“You just missed a spectacular sunrise”

Said Lauren as I toiled up the horse trail to More Mesa.

It didn’t look as though the sun had risen when I reached the mesa.

Off the mesa, and into Hope Ranch.

I may have missed the sunrise, but it was still spectacular.

I squeal, you squeal, we all squeal for mySQL

I’ve never bothered to use a database before. I rarely have the kind of data that needs a database, and if I do I normally write my own code to deal with it.

But at the moment I’m using someone else’s server, and it isn’t clear how I could write a real program to run on it. So I’m forced to use what’s there, forced to learn how to use a database.

After I got past the fact that our database was full of 195 megabytes of spam and wasn’t letting add any new data I was surprised how smoothly things went. The hardest issue is converting the legacy data in its myriad of formats.

And now there is some basic functionality. It works!

Solstice Eve Hike

Last night was the winter solstice, the longest night of the year. I always try to get in a hike around now, up into the mountains to watch the sun set over the city. In the past I have hiked around the calendar’s new year, and I don’t find many other people who want to join me. This year I thought to try the solstice — but people seem to be as uninterested in hiking the saturday before christmas as they are uninterested on new year’s eve.

My friend Marty showed up, with some friends of his, but they were only willing to hike in the light, and turned back before reaching the top. They didn’t want to wait for sunset and the dark.

As sunsets go, this one was not terribly impressive. The sky was clear of clouds which tends to mean the sky is clear of color.

Santa Cruz and Santa Rosa Islands

I found that I was able to get most of the way down the mountain without wanting a flashlight. The glow from the sky lasted for about an hour.

I ran…

I’ve started running with the group. I’m still leery of running fast. If I go fast my shin splints let me know the next day. But at least I’m out there running with my friends again.

Today is track workout day. Always dreaded, more so today. Everyone else was doing continuous half-mile repeats, on, off, on, off (that is to say hard, slightly easier, hard again, slightly easier, …) with no break between. That sounded too fast to me. Rusty kept skipping over me as he told others what to run. I don’t think he knew what to do with me. So I asked if I could do a tempo run at 6:30. He seemed to think that a good idea.

That was a relief to me.

I ran with Chrystee and Drea for their first (and easy) half mile. They actually ran a little slower than they should have, which was about right for me. At the half mile mark Rusty complained that I was running too fast — I don’t think I was, I think he was just surprised to see me still with the other two (they should have been 5 seconds ahead.

But they pulled away immediately after that. I finished the first mile in 6:28. Close enough.

Then 6:24. But now every one else was taking a break. They’d done 2 miles of alternate halves and got 5 minutes off. It felt much harder to run without the others around. 6:27.

Then they started up again, they were running quarters, fast, with a rest about as long as the quarter. I found I was going faster too. I ran just behind a slower group, going about the same pace, and finishing another quarter as they rested. This mile was much too fast: 6:13, so I forced myself to slow down. I’d only suggested running four miles, but I felt good, and everyone else had another 2 quarters to do, so I ran another mile, and this one was on pace 6:29.

It felt so good to be out there running. Oh, I know 6:30s aren’t a real tempo run, but it’s getting close. It felt like I’d really done something — and — so far — my shins aren’t hurting.

There’s something exhilarating about coming off an injury. It feels so good to move again. Everything feels easy, because, well, it is easy. No one expects me to run really fast. I can putter along around marathon pace and feel really pleased.

The dismay at not running CIM is fading, now that I am running. With luck I’ll be able to do a 50 miler in 7 months…

Oh well…

I haven’t been able to run for more than three weeks.

Well, that’s technically a lie. I can run, but three hours later my shin hurts — badly enough to suggest that running is an extremely bad idea.

So I’ve been doing a lot of biking. One of the advantages of the bike is that I can carry a camera with me. It was beautiful this morning.

Sunrise as seen from just above Shoreline Park

Once I got to Stern’s wharf there was still a glow to the light

Early morning view of Stern's Wharf

But the high point of the morning was seeing a swan in Mission Creek estuary. Probably an immature Tundra Swan. I saw one in the same spot last year. Never there for long (this one was gone 2 hours later), but always a treat to see.

Early morning swan

On the return trip, the rivera looked lovely reflected in the bird sanctuary

Reflections of Santa Barbara

It almost makes up for not being able to run.

Frag buggle!

Ok, the real reason for disliking Tuesday’s track practice was that after it my shin splints were quite painful. I’d been hoping they’d just go away if I iced them and ignored them, but they haven’t.

Yesterday’s run was worse. Waking up this morning to a painful shin I decided I shouldn’t run today (or tomorrow or next week). But I’d arranged to meet two others at the trail head (Rusty and Chrystee). I didn’t want to call them at 6:30am. I sent emails but did not expect those to be received. So I biked up to make my apologies in person.

Dark this morning, with marine layer shrouding the top of the Mesa, chilly too. At Modoc, as is often the case, all trace of cloud vanishes. Blue skies above. I climb. When I cross Foothill there’s a thermoclime and suddenly it is warm. I’m a little early at the trailhead, so I wait.

I’m in the shadow of the mountain, but I can see the morning light increasing on the city below. It’s quite lovely. Clouds cover the lower city, lapping against the sides of the hills. The Mesa rises out of the clouds, and behind it are more golden clouds stretching out to Santa Cruz island. I watch as minute by minute the light increases. Lovely.

And now it is 7:10. Neither Rusty nor Chrystee has shown. Perhaps they got my emails. I turn back to the bike. And see the mountains behind are covered in the morning light too.

Below Foothill it gets chilly again. Below Modoc I plunge into a fog bank. Dense fog all the way home.

I wish I could run.

Pier to Peak altitudes

The day after the race I biked the course with my trusty altimeter (I don’t trust GPS altitudes). It took longer to bike up than it did to run — of course I did stop every mile to take a measurement so it’s not a fair comparison.

Location	altitude		increase		grade
Stern’s Wharf	0m	0ft
Mile 1	13m	40ft	13m	40ft	0.7%
Mile 2	55m	180ft	42m	140ft	2.5%
Mission	95m	310ft
Mile 3	140m	460ft	85m	280ft	5.3%
Mile 4 reservoir	195m	640ft	55m	180ft	3.4%
Mile 5	330m	10800ft	135m	440ft	8.3%
Mile 6	440m	1440ft	110m	360ft	6.8%
Mile 7	540m	1770ft	100m	330ft	6.2%
Switchback	570m	1870ft
Mile 8	650m	2130ft	110m	360ft	6.8%
Mile 9 Gibraltar Rock	770m	25300ft	120m	390ft	7.4%
Flores Flat (top)	820m	2690ft
Flores Flat (bottom)	810m	2660ft
Mile 10	905m	2970ft	135m	440ft	8.3%
Camino Cielo	1015m	3330ft
Mile 11	1040m	3410ft	135m	440ft	8.3%
Gibraltar Rd (dirt continuation into Santa Ynes valley)	990m	3250ft
Mile 12	1022m	3350ft	-18m	-60ft	-1.1%
park driveway	1150m	3770ft
Finish (13.1)	1170m	3840ft	148m 135m/mile	440ft	8.3%

Hmm. My measurement at the top is off by more than 100ft. Perhaps I should have used GPS.

I wanted to know what miles were steepest 4-5, 9-10, 10-11, 12-13.1 (The grades are the average over the entire mile (or 1.1 mile for the last))

Constable: Who hath measured the ground?

Henry V, III, vii
Shakespeare

Food

I started reading Kingsolver’s “Animal, Vegetable, Miracle” the other day — and put it down almost immediately.

I felt guilty.

She had decided she wanted to produce the bulk of the food her family consumed. A worthy goal, and one I wished I could also achieve. So I felt badly that I had not, and it took me time to get over that to the point where I could enjoy her wit and achievement.

She had left Tuscon and moved to the Appalachians in part because you can’t farm in the desert. Or not ethically if there are millions of other humans all around and you need to import water.

My family used to own a farm in the Appalachians. But we didn’t work it, oh no, not us. We had people to do that for us. We sat on the porch and watched others. And we sold the farmland in the depression. We still own half a mountain, beautifully wooded, but steep, and well drained. Our water comes from a spring behind the house. I have tried to dam some of the overflow of the spring, but the soil is too sandy, the water just vanishes.

I have my doubts that any of the hillside could be cleared and farmed; too dry I suspect. Nor do I think I should destroy the forest.

And we have sold off all the bottom land.

My great-grandfather did have his minions clear the hillside below the house, and we have tried planting fruit trees there. They tend to die. Our one success has been the blueberry bushes, which are currently producing a gallon of berries a day (so my mother tells me).

Here in Santa Barbara I feel as Kingsolver did in Tuscon. SB can probably support a few thousand people with the local water. But for me to steal water from over the mountains so I can grow my own melons seems wrong.

No, I would have to move too.

I did once try to “farm” one of those little public garden thingies, and made a total mess of it. About the only success I had was growing sorrel. Now sorrel is a splendid herb, but there is a limit to the amount of it that a single person can eat (and that was before I was worried about what oxalic acid could do to my bones), and I had 6 magnificent sorrel plants producing and producing and producing.

Next time I need to think more carefully before I plant. I might have done better to plant chard.

Or perhaps I should have thought of it as an escargot farm — the snails certainly seemed to enjoy my plantings more than I did.

I’m not yet ready to leave SB to go somewhere that rain happens at any time of year. But I think I should. Soon. Oil prices will only get higher in the long run, growing my own food will become more important as time goes on…

Tunnel to Cielo

It struck me, about a month ago, that here it was, half past July, and I had done nothing about Pier to Peak.

(Pier to Peak starts at 6:30 this year, not 7)

Time for some trail runs. Time to run in the heat of the day.

But in the back of my mind I am actually thinking about running a 50 miler next year. And Mike has been telling me that I need to work on my downhill running, saying that I can already go uphill just fine.

Downhill is DANGEROUS! Uphill is so much safer — if I slip and fall going up the ground is closer, I’m almost falling against gravity, I won’t end up sliding off a cliff.

But the ultrarunners all say “walk the uphills, run the downhills”. Ug. Mike ran with me on some hilly terrain out near Elwood. Down a slope, then around and up back to the start. Mike flew down the hills. I didn’t. “You’re working too hard,” he says, “just lean forward and fall.” I try to lean forward, but I’m still kalumphing down. (I take secret pleasure in the uphill, though I know I shouldn’t).

I don’t get it.

So Thursday I’m out on the trails, and I’m just going up. Up Tunnel and up and up. Up to Camino Cielo. A stairway to paradise.

And then I have to turn round. But before I go down. I can look round. The tops of the Islands are clear, but the bottom fades into misty haze. It looks as though there is no ocean, just another mountain range behind the Riviera.

I go down about as fast as I went up. There are flies. It’s hot. Mike will be disappointed.

I’m not really injured today

I know I spend a fair amount of time moaning about being injured.

So I thought it might be nice to say that I seem to be OK at the moment.

Rusty warned me the other day that because of my nasty habit of injuring myself I should lower my goals. I simply can’t train hard enough to achieve them. If I try — I’ll get injured again.

I did not want to hear that, of course.

I believe that I’m more likely to get injured the faster I go. Which is one reason I don’t like to run miles or 5ks. But now, it seems, even marathons are too fast for me.

Mike Swan says that after I do my first 50 miler I’ll never want to run a shorter race again. I fear he may be right.