Upon arriving in St. Albans, VT last Friday, I wandered around and snapped some photos of the local high school across the street. Some of my teammates were running. Crazy kids.
Filed under: everyday life, travel | 4 Comments »
Why it pays to get old. And other photos.
Posted on June 13, 2010 by threlkeld
Jonathan’s gone pro. Here’s a photo of his first race winnings: $200 for winning 2nd in the masters division of the Ridgewood, NJ 10K.
This works out to about $.0000000008 per mile trained.
Some shots of Jonathan at today’s Multiple Myeloma Research Foundation 5K in New Canaan, CT. He was second overall, beaten by a 15 year old.
Looking confident and relaxed. Note the enormous watch.
Warming up and looking like the cat that ate the canary. I think this is one of the best photos I've ever taken of him.
Bats out of hell at 5:10 per mile.
I took a finish photo, but it’s a terrible picture. So, onto the a cooldown shot. Splendor in the grass…
I can't remember why he's laughing. I think I insulted him or something.
New Canaan High School has a great old track. It’s probably not even that old, but the numbers are very old timey. I took some art shots while killing time.
I may need to make a painting out of this one.
Me like triangles.
Standard shot. You can find a zillion just like this in any stock photo library. I'm embarrassed that I even took it, frankly.
Number 3. The larch. The. Larch.
And finally. The best singlet I’ve seen in a long, long while…
Sure, the Scots are thrifty. But they're also very funny.
Filed under: everyday life, humor, racing | 8 Comments »
Guest Post: The wee bunny gets a lesson in endurance
Posted on May 11, 2010 by threlkeld
After 8 months of chemo in 2008, followed by pelvic-tissue-destroying rads and chemo in fall, then pelvis-mostly-removing surgery in spring 2009, I went for my first run since 2005 with my boyfriend’s leggy athletic pothead daughter. It was October 2009. In the past year, I’d been through times when I had almost no platelets, white blood cells, or hair. By almost no hair, you have to understand, I studied my whole hide and found exactly 4. All on my head, by the way. The only thing in my favor physically is that I too stomp around on longish pins, a fact few are allowed to forget for any length of time once they make my acquaintance.
Bunny was taught to bolt by a former boyfriend, an AWOL Marine. I suppose you can see why. I was trained to run cross-country in 1977, so I set a pace that lets me run indefinitely. You know how your basic pace and stride are sort of set in your bones? The raspy rhythm of my breaths has sounded exactly the same since my high school competitive days.
I had turned the Dilaudid up to 11. Nurses come by to fluff me up every few hours. I have no idea where I am.
On the first run, the young lady hopped off ahead and I did the tortoise thing. When we met again on her way back from Morocco, I did a slow 180 and again watched her tight white tail bounce into the twilight. I should add here that these days, it’s considered “okay” to leave your father’s middle-aged girlfriend in the dark in an unfamiliar area populated, essentially, with large men passing from behind and in front clad in sweatpants and little else, even after you’d been with her in emergency rooms for sudden life-threatening GI attacks twice since July and were aware she’d been in for those a total of five times since May.
I got to the Citroen about 15 minutes after Bunny had, admittedly somewhat weepy because I was tired and just barely able to stay in motion by then. Barely. And plus, I just hate being left behind in the dark in an unfamiliar area populated, essentially, with large men passing from behind and in front clad in sweatpants and little else. Just a quirk of mine. Her dad recommended therapy and medication for it.
I calculated that I’d just run over 5 kilometers and was quietly displeased at the absence of cheering throngs throwing unattractive but free* t-shirts and similarly disadvantaged water bottles at me. Wabbit had run farther than I, but I’d stayed upright and moving for 15 minutes longer than she. Before thinking, she tried to argue my assertion that I had shown more endurance than had she. But, I reminded her, her body was in motion for about 30 minutes, and mine for about 45. That’s 50% longer, and made it hard for her to say she could have managed the same thing. Not without proving it, anyway.
— Caroline Collins, Ph.D.
*Caroline’s Law of Not Having a Bunch of Crap in Your House:
Never take anything for free that you wouldn’t pay at least $20 for in a store that day.
Filed under: everyday life, inspiration | Tagged: cancer | Leave a comment »
The rock stars next door
Posted on April 25, 2010 by threlkeld
For years and years I didn’t remember a whole lot from my childhood. Now I find that something’s been released in my brain lately and I’m finding all kinds of things crammed away in there that I’d forgotten about.
The other day was warm enough to open the window in the second bedroom that serves as our office. When it’s warm, my neighbor’s dog, Lola, is outside on their deck. She barks at anything that moves, with the mailman and cats being the big winners usually.
Last summer I bought a device called the Barkstopper Pro. It was useless against Lola’s constant auditory onslaught. So I’ve gotten used to the barking and it’s only a real nuisance when I’m on the phone. Or when I think about what we’re going to do if we ever want to sell this house.
I knew the mail had arrived, because Lola was barking her head off. Then I suddenly remembered a song called “Barking Dog Blues.” It was written by Peter Kaukonen, brother of Jorma, both members of various incarnations of Jefferson Airplane/Starship. Like Proust’s fateful madeleine, that stupid dog brought on a flood of memories.
I mostly grew up in Mill Valley, California, which is about 20 minutes north of San Francisco. We moved there in 1970 and lived about halfway up to the top of Mount Tamalpais. Mill Valley was kind of a magical place in which to grow up, something I didn’t fully appreciate until after I left roughly 13 years later. It is a gorgeous town, with houses stuck into the side of the mountain, carpeted with old growth redwoods and sycamores and full of discoveries, like secret steps you can use to take shortcuts everywhere, horse farms and fantastic parks and trails.
In the sixties and seventies it was a hotbed of musical activity. To give you an idea of what it was like there, my best friend, Johanna, lived higher up on the mountain in a big A-frame. Her house was in earshot of Carlos Santana’s place, and we could sometimes hear them rehearsing in the afternoons. (She also had a neighbor a bit closer in who sometimes made pornographic movies outside on the deck. Needless to say, to our cultural peril, we found the latter activity of much greater interest.)
My family lived next door to Peter Kaukonen and his wife at the time, Jacky. They had no kids, but they seemed to like me, their seven-year-old neighbor. I found them fascinating. Peter had a home recording studio and a room full of musical instruments.
Even then I was intensely drawn to all kinds of music (I was, for example, obsessed at the time with a couple of albums my dad gave me by the Baha Marimba Band, a faux-Mexican outfit) and enjoyed just being around all the drums and guitars. They were like works of art and I loved looking at them as much as I liked hearing them played. Ten years ago I bought my dream guitar, a Gibson Les Paul Custom. I play it badly and it needs attention from a good luthier. But it’s a beautiful piece of art to me.
In the early seventies, people weren’t paranoid about their kids hanging around with adults. I used to go over to Peter and Jacky’s some afternoons after school just to hang out and see what they were up to. It still amazes me that they welcomed me into their home rather than seeing me as a nuisance.
Who would you rather hang around with after school? No fucking contest.
Peter had recorded an album, Black Kangaroo, and he wrote the song “Barking Dog Blues” as a minor protest against (or, really a lament about) our neighbors’ dog, which barked incessantly. I can only imagine how frustrating it must have been to try to record an album with a fucking dog going in the background. On that recording, he gave up and made the barking the song’s centerpiece.
Along with all their instruments, they had a menagerie of exotic reptile pets. It was like a little zoo of lizards and snakes over there. All this was so much more interesting than either school or my friends’ houses that I couldn’t wait to go over there sometimes.
One time I went into San Francisco with Jacky to a store (I’m pretty sure it was in Chinatown — where else would it possibly have been?) where she bought all the food for their pets: dried grubs, live bugs — and live mice. This was a big treat — going with an adult somewhere to do something undeniably adult, like buying live animals. Jacky handled the transaction with a perfect mixture of sensitivity and matter-of-factness. Snakes ate mice; that was just nature at work. I even remember her saying something to this effect before we went in. She was careful to check that I wasn’t upset by this concept, which I wasn’t, although it didn’t seem like I had much of an option.
Doing some casual Googling, I see that they’re both still around, although it looks like they split up quite awhile ago. Looking back, I realize that Peter and Jacky were just kids themselves at the time — probably not even 30 years old. But they seemed so grown up to me, yet accessible and cool in way that my parents and my friends’ parents could never be. They were very kind to me, and the impression they made on me has influenced how I deal with kids, since I know that small gestures can stick.
Filed under: everyday life | Tagged: black kangaroo, jacky kaukonen, mill valley, peter kaukonen | 9 Comments »
The 5K
Posted on April 23, 2010 by threlkeld
I have one tomorrow.
I knew it had been awhile since I last raced one, but I didn’t realize until I looked at my old logs just how long it’s been: nearly four years. It also turns out that I’ve only ever raced three 5Ks. In mid-2006, shortly after I started racing — with a 5K, 10K and 15K in under a month’s time — it became clear to me that I was better suited, at least temperamentally if not physiologically, for racing longer distances.
Or at least that’s what I’ve always thought. Namely, that I have no natural speed. But the truth is that I’ve never trained for shorter race distances (meaning less than a half marathon), so I really have no clue if that’s true or not. I stopped racing 5Ks because I hated how I felt when I was racing them. It was just too hard to run that fast. Because of the high level of discomfort involved, I bought into the “I’m not a 5K racer” perspective for years.
Now, after having recently raced a 2 miler and a couple of 4 milers, and having truly enjoyed each experience, I’m guessing that my dislike of racing shorter distances back then had more to do with my lack of aerobic conditioning and less to do with some sort of natural disadvantage in the speed department.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not proclaiming myself a fast racer at shorter distances by any means. I’m fully expecting to have my ass handed to me in the track races I plan to do in a few weeks. But I’m starting to doubt that I’m as irredeemably terrible at racing short as I’d thought.
Tomorrow’s race won’t exactly present the opportunity for a fair assessment, by the way, at least from a competitive standpoint. We’re running a small 5K way the hell up in Orange County. But, as with all my races this season, I’m going into this race essentially to see how things turn out, not to achieve any particular goal or beat someone else.
The last time I raced a 5K I hated it. Tomorrow I expect to love it.
—————————————————
On a totally unrelated note, it’s spring and that means I’m thinking about my grandmother, who died just about two years ago at the age of 93. Flowers burst into bloom and I get reliably depressed; I’ve come to expect it, although it’s better this year than it was last year, when I found myself weeping on a few runs. I miss her dark sense of humor and appreciation for the bawdy.
I saw her in Iowa, alive, for the last time in April 2008 when I thought she was going to fight her way back from a stroke (having survived just about everything else life had thrown at her), then went back to say farewell at her funeral a month later. Then Cedar Rapids was hit with floods of Biblical proportions, which destroyed much of city’s historic downtown including parts where she grew up. I was relieved that she didn’t live to witness the destruction and loss.
My grandmother died less than a year after my great aunt, her older sister and best friend, died in the summer of 2007. That was also a tough one. We were hiking in Switzerland when I got the news about my great aunt and I remember sitting down on a log in the foothills of the Matterhorn and bursting into tears among all that enormous, vertical beauty. Both of these women were accomplished watercolor painters. I hate it when artists die in general, but it really peeves me when I know the artists in question.
Anyway. I don’t mean to be a downer. I just loved those two old gals and miss them both terribly.
Filed under: everyday life, racing | 6 Comments »
Training: April 12 – April 18, 2010
Posted on April 21, 2010 by threlkeld
Since I’m in a somewhat manic “oh I’ll just change everything” period, I may as well also change how I label these training posts. I realize that since I’m not training for any particular race, saying I’m in “week n” doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. So I’m going to do what the pros do and just tell you what dates I’m talking about.
First things first — and I’m skipping ahead into this week, so if you’re confused, it’s not you, it’s me — I did not run the Boston Marathon, which everyone else in the world seemed to be doing. (And I should add that I never will run the Boston Marathon, despite its caché, for a host of reasons). But I did have a grand old time watching it on Monday evening.
Since I had so much to do workwise (don’t people know not to schedule meetings on Patriot’s Day? Sheesh.) I had to sit on our Tivo recording until about 8:00PM. Staying away from all news was challenging (although, let’s face it, Facebook was harder to go cold turkey on for an entire day — I slipped once, but only to post something, not to read).
It was a thrilling race, especially on the women’s side, which is becoming a happy pattern in recent years. There are great summaries of the race elsewhere, so I won’t bore you here. Except to say that I wish Larry Rawson would truly retire. He’s like the Rolling Stones (only older) — constantly announcing his retirement only be exhumed yet again, our sport’s own version of Grandpa Simpson, rambling on about how much everyone is earning and how far that money goes in Kenya, reading leg turnover rates like so many tea leaves and getting nearly everyone’s name wrong. At one point he was laboring to compare running the mile (he was a miler in the Mesozoic Age) to running the marathon. Seriously. It was funny.
Okay. Onto the good stuff. I was a bit dumb about training last week, getting carried away and running a bit too hard. But I felt so good after the Scarsdale 15K that I couldn’t stop my legs, which wanted to go. On Wednesday I gave in and let them do a general aerobic run. I was surprised at how slow that was considering the relative effort, although I shouldn’t have been.
I was obviously still tired from Sunday — and probably also from racing over hills for three straight weekends — but that didn’t stop me from doing another speed session two days later. I went back to the “cutdown” workout that I’d done just once before, about three weeks prior. It was a strange session. The first repeat (a mile) was a minor disaster. It was quite windy and between that and running about 15 seconds per mile too fast I just died toward the end. I ended up cutting it short to 1400m. I figured the rest of the session would suck, but that first repeat turned out to be my warmup. The other three legs went extremely well, considering the wind.
I took Saturday off both to rest my legs and to clean our house from top to bottom so my sister and niece would never know what slobs we are. No one must ever know. Niece has decided she’s going to UC San Diego, although since Rutgers’ Honor College apparently offered her a metric fucktonne of financial aid she thought she’d better at least check the place out before deciding to remain a California girl.
While I’m sorry that I won’t have her around on this coast, as she’s really quite charming and the complete opposite — outgoing, cheerful and enthusiastic — of everything I am, I had trouble seeing her living here, especially sequestered away in East Brunswick, New Jersey rather than among the bright lights of New York City that drew her here (insert gratuitous “moth to flame” analogy here) in the first place. But she has her entire life left to move to New York and in the process ruin said life. Like I did! (Just kidding. Sort of.)
On Sunday they headed off into the city for theatre and lunch with more eagerly awaiting family and I dashed up to White Plains and back. Again, it was ridiculously windy and my paces were all over the place, anywhere from 9:30 to 7:50 per mile. But it was a satisfying run and allowed me to eat this monstrosity later on.
This week is considerably lighter: just one speed workout and then my first 5K race in several years on Saturday. I’ll go ahead and say my goal is to break 21:00. Unless it’s windy, I think this might be doable. But you’ll be able to read all about that … next week.
Filed under: eating, everyday life, racing, recovery, training | 4 Comments »
Best. Birthday. Ever.
Posted on April 5, 2010 by threlkeld
Warning: This is a really long post and there’s barely anything in here that’s running related. You’ve been warned.
I rarely do anything that would qualify as exciting or special on my birthday. Since I generally don’t care about things like going to restaurants or “shows” (gag), my birthday plans usually revolve around three things: gastronimical pleasure, home entertainment and the temporary removal of all sources of stress.
Unfortunately, with a freelance deadline looming, I couldn’t totally remove all stress, but I worked all day Sunday and took today (which is my actual birthday) off. But the celebration began in earnest last night. This year, the food bit translated into $20/lb. filet mignon wrapped in bacon for the main (and, really, who gives a shit what else you serve with that), decent wine and something called a Belgian Chocolate Mousse Cake (which is as good as it sounds), with some ice cream thrown in there. For home entertainment, we laughed our way through “Whiteout” — a movie that went wrong in the first five seconds and could quite possibly spell the end of Kate Beckinsale’s career.
So now I’m 45 years old. This means several things to me. For one, if I’m lucky, I’ve still got roughly half a life left. I’ve got good longevity genes, and no senility or dementia in the line on either side, so I should be good to go — and fully cognizant — for at least another 45-50 years. It also means, once again, that I awoke on birthday morning thinking, “Do I feel older? Do I feel different?” The answer is no. I am just as confused, awkward and immature as I was at 25. But I take a strange pleasure and comfort in that. I like to think of myself at 80, still swearing up a storm and making stupid Photoshop collages. Why not.
As often happens first thing in the morning as I lie in bed, before the cat has started to bat at my face, my mind wanders to odd places. Today the number “45” brought to mind 45’s — or “singles” as we called them. These were small circular discs of plastic — or “records” — with two songs on them, one to each side. They were named to reflect the number of revolutions made per minute. We played them on something called a “record player” (or sometimes, “turntable”). We purchased them at places with names like “Record World” and “Tower Records.”
I recalled the first 45 I ever owned: “Rainy Days and Mondays” by The Carpenters. I acquired this single when I was six years old, having won it at a classmate’s birthday party. Since my record collection at the time was quite limited, and included no “grownup” music, I played this record somewhat obsessively on my little box turntable/speaker combo. The flip side, a nondescript song called “Saturday,” held no interest for me. It was the mournful yet uptempo strains of the hit single that gripped me.
Why would someone give this single to a six year old, when other hits of the day were more appropriate? The buyer could have gone with any number of cheerful songs: “Joy to the World” by Three Dog Night, “Knock Three Times” by Tony Orlando and Dawn, or “I Hear You Knocking” by Dave Edmunds (a tune I think still holds up today). To be fair, if you look at the Billboard 100 from 1971, it was a grim year for music. There’s nary a happy tune here.
Where am I going with all of this? Well, I’ve always credited that single for having simulateously warped me and turned me on to the talents of the songwriters of that day: Richard Carpenter, Paul Williams, Jimmy Webb and Burt Bacharach. I hadn’t been in the States that long, having spent the majority of my wee years living overseas in southeast Asia. I was so out of it culturally that when we got to California I took an IQ test and scored well below average because I couldn’t identify simple, common objects, such as a shopping cart.
So, in addition to a general fascination with music and sound, I suspect that I was also going through a period of overcompensation, soaking up everything having to do with American culture. With that single, I got into the habit of listening to songs over and over again and scrutinizing them. I still do that today. If something hooks me, I can listen to it repeatedly for several hours.* So I would like to thank whatever clueless parent picked that single.
Onto what else made this day great. There are so many things, I have to go with bullet points:
- I had a long conversation with Jonathan’s 78-year-old Mum, Margaret. We made each other laugh several times. After our last trip to South Africa in October, I was doubtful she’d do any major travel again. But now they’ve got plans to go to England next spring to explore the eastern part of the countryside. Even if I’m unemployed then, we’re going too.
- I also spoke with my mother, who has plans to come here next year, also in the spring. The last trip they made was something of a disaster, so I’m glad we’ll get another try.
- I got a nice card (and some cash, which at my age is really unnecessary, but who’s complaining) from my Dad and stepmother. I’ve already spent it on some new running clothes.
- I received a kind note out of the blue from Tom in Iowa, who is also coached by my coach, Kevin Beck. Another masters runner struggling and trying to make a breakthrough. He likes this blog.
- I managed to keep my promise to reign in the birthday drinking so I wouldn’t be hung over on my birthday. I got up this morning feeling great and went out and motored through a 12 mile progression run. Then I came back and spent an hour looking at French and Saunders clips on You Tube. Sure, I was wasting my time. But I didn’t care. It’s my damned birthday.
- My Facebook page was inundated with birthday wishes. As much as I denigrate Facebook and loathe my addiction to it, there’s a real charm to having a bunch of people, both friends and “friends,” saying “Happy Birthday!” to you.
- I heard from one of the co-captains of the Green Mountain Relay team that there has been a mass exodus among the original team members and all of us alternates are needed. So I’m committed (or should be)! Come June I’ll be riding around with a bunch of strangers in a van in Vermont, trying to run fast at all hours and sitting in my own stink during the downtime.
- I wrote what I think is a halfway decent short story on Saturday. I’m submitting it to NPR’s Three-Minute Fiction competition. Even if it goes nowhere, I think I’ve found a format (very short) that might work for me. I’ve got other story ideas percolating, which is always a good sign. So I’m not quite ready to give up on writing fiction, despite my many abortive attempts over the years.
- I spent a few hours today out in our neglected garden. I have not touched it in about three years, so it’s a real mess. But those perennials have been busy. I have three times as many plants as I remember (I did lots of dividing and replanting) and my little Helleborus plant has, after four years, finally flowered. The incredibly expensive Solomon’s Seal that I bought at the Bronx Botanical Garden five years ago is also going like gangbusters — I think we’ll actually have a bonafide patch of the stuff this year. And the fern varietals section looks like something out of Alien.
It’s 70F and sunny out and I’m typing this from my front step while my cat lounges on the warm pavement in front of me. The love of my life is upstairs working, but soon to close our office door and make an appearance to join me in a glass of wine. Fuck. I have a good life.
* Some recent examples:
Am I Wry? No by Mew
One With the Freaks by The Notwist
Threads by This Will Destroy You
Filed under: everyday life | 9 Comments »
From Pete Magill: “The Local Track No Place For Runners”
Posted on March 31, 2010 by threlkeld
I thought about this essay during my track session today as I dodged flying soccer and lacrosse balls, along with people sauntering into my path or otherwise annoying the shit out of me.
Filed under: everyday life, humor | Tagged: idiots, pete magill | 6 Comments »
Facebook side dishes
Posted on March 23, 2010 by threlkeld
If you haven’t yet friended me on Facebook, then you’re missing a lot. I tend to post things there that are too ephemeral to warrant a post on this blog. They might be links to articles, interviews of note, links to notable discussion threads, or weird things that break up the day. Here are just a few of the things you missed just in the past few days by not being my friend:
A sendup of the “motivations” people post to one another on DailyMile.com
A link to an article and video about the New Bedford Half Marathon. I love how reporters for these things never do any research. The interviewer has no fucking clue who Kim Smith is. Last year it was the interviewer getting Kara Goucher’s first name wrong at Boston.
A glimpse into my growing obsession with women’s roller derby.
Some of most idiotic threads I can find on LetsRun.com.
Ridiculous images, stolen from others.
Funny comics and other things.
Photos of mass destruction.
You don’t have enough ways to waste your time. Let me fill that need. Friend me today!
Filed under: everyday life, humor, reading, resources | Tagged: facebook | 2 Comments »
Bay Area Television, circa 1973
Posted on March 20, 2010 by threlkeld
At this point, due to training and work demands, the only evening of the week during which I can drink to excess is Friday. I carefully rationed my caloric intake yesterday and allotted space in the budget for a beer and three vodkas. This made watching Day Three of the NCAA Track and Field coverage (recorded) very enjoyable indeed, especially the boring bits.
It also triggered a strange dream, in which I was describing a show from my childhood, Big Time Wrestling, to someone. I haven’t thought about that show in years. Upon waking, I remembered a few other programs that were standard entertainment fare for me when I was around seven or eight years old. Here are some highlights. If you’re in your forties or older then you may remember some of these, especially if you grew up in the Bay Area, where much of this was broadcast on local channel 2.
Big Time Wrestling
I used to watch this program, hosted by the plaid-sportcoated Hank Renner, on Sunday mornings in my Dad’s “den” — basically a room with a built in bar, lounge chair and ottoman, couch, pedestal ashtray and large color television. One reason I long for a home built in the seventies is that during those years architects really knew how to blueprint for a proper lifestyle. Who doesn’t want a room dedicated to sitting, smoking, drinking and watching television?
Big Time Wrestling started airing long before I discovered it in the early seventies, but I still think that was the heyday of the series. No matter how lovely the weather, you could guarantee that I would be inside on Sunday morning watching with rapt attention this weekly pastiche of camp theater, personal grudges and flabby action.
Here’s the complete history of the show. And here’s video typical of the time.
“Professional” wrestling still features the same mono-dimensional characters and simplistic story lines. But what I miss about the seventies version is how out of shape the wrestlers were. Now they’re so pumped up on steroids that they look like assemblages from the local meat counter. The original guys looked like they probably drove a mail truck and ate piles of mashed potatoes and pork chops.
Voice of Agriculture
Even as a child, I was a morning person. Most days I was up long before anyone else in the family was awake, making my way down to the dark den at around 5AM. Before the days of cable, broadcast choices were limited in terms of available programs, especially so during insomniac hours. Most mornings I had a choice of two programs: The English As a Second Language show for speakers of Chinese or this show, Voice of Agriculture.
VOA was an interview format show produced by the American Farm Bureau and typically focused on California’s Central Valley, where agriculture is very, very big. The show’s titles appeared over grainy footage of a gigantic threshing machine in full action. That was the most exciting part of the show. Once the interviews started, I was left to stare, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed over my voluminous bowl of Cap’n Crunch, as the interviewer and interviewee earnestly discussed various farming- and commodity-related matters.
According to this history, the show was later changed to a magazine format. I imagine that made it much more engaging, or at least marginally more interesting than, say, reading the Cornish tide tables or watching mold form on an old orange. It’s still on.
Roller Derby
I saved the best for last. Specifically, women’s roller derby, because the level of tawdry theatrical malice among the female skaters made the men’s events look like a meeting of the local glee club. Here’s a history of the “sport” along with an article about the Bay Area action in particular.
I would probably watch this were it on today. Like English Premier League Soccer, in front of which I spend most Sundays zoned out in a post-long run stupor, the images are hypnotically repetitive and, as such, very relaxing. Yet punctuated with just enough moments of noteworthy action that you’re prevented from dozing off completely.
The fact that I still enjoy watching people moving round and round and round an oval at high speeds under their own steam is perhaps one of the few constants in my personal television viewing history. And any track and field fan will note that, minus the hair-pulling, track racing can be just as dirty and violent. More video typical of the time:
Filed under: everyday life, humor | Tagged: bay area, big time wrestling, seventies, television, voice of agriculture, women's roller derby | 5 Comments »
Races Like a Girl 