Run DMZ

An interesting story is percolating here in Southern California . Essentially, photos of a high school water polo team ended up on a gay porn site. As I listened to a radio report, it sounded like the photos in question are not unlike those taken during or after road races – where professional photographers snap pictures of participants and then post them on their Web site for viewing and for purchase. There’s an assumption that only friends and family are interested in buying these, but the water polo case indicates otherwise. In that case, porn sites may have legally placed an order and then misused the photos by publishing them elsewhere. Or they may have just lifted them off the site itself. And it remains unclear what lengths, if any, the part-time photographer took to prevent or encourage this. Until now I never considered how “exposed” we are when we’re out in public, nor how little control we have over the use of our image. Many a woman I know has mistakenly worn a thin bra or ...

I get the point of this consumer piece: Running ain't cheap. But I question some of the "essentials". I buy my running shoes at a running store, so I'm not aware of what other sports-specific shoes cost. Do tennis players, aerobics enthusiasts, walkers, etc., pay $90 to $180 for shoes? MSN Video: The Cost of Running

First the garage door openers broke. Both of them. Then the front door latch. Then the front and back sprinklers. Again. Then my digital camera. Then my cell phone. Then my watch. Then one of the cars. The expensive one. So my husband and I delayed exchanging holiday gifts. Then the Christmas credit card bills for all the others arrived. And an unusually high (but justified) car insurance bill. And an unusually high gas and electric bill. And a water and sewer bill that somehow doubled. And receipts for two college tuitions, only both with balances due. So if you find me hiding under a rock, please understand. Right now it’s all I can afford.

I am sitting here in my robe and slippers, sipping weak tea and holding back a little nausea, a little nasal congestion and a tear or two. What's strange is I'm not feeling sorry for myself. No, I'm feeling sorry for another running blogger that as I type is probably starting to struggle along that open stretch of Palomar Airport Road, with its rolling hills and relentless sun. Bex is running the Carlsbad Marathon this morning, with injuries and without friends she expected on the course. A small group of us gathered last night at a downtown Carlsbad Italian restaurant to discuss the race and running and triathlons and one of the women there was supposed to help her through the last part of the race. Only she bailed on Bex to watch the Chargers vs. Patriots game this afternoon. I wanted to fill her shoes but stopped short when I realized (a) I had a business call to make Sunday morning; (b) I can't run that far right now; and (c) I can't run that fast right now eith...

Very telling indeed when you start to pull together outfits for work and realize that for the past few weeks, your selections have been based not on the weather but on whether stuff still fits. I donated blood yesterday, so I've got to lay low for the next two days (it was a rough one and I was told not to do any strenuous exercise for a full 48 hours). The nurse said I have terrific, iron-rich blood ("Oh, it's so dark. You must eat well.") and then I told her my weight ("Oh, that's a little high for your height. You must eat too much.") She smiled. I smiled. Then I exchanged the Cheez-Its for pretzels while waiting for the wooziness to pass.

So here’s what happened. On Saturday morning, I decided against running on the closed off trails. I’d violated the rules last winter after a rainstorm, but that was before I lived close by. I have a different kinship with this place now, and easier access. I can run any other time, I thought. Then, inspired by so many of your comments, I decided to go for it Sunday morning, when it’s even less likely someone will see me head in or head out. I got about a half mile in when I was stopped in my tracks by this shrill, primal scream coming from the dense foliage that lines the main creek bed. It most definitely came from a four-legged animal, but it was hard to tell whether it was domestic or feral. Most likely, a dog or a coyote was caught or struck, even killed, by a rattlesnake. In any case, if that’s what happened when you broke the rules, I wanted no part of it. So I ran hard as I could back to the suddenly attractive roadside, vowing to not return until it was sanctioned by the city’s...

You have been itching for weeks to go for a rambling trail run within this glorious canyon preserve near your home. I won’t mention which preserve for reasons that will soon become obvious, but anyone who is a faithful follower of this blog knows which one I’m talking about. It’s big, well-maintained and typically packed on weekends. The place has been closed for weeks now due to earlier rains. The gates remain locked and signs are posted at every official entrance warning people to stay out. But you know of a “trailhead” the locals use as a bypass, about a mile from all other eastern entrances. It’s all single track and, far as the eye can see, dry dirt. But, truthfully, the eyes are aided by bifocals now -- bifocals sitting on the kitchen countertop at this moment. If it’s officially closed, then no one should be policing it for tresspassers, right? But the city’s closed the preserve so the grounds can “heal” after a huge heap of rain, and your entry could spark copycats and cause th...