The Source of Champions

Nandi County, the Source of Champions is written large on the sign that marks the division from Uasin Gishu County. Justin is taking me, along with his wife and daughter, to meet his family at Kapkeringon Village.

The sign also marks the last time the vehicle touches asphalt as we take a fast right on to a rough dirt road. The red clay and the embedded rock remind me of the drive that we used to do to my wife’s parents house in Dulzura, CA. She hated that road. She wouldn’t have like this one any better as it was nearly twenty miles of rough travel, often dodging motorcycles and pedestrians. I was fortunate to only bounce off the ceiling once – the trials of the over-tall.

Kapkeringon Village sits a bit higher than Eldoret. Justin pointed out to the distance to show me when I asked. As with my current neck of the woods, the air is clear enough that trees are clearly visible from miles away. More on the trees later, by the way.

The home where Justin’s mother lives, his father just very recently having passed away, sits atop a hill with view of the surrounding countryside. The wattle and daub home itself is traditional, which in this part of Kenya means that there is no electricity or running water. The roof is corrugated tin. The floor was dirt but looked as though it were a chocolaty brush velvet.

Justin’s family joined in for the visit. One somewhat discomfiting problem is that I seem to be the only white guy that has visited some of these areas, so I’ve been attracting attention just for that, with children literally running next to the car to see the mzungu. The family, though, could not have been more welcoming.

Thanks to Celia, I ask Justin if we could bring a gift for his mother. We stopped at a market on the way and picked up sugar and flour, appropriate gifts for the visit. I didn’t know that later we would visit a second home and didn’t have a gift then. Hopefully, I will be able to rectify my lack of manners soon.

Unlike the other visits that I have made so far to homes, tea was not served. Instead, fresh milk, made in the Nandi way, was. Absolutely delicious, rich with the creams that we normally see separated out in our milk. There was also a black residue that comes from lining the interior of the gourd with ash which apparently helps seal the gourd and to preserve the milk.

Also served was mursik, a fermented milk. This had a tarter taste and a thicker composition. Justin’s mom put me on the spot and asked which I preferred. I said the fresh milk. That might have been a bit of a faux pas. Oops.

While we waited for the meal, several of the men of the family – the women were cooking and watching the young ones – proceed to grill me on all things American, supposing that I had all the answers. I was impressed by the depth of the questions they asked and on the wide range of things that captured their curiosity.

That we had free public schooling through the twelfth grade (once we got around the differences in the English system of forms versus grades) was revolutionary. The idea that students would drop out rather than complete their schooling seemed scandalous. Home schooling as an option seemed equally inconceivable to them.

We spent quite a bit of time on agriculture, not surprising given they, as a family, run a farm. The Nandi (and the Massai, too) treated their cattle as part of the family, to the extent of naming them so that they will come when called. I gave them our version of factory produced beef. The men were less than impressed. I understood.

They laughed at my joke that the American food industry was trying to kill me. They nodded in affirmation when I told them that I grew my own vegetables when I could. I neglected to mention that I ‘let’ the deer eat it this year.

Vehicles, roads, driving in snow, exactly which Washington I was from, book pricing, university education, and a host of other topics were touched on. It was a most pleasant, if exhausting, conversation.

Food was served, chapata, meat (chicken), potatoes, stewed leafy greens that had a bit of bite to them, and tea. Millet came later, along with more mursik.

The Kenyans have a really nice custom of bringing warm water in a jug with a pan to the people eating. The water is poured over the hands so that you can wash the dust of the fields or your travels from your hands before eating. The whole ceremony of the washing is very comforting at a visceral level.

After eating, we walked out to the yard. I meandered, taking pictures of the hillsides, much more green than I expected and looking at their expansive and well-tended garden. Justin pulled me aside to point out where his school lay.

We couldn’t see it. The trees were in the way. Three or four times during the course of the day, some would point and mention a place across a valley or up a hill, and finished by saying, “Just behind the trees.”

The trees in question are eucalyptus trees. In the last two decades, they’ve begun to completely reform the landscape. They are also not so slowly squeezing out the native trees. They grew very well in the high altitude environment and spread quickly. It will be interesting to see the changes that the increased vegetation brings to the county.

The crops here changed as well. Formerly a major coffee producing region, the main cash crop now is maize. That’s starting to change but getting the new coffee plants requires capital. The changeover will take years.

 When Justin and I returned to the group, I discovered I was now the photographer and began to take family pictures for them. Lots of smiles from the adults. The kids, not so much. I’ve asked Justin to get one of the group pictures printed and then identify every one – I could not keep track of all of the names.

Afterwards, we headed back out, stopping to visit Caro Ronoh and her family. Her husband, a physics and chemistry teacher, was fascinating to talk to. In the Kenyan educational system, the teachers often get reassigned to schools sometimes a hundred kilometers (~62 miles), making life very difficult for them and the families. They have been fortunate to be in the same location for 22 years.

Caro served a dish similar to donuts minus the excess sugar, very tasty, and tea. Kenyan tea is not the stuff that you see Lipton put out. They heat the milk and water at the same time and brew using tea leaves, then add sugar. It’s quite delicious.

We enjoyed the refreshments and then traipsed outside. A tough looking hill sat about a half-mile away. That hill was used for years for training. The Nandi athletes would measure themselves against the hill, building leg strength and stamina. More importantly, as Henry Rono points out in his book, Olympic Dream, it builds courage.

Every place you visit in the county seems to have the same types of stories, of the hard work of the athletes and their families, that built them into champions. True, they have great distance-running genetics. True, they have mursik (suggested to be a source of their prowess.) Mostly, though, they learn to work hard, early in life, and carry that forward with them.

The trip home was quiet. Justin asked if I was falling asleep. I assured him I wasn’t, just thinking about the book I want to write. Thanks to Justin and his family, I know what my opening scene is. Hopefully, when I start that novel, I’ll be able to do it justice.

A Training Day in Kaptagat

It’s not every morning you get out of bed and go for a run, half-expecting to see a world champion or two. Plus, an Olympic silver medalist.

Justin Lagat took me out of Eldoret to Kaptagat township. Just past the town, there’s a dirt road that appears to missing a sign that reads “Watch Out – Olympians at Training.” The lack of a sing might just signal a sense that the people here expect to dominate in the distance events but, for a foreigner, it’s an eye-popping eye-opener when literally some of the best runners in the world rush by.

Rush is my word, not theirs. They were doing easy mileage at a relatively high rate of speed.

After Justin and I got our runs in, Justin doing the out lap, and me pulling the return, we went and visited friends of his. These were all young men still training to break into the running world as paid professionals. As with most individuals dedicated to a specific vision, they work, live, sleep to make that vision a reality.

They live a very Spartan existence, sleeping in small rooms, cooking for themselves on a kerosene stove. Still, they’re remarkably kind, offering the odd American a cup of tea despite the fact they likely don’t have a pair of shillings to rub together.

Twice a day, they go on training runs, except for the days where they add a third run into the mix. These young men certainly understand how to work hard.

Helping them along the way is Wilson Kiprop who sponsors this particular group of young men. It’s not the sort of thing that you see highlighted in his Wikipedia article, but he, along with quite a few other champion runners, work hard to bring opportunities to the next generation. It would be nice if these activities were as celebrated as their athletic achievements.

On to Eldoret

New Year’s Day is an eventful holiday in Kenya. The families travel back to their traditional homes to celebrate the day. In my case, I ended up joining a gentleman I met on the plane over. We touched base after we got settled, and Njuguna invited me to join him and his wife, Celia, on a trip into the Central Highlands. He promised me a potluck and a chance for me to learn a bit about the Kikuyu lands.

Roast goat, chapata, a Kenyan version of cole slaw, beans, potatoes, and more.

Njuguna was actually serious when he mentioned that it would be a potluck. At every house that we visited, the families offered us food. It is part of the cultural pattern throughout Kenya, where they treated guests as family, feeding them and offering tea.

Celia came to my rescue. She had taught her European students a phrase, ne meh she ba, (spelling phonetically here, folks. Could well have a different proper spelling.) The phrase means “I am now full.” I suspect that phrase, along with ‘thank you very much’—assante sana,—are going to be in my permanent repertoire. Po le, too. I’m sorry. It actually has a wide and varied meaning from I’m sorry I stepped on your foot to I’m sorry your car has a flat tire. The range of expression of this one word will appeal to my youngest daughter.

Kenyan gatherings, at least this one, are quiet relative to a comparable American party. I liked the difference as I’ve never been much for trying to shout over a group.

The next day, Saturday, marked my trip to Eldoret. Immediate impression – absolute relief at the breezes and the drop in humidity. Also, my allergies are fading which is great. Still a bit of a sniffle but that is fading fast.

Justin met me at the airport, and he drove us to his home, where I’ll be staying. He and his wife have been most welcoming, though I think they worry over me. They shouldn’t as I’m pretty adaptable. After settling in, Justin took me on a walk, pointing out the houses of Olympic gold medalists and other notaries. The views are expansive and I plan on getting out during dawn and dusk to capture some of the images. That will remain a work in progress for now but once I get them, I’ll put them up.

After the walk, we had dinner - traditional food that was very tasty, with Kenyan tea, and then sat talking. For Justin and I, it was a lot of about writing. Running periodically enters into the conversation, too. There are a couple of major races coming up, so I'll have a chance to watch outstanding runners as they go head to head.

Update: Sunday morning. Went for a four mile-ish run/walk with Justin. Still can process enough oxygen but that is something that time will take care of. The terrain reminds me a lot of home. Took a goodly number of pictures along the way.

Today, we’re headed out to Kapkeringon Village to visit Justin’s family.

Yes the gaps are big enough to fall through.

Justin Lagat, looking stylish.

A Visit to the Giraffe Center

The Giraffe Center has surprisingly little information about the animal it's protecting, but made for a pleasant visit anyway. I had expected to have some type of guided tour of the grounds which have a tourist visiting section to get people close to the animals and nature walk.

The petting zoo, since that effectively is what it is, had a pavilion where you could feed a giraffe pellets. The signage provided amply instructions on how to feed then (be holding the pellet between the fingers) and admonitions on what not to do (don't feed from the palm of your hand, don't lean into the giraffe as they like to head butt, do not tease the giraffe.) A key points, personnel was positioned to observe and, apparently, ignore the mishandling by the people.

The remainder of the grounds in the compound was given over to a gift shop. A quick perusal before I left confirmed that it met the basic standards of all gift shops, having a single minded display of items designed to separate cash from the rubes. It was a tad on the spendy side, shall we say.

What was missing was any sort of information booth, book, video, guide, or sign meant to impart the slightest bit of  knowledge regarding the giraffe. I thought the interior of the pavilion would have this kid of information, but it contained children's drawing from a contest. Some of those were quite well done and creative, but not what I was hoping for.

The walking trail on the other side had more appeal to me. The official trail was 1.6 kilometers around, though there are numerous side trials, especially when you get to the Gogo River.

The Gogo River is like the San Diego River or the Todd in Alice Springs, It's more a seasonal trickle of water than a body of swift flowing current.

On the other side of the river, past the 'Do Not Enter' signs there is a ton of single track maintained by the giraffes as they meander. I could've gotten joyfully lost for hours over there, but violating the laws of a host nation seems foolish. I played nice and explore several miles of trail before heading back to the main park. I think I was the only tourist that headed down into that part of the exhibit.

Ever done those "Find the Cat" photos? How many giraffes can you find in the picture below?

Feel free to share the "Count the Giraffes" on Facebook and Twitter-

The next two picture are from the nature walk. My computer is being balky in resizing them and it's almost three in the morning here, so I'm leaving the big. By the way, there are scary things that shriek in the night in Kenya, at least here. Discourages one from night running.

The Gogo River

A long walk to the Karen Blixen Museum

I gather, from the looks that I got, that white people don't go for miles long walks in Nairobi. Also, the fact that I saw not another single white person while running and walking nearly sixteen miles suggests that it's an activity low on the list for tourists.

That's a shame, because I enjoyed both the scenery during my walk and by the people that I met along the way. (The run left me gasping and with a sore foot. I stayed focused and completed.)

Nairobi, by the way, is a place where you only rarely need to check the weather as it stays very consistently in a narrow, warm band. The sun is also abundant, leading a certain knucklehead to get burned. Sunscreen and a hat are on the list to acquire today.

I ended up taking the scenic route to Karen, named for Karen Blixen. For those who don't know, she was the author of Out of Africa, a terrific book later made into a movie starring Robert Redford and Meryl Streep. The movie won a total of seven academy awards.

The town, reputed to be named after Karen Blixen, is affluent, especially in relation to some of the other neighborhoods that I passed. Since I left from the mall, the route was considerably longer than if I had left from the hotel. Walking along Langata Road, the sidewalk gives way pretty quickly to an unpaved shoulder more like a single track trail than a city walking route. The early part of my trek led me through a business district and near a nursery. I found it entertaining to watch a worker from the nursery shoo cows away from the young plants and onto the road, much to the consternation of the drivers. They eventually meandered to the other side of the road and began mowing the grasses there.

The road is also populated by a number of schools, many of them religious, and all sequestered behind tall walls topped with razor wire and, as often as not, electrified wires.

This points to one of the dichotomies of Nairobi. The people are wonderfully welcoming. I've had several long conversations with complete strangers. As a Mr. Kipkiror said, "We are a very hospitable people." And they are. Hellos from weird Americans walking to nowhere are greeted with smiles and hello's back, or just a smile and 'Yes!'.

Yet the fences are real, as are the guards. Most of the upscale communities are gated and have guards, as does my hotel. The Galleria has an armed presence and they perform a security check on all vehicles entering the premises. Pedestrians likewise get screened.

The two types of security serve two different purposes. The malls and schools fear more violence that left 50 westerners dead at the Westgate shopping mall several years ago, and 147 dead students at a university in northwestern Kenya in April of this year. Both maintain high levels of visible security to dissuade possible repetitions of those atrocities.

The fences point to a separate problem. Kenya, while performing well relative to its neighbors, remains a country with considerable poverty. Property crime is relatively high, enough so that companies advertise the electric fences as a means of controlling the grounds for the house.

This became more evident as I got closer to Karen. Hedges disguised the walls and the wires but they were there, along with the heavy metal gates at the driveways. The properties morphed to estates as I made the turn down Karen Road.

The Karen Blixen Museum occupies the old homestead and grounds, while the Karen Country Club sits where the coffee used to be grown. Apparently, coffee is ill-suited to the area as the humidity is too high, a fact I didn’t know. Blixen was from Denmark rather than England and earned the ire of the ruling colonial class by treating the Massai and Kikiyu as people. She provided a degree of education and health care for her workers that was remarkable for the period.

Much of this was explained to me by an articulate young man named Ephraim. The fee for the Museum includes a personal tour which starts with a chat in the front lawn, in the shade of the trees. The tour of the house itself does not take long and photography is not permitted – having visited Monticello, I expected this. Most of the furniture is original to the home though, disappointingly, the books were donated by Universal Studios during the movie.

In a surprise, I noted two 40 foot towering cactus in the back lawn. Ephraim had already left to serve another sightseer so I didn’t have a chance to ask if they were original to the home or not. Still, they are the tallest cactus I recall having seen.

The return trip went much faster as I took the short route. On the way, I saw the signage for the Giraffe Center. Looking it up on a map, it’s within walking distance, too. I think I’ll take a cab, though, as I want to use the Nikon for pictures there.

I need to get a baggie, too. I had a very cool young lady that I used to coach ask if I would collect a sample of dirt from Kenya. She apparently has samples from all over the world. It sounded like a neat idea, so I’ll get some at the Giraffe Park. Later, I’ll get some from Iten. She’s a runner – she’ll get a kick out of that.

If you tweet, you can follow me at @paulduffau – I’ll be tweeting from various spots along the way during my trip. Also, the audiobook version of Finishing Kick is out – and already out-selling both print and ebook, which I expected.

Take care and run gently.

Pictures from Kenya

I'll have more as I go. Here are a few from yesterday. Today's missed opportunity was of a pair of vervet monkeys that came onto the grounds. By the time I fetched the camera, they had disappeared. Moral of the story - take the camera everywhere, including the patio during breakfast.

I went for a short run. It turns out that I'm not just slow at sea level - at altitude, I'm really slow. Also, the pain in my foot that I thought was healed, isn't. I'll try a different pair of shoes and see if that makes any difference. Still, I covered three miles. I did catch sight of a tall, lanky fellow headed the opposite way, laying down sub-six minute miles like it was nothing. Beautiful to watch. I waved, but he was already gone.

The Hotel Troy-Nairobi. A bit spartan but the staff - Cecile, Chris, Joseph - are very pleasant and helpful.

As I mentioned, I came across a troop of baboons on the way to lunch. When I'm out walking, I'm carrying my work camera. It's nearly indestructible and takes pretty competent pictures.

I figured this male baboon did not want me intruding so I yielded right of way.

I was right - he expected cars to give way, too. I didn't get a picture but a young female with a baby on her back just missed getting hit as she jaywalked at high speed across this highway.

This sign cracked me up. Is the Ultimate Security limited? Not so ultimate, then. (I know, it's the corporate organization of the company - it just funny.)

Welcome to Nairobi

After thirty hours on planes and in airports, waiting patiently in the passport lines, and discovering that my bag might well have been the first onto the plane – and, thus, the last off – I met Chris outside the airport for my ride to the quiet hotel I booked, sight-unseen, online. I did run into a slight delay at customs. The camera equipment had them questioning my tourist-y bona fides, as did the weight of the books in my suitcase. I explained I was a writer. That didn’t help. It took a little convincing before he understood I'm not a professional photographer who should be paying some sort of tariff fee. I think my cluelessness finally garnered a touch of sympathy as the agent eventually wearied, smiled, and waved me on my way.

Chris works for the Hotel Troy-Nairobi, which offers a shuttle service for a nominal fee. I contacted them before I left and Chris, a tall-ish gentlemen stood with a sign with my name to greet me at the street. Ten minutes later and with the bags loaded, we departed into the dark for the hotel.  (Side note: Chris oomph’d at the big bag - For those who are fans of It’s a Wonderful Life, think of the scene where Jimmy Stewart is talking about the suitcase he needs, one big enough for all the stickers for all the places he’s going that can double as a life raft if the tramp steamer he’s riding goes down. That’s about the size of my bag. For much the same reasons.)

On the drive, I noted that Chris maintained a pretty steady 100 kph (about 60 mph) despite the flashes of what I took to be radar cameras. I asked, and Chris confirmed. Yep, they were speed traps but the government put the system in without penalty for the first year to get the drivers used to the notion. Strikes me that the government might be training them to ignore the cameras at the same time the drivers ignore the 50 kmp speed limit, but we’ll see, I guess. The Kenyans also drive a bit like the Koreans I remember. Painted lines are strictly advisory in nature.

Check-in was a breeze. It took a little trial-and-error to find the correct room, not that the hotel has many. The original room they set aside had an issue with hot water at the shower. The showers use an on-demand system that’s kind of neat when they work. The one in the first room didn’t, so we did a shift two doors down. I FB’d family that I was alive and crashed.

With my body clock a touch confused, I woke at about 5AM, Nairobi time. Interesting little fact. The folks here don’t get moving that early. I ended up taking a walk while I waited for the breakfast to open at seven.

The Hotel Troy-Nairobi sits on the outskirts of Nairobi with Nairobi National Park across the street. I meandered my way to the northwest and managed to see a monkey in the trees of the park. No bueno on getting a picture – the critter was moving pretty quick. I wasn’t.

Also moving quickly were the legions of men walking to work, some singly, some in clumps of two and three. The ones headed in the opposite direction mostly smiled when I said hello, though a few looked confused and one downright bemused. I gathered that I was not exhibiting typical behavior for a tourist.

Hotel Troy does not believe in allowing guests to be hungry. Breakfast was a Spanish omelet, a sausage of the type the British call bangers, potatoes with bell peppers and red onion, two rolled crepes, and beans. Plus watermelon, juice that I think was passion fruit – the taste was familiar but not from recent memory – and cups of tea.

Then, I went for another walk. This time, I aimed for a destination. The Galleria is a shopping center that would fit in most mid-size American towns. They had exactly what I needed. A phone, since Verizon doesn’t work in Kenya, and an adapter for my computer. The Kenyans clearly have not grasped how to be rapacious in their phone contracts. The phone was cheap, the minutes pre-paid, and no sell-your-soul-to-the-devil service contract. The people in Safaricom were also unfailingly polite, though they could speak up a little.

Little fact that most Americans don’t know. Kenya positively kicks our butt not just in running but in the use of mobile money. The program, M-Pesa, allows you to load money onto your phone and use it at merchants in the place of cash. Kenya is one of the leaders in the world at adopting this technology. Safer than carrying cash and more secure than a credit card, M-Pesa is a fundamentally different way of managing economic transactions.

A cynic might point out that the mobile money system would work in our country if not for the lobbying of the banks and credit card companies.

Nonetheless, M-Pesa is a godsend for travelers.

The Galleria had a bunch of other shops, too. I found a camera shop where I can get some new filters if I need them. A pharmacy and doctor’s office, both of which I hope to avoid. A book store. (natch!) A brewery that looks right intriguing. A Kentucky Fried Chicken place complete with a huge picture of Colonel Sanders.

In a major score, I found a bicycle shop that rents bikes for day use. I figure I’ll rent one in the next day or two and go on an impromptu bike tour of Nairobi’s environs. I brought a backpack so I can hump water and food to make a day trip of it. The lack of a map might be a bit of a hindrance, plus I need to remember that the Kenyans drive on the opposite side of the road. Still, I hadn’t thought of exploring on a bike.

Okay, that’s the update. I’m running eleven hours ahead, so it’s lunch time for me. Time for another walk, this time east-bound. I heard there’s a restaurant not too far away, one that doesn’t feature American icons.

First run will be tomorrow morning, before the heat – and traffic – comes in.

Can you tell Christmans is near?

New Blogging Adventure

Sorry about the infrequent blogging, everyone. With Christmas fast approaching, along with my trip, the days stay filled and I haven't carved out time for writing much of anything.

Seemed like the perfect time to commit to more writing, so I am very pleased to announce that I will be doing book reviews (on an irregular basis) over at BookHorde.org. By now, you've gathered I read quite a lot. Most of that I do not review on this blog, though I am reconsidering that thought.

Book Horde is a newer book review site, committed to bringing attention to emerging writers. As readers, we live in the greatest age of story-telling that has ever existed as authors, including yours truly, begin to see the power of self-publishing. Therein lies a problem, though - separating good work from bad. Book Horde, like many of its fellow review-blogs, pans for the literary gold for you. (Well, maybe not literary - they reviewed Trail of Second Chances (and liked it a lot!), but you get the drift.)

I'll be putting up reviews on sci-fi, fantasy, and thrillers. Since I'm involved in some writing groups, the range could conceivably grow to include genres I don't normally read. We'll see - it's an interesting adventure.

Old Blogging Adventure

I've talked to quite a few people recently that lamented the fact that I didn't blog over at InlandXC this past season. The principal reason wasn't a lack of interest, but of time. The original intent of said blog was to cover races in the inland northwest. That's too big a territory for one guy with a full-time job, coaching responsibilities, writing addictions, and family obligations.

I need help. (No, not mental help. I'm happy, I'm harmless.)

I am looking for people interested in contributing on a regular basis, in season, to the site. Ideal candidates are high school students who would like a byline and a snazzy looking reference for college applications. Proficiency with English is a plus. I think I have someone in Pullman who might be interested. Could use a couple of someones in the Spokane area, and the Tri-Cities area.

Notes About Kenya

Prep work is done with the exception of packing and buying Traveller’s Checks. (Just realized that my internet browser spellcheck is set for English English, not American English. Colour me embarrassed.)

Justin Lagat got hold of me to let me know that the NIKE Discovery Cross Country race will be in Eldroet while I'm there. That will be exciting to watch. He's also trying to arrange some interviews for me, which will help me cover the spectrum for my book.

Or books. I might try and do a non-fiction book out of this whole experience, too. In any event, I will be posting to the blog as frequently as internet connections permit. Expect plenty of photos as well.

In checking the various embassy warnings about Kenya, it appears that the area up on the Somali border and the area along the coast are relatively hazardous for westerners due to the risk of kidnapping. Fortunately, I'm not headed to either of those locations. Still, there's plenty of good advice available. I check in with the American State Department, as well as the Canadian Embassy and the Australian Embassy.

Kenya also has quite a few English-language newspaper online. The two that I have been reading are The Daily News and the Digital Standard. Both have pages devoted to the areas that I'll be traveling.

Having Justin there to point out when I might be doing something dumb will be a big help. I'm pretty good at dumb-but-survivable mistakes, but that's within my current experiences.

From here to Christmas, I'll probably put up a couple more posts, but I'm not going to try to hold to the normal two-a-week schedule. Family time is important.

Take care, run gently. Or get caught up on shopping. Or hanging lights. Or spiking the egg nog.

2015 B.R.A.G. Medallion Honoree!

I received an email yesterday that Trail of Second Chances has been awarded a B.R.AG. Medallion. The award is given by IndieBRAG, a site dedicated to helping separate the cream at the top of the independent publishing world. Based on their criteria (plot, writing style, characters, copy editing, dialogue, cover/interior layout), ten percent or less of the books they review earn a Medallion.

Their last criteria is the 'would they recommend this to a friend' standard. Personally, for all the complexities that go into creating a book, both the writing and the production, this is the test that I like best. I don't buy books to put them on the table and impress people (unless folks get impressed by the sheer number of books) but to read and share. The sharing lends almost as much pleasure as the reading. 

I am very pleased to be a B.R.A.G Medallion Honoree, to say the least.

For those of you who like to read and have a hard time coming up with new books, take a look at their website. They've done a lot of the curating so you don't need to worry about buying a dud.

In related news, the incomparable John L. Parker, Jr gave me a blurb for the audiobook version of Finishing Kick. When I wrote the book, I intended it to be the high school 'girl' version of John's Once a Runner. As a natural tie-in, he would have been one of the first people I should have contacted about the possibility of reading it. Except, in a rarity in my life, I didn't have the guts to send him a letter and a copy of the book.

I met John in Eugene earlier this year, along Jack Welch and a host of others, and about the third day there, told him that story. His response was a laconic, "You should have." So this time, I did. This is what John sent back:

Paul Duffau knows cross country inside and out, and he knows how to tell a story. I can't imagine a high school runner--or any runner for that matter--who won't keep eagerly turning pages to find out if the charming and enigmatic Callie can find a way to dethrone the haughty know-it-alls from Fairchild Academy. This is a wonderful coming of age tale as well as an exciting sports story. Highly recommended!

Not all of that will fit on the audio cover, but I'll be updating the print copy of the book, and you can bet it will make it on the cover there. When one of the folks that you truly respect give you an 'atta-boy', it's a definite boost to the ego.

The audiobook will have a cover that is dramatically different from the print book - the design differences are interesting enough that I think I'll be querying some of the leaders in the field about them. We are on schedule for a release on the audiobook in the next week or so. I'll pu the new cover up when I get it finished.

It's snowing today in Asotin. Not much, but white, cold, icky. It was in the seventies in Eldoret with afternoon thunderstorms. I know which I prefer.

Interview with Author Robert Coe

I thought that with the current issues raging across the country at our various institutions of higher learning, it would be interesting to discuss the developments with someone who experienced the most notable period of upheaval on campus. Please greet Robert Coe, author of Jock: a memoir of the counterculture.

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Paul: Your book, unlike most in running, is a big sprawling work that puts running into the context of both the lives of the athletes and into larger interrelated communities. As a writer, I think it was an interesting decision to make. Why did you?

Robert: I realized there was no literature out there that placed not just running but major college athletics firmly in the context of the Sixties, in my case also bleeding into the early Seventies.

I wanted to write JOCK the way I did because somehow the idea had accrued that in the era of Muhammad Ali’s draft resistance and “Broadway Joe” Namath dating Janis Joplin and calling a Super Bowl victory and anti-Vietnam War disruptions shutting down 442 college campuses nationwide in 1970, including Stanford’s -- that somehow this volatile era barely touched college football and swimming and Track & Field and cross-country; that being a “Jock” somehow left you pure and unaffected, or maybe even back in the Fifties yourself. Much of Stanford Track & Field did remain mired in the Fifties, with Coach Payton Jordan running the program and requiring everyone to have short hair and proselytizing for his conservative version of the American Way and employing all kinds of outdated training methods in virtually every track and field event you could mention. (For distance runners it was “Intervals, Intervals, Intervals.”)

But our cross-country team was its own little counterculture. Not that all of us were stoners – in fact most of us weren’t – but we were running against the way things usually worked in college athletic programs. We were pretty much on our own, working under a great Coach, Marshall Clark, who understood Arthur Lydiard’s maxim “Train, Don’t Strain,” where the previous head of the program had lived more by the rostrum, “No pain, no gain.”

Many Stanford athletes, including players on our two winning Rose Bowl football teams (the first one led by Heisman Trophy Winner Jim Plunkett), understood that all of us were up to our eyeballs in what was happening in the world, whether we liked it or not. And anybody who didn’t think that way couldn’t have been paying much attention. Even Plunkett said it wasn’t an easy time to focus on a game.

Paul: You were around the running world about the time that the athletes began to rebel against the AAU. Was this an out-growth of the times, a milder version of the counter-culture, or simply people finally awakening to the unfairness of the AAU system?

I was more or less oblivious to the events going on at the level of the A.A.U. Our sport was a shadow of what it is today. When I set a new Stanford freshman school record in the Mile (4:09.5), I was unaware of any youth development programs anywhere in the country that I could have pursued in the summer, although I subsequently learned there were a few.

As far as rebellion goes: in my case I had many “culture wars” with Coach Jordan, the Head Coach of the record-setting 1968 Mexico City Olympic team, over-- get this – my hair. It’s all in the book. In the end I would usually follick-ly conform, but I never enjoyed these confrontations. Weirdly enough, I was one of Jordan’s favorites. He nicknamed me “The Baby-Faced Assassin.”

Paul: In your memoir, you compared the T&F team to 'labor'. This past year, the athletes at Northwestern sued to be able to form a union. They were rebuffed by the courts. What do you think of the current relationship of student/athlete to educational organization and how do you think it may have changed from your time at Stanford?

Robert: I used that term “labor” only once, referring to a terrible incident in which one of our teammates was struck in the temple by a thrown discus during an official team practice in the stadium. Discus throwers were allowed to throw on the football grass while their teammates warmed up in preparation for running, jumping, vaulting, etc. We were warned simply to “pay attention; be careful; watch out; keep your eyes open.” It was an accident waiting to happen, and when it finally did happen, with truly horrible results – our teammate permanently lost the sight in his right eye – I told people that “we” should never have allowed this practice to continue. We were “Labor.” We should have organized and as a team asked the Athletic Department to find another place for discus throwers to practice.

But to directly answer your question about today: I get a sense that there is a great deal of harmony now between athletic teams and the athletic department. I hear through the grapevine various grumblings about the basketball coach and football coach David Shaw’s conservative play-calling, but them’s peanuts. The success of the Stanford Athletic Department is incomparable to any in the history of college sports, and I think harmony is part of the reason why. The other part is the enormous financial resources at their disposal.

Paul: A portion of the Missouri football team went out on strike and refused to practice over issues of perceived racism at the university. They won. Could that have happened in 1968-1972 with the Stanford team? What would have been the reaction of the university and the public?

Robert: I knew Black football players who felt that “Indian” Coaches – we didn’t become the Cardinal until the fall after I graduated, meaning I and my classmates Black and White spent our whole careers on a team with a racial mascot -- treated them like machines, expecting them to return from injuries more quickly than white players did.

Two days before the Stanford-Michigan Bowl game, my friend, the workhorse fullback Hilary Shockley, quit the team, despite a personal appeal from Head Coach John Ralston. “Shocker,” who had played the whole season with painful bone chips in his ankle, reportedly told his Coach, in a word-play on our head trainer’s constant refrain– “You can’t make the club if you’re in the tub” --“You can’t hit the field until you’re healed.” (Shocker was a walk-on, like I was; he went on to Harvard Business School.)

There were many racially-tinged events during my era. My 1968 entering class of 1,447 students was (according to the school newspaper) 85% Caucasian, 6-7% “Oriental,” 5% “Negro,” and the rest Mexican-American, Filipino and “American Indian.” (The Daily failed to mention we were also about 2:1 male, and Title IX was still a pipedream.)

A year-old Black Student Union was demanding the formation of a Black Studies program and expanded admission and financial aid for minorities. My freshman English instructor had us read Eldridge Cleaver’s Soul on Ice, which he described as a work of “genius.” The racial pot wasn’t just bubbling, in other words; it was boiling.

The only incident of refusing practice I ever heard about came when players in the first Rose Bowl camp, Black and White, gathered in the locker room before one of their hated morning practices and decided that since they were going to be playing in a Rose Bowl Game in less than a week, by god they were going to have fun. So no more morning workouts! “Boy-cott Prac-tice, Boy-cott Prac-tice!” I don’t know if anybody actually chanted that, but a Sixties-style “People’s Revolt” had definitely reached a Rose Bowl football team. And I give it up to John Ralston: he gave in to their demands. He even arranged a field trip to Marineland.

Paul: The racing world is in big trouble as the doping scandals continue to widen in scope. How would a 1968 Robert Coe have reacted to the pressures of today's racing environment where the phrase “the winner is the guy with the best doctor” has gained currency? Would you have competed or called bullshit and walked away?

Robert: As I mentioned in JOCK, I was in an era that was almost pre-doping. PEDs were something new in the lexicon of sports. Olympic drug testing had been instituted for the first time in Mexico City, where Coach Jordan had been a vocal and sincere opponent of drug use: an honest-to-god believer in those “precious bodily fluids.” But testing methods were crude, and rumors of abuse by major U.S. stars were widespread, although without hard evidence to back them up.

To the best of my knowledge, Performance Enhancing Drugs never touched Stanford’s athletic programs at all while I was there. Stanford Quarter-Miler Jim Ward, Jordan’s 1968 Track Team Captain, would later claim that all six runners who finished ahead of him in the N.C.A.A. 440-Yard Championship Final in ‘67 were doping, and that his friends at U.S.C. and U.C.L.A. were given PEDs like candy from training room dispensaries. Maybe there were scenes at Stanford I didn’t know about (although I doubt it), but in an era that introduced a number of innovative approaches to training, encompassing not only drugs but also the human potential movement, I saw evidence of neither in Dave's Animal Kingdom. That was what I called Head Trainer Dave Blanchard’s Training Room. Except for the assistant trainer Scotty, who was a very cool guy, the Stanford Training Room was about as retrograde a scene as you could find on campus in my era. But to answer your last question: if doping had been around, I am quite certain I would not have done it. Yes, I definitely would have walked away. Not for health reasons, although those would have been reasons enough. Cheating violates everything I felt about our sport.

Paul: As we get older, I think we all become a little introspective. Some look back and decide it was all worth it, each bump and bruise. Others play a game of 'what-if'. Where do you land, in life and in running?

Robert: I write in the book that I simply closed the door on that chapter of my life. Injuries and illness kept me from becoming the runner I might have been. But then again, I quit at the age of twenty-two. Kenny Moore, the two-time Olympic Marathoner and Sports Illustrated track scribe for three decades, who I knew slightly back in the day, read JOCK, and among other things wrote me this: “You might not regret ending serious racing, but I do for you. I can clearly imagine you and me continuing our talk about the meanings and paradoxes of sporting effort, community and service, and me inviting you to train in Eugene after the '72 trials. Where I would have tried to shake you out of the provably erroneous assumption that four college years were all you were allowed for a career.”

From the current perspective of these many years, I think I would like to have seen what I could do. But forgive me if I quote from my book:

“My portrait hung in the Stanford locker room for nine years! I raced against Frank Shorter, Gerry Lindgren, Martin Liquori and Steve Prefontaine, and in meets with Bob Seagren, O.J. Simpson, Lee Evans, and John Carlos! I led Pre for 800 yards in the 1971 Pac-8 Conference Mile! Before the first race Jim Ryun contested as a Born-Again Christian, I was dragged off the track in the Devil-Take-the-Hindmost Mile! I could run a 50-second Quarter and also out-race long-distance All-Americans and Olympians, past, present and future! I logged thousands of miles with some truly great runners [including Don Kardong and Duncan Macdonald] and aspired alongside them to national championships! I competed for the London Track Club at the Crystal Palace and at the Oakland Coliseum and San Francisco’s Cow Palace for Stanford! I trained on trails in the Sierra Nevadas and on the track at Berlin’s Olympiastadion! I coursed through the cypresses of Point Lobos and risked my life running along the Rhine! I was a forest creature in Munich, a Yank between the hedgerows of the English countryside and on the cobblestones around Buckingham Palace, and a hippie running naked on the beaches of the Costa Blanca! When the great Australian Ron Clarke set his last world record [over three miles indoors], he flung his arms around my neck and said, ‘Thanks, mate!’ I was present at the births of West Coast cross country and the West Coast Offense! I had been there, and done that. But I also decided early on that my book would no more grovel over my victories than it would trade in my long-vanished defeats. What I wanted to do [with this book] was open a window on an era, and confirm that I felt like the Stanford All-American basketball star Nneka Ogwumike did when she addressed a crowd at Maples at the end of her final college season in 2012: “I wouldn’t have traded these four years for any other place with any other community, any other team, any other coach.”

Paul: What memories of running and racing at Stanford mean the most to you?

Robert: My teammates and our Coach; our long training runs and tough interval sessions; and our amazing competitions. I refer frequently to a line from Kipling: “The strength of the wolf is the pack, and the strength of the pack is the wolf.”

1. What advice would you give a freshly minted high school graduate who's headed off to race in college.
   

Robert: All that really comes to mind are clichés, most of which contain a germ of truth. So here goes: stay hungry. Feed your passion. Keep an open mind and heart. And train, don’t strain!

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Jock: a memoir of the counterculture - a review

Those looking for a 'pure' running book will find it in Jock: a memoir of the counterculture. With Robert Coe's careful eye, you get a stunningly detailed look into the life of a competitive collegiate runner during one of the most tumultuous phases that the United States has endured. However, those looking for only a running book are in for a surprise as Coe takes us on a journey through the late-sixties and into the seventies.

Most running books focus on the how-to of running, and a few comment on the history, but Jock seeks the totality of the experience. Set at Stanford from Coe's first days entering the campus to his final year, the narrative winds through the cross country season to the classroom, out onto the track, and eventually as far away as Stanford-in-Britain.

Coe's journey is neither smooth nor straight, as befit the period in which he compete. His recollections of the protests on campus and the reactions both the rank and file students and the student-athletes. He's honest to a fault, showing that there was no unified front – some athletes were supportive of the administration of both the university and the country, even as he and many others were not. Coe does not pull punches. If he felt a particular individual deserved approbation, he delivered it, often in spades, as his descriptions of head coach Payton Jordan make abundantly clear.

Yet that is balanced by the clear pleasure he derived from his teammates. A storied cast that included luminaries such as Don Kardong and the immortal Ron Clarke populate the book, lending it an indefinable air of groundedness. Running at the leading edge of the boom to come, he recounts competing against Pre and the other Ducks, the icy crap that he ran in at WSU for the Pac-8 championship, and the records that seemingly fall with every page. Coe's tales of the training runs, the effort that went into training, are worthy of a book of their own.

Yet, side-by-side to that, are the stories of drug experimentation, the nascent hook-up scene, and a culture that was in a state of upheaval in which every rule could be, and often was, called into question. Coe gives an honest accounting of that, too, both of his own activities – yes, he experimented - and that of the late sixties. He joined some of the protest marches, investigated the claims and counter-claims, and grew into an adult seasoned by the experience at Stanford and in Europe during a pivotal sophomore year.

Where all the other legends get pared down to the feats on the athletic course and sanitized to make them orthodox, Jock looks at the life of the athlete from an intimate perspective. Unlike the tightly controlled legend of Prefontaine, Coe ranges far and wide in an authentic effort to provide sense to running as it related to the age. In this lies the meat of Coe memoir, a blatant openness that peels back the veneers to expose the vicissitudes of the protest generation.

For a person interested in more than a running book, Jock: a memoir of the counterculture delves into the running even as it touches, in first-person detail, history.

PS. On Tuesday, I'll be posting an extended email interview with Robert Coe!

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Paul is the author of two fictional tales of runners: Finishing Kick (recognized by Running Times in their Summer Reading list July, 2014); and his newest novel, Trail of Second Chances. He blogs on the running life and interviews people that he finds interesting.

Fixing the Disparate Impact of 1B/2B Cross Country

Something that disturbs me every year is watching the 1B/2B girls lining up to race and seeing how few toe the line. To put it in perspective, 73 girls ran this year. The boys field saw 141 racers. This doesn't represent an anomaly - the same thing happens every single year. The numbers over the last four years are: 73/141, 66/137, 72/125, 62/129. I could go back further in the records but that rough 2:1 proportion remains.

Relative to the remainder of the divisions, and even compared to the 1B/2B boys, a smaller percentage of qualified female runners get the opportunity to run at the Washington State meet. I'll get to what I mean by qualified later. I'm afraid that there will be some math, but nothing complicated. Promise!

I finally had time this year to do some research. I used the numbers from Athletic.net to generate my statistics. The numbers inside the raw results were fascinating and when broken out, indicate that the best way for a 1B/2B runner to get to State is to be male. Given all the Title IX implications, I was surprised. So, to the numbers. . .

Entries to the state meet are based on an allocation model devised by the WIAA. Each division and district gets a set number of teams that can advance from the regional meets to the state meet. Individuals can qualify if they place in the upper bounds of the runners. This bound is defined by the WIAA as the team allocation times five.

For District 7/9 here in Eastern Washington, our allocation this year was four. Asotin, Reardan, Northwest Christian Colbert, and Tri-Cities Prep all had teams make the cut. The meet also had twenty individual slots (4x5). Those slots are not reserved, though. Any person finishing in the top twenty filled one. So, from this meet. nine girls went as individuals with the other eleven spots taken by runners from the qualifying teams. For District 1-4, the allocation was for three teams and fifteen girls. They had five individuals crack the top of the standing to get to state. District 5-6 got one team, five girls total. Three of the top five were not on the winning team and moved on. Each team is permitted up to seven competitors which swells the ranks of the field a bit in favor of the teams.

The total number of allocations for the girls is eight. For the boys, the allocation is sixteen. Part of the reasoning for the difference is that more boys participate in cross country than do girls. The numbers at Athletic.com back this up. Based on their numbers, there were a total of 468 boys in the 2015 season versus 217 girls. Seems to support the case for halving the field of runners on the girls side at the superficial level.

What the raw number does not tell us is why there should be such a discrepancy. While it is true that the participation rates for females increases with school size, to have 1B/2B cross country get less than fifty percent rates of the boys rate suggests that other factors underlie the issue.

I dug deeper, looking specifically at the individual qualifiers. That when I thought things got quite interesting. I looked at this past season and found that the last individual girl qualifier, Jessica Mitchem of Toutle Lake, finished in 47th position. In percentage terms, she finished at the 64th percentile (with State Champion Madie Ward at the 1st percentile.) Performing the same calculation on the boy's side had Gunnar Johnson in 122nd place, and at the 86th percentile.

Compared to her male counterpart, Mitchem had to a better runner relative to her peers. I did the same calculation for the preceding three years and found the same result. The boy's value was always higher than the girl's. I had to go back to 2011 to find an example of the girl under-performing her field compared to the boy, and in that case, the girl ran three and a half minutes slower than her qualifying race, suggesting she was sick. 2010 saw a return of the pattern.

So, in the matter of individual qualifiers, the selection process obviously weeds out girls that would be as competitive in their field as their opposite number would be in the boy's field. Remember, too, that the boys get twice as many teams, which means that more of the girls qualify individually. Six of the top eight runners in District 7/9, for example, were individual qualifiers in arguably the toughest 1B/2B district in the state. (Eight of the top ten finishers came from that district in 2015.)

Even more interesting to me was the median pace. I looked at this to see whether there might relative movement in the quality of the runners. I chose the median versus a mean to remove the outliers such as a Chandler Teigen dynamiting the state record or the afore-mentioned young lady who ran while ill. I looked at four years, 2012-2015 (representative of one high school 'generation') and found the boy's to medians to be 18:44, 18:31, 18:22, and 18:44. Pretty much a flat line with what appears to be normal deviation.

The girl's results for the same period: 22:27, 22:45, 21:54, 21:42. The girls aren't flat-lining, their flat getting faster.

I contacted Andy Barnes from the WIAA who was listed on their website as the go-to person for questions regarding allocations. In the first email, I just asked for information on how the allocations were assigned. Between email exchanges, I had started to look at the breakdowns a bit more thoroughly. Andy sent me a prompt reply that it was based on the participation rates within the divisions by teams, suggesting that the individual component was not addressed.

I checked the information on the site as Andy suggested and sent a follow up.  I did not send him the full data, just pointed out the disparity that I was discovering. I also suggested a potential remedy that would not otherwise reduce the speed of the field:

Andy,  

Digging into the numbers, it appears that the depth of the men’s field is extended by the individual allocations (the lowest boy ran in the 86th percentile) while the girls field does not get that same benefit (the lowest girl ran at the 64th percentile.) This would appear to restrict the participation rates for the female athletes of comparable ability to their male counterparts.

Wouldn’t it make sense to try to increase the participation by increasing the individual qualifier slots to fill out the middle of the pack. The additional individual qualifiers would maintain the overall speed of the field while serving to increase the competition for the middle of the pack, advance the opportunities for the girls, and perhaps encourage more participation at the small schools. For example, opening the individual qualifiers to 20 in District 4 would have resulted in three additional girls at the meet, all of them freshmen and within the upper two-thirds of the overall field. I think you would agree that the chance to earn a spot at the state meet can be a powerful motivator and that success for one athlete can encourage others to follow.

I would be interested in your thoughts.

Andy responded again. Here is the text of that email:

Paul, you have obviously done an extensive review of the entries and we appreciate that.  However, the member schools believe that the process outlined in Handbook rule 25 is the process they wish to use for state tournament entries.  

Every year the rules of the Association are reviewed including the Allocation process.

If you feel that a change is necessary I suggest you work with your local school to suggest a change to the current process.

Let me know if you have any questions.

I understand the position of the WIAA in that they need to have consistent rules, and I further understand that Andy is standing up for the process that they have in place.  Where I suggest a problem exists is that they have a process that can be documented as creating a disparate impact on female athletes. In this day and age, not to seek to proactively correct that seems unfair and outside of the WIAA’s stated core principle of “Provide access to equitable, fair, and diverse activities.”

For a female athlete who is young and on the cusp of qualifying, especially those who run without teams to provide encouragement, missing the state tournament could easily be demotivating. To have to meet a higher standard than a male adds injury to insult and is not equitable.

While it would increase participation, I do not believe that the solution is to add more teams. The net result of adding teams would be to slow the entire championship field. Most athletes perform better in direct competition. With a field as strung out as the 1B/2B girl's race, most of the athletes are running on islands as it is. A better solution, one that increases the level of competition in the middle of the pack, is to increase the number of individual qualifiers. 

I went back to the regional races to see what impact altering the allocation schedule to the number of teams, plus one, times the five already used by the WIAA. The net result? Six additional entries into the state race. From District 6, Caitlyn Ball (Riverside Christian), Katie Henneman (Tonasket), and Victoria Cole (Riverside Christian) would have joined their fellow athletes in Pasco. The other three come from District 1-4, Sarah Loven (Mossyrock), Amelia Kau (Orcas Island), and Meleah Kandoll (Toutle Lake) would be in. In the hyper-competitive District 7/9, no additional qualifiers would have made it out of the regional.

The last of the six, if they ran to form, would still be slightly ahead of the boy's equivalent, but the overall disparity would be in single digits from a percentile perspective. In the case of Kau, she would have likely placed similarly to teammate Stephen Hohman. Why should he go and she's done for the year?

Another factor is that four of those six are freshman and the other two are sophomores, exactly the kind of developing runners we should be encouraging. Qualifying for state, legitimately, is the ultimate encouragement. And, to the girls around them, inspiring. One of them just might decide that "if 'so-and-so' can do it, so can I."

Why, the next thing you know, the participation numbers just might grow. Wouldn't that be great?

38 Days and a Wake-up

It's been a long time since I've been in countdown mode for a major trip. I started actively planning for the trip six months ago when I bought the plane tickets. I had loads of time to get everything set. Good thing, because my Kenyan adventure is rushing at me and suddenly time is at a huge premium.

I still don't know all the places that I will be going for the research for the books. Some of that I'm going to have to play by ear once I get there. Some of that is because I haven't gotten responses from some of the men and women I hope to meet while I'm in Iten. Those will get worked in as they fit. I'll also be relying a lot on Justin Lagat to help figure out where I need to be to get the background for the stories.

I've started handing out letters to the Realtors I work with to let them know when I'll be gone and when they can expected me back. The response has been two-fold: first, an upwelling of best wishes; and second, a question of who they will to use while I'm gone. It's nice that they're going to miss me on a professional level. One fear that still niggles at night is that I'll come home and find I killed my company.

The family is in a different count-down mode. They have a dual count-down. When does he leave? And how soon until he gets back?

The recent news from Europe hasn't helped soothe their anxieties and the average perception of Africa is colored by the political events in the Middle East and the Ebola plague in West Africa. It probably doesn't help that I joke about getting pictures of the charging lion that eats me.

Telling the kids and my wife that Kenya is safer than Chicago doesn't really work either. People always fear the unknown more than the daily dangers that exist around them. The risks differ here. A random car accident or bear sighting is relatable from past experience. Kenya offers a laundry list of unknowns, from the people to the environment to the animals.

Still, that's not their biggest issue. The kids are long on faith that I can take care of myself in a pinch.

The biggest issue for the girls is that, for the first time in their lives, Dad isn't going to be right there, just a phone call away at most, an hour drive at worst if they need to see me. (Though I probably will be just a call away - phone calls from Kenya to the States are pretty inexpensive.) All three of the girls are used to getting a call from me at least a couple of times a week. There are times where I think they find it annoying, but if I go too long between calls, I get questions asking why I haven't been checking in. Since the girls live nearby, we (Donna and I) see them and their families often.

 Now, I'm going far, far away. To a place that they cannot relate to - it's too removed from their life experiences. (Mine, too, if I'm honest.) So, they worry.

I have no words that can remove the worry. I wish I had.

All I can do is promise to be careful. On the last day of that second count-down, the when is he coming home one, I'll be on the plane, headed their way.

"So what is your degree in?"

Taking a diversion from running today and visiting on the work side of my life. For those who don't know, I'm a home inspector, the guy who squirms his way through a crawlspace and clambers through attics to get you good information on that dream home you're eyeing.

It's a very cool job. I get to see how other people live, how they design, what they consider priorities, all by looking at their houses. Now, I do have a few rules. When I'm in the closets, for example, I pay attention to the closet, not to the belongings. Ditto for the kitchen drawers and under the sinks. Never, ever, do I violate a person's privacy by intruding into dressers and the like. (And yes, I have heard stories of tradespeople doing exactly that. They should be banned from the trade/business if caught.)

I also don't judge people on the basis of their homes. I've had more that a few women - it's always the women - who apologized the condition of the home, despite the fact that it doesn't look bad to me. My standard response is that anyone with kids and dogs gets special dispensation. For homes that don't have the kids or pets, I point out that I have done frat houses and sororities - they're golden.

Yesterday, my afternoon inspection was twenty miles outside of Lewiston and into the hills above the Clearwater River. The home sat on 78 acres with riveting views from its perch above the canyons. The buyer and seller were both there, which is a bit unusual, but this was a For Sale By Owner transaction. FSBO's are almost always more relaxed than a traditional sale for both parties, and definitely for the inspector. Normally, I am bound by rule not to divulge my findings to the other party; with FSBO's, they both accompany me and we chat about the various issues as we discover them.

The buyers were from Moscow, home of the University of Idaho. As happens often, my clients were brighter than I am. That's the drawback to spending a lot of time with people with PHD's. The advantage is that I learn something new nearly every time I'm with people such as these.

And, as happens often, I got the question: so what's your degree in?

I get the question because the skill set for a home inspector, much less one that also coaches and writes, is a diversified set. Recognizing zebra stripes on the wall as indicative of minimal insulation, or being able to describe the function of an air conditioner (not that I could repair one - that requires manual dexterity, too), or understanding and communicating the potential for a carpenter ant intrusion takes broad knowledge across multiple disciplines. The breadth of knowledge greatly exceeds the depth of same. Home inspectors are the ultimate generalists. The best of us are able to synthesize two or three relevant observations do determine system failures that are not readily obvious. 

To answer my client's question, I told him quite simply, "I don't have a degree." I've told the kids in the AVID program at Clarkston High the same thing.

Still, I've always been an active learner and, as Louis L'Amour pointed out in his book, The Education of a Wandering Man, a person can become very educated without stepping foot in the halls of academia. As he also pointed out, that particular route of self-directed learning should be undertaken only by those with the self-discipline to stay the course.

In the course of my life, I've had the opportunity to work in many different fields, from shovelling manure for a buck an hour, to flipping burgers, to driving truck, to sales, to code inspection, and to home inspection, with professional writing as the next stop. Each taught me new skills. (Even shovelling manure - I learned to grow tomatoes and onions from that old couple, and got my first marketing lesson at their little roadside knick-knack shop.)

I have always read, too. I average more than fifty books a year and would read more if I ditched the computer and political blogs. For about a two decade stretch, I read non-fiction ranging from biographies of civil war generals and the Tudors, to quantum field theory (as much as I could handle with my limited math - I'm good into calculus, but some of that stuff is deep) and Gell-Mann's the Quark and the Jaguar. I'd binge read fiction when I needed a mental vacation, sci-fi before it went stupid, thrillers, mysteries, the occasional 'good' book that the college professor would proclaim as 'literature' which I always thought was an arbitrary standard.

I will be the first to admit that I have led a fortunate life. I was born in a country where a person is allowed to better themselves. That is not true of most of the world, and while people decry the lack of opportunity in America, it's still here, though there's a catch: you have to be willing to work and to learn.

More importantly, you have to believe. Believe that opportunity still exists, though the larger society will claim the American Dream is dead. It isn't, not as long as life stories like Ursula Burns or Ben Carson exist. The distance that they travelled is far greater and far rockier than the path the rest of us complain about. See the opportunities, not for taking advantage of people, but of learning and serving because that's the home of opportunity. My vocations and avocations a

Believe in the people around you. We're all part of a tribe, even a loner like me. Find your tribes - you probably belong to more than one - and find ways to contribute.  I had a person who once told me that I trusted everyone (true, at least at first) and that I never got burned by it in a major way (also true.) His complaint was that he'd keep score with people and always ended up getting screwed. It wasn't fair that I did the opposite, with the opposite results. I don't think he saw the larger picture. Believe in people, meet every stranger as a friend. The people around you will surprise you with how much they actually care and how much they will help.

Finally, the hardest step. Believe in yourself, both as you are now and how you want to be. I can't offer many guidelines on this one as I don't know them. There may not be a pat answer. In my life, I try to surround myself with good people, positive of mind, that will ask of me my best. I always seek new experiences and chances to expand my knowledge, whether it's via a good book or a chance conversation.

And, I think indirectly, my client gave me a better answer to the question of my degree during our conversation yesterday.

My degree is in the Practical Applications of the American Dream.

Run gently this weekend, friends, and find a good book or buddy to spend some time with, too.