The Observer Effect
In physics, “observer effect” refers to changes that the act of observation will make on the phenomenon being observed. The rule applies to rock shows.
Remember those junior high school plays? Ever dig that VHS tape your parent’s recorded out of the basement? The show were better in your memories, right?
Well, way back in the ’90s, my brother, Christofer, video taped almost every one of my shows. It may have been the tiny microphone on the camera, or that I was a terrible performer. Either way, watching those game tapes was painful. Whether I knew tape was rolling or not, my voice never sounded like I thought. My postures weren’t nearly rockin’ enough.
So I asked Chris to stop taping. And all that was left of any given rock show was a few photos, and (usually) a hangover. Which was fine by me.
I started taping again last spring thinking maybe I’d release a live record or two. A few years ago, one of my favorite bands, Guster and Pearl Jame, had recorded every show. Surely, I reasoned, I could get one good one.
I always knew when Ken Rockwood was rolling tape (or running ProTools, as it were). Sometimes, in the middle of a great performance (one where I hit all my notes, and didn’t stomp on the wrong chord), I would think, ‘Don’t screw it up!’ And then, usually, I’d screw it up.
Sure enough, the best performances were the ones I didn’t tape. “The Invention Of Everything Else” CD release, in particular, was stellar, but tape-free. Accordingly, the resulting record, “Live At Rockwood Music Hall,” isn’t perfect. The only way to approach perfection is to lock yourself into a room and do it over and over and over again.
Rock shows — I’ve finally come to conclude — aren’t about perfection.
Rock shows are temporal. They’re all about the moment. They’re the whole thing: the weather, the news, the mood, the booze. Rock shows are about the amplification, the lights, the fashion, and the crowd. And they’re probably better left in the moment.
So why am I releasing a live album next week? Well, not because it’s perfect.
For starters, I love a good project. Culling through a few dozen songs to find the best version is fun. Mastering tracks is fun. Picking album art is fun.
Moreover, though, I’m pretty sure I’m not getting much better at this. I mean, let’s be honest: I used to play 25-30 shows a year. Now I’m lucky for ten. I used to rehearse weekly. Now it’s once or twice before a show. Luckily, I’m playing with the best bunch of guys with whom I’ve ever performed. So this seemed like as good a moment as any.
It turned out well enough, I think. The new, online-only LP is available in 8-song iTunes, or 10-song Authentic Records’ versions, and will be available next Wednesday, November 19. Come hear for yourself. Be a part of the moment, and — invariably — you can help change it.
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This Is What Growing Up Feels Like (And Why It Kinda’ Sucks)
I’ve spent a fair dose of my twenties and thirties clinging to adolescent joys like making records, playing rock shows, and drinking beer, all while holding down a semi-respectable day job.
For a while there, I had a pretty decent balance. Between October 2003 – December 2005, I released three LPs and two EPs, and logged roughly six weeks of touring. This, of course, in addition to my gig at MTV News.
It wasn’t perfect; my former-boss once interrupted a rowdy pre-show, back-of-the-bus party (I believe PBR, Templeton Rye and Roman Candles were involved) with a series of questions about the Video Music Awards which — on that sunny, Lenexa, Kansas afternoon — seemed impossible to fathom. There have been countless hung-over news meetings since.
Generally, though, I’ve been able to have my cake and eat it (which, when you actually look at in a sentence, makes perfect sense, but you know what I mean).
Lately, though, there’s been a disturbance in The Force. The purview of my job has increased. And I’m no longer the sole member of my household. I have responsibilities to someone else and something bigger than myself. I’m managing a career, and building a family.
I knew it was happening; I felt it coming. Today, though, it hit me like a ton of bricks. This is what growing up feels like (and why it kinda’ sucks).
Now, you know The Nadas are not only my pals, they’re one of my favorite bands. And you may know that frontman Mike Butterworth turned me on to another great band, The Damnwells. And you may also know that I went on to befriend a guy, Chris Suchorsky, who directed a documentary about The Damnwells. And now Chris is working with my brother and me on our documentary, “Mister Rogers & Me.” (The plot goes one further: Damnwell front man Alex Dezen is currently matriculated at The Iowa Writer’s Workshop, the esteemed MFA program my father’s been lobbying me to attend since high school.)
So get this. My friend, Tricia, emails me yesterday morning to tell me that The Damnwells are playing The Nadas big holiday benefit show, Nada Silent Night — a show I played with them back in 2005. Shortly after receiving Tricia’s note, Mike emailed me. And my prolonged adolescence came to a painful end.
Benwa Balls,
Jason mentioned you were interested in coming to DSM for Nada Silent Night. We can’t get you a set this year but he did mention playing on the 4th for the Crossroads music fest and we could figure something out for a guest appearance during our set. Not sure if that warrants a trip here. Thoughts?
Love, Mike
Mere moments later, I replied thusly:
You’re a good man for asking, Mike. Thanks. The prospect of taking the stage with TWO of my favorite bands for even one second is too much awesomeness to consider, hence my repeat inquiries (in jest and otherwise). Likewise, the prospect of MISSING two of my favorite bands together is heartbreaking.
So you’re sweet for asking. And I can’t conceive of missing it, truly. But I’m supposed to be in LA on Wed/Thus. In fact, I have a meeting with Universal Pictures at 2pm PT on Thu. So I can’t make the math work to get to DSM in time for Crossroads. And since I don’t add to your NSN draw, am not really local, don’t really move units, and don’t warrant the set — understandably — I don’t help you much. That’s what I get for selling out and becoming a corporate VP. Damn. DAMN! :( I dunno what else to say, except thanks for trying to make it work with Crossroads, and offering a cameo.
XO, Benjamin
So that’s it. That’s what it feels like: the sound of a rock show happening without me twelve hundred miles away.
Which is to say: the sound of silence.
Christmas In 2:03
I’ve spent a lot of time recording, but I’m pretty sure this one takes the cake: thirteen months of studio time for two minutes and three seconds of song.
That’s right. I’ve been tracking this bad boy for over a year, recording, re-recording, adding and subtracting, then tweaking each of the twenty-four tracks, nudging levels, EQing, panning, normalizing, gating, adding reverb, and then tweaking again. And again, and again, and again. For hours — God knows how many hours.
Because the thing is, stakes are high for my recording of Elvis’ “Blue Christmas” for “A Holiday Benefit, Vol. II.”
I mean, duh, it’s an Elvis song. Hate to screw that up.
And yeah, it’s gonna’ play on a CD alongside thirteen other great singer/songwriters. Guys like Brent Shuttleworth, Bryan Dunn and Casey Shea. Gals like Kelly McRae, Deena Goodman and Rosi Golan. Don’t wanna’ suck there.
And like I told Chris Abad when he came by to track his guitar solo for the second time this afternoon (it was great the first; I’m just obsessive), “If you hadn’t banged out such an amazing version of ‘Last Christmas’ for the benefit, we’d have been done with this sucker long ago.’”
Which gets at my point, but isn’t the point.
Point is, when your rock band pals — drum set and all, for cryin’ out loud — jam themselves into your 4×10, walk-in closet on a sunny afternoon, then come back time and time again to overdub parts that you hum to ‘em, well, you wanna’ get that shit right for them.
Similarly, when your amazingly-talented singer/songwriter friend does you a solid twice, squeezing you into a schedule full of voice lessons, commercial v.o. sessions and rehearsals to patiently walks you through three-part harmonies, you wanna’ get that shit right for her too.
Of course, then there’s the kids. Like last-year’s “A Family Holiday Benefit,” “A Holiday Benefit, Vol. II” 826NYC is for them. 826NYC is a nonprofit organization dedicated to supporting students ages 6-18 with their creative and expository writing skills, something I feel pretty strongly about. I mean, what would I be without the ability to express myself in words? Gotta’ get it right for them, right?
But it’s out of my hands now. I just uploaded the 21M file to Kyle Paas and Jeff Swart’s Kingsland Studios.
The CD will be released at our huge benefit performance and silent auction on December 1 at New York City’s Canal Room.
Though you can hear Jamie Leonhart and me harmonizing here first by clicking on that play button below. After you listen, imagine: if :33 can sound this good, just wait ’til you hear Tony, Ryan, Chris, Jamie and me go the full 2:03. It’ll be worth every second.
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Twenty-four Hours Of “Twilight”
The red eye may be as close as we get to time travel. Without it, there’s far less of a chance that I would have volunteered to fly to Los Angeles for twenty-four hours (well, 12 in the air, and 12 in L.A., anyway).
What would motivate such a trip at the end of a week that included my ninth New York City Marathon and twenty straight hours of election coverage? Stephenie Meyer’s “Twilight.”
At one point this summer, all four novels in Meyer’s “Twilight” series topped USA Today’s top seller’s list. She’s sold more than 17 million copies of the books worldwide, with translations into over 20 different languages. They’re big. “Harry Potter” big. I describe them as “Anne Rice meets Judy Blume,” though of course there’s far more to the series that features a love story between teenager “Bella” Swan and 100-year-old teenage vampire, Edward Cullen.
And, of course, Hollywood’s in on the game. The first installment premieres November 21.
MTV’s “Twilight” coverage has been the story of the year for us, not just because we blundered into it at Sundance last year, then — when it did gangbusters traffic — jumped on it in a big way, but because it’s been a whole new kind of editorial process. In addition to super-serving every element of production from pre-visualization to the premiere, the audience has co-produced the content with us: they’ve sent in questions for the cast, uploaded video reaction to clips and trailers, and even done some cast interviews for us.
It’s become such a story for us — that we bring our authenticity, access and authority and act as proxy, advocate and amplifier for our audience’s enthusiasm — that I’ve created a PowerPoint presentation (I call it “Fancentricity”) that I’ve presented around the company dozens of times. It’s such a great story because it’s all the right moves for all the right reasons.
What I love about the story of our coverage isn’t the business aspect, though, it’s the philosophical one. There’s nothing more moving or exciting than losing your mind with enthusiasm for something when you’re fifteen or sixteen. For me, it was snapping up every R.E.M. bootleg, b-side, poster, and t-shirt I could find. It was being first in line for the band’s new CDs, and sleeping out in mall parking lots for concert tickets (this is well prior to the Internet, kids).
Our new show, “Spoilers,” is built entirely on the “fancentric,” “pre-viz to premiere” philosophy. And so, while my TV-producing colleagues could have produced the event without no sweat, I wanted to be there to see it all unfold. Hence my twenty-four hours of “Twilight.”
7:43 AM ET – Arrive JFK. Without baggage, I breeze through check-in and security.
8:01 AM ET – Two eggs over-easy, home fries, whole wheat toast and coffee at O’Neils.
8:37 AM ET – Gate attendant scans boarding pass. “Pink gingham dress shirt,” she says. “Very brave.”
8:38 AM ET – Last to board AA #1. Pass Billy Crudup in First Class en route to aisle seat 31B way back in steerage. My colleague, Ryan, is in 32B.
9:01 AM ET – Take-off. Immediately fall asleep.
1:46 AM ET – Captain Sneil’s announcement that the Grand Canyon is below us to the left, and that we’re “following the Colorado River all the way to the L.A. Basin” wakes me up.
2:04 AM ET – Finish New Yorker article on Tom Friedman, “The Bright Side.” “To simplify something accurately,” he says, “you have to understand it deeply.”
2:27 AM ET – Power down iPod. Favorite song of 5+ hour shuffle? Death Cab’s “A Movie Script Ending.”
2:30 AM ET – Touch-down. Adjust watch to Pacific Standard Time.
1:01 PM PT – Hertz maroon Ford Prestige rental secured, I hand the keys to my colleague, Ocean.
1:27 PM PT – Passing Flynt Publications on La Cienega, I notice just how clear and blue the sky is.
1:39 PM PT – Stop by Fine Arts Theater, site of tonight’s shoot. Risers are in place. Red carpet is still rolled up. Step and repeat seconds from assembled. Marquee is still blank, though; don’t wanna’ tip off the kids too son as to what our big film is.
2:01 PM PT – Tuna nicoise at Kate Mantilini (location of Al Pacino and Robert DeNiro’s sole meeting in “Heat”).
4:02 PM PT – Random Angelino confuses me with Jason Statham.
4:36 PM PT – Walk through theater. Beautiful art deco interior. Ceiling has colorful, guilded flowers. Main curtain is sequined, framed by another of rich, red velvet. Great, old-school kitsch.
4:51 PM PT – Outside on red carpet for rehearsal. Golden hour light here is ridiculously photogenic (which, of course, is why Hollywood is here in the first place).
5:01 PM PT – Juxtaposition is what makes this town great. Our red carpet is in the parking lot of the Beverly Hills Cleaning Center (aka a dry cleaner).
5:33 PM PT – Not sure I ever realized how many staples, safety pins and rolls of gaffer’s tape goes into television.
6:07 PM PT – Hundreds of screaming “Twilight” fans are queued up along the side of the dry cleaners.
6:08 PM PT – Rehearsal. I stand in for talent for Tim Kash, helping block cameras while answering questions as if I’m Robert Pattison and Kristin Stewart. Problem is, I don’t know much about them, the book, the film, or their roles. Luckily, Tim is well prepared.
6:54 PM PT – Overhead: “Bring me one of those energy drinks, will you please? The one that tastes like root beer and death.”
7:06 PM PT – Spotlight’s swirling above Beverly Hills. Kids are in the stands. Tim’s in position. Waiting on Robert Pattison…
7:07 PM PT – He’s here. And, I’ll be honest, he’s really handsome: dishevelled, blonde-mop, piercing blue eyes, rock ‘n roll outfit. Screams, lots of them. He walks briskly down the carpet nervously, high-fiving shrieking fans.
7:08 PM PT – The entire cast — Robert, Kristin, Peter Facinelli, Nikki Reed and more — walks the carpet individually, hugging fans, posing for photos, and generally basking in the increasingly bright glow of the “Twilight” phenomena.
7:42 PM PT – Inside, cast intros film. Curtain parts. Pandemonium. Film rolls. Ooohs and Aaahs and Gasps. It’s awesome. I turn to Ocean and whisper, “Everyone needs to remember what this kind of enthusiasm feels like.”
7:51 PM PT – I’m increasing my $20M opening weekend estimate to $50M based on what I’ve seen of the film (which looks cold and blue and way less cheesy that my generation’s version of this film, “The Lost Boys”) AND the fans here tonight.
8:15 PM PT – Sr. Movies Writer (and primary “Twilight” reporter) Larry Carroll introduces director Catherine Hardwick’s Q&A by talking about how we’re all fans at MTV. Right on. Midway into his preamble, the audience erupts in a spontaneous, “Thank you, Larry!” Wow. Awesome.
8:17 PM PT – Cast bursts in on Catherine’s Q&A. More pandemonium. Question line stretches to back of theater. It’s like Beatles circa ’64.
8:51 PM PT – Q&A wraps. Kid file out, pausing for MOS reax (“man on the street reactions”). Carpet’s rolled. Set’s struck. We’re outa’ here.
9:19 PM PT – Spanish Kitchen. Crab enchiladas, two Dos Equis, and… scene.
10:16 PM PT – En route to LAX, racing south on the 405, Talking Heads “Once In A Lifetime” blaring on Indie 103.1. “How, how did I get here?”
10:47 PM PT – In Hertz shuttle bus listening to Paul McCartney’s “My Love.”
10:49 PM PT – Followed by Lionel Richie’s “Three Times A Lady.”
11:12 PM PT – At Gate 41. “Flight 30 is completely sold out.” Awesome; plenty of room to stretch out.
11:33 PM PT – Boarding. Powering down Blackberry. G’night!
9:24 AM ET – 59th Street Bridge. Full circle. Less than a week ago, I was jogging across this thing for the marathon. Now I’m on my way home from a marathon, 24-hour, 12,000-mile day.
9:31 AM ET – Home to Hell’s Kitchen. Really glad I went to the taping. I love seeing our audience so excited.
Sometimes I Wish I Was An Academic
Just days after graduating from Syracuse, I took two of my most beloved professors, Bob Gates and Tobias Wolff, to lunch to quiz them on the pros and cons of academia.
I loved college. I loved the lectures, the discussions, the reading and writing. I loved all the newness, excitement of ideas, and that sometimes my brain hurt. And I was pretty good at it (particularly in contrast to my fairly-average high school performance). So I thought it might be the life for me.
That is, until they both individually warned me that university life was — in their experience — fraught with the same b.s. (tenure, politics, etc) as any major, mainstream corporation. So, here I am working for a major, mainstream corporation. (Not quite that simple, but.)
Occasionally, though, I wade into academia. Like last-weeks Networked Journalism Summit. Tonight, I’m returning to CUNY to talk about web video. What follows is an my outline for introduction. The question posed? What is the future of web video. Below, I attempt to answer by addressing what factors have influenced the present.
First, I’m presuming that the Internet’s basic tenants — shorter, lower-resolution, any place, any time, any order — are apparent to all. Academics call it “time shifted” and “non-linear.” Whatever, these are the trains that have already left the station (for better or worse).
Second, that the future of web video is going be influenced by what is succeeding now. Them’s just facts. In other words — for news organizations that are part of Fortune 500 companies (which includes, well, most of them), anyway — clicks are going to drive editorial.
What does well online? I think of The Information Superhighway like I-95 or any other real road. And what do we slow down for? Car Wreck, rubbernecks hot cars, and good looking drivers. Like so…
Similarly, we seem to like the utterly ridiculous. Remember the end of “Broadcast News” when Jane Craig (Holly Hunter) is illustrating the decline of journalistic standards (in 1987!) by showing a massive domino stunt as an example of what’s wrong with the nightly newscast? This may not be journalism, but…
Factor in the fact that everyone and their sister has a DV or webcam and some editing software, and the script is being flipped. It’s the era of the user/producer mash-up. Here we have the aformentioned Peanut Butter Jelly Time mashed up with an MTV News interview with Kevin Federline.
What else drives web video? Uber-personal, confessional and commentary-oriented characters. Like Chris Crocker…
So how have those influences come to bear on MTV News’ traditional interviews and packages? Here are a few examples.
For starters, we’ve engaged our audiences contributions, conversation and commentary, incentivizing their participation by putting the most-compelling on-air. Here, a “Twilight” fan reacts to her first viewing of the new trailer.
We’ve asked them to submit questions (which is what led to our well-covered Barack Obama hip-hop pants soundbite). And we’ve invited them to be guest reporters. Here, a “Twilight” fan (and, ergo, expert) interviews the film’s star.
Producer Jim Cantiello’s done a terrific job fusing some of the above influences with actual news. Here he brings a fast-paced, bite-sized, character-driven, irreverent and contextual approach to the election in just sixty seconds.
Here Jim takes a week’s worth of news and jams it into a silly-but-compelling, well-choreographed (not to mention complicated, difficult and expensive to produce) musical number.
Are these examples the future of web video? Probably not, at least in isolation. They do demonstrate, I think, some of the characteristics of what distinguishes web video from television: character-driven, bite-sized, viral and compelling (if not occasionally ridiculous).
Is it a good thing that the future of journalism will be affected by metrics (aka how many people click on something, or — in television parlance — ratings)? Probably not. Do I want to see shorter, more-ridiculous, train-wreck oriented coverage of world and national events? Of course not.
Which I wrestle with. As, I assume, do my panel-mates from PBS, The Washington Post, and Ground Report. We all want to be Walter Cronkite. We all want to work for “60 Minutes.” But we only have sixty seconds. And it has to drive one-million streams in one day.
So we’re left standing alongside Jane Craig’s love interest, Emmy-seeking, standards-free journalist Tom Grunick (William Hurt).
“How am I supposed to know where the line is when the keep moving the little bugger!?!”
Official “Live At Rockwood Music Hall” Track Listing & Art
I’m sure you’ve already marked your calendar. And, in the event you live somewhere other than New York, I’m sure you’ve already booked your travel.
“Live At Rockwood Music Hall” will be released on Wednesday, November 19th at (get this) Rockwood Music Hall.
It’s gonna’ be a big rock show featuring all the musicians who made this record possible: bassist Tony Maceli, guitarist Chris Abad, and drummer Jamie Alegre. And yes, the extraordinary Mrs. Jamie Leonhart will be there to lend her divine voice to my cover of “Killing The Blues.”
Here’s the deal.
“Live At Rockwood Music Hall” is an online-only release (so don’t look for it in stores). There are two options: the 8-song iTunes version, or the 10-song Authentic Records‘ version.
The album itself captures the acoustic/electric flavor of a Benjamin Wagner rock show, and features covers of Wilco, Oasis, Don Henley and John Prine. Here’s the track listing:
1- Giving Up The Ghost
2- The Last Time
3- Promise
4- How To Fight Loneliness
5- Killing The Blues (featuring Jamie Leonhart)
6- Live Forever
7- The Boys Of Summer
8- Wonderwall
+ Harder To Believe
+ Milk & Honey
The live recordings were mastered by Nadas bassist Jon Locker.
The album cover was selected by you, Dear Reader, and features my shoes (Black Converse All-Star Low Tops), my set list (see above), my stage tuner (a Boss TU-2 Chromatic Tuner), and a mess of patch chords.
Do check it out.
Yes
At 10:59 tonight, the crowd 29-stories below my office window began counting down as if it was New Years Eve.
At 11:00, Charlie Gibson called California for Barack Obama, then projected his victory. Which is when the cheering began.
Over two hours later, they’re still cheering.
My mother still talks about shaking President John F. Kennedy’s hand when she was a teenager.
In February, I traveled with my colleagues to Scranton, Pennsylvania, to meet Barack Obama. He was articulate, compassionate, and poised. He was congenial, collected and cool. He spoke in language I could respond to: about finding common ground, not difference. And on the way out of his interview, he shook my hand. It was small and coarse. The exchange was brief. But I was thrilled.
The campaign grew increasingly dirty in the intervening months, but Obama remained above the fray. He stayed on message: inclusion, compassion, and hope — values he reinforced again tonight.
Tonight we proved once more that the true strength of our nation comes not from the might of our arms or the scale of our wealth, but from the enduring power of our ideals: democracy, liberty, opportunity and unyielding hope.
Some of my favorite stories begin with yes.
John Lennon met Yoko Ono at her Indica Gallery art opening in London when he climbed a ladder and through a magnifying glass read the one word she had written on the gallery’s ceiling: YES.
“At least” Lennon later recalled, “her message was positive.”
Years later, I dropped to one knee just a few hundred feet from Strawberry Fields and asked Abbi to marry me.
She said yes.
Twice.
Tonight, then, we begin another love story. One sure to be full of joy and loss, hope and despair, hills and valleys.
Forever more, I will remember where I was when it all began. Forever more, I will remember the instant when this country seized the reins. Forever more, I will remember the instant when we voted for our better selves. Forever more, I will remember when we stood together, and said resoundingly, “Yes.”
Ain’t That America
It hasn’t been until pretty recently that I even began to consider “The American Dream.” I dunno’, maybe I was too young, too single, had nothing invested or at stake.
The older I get, though, and the more historical storms I weather (September 11, The Invasion Of Iraq, Hurricane Katrina, etc), the more I’ve come to consider who we are as Americans. Oddly enough, at the end of the day, the prime value we seem to hold for ourselves (mythically, anyway), is a sense of home — something I’ve wrestled with for years (and only begun to feel a true sense of recently).
Nothing moves us (or breaks us) like the idea that everything would be better with a front door, wrap-around porch, and white, picket fence. Everybody wants a little patch of green, four walls, and a number out front (plus, maybe, an SUV, Sony PlayStation, and — what the heck — an in-ground, luxury swimming pool).
We have some myths around how the world sees us too. I’ve never bought the whole “Leader of the Free World,” thing; strikes me as arrogant. And “World’s Policemen” is even worse. Seems to me we worry too much about protecting those four walls. It’s a little too Twentieth Century for my tastes.
If the last few months of economic turmoil have shown us nothing else, it’s that we’re not invulnerable (though The Axis of Evil isn’t the problem). It’s ourselves, our hubris, or arrogance. Because our houses are just homes. Our real home is the whole shebang, The Big Blue Marble (as we called it in grade school).
So I take the long view. The really long view. The one from space, where there are no borders, no boundaries, and no countries. The one where we’re all in it together, and we’re only as healthy, wealthy and happy as our sickest, poorest, and saddest citizens.
I know… freakin’ hippie.
Anyway, I rediscovered John Mellancamp’s 1983 single, “Pink Houses,” the other day. It got me thinkin’ about all this stuff: The American Dream, The American Myth. And I’m not exactly sure how, or why, but it made a little bit more sense to me (especially after I spent an afternoon recording my version of it). Like “Born In The USA,” it dawned on me that this country, this myth, this dream of ours is as hopeless as is hopeful, as fruitless as it is fruitful, as frustrating as it is uplifting. Which, maybe, is life.
I know I’m the guy who “works in some high rise,” and “vacations down in the Gulf of Mexico.” But I’m also a “simple man.” And this one’s pretty simple after all.
So download my cover version of “Pink Houses” below, copy it to your iPod, and — for Heaven’s sake — get out there and vote. Yunno’, for America. For each other. For the world.
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Five Boroughs In 4:25:01
I don’t care if I ingest another PowerGel for as long as I live. Or Gatorade. Or Cliff Bar. Heck, I could even go without Gummy Bears (at least for a few weeks).
Yesterday was my ninth New York City Marathon. Over the course of all that running (1,194 miles in 113 races alone, to say nothing of training), I’ve developed a number of tactics to keep four hours of monotonous, concrete-pounding, bone-crushing, mind-boggling running manageable.
Accordingly, in an effort to a) beat last year’s abominable 4:42:00 and b) finish alongside Abbi, my 2008 NYC Marathon plan was, in short:
Cliff Bar half-hour before start
Salt packet at start
9:45 miles through Mile 20 (then faster)
PowerGel every 7 miles
Salt and Advil at Mile 20
Gummy Bears at Mile 22
Trident at Mile 24
Everything unfolded as I’d hoped, even better, really. It was a beautiful morning, just cold enough for long tights, a short-sleeve DryFit, my North Face windbreaker, plus fleece beanie and gloves (neither of which ever came off for long).
We started in the second wave (10:00 a.m.), and ran the Green Route which, for the first time in my marathon history, meant that we were on the bottom deck of the Verrazano Bridge (dark, windy, scenery-free). Still, I sang Ryan Adam’s “New York” as I looked towards the Brooklyn Clocktower and Empire State Building, knowing that I’d pass them both — and then some.
I was (as I characterized myself to Abbi) cautiously paranoid for the first half. We were steady on with our splits (my Garmin Forerunner 305 watch assured that), though it felt fast. I was especially worried as Abbi and I approached the Polaski Bridge into Queens; the bottoms of my feet were already sore. My knees and quads too. Abbi, though — never more than a few paces off my shoulder — was feeling strong.
As we began our slow, cold, plodding ascent of the 59th Street Bridge, I was bordering on worried. I was hurting far more than I should for fifteen miles. I stuck with the plan, though, choking down my second PowerGel: Tangerine 2x Caffeine. I settled into the shadowy incline, taking in the east side where Abbi and I trained so many times.
By the time we hit First Avenue, I was cautiously optimistic. Suddenly, I felt strong. Manhattan crowds were ten-deep and four drinks in. They were loud, and I appreciated it. I took off my North Face to expose the bold-face B-E-N-J-A-M-I-N on my chest, and smiled every time someone shouted my name.
First Avenue was a breeze. I felt strong, and was gaining — not losing — strength. The crowd was loud in my face. The sun was warm on my back. And my competitors were growing weak. So, unfortunately, was Abbi. Her quads were shot. Her calves were shot. And her stomach was upset.
We paused a few minutes in the Bronx. The Rolling Stones “Sympathy for The Devil” was booming form a nearby PA system. I choked down a salt packet and two Advil dry, and stretched. Then we resumed. Abbi grew quickly impatient with my straight-data updates (“20.2 miles, 9:41 minute/mile, 3:38:08″), and less so with my goal-oriented ones (“If we keep steady on, we’ll beat last year by at least twenty minutes”). She was reaching the point where everything disappears except the road ahead, torturous in its apparent infinity. I’ve been there many, many times.
But not this year.
The endorphins had kicked in. I wasn’t running, I was floating. I could tell that Abbi had fallen further and further behind when the sound of the crowd’s cheers (“C’mon, Abbi!” “Go Abbi!”) faded. I’d pivot, turn, and run backwards until I saw her, then jog in place until we met again.
I kept looking at my watch, computing just how strongly I could finish if I sprinted it in. Sub-four was long gone, but I thought I had a chance at breaking the small cluster of 4:20s I’d run over the years. For a few mentally-agonizing miles, I considered asking Abbi if she minded my taking off without her.
Finally, though, I reminded myself that Abbi and I were committed to finishing together, and that this race was just a metaphor for the rest of our lives. Sometimes I’ll be stronger, sometimes she’ll be stronger, but — ultimately — we finish together.
My challenge, then — as we quickly strode away from my mother, dutifully cheering alone from the west side of 110th Street — was to quietly, patiently, and supportively run alongside my wife through the finish. I felt like I could fly, but didn’t. That restraint was as difficult as any other physical challenge. Every time someone in the crowd cheered me, I thought, ‘Dude, I could be running much faster.’ Arrogant, maybe. At least this once.
Abbi and I crossed the finish line together in 4:25:01. Our time was a PR for Abbi, and my sixth-best of nine races. She barely noticed as I slid the medal over her head, and carried her off towards the medical tent.
A few hours later, we sat on the floor of my brother’s apartment drinking beer, eating pizza and playing music with Ethan and Edward. Her blue lips had long-since given way to pink. Her cheeks were rosey again. The sparkle was back in her eyes. And, once again, I was reminded that there are two of us in this race. And we’ll need all the PowerGel, Cliff Bars, Advil, Gummy Bears and salt to get us through the finish line. Most of all, though, we just need each other.
