asked if he was running the next day.

(As it turned out, I was the only one doing the race; the food was delicious and the Chateauneuf-de-Pape kept flowing. If it weren’t my favorite wine, I would have been abstemious. But it is, and I wasn’t.)

I asked if he’d done any marathons and he said, Yes, a few.

How many?

Five.

Oh, I said, more than a little drunk and, as is the case even when stone sober, too full
of myself, I don’t think you get to call yourself a marathon until you’ve done at least five.

He raised his eyebrows and I explained that it takes a while to get the hang of it, you see. I’ve done something like 50, and I still don’t really know what I’m doing. It just gets harder.

He said the five he’d done were pretty hard.

Then I started thinking. Oh shit. Had I done it again?

Were you fast? I took another big swig of the delicious burgundy.

Yes, he said.

Oh, I said, looking down into my scallop. How fast?

Very, he said.

Tell me.

I was second in NY.

[Here we go again.] Tell me your times.

He did: 2:12; 2:11; 2:17 (he made a face); 2:13; and 2:59 (in Boston, ten years after his competitive days.

Did I mention that I’m the world’s worst running journalist?

Then I told him that my next Running Times column was about why so many runners hate his star athlete, Dean Karnazes. (Will I ever learn to shut my pie hole? You have to wonder.)

We had an interesting conversation about Dean. He kept saying being in the booth with Dean, he was swarmed by fans, that there are far more people who love him than hate him, that the negative reaction comes down to a four letter work.

Fuck? (I can’t help it—it just popped into my head.)

No.

Cash?

Well, yes. But that’s not it.

Fame?

Well, yes. But that’s not quite it either.

When I refused to continue trying to read his mind he told me. He attributed the reason to envy.

That’s part of it.

So we discussed the topic at length and found that we agreed. And I continued to find him more and more attractive.

I told him about Speed Goggles. That, combined with a Liverpool accent made him seem like the fast Beatle. Irresistible. (He may well be married and kidded. Maybe even gay. That is so not the point.)

As it turns out, I had written a draft of a new Finishing Kick column on the plane to New York. It might read as being about him. It might read that way because, in some ways, it is about him. And obviously, of course, it is not, since we met after I wrote it.

The next morning, hung over from good wine and Ambien, I had to be at Central Park West at 6 a.m. to board the bus to Staten Island. I wore my “charity” bracelet with pride. Not only would it get me into the MMRF tent and allow me to avoid the hoi polloi, but it made me feel like I was running for something bigger than my small pathetic self; I accidentally raised a thousand bucks for the foundation by mentioning it to a wealthy friend.

(I realize that by coming out as a “charity runner” it means I probably shouldn’t be writing for Running Times. For the RT gang “charity runners” are the human instantiation of a handful of deadly sins.)

I bumped into Alvin, the geeky doctor. We sat together on the bus, and then wandered through soggy, muddy Fort Wadsworth Park, looking for coffee and talking about running, life and death. I’d dread all that waiting around time before the race. I needn’t have. I could not have been in better company.

I would have been happy to run the whole thing with him, but we were in different start groups. Since the marathon is so big, NYC has switched to a “wave start,” sending three groups of the 43,000 runners off in twenty minute intervals. It was, however, still crowded the whole way.

In the corral at the start, I looked down and saw an IPod Shuffle at my feet. I picked it up and looked around.

A woman next to me said, “Whoever lost it isn’t going to find it. Just take it.”
It was another one of those weird gifts that sometimes fall from heaven—or the pockets of careless runners. I put it on and listened to music I would have chosen myself. [NB:There is a photo of me in the New York Times on the photo blog about the marathon, holding this IPod and not quite believing that we're about to start running. This is not how I wanted to make my NY Times debut.]

Unlike many, I am not fueled in races by cheering throngs. One of my least favorite things about the NYC marathon is how noisy it is.
Not this year. I heard nothing but Katrina and the Waves, the Bangles, Bruce Springsteen, and other music selected by someone who was likely in college when I was.

Two days of being on my feet in the Expo, walking miles around the City to get where I needed to go, and three nights of drinking does not make running a marathon any easier, even if you’ve done 50 or so. I told people, when asked, that I would run somewhere between 3:40 and 4:15. If I felt like it, I’d stop for Ben and Jerry’s. I didn’t give a hoot about my time. Because here’s the thing: I was responsible for no one. As much as I love pacing, right now, I love even more not pacing. Am I’m still getting free trips and comped entries to marathons. So. Much. Better.

I didn’t push myself even a little bit. I am suffering from the lingering effects of what was likely a mild case of pig flu (acquired when I was in San Francisco the day before the Nike Women’s Marathon), and I didn’t want to make myself sicker. I cruised. I zoned out. I zoned in: I wrote an angry email to a friend that I will never send. I worked on my columns. I daydreamed about spending December on a Thai beach.

This was the first marathon in a long time where I was anonymous. At the Spokane marathon, three weeks before, I was recognized by a couple of people who had either read my stuff or seen me somewhere. In San Francisco, I was running with a bunch of people I either knew or had just met.

Some folks recognized me at the NYC Expo, and even at the Myeloma reception, the first people to come up to me after my talk were a mother-daughter pair who said that I was their hero; they had both read my admissions book when the daughter was in high school and now she was about to graduate from Duke. You never know who knows who you are until they tell you. It’s kind of fun, but also weird and a little scary at times. But it’s unseemly to complain about answered prayers; I have sought publication eagerly, and can’t be surprised when people more observant than I (who isn’t?) notice.

But as is appropriate for New York City, at this marathon I was both surrounded and crowded by people and invisible and alone. It was restful in an odd way. And I couldn’t pay close attention to my time because my watch was giving me fits.

Now, as I have documented in print, I love my watch. Recently it has been suffering from problems, both internal and external. I did not want to replace it. This is the one that I want. My one true love, my beloved.

The infinitely-connected and well-loved Jim Gerweck told me that his friend Matti from Polar might be able to help me out, so at the Expo, I trotted over to their booth and asked for him.

Matti looked at it, I told him the issues, and he said: Easy.

Just like that, my beloved was restored. It no longer takes me fifteen minutes to get it on and off (new band). The button to turn on the backlight is no longer naked. The Polar reps showed me how to fix it so the lap times were big and the elapsed time small.

Matti fixed up the beloved and, like a true and narcisstic dork, I gave him a copy of my book, pointing out the chapter called “The Watch,” thinking that somehow he would care.

Yes, my beloved was back, but some setting had changed, and the little bastard kept saying “Check Sensor.” Screw you, I said, every time it said “Check Sensor.” I would fiddle with it and mess up the lap time. I’d get all confused and had no idea how fast (or slow) I was running.

True, I had my even-bigger Garmin on my other wrist, but I couldn’t tell, mile to mile, what pace I was on. I kept telling myself (and now you) that I didn’t care. And that’s mostly true. But I did want to know. I fetishize information.

I shivered my way through the finish in 3:45, respectable enough for a woman my age who’s recently done a bunch of running and traveling and being sick, shuffled to the UPS truck with my drop bag, put back on the thrift store sweats that I did not discard at the start, and walked two blocks west. On Broadway and 80th you’d never know that one of the world’s biggest races was finishing up just then in Central Park. It was business as usual. I got a cab easily and went back to the hotel.

After a shower, a successful shopping trip to Daffy’s (“Clothing Bargains for Millionaires”), and a gyro from a hot Greek street vendor in Herald Square, I went back to the room and settled in to read student work and whimper to myself.

Then, as I always do after a race, I called Mike.

He’d gone away for the weekend, so I hadn’t talked to him in a few days. This is unusual. Usually we talk most every day. Our romantic relationship ended more than a dozen years ago; Mike is the bestest of my best friends, the top of the heap, the one I tell it to. He filled me in on his trip and said that the woman he’s dating had made a cake for him.

Oh shit.

Oh double, triple, super shit.

Mike’s birthday is on Halloween. It’s impossible to forget. I managed not only to forget to call Mike on his birthday, I forgot about it altogether. Didn’t think about what to get him, didn’t even remember it was coming up. Gone baby, gone.

October has been a month I’ve needed to muscle through. Granted, everything I’ve done has been good and fun and productive—amazing, really. But I’ve been home three days a week for too many weeks. That’s not enough.

I am a homebody. I need lots of time alone. Between preparing for my regular classes, teaching at the state prison, working with my thesis advisees, going to meetings, meeting my writing deadlines, and dating a new guy, I have neglected to be a good friend to the people I care most about.

Mike said he understood and I know that he did. But still.

In November I’m going nowhere. Don’t invite me to visit you; I won’t come. Not in November.

I’m staying at home and recovering, catching up and resting up—at least until I take off for Asia for December.

As bad as things have been this year, I have a good and rich and full life. I know that, though sometimes I forget, just as I sometimes (once—never again) I can forget my best friend’s birthday.

Live from New York

2009-10-29T17:40:00.001-07:00

It’s a difficult rhetorical task, one I would not have chosen to undertake.

I am in the Big Apple for the New York City Marathon, here to spend Saturday at the expo booth for Moeben, maker of the coolest running gear ever (www.moeben.com), where I will sell arm sleeves and sign copies of Personal Record, alongside Chris McDougall, whose book, Born to Run, about the Tarahumara runners in Mexico, is smart and engaging and fantastic.

On Friday I will meet with my beloved former literary agent, who deserted me to run a press (Bitch!), and then go to the swanky Runner’s World party and drink wine and eat appetizers with a bunch of skinny people. On Sunday I will get up too early to board a bus for Staten Island, stand around shivering, drinking water, and waiting in Port-a-Potty lines for hours, and then, once again, run the marathon that goes through all five boroughs, through neighborhoods that change by the block. I’ll end up in Central Park, and then jog a few more miles back to my hotel.

But before I do that I have to do something much, much harder.

On Saturday I am to talk to the runners who are raising money for the Multiple Myeloma Research Foundation. I will be available to sign and sell copies of my book. Smart authors do not turn down opportunities like this. When I was invited, I was told: Be funny.

This is not completely unreasonable. I have been known to be funny. When the editors at The Chronicle of Higher Education want to torture me, they ask me to write an essay on some particular topic. And they say: Be funny. I used to joke that the actors had it right. Dying is easy; comedy is hard.

Dying is, of course, not easy.

There is no way I can be funny talking about the disease that killed my mother.

In fact, I am afraid that I will not be able to speak at all. When I try to think about what I can say to these people, all of whom have become members of a club none of us ever wished to join, I start to cry. This enrages and embarrasses me.

The other day I went for a run to think about my talk, to spend six miles trying to come up with a way to approach this topic. I started crying. Then I fell, hard, on the sidewalk, bruising and scraping my knees, elbow, palm and hip. I cried harder, enraged, embarrassed.

What I know is that no one would be more proud, more eager to hear what I come up with to say to this group than my mother. I want to be able to do this. I’ve received some good pieces of advice. A friend who lives his life according to Seinfeld suggested it’s always good to end on an “up note.” Another, who had to deliver his father’s eulogy, said it’s easier to read something—to focus on black words on a white page—than it is to try to speak.

So I will read the section from my book about the 2001 New York City Marathon, when we runners, all grief-stricken and unmoored, came together for a few hours to celebrate ourselves, to sing our bodies electric. And then I will close with another section, something short and funny, something light, an up note.

And I will dig my nails into my palms to try to keep from crying.

Sinagpore Noodles

2009-10-20T14:09:00.003-07:00

Another unturndownable invitation: I will be going to the Singapore Marathon on December 6, and will spend the following three weeks in southeast Asia. Being Jewish and without family, I will likely fly home on Christmas day after some good R&R on a beach, eating mangosteen, jackfruit and rambutan and writing my little butt off. Maybe Thailand, maybe Borneo, maybe Burma. Who knows? The world is my durian.

Dispatch from the Front

2009-10-14T11:37:00.002-07:00

My October column from Running Times, on going to my 25th college reunion.

Make it work!

2009-10-14T09:17:00.001-07:00

My Chronicle column on why every graduate student should be required to view at least the first season of Project Runway.

Big Good News

2009-10-07T09:47:00.001-07:00

Personal Record will be out in paperback next fall from Bison Books.

Where You'll Find Me

2009-10-04T14:50:00.006-07:00

Sometimes I think I have the coolest life (when I'm not wallowing in self-pity). It's not that I'm the coolest chick, just that I have great good friends who get me invited to groovy events.

So,in case you're wondering (yeah, right), here's what up for this month:

October 15-18. Nike swag fest. I'm going to the Nike Global Running Summit (where they show off their new wares to journalists) in San Francisco. Staying at the Clift Hotel. Running the Nike Women's Marathon; at the finish you get a silver necklace from Tiffany's and a kiss from a fireman. How much do you hate me? If I weren't me, I'd hate me a lot.

October 22-25. The Montana Festival of the Book, Missoula. I will be joining an all-star lineup, including David Sedaris, Marianne Wiggins, Maile Meloy, Dennis Lehane, Laura Lippman, David Simon, Andrew Sean Greer, Kevin Canty and a whole bunch of my friends in the Last Best Place. My reading is at 4pm on Friday,October 23. I'll read short snippets from The Pig and I, since it is recently out in a new paperback, and from Personal Record. My colleague, Sam Ligon, will be reading from his new collection of stories on Saturday. http://www.humanitiesmontana.org/BookFestival/bookfest.php

Octover 29-31. New York City Marathon. Details not nailed down but, but possibly personing the Moeben booth at the Expo, and giving a pep talk to the runners who are raising money for the Multiple Myeloma Research Foundation. Signing and selling copies of Personal Record.

Western States 100 Mile Run

2009-09-29T07:40:00.003-07:00

Here's my essay, an homage to Lorrie Moore, about pacing at this year's Western States, in the November issue of Running Times magazine.

This is me finishing with Robert Towne,56, of Spokane, WA, still looking good after a 100 miles (and no training).

Most recent Chronicle column

2009-09-15T07:40:00.000-07:00

Thinking about e-publishing.

Lost Mountain Ride and Tie

2009-09-13T21:25:00.003-07:00

Another fabulous weekend in Sequim, WA. I paired with the multi-talented Brandi Page and my favorite horse in the world, Pip. We won the race by nearly an hour, and Pip nabbed the coveted "Best Conditioned" award. Plus, we had a ridiculous amount of fun with our Ride and Tie family in the Olympic peninsula.

What I Did This Summer

2009-09-08T16:45:00.007-07:00

Well, I did a lot. Lots of running, riding, talking, driving, falling, eating--all good things. My most recent adventure was a trip that included a run up and down Mt. Whitney (the highest point in the lower 48) and then, 48 hours later, a run in the Grand Canyon, from rim to river to other rim, to river, to original rim. That's a rim-to-rim-to-rim run. The weather was perfect for both adventures, and things could not have been more fun.

As always, I rely on the kindness of others to take photographs. For anyone who is not my Facebook friend (and why aren't you?), I feel compelled to share the trophies I made for the boys after we completed 70 miles of trail running. They are SMOs, Shiny Metal Objects, markers of where we've been and what we've done. And to be honest, they just crack me up.

Book Reviewing for Fun (if not profit)

2009-08-20T19:50:00.001-07:00

In the latest issue of Ploughshares, my review of William Davies King's COLLECTIONS OF NOTHING, a beautiful, quirky book.

Yes, I am a delicate flower

2009-08-04T07:32:00.001-07:00

My Running Times column from the July/August issue.

Page Proof

2009-08-03T09:06:00.000-07:00

My latest column in the newly-redesigned Chronicle of Higher Education.

Post-racial America

2009-07-27T10:28:00.004-07:00

Of all the good ideas that come trickling out of the academy and into the general realm of knowledge and information, there are also some really dumb ones. The notion, for example, of "post-racial America."

In the early 1990s I attended a feminist studies/history conference. The theme was something like, "We have to get beyond the holy trinity of race, class and gender." The response of many of the African-American women was: "Um, we're not quite ready to get past race." (I was not then, nor am I now ready now, also to get past class or gender.)

What happened to my old professor, Skip Gates--being arrested at his home in Cambridge--and the aftermath, is just another example of how not post-race we are. Skip Gates is about as famous as an academic can be. If you look at the cultural and material markers of success, he has them all. That he's not apologetic about his accomplishments makes him an easy target. I suspect that that truth of what really took place between Skip and the cop lies somewhere between each of their accounts.

Skip can be boisterous. He once called out to me, across a crowded room at a conference, and asked if I wanted to buy his house. It was the biggest house in Durham, so far out of my price range as to be a laugh-out loud joke.

The reaction to Skip's arrest is either shock, or no surprise, depending on who you are and who you know. Many of my friends have been stopped for DWB, Driving While Black. It's never unexpected.

I don't know who's living in post-racial American. Not anyone I've ever talked to.

The Olympic Peninsula

2009-07-19T10:25:00.007-07:00

I have done a crappy job of exploring the state of Washington. I've been to Seattle exactly once. My orientation has been eastward; I keep scrambling over the mountain passes of Idaho and going back to Missoula.

Things have changed. I've spent the last few days in Sequim, pronounced "skwim," across the bay from Seattle and within spitting distance--if you're an excellent spitter--of another country.

I've traveled west to leave the West. This is a lush and leafy place. We've been riding through piney woods that are thick with ferns and thistles, and a vile plant called "Devil's Club." It has enormous leaves and stalks that look like instruments of torture. Which they are, if you brush by one.

My friends Don and Annie have gifted me with the Betts Foundation Fellowship to the Sequim Writer's Retreat. I have my own cabin, right on the bay. I'm actually in the suburbs of Sequim--it's 2.2 miles to town. The neighbors have seen seals and orcas swim past. Don and Annie (and Ride and Tie friend Lisa Preston, her husband Barry, and the good shepherd Jek) live about twenty minutes away, up where there are trails and trees, dogs and cats, horses and llamas.

Each day I've been here, Don and I have gone out for what I would have called trail rides, if I hadn't been there. They were mad dashes--cantering fast up dirt roads for miles, and trotting down rocky, muddy, eroded single-tracks. If I were a different person, I would have been terrified the first day. We had only a little time to ride before Don's birthday dinner, but I was so eager to get back on a horse Don agreed to take me out for a quick one. It turned out to be the fastest 12 mile ride I have ever done. We tore through it, ducking branches (mostly successfully)and trusting the athletic horses to stay on their feet (they mostly did). I was on Pip, my Ride and Tie championship partner, with a bit-less bridle. When you're a seven year old Arabian gelding, you have a lot of energy,strength, and staying power. When you're a 47 year old woman who rides only occasionally, you just try to hang on, remain balanced, and pour some libations to the gods. And think about how fortunate you are.

In the mornings I can go into a coffee shop in Sequim and write for a few hours. With the exception of today's pit-stop for blogging, I have gotten a lot of work done. It's because I know what I have to look forward to: trail runs with Lisa and Jek (who will keep up safe from cougars and bears, of which there are, apparently, an abundance around here), trail dashes on the Betts' horses, cuddle time with poodles and cats, and kisses from Hummer the llama. Plus dinner, chatting with Annie, and listening to Don and Barry play music.

The Sequim Writer's Retreat is just about the best thing going for struggling, depressed, ultrarunning, horse-addicted hacks. Competition to get in is intense, so don't even think about applying. Just wish you were me.

To Blog or Not to Blog

2009-07-10T09:57:00.003-07:00

Everyone who knows me knows that I am hard-working and perhaps pathologically productive. I get antsy when I take too many days off from writing. Recently I've been in an all-play-and-no-work mode, which has been fun, but also anxiety producing. I am only comfortable when I have things ready well before deadlines so that I have plenty of time to let them sit before I submit.

So during my great summer adventures, I've been struggling just to keep working on the things that are due. I've gotten a little too attached to Faceback, and have dipped a toe into Twitterland. But I have neglected to blog.

One of the things writers always tell wannabe writers is that you have to write every day. I don't really believe this. As is the case with running, I'm a big fan of taking days off. This allows you, when you come back to it, to feel refreshed and excited again. The trick is to take off the right amount of time. Too little and you risk burn out; too much and you lose momentum.

For many of my recent summers I have decamped for a new place: Santa Cruz, the foothills of the Sierra, Ithaca, Missoula. I live a pretend life, spend a lot of time feeling sorry for myself for being away from my usual community, meet new people, and generally get a lot done (this is how I've written each of my three books).

Last summer I stayed in Spokane, trying to like it here, spending as much time with my beloved Iris as I could. And I made frequent trips to Ithaca to see my mother. It was okay, but not great.

Things are different now. I can go anywhere I want. I am responsible for and to no one. On Thursday nights I am teaching writing at the medium security state prison in Airway Heights, but the graduate students are responsible for the course and I get to show up whenever I want, without commitment, without even having to prepare. Other than that, there's nothing keeping me in Spokane. It's freeing and scary.

My time in California was a revelation. I remembered that I can be happy, that I am person who likes to have fun. Doing the Ride and Tie made me want to spend more time on horseback; pacing at Western States encouraged me to train harder for my own races. I looked at the women in who finished in the top ten and was inspired to want to get faster and stronger. (Two of the top three women were 45 years old. Their ripped bodies made me look like a chunky monkey.)

On Saturday I will pop over the passes to Missoula so that I can lead the 3:50 pace group at the third annual Missoula marathon. I had thought I was finished with marathon pacing--it had started to feel too much like a bad job--but I couldn't wriggle out of this one. I know that I will have fun.

I've been offered a fabulous cabin on the water in Sequim, Washington, which is, I think, across some body of water from Seattle. There will be horses to ride, people to run with, and good and kind friends. It's an offer I can't refuse. So I will be heading west soon.

For the first time in a long time, I sent in a race entry. I'm going to do the Elkhorn 50 miler again on August 1. I've had a checkered history with this race (I wrote about it in my book), but it's beautiful and hard and I can't resist.

At the end of August, I've been invited to go with a friend and two of his friends on another big adventure. The plan is to go to Vegas, and then do a double endurance event: Climb Mt. Whitney, and then, three days later, go to the Grand Canyon and run from rim to rim to rim. Up, down, across, up, down, across, and back up. It's 48 miles; we should be able to do it in less than a full day.

September 12 there's another Ride and Tie in Sequim, and on September 19 ultrarunner, philanthropist, horsewoman, entrepreneur, and cool girl Shannon Farar-Griefer has asked me to pace her for the last 40 miles of the tough Angeles Crest 100 miler. Then school starts the following week.

So I'm looking for some more adventures to fill out July and August, and am hoping to be able to balance work and play. It was a dark winter and spring for me. Summer feels like a time of possibility.

Cowboying Up

2009-06-24T10:27:00.003-07:00

This is the life. Why is this not my everyday life?

Yesterday morning I drove 20 minutes into town and caught up on my email (much email) at the Broad Street Bistro in Nevada City. I had to look over some proofs of a review I wrote for Ploughshares--impossible to do on the Blackberry. I thought I was going to get some writing done. Wrong. Instead I visited many stores searching for poison oak treatment.

Around noon, I went over to the Browning Ranch and Pat and I got to work. Actually, Pat and I mostly drove around in the truck and watched Dub and Skye work. Those two border collies make rounding up goats and cows look like an art. The OCD gene can be extremely useful.

I wanted to take Rosa, a huge brown cow, home with me. She is halter-broke, and walked right into the trailer with me, no help needed from dogs. I also wanted to take home a few of the many kittens, at least one of the puppies, and maybe a mini horse or two.

We delivered the goats and cows to do their lawn-mowing work on the grounds of a cherry orchard owned by a guy named George. We ate a whole bunch of cherries and planted new trees. Then we stopped by at the Grass Valley vacation home of a couple of city people, up from Marin, and I got to feed a peacock dog food from my hand. They live next door to Chuck Yeager. No sightings of the test pilot, but Pat says they have dinner once a month. Says he's a nice guy.

Pat Browning is a genius of the physical world. Watching him work with animals, trucks, trees, and in the garden (he picked a bunch of artichokes for me, made me eat a pepper, and kept offering critters) is awe-inspiring. Since I was last here--eight years ago--he has gotten two new knees. He seems as strong as ever, but is perhaps in less pain (it would be hard to know if Pat is in pain.

His wife, Nita, makes the house one of those oases in the desert. There are flowers and green grass and fifteen different sitting areas. They live, in every way, a Western life. It's impossible to be here, on the outskirts of Grass Valley, and not think of Wallace Stegner. It is here where I find my angle of repose.

Now, if only I could stop itching.

News

2009-06-23T09:03:00.007-07:00

--Andrew Sullivan picked up my latest Chronicle column on his blog, The Daily Dish.
--My partners Pip (lunatic but sweet young Arabian), Russ Kiernan (has run the Dipsea race 37 times and won it often), and I were awarded "Best Blood" at the World Championship Ride and Tie. For our efforts, the humans got first aid kits. Pip got a reputation as the most unruly horse in camp.
--There is nothing in the kit to take care of the poison oak that is making my life hell.
--I am happily back in French Corral, in the suburbs of Nevada City, CA, where I wrote my second book. It's more fun to be here and not having to write a book. Instead I will work on a few essays and then help my old neighbor Pat move some cows.
--Wednesday down to Sacramento to see friends, the parents of a kid (no longer) whom I admitted to Duke, and then Thursday Mikey's team heads up to Squaw for the Western States countdown.
--Life is good.

My New View

2009-06-14T16:23:00.003-07:00

This is what I get to see when I walk out my front door.

Summer Adventures

2009-06-13T08:40:00.002-07:00

On Thursday I leave for Sacramento, where I will pick up a rental car and drive north, north, north to where there are big honkin' redwoods and camp out with a bunch of cool people, horses, and dogs. It's the World Championship Ride and Tie.

I haven't been on a horse since the last championship in 2005 in Libby, Montana. I went there without partner or horse. At the last minute, I hooked up with Elaine Ruprecht, who had lost her partner to injury, and who had a horse who had come along only as a buddy for her husband's horse (her husband, Jim Howard, in one year won the San Francisco marathon, the Championship Ride and Tie, and Western States--all in something like three weeks). Elaine and I had more fun than I could believe you could have with another woman. We laughed the whole way. We were goofy. She taught me things (larches are the only "evergreens" that lose their needles). And we kicked butt. We ended up coming in fourth team overall, and winning the woman/woman division and taking home $1000 and some good swag.

My friends Don and Annie have been inviting me to come and do rides with them in Sequim, Washington, which is apparently one of those cool places you just have to go and visit. I haven't been able to swing it. But then came an email from Annie telling me that they had a horse for me, and could rustle me up a partner, and I should just do it.

I already had a flight to Sacramento the following week, compliments of my friend Mike Pastore, whom I will be pacing at Western States. Within about an hour, I decided I couldn't resist this opportunity. So I'm off to Cuneo Creek on Thursday, will camp out and ride and run (and likely get pretty darned sore), and then rest for a few days somewhere in northern California, and then meet Mike and the rest of the WS crew a week later.

Western States, as anyone who has read my most recent book knows, was my most profound running experience. This time Mike will break 24 hours (it's our third attempt together). I'm only doing the last twenty miles with him--there will be no middle-of-the-night river crossing for me, thank you Mike. I really don't like that part.

Because getting him to his goal is my priority, I will take it easy at the Ride and Tie. If I can't find a good partner, I'll just volunteer, maybe knock around the trails on a borrowed horse.

We talk about the "Ride and Tie Family." It's more than just a cliche. I'm disappointed that the adorable, huggable Bud Johns, the founder of the sport, won't be there this year to start the race with the drop of his black hat, but he promises to come next year. I'm so looking forward to reuniting with these relatives, folks who join me in believing that there's nothing more fun than running and riding for thirty-something miles, in a beautiful place, in good company.

Pre-Race Couture

2009-06-12T07:22:00.001-07:00

Since I no longer have a webmaster (mother), I will be posting my updated publications here.

I just realized I have another Running Times column due soon; this is the one from March.

"Fanatical Scourge-like Tendencies"

2009-06-09T08:40:00.002-07:00

My latest column came out today, Writing Like a Doctor, and there was a fabulous mention of it on the blog Critical Mass. I love being known as having "scourge-like tendencies" when it comes to writing about writing.

Change of Venue

2009-06-08T08:33:00.002-07:00

I went to my 25th Yale reunion. When I slunk back to the dorm at 8am on Saturday morning, one of my (five, male, married-and-kidded) suite-mates for the weekend said: Rachel, you are living the life we all wished we'd lived 25 years ago. Yessirree Bob. It was a blast. Going back for the reunion was more fun than going to Yale. Here's what I wrote about the 20th reunion. The next installment will be juicier.

Then, last Sunday, I came home to an empty house.

Iris and I moved to Spokane three years ago. It was too hard to be in that house without her. So on Monday I signed a lease on a new apartment, an urban oasis overlooking downtown, with beautiful outdoor space for which I am not responsible, and more room than the house. I'll be able to have my students over (except that I still don't have dishes and clean glasses).

Because I've been having mild stalker issues, I'm not going to post the address. If you'd like it, just send me an email. If you want to send flowers, candy or dried bull penises and plan to include a cryptic note, please sign your name. It turns out you have to get the police involved to track down anonymously-sent flowers. Not that I don't appreciate the flowers, but life has enough mystery without trying to figure out this kind of stuff.

My Sweet Darling

2009-05-28T12:55:00.006-07:00

Iris Toor
January 1, 2006--May 28, 2009

The Broccoli Dance

Marathons Can Be Fun

2009-05-25T15:31:00.005-07:00

Two marathons in eight days. I realized that the only thing I feared about doing this--running marathons only to get in shape, to get in long runs, to be prepared to pace my friend Mike P at Western States--was the idea of being stuck in my head for four hours or so. To steal from poet Mary Karr, my head is a bad neighborhood; you don't want to go there alone.

As it turned out, right after the gun went off at Windermere, a guy came up to me. said something friendly, called me by my name. I asked if I knew him. He said, well, you signed a book for me.

Then, for the next 18 miles, as he revealed himself as my "stalker," in the most harmless, flattering way, we chatted and laughed, chatted and blew snot out of our noses. The course was unexpectedly pretty; he was unexpectedly fun. Then he started to slow down. Ultimately, I had to leave him. I'm out of the business of pacing.

I felt good, sped up a little, and then wanted to die at the finish. After a half hour, I revived. Drove home, showered, and went to be fed a whole lot of different types of grilled meat by friends. Then I went to another friend's house and we talked and watched TV. Talked, mostly.

This week was a rough one. I haven't been eating well, or sleeping, or living like a normal person. So on Sunday I woke early, drove over to Idaho, and got ready to suffer. But then, before the second mile, I heard someone call my name. It was a woman I'd done long trail runs last summer and liked a whole lot. She was running with a friend. We ended up being together the entire way, talking a little about running, but mostly about life. Real conversation, not chitchat. It was just another Sunday morning long run.

At the end, I sat down in the kiddie pool that held bottles of water (and ice, and icy water). The weather had been perfect; overcast enough for it not to be too hot. I felt good, for a while.

And then I remembered that my friend Diane Sherrer had died the day before. Today, Memorial Day, I found out that my old office mate from peon days at OUP, Melissa Spielman, had died in February.

It's not getting easier or better for me. Dylan Thomas wrote that after the first death, there is no other. He was right, of course, and wrong, very wrong.

Windermuse

2009-05-15T08:15:00.003-07:00

This evening I will be giving the pre-race speech at the inaugural Windermere Marathon in Spokane. While people are slurping down pasta and excusing themselves 18 times an hour to pee, I will be prattling on.

I was asked to do this a while ago, before last fall when I decided that I hated running (and it felt like a job). It seemed like a good way to promote my new book. Of course, I forgot that fifteen minutes after I have a book published, I lose all interest in talking about it (Ian McEwan: "When you publish a book you become an employee of your former self." No kidding.)

Then we had the Winter of More Snow Than You Could Imagine, and I stopped running. I went to the gym, did a little yoga--mostly to make myself feel even more inadequate. I'd gaze into the mirror and think, "I look like a piece of gristle." I can barely touch my knees.

Then my mother died and the world fell apart. Except that I went to North Carolina, where there are people who love me, feed me, and when the calendar says "spring," you go outside and it's spring. I started feeling better. I started running again, and realized that yes, in fact, I do love to run.

On one of my runs, I thought about the connections between running and writing; in my life, they have been always intertwined. I wondered what I was going to talk about in my keynote pre-marathon speech.

Then I realized that I would issue a challenge. Each of us, when we run a long race, have plenty of time to think. I'd ask the runners (and the volunteers, and the spectators) to reflect on what the race in particular, or running in general, meant to them, and then to try to write about it.

Having graduate students made it possible for us to create an essay contest. Having pun-happy students gave us a name: The Windermuse Essay Contest.

I'm hoping we get a bunch of entries. The students will read them, will be at the expo today and tomorrow to give out writing advice, and then we'll see what happens. Could be a lot of fun.

Tomorrow I will run (slog) the marathon in order to get in some training miles. I am pacing my friend Mike Pastore again for the last portion of the Western States 100 mile race at the end of June. I need to be in good condition to run with him and push him to make his goal (under 24 hours). I'm still not in very good shape and am still too skinny. (The Dead Mother Diet--I don't recommend it for runners.)

So tomorrow, while running from Post Falls, Idaho, along the Spokane River into downtown Spokane, I'll just take it easy and write something in my head.

May column

2009-05-12T09:53:00.001-07:00

In this month's column, I take on "Reading Like a Graduate Student." As my own grad professors can attest, I was myself guilty of this sin. In the most irritating way.

Chilly Scenes of Spring

2009-05-09T08:26:00.002-07:00

When my friend Val called my brother--who will not respond to me directly, who will not accept apologies or talk to me, even now when I am on the edge of the abyss--he wondered aloud what I wanted from him.

"You're her brother," said Val, shocked. Chilled.

"What does that mean, other than consanguinity?" he wanted to know.

What, indeed.

Mother's Day

2009-05-08T08:47:00.005-07:00

Really, I'm trying not to be pissy about this. But when my yoga instructor said last week in class that next Sunday was Mother's Day and everyone should bring their moms to class I wanted to hit her.

Some of my students have told me heart-hurting stories about losing their parents. I had my mother for a good, long time. I was closer to her than many people are to the ones they choose to have in their lives. I laughed harder with her than with almost anyone; she could make me feel better, and also cause me to regress to a teenager within 30 seconds. Every day I think of Wallace Stevens' line: "She makes that gentler than can gentle be." And then I go on thinking: "The necklace is a carving not a kiss."

I miss my Cute Little Mother so much I don't know how to go on; most mornings I don't want to get out of bed. I want to call her up, at noon the way I have for the past four years, and say "Hello Mudder." I want to hear her say "Hello Daudder."

I never took for granted how fortunate I was to have such a close relationship with the woman who gave birth to me (especially given the fact that I have nothing to do with the man who provided the sperm). To everyone who has a mother--to all those people of whom I am now so jealous, so bitter, I can barely stand it, I wish you and your sweet mothers, be they little, cute, big, neglectful or angry, a happy Sunday of celebration.

Bloomsday (not the Joycean one)

2009-05-04T10:59:00.007-07:00

About a year and a half ago I confessed to my friend Candace that I no longer liked to run. It was feeling like a job, and like a job that I no longer enjoyed. Too much work for for too little pay-off--no money, awful business schedules, mean and crazy bosses. Could I just quit running, I wanted to know?

Candace, always practical, said No, not until my running book came out.

By then it was almost too late. I was starting to hate running. I hated traveling to marathons, having to work at the expos with my teammates (many of whom I liked enormously), did not like having to leave town so many weekends in the fall, dreaded having always to be in marathon-ready shape. I really hated having to wear a uniform (one of the "perks" of being on the pace team was that we got gear--but we had no choice in what the gear looked like, how it fit, and from many of the shoes I was given I received running-related injuries. I have never liked meetings,and somehow these felt worse than many. I resented group emails that set out logistics in bossy and condescending ways(and often scolded the whole group, when only one or two people were the real targets).

Like all bad jobs, there was parts of this one that I loved. I loved doing the actual pacing, loved meeting and helping other runners achieve their goals. Sometimes I got to go to places I wanted to go, and saw friends before or after the marathon. But most of the time, the whole thing just made me crabby.

My book was published in October. By the end of the year I had given up pacing marathons for the team. It was a relief.

I ran if I felt like it, but mostly I didn't feel like it. The fact that Spokane had a record-setting snowfall in the winter made it easy and more appealing to lie around, rat on neck, reading mystery novels on Sunday mornings.

I had nothing to prepare for, no reason to drag my ass out of bed. I was happy.

And then my mother died.

And then I was very, very unhappy.

I knew that I would never again run my usual routes from her house in Ithaca. That I would not return for the trail races in the Finger Lakes region that I loved so much. That part of my life--in ways the most important parts of my life--was over, and I had to learn how to live again. I am still trying to learn this.

So I went to North Carolina, where, in late February, the trees were already budding, the grass was tender and light green, and it was sunny all the time. I could run in shorts and a t-shirt. I could run with my old friends. I could run the trails on which I learned to love to run.

After six weeks, I was feeling strong again, able to run twenty miles without thinking it a big deal, and only because I wanted to, not because I needed a training run. I had nothing on the racing horizon. My only running obligation was to pace my friend Mike Pastore for the last section of the Western States 100 race on the last weekend in June in northern California. I love the race. I love that Mike. I am looking forward to it.

Then I got back to Spokane, the snow mostly gone,and kept running. I kept enjoying it.

But I'd forgotten about Bloomsday.

It's a big deal here in Spokane. My university sponsors a number of corporate cups teams, two of the them competitive. Because the teams are scored by a combination of high ages and low times, the EWU men's team wins every year. The EWU women's team tends to to do well, but hasn't won. The leader of the teams, someone in my department, sought me out when I first came to the university, under the mistaken impression that I had leg speed. I don't. That's why I don't run 5 or 10K. Bloomsday is 12K. It's also 50,000 people, one of the biggest road races in the country. It was too short, and too big for me. But he convinced me to be on the team.

It was fine. I ran it once, and then did another loop (they start in waves; there were still people starting by the time I finished). I wrote about it for Running Times

Last year I agreed again to be on the team, but couldn't run because the week before I'd had a fibroid the size of a cantaloupe removed from my uterus. Shit happens.

This year, when the team leader called to ask why I hadn't registered, I told him that my mother had just died and I couldn't make plans. He said, Well, I'll register you anyway.

And so it came around. The Thursday before the Sunday race I was having lunch with some friends and was elated to learn that there was a rumor that Bloomsday would be canceled because of the pig flu. Please, please, I thought, let it be canceled.

Wrong.

Then I saw the weather report. Cold and possibly rainy.

Earlier in the week, after getting an ugly email from my brother in the morning, I threw up. I'm not doing well. I had no idea what kind of running shape I was in. And I knew that being on a team just ratcheted up my stress. I had to run, and I had to do at least decently.

My friend Janet and her son were running, and we made plans to have brunch afterward. Food usually serves to motivate me to do things.

So I drove downtown early, and started running. I ran a 4.5 miles warm up. I felt pretty good. It was coldish, but not raining. I had, unusually, dressed appropriately and had, of course, brought throwaway clothes to keep me warm until the gun went off.

And when it did, so did I. But without any kind of race plan. I had no idea what my pace should be, and decided that I would run comfortably. I've been hurting enough.

I didn't push myself. I enjoyed the run. And I kept remembering that the race is only 7.46 miles. That's nothing, I kept saying. At the top of the Doomsday Hill, mile 5, I though, jeez, it's almost over. When's it going to get hard? It didn't, because I didn't push. Just kept up my comfortable pace.

When I finished, I had averaged 7:23 minute miles. That seemed respectable enough, and felt easy. Then I threw up. Not, I think, from exertion. It was the first time I've ever puked after a race, and I've run a lot of races, and a lot harder. It's just a sign of my times.

Then I did something else I've never done. I called my friend Janet while she was running. I asked where she was and, not even breathing hard, she said "Doomsday Hill." So I ran back on the course to find her. It took two more phone calls, and then we ran in together.

All told, I got in around 16 miles, brunch at Dan and Janet's, some post-race running with their son Austin (who obviously had not run hard enough, since he was still quite frisky at the end. And I ran my last race out of obligation or commitment. From now on, I'm running what I want, when I want, and how fast (or slow) I want. If the weather is bad, I may just not show up on race day. If I'm too tired, I may stay in bed with rodent and novel.

Turns out that the EWU men's team won, again, and that the women's team also won, and placed 5th out of all 280 corporate cup teams. It made me feel guilty that I hadn't run harder.

I am giving the keynote speech at the pre-race dinner before the Windermere Marathon in Spokane in two weeks. I was given a race entry. If I feel good, I'll run it. I won't care about my time. If I wake up that morning and don't want to put on my running shoes, I'll stay home.

Maybe things will start to feel good again soon.

Gender and Competition

2009-04-21T08:58:00.002-07:00

In February I was supposed to do a talk/reading from my book, Personal Record, at the EWU women's center. I had to bail on it because, well, my mother died.

It seems you can run, but you can't hide. They asked me to reschedule, and I agreed. It will be tomorrow at noon.

So I've have more time to think about how I want to do this. I had a chance to look back at my book, think about what I did well, and what I did not so well. I feel I did a pretty good job of describing what running meant to me--why I do it (community, a sense of connection with other people, having an appropriate locus for competitive feelings)and how it makes me part of a larger group. I tried to write a book that would explain to those who don't run why those of us who do love it, and to remind fellow runners of the things they know, but may not have articulated to themselves.

But there is one thing I didn't do at all. In a move most unlike me, I shied away from the hardest part. I left a big honking elephant in the room, ignored but still looming. What I couldn't figure out how to do was to talk about women and competition.

I wrote a piece about why I love running with men, but I avoided that scary, nasty dark side of feminism: the way women deal (or don't) with competition. I haven't been able to figure out what I want to say, though I know it is an important issue. I love the fact that men can toe the line against each other, say "I'm going to kick your ass," race hard, and then hang out and have a beer afterward. Women line up and are more likely to say "Oh, I just want to finish." Even when they know they're going to win the race. I've tried several times to write about this, about women and running and competition and about we can teach girls that it's okay to want to win, to beat others, but I never seem to get it anywhere close to feeling right.

I'm hoping that tomorrow a group of people will show up and help me think this through.

Walk and Talk for the Cure

2009-04-16T09:29:00.002-07:00

This Sunday morning I am looking forward to combining some of my least favorite things--a big race, a 5K (too short to even bother lacing up your running shoes for) and walking--to do some of my favorite things--be with a group of people I adore, spend an hour just talking, and raising money for a good cause.

We will be meeting in the parking lot of the creative writing program's building (501 Riverpoint) at 8am for a warm-up jog of about 30 minutes--at the dean's target heart rate. Then we will mosey over to the Spokane convention center and will walk the Race for the Cure.

I'm expecting it to be upsetting (to see so many women who are breast cancer survivors is unsettling) and also a lot of fun.

Come join us.