The Dumb Things We Do With Our Friends

Don't you think sign like this really should show up 

well before Mile 12? It could prevent people from

doing something dumb, like running another 38

miles after you see a sign like this.

I honestly debated whether the title of this entry should be "The Dumb Things We Do Because of Our Friends," but after reading this you will hopefully agree with my decision to go with the title that I did.  And it should come as no surprise to anyone that this blog entry will deal with running.  You know, just like both of my posts from last year (see here and here).

It's not like any of us have never been in trouble or have done something stupid made some poor decisions because of our friends.  You know, like a 15-year old kid getting kicked out of Timpanogos Cave National Monument because of something dumb his friends did and his youth leaders decided he was guilty by association.  But I'm not talking about something hypothetical like that where you got in trouble or did something foolish because of your friends.  I'm talking about the things we do with our friends, knowing fully well ahead of time that it might be difficult, dirty, and perhaps even painful.  You know, like a Tough Mudder.  Or a 50-mile ultramarathon.


That's right, earlier this month, I attempted and completed my first 50-mile race, all because a friend suggested it.  By a lot of measures, 50 miles in one day is a pretty dumb thing to do.  Even after I swore off ultramarathons immediately after finishing a 50K trail race in April, I trained through the disgustingly hot summer months so that I could run the Pilot Mountain to Hanging Rock Ultra in the beautiful mountains of North Carolina with my friend.  Yeah, some of my friends and family would say this was a pretty dumb thing to do.  They're entitle to their opinions, we can debate the merits of their arguments later. :-)

I thought a bit about this particular subject during my training runs--I've had some interesting thoughts while running before--and I realized that I started running races twenty-two years ago because of a friend.  Way back in 1995, I had a PE class at BYU that required I run a mile-and-a-half for my grade.  Throughout that semester, my roommate and longtime friend Rob and I ran together because I wanted to get an A and Rob was getting in shape for soccer tryouts.  Two weeks after the semester ended, Rob called me and asked if I wanted to run The Salt Lake Classic 10K.  I didn't even know how long a 10K was--Rob's answer when I asked was, "Uh, it's like five miles or something like that"--and I said, "Sure!" and I've been running races of varying distances ever since.  For the record, that first 10K still stands as my fastest time at that distance so far.  Probably always will be, but that's not the point.


Remember that 50K back in April that I mentioned earlier?  It was a miserable second half of the race for me, and immediately after I texted my friend Kenny and said there was no way I would even consider another ultra ever, let alone the PM2HR race in October.  I'm not totally sure, but it might have had something to do with puking on the school bus that was taking me back to my car.  That same night, after a delicious and necessary recovery meal at Five Guys (where else?) and a plethora of text messages back and forth, the last thing Kenny texted me before I went to bed was, "When you wake up tomorrow and come to your senses, go sign up for Pilot Mountain."  And because my dear Mali was in Utah for a wedding and wasn't there to talk me out of it, I signed up.

I'm grateful that Mali went down with me; driving to North Carolina by myself would have been incredibly boring, and there was always the possibility that I wouldn't be able to drive myself back home the day after the race.  She got to hang out in Winston-Salem while we were running, but I think it's still an open question as to which one of us had more fun that Saturday.  I'll say it was probably me, but I think Mali might say that she had more fun.  She might be right, but I got a hoodie for the race, so in my opinion I came out ahead on that argument.

Kenny motoring up the steps up to the peak of
Pilot Mountain.  It felt like one of those Escher
prints with the neverending stairs.  And I kept
waiting for an army of Uruk-hai to come charging
up thehill from the cover of the fog.

The story of the race was the same story of so many ultras.  There was some weather to deal with: we started in the dark, ran through the fog at the top of Pilot Mountain, had some long stretches of sunshine with little shade and finished in the dark (at least there wasn't rain, snow, and sleet like I had at The North Face Endurance Challenge 50K last year).  There was physical adversity: Kenny got stung on the leg by a yellow jacket before we hit the first aid station and that caused a bit of discomfort.  Add to that, Kenny wasn't able to train as much as he would like because life got in the way and he also ended up with hyponatremia--ask me about that one, I know far too well how that thing works--meant he had to drop out after 50K.  This race had two serious climbs that reached upwards of 2,400 feet.  Each.  The total elevation gain for this course was officially over 5,200 feet, but we think it was closer to 6,000 when you factor in all the smaller ups and downs.  And you had to come down from those heights, too, which can be just as taxing on your quads as the climbs and are undoubtedly harder on the knees.

And before anyone, especially Kenny himself, thinks anything less of Kenny for dropping out at 50K, I want them to think about it: he had only run twice in the month preceding the race because of family and work obligations, but he still completed 50 kilometers.  That's THIRTY ONE MILES.  Seriously undertrained and Kenny still finished thirty one miles.  Kenny is a beast.  This is the same guy who finished a 50K with me back in 2014 while suffering the effects of Lyme disease (he didn't know he had it).  I would have tapped out at 10, maybe 12 miles.  He also deserves kudos for recognizing that pushing any further would have caused him injury.  I sincerely appreciate his encouragement for me and insistence that I push forward and finish the 50 miler without him.  I've been where he was, and it's not easy, especially when you have the fire in your belly to finish the race.  There is no shame in a DNF* for an ultramarathon.  Anyone who says otherwise is a fool.

I told you I finished in the dark.  And I have a hoodie just
like Kenny's.  Pretty stinkin' awesome, and because I've
worn it pretty much every day since the race, it's now just
pretty stinkin'.  And that's awesome.

So I finished the race, and I had told my wife and my friends and my coworkers that this would be my last ultramarathon.  Yeah, I know, I've said that before, but this time I really meant it.  I really meant it right up until Sunday morning when Kenny and I were doing our usual post-race postmortem and talking about what we would do differently next time.  Kenny told his wife that he wants another crack at the race because he wants redemption.  I told Mali and I want another crack at the course because I want to finish the race before the battery on my Suunto Ambit dies (I have never been fast, but I think I could shave a couple of hours off this race).  But I also recognize that I have some other pretty serious obligations coming up, so I got Mali's permission to try PM2HR again in 2019.  That gives me two years.

Bring it on.






*DNF = Did Not Finish.

It Totally Happened Again!

Once again, had a day off work and nothing went to plan.  About two months ago I started working a flex schedule where I get one day every two weeks off.  Every fifth week or so I have Sunday duty, but when I do that, I get Monday off.  So in theory, I should be able to get lots of stuff done on those free days, but it rarely actually happens.  But, as my dear wife said to me today, "You got a lot done, just nothing that you had planned on."

The Plan

Right after seminary I planned on walking my younger kids to school, and then I was going to get started on this translation project and knock out the hardest part of it, maybe finish folding the clean laundry, get my haircut, write an amazingly witty blog entry, and try to get a decent workout in there somewhere, too.  I was going to do all this before the kids got home from school, because they wanted to play a little tennis for family night, and I was cool with that.

What Actually Happened

• Got home from seminary, fell asleep in the easy chair in our living room.  The kids overslept a smidge and therefore had to be driven to school by their mother, because, as already noted, I was asleep in the easy chair in the living room.
• Eventually woke up and gathered my materials for the translation project to the dining room table, and realized how annoying it is that my laptop defaults to a Lao font that I really do not like.  Spent at least three hours today trying different things, including exploring system settings with regedit, to get the darn thing to default to my preferred font.  I have nothing to show for those efforts.
• I did get to spend a couple of hours with my wife, and the consumption of hamburgers was part of that experience.  Elevation Burger is pretty good--they have milkshakes--but Five Guys is still my favorite.
• About that haircut--yeah, I got it.  I had something in my hair.  First time I've paid for a haircut in over two years.  First time I've paid for haircut in America in over five years.  I'm still trying to decide if it will be another five years before I pay for another one.  Mali sincerely hopes not.
• Connected the BluRay player in the basement to our cable modem so that the kids can stream Netflix in HD in the basement.  No, seriously, it's for the kids...
• Speaking of TVs, I finally mounted the TV upstairs on the wall so that Mali has full, unfettered use of the top her buffet.  And we discovered that you can adjust the TV so you can see it while at the kitchen sink and stove.  I'm not sure much good will come of this.
• I finally fixed that pesky towel bar in the basement bathroom that kept falling off.
• We did go hit some tennis balls tonight.  It felt good to run around a little bit, it's something I've been really missing (getting old and rehabbing injuries sucks--DON'T GET OLD!).
• As for that blog post, well...

Now if I can just figure out how to get that darn Lao font to default to my preference.  Oh, and figure out why blogspot won't let me made comments TO MY OWN BLOG POSTS!

2013: A Year in Preview

I looked at my pathetic blog postings for the past year and realized that a recap of 2012 would probably be equally pathetic, so instead I thought it would be more fun to channel my inner Mayan and give dire predictions for what will happen in the coming year.  So, without further ado...

January: In defiance of my desire to have at least one winter where I can take my children sledding, there will again be no snow this month.  In fact, the temperatures will continue to gradually warm up so that on my 40th birthday I can actually take my wife to dinner, at night, comfortably wearing shorts and sandals.

February: A rainy Valentine's Day will be followed by a sudden cold snap, causing all of northern Virginia to be covered in a sheet of ice, cancelling school and forcing me to spend an entire weekday at home with my kids.  This will be the perfect opportunity to introduce them to the cinematic genius of the Indiana Jones trilogy.  And no, that horrifying last installment will not be included in our screenings.  Ever.

March: Mother Nature will delight the entire greater Washington DC metropolitan area with her delicious sense of irony by dumping over 18 inches of snow the night before the Rock n' Roll Marathon.  We will run it anyway, because the day after the snow, it will be 55 degrees.

April: The night before my team and I participate in the Tough Mudder, it will be inexplicably dry and warm.  In fact, the two weeks preceding the event will be unseasonably warm, leading all to expect amazing conditions for the Mudder.  Nobody will see the sleet storm coming the day of the event.  Needless to say, fun will be had by all.

May: Quiet month.  I will probably yell at my seminary class, just to break the monotony.

June: Starts off big as I complete my first ultramarathon, The North Face Endurance Challenge 50K, on June 1.  Only slightly less impressive will be the subsequent ultramarathon of consumption at Five Guys that same day.  The rest of the month sucks in comparison.

July: A long family vacation tests the limits of my sanity while simultaneously strengthening the undying love that I have for my wife.  My kids, on the other hand, survive the trip only by the grace of their mother.

August: Can school start early this year?  Please?

September: With all five kids in school, my dear wife will complain of boredom for one solid week until she realizes that this means she has the entire day to herself.  One day I will come home to find every other room has been painted a new color.

October: I will get food poisoning from taking my wife someplace nice for her birthday and spend three days only moving between the bed and the bathroom.  Next year I'll remember to let her choose the restaurant.

November: In a move that should not surprise me but somehow will come as a complete shock, my office will decide that I absolutely must spend the entire month in Southeast Asia.  Because the only thing that can possibly beat the fact that I missed two of my kids' birthdays in 2012 because I was overseas would be for me to miss both my anniversary and Thanksgiving this year.

December: After having spent all of November sweating my brains out, I will return to find northern Virginia under two feet of snow.  I could complain, but it means that I'll finally get to take my kids sledding, and have a fantastic excuse to cuddle with my wife.

I can't wait for 2014!

My First Marathon

That’s right, I signed up for a marathon.  And not just any marathon, mind you, but The North Face Endurance Challenge; in other words, a trail race.  I registered to participate in this event back in 2008, but that year there was a tropical storm the weekend of the race, and so the emergency personnel who man the aid stations were not available to check on runners as they passed through the checkpoints, so they cancelled the race.  I’ve been training for this event, getting in lots of long runs, but I was still nervous about it.  Knowing that trail races are generally slower than road races, I was mentally prepared to be out there for about five hours, but if anyone asked, my goal was simply to finish on both feet.

So early in the morning I drove up to Sterling where I parked my car and rode the shuttle to Algonkian State Park, where the race began.  The course started at the soccer fields in the park, then skirted the golf course before heading into the woods along the Potomac Heritage Trail.  From there it followed the Potomac River (hence the name of the trail…) down to Great Falls Park, and then turned around and went back up to Algonkian.  The sky was clear and blue, the temperature was in the low 60s; it was an absolutely gorgeous day to be out running the woods.

Oh, but there was a wicked little twist.  See, all afternoon and into the evening on Friday we had some amazing thunderstorms.  I'm talking heavy, heavy rain.  Like Thailand monsoon heavy at times.  Yeah, and those bad boys ensured that this race would be memorable for all involved.  “Muddy” almost seems insufficient to describe the condition of significant portions of the course.  Any hopes of keeping relatively dry feet went out the window within the first 400 meters of the race—the grass of the soccer field was absolutely saturated, and that was before we even got close to the trails.  And the sound of the mud sucking at runners’ shoes will probably haunt my dreams for years.  Between the mud and the already narrow trails, there were long sections where even if I had been inclined to pass the pack of runners I had linked up with, it would have been impossible.  As we were slogging through the muck, somewhere in the first five miles, someone said, “This isn’t about winning, this is about survival.”  I was having ‘Nam flashbacks—well, if I had actually been in ‘Nam I would totally have been having ‘Nam flashbacks.

All that said, I actually did pretty well through the first half of the race.  The turnaround point at Great Falls Park came at the 12.4 mile point of the race, and I reached that point in 2:34, with an average minutes-per-mile pace of 12:21—pretty good, considering it was a trail race and the conditions were really difficult.  At that point I figured my pace would get me to the finish line in about five-and-a-half hours, which I considered pretty respectable.

Oh, how wrong I was.

The second half of the race was physically and mentally the single most difficult thing I’ve done.  While I felt pretty good about that first half, the price I paid was heavy legs, laden with copious amounts of viscous Virginia mud, which made the latter half very, very difficult.  There was a lot of walking involved in that second half—I take some solace knowing that I was not the only one who was suffering in like manner.  Everyone I could see would invariably walk the uphill sections, some of which were steep enough that even without the weariness from slogging through mire, probably would have necessitated walking at that point.  Well, except for the amazingly fit people who were passing me going the opposite direction before I even hit the turnaround—that included people not just from the marathon, but the 50K and 50 mile events, too.  Those folks probably at least jogged up the hills—I did that for the first half, but these were people on the back end of their runs.  I aspire to such amazing endurance and ability.

Part of what made the second half so mentally daunting was knowing the condition of the trail on the return leg.  The worst parts of the trail were in the first 5-7 miles, which meant they were also in the last 19-20 miles.  I did a lot of walking for a couple of minutes, then jogging a couple of minutes, doing what I could just to finish the race.  And finish it, I did.  Six hours and fifteen minutes after starting, I made it across the finish line.  I was muddy, sore, and positively determined that I would never run another marathon.  Ever.  The suffering was too great, it wasn’t worth it, and I wasn’t having very much fun.

Somewhere during that second half of the race, when I was contemplating my own mortality, my ‘Nam flashbacks returned as the song “Camouflage” by Stan Ridgeway started running through my brain.  It was probably a semi-conscious nod to my friend Blake who had early on Saturday posted to Facebook the famous poem by the Native American chief Tecumsah:

Prepare a noble death song for the day when you go over the Great Divide…When it comes your time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death Song and die like a Hero going Home.

I really didn’t feel like a hero going home, but I was pretty sure I was dying, and I found it slightly sad that the last song going through my mind was Stan Ridgeway.  I mean seriously, why couldn’t I get something poignant like “Blaze of Glory” (the version by The Alarm, not Bon Jovi), or something more rockin’ like “Where The Streets Have No Name” by U2?  At least it wasn’t something sappy like One Direction or Justin Bieber.

Anyway, I pushed through the mental and physical anguish, and much to my delight Mali was waiting for me at the finish line.  After I crossed the finish line and the nice young man had given me my finisher’s medal, I stood there with my hands on my knees, and I felt like crying.  I’m not sure if it was because of the dull, throbbing pain throughout my lower body, or if I was just relieved it was over.  Sarah, Benjamin, and Jane had also come, but they didn’t see me finish because they were at the face-painting booth getting artwork done.  I took some time to stretch my sore muscles, we got some water and some other stuff to eat, took some pictures, and then got in line to catch the bus back to the parking area.  I was honestly a little worried that my legs might cramp while I was driving home, or that I might actually pass out from exhaustion.  Fortunately, neither happened.

After I got all cleaned up, we loaded up the family van and headed to Five Guys for dinner.  Even though I had been trying to drink water to rehydrate (I lost 10 pounds during the race, and that’s even with drinking about five liters of water during the event and another two liters in the first hour or so after), when we walked into Five Guys I felt like I might fall over at any minute.  The obvious sign that I was running on fumes was that I asked Mali to drive there—I rarely ask her to drive, but I was feeling pretty beat up and thought it would be safer for the whole Soderborg clan if she took the wheel.  After a delicious Five Guys burger and fries, however, I was feeling much, much better and everything was right in the world, which meant I drove home.

Last night I slept like a teenager.  I’m not sure why anyone after they’ve had a good night’s sleep would say they “slept like a baby.”  Babies wake up every couple of hours because they’re hungry or they pooped in their pants.  Teenagers, on the other hand, teenagers sleep like rocks.  Or maybe hibernating bears, depending on how much noise they make.  But you get the point—I slept very soundly.  When I woke up I was hesitant to move, worried about the impending pain.  To my pleasant surprise, after a quick systems check while lying on my back, I threw my legs over the edge of the bed and I was only marginally more sore than the morning after any other long run I’ve done, which probably means I didn’t push myself hard enough during the race…I knew I was a slacker!

Out on the trail, when I was going through my moments of self-examination, those times when I was promising myself I would never again volunteer to do this to myself, there was a nagging little thought in the back of my mind.  It came from being with Mali in the delivery room, where she would occasionally curse me for what I had done to her, promising that I would never again touch her, and that this was absolutely the last child we would have together.  And yet, miraculously, less than an hour after giving birth, she would say, “I can’t wait to have another baby!” or something like that.  I was worried I would have a similar experience.

So of course something like that did happen to me.  By this afternoon I was convincing myself that it wasn’t actually that bad of an experience and that I might like to do it again.  If fact, I told myself, with a better training program and preparation, I might even sign up for the 50 kilometer event next year…yeah, that pretty much proves that I’m insane.  But just in case there was any doubt, there’s this picture to remind me:

This Is a LIttle Overdue--Hello, Bangkok. Didja Miss Me?

So, a few folks have realized that I've been back in Bangkok for a few weeks.  I suppose I should explain why, so that the three people who read my blog know.

As most people who know us already know, our family spent two years in Thailand while I was working at the US Embassy in Bangkok.  Last July we returned to the United States, and we're happily settled back into life in America with it's wicked good potable tap water, variable seasons, and Five Guys hamburgers.

Now a series of events beginning in November conspired to pull me back to Thailand for a temporary assignment.  Unfortunately, the woman who took my place at the Embassy required medical attention in the United States, and as the doctors helped her get better, it took longer than they had expected.  It led to the Embassy asking if my office could spare me for 6-10 weeks to cover my old position while my colleague got all squared away.

I suppose at some point I should question the security of my position back home if they were willing to let me come here for over a month...

Anywho, before my office and the Embassy squared everything away I made sure I had Mali's permission to come out, and bada-bing-bada-boom!  Here I am.  I've been here now for five weeks, and this is actually my final week in Bangkok.  My replacement is back in country, all healed up and actually ready to jump right back into the thick of it and do the job she was brought here to do.

It's been good being here.  Since I was asked to do my old job, I was able to step right in and contribute immediately.  Two days after getting here I went back to Thailand's southernmost provinces to talk with folks about the long-running insurgency there, just like I used to.  I've been to two political rallies, just like I used to do.  And I've had plenty of meetings with lots of folks to gather information for the Ambassador and other Department folks back in Washington.  It's also been fun to get people's reactions when they see me--a lot of, "Hey, I thought you left!" comments from both Americans and Thais at the Embassy.  Good times.

The best part is that I've lost weight (about 15 pounds so far) and I feel more fit than when I left America.  Part of that has been due to the CrossFit program the Embassy Marines are running on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons--there's a lot to be said for sharing the (temporary) misery of pushing your physical limits with a bunch of other folks.  I've also been getting some miles of running in, including a wonderful seven-mile run in Vientiane, Laos.  I've also been able to catch up on movies and explore downtown Bangkok a little more than I was able when we lived here--we lived about 17 miles north of the Embassy, so I didn't hang out downtown very much.

All that said, I'm ready to go home and hug my kids and kiss my wife again.  I've missed them terribly.  And under extreme duress, I might even confess that I've missed my seminary students.  But don't tell them that.  Besides, it's ridiculously hot here, still.

A Crisp Autumn Morning

We had the first snowfall of the season yesterday.  None of it stuck, but it was pretty cool to be driving around for a bit in the snow--we had to drive, Five Guys doesn't do home delivery.  It's also a helpful reminder that our kids needed new gloves to keep their hands dry and warm this winter.  In that light, a surprising fact: REI had much higher quality gloves than Sears (okay, that's really not a surprise) for only two or three dollars more.  My kids will thank me later when, after an epic snowball fight, their hands aren't numb.

The mercury dipped below freezing overnight, and we woke up to frost on the ground for the first time in a couple of years (I'm pretty sure there was no frost on the ground last year at this time when we took a week's vacation to China).  Our cars also had some amazingly beautiful frost:

This is actually our neighbor's car.  Not sure why his car had the cool swirled patterns, but not really going to complain, because it looks pretty darn awesome.

The roof of my car actually had a little snow leftover from the day before.

Between stuff like this and the amazing color of the changing leaves, I'm once again reminded of why it is that I love living here.  Sure, we had a great time in Thailand, and we even hope to go back again someday, but I also love living where we have four seasons and the jaw-dropping beauty of nature's annual transitions.

Run Forrest, run!

Faithful readers of the Soderblogger, if you do not already know it, I like to run. Running is the yin to the yang of my unabashed admiration for hamburgers. They do not exist independent of one another. I run so that I can enjoy eating a good hamburger. A good hamburger is fantastic fuel for a long run. I experimented with this in Virginia and found that a delicious Five Guys burger two to three hours before a 8-11 mile run was fine, as long as I didn't overdo it on the french fries.

I also believe that the personal enjoyment I derive from running is karmic payback for all those times growing up when my father and I would see someone out running and we would say, voices dripping with sarcasm, "Look at that person out having fun." Most people do NOT look like they are really having a good time when they are running, and I might well be one of them, but I do know that I get a lot of satisfaction from running. Plus it's my "alone time" and when I think big thoughts. You know, thoughts like, "Should I grow my hair out or buzz it all off again."

Anyway, last Monday I decided for the first time since arriving in Thailand that I would venture outside the comfortable and predictable confines of our sheltered planned expatriate community. The risk in this plan is twofold. First is the quality of sidewalks in Bangkok and its surrounding environs, if there is a sidewalk at all. A lot of the walkways are made out of bricks, and the bricks aren't laid in any cement or mortar, so they aren't the most level and/or stable things. I think this is actually some sort of jobs program to keep people gainfully employed, because as soon as they finished the sidewalk in our neighborhood they went down to the other end of the street and started pulling up bricks to "fix" the sidewalk down there. You really have to watch where you step, and it ain't just because of "gifts" left by neighborhood pooches.

Speaking of canines, the second risk is the soi dogs. A “soi” is basically a side street. Soi dogs are basically strays, wild dogs, scavengers, whatever you want to call them, and some of them are rabid, scrawny, and mangy—I mean they really have mange, they aren’t just ugly and ratty looking, they are seriously in bad shape. These downtrodden mongrels like to harass runners. No problems with people walking, nor with bicycles, motorcycles, or motor vehicles. But anyone running magically appears appetizing to these mutts, and when a runner comes trotting by a lot of them quickly give chase.

By the way, as pathetic as some of them are, these dogs are a fantastic examples of Darwinian survival; the dumb ones get run over by cars. I was amazed to see some of them sleeping like cats on top of those concrete jersey barricades. One of these days I'll actually get a picture of it.

So last Monday I decided that I had had quite enough of running multiple loops around the lake here that nobody can swim, boat, or fish in. It is a nice lake to walk around, but it’s only about a mile in circumference. Running loops around the same route drives me nuts. In the ranked terms, running for me goes something like this:

1. Running outside on meandering routes
2. Running outside, making one circuit and then running that circuit in reverse
3. Running down a dream
   
4. Running on empty
5. Running with scissors
6. Running around a track (although I will grudgingly concede there are benefits to speed training at a track)
7. Running fingernails down a chalkboard
8. Running man
9. Running barefoot on broken glass
10. Running on a treadmill

But I digress. I headed out the back gate and I felt perfectly comfortable trotting through that neighborhood. Granted, a farang (generic Thai word for Westerners) running around is guaranteed to draw some very curious looks in most of Thailand, but this area is pretty nice and has very few dogs, which was quite lovely. I was only in that neighborhood for about a mile or so before I hit the main drag to loop around and come back into our area through the front gate.

The problem is that the street from which one turns to hit the front entrance is a very busy street. And by busy I’m not just referring to vehicular traffic, although the number of cars, motorcycles, and trucks is significant. There are tons of shops, with seemingly a million signs. Given that I have only approached the front gate from that route maybe three times in the month we’ve been here, it was only natural that I would run right past the sign that indicates the turn into our area.

Up until this point most of the dogs I had seen were laying in the shade, and the few that even bothered to crack open and eye and see what the commotion was had a look that seemed to say, "Are you kidding me? It's like 95 degrees and 90 percent humidity, crazy American!" Being dogs, however, it sounded more like a half-hearted "woof."

Naturally it wasn't until I passed the turn to get back into our area that the only soi dog in all of Nonthaburi with any ambition decided to get some exercise and run after me. And this wasn't the garden-variety soi dog, this was the kind of dog I never thought I'd see on the streets in Thailand. This was a big dog and it had long, curly, dingy white hair. The dingy part I expected, but the long, curly part, that threw me for a loop--that has to be really hot. Anyway, as soon as it started running after me I slowed to a walk, and that pretty much killed the dog's desire to give chase.

About a mile beyond the turnoff for our place I decided it was probably time to turn around and find the correct entrance.It meant that I had to run past that same shaggy beast, but by that time we had reached a detente and it barely even gave me a second look. I did manage to make the correct turn, and I was relieved to get back into our own neighborhood. The detour wasn’t really a big deal, to be honest, because I got my first run over 40 minutes since we arrived in Thailand, and that felt great.

I Will Gladly Pay You Tuesday

A truth of which I was already keenly aware has been driven forcefully home since moving to Thailand: I like hamburgers. I mean I really like hamburgers. When we lived in California I ate at In-N-Out, pretty much on a weekly basis (Double-Double, Animal Style; french fries; large chocolate shake...*burp*). Well, we've been here for a month now, and I'm totally craving

For those of you who don't know, Five Guys is a burger joint that started in Alexandria, Virginia, that has recently franchised across the United States and is gaining an ardent following; but for many years it has been pretty darn popular back East. For the last three years I frequented Five Guys at least once a week. Lunches with coworkers, kicking back with a juicy burger after a hard day rock climbing, or pounding fries and root beer just before the Saturday night priesthood session of General Conference, there's never really a bad time for Five Guys in my world. We even met up with friends from Ethiopia at the Five Guys in West Valley, Utah before we moved. Friendships were renewed, fries were shared, and ketchup was spilled.

Five Guys was actually instrumental in helping our children face the myriad inoculations required for our overseas move. It usually went something like this.

Kid: [in a loud, panicky voice] I'm scared! I hate shots! I don't want to get any more shots!

Me: [in my best reasonable voice] If you don't get shots you can't go with us to Thailand...

Kid: That's fine, I'll stay with [insert random friend/family member name here].

Me: Okay, I was only joking. You have to go with us to Thailand, so you have to get the shots.

Kid: NOOOOOOOoooooooooooo... (it trails off as they try to run out the door)

Me: If you're good, we'll go to Five Guys for lunch...

Kid: [silence]

One of the funniest parts of being in Palmyra, New York the week before we moved from Virginia was the reaction to my Five Guys t-shirt (as seen in the family picture at the start of this blog). Mali bought me the shirt for my birthday, and it was a huge hit, a great conversation starter with a lot of the people we saw. Everyone assumed that I was from their area—Rochester, Philadelphia, Richmond, etc.—and it seemed that very few of them were aware that you could buy a Five Guys shirt. Nothing like free advertising for great food, eh? The only other shirt that I’ve gotten similar reactions to is the shirt I have from Zachary’s Pizza in Albany, California, but that one is so local to the East Bay that it doesn’t get quite the same reaction in as many places as the Five Guys shirt does. I will say, however, that Zachary's is to pizza as Five Guys is to burgers. Mull that one over for a bit.

For the record, I still love

and I refuse to be dragged into any petty debates about which one is better. Brave men and women have sacrificed so that we may all enjoy life, liberty, and the pursuit of a delicious hamburger wherever you live in the great United States and I for one refuse to dishonor those heroes. But if I were to be tied to an anthill and my ears smeared with jam unless I picked between the two, Mali and I both agree that although we like the fries at Five Guys better, In-N-Out wins by virtue of having milkshakes.

Oddly enough, in the month since leaving behind my beloved American hamburger joints, I seem to have lost about five pounds...