DNF

They're all good, but Mars was always The Good Cat.

Well. Mars didn't make it. We don't know what happened. Shortly after we moved, when he started slimming down from his ample 19 pounds, we attributed it to life in a more exercise-friendly, multi-level house. His energy picked up as his weight came down. When the energy trend reversed and his weight trend didn't, something was wrong. We took him back to Lansing -- our vet there is the best, and we weren't going to give her up over a drive -- where tests showed everything working well except his kidneys, his temperature and, well, the obvious. He slipped into a coma last night, and not the kind you come out of.

Patty and I had rushed to Lansing Saturday either to encourage a or to say our goodbyes. I guess it was both. Yesterday's news was good. He was more alert, his vital signs were better, his temperature was improving if not stable. He was still getting syringe-fed, but he was keeping it down. The news looked good.

Or very bad.

Look. I race. I know how it works. Some races, the ones we call character-builders, I guess, you hit a point where business as usual isn't going to get you there and you have to decide: Do you quit? You decide no. But that decision's not free, and the surge costs everything that's left. Whether it carries you the full distance or wipes you out a few ticks sooner than coasting is not your decision anymore. I think I recognized Mars' surge for what it was Saturday. Now I guess I have to accept his DNF for what it is: An honorable one.

Rest in peace, Mars. Say hi to Fiona. Please, please, have to wait a while to see Mr. B.

God, it's been a long year.

And you thought this was going to be a rant about cheap newspapers

I had an editor once who liked telling stories about himself. I ultimately didn't get along with him too well, but now that's what I do for a living, so I guess I took his example.

He came out looking pretty good in most of his stories, which is something I seem to need work on. But I remember a story that made him look especially good. It was the one where he was going over the reporting staff's expense reports and noticed the paper was saving big money on mileage reimbursement. Bargain! Right? Wrong.

Not that he disliked pinching pennies, but that's not what reporters are for. He figured it meant they were spending too much time at their desks, reporting by telephone call, and not enough time out on the streets.

I don't know how he solved the problem, whether he rethought the stories they were typically assigned to write or if he just yelled at them, but that's not the point. The point is that he looked at his own good fortune as suspiciously as he looked at all news, and I've always admired that. And remembered it.

I log my workouts through an online program called TrainingPeaks. I can't fully express what a good tool it is, but I can begin by stating that I actually log my training now, something I had never done before the magic combination of coaching, TrainingPeaks and Batman-fantasy electronic stuff like GPS receivers and power meters that do all the work for me. One of the things TrainingPeaks keeps track of is the miles on my shoes. This, too, is something I had neglected, and my purchasing patterns had a suspicious tendency to share the same peaks and valleys as my injury patterns.

The downside is that the miles on my shoes pile up like peak-season laundry, only more surreptitiously. I spread the miles between two or three pairs of running shoes, and in spite of the rotation it seems like I'm constantly approaching the 500-mile limit on at least one pair. Make no mistake, it's fun to buy running shoes, but it gets expensive - especially if you have the discipline of a beagle near an unattended wastebasket, or me on the loose in Playmakers, Running Fit or Hanson's Running Shop. I like spending money, but feel like sooner or later I'm going to have to explain it to somebody, like my editor would explain the newly high expense reports to his publisher.

And I'm reminded that sometimes saving money isn't all it's cracked up to be, and that lasting forever isn't what running shoes are for. Those miles are empirical if pricey evidence that I'm doing what I need to become a better runner, or at least taking care of a key part of it. And I haven't had a running injury since I started springing for new shoes on time.

How about that? I told a story where I came out looking good.

Eavesdroppings

These are two of my favorite conversations from the past few days.

First one takes place while I’m violating my cholesterol probation at the lunch counter of Hunter House, a venerable, must-get-acquainted-with, landmark burger stand near my new home.

Woman just off my shoulder, after struggling to order: “I am sorry. I do not speak this language well.”
Late teen, early-20s guy working the grill: “What language do you speak?”
Woman: “Russian.”
Grill guy: “So do I.” And a short unintelligible-to-me transaction later, one more happy customer has her burgers.

Second one is between me and a neighbor with daughters on the swim team that practices at the city pool where I’ve been wondering for about eight weeks now why my splits are a tick slower than I think they ought to be.

Me: “Is that pool 25 yards or 25 meters?”
Neighbor: “Meters.”

Okay, that second one neither sounds interesting nor makes me look especially bright, but I very much liked the information it yielded.

The first one just made me happy once I could believe it was actually taking place.

Life is good, and once in a while the pleasures really are that simple.