Ho ho ho

I was not the worst Santa ever.

That's what one customer told me at PetSmart today. Apparently, the Santa at the PetSmart in Wisconsin wasn't very good.

The Santa outfit fit reasonably well. The belt was a joke, however. It was definitely made for someone larger than a size-32 waist. My two "elves" didn't like the look of a skinny Santa, so they stuffed a couple of pet beds up my shirt before we got started. Problem solved!

There was one lady who stood out from the rest this afternoon. Her dog's name was Bella, short for Isabella. (As opposed to the other dog named Bella, presumably after the chick from the Twilight series because of the age of her owner.) Bella's mommie was bat-shit crazy. Certifiable. As in, makes me weep for the future of the human race.

Bella was wearing her Christmas outfit, which, I'll admit, isn't so insane. She's had her photo taken with Santa since she was 4 months old. And she has even appeared on a magazine cover. Impressive! I should have said, "So have I!" I wouldn't have mentioned it was on the cover of Alaska Economic Trends, though, haha. Then again, I was Santa, not Brian. It's best I didn't say anything.

The crazy thing about this woman is that she came in for a reshoot. She had visited another PetSmart, but they took a portrait photo instead of one in landscape. Okay, we can fix that. But she took advantage of the situation, taking dozens of her own photos along with the ones taken by our photographers. She even brought her own dog-sized sled for Bella to sit in during the shoot.

And you should have heard her: "Bella, what's Santa going to bring you for Christmas? You just love Santa! Come on Bella, smile for me!" I had to put up with a half hour of this nonsense. The scary thing is that without her dog, she would appear to be completely sane. There wasn't anything wacky about her appearance. The crazies are blending in with the general population!

Besides her, the afternoon was surprisingly uneventful. I'd say at least half of the shots were multi-pet photos. And each time, I thought to myself, "Uhhh, how is this going to work?" The problem was that because of the pet beds up my shirt, I couldn't move around too much for fear of losing my gut. And those damn beds were HOT. I was sweating to death. But my mental mantra was, "It's for a good cause. It's for a good cause."

But it was fun! The photos turned out well. There were no allergic reactions. All of the customers seemed pleased. And, most importantly, my dampness was due to sweat and not cat piss. A good day.

feeling good

I'm almost done. My paper on the Indian Gaming Regulatory Act, my last project for the semester, is 99-percent done. I just need a few more citations. And the presentation looks good. It will be highlighted with photos from the rez. I'm billing it as a combination of breaking stereotypes about Indian casinos and "Here's what I did on my summer vacation."

I don't know what I'm going to do with myself after Friday. Besides those citations, I didn't have any project work that needed to get done this evening. (Hence, this blog post.) And it feels weird. But I deserve the break. Plus, one of the professors I'll have next semester already sent out an e-mail about what to expect in January. Good grief. Like I'm even thinking about that.

***

A while back, I went to an orientation at the Humane Society to see about volunteering. My intention was to go over to walk dogs once a week. I like dogs and miss not having one. I only went twice before school took over my life. In that short amount of time, you should have seen the number of dogs I let escape from their cages to run free through the kennel.

But I'm making up for it on Sunday as I play Santa Claus at a local pet store. Yes, I'll be dressed in the whole Santa suit as I sit for photos with dogs, cats, and whatever other pets folks bring in. I wonder what the weirdest pet will be? I'm just hoping not to get pissed on. The afternoon's comedic potential is quite high. This could be one of the funniest things I've ever done. Stay tuned.

***

I finally kicked my running back into gear. Thankfully, we've had a warm, dry spell (temps in the 40s), so the snow line has moved way up the foothills. That means the trails are mostly clear. I really shouldn't go so long without running. And running on the paved Greenbelt just doesn't do it for me.

Speaking of running, I've pretty much decided I'm going to try my first ultra-marathon next summer. I think I can do it. I'm going to shoot for a 50-miler before deciding whether I can do a full 100 miles one day. There's a race in the Bay Area in July that I'm currently targeting. I need a big goal outside of school to work toward.

bullets of consciousness

• One class down, two more to go. There's still much work to be done, though, before I can celebrate. But I'm loving my end-of-semester projects. I'm going to try to save the world until the professor tells me to stop.
• Two weeks from today, the semester will be over and I can turn my brain off for a month. Just before Christmas, I commence my two-and-a-half-week road trip extravaganza without a care in the world.
• I'm spending Christmas with family in Arizona. I'm really looking forward to it.
• I saw 127 Hours tonight. It was just the pick-me-up I needed after a long week. Right.
• When I visit Canyonlands in a couple weeks, I promise to let someone know where I'm going first.
• We received about eight inches of snow earlier this week. Nothing major and it wasn't cold. But the street plowing here is non-existent.
• It's supposed to be sunny in Mission for the next week. I'm jealous.
• I haven't been running much and I'm not happy about it. I can't wait to catch up while I'm out of town later this month.
• I continue to dupe others (and myself) into thinking I'm fit for a long-term relationship. The carnage mounts.
• It'll be interesting what jobs are available in early 2012. Looking at what's been posted recently, there are some opportunities I would jump at.
• I still think I have one last move in me. And that's it. The next place had better be good.
• I'm not staying in Boise.
• I went to the dentist this morning. Is it just me, or are they continuing to invent more and more fancy gadgets and tools solely to find things that might be wrong with your teeth? And since when did the hygienist start hawking different products and services while you're having your teeth cleaned?
• I did like having the TV up on the ceiling to watch while the hygienist blasted the tartar from my teeth.
• I signed myself up for an interesting volunteer commitment in a couple weeks. I'll keep it under my hat for now, but it has the makings of a pretty funny experience. I'm such a giver.
• I've retyped this last bullet several times, then erased it. Best to keep some things to myself. It's been a weird week.

Vacation

I take the best vacations, if I say so myself. I always try to pack in as much as possible - places to see, races to run, people to see. But I somehow manage to do it all, even if it's a bit overwhelming. I think it stems from my time in Juneau, where getting down to the Lower 48 was a big deal. The continental road system opens up so many options.

I spoke with family in Arizona last night. And I decided I need to see them. Lucky me, I have a month off between semesters. That's no school and no work. So, I figure I have to go somewhere.

And that one simple destination has set off about a hundred dominoes. There are so many people I can visit, some of whom I haven't seen in ages (including my family, which is terrible, especially considering I actually like them). I've never been to any of the national parks in Utah, so that's an option. When you're prepared to drive a thousand miles for vacation one way, it certainly makes distances relative. And I haven't even looked into races yet! Hmmm... Maybe a nice sea-level marathon? Hmmm, indeed.

I still have a ton of work to do before the semester is over. But knowing I have a big trip ahead is great motivation. I'll try not to let the thought of traversing snowy mountain passes in my little car temper my excitement. (I was going to make a Donner Party reference here, but realized I'm traveling alone.)

Home

I love this song. It makes me happy. And the video reminds me of long-ago travels.

Sisyphus

I ran in the High Speed Pursuit half marathon last Saturday. I did end up driving down to check out the course beforehand. And I bought new shoes. I was on a mission.

The race began and ended at the Idaho State Correctional Institution, the prison south of town. The cool thing about this race, in my opinion, was that the prisoners participated as well. No, they weren't let out. They ran their laps inside the fence instead. But how awesome would that have been?

Based on prior years' results, I knew it would be safe to start near the front of the pack. Between the half marathoners and those running the 5K and 10K, there were about 400 runners total. I didn't want to get held up.

I got out fast. It wasn't really on purpose, but I did have the thought in my head beforehand that maybe I should change my slow-out-of-the-gate strategy. Well, it's less a strategy and more about self-preservation. Anyway, my subconscious and I ran the first mile in 6:16. And I was at 12:50 after two, which was also the point where the half-marathon and 10K courses split from the 5K course. Needing to average a 6:50 pace over the 13.1-mile course, I was already 50 seconds ahead. I was surprised, a tad excited, yet leery of the hill at Mile 12.

The course was great. Heading south along Pleasant Valley Road, we ran on the parallel tank track. Between running on dirt, the wide-open vistas, and the breeze, it reminded me of South Dakota. By the time I hit Mile 4 on Barker Road, my time was 26:30, still 50 seconds ahead. Turning north on Cole Road, I lost some time through the halfway point. There was a slight uphill, but it was nothing serious.

I don't know what my problem is in the middle part of these half marathons. Maybe it's losing the high of a fast start. It could also be a lack of focus. It doesn't take me long in a race to separate myself from both the frontrunners ahead of me and the pack behind. And Saturday was no different. It's possible my mind starts to think that I'm just on a regular run instead of in the middle of a race with a chance to meet a goal. Who knows.

Or, in this case, it could be that I dropped my hat on the ground as I was taking my gloves off. Silly me, I put my watch on over the glove, which made it nearly impossible to remove. So, as I'm trying to, no joke, tear the glove off with my teeth, I lost the grip on the hat I had already removed. That was about five seconds lost right there. Lessons learned: 1.) Take the gloves off first, then the hat. 2.) Don't be an idiot next time and make sure the glove isn't underneath the watchband.

There was a slight rise in the road before dropping down into the canyon. Through nine miles, I was exactly on pace. That was a bit disheartening considering how much my pace had slowed and thinking about the hill in three miles where a 6:50 pace would be impossible to maintain for close to a half mile. But I was still on pace after nine miles with a sweet downhill still to come!

It was at this point that a runner caught up to me, the first racer I had seen in six miles and the first and only one to pass me. He approached just as the downhill began, so I was able to hang with him for a bit. At the bottom of the hill, however, we turned east on 10 Mile Creek Road and I let him go. But it's not like he sped away. He remained within striking distance.

At Mile 10, I was 20 seconds ahead. I was excited! This could be the 1:30 race! Now, though, I was running into the wind. After another mile, I was 20 seconds behind. And I thought I had picked up the pace. It sucked. Plain and simple.

The hill began at Mile 12 and it was a bitch. I'm not going to complain about it because no one wants to run a completely flat, boring course. But it was brutal. I've never felt such desperation in a race before, knowing I was so close to a goal with such a huge obstacle in the way. And what a perfect place for the race photographer to station himself! (Click here for photos. Note the hill. And my face.) My legs felt like mush at the top, but, summoning my inner Lewis and Clark, I proceeded on.

I made the final turn onto the last straightaway with a time of 1:25. There were these huge yellow flags at the finish line and just five minutes to get there. I could see them from quite a distance, which just made judging how much further I had to run that much harder. I pushed and pushed, glancing down at my watch as those minutes ticked away. When I realized 1:30 wasn't going to happen, running a personal best was my new goal. And I did achieve that one at 1:30:27.

Twenty-seven seconds. I've got to say, I was pretty emotional about it. Not that I let it show. I let out a "Fuck" or two as my pilot friend, bless his heart, tried to cheer me up. I was so close. And I was ahead of schedule! After 10 miles!!! Even though I thought I was going to break down, I didn't.

The Pilot told me I came in sixth. We walked over to look at the results. Only the first four times had been posted ... and none of them were in my age group. Which meant that as long as the fifth-place runner wasn't between the ages of 30 to 39, I would take the age group, a nice consolation prize. The only problem was that he looked around my age. Then again, some runners age fast. There is such a thing as running too much. I hoped he was a hard-looking 29-year-old.

When the results were updated, I learned that Mr. Fifth Place was indeed in my age group. Figures! I just laughed and that actually made me felt better. When I looked up the results online later, I saw that the seventh- and eighth-place runners were also in the 30-39 group. We all finished within a minute of each other. That also made me feel good. About halfway through the race, I heard a couple runners talking behind me (which drives me batty). When I dropped my hat, I glanced back to see that even though they weren't right on my tail, they were still close. But they never caught me.

And let me not forget about the PR, my second this year. I shaved 12 seconds off of my Brookings time. It is an accomplishment.

There's another half marathon a week from tomorrow. Since I haven't registered, it would be $60 bucks to enter. I drove the course Tuesday afternoon and it is not PR material. Yes, it would be a pretty run. But for 60 bucks, I need more than fall colors and rolling hills. It's too bad because I think I'm at a really strong spot with my running right now. Oh well, I can start again next year.

I know I'm obsessing about this goal. How else can I describe it when I run the fastest I've ever run and I'm on the verge of tears. But I'd really like to get to this milestone.

Fun with maps

I'm having a blast in my GIS class. I love maps and I'm a data junkie. ArcGIS brings both together. Heaven on Earth.

I thought I'd share a map I put together recently for an assignment. Can you locate the reservations?

Any fool knows, or can at least guess, that north is up in this map. But the professor is a fan of the north arrow. Thus, as Westley from "The Princess Bride" was wont to say, "As you wish."

What I'm especially stoked about is my final project. I'll be looking at how the regional and statewide suicide rates in Alaska have changed over the past decade in relation to the amount of suicide-prevention funding the state has provided during that same time period to cities, villages, school districts, and non-profits.

And this isn't the only class where I'm using Alaskan subject matter for a final project. I did choose an Idaho topic (disparities in state funding of higher education), though, for my group's final paper in the third class. Wait, actually, someone else picked that; I just tagged along. But even with that one, I have an Alaska analogy.

I probably should focus more on Idaho since I do live here. But really, why? It's just so vanilla here. Yes, yes, Boise is a perfectly lovely place. And I've raved about the trails. That being said, it really can't compare to the reservation and to Alaska.

Game on

I did it. I signed up for a half marathon on the 23rd. It actually makes perfect sense, except for having to pay the increased registration fee for signing up so late. Typically, I like to have at least one long run (10-13 miles) under my belt a couple weeks prior to running a half marathon before I taper down. Nine miles was as long as it got before Sunday. And I didn't just taper down; I downright stopped running.

But Sunday's race can be considered a warm up for the next race, for sure. I'll certainly get some runs in before now and the 23rd. I got out this afternoon for a trail run and felt pretty good considering I was still a bit sore. (I'm getting old, apparently.) And I'm going to look into new shoes this week. With my increased mileage since moving to Boise, I probably should have replaced my current pair sooner. Taking a gander at the soles after this afternoon's run, two things were evident: 1.) The treads are nearly gone, and 2.) it's easy to tell I'm a toe runner.

This weekend, I'll take a drive down out to the desert south of town to check out the course. The route description on the race website says something about a beautiful canyon. I need to see just how severe this canyon is and mentally prepare for it.

Eleven days...

P.S. Happy 200th post to me!

Beware of the crotchety runner

The City of Trees Half Marathon was this morning. I knew this race was going to be a unique experience. First, I didn't train for it (no time). Second, I haven't been running on pavement at all. Third, I had run a total of eight miles in October before this morning, including a six-day stretch of no running at all, unheard of since moving to Boise. And finally, did I mention I hadn't run 13.1 miles in a single stretch since my last half marathon in May?

I drove the course yesterday to get my bearings, a good thing since about half of it was new territory for me. The full marathon would begin an hour before the half, with both following the same course for the first 12 miles. Unfortunately for the half-marathon runners (read: me), this was the lame part of the overall course. Marathoners would pass through the more visually pleasing and less traffic-congested parts of town during the final 13 miles.

In order to run a 1:30 half marathon, I have to keep an average 6:50 pace throughout. I was actually about 30 seconds ahead after four miles, which I quickly lost in the next two miles. There was a hill, which slowed me down a bit, but my hip joints also began to get sore at this point. Nothing debilitating, but I wasn't my usual gazelle self out there.

***

I've commented a number of times on here about my running pet peeves. Once again, I had to sift through a crowd at the start of the race. I wasn't too pissed because after passing the starting chute, the course was pretty wide. The entire right lane of a busy road was blocked off for the runners' use, so there was plenty of opportunity to pass. However, I will never understand why folks who will end up finishing with a 10-minute pace feel the need to start so close to front.

But what happened today was even worse. I was just past the halfway point, nearing Mile 7. Remember, this was a half marathon - 13.1 miles. I was running along Federal Way and crossed an intersection. At the opposite corner was a group of fans. As I passed, one of the women yelled, "You're almost there!" Uh, what? I've had fans tell me, "Just one more mile!" when I was still a mile and a half from the finish. And there was the time an aid-station volunteer encouraged me by saying, "It's all downhill from here," when I still had to climb one last hill. But to have someone tell me I was almost done when I still had over six miles left to run was utter ridiculousness.

So, what did I do? I yelled back, "No I'm not!!! Good grief!" My tone was more incredulous than mean. I've never run with music, but this morning's incident made me wish I had been wearing headphones to block out the nonsense spewing from the peanut gallery.

***

Federal Way was a bitch. The course followed the bike path that paralleled the road. It was an alternating mix of asphalt and concrete - not good for the joints. Plus, it's a busy road, not one I would choose for a leisurely jog, let alone a half marathon. It's pretty bad when my landmark is the Fred Meyer. I eagerly anticipated the downhill to the river, but by that point the concrete had taken its toll on me. I felt like a shuffling old man.

The last couple of miles were actually kind of a struggle, reminiscent of the Horsetooth Half Marathon. I was just done. So, no 1:30 this time around. My finishing time was 1:33:02, hardly even PR material.

I know, it's still a good time. I did place 5th in my age group (out of 42) and 24th overall (out of 542). When the results were posted this morning, I was listed as the 4th-place finisher. (Or what I like to call, "1st Loser.") But the results were updated this evening, moving me down to 5th. That actually made me feel better.

Now, the big question is whether to try one of the two half marathons on the race calendar in the next month. I don't know. It would involve training (imagine that!), preferably on the road. Why do that when I can run on the trails? I guess the bright side is that if this is my major concern troubling me at the moment, life must be pretty good. And it is. I'll achieve my goal someday. In the meantime, I'll survive.

Breakfast off the grid

Last Saturday, my pilot friend zipped us off to breakfast up at Sulphur Creek, located just inside the roadless Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness Area. Between the Dramamine and the smooth flights back and forth, my stomach performed much better this time compared to the last trip.

There was a fire in the area, blanketing the valleys in smoke.

Approaching Sulphur Creek. The dirt landing strip is toward the right-center.

Coming in for the landing.

The view from our table. A beautiful morning, even with the haze.

Dixie.

Another plane touching down.

Some horseback riders heading down the runway toward points unknown.

I convinced myself that this horse was sleeping and wasn't in fact dead.

Let me tell you about my day

As I was into my sixth hour of all-day, online training this afternoon, I received an e-mail from my supervisor with the subject line, "Potential of exposure to whooping cough." Interest piqued and diversion created, I opened it. I won't cut and paste the e-mail's exact text, but here are the key points:

• There is a "very small possibility" that we have been exposed.
• The suspected case has not been technically confirmed as whooping cough.
• If we start to exhibit symptoms, we should stay home and see a doctor to prevent exposure to the remaining healthy employees.

Here's the thing: I know exactly who brought disease into the office. First, my supervisor, thanks to his complete lack of regard for privacy, spoke with the culprit in her cubicle just prior to sending the e-mail. I couldn't hear every word of the conversation, but "sick" was clearly audible multiple times.

(I mention the privacy thing because my IRB training included a discussion of privacy versus confidentiality. Who knew I'd be able to apply that lesson so fast? Learning in action!)

Second, the sickly woman was still coughing this afternoon! GO HOME!!! And I have class with her. I might as well consider myself a statistic already.

***

I think I've found my cause. Just because I left the rez doesn't mean the need to dispel myths about Native Americans has diminished. In class last week, I practically jumped out of my chair when a classmate thought tribes had money because of casinos. Yeah, the ones located near metropolitan areas definitely bring in loads of gamblers. And they are extremely generous when sharing their revenues with non-profits and other tribes. But then you have the tribes in South Dakota, for example, located off the interstate highway system and among the most impoverished people in America.

And then tonight, a fellow volunteer made a remark about Indians saving a dollar to buy another beer. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. What is wrong with people? Have you ever had those times where someone says something so completely absurd and wrong, but you didn't see it coming and couldn't formulate a response? I know that's just an excuse and I should have said something. But this was a volunteer helping out at a non-profit. I have to be on my guard even there?

***

I stopped over at Walmart tonight after getting a haircut, which I needed badly. I usually do my grocery shopping in the middle of the day to avoid the crowds, but I needed ice cream. (I suddenly can't live without my evening sundae.)

The cashiers there aren't the quickest, so I headed down to the self-checkout stands. Okay, just like my softball teammates last summer played to relive their high school sports-playing glory days, I enjoy assuming the role of cashier again, even if they're my own groceries. That's why I like the self-checkout.

But Walmart, it's time to take those machines out until your customers can operate the damn things on their own. Good grief, every customer required assistance from the guy manning the podium. And it's not like these people only had one or two items either. When I finally got my turn, I (of course) zipped through my items quickly. Apparently, I wasn't fast enough, though, because the guy behind me moved my cart out of his way to start loading up the belt as my receipt printed. I would have exhibited patience and waited the five additional seconds for my turn in line. But I guess that's just how I roll.

***

And now I'm home away from disease and humanity! My sundae was delicious. I haven't come down with pertussis (yet). And my pilot friend is whisking me off to breakfast in the morning. Maybe the world isn't out to get me.

Win, Place, Show, Brian

The Table Rock Challenge was two Saturdays ago. It was four and half miles up to the top of Table Rock while gaining 900 feet in elevation, and then four and a half miles back down. I had driven up there a couple times beforehand but had never run the course. I figured my regular trail running regimen would mimic the climb and distance.

As always, it didn't take long for the speedsters to pass me, and for me to pass those who started too fast. It was just me and the hill. Through the neighborhood, it was challenging because it never flattened out, but it wasn't overly strenuous either. Only the last half mile on a dirt road to the turnaround point was difficult.

The race was sponsored by local firefighters. So, who do you think was waiting for me at the top? Smokey the Bear, that's who! The good news is I had my photo taken with Smokey before heading back down the hill. The bad news is the Polaroid photo is washed out. You can make out my usual running accoutrements: hat, sunglasses, and water bottle. Otherwise, it's hard to tell it's me. Smokey developed nicely, however.

Here's a view from Table Rock, taken a couple months ago:

Anyway, back to the race. When I met Smokey, I was comfortably in fifth place. Being able to figure out placement halfway through is the best part of an out-and-back race. The first two guys were uncatchable. Third and fourth were at least a minute ahead of me. And, of course, I was dilly-dallying with Smokey. After my photo, I passed Mr. Sixth Place. I was confident he couldn't pass me coming down the hill, but those things are never certain.

Like I said, the steepest part of the run to the top was the last half mile. So, I could really turn on the jets coming back down. And I was flying! Even past the end of the dirt road and back on the blacktop, I was hauling ass. I don't remember ever running that fast. When the grade leveled out a bit and the sight lines were longer, I discovered I had made up significant ground on third and fourth. And I still had three miles to go!

Third moved ahead of fourth some, while I gained steadily on fourth. I was leery of passing him with so much of the course remaining to be run. But I went for it, catching him in about another mile. I still had to move fast because 1.) I didn't want to be caught by the guy I had just passed, and 2.) third was still in reach.

Alas, I just couldn't make up any more ground. I ran hard, but finished in 1:02:26, 23 seconds behind third. (The winner ran the nine-mile course in 53:50. Insane.) The guy who I had passed with a couple miles to go finished just about a minute after me.

The top three finishers each received goodie bags. There was no award for coming in fourth. But I felt really, really good with how well I ran. I can't recall making up that kind of distance on racers ahead of me. Just passing that one guy felt good. If I had somehow passed the other one to come in third, I would have had to retire from racing because that could not have been topped.

So, I was a bridesmaid again. But between Table Rock and the Dirty Dash last Saturday (I did come in sixth there, after all), I feel great about the half marathon I'm running two weeks from Sunday. Now, I just need to squeeze in a long run. This weekend, maybe?

It'll be an interesting race not only because it's a road course, but also because it's mostly flat. Since arriving in Boise three months ago, I would guess 95 percent of my running has been up on the foothills trails. Why run on pavement when there are trails so close? And like I need to mention it, but 1:30 is the goal.

Dirty Dash

I ran the Dirty Dash yesterday up at Bogus Basin. It was a strenuous 10K course filled with man-made obstacles, a huge water slide (with cold, cold water), and a mud pit at the finish. Crawling through the mud did some damage to my knees and shins, scratching me up pretty good. The bottom felt like it was covered in gravel. But it was worth it!

I went just to have fun, but unexpectedly came in fifth or sixth. And, of course, I got dirty.

Who moved my cheese?

Between classes, work, volunteer commitments, running, and a special male friend, I've been very busy lately. It's no coincidence that my last post here was drafted prior to the start of the fall semester.

Time management hasn't been a problem at all, however. It helps that my classes are actually pretty fun, further confirmation that I chose the right degree program. And I ran really, really well in a race on Saturday. (Full report to come.)

But with my schedule changing from one day to the next, I'm having a hard time adjusting my feeding times. Working an 8-to-5 day, it's easy to eat at the same time each day. Yeah, it's probably a bit obsessive-compulsive, but there is some underlying logic, besides the fact that I am a tad obsessive-compulsive about certain - but not all - aspects of my life.

First, there's the whole running thing. My stomach is very temperamental. I need to wait a good three or four hours after eating a full meal before heading out for a run. And, even then, I'm not immune from the occasional bowel-movement emergency. (I have examples of BMEs that I won't share here. But I've got some dandies.)

Second, if I don't stick to a regular food-intake schedule, I'll eat more often and in greater quantities than if I stick to my regular three meals, mid-morning snack, and dessert. Granted, I still inhale a ton of food, which is actually kind of frightening when I stop to think about it or compare what I shovel down my throat to how much food a dining companion is taking home from the restaurant. But it works ... as long as I keep running.

But it's impossible to keep any sort of regular schedule. Today, for example, I came home from class at 9:00 having only eaten two meals during the day, including a gigantic dinner at 4:00. I thought that would hold me over until morning. Ha! But I ended up having a sundae followed by some tuna fish. And that breaks another rule: eating within three hours of bedtime. Then again, I may be up for a while reading about the Tea Party candidate's win in the Republican primary for Joe Biden's old U.S. Senate seat.

So, after not writing anything on here for three and a half weeks, that's what's on my mind: food, poop, and politics. Thank you for reading.

What I did on my summer vacation

I went to the ocean this week. Left Boise Monday morning, returned home Wednesday night. The drive was exhausting, but it was so worth it. I realized this immediately upon arriving in Crescent City, California. I really missed the water.

But first I had to get there.

Probably my favorite part of the drive was along U.S. 395 from Burns to Lakeview. Open country where I could see for miles. The road meandered along the east side of Lake Abert.

After beginning to sink in the flats during my walk out to shore, I backtracked up to my car to resume the drive south.

It took a little over 11 hours and 600 miles to reach Hiouchi, California, my home for two nights. To reach the cool, damp weather, I first had to drive through blazing heat. It was 105 degrees in Medford. And there was a fire near Grants Pass.

After checking in at the motel, I drove down the hill to Crescent City for dinner. Afterward, I went for a walk along the jetty.

Tuesday was sightseeing day. First, though, I wanted to go for a run. (Of course.) It might just be me, but "Coastal Trail" evokes an image of a relatively level trail along the sea. I was wrong. The trail began climbing after just a half mile. I don't mind hills, but this one long hill was too steep for running, requiring fits and spurts of power walking. And because the plan was to run out to a certain point and return, I had to descend this monstrosity. (My poor knees.) Don't get me wrong, the relatively flat sections of the trail were fantastic. And it felt great to just be running in the misty forest. But that hill was hell.

The trailhead was located at a beautiful overlook of Crescent Beach. This scene is why I made the trip. (Crescent City is off to the left in the fog.)

I went back to the motel to get cleaned up and returned to Crescent City for breakfast. Then, I headed south on U.S. 101. First stop, the Klamath River's outlet into the Pacific Ocean.

The great part about this photo is I received a job offer at this spot after returning from a hike down to the overlook. It was such a pleasant surprise since I had interviewed for the position months ago while still in South Dakota and had written off the possibility of ever hearing from them again after the "Thanks, but no thanks" letter. Funny how things work out.

Just a bit further south on 101 was the Tour-Thru Tree in Klamath.

Thank you to the kind motorcyclist who took my photo. Quick, funny story: Later in the evening, I drove up to Brookings, Oregon. While at the Dairy Queen, two motorcyclists walked in and asked me, "Were you down in California earlier today?" It was the same biker who took my photo and his buddy. Small world.

What I later learned was this is not the only tree you can drive through in Redwood Country. There are similar trees in Leggett and Myers Flat.

The southernmost point of my journey was Fern Canyon in Humboldt County. The road to get there was just awful. Terrible! Fern Canyon is part of Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park. State park = entrance fee. I never carry much cash, so I asked the ranger if she accepted credit cards. "Nope. No electricity."

I looked in my wallet to discover I was a dollar short of the eight-dollar entry fee. I would have had enough cash if I hadn't just shelled out five bucks to drive through that damn tree. Since the ranger station was three miles into the park along that God-awful road, I was faced with the prospect of driving through six miles of hell without seeing the canyon. I really didn't want to turn around.

I'm sure I sounded whiney and looked pathetic when I told the ranger, with wallet open for her to see, "I only have seven dollars." She looked at me for a couple seconds before replying, "We'll just make you a senior today." And how much was the senior admission fee? Seven dollars!

There were two at-grade stream crossings past the ranger station. I had asked a couple folks beforehand if my little car would make it. "Oh yeah, won't be a problem." Well, the car didn't have a problem, but it was disconcerting nonetheless. I mean, the Weather Channel's mantra is practically "Turn around, don't drown."

After a short hike, I arrived in Fern Canyon. Supposedly, scenes from the second Jurassic Park movie were filmed there.

Heading back north, I stopped at the Trees of Mystery. There was no need to go inside when Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox were available for photos for free in the parking lot. And it's not like I had any cash left on me anyway! Paul's right hand waved and right eye blinked.

I wrapped up my day of sightseeing back in Crescent City. Here's a shot looking south toward Battery Point Lighthouse.

Wednesday was the loooooong drive home, including a stop at Crater Lake National Park. However, since I still live in the 1980s world of 35mm film and I haven't finished the roll, those photos will have to wait. And I've already mentioned my gas station story in Brothers and getting pulled over.

Great trip, but no more road trips for awhile. My life of leisure is exhausting.

Beats a bowl of Cheerios at home

One of the decidedly decadent benefits of befriending a pilot is flying to breakfast in the mountains. This morning, I was treated to a flight up to Stanley in the Sawtooth Mountains. I had to fight back the turbulence-induced urge to vomit on the hour-long flight home, but it was a beautiful ride.

Looking down at Stanley from the bluff on which the airport sits:

Me, the plane, and the Sawtooths:

Don't do anything stupid!

The approach into Boise:

I managed to make it through the trip without throwing up. But it was close.

Travels along Highway 20

Brothers

I know I should have gassed up in Bend. But the traffic there was awful. I don't understand the hype about that town. I couldn't have located Highway 20 soon enough.

It didn't take long before the mental math revealed I wouldn't have enough gas to get to Burns, the next sizable town down the road. Brothers was the next dot on the map to the east, so I pegged my hopes that there would be gas available.

There wasn't much to Brothers. But there was a gas station/post office/cafe/convenience store. It thought it was one of those places where you'd expect taxidermy services as well (or a bait shop, if near a body of water instead). So, I got a good laugh when I passed the taxidermist stand just east of Brothers. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I pulled up to the old-time gas pumps, got out of the car, and headed inside. Because, of course, you can't pump your own damn gas in the state of Oregon. The gentleman behind the counter couldn't have moved any slower. He was old, but not that old. The sun had probably aged him prematurely. (Note to self: Must wear sunscreen.)

I was passed over for customers who had arrived after me. I would have made a fuss, but I felt the old man could have refused to fill my tank. When you've literally got the key to the only gas pump in a 100-mile stretch of high desert, you can do that. You can also charge $3.42/gallon. Oh, the power.

With the other customers paid up, the old man grabbed the keys and shuffled out the door behind me. Arriving at my car, he randomly remarked, "Well, you're well-muscled." Only the "you're" came out more like "yuuuuuuuuuuuur." I don't respond well to compliments about my appearance as it is. Throw in the fact that this one came from an aging gas jockey in the middle of nowhere and you've got the recipe for awkwardness.

I did manage to politely say thank you and tell him I was a runner. (I assumed he was referencing my legs.) He added that he used to look like me, which sounded more like sad reminiscing than anything else. But I also thought he was warning me. "One day, you will be me." Some sage advice from a desert rat.

Somewhere between Brothers and Burns

The speed limit on the two-lane highways in Oregon is no more than 55 MPH. Ridiculous. I drove through some pretty desolate (and beautiful) country. There's no way 55 is doable on those roads for hundreds of miles. Most of the other drivers felt the same way.

After my encounter with the old man in Brothers, I continued east toward Boise. I was tired and just wanted to get home. So, when the flashing lights appeared in my rear-view mirror, I resigned myself to my fate. I had just passed a couple of parked sheriff's vehicles. I know I wasn't speeding then, because I had slowed when the truck in front of me turned off the highway at that same spot. Maybe someone was hidden a bit further back?

I pulled over and the officer comes up. "I'm Officer So-and-So from the Sheriff's Office and I clocked you... Well, you're well-muscled." Okay, he didn't say that. What a coincidence that would have been! No, he said got me going 73 in a 55. I had no argument. I was certainly going 73 at some point. When he asked if that sounded about right, I couldn't say no.

"License, insurance, and registration, please." Okay, license? Check. Insurance card? Check. I open the glove compartment to locate the registration ... and I can't find it. He goes back to his vehicle to run my information while I continue to rummage through the few documents in the glove box. Oh, I found my expired South Dakota registration and some old insurance cards. But no Idaho registration. Lovely.

When the officer returned, I said (or maybe pleaded), "I swear, the car is registered. I just moved to Idaho and had the car titled." I still have my South Dakota driver's license, after all. He had noted that fact when I had handed it over earlier, to which I replied that I was a grad student at Boise State. ("You see, sir, I'm a studious young man...") Actually, this would have been the perfect time to pull out the poor-grad-student line. ("Officer, as a poor grad student, I really can't afford the exorbitant, yet deserved, ticket you're about to write.")

Anyway, I was a bit flustered (and pissed off at myself) when he got back to the car:

Officer: You know you shouldn't be driving through Oregon, right?

Me: Uhhh...

Officer: Because I went to the University of Oregon.

Me: Oh yeah. I heard about what happened last year.

Just splendid. I'm pulled over going 18 over the limit without my registration by a Duck. Great. But all he did was hand back my license and insurance card and told me to keep it under 65. And I'm still ticket-free since the age of 17.

Yesterday, I went through my files and quickly located my registration. For whatever reason, I had stupidly filed the damn thing instead of putting it in the glove box. Lesson learned.

Ride 'em cowboy!

Mom sent me some photos from my family's visit to South Dakota. Included is the long-promised jackalope photo:

I love South Dakota.

From my beard to the rodeo - and everything in between!

I don't know what it is about the month of August the past several years, but it has been the month where I've decided to shake up (i.e. become lazy with) my shaving routine. And that means it's beard season! I finally got around to shaving my neck tonight, so I no longer look like I've been living in the woods. We'll see how long the facial hair lasts this time.

***

There has (finally) been some weather here in Boise lately to break the California-like monotony. Storms rolled through last night. Not much rain, but a good amount of lightning. And a quick shower fell this afternoon, just enough for that damp smell to blow in through the windows. Very, very nice. If one is to believe the forecast, the temperature won't reach 80 tomorrow. Hot, sunny weather returns this weekend, however.

***

I've had the strangest urge this week to visit the ocean. A very strong urge that won't go away. Maybe the sun is getting to me, who knows. I never felt like this in South Dakota, where I was about as far away from an ocean as one can get in North America. My summer class ends this week, with a week off before fall semester starts. A trip may be in the works.

***

The last week of class means it is final exam time. It was a quick five weeks and I have loved it. The two things I have going for me as the curriculum progresses are 1.) I write well, thank goodness, and 2.) I'm in the right program at the right school for me. The class has definitely been a lot work though. So much work, in fact, that I'm glad I'm not employed at the moment. I've been able to devote all of my energy to this introductory course. Well, and to running too.

***

Turkey jerky is like crack for me. It. Is. So. Delicious. But loaded in sodium, unfortunately. So, since I can't refrain from buying the two-bag pack from Costco and I'm freaked out about hereditary high blood pressure, I'm going cold turkey (jerky, haha). But what to do with the two bags I have left in the cabinet...

***

I've been listening to the new Arcade Fire album, "The Suburbs." Not bad. It can't compare to "Funeral" (What will?), but is superior to "Neon Bible."

***

And break out the western wear, it's rodeo time! The Owyhee County Fair and Rodeo begins tomorrow in Homedale. I'll head out there Saturday night for the final night of rodeo. That's typically when you see the best of the best. Steer wrestling is my favorite event. But it's also fun to watch the youngsters mutton bustin'. Really, it's all a blast.

You're simply the best (of the rest)

I had my race this morning. First, do you know how hard it is to wake up before 7:00 when you haven't done it in six weeks? Quite. But I was pumped and bolted out of bed. It also helped that I keep the alarm clock on the other side of the room, necessitating that I actually get up to turn it off.

When the race started, a group of about 20 runners absolutely bolted from the line. These people turned out to be of two groups: 1.) The elite runners who were not my competition, and 2.) The poor souls who didn't realize how much of an elevation gain awaited them, poor things. I have to say, though, that the runners (at least those toward the front at the start) did a good job of lining up based on projected finishing time. I've complained on here before about that. There's no shame in finishing toward the back of the back, especially in a race like this. Just don't start right up front so everyone has to pass you.

So, yes, a bunch of folks sprinted from start. I tried to stick to my mantra of "Run your race, Bri," but it is a competition after all. I went out a little faster than I would have otherwise; however, it turned out to be a good thing. I hit the summit faster than I ever had. Just prior to that point, I found myself separated from the other racers, with the fast group way ahead and the rest of the pack behind me. This almost always happens to me. Due to the course's winding nature, I had glimpses of a runner or two ahead of and behind me at times; mostly, however, it was me racing against myself. Good thing I usually run alone.

During the mostly downhill, last half of the race, I did quickly make up a ton of ground on a runner. "Dead meat!" I thought. But no, it was just some random guy out for his Saturday morning jog. Damn it.

After the final climb, I sprinted the final 10 minutes downhill. There was no way for me to figure out where I was place-wise, both overall and in my age group. So, I just ran hard. And it felt so good! I crossed the finish line strong, relatively free of bugs, and comfortably ahead of the next finisher.

But where did I place? My time was something like 56:45, a personal best for sure, but I knew that it probably wasn't good enough for top-three in the 30-39 age group based on last year's times. As it turned out, the third-place guy finished in 53-something, which just wasn't going to happen for me. (And it won't ever happen unless I lose about 30 pounds. Seriously. You should have seen the twigs that finished ahead of me. And it's not like I have weight to spare.)

If the color-coded tags were any indication, I came in fourth in the 30-39 age group. Not bad, methinks. According to the race website, there were 31 entrants in this group alone. Overall, I finished somewhere around 20th out of around 200. Also not bad. Okay, I did very well. In fact, I did so well, it took two naps this afternoon to recover.

There are a couple half marathons on my tentative agenda in October. And I have a mud run through an obstacle course scheduled in September. That should be something. I'll try to get pictures of that one.

Update: The results have been posted: 56:37, 21/136 overall, 5/26 age group.

human flypaper

Since moving to Boise a month ago, I've developed a nice rotation of trails on which to run in the mornings. Lately, though, I've been a regular up at the Military Reserve, site of a trail race this Saturday. I haven't raced since May, so I'm itching for the competition. It's a challenging course, but it's totally doable, about eight miles in length - four up, four back down. Based on my training runs, I'm going to really have to haul ass coming down from the summit to make the top-three in my age group. But I gotta have a goal.

Bugs really aren't a problem around here, which I'm thankful for. But the Military Reserve has swarms of black bugs of some sort. By the time I make it back down the hill to the parking lot, my entire torso and arms are totally covered in them. It's quite disgusting, if I say so myself. I should look so pretty when I cross the finish line Saturday morning.

Celery is good for the brain

I just stopped over at Albertson's to pickup some supplies for tomorrow's hike. As the cashier was ringing up my items, the one in the next lane asked her, "What is celery?" while holding up, naturally, a stalk of celery. (Why he was dressed in jeans, white t-shirt, and a lei is beyond me.) Smart-ass me, I wanted to reply, "A vegetable." But I knew what he was after: "the code."

For those of you not in the know on the ways of the supermarket world, produce items (along with a small number of other items) are assigned a four-digit PLU, or price lookup, code. The cashier types in the PLU to determine the item's price. After time, a good cashier will learn to associate most fruits and vegetables with its PLU. If presented with a bag of bananas or apples, a novice can cheat by looking at the sticker. But every nitwit knows that bananas are 4011. Please.

Returning to my tale... My mind quickly shifted gears after stifling my urge to make a comedic (to me) remark. "4070?" I wondered.

"Celery? 4070," my cashier responded.

Hot dog! I still got it after all these years. My last day as a cashier was in the late 90s and I still know celery. I mean, bananas? Come on. But celery is another story.

Help me.

Note to self on TP

The idea of a quadruple-sized toilet paper roll seemed like a good idea while at Freddy's yesterday. I fell under the spell of TP efficiency, or whatever you call the behemoth now sitting on the back of my toilet. The roll barely fit on the holder and was so big that it didn't move when I attempted to grab a few squares. And once I finish this roll, his three brothers await on the shelf.

Poor, poor me

A friend of mine put me in touch with one of his colleagues here in Boise. We had lunch last Friday. When the bill arrived, he picked it up, remarking, "You're a poor grad student. I remember those days." Now, I'm not one to turn down a free meal (especially when it's sub-par almond chicken), but I'm not really poor.

The funny thing is that I was the "poor VISTA" when I lived in South Dakota. Once again, I had money. Granted, I lived solely off of my $850/month living allowance for 19 months. (True, I didn't have a housing payment. But I paid in other ways, trust me.) So, yes, I was technically living in poverty as defined by the government. But I was still able to travel some and pay race registration fees. And if things got bad, my savings were still there. I could have gone on food stamps, but chose not to because I didn't truly need them.

And now? I'm not working, not too worried about it, and enjoying a life of leisure at the moment. (I do have an interview on Wednesday, so light a candle for me. the position is a great fit for me.) Poor people can't do that.

It's not that the negative connotation of the word "poor" bothers me. It's just odd how others stereotypically define poverty. Or is it that I'm a "good" poor person and entitled to a free meal because I joined the national service program, or am now pursuing a graduate degree? Or maybe I'm just completely overthinking this?

I'm thirsty

It's currently 100 degrees in Boise, Idaho. I can't help thinking about the oft-used response of Phoenix residents when those who reside elsewhere remark about the blast-furnace heat of the desert in summer: "But it's a dry heat!" Ha! It's still 100 degrees and I don't care if the relative humidity is 12 percent. Bring me a glass of water. Please.

On the bright side, it's 96 degrees in Mission. I'd be baking either way.

Thoughts on changing from 67 to 1A

My forwarded mail arrived yesterday. Included were the two most recent editions of the Todd County Tribune. It was my first tangible connection to the Rosebud since I arrived in Boise two weeks ago, and it brought back feelings I had toward the end of my time on the reservation.

One of the things I was unaware of before moving to Mission was the extent to which white folks come and go on the reservation. On a related note, I also didn’t realize how much of a destination the Rosebud is in terms of church groups looking to perform mission work. (The vast majority of the groups, visiting Habitat or other organizations, are religiously affiliated. Habitat has a few secular groups.)

AmeriCorps is innately a temporary program. Participants commit to a certain amount of service time, with VISTAs working for one year. I knew even before arriving that there would come a time when I would leave, presumably to attend graduate school. That did not stop me from becoming a part of the community, which I did willingly because I genuinely love the place.

But how does all of this look to those who don’t get to leave? I know I did good things for not only Habitat, but for Mission and the Rosebud as well. But I left. Just like the white people who spend a week during the summer teaching vacation bible school. Just like the Teach For America teachers who flee after their two-year commitment, if they make it that long. And just like every other person who “does their time” on the rez before departing for greener pastures.

The high school dropout rate at the high school is atrocious. This is the result of many factors, including, in my opinion, the turnover rate in the teaching corps. The district relies heavily on TFA. I’m sure they’d have trouble recruiting people otherwise. I love the place, but it is isolated and there are many challenges to reservation life.

I extended my service seven months over my original commitment, yet I can’t get over my feeling of abandonment. What makes me different from every other (white) person who has come and gone? The kids I coached won’t see me as any different from any of their former teachers. And should they?

Because I knew my time on the Rosebud would be temporary, I completely threw myself into life in town and the greater reservation soon after arriving in November 2008. My goal was to become a familiar face around town. I achieved and exceeded that goal. People were sad to hear I was leaving. Yeah, they were excited for me about graduate school, but still sad.

There’s nothing I can really do about how I’m feeling. Just like when I moved to Mission (and Juneau before that), Boise needs to be my home now, and it will be. I’ve already met some great people, I’m enjoying the solitude of my apartment, and the first week of grad school has been fun. And the running is fantastic!

It still wasn’t a good feeling to replace my South Dakota “67” plates with Idaho “1A” plates. Nothing against Boise, but it felt like a step backward. The 67 stood for Todd County, home to the Rosebud. 1A is Ada County, so now I’m one of about 384,000 people. Just doesn’t seem as special.

I don’t want to say it wasn’t time to go, because it was. Grad school has been my goal and, like other goals I’ve had, nothing was going to stop me. But 19 months wasn’t long enough. The memory of unpacking the car was still fresh when I finished packing the car back up to leave two weeks ago.

People have asked what I plan to do after grad school. My response has been, “We’ll see what my priorities are two years from now.” If I can figure out a way to mentally make Boise a smaller place than it truly is, maybe it can remain home forever. But if I do end up leaving in 2012 after I graduate, that will be the last move. I’m proud of my background and the interesting places I’ve lived, but this moving stuff is wearing me down.

No matter what, though, I'm keeping my subscription to the Tribune.

Hot mess

I have a farmer's tan. I usually have one this time of year. Okay, maybe not while I was living in Juneau. But I spend a lot of time outdoors, and before I know it, my arms (and legs) reach a point of no return, a color that will never be achieved by the rest of my pasty-white body no matter how much sun it receives for the remainder of the summer.

Since moving to Boise, I've been running in the mornings, hitting the trails no later than 9:00 a.m. in order to beat the heat. Well, I was out late last night (first date, whoop) and couldn't muster the energy required to get my ass in gear so early in the morn. I didn't run yesterday, so I definitely still wanted to get outside, even if it meant in the middle of a hot, sunny, dry afternoon.

Normally, I run with a shirt on, mostly to save the masses from the glare created from the sun reflecting off my pale skin. (I often joke that people need those special eclipse-watching glasses to view my chest in broad daylight.) And, of course, there's the fact that my tan arms/white chest combo would be visible for the entire world to see. You know how people talk.

Today, I didn't care. Due to the heat, however, there was hardly a soul on the trails. Me and my skinny, tropical arms had the place to ourselves. It was a hard, sweaty run, but well worth it (as always). But I woke up from my afternoon nap (not to be confused with my morning nap) with a burning sensation underneath my shirt. Oh yes, a lovely burn on my shoulders and upper back.

But the greatest part is that the rest of my torso is still halibut white. So, I'm now a real looker, what with the tan arms, pink upper body, and white everything else. At least the skin from my popped blister has almost fully fused back onto my heel. Otherwise, my self-image would have taken a real hit.

Blistered

It's possible I've been overdoing things with my trail running over the past week. I returned home from this morning's run with the biggest, gnarliest blister I've not only ever had myself, but ever seen on a human being. It was on my left heel. I wouldn't say it hurt, but it was uncomfortable walking on it throughout the day.

So, this evening, I drained it. It's a good thing I had tissues handy because there were copious amounts of warm blister juice waiting to gush into the slit I had cut. I'm all bandaged up now. I still plan to run tomorrow. The joy of being a toe runner...

I was going to take and post photos; however, I think my words provide enough of a visual.

Boise's Bob Vila

Today's project had me putting together a dresser. The box weighed close to a million pounds. I had a hell of a time just getting it into my car (and out of the car, and up the short stoop).

Not including breaks for lunch and a phone call, it took three hours to put this bad boy together:

Looks good, right? Luckily, you can't see the small blemish I created when I mistakenly slid a piece in the wrong slot. Well, you won't see it unless you go looking through my underwear drawer.

First dispatches from Boise

• I've gone on three runs thus far: one on the paved Greenbelt along the river, two on trails in the foothills. (Can I tell you how much I missed trail running?) All were great experiences. And there were people everywhere! Boise is a very active town. Keep in mind that two of my runs took place mid-morning on weekdays. Don't these people work?
• I live in a small apartment complex, just 10 units around a small yard. On a scale of 1 to 10, my apartment is a 9. I can live without an on-site laundry facility; however, the lack of air conditioning could be a problem. I have gigantic west-facing windows. And guess in which direction the sun sets around here. My place turns into a little heat box after 5:00 p.m. But it's no worse than the bedroom I had in the northwest corner of the building in Mission. Hot in summer and freezing in the winter.
• Campus is a five-minute walk away. My neighborhood is great and pretty quiet. Folks in golf carts drive around throughout the day, serving as the eyes and ears of the place. Being so close to campus, however, makes me wonder how the serenity is going to change once the fall semester begins. Then again, Boise State is a commuter school.
• Speaking of close, downtown is another 15-minute walk from campus. Like Juneau's First Friday art walk, Boise has what's called First Thursday. So, I checked that out two nights ago. I visited the Idaho State Historical Museum (for free), bought a new overpriced water bottle to take along on my runs, and bought a Cowboy Junkies CD for $4. The CD compensated for the water bottle.
• I'm not one to run with people, but I'm going to check out the group run next Saturday morning. It was my intention to meet the group at 7:00 a.m. this morning, but I was up past my bedtime last night after a late movie. I figure the running group might be a good way to meet people. If I don't like them, I can veer off on a different direction, never to return.
• There's a great independent movie theater, which I visited last night. Imagine the Nickelodeon in Juneau just with more screens. Like the Nickelodeon, I sat against the wall last night. Ah, the security of the wall. The only trouble was picking which film to see. I went with "Please Give." Not bad.
• I got my BSU ID card Thursday. Hello student discounts!
• I signed up for my first race, a trail run in August. I need the month to acclimate because...
• It is so freaking dry here! Good grief I'm thirsty. I don't know how I'm the only runner out there carrying a water bottle. I started running with Gatorade in Mission because of my fear of dehydration while running the lonely dirt roads. But here? I have to be even more judicious with my fluid intake.
• I like my part of town. But there's a point within Boise the farther west you go where it turns into your traditional grid of streets found throughout the western U.S. and its accompanying big box stores, fast-food joints, and traffic. It's fairly easy to get around town, even with lower speed limits than you'd expect, construction, and un-timed stop lights. But I'm glad I chose to live "in town" close to campus instead of in suburbia.
• I'm not working yet, but not freaking out about the money situation. I'll find a job eventually. I do have a good nibble on one position and applied for another yesterday morning which would be a perfect fit. Let's see if they feel the same. In the meantime, I'm enjoying my time off. Class doesn't start until the 12th.
• Overall, I like Boise so far. It'll be easy to call this place home for at least two years. I'm not too concerned with the traffic situation because I really won't have to deal with it much once I get more settled. Boise has more people than what I'm used to and comfortable with. But I've lived among the masses before.