I took my kayak out in Tampa Bay this morning, paddling out from Crist Park before dawn, passing through the canals and into the open bay north of St Pete Pier. Several docks along the narrow canals had green underwater lights burning. Fish hovered around the glow like campers at a fire; and then darted into the darkness as my prow sliced overhead.
The sun rose as I cleared the channel into the bay and I headed north for about 2 miles. The water was surprisingly shallow and I threaded my way through the shoals and sandbars, crossing one deep channel on my way to a small mangrove island where I beached and drank coffee and the day grew light.
I headed home across the channels to keep my promise of making breakfast for the wife and kids, paddling across the two channels into the wind. The rocky bottom rose almost to my keel as I passed back over the shoals and the water exploded ten yards to my right with a prolonged “whoosh.” The water crashed down, hopefully covering my very high-pitched shriek, and I waited for several minutes, hoping to hear the puff of breath that accompanies the broaching of the dolphins around the bay and bayous. Nothing. Well, nothing if you don’t count the pounding of my heart and the strain of my bowls trying valiantly not to soil my new kayak.Whatever it was, it could not have been more than four or five feet long. Thankfully, I was able to paddle home and make the family a huge cheese omelet without having to do battle in the shoals with my dinky kayak paddle. And, if you live on the bay, and you were jolted at sunrise by what sounded like an adolescent female shrieking on a carnival ride, well, I’m sorry.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Dad and I run the Gasparilla Half Marathon
Dad and I ran the Gasparilla Half Marathon this morning. We rolled into the parking garage at 5am, dressed, and checked out the port-a-potty situation. For those of you who might run this race, here’s a tip: go behind the convention center, near the starting line, and you’ll find row after row of shining blue port-a-john’s. Resisting the temptation to try them all, I did my business and then Dad and I stared at each other and wandered around the area until time to run.
The weather was tricky. The forecast called for gusty winds and rain to strike the bay area an hour after the starting gun. I opted for my Peter Pan costume, with running tights and long sleeves. History has proven to me that it’s better to be warm than cold. Fortunately, I would get the opportunity to enjoy both sensations on this blustery dawn.
The gun fired, we herded down the dark streets, and I was overwhelmed by the familiar frustrations of dodging the inept, fat fools who, for reasons beyond my simple facilities, always lumber to the front of the starting pack and mingle with the faster runners. I hopped a couple of heifers and loped over the Davis Island Bridge with the rest of the bleary-eyed athletes.
My wardrobe decision blew up in my face around mile 5, when the rain arrived in a gust that threatened to blow me over a curb. I spent the next 5 miles leaning into the wind, shivering, and enjoying the curses and muttered prayers emitted from runners around me. My faith in humanity was restored crossing the Davis Island Bridge for the tenth or eleventh time, when my visor blew from my head and flew like a kite backwards over a looming group of runners. Rather than go back for it, I pressed on, around a corner that took the route back under the same bridge. As I labored down the road, an elderly gentleman climbed down the slope from the bridge, waving my visor over his head. I grabbed it from his hands with a smile, thanked him, and continued on to the finish line, finishing at the one hour, forty-eight minute mark.
I will say this about cold weather races: it’s easier to finish in the cool air. Whenever I run a race or triathlon in the muggy Florida heat, I dread the finish line. You hammer out the last half mile, cross the line and have to stop and stand still while a race volunteer cuts the timing chip from your shoes. I am usually overtaken by chills and shakes at this point and trying not to reward the volunteer’s kindness with a deposit of my breakfast on their person.
Dad finished in 2 hours; 30 minutes. Not shabby for the geezer category. We grabbed some coffee and bagels and headed back to our family lives.
The weather was tricky. The forecast called for gusty winds and rain to strike the bay area an hour after the starting gun. I opted for my Peter Pan costume, with running tights and long sleeves. History has proven to me that it’s better to be warm than cold. Fortunately, I would get the opportunity to enjoy both sensations on this blustery dawn.
The gun fired, we herded down the dark streets, and I was overwhelmed by the familiar frustrations of dodging the inept, fat fools who, for reasons beyond my simple facilities, always lumber to the front of the starting pack and mingle with the faster runners. I hopped a couple of heifers and loped over the Davis Island Bridge with the rest of the bleary-eyed athletes.
My wardrobe decision blew up in my face around mile 5, when the rain arrived in a gust that threatened to blow me over a curb. I spent the next 5 miles leaning into the wind, shivering, and enjoying the curses and muttered prayers emitted from runners around me. My faith in humanity was restored crossing the Davis Island Bridge for the tenth or eleventh time, when my visor blew from my head and flew like a kite backwards over a looming group of runners. Rather than go back for it, I pressed on, around a corner that took the route back under the same bridge. As I labored down the road, an elderly gentleman climbed down the slope from the bridge, waving my visor over his head. I grabbed it from his hands with a smile, thanked him, and continued on to the finish line, finishing at the one hour, forty-eight minute mark.
I will say this about cold weather races: it’s easier to finish in the cool air. Whenever I run a race or triathlon in the muggy Florida heat, I dread the finish line. You hammer out the last half mile, cross the line and have to stop and stand still while a race volunteer cuts the timing chip from your shoes. I am usually overtaken by chills and shakes at this point and trying not to reward the volunteer’s kindness with a deposit of my breakfast on their person.
Dad finished in 2 hours; 30 minutes. Not shabby for the geezer category. We grabbed some coffee and bagels and headed back to our family lives.
Running in Seattle
In searching the web for Seattle running routes, the Gas Works Park was highly rated. I have no idea why. If you travel to Seattle and have to choose between jogging this landmark or drowning yourself in the cold bay, just jump in the water.
The park is by the water (convenient should you take my advice) near the University of Washington. I drove past the Huskies’ Stadium on the way and it’s a shithole, cramped with no parking and uncomfortable seating. Drive on past the campus for about a mile and you reach the park. The Gas Works is a rusted monstrosity of industrial importance, celebrated as the location where unnatural gas was manufactured. My dog can accomplish the same feat without the theatrics or signage, and he’s far more attractive to behold.
It took a minute to figure out that the running route is a paved path split into bike and pedestrian lanes. You have to pay more than a little attention as the lanes switch periodically. In normal circumstances that would have been annoying, but on this day it was the most interesting part of the endeavor. Most of the route is behind buildings, past loading docks, down side roads, and pretty much anywhere but beside the water. There is a half mile stretch along the canal which was fair, and I enjoyed running beneath the bridges, where green grass and small shrubs have been planted beside the waterfront.
After 3 miles, I surrendered and backtracked to the parking lot, where I bathed with web wipes to kill my odor and changed into my travel clothes for the red-eye home to Tampa and my princesses.
The park is by the water (convenient should you take my advice) near the University of Washington. I drove past the Huskies’ Stadium on the way and it’s a shithole, cramped with no parking and uncomfortable seating. Drive on past the campus for about a mile and you reach the park. The Gas Works is a rusted monstrosity of industrial importance, celebrated as the location where unnatural gas was manufactured. My dog can accomplish the same feat without the theatrics or signage, and he’s far more attractive to behold.
It took a minute to figure out that the running route is a paved path split into bike and pedestrian lanes. You have to pay more than a little attention as the lanes switch periodically. In normal circumstances that would have been annoying, but on this day it was the most interesting part of the endeavor. Most of the route is behind buildings, past loading docks, down side roads, and pretty much anywhere but beside the water. There is a half mile stretch along the canal which was fair, and I enjoyed running beneath the bridges, where green grass and small shrubs have been planted beside the waterfront.
After 3 miles, I surrendered and backtracked to the parking lot, where I bathed with web wipes to kill my odor and changed into my travel clothes for the red-eye home to Tampa and my princesses.
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