Racing is life....

This is where most people say "the rest is details." Funny the first time I read it. In any case, not really the point here. I ran in the San Francisco Marathon last weekend (although this time I ran only the half marathon). I learned this morning that Bill Goggins, the former deputy editor of Wired, died of heart failure at mile 24. Bill was only 43 years old. It sounds like he trained for quite some time before competing. Although it was his first marathon, he was attempting to qualify for the Boston. To do so, you have to turn a time under 3 hours. That's movin'. Sunday wasn't hot in San Francisco, the temperature hovered in the 60's, it was a beautiful day for running. Whatever the ethereal force, God, Mother Nature, Karma, Fate, it was mercilessly cruel to Bill. At 43 he set out to accomplish a life goal, not unlike I did last year when I completed the same marathon just before turning 40. He was obviously dedicated, he trained, he was "fit as a fiddle" to quote a colleague. He looked great as he passed through mile 21. At mile 24, the end isn't quite in site, but you can feel it. You've punched through the wall at 22 miles (which is a literal wall in this marathon, heading straight uphill) and no matter how exhausted you are, how much pain you're in, you just know you're going to finish. Mile 24 comes just after making the left turn onto Terry Francois, you can see the ball park looming at the end of the road, if you are still able to see that far. The trophy in sight, the anticipation of the finish line, arms raised, creeping into the forefront of his thoughts, in an instant it was snatched from Bill, and the rest of us who worship similarly. I never knew Bill personally, but I am saddened by his loss. Wired is certainly a fixture of the Valley, a survivor that managed to avoid being deflated when the bubble popped. Bill leaves behind a 10 year legacy of work enjoyed by many and for me personally, a chance stop and evaluate once again.

When I was 24, my best friend from college, Cameron Duke, was killed in an airplane crash. That day is still one of the most painful and influential in my life. It fundamentally changed the way I choose to live. I find that most people become squeamish when forced to face their mortality. We'd be much better off if more of us chose to do so. It's not necessarily a pleasant subject, but it is reality. The simple fact of the matter is that you absolutely cannot be certain that you will be here tomorrow, or later on tonight. Death will come for us all without consulting you first, so the timing might end up being a bit inconvenient should you be unprepared. That said, I'm not suggesting that one should adopt the to-hell-with-everything attitude and switch to bacon and cigarettes for breakfast. Balance is achievable in this situation. After Cameron was gone, it was the small things that I noticed were missing from the record of our friendship. He had sent me a Christmas card that I had saved because it contained his new phone number. I still have it. When we were dormmates during freshman year, I bought his Kramer Pacer Stratocaster from him. I'll always have that. What I'm missing are photos and any record of his voice. I seem to remember we took plenty of photos. Cameron was an amazing guitar player. I have a tape of a live performance with Stiff Kitty and I remember taking photos with my friend John Lamm's Nikon F3, but I can't find even one of them. Cameron's Mother, Val, sent me some photos she found a few years ago, but there are only a few. I think that Val found an answering machine tape that she managed to save. There are "big" things too. Travel abroad, now. Do something that matters, make a difference in the someone else's life, whatever it is, plan for it, do it, make it happen.

Bill's demise has caused me to consider my own mortality once again. I've been running for a few years now. When I'm not injured, I'm religious about it. I have an arrhythmia that I developed when I was a competitive cyclist 20 years ago. I'm told that it's benign, but when I get exhausted, I can have over one per minute. If you're not familiar, the type of arrhythmia I have causes both chambers of my heart to contract simultaneously rather than in sinus rhythm. The result is a momentary loss of pulse. The first time I felt it, I freaked out and was sure I was going to die. I've learned to live with it and even though I have them constantly, I don't notice. On occasion, I awake in the middle of the night having slept on top of my arm for a few hours. The numbness triggers anxiety and start to wonder if I've perhaps overdone it one time too many. So far, no. What was it that went wrong for Bill? I wonder if we'll ever know. My arrhythmia is considered benign because the reasonable assumption is that the normal delivery of electrical impulses will continue and hence my heart will return happily pumping along. Should I count on that? Can I? Well, I don't. I run at my own peril, because not running may or may not prolong my time here, but it certainly wouldn't be as rich. I'm recovering from a recurring calf injury now, but when I hit the road Sunday I'll be thinking of Bill, and Cameron, and the pancakes with my family at the end.