Mr. Cereal

I'll be the first to admit I'm a picky eater. It doesn't take long after meeting me to figure that out. It could be a meal at a restaurant with a new friend or a potluck at work. The topic always (always!) comes up. Which is fine. After 31 years, I just don't give a damn if I come across as wacky because I have a short list of foods I eat, a much longer one of foods I won't touch, or because cereal makes up about two-thirds of my diet.

But with my current living situation, I'm meeting new groups of people weekly, on-site to volunteer for Habitat. Since I share a kitchen with these folks, my eating habits are on full display everyday, three meals a day. And that means the comments and questions quickly follow. Like these nuggets from the past two days:

• Stated while I was eating cereal at the kitchen table: "You're more than welcome to join us for any meal while we're here. It might add some variety to your diet."
• Once again, while eating cereal: "There's Mr. Cereal."
• And one more time while eating, you guessed it, cereal, this time for dinner: "Does your mother know that all you eat is cereal?"

I will say all of the groups have invited me to join them for meals. I like to think it's because of my wit and personality; however, I'm sure the facts I'm a poor VISTA volunteer and my seemingly monotonous meals attract an audience also play roles.

No matter the reason, I do try to join each group for dinner at least once during their stay. And if I forge some sort of connection with them, it will be more than once. I have met some interesting people so far, and our busy summer season has just begun.

Tomorrow night, Indian tacos are on the tentative menu. I think the cereal will be remaining on the shelf. Well, for dinner, at least.

Softball karma

Before softball last week, I warmed up with a teammate, tossing a ball back and forth. Usually, I wouldn't classify playing catch as a hazardous activity. But one throw clipped the top of my mitt, the ball bouncing up onto the rim of my sunglasses. My brow got smacked pretty good. It didn't take long before I felt the warm blood ooze.

I went to the bathroom to take a look, where I saw the decent-sized gash. I probably needed stitches, but I had games to play. Luckily, we had a first aid kit on-hand. The cut required a single bandage and I was good to go.

I returned to the field. The guy who had thrown the ball asked how I was doing; the other guys didn't give a shit. Okay, it's not like I had to have something amputated; but if it had happened to one of them, I would asked if he was alright.

Besides that, the night was a normal one. After two stellar weeks of play, I regressed. (I blame the eye.) Christ, I even struck out. Twice. Who the hell strikes out in slow-pitch softball? Heading back up to bat after the first strikeout, one of the guys implored, "Keep your eye on the ball." I actually found that funny since I was working with only one good eye, the band-aid pushing down on my left eyelid. So, instead of channeling my anger like the previous week, I proceeded to strikeout again. Piss me off and I'll get on base; make me laugh and I'm quickly back to the dugout.

And it was another week of unsolicited pointers from practically the entire team. But I've already talked about how much I love that.

The following morning, the cut was a bit swollen and my lower brow and eyelid were red. I swear I was going to wake-up not being able to open my eye. But the worst of the damage was hidden unless I purposely showed off my wound. What fun is that?

A week later, my eye has just about healed, not a bad recovery considering I was popped pretty good. The cut is still noticeable and, given my body's propensity to scarring, will probably leave a mark. But I was in need of a facial scar anyway, you know, for street cred.

Here I am looking tough after arriving home from softball:

P.S. The sunglasses weren't even scratched. Good thing because I was wearing the Oakleys.

Not exactly rockin' the vote

The Todd County School Board election was yesterday, which presented my first voting opportunity since moving to Mission. And it turned out to be a microcosm of life on the rez.

It was impossible for me as a newcomer to figure out who to vote for. I'm used to decent election coverage from the local newspaper or a mailer from the League of Women Voters. Here? Nothing besides a listing of the candidates and polling places. Outside of the published meeting minutes, the paper doesn't report on school board issues.

Because (or regardless, depending on one's level of cynicism) of the lack of media coverage, votes seemed to be garnered more by one's name recognition and standing in the community as opposed to campaigning on issues. I'm sure this happens everywhere to some extent; but family names, although quite familiar to me at this point, mean nothing when it comes time to step inside the voting booth. Well, if there were actually voting booths here...

Since I couldn't not vote, I decided to go with the two incumbents out of the six candidates. I figured I would have heard some uproar about either one of them if anything controversial had transpired during their respective terms.

I went to the elementary school to vote during my lunch break. Every jurisdiction is different, so I waited for instruction from the poll workers after showing my ID and answering the requisite "Are you a teacher?" question. (White man in Mission=teacher. No joke, I get this question all the time.) I was given a paper ballot and told to go to the back of the room.

Silly me, I looked for the booths with the red-white-and-blue-striped curtains. (Bri, you're not in Juneau anymore.) I must have looked perplexed when I asked the ladies again where I needed to go. This time, they were more specific: Find a pencil and fill out the ballot at one of the tables. So much for privacy.

I picked my two candidates, folded my slip, and placed it into the box. And that was it. I didn't even receive one of those nifty "I voted today" stickers. In Juneau, I always voted prior to going to work not only to get it out of the way, but also to be able to wear my sticker all day.

When I returned to work, I asked LaCosta if what I had experienced was par for the course on the rez. Sometimes, she said, stand-up boards are provided, partially shielding one voter from another. But for the most part, everything is out in the open. And the setup here is similar to the one in the small, non-reservation town she grew up in.

Life truly is different here, and yesterday was yet another example of that. But I learned some lessons for the future. Like I now must start attending school board meetings. And I need to contact the Secretary of State to see about providing stickers to voters.

The next best thing to the Senator himself

Recently, announcements on the radio and in the newspaper notified residents that a representative from Senator Tim Johnson's office would be in Mission for a day. She was going to be available at one of the local grocery stores for an hour to meet with constituents. I didn't have much of an agenda, but figured if I could have the ear of the Senator's office for a few minutes, I'd make the most of them.

I arrived promptly because I expected a crowd; this wasn't an everyday occurrence. I didn't know where she planned to meet folks, so I walked around the store looking for her. It wasn't entirely obvious where she'd be receiving visitors, so I stopped by the customer service counter. "Oh, she's back in the deli." I had gone back there already; there had only been a couple people eating breakfast. Well, as it turned out, one of them was indeed her. She sat - alone - eating her sausage and eggs as she waited for company.

This is one thing that drives me nuts about living here. The apathy is just appalling. Maybe residents save their energy for tribal politics, I don't know. But one would think that someone besides the new guy on the rez would want to gripe about something - anything! - to the Senator's aide. Then again, maybe this was another example of Indian Time. (It's pretty bad when calendar events on the local radio station implore, "Be on-time. No Indian Time!")

She was happy to see me. I introduced myself as I joined her in the booth. I figured I wouldn't have much time to speak with her, so I kept my comments to the two programs that brought me to the Rosebud: AmeriCorps and Habitat for Humanity. It was a good conversation, but I felt myself monopolizing her time. After 10 minutes, I got up to leave.

But our conversation continued. I looked around and noticed there wasn't anyone waiting to speak with her, so I sat right back down. I was there for another 25 minutes. So, all told, I took up over half of her time talking about housing, building partnerships within the community, life on the reservation, Senator Johnson's views on a multitude of issues, and much more.

On one hand, I was thankful I had such a beneficial, informative conversation with a member of the Senator's team here in South Dakota. On the other hand, however, it made me sad that people didn't take advantage of this resource in their own backyard. Sad and disappointing.

There were several excellent actions that resulted from our conversation. First, she had a meeting scheduled with the head of the Tribe's housing authority later that day. Habitat's relationship has been strained with them, so she promised to put in a good word for us. Second, I invited her to the Mission Chamber of Commerce's monthly meeting, which just so happened to be scheduled during lunchtime that same day. Third, and most importantly, she has not forgotten about either me or Habitat since returning to Rapid City. We've been in phone and e-mail contact, as she brainstorms ways for us (me) to bring in funding for the organization.

After our chat at the grocery store, I was in good spirits. I don't know what it is, but I really get a good buzz off of these types of connections. And later that day, I went to Chamber and informed them of our special guest. She spent a good 40 minutes with the group, answering questions from Chamber members.

I'm a big believer in Habitat's mission, not just here on the Rosebud, but worldwide. But the issues plaguing the rez are so much bigger than Habitat. I think that's the big reason why that day meant so much to me. I was able to not only share my personal story (and I think I have one in my short time here) but bring someone with state- and national-level resources to the same table as our small town. It felt good.

Batter up!

I never played baseball growing up. No Tee Ball, Little League, nothing. The closest I ever came to stepping in the batter's box was Whiffle Ball in the neighbor's backyard. So, when I was approached about joining a slow-pitch softball team, I needed some assurance on one issue.

"How competitive is this team you're putting together?"

Now, don't get me wrong. I get a bit competitive at times. There's the running thing. I like to win at Rummy. During a recent game of Spoons with a bunch of college girls, I was out for blood. (But guess who won? They didn't seem thrilled.)

However, I had never played softball before. Sure, I'd give 110 percent, but I also wanted to have fun in a no-pressure environment.

As a confidence builder, LaCosta's husband and I hit some balls around one Tuesday evening before volleyball. I hit the ball often and hard enough to prove to myself I wouldn't make a complete fool of myself when the season started. Our team played two games at Cody's Circle C Days in May, where my play received comments such as, "You're not so bad for never having played ball before." I took the compliment, even if it had a qualifier.

Most of the guys on my team indeed played high school baseball. Plus, they're all from the same area and know one another fairly well. I'm definitely the outlier (in more ways than one, let me tell ya). They arrive at the diamond in their cleats and baseball pants; I'm there with sneakers and shorts. I've felt like I've had to earn my keep on the team, whether that's logical or not. It's me applying the pressure for sure; there are certain activities I feel I should be good at. Softball is one of them.

I am happy to report that three weeks into the season I am by far not the worst one on the team. During the first week, I played right field, which, because most of the hitters are right-handed, is a virtual no-man's land. Thankfully, no fly balls were hit my way; I had trouble keeping my eye on the balls hit to other parts of the outfield.

The next week, I played second base, and that's where I started to earn my keep. Granted, second base is the right-field version of the infield, but a couple grounders came my way. I even threw a zinger over to the first baseman to get an out. (The guys liked that one. High five!)

And last week I played catcher. I was actually pretty excited about this. I was warned not to stand directly in the baseline if there was a play at the plate to avoid getting run over. Ummm... Aren't catchers supposed to do just the opposite? The point is to prevent the opponent from scoring, right? I'm tough. I have wrestled calves, I'll have you know.

In the end, I did make a couple outs, but, alas, I didn't have one chance to throw-out a home-advancing runner. Oh well. The bigger news last week is I got on base five out of the seven times I was up, including smashing the ball over an outfielder's head, who had played in too close. That's what you get for underestimating me!

Softball is fun, but a couple things do bother me. Because most of the guys have "played ball," it's like there are 10 coaches on the team. I'd actually be okay with taking instruction if the most vocal of teammates were a bit more consistent with their play. Seriously, don't coach me if you're 0-for-6, 'kay?

Then there's the assumption I know knowing about softball because I never played organized baseball growing up. This isn't a new phenomenon either; over the years, many people have assumed I know absolutely nothing about sports. I'm not sure where that comes from.

Two weeks ago, while playing second base, there were two instances where there was a runner on first with less than two outs. That means, there's a force play at second with a chance to turn a double play. I know that. So, I don't need the shortstop to remind me three times. Thanks for the hint though!

And the racial makeup of the teams is interesting. As it was explained to me, there are "white" teams and "Indian" teams. A quick look at the opposing dugout over the past three weeks supports this. As one of the games finished, one of my teammates waited until all of an Indian team's players were gone from our soon-to-be dugout prior to unloading his gear because he "didn't want anything stolen." Pure ignorance. It's startling and plain weird to be in a situation where race is an issue when it hasn't been for me in the time I've lived in Mission. Then again, we play down in Valentine, the "white" town just across the state line.

But it's all in good fun. As far as social activities in the area go, this is a biggie. And my confidence is high after last week's play, especially considering I had run a marathon two days prior. I had better stick to running though. Softball is not a workout by any stretch of the imagination.

It's never too late to set a goal

I arrived in Deadwood Saturday afternoon, with the Mickelson Trail Marathon scheduled for the following morning at 8:00. I found my hotel before heading over to the race expo to pickup my race packet. The pasta feed followed at 5:00.

There I met a runner from suburban Omaha and a couple from Colorado Springs. It was fun to compare notes on different races and generally talk running with the three of them. The woman from the Springs was particularly chatty. Of course, where I lived, where I was from, and the whole Alaska thing came up in the conversation. Quite sincerely, she gasped, "You are so interesting!" Aw shucks...

This same woman also told me it was obvious I was a people person. Those of you who have known me the longest probably find this as funny as I do. I know I've loosened up over the years, but to be called a people person (to my face, no less!) was quite startling. It was one of those moments where I imagined the 21-year-old version of me looking in on the situation thinking, "What the hell happened to you?" Life, I guess...

Anyway...

I woke up around 5:15 Sunday morning and the rain was coming down pretty good. This wouldn't have been a huge deal if my first marathon since 2006 wasn't starting in less than three hours. It also wouldn't have mattered much had it not been that the shittiest weather imaginable for a race unfolded during said marathon. Bad weather is no reason to throw out months of training; however, flashbacks are a bitch.

The rain had let up a bit by the time I made it outside of my hotel waiting for the trolley to take me to the rodeo grounds, where the race would finish. From there, the runners were bussed out to the starting line in Rochford.

Once in Rochford, it was still a good hour before race time. As I was stretching, two other runners approached me and started idle chit chat. One guy asked where I was from. When I replied I lived in Mission, he jokingly asked if I was the guy who won the lottery. (I wish.) The same guy then asked if I had run any other marathons. I told him one, in Juneau. To this he said, "You seem to have brought the weather with you." Wow, not only is he up on his current events, I thought, but he actually realizes Juneau is in a rain forest. Pretty refreshing considering how many times I'm asked about the extreme cold and six months of darkness.

Eight o'clock rolled around quickly, the national anthem was played, and we were off. The first mile and a half were on the road; that's when we joined the Mickelson Trail. I started near the back of the pack because I'm a slow starter. And even though I wasn't running this race for a specific time, it's certainly more encouraging to reel in and pass runners than vice versa. Even with the subtle, consistent elevation gain, I was averaging just over eight-minute miles through Mile 5.

My pace slowed after that point. This wasn't deliberate; I was actually feeling pretty damn good about how my body was performing and my overall positioning in the race. I'm thinking it was a combination of the altitude and the elevation gain that were playing tricks on me. Other than my relatively leisurely pace, it was all good.

The course's elevation peaked about halfway through at 6,000 feet above sea level. My half marathon split time was 1:53:06, which compares to the 1:32:14 I ran in Brookings three weeks ago. Not bad, methinks.

***

I think I'll mention here one of my running pet peeves: a lack of racing etiquette. I consider myself to be a nice, respectful, mannerly type of guy, both in day-to-day life and in competition. So, I tend to get huffy when I witness a lack of manners, even while running a marathon.

The Mickelson Trail was originally a railway line. This means the flat, dirt-and-gravel surface has plenty of room for a runner to complete a pass without being completely up the ass of the runner he or she is passing. I have personal space issues as it is; I really don't need another runner to bump me out of the way to save a lousy half-second off their finishing time.

Then there were the runners who thought it was a good idea to run three abreast, making a pass all but impossible. I was able to slip through one of these blockades early on, and I still managed to say "Excuse me" as I did it. (See? Manners.)

And let's not forget about the runners who made it sound as though a freight train was approaching from behind. Granted, since I run up on my toes, I'm pretty light on my feet. And, yes, there are many different running styles out there. But come on! Enough with the stomping already!

End rant.

***

The last half of the marathon was downhill, dropping about 1,400 feet in elevation. Great, I thought. Well, 26.2 miles is still 26.2 miles, even if half of it is downhill.

First up came the urgent bathroom break. Now, you probably don't want to hear all about my bowel movements, but I'm just going to throw it out there. I can't really think of many worse situations than being miles from home (or, in this case, the finish line) and having your innards act up. Man, I can tell you stories of the emergencies I've had here on the rez, miles from home, out on the Dump Road. (hahaha)

But this had never happened to me in a race before. I think it's because, subconsciously, my body knows that bathroom breaks are not to occur during a race. Well, my colon didn't get the memo this time around.

It was at about Mile 14 that I had to go; it wasn't until Mile 17 that I encountered the next set of porta-potties. There was no way I could have completed the race without going. Plus, it's not like I was worried about my time. After a slight battle with the toilet paper dispenser and weird eye contact with the runner next door through the vents, I was out the door. I had only lost five minutes.

Not long after the bathroom break, I began to feel run down. My lethargy ramped up quickly. I had been so concerned about making it to the bathroom that I completely skipped the food at the last aid station. I trudged through the next three miles, which were by far the most difficult of the entire race for me. Thank goodness they were all downhill.

I made it to the aid station at Mile 20, where I filled up on Powerade, a banana, and some M&Ms. It's amazing how fast my body recovered. The burst of energy had me in good spirits, even though my legs had begun to cramp up by this point. But before I knew it, I was at Mile 23. My watch read 3:30, so I knew I had to average just under 10-minute miles to finish under four hours. I could do this!

Speaking of calculating pace times, can I just tell you how difficult it is to perform mental mathematical operations after running for several hours? Jesus. I pride myself on being a math nerd; however, I had the damnedest time multiplying and dividing, trying to figure out where I was relative to a nine-minute pace.

Anyway, my new goal in mind, being within striking distance of a sub-4:00 marathon and amidst the hustle and bustle of Deadwood had me feeling great. That's why I was surprised when Mile 24 rolled around with my watch reading 3:40. Hmmm... Evidently, 10-minute miles aren't so easy to accomplish after all.

This is when I started talking to myself. Something along the lines of, "Damn it Bri. You're too close to not finish under four hours." Deciding a stay in the hospital was worth it if I could just meet my goal, I made it to Mile 25 at a time of 3:49.

Okay, the goal was in sight. The only thing I had left to worry about was the last 1.2 miles (oh, how I hate those two-tenths). But I couldn't coast just yet, since I was calculating based upon a 10-minute mile. That meant 12 minutes to go, which just wasn't going to work. (Multiplying by 10 is so much easier on the fatigued brain. Just move the decimal point. Simple!)

Before I knew it, I passed the Mile-26 marker and dashed for the finish line. As I crossed, the clock did show that more than four hours had elapsed. However, I had started my watch when I had crossed the start line, not when the gun went off. (Hooray for chip timing!)

After crossing, I received my medal (very, very nice) and shook hands with a couple of the race organizers, who thanked me for running (very, very classy). And then my friends found me.

The most amazing part of the whole race was how I felt immediately afterward. Sure, my thighs and knees were sore, but I was in really good spirits. I mean, I've felt a sense of accomplishment after many of my races, but I was downright giddy. I think it was strange mostly because of how I felt after the marathon in Juneau in 2006. Upon seeing the finish line during that run, I almost broke down and cried. I could not believe I had finished. But this time? I was practically ready to do cartwheels - assuming my knees wouldn't have given way, that is...

The weather during the run wasn't so bad. Talk about a typical day in Juneau! Gray skies, low ceiling, mist, and a somewhat-muddy trail were my companions throughout the first half of the race. But by the time I made it to Deadwood, it was definitely still overcast, but dry and not as cold.

Before heading back to the hotel to shower and pack, I walked over to where the results were posted. And next to my name and hometown: 3:59:46. Oh man, that felt good. I did it!

***

Here it is Wednesday, and I feel really good. I was sore Monday and Tuesday, making going up and down stairs difficult. I still made it to softball last night, where I shockingly had a Hall-of-Fame night. I'm even thinking about doing a light run this weekend.

I had a blister on my left big toe, which I drained Sunday night. Besides that, I really need to remember to apply some Vaseline the next time I run a marathon. I've already talked about my bowel movements, so I'll spare you those details. This is a family blog after all.

Big money in a small, small world

Mission Mayor Tim Grablander made an appearance on this morning's CBS Early Show (video here). He was interviewed about Neal Wanless winning the $232.1 million Powerball jackpot. Not only is Tim the mayor and head of the local electric co-op, but he's also on our Habitat board.

Two things I'll mention about the video: 1. There's a backstory to his answers. 2. Contrary to Tim's appearance, bolo ties are not a common sight 'round these parts.

Not that I know Neal or any member of the Wanless family, but it's kind of fun being so close to this story. The media's portrayal of the family as down-on-their-luck ranchers scraping to get by is accurate as far as I can tell. Then again, that describes many folks in this area. Having such a large amount of money practically fall out the sky into one of the poorest counties in America is amazing, even if it's technically controlled by one man.

If You Give a Mouse a Pop-Tart

I went down to the kitchen this morning for my mid-morning snack, a couple of Pop-Tarts. (The 10:00 break from my R&A days is still firmly entrenched in my work routine.) I pulled a package of two out of the box only to discover a mouse had helped itself to a snack:

Evidently, it wasn't a fan of Brown Sugar Cinnamon Pop-Tarts:

Look closely and you can see the bite marks:

I haven't seen any mice around the building since winter. But this is the second recent occurrence of a mouse getting into my food. (A bag of almonds was breached last week.)

The funny thing is this qualifies as normal around here, so I'm not at all freaked out by it. When I eventually leave here, I'll find it weird not to have mice running around, birds in the oven vent, a funky shower in which I must wear flip flops, and a bed that sometimes collapses in the middle of the night. I had better enjoy the good times while they last.

Where the hell have you been?

Good question, because April and May were a blur. The past two months have alternated between great, busy, and downright weird. In the times I've had for reflection, it has really hit home how much my life has changed since leaving Juneau. It's actually quite startling.

One constant has been my running. I'm in Deadwood tonight for tomorrow morning's Mickelson Trail Marathon. Besides a forecast that has me a bit nervous (high of 46 with showers), I'm excited and ready to go. It has turned into a chilly night, so I'll be bundled up prior to the start in the morning for sure. I have no idea what kind of time I'm going to turn in - and I really don't give a damn. I just want to have fun and put in a good run. That's it.

One final thing before bed: This is my 100th post. Thanks for following along!