Making Decisions

People hate, hate, hate making decisions and will do almost anything to avoid having to do so. They find it so challenging that they will willing and enthusiastically allow others to make a decision for them. If you doubt it, wait until your spouse comes home from a hard day at work and ask him or her what they want for dinner. I bet the answer is....whatever, you decide. Anybody that is involved in sales recognizes this - the client who procrastinates on picking the house and wants to see one more listing, the car buyer who wants to try that red job at the corner of the lot that's almost exactly the same as the blue one he's sitting in, the child that can't make up her mind on which piece of Halloween candy she wants.

For the sales person, guiding this individual to a decision is part and parcel of the job. A good sales person will help you achieve your goal whether it's buying the right car (for me, the FJ Cruiser - a rig my wife still considers the second ugliest vehicle ever made) or what style to cut your hair. It's also a process that can be fraught with abuse if the sales person puts their interest ahead of the customer's.

Unfortunately, that doesn't work in most situations - there's no sales person to help you run every aspect of your life. And, in part, the way we live our lives is a problem. Many of us have careers that require us to make decisions, lots of them, every day. This process of making decisions wears us down.

They even have a name for it. Decision fatigue. It's real, documented in multiple studies and pernicious. Factor in the 24/7 nature of our world and the problem becomes enormous. The more decisions that you are required to make, the more fatigued you become and the actual quality of your decisions drops.

There are a couple of strategies to deal with decision fatigue that can be helpful.

First, for many routine things, right-size the amount of energy you commit to the process. Not everything was meant to be agonized about. Who you are going to spend the next 50 years with does not require the same level of intensity as whether to have dessert - or shouldn't.

Checklist can be handy and so can schedules. When I am doing an inspection, I maintain a mental checklist of all the things that I will be looking at and, in many cases, certain indicators lead to automatic responses. These trip wires relieve me of the constant decision-making process on something as simple as a drip from a faucet and allows me to focus on that odd crack in the foundation. Breakfast is a checklist item - eggs with tortillas or oatmeal with fruit, orange juice, coffee. I save the fancy breakfast decisions for Sunday morning when I'm relaxed and can dither over waffles.

Likewise, I set up a schedule to manage my decisions - which is why I've been writing at 2AM lately. It's on the schedule. I made a simple decision that I need to get more writing done. The problem is that I have a schedule that is totally swamped this month with cross country coaching two afternoons a week, helping with some of the meets, two training seminars on the far side of the state, a trip to Seattle for the Home Inspector Advisory Board and a trip to Spokane for the State Building Code Council meeting.

Somewhere in there, I have to work and make a couple of bucks to keep the lights on - plus, I like eating. So does the dog.

The solution was to build some dedicated time onto the schedule. Since I'm often up at 2AM anyway, I threw it on the schedule for writing. So far, I haven't needed an alarm and, by the time 4AM rolls around, I'm sleepy again. I grab another three hours of sleep and head for work.

Is it a long-term solution? I don't know. I doubt it but it is good enough for right now. Which is another technique to making decisions. Decisions fatigue often follows a desire to always make the perfect decision. Sometimes good enough is good enough. Save the perfect decision for the occasion that you really need it.

And remember the advice that your Mom gave you? To sleep on it and decide in the morning? Mom was right. You make better decisions when you're rested.

And now it's time for this sleepy guy to go to bed. I have lots of decisions to make tomorrow.

Xero Huaraches

Well, I've done my first couple of runs in my new Xero shoes - one on grass and two on the treadmill (ughh, I know, but it was 100 degrees outside and a skinny time window for getting a run in.) Advertised as "The closest thing to barefoot", they give you an incredible feel for whatever is under foot. I choose the 6mm Xero shoes (they have a thinner 4mm, too) and didn't notice much lose of sensation from FeelMax shoes.

The shoes are essentially the equivalent of huaraches and the videos for the manufacturing of the shoes (you can have them pre-made or make them yourself) shows the traditional lacing system. Surprisingly, the strap between the toes is absolutely unnoticeable when you walk or run.

The treadmill is was pretty boring so we'll move on to the grass. I wore them cross country practice -mainly to weird out the junior high runners I help coach - they really didn't believe I could run in them for any distance at all. On a 100 degree day they were much cooler on the toes and so light that I barely could feel them.

I did notice that I was much more mindful of obstacles such as an old stump in the middle of Chief Joseph Park. I also discovered I drag my toes as I folded the front end twice. No damage to toes on either occasion but interesting. I always like having something to improve on.

On the pavement to and from the park, I was nearly soundless which was encouraging. I keep teaching the kids that if they're making a lot of noise, they're wasting a lot of energy. Still, they are middle schoolers and growing so fast sometimes they aren't quite sure where their various limbs actually end.

All in all, very pleased with the early runs with the Xero shoes. I'll have to try some longer runs as I build up and see how they do with that. And, of course, winter is coming. That will be interesting, too.

Finishing Kick, Chapter One

Finishing Kick

The first chapter (unedited, so if you find errors, it won't hurt my feelings if you point them out) of my novel, Finishing Kick. Publication date is expected to be in December 2014 by Cruiser Publications, LLC.

As Callie crested the hill, the finish line appeared, lined with colorful flags – and then receded, as another girl thundered past.

Callie chased her on a gentle downhill slope, three hundred meters of fairway to the finish line of the State Championship. Through eyes hazy with exhaustion and the remnants of a cold, she could see her twin teammates, Anna and Hanna, sprint past the finish marker in a dead tie.

Two hundred meters to go and Callie could hear the gasping breath of another runner closing on her. Five strides later, the girl was beside her. Callie pumped her arms harder, willing her legs to move faster. Legs that could carry her for miles were failing now with the finish in sight.

Noise flooded both sides of the course and, penetrating over it, someone shouting her name. The cheers of the fans and coaches slid past her as she fought for position.

She saw the red singlet and slashing white diagonal as the last of the Fairchild Academy runners eased by her. Swearing, Callie leaned forward to gain momentum, rising up into a full sprint, her calves already starting to cramp, alternating with each foot strike, each spasm an opportunity to quit, to let the girl go.

Seventy meters and Callie still matched strides with the Fairchild girl.

At fifty meters, another girl caught both of them. She was a tiny runner from a small school up north, and  her breath came in sobs.

The three of them closed on the flags at the top of the finishing chute. Callie felt the agony of each breath as it exploded from her lungs, too little air for starving muscles. The blood pounding in her head drowned out the runners beside her, and Callie’s vision squeezed down to a small circle focused on the white line that marked the end. She could sense the presence of the runners next to her and drew on their struggling effort, seeking just a small advantage.

The sobbing girl finished one step ahead, the last sob a moan as she collapsed. Instinctively, Callie dodged the fallen runner as she lunged past the line, a half-step ahead of the Fairchild runner.

Relief and exhaustion mingled with joy but a small doubt blossomed.

Was it enough?

“You did okay.”

Callie, huddling to avoid the chill brisk breeze that snaked its way to her still sweaty skin under the Cloverland High warm-ups, looked over to Mark. The wind had been worse out on the course but there, movement generated heat. The twins, Anna and Hanna, were shivering under the blanket they were sharing, blond heads touching as they all waited for the results.

“Not good enough,” she said, feeling the echo of the final kick, legs heavy with lactic acid overload, girls passing her on the long straightaway to the finish line.

Mark shifted to his other foot. “You don’t know that yet.” Sweat, bobbing on a lank of hair, dripped off. Mark still had not put on sweats after running his own race, his broad shoulders and legs exposed to the wind. An inch over six feet, he towered over the girls on the team.

Callie kept her face impassive, looking toward the microphone stand, waiting to find out whether they had made it or not.

“I mean, with a cold and all…”  Mark shifted uncomfortably back to his original foot. “You did great.” He trailed off as Callie kept her eyes on the awards table. Lined up were the trophies for the top four teams and medals for the top eight finishers.

She was listening but between the head cold and the gnawing sense she let down the other girls, his words were just washing over her. Idly, she thought it was nice that he was trying to cheer her up. He was a little on the weird side but a nice guy. Feeling a sneeze coming, she searched her pockets and found a tissue.

There was activity up front and Callie’s attention sharpened. She put the used tissue, folded, back into her pocket.

“Finally!” said Anna. They watched the announcer, a slightly overweight man, make his way to the microphone beside the podium. The podium, a broad white stand with a pyramid of steps numbered one to eight, was the goal. Callie and the rest of the team unconsciously closed ranks, pressing up to the rope that separated with winner’s space at reviewing stand. The top four teams got to the stand. Cloverland was close, closer than they had ever been.

The official photographer, camera resting at her hip, waited for the teams to be called up, one at a time, to the stand for its brief moment of recognition. She shot the picture quickly, and the next team filed onto the stage, everything organized with impersonal precision. The winning team, the champion, was allowed to linger for a few extra moments. It was on the schedule.

“Thank you athletes and parents for your participation in the Washington Interscholastic Athletic Associations’ State Cross Country Meet. The individual results for the Division 1 Girls Race are as follows…” He proceeded to read through the top eight finishers with each runner taking her place on the stand as her name was called.

Jenessa, her teammate, also a junior, had placed eleventh overall, easily the best finish ever for a Cloverland runner. The two seniors on the team were standing at the rope, staring at their last chance to stand on the podium, a reward for the years of work they put in.

Two Fairchild runners were among the eight. One was a senior and she stood there on the third place block. The other, Roxanne, a junior, placed seventh. She and Jenessa ran together for the first two and a half miles before she dusted Jenessa heading into the finish. Callie frowned when she saw Roxanne glaring at Jenessa. Not a very good winner, she thought.

They finished with the top runner, who had qualified on her own, then went out and outran the entire field. She was a junior too and had already accepted a spot at the West Regional at the Footlocker Invitational next month. If she did well there, she’d be racing in San Diego in December. It was a select group, runners who had both the talent and the work ethic to excel. Callie wished she had the talent.

Watching the diminutive runner accept the first place medal, Callie thought it had to be a lonely feeling, running as an independent, racing without a team. There was a bit of steel in that girl that was missing in most of the runners.

“And now for the team results…”

Callie felt light-headed and realized she was holding her breath as the pudgy man ran down through the results. The tension was growing for all of them. The seniors had their arms wrapped around each other’s hips.

“In sixth place, with a score of 183, Winston…”

“In fifth place, with a score of 102, Cloverland…”

The team deflated. Little sighs combined into a collective groan as the girls realized that, once again, they were one step shy of getting onto the podium. Months of hard work got them to State but it wasn’t enough to get them into the top four.

One of the senior wiped a tear away. There was no ‘next year’ for them.

“In fourth place, with a score of 101, Asotin…” The Asotin fans cheered and the team made their way up onto the podium and had their picture taken, and then they were herded off.

One Point! Callie thought. Just one point, realizing that the place she had given away to the sobbing girl at the end of the race was the difference between a fifth place ribbon and the seniors standing on the podium.

The third place team, followed by the second place finishers, took their place in order but Callie wasn’t paying attention any more. A guilty mantra…one point….…one point….echoed through her mind.

Finally, the winning team, Fairchild Academy, was announced. The Fairchild girls were strong runners and their team had not lost any meet – not even the big invitational in Oregon - in more than three years. It was their fifth consecutive championship.

The Fairchild team took to the podium, laughing as they climbed the steps. They goofed around getting settled while the photographer waited impatiently. As the camera came up, they struck a pose, five fingers of their left hands up, the forefinger of their other hand pointing toward the crowd as they laughed.

There was a murmur from the crowd and Callie felt the flush of anger. She looked to the seniors. They had both stiffened at the implied insult. Jenessa looked grim and even the twins were taken back. It wasn’t just Roxanne – the whole team was a bunch of poor winners.

Mark shook his head slightly. He was standing right next to Callie and he watched her flinch when the results were announced. She was busy blaming herself, he thought, even though she was still getting over a killer cold that had kept her from running for two weeks before the district meet.

Girls, he thought, are aliens. Guys knew that you had to go for it. If you won, you were the hero. If you didn’t, if you blew up, you were a hero returning on his shield. Winner either way. Girls didn’t get that…

He watched the misbehavior of the Fairchild team and saw Callie cheeks flush red, almost as red as the nose she kept wiping. He glanced down at her face, studying it, auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail and vivid green eyes when another random thought bounced around, then out and surprised him, “…kind of a cute alien, though.”

Finishing Kick

Copyright © 2013 Paul Duffau

The Secret to Getting Appointed to State Commissions

I've discovered the secret to getting appointed to State Commissions. First, build a good reputation.

Second, volunteer to work for free, preferably at the tasks that no one else wants to do but that provide benefits to the community.

Third, get appointed to continue to work for free, still doing tasks no one else wants to do, keep providing value.

Fourth, do a good job.

More appointments will follow.

Note that nowhere in there did I mention making money. You might make money (honestly, that is - if you get on boards because you're expecting bribes, you ought to be thrown in the slammer) or you might not. Or not in ways that you expect. Life can be funny.

Something to think about for Monday.

Ps. It has worked for me. I'm a member of the State Home Inspector Advisory Board and a member of the State Building Code Council. The second one came from the first, a result of being effective and fair while we re-worked a few rules.

Asotin Island Run

The first meet of the year for the Asotin teams - the Asotin Island Run - runs on Chief Timothy Island in Clarkston, Washington on September 14th.

The course is short of the full 5K distance used for championship meets which is a definite advantage early in the season when the kids are still working on fitness. Tim Gundy, the head coach at Asotin, set up the race in 2007 and it's become a regional favorite for small schools with teams coming down from Moscow, Idaho and up from Enterprise, Oregon.

The course for the high school does a pair of laps - a shorter 1 mile loop along the west end of the island that returns the runners to the start line then sends them on a longer 1.6 mile loop. Two-thirds of the course is on dirt track and has small rolling hills. The backside of the big loop does have one short hard climb. The junior high teams - and there is usually a good turnout here as well - runs just the longer loop.

The race finishes under the trees of the park and there is plenty of grassy space for the teams to spread out under the shade. Many teams take advantage of the water and splash in the river before loading up and heading home.

Spectators are always welcome and there is usually good crowd to cheer the runners on.

More info on the Asotin Island Run can be found at athletic.net

Dreamtime

The Australian aboriginals have a creation story that revolves around the idea of Dreamtime, a period when mythical heroes walked the formless land and imbued it with sacred properties. My version of Dreamtime isn't nearly so profound - it happens, with regularity, from about 5 a.m. and 7 a.m. This is when I get the best sleep and have my most vivid dreams - dreams that often help me resolve a storyline problem or gives me a whole new emotional framework - I don't want to say idea because it isn't thought out. The dream is emotional and felt, and the deeper the feeling, the more compelled I get to put it on the list of 'to be written.'

The aboriginals built a complex set of rules and beliefs around the dreaming. When a child is born, he becomes a custodian of the land of his birth. His elders teach him the stories and songs of that place. Part of his education teaches that each thing is connected to the land and to the other things - making no difference if the thing is living or not, galah or granite, human or a clump of needle sharp spinifix.

I get this feeling in a second place - when I run and it's going right. Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi termed it flow but (I think) he meant it as an inward turn where concentration and task met in harmony. This is similar but different in that awareness flows out and embraces everything and feels, quite irrationally, like it touches the whole world. I don't mind the irrationality - I can live with it as the cost of the feeling.

It may be that my version of Dreatime is different from the aboriginals' - but I'll wager less different than you'd expect given the chasm of cultural differences.

Asotin Cross Country is Nearly Here

I admit it - I'm excited that the Asotin cross country season is nearly here. This will be the first year that I don't have any children of my own on the team but I'll be helping out with the junior high squad again. Coaching the kids keeps me a touch younger and, at the junior high level, most of them run because they enjoy it - they haven't gotten to the stage where each race counts in some standing. They do still care, passionately, about how they do. My job, even part-time, is to help them reach for their limits.

The other job is to keep them injury-free. The Asotin cross country teams have been remarkable blessed to have some fine runners among the fine people and we hate to see one of them hurting. At the junior high level, we work to teach them how to run with as little harm to their joints and tissues, focusing on form and listening to their bodies.

This year, I think I'll introduce them to Emil Zatopek, the great post WWII Czech runner - who had perhaps the worst form ever for a world record holder. Every picture I've seen of Zatopek makes him look as though he's just been kicked by a mule but, oh my, could the man run. At his peak, he held nine separate World Records.

Zatopek was a master of listening.

The message to the Asotin cross country kids is to not freak about form - you have to be true to your body. If you run best flopping an elbow, don't tuck it in. Listen. Your body will let you know when you have it right.

And when you have it right, you'll be faster and you'll be far less likely to be injured.

The Day Daisy Left

The day Daisy left the Shelter, everybody in the office cried but the tears were happy. People – and dogs, for that matter – leave shelters all the time. People because it is such hard work and emotionally challenging, the dogs because they leave for their forever homes. Daisy came into the shelter a stray during a brutal snap of winter, found wandering in the rural areas of Waha, a radio transmitter on her collar. We didn’t know how long she suffered exposure to the weather but it was long enough for the transmitter to go dead. Daisy was skin and bones.

A pointer experienced in working the fields (the radio collar was a giveaway), we waited for her owner to call. We hoped it would be soon. In the meantime, we combed our lost-and-found records to see if someone reported her as missing.

Nothing in the records.

And no phone calls from an owner frantic to find her.

Daisy went up for adoption a week later. Before we adopt our dogs, we always test them for temperament. Daisy was an oasis of calmness and completely unflappable. She simply didn’t take offense when you took away the food bowl and, when tested for dog aggression, just looked at the test dog as if to say, “Shush, youngster, don’t you fret.” Daisy was an older dog, about ten, and as easy-going as a grandma bringing cookies and lemonade to the little ones.

Daisy possessed such a kind heart that we expected that she would be adopted quickly. We were wrong. A sad secret is that most people don’t want old dogs, not even kind hearted ones. They want puppies, young scampering bundles of energy that will entertain them. Old dogs need more care and adopters worry about getting attached and then watching their newest family member fade too soon. So old dogs wait, patiently, a bit longer for their forever home.

Daisy possessed another flaw, one that puzzled us. She was always agreeable and friendly but she didn’t show well. All the dogs flood to the front of the kennels (we have outdoor kennels for our animals so they can enjoy the sunshine on nice days) when cars pull into our gravel parking lot. Daisy rushed forward too, and watched the people exiting the vehicles.

And always went to the back of her kennel as though she were hiding.

We thought that perhaps she had been abused at some time because she retreated faster if she saw men getting out wearing baseball caps. Dogs will react to visual clues just as people will. If men with sunglasses hit the dog, the dog will learn to fear men with sunglasses.

A week passed with no changes and assessment time for the newer dogs arrived. We placed Daisy into service helping us. Her job was to simply stand quietly while the other dog ignored her, or sniffed her butt, or barked or growled at her. Occasionally, one will lunge – which is why there are always two technicians involved, first to keep themselves safe but also to keep the dogs safe.

Daisy was an immediate star and became our canine ‘greeter’, welcoming new pets to the shelter. Though she didn’t earn multi-million dollar contracts, she did get special treats as a reward. Her favorite was canned cat food.  “Gotta work first” became a command we used when she tugged the leash as if to tell us, “Hey, that cat food is just over there. I can smell it” and gazed at us with those big sad eyes. Daisy was a very bright girl and she understood when we gave the command. She dropped in next to the tech and she would go to ‘work’ – just standing around meeting new friends, from her perspective – and then it was treat time.

When she wasn’t working, Daisy kept our receptionists company, lying quietly behind the counter – if one of the receptionist happened to have a spare hand that needed to pet a dog, she was a willing volunteer.

Each week was the same and we found other opportunities for Daisy to help. And each week passed with her watching the cars come from the front of her kennel and watched them leave from the back. We didn’t understand why someone couldn’t see the loving old dear as we did but Daisy never reached the top of anyone’s adoptable list.

Daisy was with us eight months. That’s a long time for an old dog but, if no one else will give a good dog a forever home, then we stand in and say, “Here, be with us, for as long as you need.”

The day she left us was average for early August. The sky was clear and the sun hot. The dogs, including Daisy, were outside in kennels, most sitting in the shaded areas or lapping water from their bowls. Cars came in, cars left, Daisy walked forward, Daisy retreated.

I was outside watering the dogs when I heard the truck crunching across the gravel, park and the big diesel shut down. Daisy came to the front of the kennel as two young boys and a tall, lean man with a blue ball cap climbed down from the truck. Her nose pushed against the fence and waited for the retreat. Instead, she sat, a pretty, picture perfect sit/stay.

I looked her, stunned, and then to the family of men headed to the front door of the Shelter. I dropped the hose and sprayer and hurriedly strode towards them. Halfway across the parking lot, one of the boys, maybe 11, maybe 12, saw me. His eyes slid past me to the kennel and his eyes got very wide.

“Dad,” he said, pulling on the man’s left hand and pointing past me as I approached.

He looked, turned and said to me in a puzzled voice, “I think you have my dog.”

We did.

While we filled in the lines on the paperwork, the man explained how she disappeared. The owner, a hunter, loaned Daisy to a friend along with the radio tracker. Daisy – who was 12 and older than we thought – was an expert hunting dog as well as the family dog. The friend, unaccustomed to hunting dogs, mishandled Daisy and lost her in the snow-filled forests.

The owner called the shelter, desperate to find her. He took vacation from work to search the hills for her, tramping through the snow with the receiver for the radio on her collar, long after the battery died. It took eight months for them to recover from losing Daisy before they were ready to adopt another dog.

Daisy played with the kids as the man recounted the story and, as each of us came in to say goodbye, she ran up to us for a quick pet before running back to the boys. “See, these are my people,” she seemed to say, quite proudly.

They loaded Daisy into the truck with a command. She jumped in, settling herself into her seat in the middle of the rear bench. The boys climbed in beside her and the dad got in behind the wheel of the big truck.

I realized, as the doors slammed, that Daisy wasn’t shy or fearful. She ran to the front of the kennel to see who was coming. She retreated when she saw it wasn’t her people. For eight months, patient Daisy waited and she never lost faith in all that time that her people would come for her.

So yes, I cried but the tears were happy. Daisy was going home.

If you enjoyed this short story and would like to help the Lewis Clark Animal Shelter, please consider making a donation to them here. This story is based on the tale of a special dog told to me by my favorite person at the Shelter, my wife.

Copyright © 2013 Paul Duffau

Volunteering

2002 was a good year for the Duffau family volunteering at local races - though, admittedly, it was only at Ultras. That year is one of my favorites in running - though I only did a little bit of racing myself. San Diego has an active ultrarunning group and. in 2002, they put on five events ranging from a 50K to a 24 hour track run. I didn't run a single one though I did run a 12 hour race (more like 9 due to a stress fracture in my right foot) in San Mateo at the Jim Skophammer race that the Bay Area Ultrarunners used to put on. I did volunteer at every event.

The first of the year, the Cuyamaca 50K, all I did was help out at the finish. I wasn't instrumental to any particular degree but I was there handing out water and food as the runners finished.

The next race was the Smuggler 50 Miler (I think it's extinct now) and my first time sweeping a trail. For those that haven't been to a trail ultra, we always mark the course as well as possible. We also clean up behind ourselves. It is a point of pride in the ultra community that we don't leave trash on the ground like you will see at a typical marathon.

My job as sweep was to make sure that the last runner made it in successfully and, as I followed behind him, pick up all the course markers and any trash we left behind. So, for my first night-time trail run, I was carrying a cardboard box for twelve miles, adding stuff as I went.

It was also the first time that I had talked to a Badwater finisher, one who ran it before it went corporate and 'organized'. I caught Dale about four miles from the finisher and we chatted into the finish until he kicked away at the end. I think there were fifty people still there cheering him in to the line.

The next one was run by a friend, Maureen Moran, who we met after I started running ultras even though she literally lived around the corner. The race was the PCT50 and was run in July. In southern California. In the desert.

It was a mite hot. As in 105 degrees in the shade. The runners didn't get much shade.

The Duffau Family, all five of us, showed up at the first aid station at 5AM and got everything set up. We would see the runners twice, first at the 5 mile mark and again at 45 miles. The PCT50 is an out-and-back course, 25 miles uphill into the Cuyamaca Mountains before turning around. Except that year, some joker moved the turnaround sign. Bonus miles for the runners but it was dangerous since it took them miles out from the aid stations in brutal heat.

The girls left at noon with grandma and Donna and I and the volunteer radio operator (ALWAYS thank the ham radio operators - cellphones don't work out there and they worked long days) spent the afternoon sweating and trying to get runners rehydrated. The aid station at the ten mile mark was doing the same. A couple of them were in bad shape but I don't think we had to pull a single runner.

The extra miles also meant that the slower runners, instead of finishing at dusk, were finishing in the dark. Maureen sprinted up from the finish to bring us a load of flashlights for them. We packed up after the last runner, getting back to the finish in time to watch the bobbing lights descending to the finish.

Want to be a hero? Show up at 2AM at the San Diego 1 Day track run and cook grilled cheese sandwiches and warm soup for the athletes. They will be unbelievably thankful that you're there. I was gimpy from setting a new PR in the 25K earlier in the day but I didn't have to move much. My daughter Katie helped too, keeping the food flowing as she cheered the runners circling the track.

We've moved from SoCal and don't help with ultras any more, obviously, but I love the fact that the local cross country coaches ask their teams to volunteer at the local races. Tim Gundy, coach at Asotin High School and all-round neat guy, has encouraged volunteering in his kids. The kids have responded by showing up with great attitudes and

Mike Collins, coach at Lewis Clark State College, does the same with his runners.

Brian Denton at Clarkston does too.

They don't just encourage it in the kids - they all walk the walk - you'll catch them at races helping, organizing, doing the little things that need to be done.

I watch races begging for volunteers and some, like the Spokane to Sandpoint relay, charge a few to hire 'volunteers'. I don't have a problem with the fee - I appreciate the help when I run.

But we could use more people volunteering. Just one race a year would be a huge help and it's a nice way to give back to your sport.

Copyright © 2013 Paul Duffau

Tribes

The tribes are on the move and you can hear their rumble. The tall lanky guy, blue jeans and a tee shirt said, "I'm DJ. This here is Randy."

"I'm Randy," the other guy repeated. If bikers were superheroes, Randy would always be the sidekick.

They were talking to Dan and Clarissa - I'd spot her on the way in. Easy enough to do since she was wearing a skin tight hot pink top with a deep scoop and red hair from Clairol.  It took three sentences of conversation for her to inform the rest of the tribe she was a full member and rode her own Harley.

DJ and Randy were from Seattle. Clarissa and Dan were from New Mexico. A guy in the neighboring booth at the Pizza Hut in Hardin, MT, Roy was from Wisconsin. I think he was taking the scenic ride to Sturgis.

The town was filled with bikers and they were everywhere on the road, all headed for their annual pilgrimage in Sturgis, South Dakota.

We saw more of them at breakfast, all of us up early to get the miles in. The bikers all walk with their toes pointed out, a bit duck footed except for DJ. I think he has a bad hip. I don't know if Sturgis has any holy water or magical potions that will help him.

There were also members of my tribe there. We're not as chatty as the bikers. One guy nodded while we checked out each other's shoes. The other guy was trying to get logged on the computer to answer some emails. But they both had that tanned, lean build and the shoes. Mostly, they had that look - the one that you get when you've covered enough miles and you're still hunting the horizon. I know that look.

Just a nod. A far branch - all the tribes have them just as families do. And while you have your tribes - you probably have at least a couple you're passionate about - you're never alone.

Discoverability

I originally posted the response below on The Kill Zone blog on an article by James Scott Bell about discoverability in an age of disappearing book stores.

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 Maybe a question to ask ourselves before "how do we get discovered?" is "who do we want to discover us?"

The likelihood of being the next superstar author is rather slim and less a matter of good craft than capturing a social wave like pet rocks or hula hoops. Sometimes it doesn't even take good craft (or editing!) if my daughter's books are representative of the YA market.

I know very little about Amish fiction but I can take a guess that it is a closely defined romance niche in which writers are careful to maintain a certain level of decorum. I can also guess that the niche that reads these books are looking for a slower paced escape. The writers cater to this and some enjoy quite a bit of success.

The advice to write a great story, then do it again is great. So is the suggestion to have at least some public exposure. But to cut through the noise of the marketplace, we need to define who it is that we want to read our books. And it isn't everybody.

(Well, I'd be okay if everybody read my book when I am done with it but I hit lottery when I got married and had kids - expecting another lottery win isn't rational.)

My first book is aimed at 13-24 year old females that are runners. That's a niche. JK Rowling has nothing to fear because I could saturate that market and still not hit a tenth of her numbers. I can turn a very nice profit though and I have room to grow from there.

So the question becomes, what is your niche? Thriller? What kind of thriller? Who is the target audience? Why are they your target audience? Sci-fi? Hard science? or Fantasy? Human-good or human-bad? Each has its readers

Once you know who they are, opportunities present themselves on how to market your book. Since you are addressing a niche that already exists prior to your arrival, you can use the connections that are already built between the members. That's word of mouth.

I know that marketing is frowned upon by the better writers who feel that they are creating art but I have no delusions. The act of writing a book and placing for sale is an act of commerce. Marketing is simply a tool that allows the seller to inform the buyer of the product to be sold – in this case, my novel. I don’t want to sell them a lemon. I need to sell a good story that will exceed their expectations.

The art is in the craft and creation of the story. The sale is in the means and methods of the marketing. Targeted marketing is often much more effective than a scattershot approach.

How did I define my niche for the novel I just completed? I didn’t intend to write a novel of 13-24 year old females. I started writing the story that grabbed me and, after I got going, discovered who would enjoy that same story. I suppose you can identify the niche first and then write to it – many successful writers have done exactly that. Either way, now that I know the niche, I know how to market the book.

One cautionary note about niches, though - abuse that niche, monetize it without paying respect to the people in that niche and the word of mouth will go the other way. In other words, if you write just for the money, you’re likely doomed.

For all the business side of writing books, you still have to tell a good yarn or the reader won’t come back for more.

Remember the Name

Remember the name? You just were introduced to someone and, that fast, you forgot. My advice - ask for their name again. Names are powerful. This was hammered home to me when my wife and I took a long weekend together at the Bed and Breakfast at St. Gertrude's Inn. The Inn has a total of four rooms and each morning we met a few new guests as we had breakfast in the Monastery.

As we meandered our way back to our room, an elderly man wished us a nice day. He was travelling with his son and daughter-in-law to a family reunion and was dressed, as older men often do, in nicer slacks and button-up white shirts and blacks shoes.

"You too, Neal," I replied and walked ahead to my room.

As I put the key in the door to open it for Donna, Neal came out of his room and called down the hall to us.

"How did you do that?"

"What?" I was standing there with door open and really had no idea what Neal was talking about.

"You remembered my name," he said. "Why?"

Since I am in business - a small business that will never grow to a big business - I deal with people. If you work, so do you. If you don't work, you still deal with people. And one thing that I try to do is to remember the name.

There are also sorts of systems out there to teach you memory tricks to remember anybody. I don't use any of them but you might want to see if they would serve you.

Dale Carnegie - author of the timeless  How to Win Friends and Influence People - once said that the most powerful word in the English language is a person's name.

It is also the nicest word in the English language, something I knew but needed to be reminded of by Neal. When he asked me why, I floundered for an answer.

"Because it seemed like the right thing to do."

If you want to make someone feel good in an age where the bank and the doctor and the government are busy reducing people to numbers, remember the name. I promise that more people you ever realized will smile at you in appreciation.

Talking to the Running Gods

Running Gods are supposed to be admired from afar as they race toward the finish line. On presumptuous days, you analyze their training logs and think 'hmm, if I just added that workout or those miles...' But you don't dare talk to them. Even if you wanted to try, they're so very far up on that pedestal, they'll never hear you. They talk with other running gods and with reporters, of course. One assumes that they have friends and family but that side gets lost in the glow of their performance on the track or in the marathon or the dust of the trail.

I'm reminded of a daughter who went to school with Reggie Bush at Helix High School in California. We moved up to the Pacific Northwest about the time that Reggie went to USC. When they came to play WSU in Pullman, we went to the game.

She made a sign and, after the game, went down to say...

"Uh, hi....." (small wave, slightly embarrassed and a fast retreat)

Not "Hey, long way from Helix" or "Dude, remember me? Spanish Class?" That would have been much too presumptuous and, by then, Reggie Bush was a Running Back God.

I've given her a boatload of grief over the years because of that "uh, Hi..." but now the shoe is on the other foot. Having written a book about runners, I'm now looking for people to review the book.

Now it's my turn to talk to Running Gods, asking a favor.

How do you address a running god? By starting with an idea that they're just people - really, really fast people. Lauren Fleshman is incredibly funny on Twitter. Bernard Lagat tweets that he's sorry to disappoint his fans at his last race. Joan Benoit Samuelson blogs about Fourth of July and her garden. Each is a little glimpse into the basic humanity of these runners.

The really top-notch runners that I have met are among the nicest people I know. The only reason not to talk to a Running God is your own fear.

They're on that pedestal because we put them there. I'm not so sure it is a comfortable perch.

A Walk with Rose Update

First draft of A Walk with Rose is finished. It turned out not to be a novella but a medium long short story, at least before I go back and do some editing. It should be ready for publication in about two weeks.

A reminder that 25 percent of the profits of the story will go the local Humane Society shelter. If you want to know how the sharing will work, go here and I explain it.