Risk, Probability, Mortality

There is a trope that we fall back on when we seek justification for choices that might otherwise be odd, or even dangerous. “You can get hit by bus crossing the street,” the cliche goes, implying that the thing that feels familiar, normal and safe won’t necessarily ensure your security more that the thing that’s unusual, abnormal and risky.

And so it is that my experiences on a recent day can be summed up in two pictures:

One photo shows a car that crashed into a coffee shop where I had been logging long hours studying. The next photo, taken two hours later, shows a skydiver falling toward farm fields.

Allow me to explain.

I got to the coffee shop on a Friday morning around 8 a.m., telling myself that on that day I needed to focus. The previous day, Thursday, began with intentions to study and read, taking only short breaks to stretch, eat and check the news. But like every American (it seems), my day was obliterated from the moment I checked in on the Kavanaugh Supreme Court confirmation hearings. For the rest of the day — nine straight hours — I could not stop listening on the radio, watching on television, listening to a live stream on my phone, watching online. I moved through the day changing locations, occasionally multitasking; but the raw emotion of both his and her testimony was impossible to shut off, and the totally inadequate response of our paralyzed political processes stoked even more emotions. The day was exhausting; it sucked the air out of the room, and the time out of my schedule. I went to sleep thinking, fine. This horrible, historic day deserved the attention I gave it. But tomorrow— tomorrow I’ll get back to work.

And so on Friday morning I sat down at table near the big plate windows at Scout coffee shop and started to review my notes on a subject that’s vexed me: statistics and probability. It’s unlikely that I’ll need to answer a lot of questions on this topic, but the practice questions I had encountered were just beyond my basic knowledge. What are the chances of rolling a ‘three’ on a evenly weighted six-sided die? Easy. What is the mostly likely sum of two dice on any given roll? Slightly harder. (Seven, just FYI.) What are the chances that a car is about plow through the window into the spot where you are sitting?

Turns out, on that day, 100 percent.

So I was studying statistics. I was considering probability. And then I started taking a sample test, and it was not going well. I gave in easily to the light, seductive ‘ding’ of arriving text messages, and learned that my friend Jess is going skydiving that day at noon. She has thought about this years, planned to do it for sure THIS YEAR, and the drop zone in Vermont was staring down the final days of its season. That day was the day.

My thought pattern switched instantaneously from disciplined, stationary study-mode to HECK YES, LET’S GO SKYDIVING. Just the idea of it seemed to power wash the layers of ick from the day before, and the fog and slog of studying on the day after. The last year has clarified for me that I want one or both of two things: contact with foreign countries, and adventure. And sitting in a coffee shop in Vermont wasn’t hitting either mark. 

It would take an hour to drive to the grass air strip in the middle of farm fields where we would sky dive. I could commit to studying a bit longer, then swing home to change clothes, and hit the road. Just at 11 a.m., I packed up my books, scanned my empty table to make sure I was leaving nothing behind, and walked out to my car. I drove a short distance up North Avenue to the house where I’m staying, hugged my cat, changed my shoes, and drove back down North Ave to head out of town.

Jess is one of those ‘if you’re not early you’re late’ kind of people, and so I was a little worried when the traffic on North Ave was stopped. Two cars ahead of me, I could see people gathering on the sidewalk, and police organizing themselves. The driver behind me had a line of sight that I didn’t and I could see the look of shock on her face as she pointed to something I couldn’t see. I got out to ask a cop, should the traffic just turn around, or— ?

And then I saw it. The rear end of a sedan, the gashes across the short lawn between the street and the coffee shop, the smashed wall of windows, and the front end of the car sitting roughly where I had been sitting eight minutes earlier.

What is the probability of that?

This is an equation that requires calculating several independent events. What are the chances that a man driving down the street has a heart attack and crashes into a coffee shop? What are the chances that Jess decides to go skydiving that day? What are the chances that I abandon my plans and decide to go with her, at precisely the time when that car was nearing my location?

What are the chances of that?

Exactly a month ago, I was on a ship in the Arctic that ran aground. After we were rescued, a coworker I didn’t know well asked me, why had I wanted to work in the Arctic? “Adventure,” I told him. “Well, you got that,” he answered dryly. As I packed up my books from the table that day, I was thinking to myself, life is all about choices. Responsible choices, daring choices. That morning, I chose to set aside all the “I should” inertia and completely change the trajectory of the day. Why was I doing this? Adventure. And a chance to shake off - literally and figuratively - so many corrosive thoughts and emotions.

I’m aware that sky-diving seems like a risky or even dangerous idea to some; I didn’t feel that way when Jess suggested it. I had done it before, years ago, and loved it, and always wanted to go again. But I agree that when presented with the question, which activity is more likely to be dangerous: sitting in a coffee shop, or skydiving? that the most likely answer, the one with the highest probability, is obvious. But on this particular day, that answer would be incorrect. What are the chances that skydiving would be the least dangerous choice I would make that day?

It’s not entirely a stretch, in fact, to say that skydiving, or Jess’s suggestion of it, saved my life. At the least it saved me from being severely maimed.

I do not dwell much on cosmic coincidences, nor I do believe everything happens for a reason, or that things are meant to be, or that someone is looking out for me. But I drove across the Vermont countryside knowing unmistakably that the impetuous, adventure-seeking choice I made that day saved me from the horrible consequences that would have come from continuing my mundane morning.

I drove to the skydiving drop zone full of adrenaline that morphed into affirmation as I took in the small airfield. Planes stay aloft in the sky. Parachutes open. Freefall is a controlled experiment in physics. All of this seemed incredibly obvious and safe and certain. As I signed away all my rights in a long legal contract, an experienced skydiver strolled through the office, his jumpsuit unzipped to the waist, revealing the back of his t-shirt:

“What could go wrong?” Indeed, what are the chances.

Hot. Damn Hot!

I spent only a month living on a ship in the Arctic this summer, but there were occasional moments when the desire to run - really run - on terra firma was strong enough to distract me from gorgeous ice floes and charismatic megafauna. When we landed at Grise Fjord, the northernmost settlement in Canada, I stared longingly at the dirt tract along the shore and wondered how far and fast I could run in gum boots, waders and a float coat. Back on the ship, a decent treadmill awaited in a cave-like room on a lower deck.

Back among rocks and roots in the lower 48, my legs and lungs are relearning how it feels to move. And right now, in southern California, they're remembering what it feels like to run in heat. This ain't the Arctic, anymore!

I am harboring ideas of running an ultramarathon next year, and also of heading to big mountains somewhere for a long backpacking trip before 2018 closes down. With that in mind, I drove east from San Diego past Alpine up into the Laguna Mountains to get in some miles on real trails. A guidebook suggested that singletrack and great scenery abounds on the Big Laguna Trail, and that's where I headed.

A lazy morning and an hourlong drive put me at the Penny Pines trailhead a little too late in the day, the temperature already in the mid-80s. But the parking area suggested plenty of other people were shrugging off the heat, and as I got my hydration vest together my spirits soared watching a few runners come through the trailhead.

This region forms a dramatic seam between two landscapes. To the west, the pine forests and grassy meadows are a paradise of trails for hikers and mountain bikers, not to mention the clusters of cattle shading themselves in the trees. To the east, unrelenting desert. Barren, blistering, bleached mountains dive unforgivingly into boulder-strewn valleys.

The first half of my run swung west and then south through pines and meadows and lovely occasional shade, along barbed wire fencelines with gates courteously installed for walkers. I've never run in the area and I was dazzled by the options. The valleys and hillsides here are shot through with winding singletrack, dipping and turning and casting up new views. The first half-mile was a strain against the heat, the dry air and even the altitude, though it was only just above 5,000 feet. But then the gorgeous terrain stole my attention away from the effort of running and I just enjoyed cruising along the edge of Laguna Lake. (Less lake, more marsh.)

Walkers, occasional runners and many mountain bikers formed a cheerful tribe on the trails - not so many people that it felt crowded, but enough that when I got confused by the spiderweb of trail options (which was often) I could usually find someone to ask for directions.

Around halfway, my navigational help came from two runners who were heading my way. I ran-hiked uphill with them through a stand of pines back to Sunrise Highway, about five miles south from the Penny Pines trailhead where I started. From there I crossed the highway and after a stretch linked up with the Pacific Crest Trail and headed north. Here, the trail makes tight, threaded turns at the rim edge of the mountains overlooking the Anza-Borrego desert. The heat was getting to me, possibly because it was really hot and possibly because staring down into the massive bowl of the desert really screws with your mind.

By the time I coasted back to Penny Pines, the thermometer read 94 degrees, but my hydration vest still had water to spare and I'd ripped through merely one sleeve of Clif Bloks. It was only 12 miles, I sheepishly told the runners who were out there for big miles.

But it felt like the start of something good.

[Big Laguna Loop, September 8, 2018]

Vermont City Marathon, The Best Weekend of the Year

Ah, marathon weekend. In the many years since I ran my first race at Vermont City Marathon, my feelings for this weekend have morphed and evolved but always remained strong. That first year was an egocentric maelstrom of doubt and triumph. The next year, a slow but joyful victory lap. In the years since, I’ve run on relay teams with friends through heat and near-disaster, and through incredible joy and celebration. Over time, my focus has shifted away from fixating on how I’ll perform in the race itself, to embracing the whole weekend as massive festival of all the things and people that I love best about Vermont. So when race weekend is already a bubble of unblemished happiness, how could it get better?

Enter Meb.

The Meb, THAT Meb. The one and only Mebrahtom Keflezighi.

He of the slight frame and swift feet. He of the storied comebacks from injury, winner of Boston, of New York City and of an Olympic medal. He who inspires fans and competitors alike to be better runners, to be better people.

At this year’s VCM, Meb was the star attraction, the race ambassador, the invited guest. And I was his star-eyed, gobsmacked chauffeur. It is a miracle I didn’t crash the car in the dopamine haze of being in his reflected glory all weekend.

There is a risk when one allows oneself the vulnerability of idolizing a hero. No one is perfect, and too many who live in the spotlight disappoint us when their venality and true disposition seep through the cracks. And really, even the good guys don’t deserve the pressure of being perfect, of never putting a foot wrong. It’s unfair to ask and the resulting letdown is predictable.

And yet I emerged from three days with Meb with my idealism intact. His schedule at VCM was no joke: hours of public appearances, thousands of handshakes and high fives and crowds of people clamoring for his attention, for a few seconds to build into a lifelong memory of that time I met Meb -- remember?

I watched him captivate an auditorium full of people with his story of escaping Eritrea and becoming a professional runner; he transformed even the distracted little kids and too cool adults into slack-jawed fans. I watched runners who should have been resting their feet before a marathon wait an hour in line for his signature and a good luck hug. I watched runners cross the finish line wasted by their effort but who suddenly revived at the sight of Meb standing there congratulating them on the race. I watched the energy radiating from him as he gave focused attention to each person. Quick with a smile and joke, full of respect, gratitude and joy.

It wasn’t an act. He’s the real deal.

Step 1

Take picture with Meb a couple months before race weekend.

Step 2

Sly marketing director turns photo into Cardboard Meb.

Step 3

Selfies with Meb!

Step 4

So meta.

Step 5

Taking this with me! (Note: the woman in the back ground is not having ANY of it…)

And as he readily points out, it’s not a one-man effort. Meb was accompanied by his manager John, and I was working with another ultra-awesome VCM volunteer, Chris. And all of this was held together by the unmatched talents of Jess Cover, marketing manager of RunVermont and my friend and running mentor. Marketers, especially those who work for non-profits, will tell you it’s easy to sell a product you believe in. Jess believes in the transformative power of running, and that is so deeply evident in how she communicates with runners and the community about all of RunVermont’s events - especially VCM. Watching the entire RunVermont team pull together this massive enterprise is an awesome sight to behold. Plus, they let me hang with Meb and called it “work.” It is sooo easy to love that team.

Race weekend is a time I always look forward to and it never disappoints, even when the miles are tough or weather is terrible. The friendships and community I’ve formed through running are a constant source of joy and encouragement. But this particular race weekend was even more memorable thanks to the special vantage point I was given.

[Vermont City Marathon: May 25-27, 2018]

Quick Run in the California Desert

I got it in my head this spring that I wanted to go for a run in the desert. Ninety minutes in the car, and I could have a huge number of trails to choose from across wild terrain. But a quick look at the forecast and I realized that, even in May, it was already too hot out there. Unless...

San Diego County begins at the ocean's edge, ripples east over canyons and foothills, dips into the flat heat trap of East County and then rises fast into the conifer forests of the mountains. Keep going down the far side of mountains and you will meet the massive Anza-Borrego Desert, where San Diego County yields to the furious temperatures and bizarre moonscape of Imperial County. Growing up in East County, I could reliably feel better about 100-degree summer days by looking at the temps east of me in Borrego Springs, easily 10-20 degrees hotter than our air conditioned suburb.

But by May, the daytime temps in Anza-Borrego were already hitting triple digits. To pull off a run out there, I'd need to hit the trail at dawn when the temperature would be hovering in the reasonable 80s, before launching its full assault on the day.

And so, camping!

I threw together equipment and a few gallons of water, and the hit the road mid-afternoon on a sunny day in the first week of May. The Anza-Borrego State Park visitors center told me when I pulled in around 5 p.m. that it was 105 degrees; the volunteers there told me little else. (Seriously, they were least helpful state park volunteers I've encountered, expressing surprise and doubt that anyone would want to visit there.)

Excellent state park facilities! Each site has its own shade pagoda.

I drove out to Tamarisk Grove Campground and discovered it was... empty. Finding the ranger station closed, I drove the loops of vacant campsites and wondered if I could brave staying here alone till I found a family of four happily camped in the center of the park. Their easy vibe was all the reassurance I needed, and I quickly pitched my tent, lit up the camp stove and studied the trail maps in the setting sun.

The trail I wanted to try is in the southeast corner of the park in an area called Fish Creek Wash. An ancient sea covered this arid, bleached landscape and when it receded, the water left a fossil record of what once was. Fish Creek (note: no creek exists here) runs through a geographic feature called Split Mountain, and that was my target for an out-and-back run that I could shorten or lengthen depending on the heat of the air, and the speed of my legs.

I was up before dawn, broke down my simple campsite by the light of a headlamp and scarfed a banana as I drove further east toward Split Mountain. The trailhead directions didn't exactly match the terrain, and after driving my tiny city-suitable car off-road roughly toward the trailhead, I decided to park and start running for fear of my tires getting stuck in the loose sand that covered the hardpack surface.

The sun rose fast and before I knew it, I was running in the full light of the morning on a wide, side-winding track tucked into awesome rock formations. Walls of rock created stretches of shade and plenty to gawk at as I followed the S-curves of a long-lost river bed. The footing was kind of terrible though (I had dismissed a note in a trail guide that recommended only running here after a winter rain, when the loose sand would firm up into a runnable surface) and it made the run a harder effort than I expected.

But so worth it!! The rock walls were fascinating: striated layers of sediment leaned and tilted in wild directions; some layers were solid, rust-colored rock and other layers were a jumbled mess of gravel and stones. Wind, water and time had scooped out pockets of rock from the walls, and in some places crevices opened into shallow caves. Cactus and shrub-filled islands of sand and rock pushed the trail around curves, and I was constantly getting a new view of the surrounding landscape. Openings between the rocky hills allowed in big gulps of blue sky. And underfoot, pebbly bleached sand formed a perfect track that left no worry about staying on trail.

I wasn't looking at my mileage or the time when I decided to head back. The air was hot, but I had plenty of water in my race vest. What triggered my turn-around was a sudden, inexplicable change in my own mood. I had been cruising on the joy of having decided to do something inconvenient and undesirable to some people; I was full of appreciation for the solitude of the desert and simplicity of the elements.

Gah, snake!

And then for no reason I could discern, my thoughts became crowded: how far out from the main road was I; how hard would it be to reach help if I needed it; why hadn't I stuffed a first aid kit in my vest; and exactly how many rattlesnakes and scorpions could be lurking in the crevices of the rock walls surrounding me? Everyone tells you not to go adventuring alone.

I paused long enough to anesthetize these doubts: I took in the gorgeous terrain that surrounded me, had a logical chat with myself to recognize that I was, in that moment, totally safe and healthy, and then I turned and beat it back toward my car. 

In Travels With Charley: In Search Of America, John Steinbeck writes about the formidable desert just north of here: "The Mojave is a big desert and a frightening one. It’s as though nature tested a man for endurance and constancy to prove whether he was good enough to get to California." The bragging, nativist Californian in me has always loved those lines, and I appreciate them a bit more sincerely now.

So much movement and history in these rocks!

[May 6-7, 2018: Anza Borrego State Park, California]

Good Fences Make Good Neighbors, Sort Of

This spring, I arrived back in San Diego around the same time that the so-called "caravan" of migrants from Central America also reached the Tijuana-San Diego border crossing. Having fled violence and governments who failed to protect them, these migrants were seeking asylum and their political circumstances had generated publicity, scrutiny and debate. As the summer wore on, they would find themselves at the center of extremely controversial and ever-changing immigration policies that became known by the shorthand "child separation."

But the day before they reached the border, and weeks before people of all political persuasions would throw up their hands in disgust and proclaim the U.S. immigration system "broken," I really wanted to see the border first-hand.

I've spent the last year crossing international borders with ease, the navy blue pleather passport with a golden eagle ensuring my passage. In many of the countries I've visited, people lamented that lack of diplomatic relations (among other factors) barred them from getting a visitor visa to travel freely. The status of being an American in the world confers privileges that I have always been aware of, but our weakening relationships with so many countries has made it easy to imagine a world in which the freedom to travel and be welcomed isn't guaranteed. And now the predicament of these asylum-seekers reinforced that for me.

The San Ysidro border crossing between Tijuana and San Diego is said to be one of the busiest borders in the world: driving north into the US, hours-long wait times are routine, despite 35 lanes to accommodate the traffic. But a couple of miles west of there, the border is an entirely different scene. A tall, slatted metal fence reinforced with chainlink stands in the sand and stretches a hundred yards or more into the crashing surf of the Pacific Ocean.

On the U.S. side, Border Field State Park is in the Tijuana River estuary, a scrubby open space of marshes with a few trails that runs right up to the international border on its southern edge and the coast on its western side. When people stroll or bike the flat dirt trails, they eventually end up at the picnic area close to the fence line. For most of the border in this region, two parallel fence lines undulate with the terrain, with a no man's land in between that's videotaped, scrutinized and patrolled. But right here on the beach, the intensity of the surveillance seems to make it possible for one fence to do the job (plus some caution tape and stern signage).

On the American side, almost no one was out in the big open park on the cloudy, windy day I ventured down there. On the Mexican side, though, the city's development brushes up against the border, where apartment buildings, shops and neighborhoods are easily within view. Families and friends were on the beach on the Mexican side; I saw a few border selfies taken; people visited, laughed, hung out.

The "caravan" that would imminently reach the official border crossing seemed a world away from here. I was felt an awkward irony to be standing alone on the U.S. side of the border, watching through the fence line as people enjoyed an easy afternoon on the Mexican side.

[May 2018: U.S.-Mexico border]

One Day Without Plastic, An Experiment

Darn you, delicious cold drinks! Plastic bag of ice, held closed with a plastic clip.

I have been traveling in countries where the problem of plastic waste is much more visible than it is in the U.S. Here, we put our throw-away plastic in recycling bins and walk away from it, literally and figuratively. But in many countries, the real impact of trash plastic is unavoidable: you see it everywhere. Plastic floats across open expanses of the Sahara desert outside Ourzazate; it chokes the culverts around Ho Chi Minh City; it sits in festering piles on the streets of Kathmandu. The water and soda bottles, the plastic packaging we take off of every product we buy -- it has a lifespan we can't imagine and it's all just piling up.

So when National Geographic launched its multi-year Planet or Plastic? project with its June issue, I was in. All in.

Yesterday, as I traveled around Vermont for an easy but busy day of reunions with friends, I tried to avoid single-use disposable plastic. There were some obvious things I knew to look out for (lids on take-away coffee cups, drinking straws) but I was curious what else I would encounter that I'm not usually aware of.

Here's what I noticed:

6:30 a.m. Since I'm traveling, some of my toiletries are in a quart-size Ziploc bag. I've been using the same bag for weeks so it's not single-use, but still. I brush my teeth with a plastic toothbrush and think, "Not a great start, Daniels."

8:05 a.m. Uncommon Grounds in Burlington, Vt. I presented my travel mug for coffee and got a bagel with cream cheese for here, thinking that I would also avoid paper waste. The toasted bagel was given to me on a ceramic plate, and the cream cheese was in a pre-packaged plastic cup. Didn't see that coming.

9:00 a.m. Took an Uber across town to pick up the car a friend is loaning me. He left the keys in a mailbox in a paper envelope. An entire hour without disposable plastic!

10:16 a.m. Grocery store, the worst. Nutrition-oriented people talk about the interior aisles of grocery stores being full of processed foods that they imagine as huge piles of sugar and salt, rather than 'food'. I am starting see the entire grocery store as a temporary warehouse for the plastic that will live forever in landfills. I wanted to buy flowers, lip balm and some kind of cleaning product to detail the interior of my friend's car.

• I thought this particular store would have buckets of loose cut flowers in addition to the cellophane-wrapped bouquets, but no. I bought the plastic-shrouded flowers anyway because I wanted them as a thank you gift and didn't have time to make another stop. At the checkout, the cashier asked if I wanted a flower bag. A second plastic bag to hold the already plastic-covered flowers.
• I examined the lip balm choices and debated this trade-off: all but one were in plastic tubes, but the one that was in a small metal tin was shrink-wrapped in plastic. I went for plastic tube of lip balm that was sold in a cardboard sleeve. (The two best choices were both twice as expensive as the worst choice: a plastic tube of Chapstick that was also encased in a plastic packaging.)
• Next, the cleaning aisle. I took in the neat, endless rows of plastic-bottled cleaning solutions and abandoned that item on the list.

12:18 p.m. Drove to Montpelier for lunch with friends, and this went well! We ate in a proper restaurant (JP Morgans), with food on ceramic plates and drinks in glasses. Kudos to the restaurant for not putting straws in the glasses, I didn't even have to ask!

1:30 p.m. Crashed a press conference at the Vermont Statehouse by Sen. Patrick Leahy, Sen. Bernie Sanders and Gov. Phil Scott. No plastic was used in the reporting of a story on dairy farm aid.

2:10 p.m. Visited a friend for coffee at the National Life insurance headquarters. I brought my travel coffee mug with me, avoiding a carry-out cup with a plastic lid from the cafeteria. The security protocols required me to wear a name tag; at least the plastic card holder gets reused.

3:15 p.m. Met another friend for coffee. (My god, I drink I lot of coffee.) I ordered an iced coffee, requesting it in a glass with no straw. My friend immediately agreed, 'Good point - no straw for me either.' The guy put the coffee in front me accompanied by a plastic straw.

5:00 p.m. Drove back to the Burlington area and met a friend in Winooski for a beer. (Note to self: exactly how much of my daily caloric intake is in beverages?!) Then I ordered a craft ginger beer, because in Vermont people say precious phrases like 'craft ginger beer' without flinching, and requested no straw. "Oh, I saw you posted something about straws," my friend says. "I'm on a mission," I reply.

6:07 p.m. Another friend and I were hosting game night for an really fun mix of people who don't know each other. On my way to her house, she requests that I pick up name tags, ice and bug repellent. Ice and bug repellent left very few options in terms of plastic. I could have purchased the metal spray bottle of bug repellent but I wasn't sure if that container was an equal or worse waste problem to the plastic bottle.

For name tags, I stopped at Staples and was determined to avoid buying the plastic packages of name tags that I knew would be displayed. Instead, I opted for adhesive shipping labels sold in a cardstock paper envelope, nearly three times as expensive. Bonus, I noticed that Staples sells a cardboard package of cleaning wipes for car interiors, so resurrected my morning idea of cleaning my friend's car. (Bonus negated: the wipes are of course in a plastic pouch, and the cardboard packaging is doubly superfluous waste.) I also bought a pad of paper for score keeping, noticing only one option wasn't shrink-wrapped in plastic. I declined the plastic bag the cashier offered me, and while taking a picture of the three easy-to-carry-in-my-own-damn-hands purchases I explained, "I'm trying not to use plastic today."

I arrived at game night feeling a little defeated and annoyed that my one-day effort to avoid plastic was not a triumph. Most of the disposable plastic I used or purchased was optional, and I still opted in. And a few of my plastic-avoidance tactics were noticeably more expensive than cheap, disposable plastic. (THAT's the nub of the problem, right?)

Here are a few things I could have done differently:

• Handed the cream cheese back to the barista and eaten a dry bagel
• Called around to stores and farmstands until I found one that sold loose flowers
• Cleaned my friend's car with a bucket of soapy water instead of specialized cleaning products

And, I could have refused to eat the food at game night. Nearly everything we had was prepared food, sold and served in disposable plastic containers.

I'll try again tomorrow.

Vote Early, Vote Often

I am an elections junkie.

Regardless of the state, or country, I am fascinated by whom people choose to vote for, what meaning they assign to the votes they cast, the voting systems we create and how those systems create both access and barriers.

In the U.S., we grow up internalizing the simple message of one person, one vote. But the reality of how we vote and who votes is infinity more complicated.

I officially moved back to California last summer, but I’ve spent only a few scant weeks in the state since then. But with California’s June primary election looming, I went to the San Diego County Registrar of Voters office last week and made myself a California voter again, 25 years after first voting here as a teenager. For a few years, I voted by mail from college in Maine, receiving the massive California voter guide that describes each proposition and provides each candidate's personal statement. Then one year Maine had a juicy election that prompted me to move my registration to my temporarily adopted state.

When I moved to Vermont after college, I went into the town office in Waitsfield ahead of the next election and took the Voter’s Oath. This is a curiosity of Vermont elections that I still find endearing: every elected official swears an oath to the constitution, and every voter swears an oath to cast their vote with their best intentions and on their own behalf.

For a person who loves to vote, Vermont is an ideal place: you get a LOT of opportunities to an anonymously say your piece. General Election in November, Town Meeting in March, open Primary Elections held separately for each party, an occasional special election and sometimes repeated school budget votes, if the budget fails to pass the first time.

Voting in Waitsfield, Vermont, (population 1,600) in the late 90s was a step back in time. The ballots weren’t fill-in-the-bubble forms, but printed pieces of paper that were stuffed into lock boxes. One year I volunteered to count ballots, which involved teams of two counting aloud, making tally marks to tabulate the results and double-checking each other’s work. I was thrilled and horrified that this was the fundamental cornerstone of American democracy: volunteers in a school cafeteria with golf pencils and scratch paper. (I also remember the Town Clerk one year making a plea to voters to buy modern voting machines, but the voters didn’t agree it was worth the expense.)

My experience with Vermont elections in the last 10 years was unusual because I covered them intensely as a news producer. I voted in every General Election and Town Meeting, but I sat myself out of every Primary Election. (This is a point of endless navel gazing among journalists and media critics — should journalists vote? My own dividing line is to avoid Primaries because Primaries are for parties; but I vote in the General because the General Election is for the people, and journalists are people, too.)

And now I’m a California voter again, and the experience of voting here was radically different than the simple, huge-font Scan-Tron paper ballots I used most recently in Winooski, Vermont (population 7,100). So different are these ballots, that I am again amazed that we are all living in the same county, embracing the same fundamental idea of one person, one vote, while our method of executing that ideal bears no resemblance from one jurisdiction to another. (Federalism!)

I registered to vote and voted early at the same time at the registrar’s office in San Diego (population 1.4 million). I was not asked for ID or proof of residence, but I did fill out a form stating my San Diego address and the address where I was previously registered to vote in Winooski. It was pretty simple, and they asked me to wait a few minutes while my registration migrated through their computer system, and then I could walk across the hall to vote.

The touch-screen computer voting machines at this office serve voters from all voting districts across the county and so to ensure that my screen pulled up the correct ballot, the registrar coded a temporary access card with my address and handed it to me as I went in to vote. At the voting machine, I inserted the card and up came the ballot that covered everything from the governor’s race to my local Board of Supervisors seat. California ballots are notoriously long and complex, and voters are encouraged to study the voter’s guide and make a note of their choices, so that they can vote efficiently. I paged through the voter guide I had marked up, entered my votes on the touch screen computer, and finally got to the end of the ballot.

The computer then asked me to review all my votes and make sure they are marked as I intended, and then it started printing a paper receipt of the votes. Similar to a cash register receipt, it printed my votes a few at a time, asked me to verify that the printout matched what I checked on the screen. And then it sucked the receipt back into the voting machine to save for an eventual recount when someone doesn’t like how this election turns out.

When I finished voting, I removed the access card and returned it to the registrar, who promised that the card only knows my address and does not record my votes. It will be wiped and reused for the next person who comes in to vote here.

California’s actual Primary Election is June 5, and it will narrow the fields of candidates in statewide races down to two people. For a few election cycles, California has used this non-partisan primary system: it doesn’t matter what party (if any) that a voter registers for, nor does it matter what party (if any) a candidate claims. Every voter casts one vote for their top choice, and the top two vote getters will be on the General Election ballot in November. In blue California, this will could mean a General Election that has two Democrats running against each other for governor.

Beyond the machinery and the complexity, one more thing about voting in California stood in contrast to Vermont: the “I Voted” stickers comes in many languages.

Yo vote!

[May 2018]

Six Months

"I want to go Morocco!"

This was an idea that formed in my mind many months ago, almost without my fulling knowing it. The combination of Arabic, African and European cultures in one place; the inspiring lines and colors of its architecture; the proximity of mountains, ocean and desert; plus, incredible food. Heck, yes! Morocco!

What could possibly go wrong?

As I prepare to leave the comforts and familiarity of home (again), I'm revisited (again) by natural doubts. What if it's dangerous? What if I get lonely? What if it's more expensive than I planned for? What if I end up wandering pointlessly, not really learning or contributing anything, another Western dilettante at loose ends in the world? What if I can't pick up the language? Am I making the right choice? (As if there is only one "right choice" to make.)

I have been here before. I cannot think of a trip that I have taken in my entire life that didn't begin with this phase of anxiety at some level. And once my feet are on the ground, the fears are not realized and often seem laughable in retrospect. The momentum of the trip takes over and what was one amorphous uncertainty is replaced by the smells, sounds, sights and textures of being alive in the world.

This is hard to remember when you are an American in America. We are cosseted by oceans on both sides, and we huddle under a skeptical cloud that fears foreign places. We like to think this isn't true, but I assure you it is. Americans I have met have generally two emotional reactions to the idea of long-term international travel: 1) how exotic! or 2) oh my god, is that safe? Both of these are grounded in the idea that traveling in foreign countries is not normal, for better or worse. That throwing yourself into a unknown culture or language is risky, or weird at best. There is almost a physical embodiment of the idea, an extended arm pointing to and pushing away an unknown place that is far, far away.

But.

Spend an hour in a hostel in any city in the world, and you will see the United Nations sitting around the coffee table, casually trading stories and advice on the scores of places they've traveled through and might go to next. The entire world is moving and interacting, and Americans are staying home.

And so for the last six weeks that I've spent at home in San Diego and on the West Coast, I have reflexively fended off queries of safety and doubt from well intentioned people. I knew that my restless brain would find a way to manufacture its own worries, and I didn't need to take on the concerns of others, too. But after just a few weeks back in the US, I could feel myself surrendering to the prevailing attitude. The world is unsafe. Women shouldn't travel in Muslim countries. Are you sure this is a good idea?

To totally dismiss any concerns isn't reality-based. And I'm heading to West Africa with a clear head about respecting and comporting with local customs. But I can't help but cast a hard judgement on the reason behind these cautions: there is a sinister stereotype that dark-skinned people and Muslim people are dangerous. And I'm heading into a region that serves up a two-fer of supposed threats.

Intellectually, personally, I cannot allow myself to believe this mythology. I can't let it crowd my thoughts and insinuate itself into the more rational, casual worries of meeting the unfamiliar. And once this pre-departure spasm of emotion passes I know I'll remember what travel has always taught me: people everywhere are kind, and we have so much to learn from each other.

By quirk of timing, I am flying out of San Diego bound for Casablanca six months to the day that I got in my car and drove away from Vermont. That decision was a risk that has paid off with incredible experiences in the months since. But I'm letting myself have this moment of sentimental uncertainty, because it's underscored by what I know in my rational brain:

Heck yes, travel!

PS: Thank you to my mom for hosting me at "home" for the last several weeks. It's hard place to leave, and great place to come back to.

Thank you, mom!

West Coast, Best Coast

Growing up in California, I had a specifically spatial concept of cardinal directions. West wasn't so much a point on a compass but rather, West was were the ocean stretched to the horizon. When I lived in Maine, this unassailable sense of place tripped me up constantly. I had to really focus to remember that East Coast was an actual coast, on an actual though far inferior ocean. In Vermont, I could at least rely on Lake Champlain defining the state's western border; west is water, even if that water is sadly lacking in waves, salt and the demonstration of infinity.

This mentality of West Coastness is still so ingrained in me that in the cortex of my reptilian brain, I am subconsciously reassured that whatever weird places people are putting their oceans in other parts of the globe, California got it correct. Everything is normal in California.

So when I first encountered Oregonians and Washingtonians years ago, I didn't even realize my inherent bias. As far as I was concerned, the Pacific was California's ocean, and we were generous to let those other states park themselves near it. I was shocked to discover that people from Oregon and Washington didn't take too kindly to my Californiacentrism, which was reinforced without subtly when I tried to pump my own gas in Oregon.

Fast-forward to January 2018: I got my little car with Vermont license plates out of storage in the Pacific Northwest and road tripped down the entire West Coast from Seattle to San Diego. The new layer of geography personification was that I imagined that Vermont plate created instant goodwill around me. Who doesn't love Vermont?! And at the very least, it papered over my California roots. If I did something stupid, they wouldn't immediately curse the entire behemoth state to the south.

Two themes of my road trip emerged: 1) reconnecting with friends and family, and 2) camping and quality time in nature. I made fast tracks all the way south, but even without time to linger the days were filled with stunning sights and fantastic reunions.

WASHINGTON

Who parks a Lime Bike way out at the end of a deserted peninsula in a rainstorm? Seriously, who does that?

Very cool floating pathway that wiggles across water and scraggly bits of exposed land from Foster Point to East Montlake, Seattle.

And here at the University of Washington Boathouse and Montlake Cut, I could only think about The Boys In The Boat.

Huge puddles and slippery footing all the way through the Arboretum.

OREGON

Witch's Castle, Forest Park, Portland. If I lived here, I would run in this park forever.

I came *this close* to putting Lila the Cat in the tote bag and whisking her away on my road trip. What a sweetheart!

Vancouver, Washington. Not having any of it.

Star Trees in Salem, on the north edge of the Willamette University campus. Big time high school nostalgia here.

Lo, the only state capitol I saw on this trip. Not so much interested in architecture, are we Oregon?

Hayward Field pilgrimage. (University of Oregon campus, Eugene.)

Stop Pre. (Coos Bay.)

Native Oregonians.

Ok, it's pretty hard to deny that Oregon's coast is also pretty fantastic.

CALIFORNIA

Humboldt Redwoods State Park

Trail run in the Rockefeller grove turned into endless gawking at old growth forest.

Humboldt Redwoods State Park

These trees are not small.

Humboldt Redwoods State Park

Mini Cooper! With big trees!

Marin Headlands

My first return since attempting the North Face 50 miler. The hike this time was significantly easier....

San Francisco

California Street!

San Francisco

Incredible view, just before the sun dipped below the horizon.

San Francisco

Santa Cruz

New Brighton State Park. I hadn't planned for s'mores but the campground host gave me free firewood, and another camper gave me matches and it was like the universe was telling me something.

Big Sur

This funky promontory is home to a historic lighthouse, an rock jutting out from the coast, with red shaggy cows grazing in the meadow. I pulled over to to gawp at the sight of it, and decided in less than 45 seconds that I need to find a way to live at that lighthouse for a few months.

Big Sur

Cows! I haven't seen cows in so long!

Big Sur

You gotta be kidding me. Nearby a sign read, "Next gas: 40 miles."

Big Sur

This red arrow points to two campsites on a cliff overlooking McWay Falls, part of at Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park. Major hat tip to my friend Walter who told me about this!

Big Sur

View from my campsite at Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park.

Big Sur

Notoriously, capturing distant images at night is not easy on a iPhone. But this near full moon was so crazy intense, it almost shows up in this picture!

Salinas

The woman who sold me an entrance ticket at the John Steinbeck National Center asked, "Is it your first visit here?" "No," I said. "It's more like visiting an old friend." (This particular mannequin of Steinbeck in the gift shop isn't his best look.)

Central Coast

Morro Bay! I had heard this name and seen it on a map, but didn't know what to expect. So pretty!

Central Coast

Another spectacular California sunset. This one was followed nine hours later by a lunar eclipse, with the full moon hanging high in the western sky above the ocean. All night it was so, so bright that it seemed like the lights were on outside my tent. And then in the hours between 3:00-5:00 a.m. the sky went dark and the moon faded and turned red.

Central Coast

Morro Rock at Morro Bay. (I have conveniently cropped out the power plant just to the left of this scene....)

Central Coast.

San Luis Obispo's bubblegum wall. Huh.

Central Coast

Tidepools in Goleta, Coal Oil Point. Anenomes everywhere!

Central Coast

A high school science class was there too, and found these "sea hairs." (I would call them enormous slugs, but tomato-tomahto.)

Central Coast

Anenomes out of water, all closed up and waiting for the tide to rescue them.

Central Coast

Evening run in Isla Vista: I noticed these orange trees and lavender shrubs are growing in the sidewalk beauty strip. How cool is that?!

REUNIONS!

Portland

One the funniest people I know, Bill Beadie.

Larkspur

Heidi and Robin, friends from Vermont, treated me to 16 scoops of weird ice cream, including olive tapenade. Curiously good!

San Francisco

Lisa, friend from Antarctica and many adventures since. Inspiring athlete, clear-thinking sorter of priorities, genuinely good person and general badass.

Goleta

Cousins! Jami and her mom Penny are the closest connection I have to the large, festive brood that I think of as "the Santa Barbara cousins." When I got in Jami's car, she asked, "What has been, 30 years?" Pretty close, I hadn't seen them in about 25 years and it was awesome to catch up.

Goleta

Fun two-degrees of separation: my cousin Jami knows my high school friend Yael through their kids' sports teams. I hadn't seen Yael since... 1992??? So fun to share brunch and JSA memories.

Washington, D.C.

1992, Yael and me at Junior State summer school at Georgetown. (Don't be jealous of the hat.)

Run.

Keeping cool when meeting a hero (just barely)

There are people who are so famous that they are identifiable by one name only. Cher comes to mind. Prince. Bjork. (Maybe this is a just a music phenomenon?)

And, Meb.

Mebrahtom Keflezighi is arguably the most inspiring and accomplished marathoner in American running history. His family's escape from Eritrea when he was child ended in San Diego, where as school kids he and his siblings learned English, excelled in school and, in Meb's case, dominated in sports. His high school and college (UCLA) running careers shredded records and blew away the competition.

By the time he retired from professional competition in Fall 2017, he was known widely just as Meb. He'd competed in four Olympics, winning a silver medal in 2004; he won the New York City marathon in 2009; and won the Boston Marathon in 2014, one year after bombs tore apart the finish line and tore at the spirit of people who love the sport. 

As a fellow San Diegan, I have low-level stalked Meb for years: eager to know what his next big race would be, how rooted he feels in his home town, how connected he still feels to East Africa. My admiration for him isn't based just on his achievement; it's based on his ability to make a comeback. I remember reading an article in Runner's World that basically counted him out as an aging, injured runner who was the last one to realize his career was over. That was years before he won Boston. His shoe sponsor Nike dropped him at one point, the commercial equivalent of being fired. When Sketcher's picked him up later, it raised eyebrows. Not only did his sponsor drop him, but he was stooping to a sponsorship with a fashion/street shoe company. Fast forward to now, Sketchers has an established performance line designed by Meb and a former Nike designer. What's an runner in his forties doing in an Olympic marathon trial anyway? Coming in second. With negative splits. 2:12:20. That's what. And all the while, he was raising a family, starting a philanthropic foundation, lifting upcoming competitors with his mentorship, and inspiring fans with his integrity.

He is the real deal.

So, when my friends at Vermont City Marathon asked me to help with them a project that connected media, running, San Diego, Vermont and Meb, it was moment when everything I love in life converged. I was somewhere in China when I got a message from Jess with a question: Would I be available to interview Meb for a series of videos to promote Vermont City Marathon? Meb will be in Vermont for the marathon, and they needed to get the word out. I'm sure that exuberant swearing was involved as I clutched my phone rereading the message. Um, yes. Yes, definitely!

Earlier this month, Meb, a video crew and I spent an afternoon in Balboa Park in San Diego. The conversation was a tour of his life's incredible twists and turns. Meb has pounded thousands of miles running on the trails around this park. Just down the road from there is San Diego High School, where he developed from a natural talent to a disciplined competitor. At one point in our interview, the videographer noticed two young runners go by in the background and then contort themselves as they did a double-take. That's Meb!! A few minutes later, they ran through again with a pack of friends, many of them wearing SDHS singlets, eliciting a shout of recognition from Meb. "That's my team!" he smiled and described exactly what route he imagined they'd be running.

My work has put me in the position to meet and interview somewhat famous people, most of them politicians. I've rarely felt star-struck or moved by the experience. But this was different. This was Meb.

Among the interview notes I wrote to myself.

November Project

My own running while I was in San Diego was less noteworthy than winning major world marathons, but still pretty fun! I looked up the local November Project chapter and joined their early morning, twice-weekly workouts in Balboa Park and Pacific Beach.

Here's what I love about November Project: you get a large group of really friendly, high energy people together and they push each other with unbridled enthusiasm and support to the best workout possible, regardless of your ability. Here, I met people who were working out for the first time, alongside people who were professional athletes. (Seriously. I unwittingly met Todd Clever, recently retired from the US national rugby team. I texted Liz, who follows international rugby and would know better than I, "Have you heard of Todd Clever?" Her answer, "Um, yeah. He's only the most famous American rugby player ever.")

Big thank you to San Diego November Project! 6:29 a.m. comes early, but I never regretted the festive hours I spent with y'all.

Flu season be damned, NP workouts require a LOT of hugs and high-fives.

Tourist In My Home Town

Five months after leaving Vermont, I was home in San Diego for the longest stay I've had there since moving east 20 years ago. Everyone loves America's Finest City for good reason, and I made an effort to take in the sights that tourists take in, and locals sometimes take for granted.

San Diego Mission and Mission Trails park

I made a couple of trips out to East County to hike and run on these trails, and met really friendly people every time.

Mission San Diego de Acala

Rebuilt in the 1900s, this mission was founded in 1769 by Father Junipero Serra, the first of 21 missions the Spanish would build in California to force the conversion of Native Americans to Catholicism.

San Diego Mission de Acala

Inside the mission's church.

Old Mission Dam

A few miles up Mission Valley in what is now Mission Trails park sits the brick remains of the dam that provided water to the mission and its farm fields.

Mission Trails Regional Park

Rugged chaparral sagebrush grows over the rocky, sandy terrain through the park. Miles of great hiking, hemmed in by highways and suburbs.

Mission Trails

Welcome! Avoid the mountain lions.

Mission Trails Regional Park

At the top of Fortuna Mountain. Just another perfect January day in San Diego.

Missional Trails Regional Park

Looking west from Fortuna.

Hamilton!

The touring show of Hamilton was in San Diego right after New Years. Years of hype didn't set expectations too high: it really was spectacular! (Even thought I already knew how it ended.)

Point Loma

My mom moved to this coastal part of San Diego five years ago, a funky mix of residential neighborhoods, historical landmarks and military installations. The north-south peninsula protects San Diego Bay and afford gorgeous views.

Cabrillo Lighthouse

The historic lighthouse at the top of the cliff only operated for 37 years, until someone pointed out that a light at the base of the cliff would actually be a better idea....

Cabrillo Lighthouse

Detail of the glass lens of the light.

Point Loma tidepools

Below the lighthouse, on the ocean side of Point Loma the tide pools are full of creatures.

Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery

Acres of uniform white tombstones look out to sea from the ridge and slopes of Point Loma.

Balboa Park

A gem of a park in the middle of the city, Balboa is acres of green space, trails and gardens arranged around a central promenade of museums and Spanish-style buildings. I ran here a lot while I was home.