Martin Dugard's Blog, page 12

I would not make a good royal. This is something I think about more than you can imagine. I've never written a book specifically focusing on England's royal family, but I have spent enough time with peripheral historical figures to know when Victoria lived and died, that George VI smoked too much, and the wonderful historical trivia that the reign of Elizabeth II coincided with a British subject becoming the first man to set foot atop Mount Everest — and that an intrepid reporter named James Morris — later Jan, after a midlife sex-change — was the first individual to race off the mountain and flash the news back to London in time for the coronation.

Life in the constant public eye cannot be easy. There can be no casual scratch of the nose just in case a camera angle reveals something Jerry Seinfeld once called "the pick." Etiquette classes groom the United Kingdom's future rulers about which fork and glass goes with each course. A casual drip of coffee onto the front of a button-down will ensure a longstanding reputation as a slob.

These are the random thoughts that came through my mind as I shoveled an omelet into my mouth this morning, barely taking time to breathe between bites. Chili cheese, purple onions, a dab of sour cream. My mind flashed to Taking London (due in stores an excruciatingly long time away in May 2024) and thoughts of Winston Churchill's standing Tuesday lunch with the King (always capitalized in Britain, but usually lower case in the rest of the world). Churchill would consume the better part of a bottle of champagne while George smoked. No household staff allowed, making for complete freedom of discussion.

I've written about those lunches in Taking Paris, Taking Berlin, and now Taking London. They are germane to the story (I should add that I was not familiar with the usage of "germane" until interviewing Morgan Freeman several years ago. He used the term with such authority that to this day I think of him when I type that word). For some reason, I always want to put myself at that table. Would my manners be correct? Would I eat too fast? What, in fact, is the proper way to insert a fork into one's mouth and extricate said fork in the most elegant manner?

I taught myself how to wear a trench coat by copying Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca, carefully rolling the collar so rain would funnel off just so. I admired for many years the way Cary Grant altered his wardrobe to add a new look. I worked long enough as a waiter to know how to set a table, which fork to use, and which glass came with each course from right to left. And while I have never come close to being a fashion plate or dined at the royal table, I am nothing if not aspirational. Even while eating brunch today at Tutto Fresco, I literally wondered if as much Tabasco as I consume is allowed at the royal table (or is it available at all? And could I live in a world that didn't allow Pico Pica?). The revelations by Prince Harry and his bride have done nothing to detract from my belief that the royals are the gold standard of decorum — and that it will remain eternally elusive, even as I keep striving to be just that much more of a gentleman.

Credit: Slow AF Run Club

Which brings me back, in a roundabout way, to a hoodie I purchased yesterday. I do not think royals are allowed to wear hoodies, but they are the mainstay of my wardrobe and have been for years. The "Slow AF Run Club" calls out to me as I struggle to figure out where running fits into my life right now. So I went online and bought their hoodie. Back when I wrote To Be A Runner, there was this undercurrent of criticism that the book was somehow elitist. I bared my soul after a lifetime of running, and all some people could see was that I thought running fast was not the eternal joy it is meant to be, but some form of crime. Of course, I blame AYSO for this sort of behavior. I blame them for all aspects of mediocrity that have seeped into our culture since their formation a half-century ago. We are not all winners. Some of us are average. Some of us, like me, were once very fast runners, then become just average runners, and are now as slow AF. It just is.

It would not be royal of me to wear my new sweatshirt in front of my cross country teams. We head to Mammoth next week for a week of high altitude training. More decorous than the fact that elite young athletes should reverse course and settle for slow AF at the prime of their young running years is the more obvious message that an authority figure such as their coach should never anything that says "AF" on the chest. Standards have been slipping for years, my friends, but someone needs to maintain those lofty royal heights.

I will never put a string of five minutes miles together again, let alone make it look easy. It seems that as my writing aspirations aim ever higher — far beyond anything I could have written at 20, 25, 30, 35, 40, or even 50 — the simple act of running becomes less competitive, more precious, and strangely, more enjoyable. My friend Jesus Aguilera, who is training for a half-marathon, found a quote from To Be A Runner somewhere online (see below). It's the one about how life changes when you put one foot in front of the other. I still believe in that. That's the message I want my runners to remember forever.

I'll never be royal. That don't run in my blood. I crave a different kind of buzz. In fact, I'm slow AF. But you can call me Coach D. And baby I'll rule, I'll rule, I'll rule, in my fantasy.

“Running has taught me that I can do anything, just so long as I keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Sometimes that notion is metaphorical and sometimes not. In this way, I have been inspired to attempt things I would have never dreamed possible.

And it all started with a single step.
”

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I am really intending to write something funny this week. Got a lot of nice feedback from my piece about Karen's last post but I went a little deep into the emotional weeds. Lots of you wrote to tell me about experiences with your own mothers — many of them also Irish-Catholic — which is gratifying, because I think we all feel like the crazy we were raised with is the only kind of crazy out there.

Like I said: a little heavy. The kind that makes you think too much on a hot Fourth of July week when you'd rather just sip a cold IPA, hang out at the neighborhood pool party, then make the Irish (Catholic) exit to get home and keep the dogs calm during the fireworks show. As a distraction, I let my thoughts drift from emotional baggage to the current crop of modern annoyances: drivers backing into parking spaces (when did this become a thing), pickups flying flags in the bed, electric bikes faster than motorcycles whizzing down sidewalks. Throw in a visit to a wonderful South Park bookstore yesterday that featured exactly zero of my books (ask any author, and that infraction is a sure cause for despair. We all want to walk in and see an end cap dedicated to our work — and hopefully get recognized by a sales clerk). It all adds up to one of those weeks where it's easier to see every negative thing in life instead of all the amazing things that happen each and every day. I don't admit to feeling my age, but this week I behaved very much like a cranky old man.

Then I watched John Wick 3. Calene and I are logging some serious streaming time this summer: Ted Lasso, The Bear, Platonic. We've watched the new Tom Segura special. Even the Taylor Swift doc (I can see the fascination). Now we're having a John Wick week. It's one of those franchises we'd heard of but never watched. So we viewed 1 and 2 a couple days ago. Tonight we're closing out 4. But 3 was last night, and if you have not watched, I would advise this: save it for one of those weeks when obstacles are coming out of the woodwork. Because in the third movie, the entire world is out to kill John Wick. Everyone. He has no friends. He loses a finger. He can't trust anyone. Calene believes his cortisol levels must have been off the charts. Wick is excommunicado, hunted wherever he goes.

And of course, Keanu finds a way to come out ahead — or so we are led to believe. Otherwise there wouldn't be a 4. But when you watch a guy with life or death problems and enemies everywhere, real life actually feels pretty damn rosy. I woke up feeling like I don't have a care in the world. Thank you, John Wick.

I know. I know. This isn't remotely funny. I don't think we're going to get there this week, because this is where the conversation turns to something pretty heavy. And by heavy, I mean prayer.

Callie and I were talking about people who use prayer as pixie dust, shouting magical words to heaven like a kid wishing for a pony (full confession: I do it). And when their prayers aren't answered, they often believe they're being punished. You know, God keeping score. This was our morning coffee conversation.

Credit: Etsy

Yes, we start the day like that — a John Wick recap straight into prayer. At the point in the morning when we could have just stayed in our pajamas and spent the day reading, we decided to get dressed and go to church, which is where the message was about . . . prayer. No right or wrong, good or bad, worthy or unworthy way to do it. Sometimes they get answered. Sometimes they don't. If we've learned anything in these months of cancer, it's the uselessness of worry, busy-ness, or anxiety. Fear is always just below the surface masquerading as some other issue like crazy moms. Never goes away. Constant excommunicado.

But the process of finding the words to fashion a prayer, whether you believe in it or not, seems to provide hope. And like a hard shot of faith tequila, hope takes the edge off fear and hard weeks. Sometimes, when hope just isn't strong enough, God throws in a little something else to make the burden more bearable.

Am I saying John Wick 3 was the answer to prayer? Sure. Life is nothing if not a Divine comedy.

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I was walking into Lowe's the other day. A father and his two young sons were walking out. He was probably mid-forties. The kids were maybe eight and ten.

I'm in that phase between the real heavy lifting of book writing when I pay more than normal attention to the world around me. My wife has to repeat herself less (she might disagree). I notice things. Forty-thousand words and two hundred pages from now I might as well be living on another planet. But for the time being I am firmly planted in the here and now — or as close as I am capable.

One of the little boys said nothing at all. For the purpose of our story, he might as well not have been there, other than the fact that his presence broadened the impact of the event which had just taken place. "Why did you call that woman Karen," the older child asked his dad. "Was her name Karen?"

As much as I would have loved to have stuck around to hear his answer, I had to keep walking. My amazement would have been too obvious. And as I kept going, a tinge of sadness came over me: I had missed what sounded like an amazing in-store confrontation. I had an image of that guy getting cross enough with a fellow customer to actually launch a socially-conscious insult in front of his two young and apparently innocent children. What outrageous thing did she say to cause that? And what was her response? Because, I mean, if she was truly a "Karen" in the truest sense of the term, she would have had a doozy of a comeback.

I will never know.

My mom was a Karen, though back when I was a kid they used terms like "handful" or "difficult" or perhaps even "bitch" behind her back. She did not know her place, or even recognize that such a thing existed. She was also not racist or uptight, in the way that some consider the modern definition.

I mention this great coincidence because my mom died four years ago today. This is not a warm and fuzzy homage to the memory of Rosemary Hope Fitzgerald Dugard. We had our wars. I am finally at the point where I sometimes miss her. I made my peace in her final days, sitting on the edge of her bed at the board and care to get every last bit of animosity off my chest. She lived deep inside her mind by then, so I'm not sure my apology/therapy moment made it past the outer barriers of her awareness.

But that Karen comment, along with today's anniversary, made me look back at those many times she spoke her mind — loudly, I should add. To this day, I make sure the windows are closed when an argument starts, thinking of all those times my mom's screaming ricocheted through the neighborhood. Her outspoken behavior always embarrassed me. But I now have to admit that her temper was often in defense of us kids. She was our greatest advocate, at a time when no one used that word. That year my dad was off fighting the Vietnam War must have been horrible for her, all alone with five young children. She could be extremely anxious. My mom was also pretty handy with the wooden spoon or just the back of her hand, though that is another blog post for another day. Let's just say that for a woman standing 5'4" she had amazing strength.

But I'm starting to miss my mom. I find myself doing things she did, like reading the paper cover to cover each morning and cutting out interesting stories — only instead of scissors, I take a picture with my phone and send it to the individual who might find it most interesting. I have her quick temper. I share her fascination with the most arcane trivia. I obsess about food. Every time I look at a rose bush, I hear her voice, because she knew the name and best ways to fertilize every type of rose. In my more eccentric moments, Calene tells me I'm acting like my mother. It used to be an insult. Now I think it's pretty cool.

Late in life, before the dementia, my mom developed a passion for the f-bomb. Not all the time, but precisely as the word should be used — sparingly, for devastating effect. I'm surprised it took her so long to pick up the habit. She was a woman who spoke her mind without a filter, always in the Boston accent that she never lost, even after forty years living in California. She would have crushed that guy in Lowe's.

Four years in, I'm starting to miss my mom.

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There's a wonderful wilderness park within five hundred meters of my front door. O'Neill, as it is known for a prominent Orange County landowner, is a long dagger of land stretching almost down to the Pacific. Barely 400 meters wide in some places, its main feature is a valley riven by a single stream that goes dry for much of the year. One stretch of the creek is almost prehistoric in its utter wilderness. Rattlesnakes, deer, hawks. Scorpions, tarantulas. Last week, on the same day, I saw the tiniest blue bird and a Golden Eagle — the Great Danes of the bird world. Mountain lions live in O'Neill's lower sections, though I have heard their mewl from the folds of the more rugged hilly regions where cactus and dry grass camouflage pretty much every living thing that wants to stay hidden.

O'Neill is a place of old oak trees and towering pines, meandering dirt trails, a campground where the air smells of bacon on Saturday mornings. It is that connection between suburbia and the wild that sees hardcore trail users and women pushing baby strollers. Much less eloquently, it is the type of public wilderness where answering the call of nature is better done in the public restrooms. The trail might feel completely private, but there's always someone biking or hiking around the bend when you least want to see anyone.

So that's O'Neill. It got popular during Covid, when people were so eager to get out of the house that entire families would drag coolers down to the stream. The kids would build dams out of smooth gray stones and sit in the cool clear water rolling down off Saddleback Mountain. Adults would pull up lawn chairs and party. It wasn't Hawaii, but when Hawaii is off limits, any beach will have to do.

Electric bikes have kept O'Neill humming ever since, though I do wish people would at least make an attempt to turn the pedals as they power up a steep trail. Horse people and bikes and hikers coexist in a friendly coalition, though each of us seems to think we have more right to the trail. The Boy Scouts were there last week for their annual day camp, perhaps the only group that I really dislike when it comes to using the park. They take the place over, guided by the spirit of Lord Baden-Powell, adult volunteers in green uniform shorts playing the part of trail sheriff, blocking access and yelling at cars on the park's lone road to slow down.

Last week, a car somehow veered off Alicia Parkway, burst through a barbed wire fence, and plunged sixty feet down an embankment into a dense section of O'Neill, coming to a halt in thick vegetation that hasn't been touched by human hands in perhaps forever. The kind of tangled place you'd never enter in the dark, where things that kill people hide during the light of day. I went to take a look at the phenomenon a day later, once the sheriffs and firetrucks pulled the car and driver out. The sidewalk leapt by the car was a border: modern life on one side, pure wilderness on the other.

I go into O'Neill four to five times a week, though through a much different entrance. Mike the homeless guy, who is kind when he is stoned and profane in extremis when he is off his meds, watches over one of the park's four gates. I drop down the trail known as Twisted Tire and make the decision over whether a day is a running day or a hiking day, or a little of both. Sometimes I listen to podcasts, sometimes to nature, and sometimes the thoughts filling my head. I like O'Neill best when the trails are completely empty but I always wave hello if I run into another trail user.

This morning was the first day of cross country practice and I sent my runners for sixty easy minutes on the trails, telling them to keep it conversational. I want them to notice the pink and yellow flowers blooming on the cactus, the electric green algae blooming in the creek as the sun heats the water, the canopy of those aging scrub oaks and the bright new thickets of red poison oak that will make their skin itch and swell if they rub against it.

Usually, when people ask where I write my books, I tell them about my office. Bookshelves, desk, chair. Simple and utilitarian, a sanctuary.

But O'Neill is where I breathe words and fix sentences and where I outlined an entire novel in my head during a couple hours alone last week. It's a place of prayer and solitude. A place of solace when my chest can't bear anymore of worry's crushing pressure.

We all need an O'Neill.

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If I were in the Netherlands right now, as I thought I might be this weekend, I would be driving my rental car back to Brussels from a venue known as Megaland. It's right next to Aachen, the first portal into Germany for the US Army in 1945. My ears would be ringing from a Bruce Springsteen show almost four hours in length. The euphoria would linger.

There would have been a nine-minute (so the websites tell me) walk back to the train station, then a shuttle to find where I parked my car. The flight from Brussels back to the States leaves at 11:15 in the morning but there are no late night trains, thus the rental. Knowing myself, I would be reluctant to fall asleep in my hotel room, for fear of not waking up early enough to make the airport. This would have all been preceded by a twelve-hour flight with the routing of LAX-ORD-BRU yesterday, all taking place in an economy middle seat (I did not get the upgrade I so desperately hoped for), followed by the drive to the concert, a day in the sun and light rain waiting to see Bruce, then my current seventy-three mile drive back to Brussels in the dead of night, most likely fueled by copious amounts of sugar free Red Bull.

Let's recap: Leave LA on Saturday morning, arrive in Brussels Sunday morning after a sleepless night in the dreaded middle seat, ten hours to kill before the concert, BRUCE!, long walk back to the train station, find my car, find a roadside convenience store to buy Red Bull, then stay awake just long enough to turn in my car, check in for my return flight (alas, also in the middle seat — seems like the whole world is traveling this summer), and then twelve more sleepless hours home.

Or I could just stay in this wonderful Airbnb I call home.

Now, don't get me wrong. I would have done the concert. I've done Europe on a day and then back again for research, my bona fides for Springsteen are legit. I just finished a book. Calene is out of town for a week. I have nothing to do. Why not just go for it?

Well, I'm going to see Bruce a whole lot in the next few months. But I also have a pretty sweet home. My bed is amazing. My backyard is serene. And I have two really cool dogs that I didn't want to board for three days and nights. I also enjoy a good night's rest and the luxury of having nothing to do and nowhere to go, to quote the Ramones.

So I've decided that I am treating my home like an Airbnb this weekend. I canceled my flight, returned my ticket, and settled in for an unknown experience. Never in my life have I had the chance to sit alone for a week with nothing to do.

And that's what I've done: Nothing, nada, fuck-all. Haven't written a word until right this moment. This has not been a spiritual journey or a visit to a shaman. No vow of silence. It's just hanging out. I've enjoyed the trails of O'Neill Park, paid a visit or two to my local (a fine establishment known as Board & Brew), and done more than a little bit of reading.

I have a good friend — a pastor, actually — who once confessed that when his wife went out of town, he couldn't wait to get crazy. As if, when there was no one holding him accountable, he was going to do some serious rebellious shit. I had images of him going to Vegas and blowing his home on a parlay, or maybe just doing something dark and strange, when in fact he later admitted to me that all he wanted to do was buy a Playboy magazine (it's been a while since we talked).

So this was my point of reference for my wife leaving town: fly to Europe to see Springsteen or act out in some very uncharacteristic way. I made a rather mundane to-do list to keep myself in check, just in case I wanted to bet it all on red: outline a novel, power wash the deck, learn a song on the guitar, hang the pool cue rack.

Like I said: Just a few things to keep myself in check. Just in case.

I have not accomplished a single one of these. Nor have I gone to Vegas — or Europe. The week is still young but I think we're good. I might have missed a few showers, but to my credit, the house is clean, there are no dishes in the sink or piles of pizza boxes. Sadie sleeps next to my leg as I type, ready for me to throw the tennis ball to her the instant she wakes up. Django patrols out back, barking loudly and suddenly at unseen and unheard enemies that need my attention. I just planned cross country season on a big calendar, knowing the whole while I won't pay attention to a workout I've written once the training heats up.

I am one very boring King of the Castle.

So here's where I admit something loners and introverts like myself aren't supposed to reveal: I miss Calene. The concept of being alone for a week in my wondrous Airbnb sounded like a good way to clear my head — and it has been. But there is a delightful rhythm to this life I lead with My Sunshine. She was overdue for a trip to see her friend Maureen and I am so glad she got to go. It's been a terrifying year for both of us, but her most of all. My idea of flying off to see Springsteen would have made sense if I'd had more time, yet all along I knew a Bruce concert wasn't the connection I needed.

But let's not get too profound: I would definitely have done the spectacular Europe Springsteen adventure if I'd gotten the upgrade. My days of doing middle seat economy on twelve-hour flights are long gone. Long. Gone. There's a whole travel guide to be written about how wide-body travel changed after 9/11.

So here's this:

If I learned anything this week, it is this simple truth that there's a lot of upside in hanging out with the dogs, sleeping late, reading books, rewatching Ted Lasso, and hour upon hour of solitude — all the while waiting for my sweetie to come home.

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I make my living writing books, so I get understandably nervous when prognosticators make bold statements about print being dead. What else would I do? In my heart of hearts, when I hear about AI or a more video-centric world, I pray a little prayer that books hang around for at least forty more years. I'll be 102 by then and most likely out of stories to tell. If print died completely right this very moment I would be utterly lost, my professional skill set consisting of arranging words on a page in a way that makes people want to read them, and then read more of them. Over and over and over again until my story runs out of words and I need to write another.

But I don't think print is dying any time soon. There's something special about writing a book that seems to complete the human experience. Even celebrated film directors known for telling stories with pictures seem to feel the need to summarize their years of storytelling by putting words on a page. In the last couple months, my Instagram feed has shown Peter Attia, Des Linden, Emma Lovewell, and more than a few other people holding wild celebrations to celebrate the publishing of their new book. One of Attia's friends even baked a cake in the shape of his book. Emma Lovewell danced in front of a theater full of people. Des masterfully celebrated her marathon achievement with readings before large dedicated groups of runners.

We all have a story to tell. I have lost count of the number of people who have asked me to help them write a book. My answer is always the same:

"It's your story. No one can tell it better than you."

My own dad took this advice to heart. He's written three intense books about his experiences as a Vietnam War B-52 pilot.

All of this is my long way of explaining that today is the best of times and worst of times. Tomorrow, in bookstores everywhere, the paperback of Taking Berlin will be released. A pub date is always time for celebration and I will be certain to wander into more than a few bookstores and move my book to the end cap where everyone can see it. If I don't immediately see a copy in plain sight I will go to the help desk and sweetly ask if the store has copies of Taking Berlin. They'll ask the name of the author, which is where I have to get coy and pretend it's not me. I'll say something like "I think it begins with a D."

I know. Shameless.

The hard part of today is that I turned in my revisions for Taking London. At this point, I no longer control the creative process. I love that book. Back when I was writing hard to meet my May 1 deadline, I was so consumed in the work that I forgot how much fun I was having. These past couple weeks of revisions have allowed me the chance to take a step back and look at the story anew. I moved a lot of things around. I introduced a new character. I took myself back in time, researching Summer 1940 London in a relaxed meander, finding little nuggets of detail — a couple words, a weather report — to add to the story, making it richer for the reader. And now I have to let it go. This is not done easily. Social media means that every critic has a voice. If my past books are an example, the overwhelming number of readers will write glowing reviews. There will also be trolls, eager to find a mistake, whether it be large or small. This voice inside me that poured so much love into Taking London will be abused if left unprotected. To do this, I remind myself that the writing is good, the research is good, and the storytelling is the best I can do right now.

One of the things people ask when I tell them I write for a living is "how many books have you written?" It's a fair question. I never really know the answer. I don't claim the books I've ghosted, I only take half credit when I'm the co-author, and books I've written all by myself include some early works no longer than a pamphlet that don't really count. But as I look at new authors celebrating their one and only book with what can only be called pride, I'm here to tell you that feeling never goes away.

Each new book I release into the world represents a friendship with the characters and subject that corresponds with a life passage. The me who wrote Farther Than Any Man on an island off Borneo during the filming of Survivor's season one is far different from the guy writing Taking London twenty-plus years later. But they're all me. So releasing a book into the world is like putting a version of my soul out there for the world to hear my latest story. My blood and sweat is on every page.

Someday, when I am very old and out of stories, I will go back and read them all again in order, slowly reading page after page, remembering the places I visited and things I saw and experienced to write each book, tracing the tale of my life.

What would we do without print?

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Sadie sleeps beneath the dining room table as I write. It's my wedding anniversary — I would say "our" but that would reference the previous sentence, suggesting that a black lab instead of Calene has been my bride for thirty-five years. The French doors leading out onto the back patio are open, despite the June gloom hanging over Orange County. Django stands out there, keeping guard, barking at the Memorial Day barbecue in the backyard of a house just down the slope. They've got it coming. Calene naps on the couch.

I've moved into the house from my office because it feels wrong to spend a Sunday, a wedding anniversary, and a perfectly wonderful day alone in a room without windows. People here are complaining about the May weeks without sun but I actually love the conflict in those gray skies. The manuscript revisions for Taking London are doing that thing all books do during the edit process, waking me up in the middle of the night to remind me that a paragraph on page 8 works much better if it is moved to page 300. You'd be surprised how many little tweaks can turn a pretty good story into a rock-solid narrative.

As a reader, I'm always pleased when an author trusts my intelligence enough to tease miniature references into a story, sure in the knowledge I can keep up. It's subtle and risky, because the reader might have forgotten that initial set-up when it's paid off ten chapters later. But done correctly these add a richness to the storytelling.

To keep everyone abreast of what I'm talking about, last week's post let the world know my editor was challenging me to breathe new life into Taking London. What I sent him was a taut story full of action and heroes. He saw something richer in those characters. I've taken up the challenge in the past seven days, adding thirty pages, two characters, and two chapters. There's more work to be done but I'm sending New York a whole new book on Friday. Between now and then, I will read every page at least one more time, fix holes, and then leave it alone.

Which brings me to June 6. That's D-Day. That's also the paperback pub date for Taking Berlin. By then, Taking London will be complete. And Calene is off to spend a week in Canada with her old half-marathon training partner, who has since moved back from the OC. She will be gone for a week. It will be just me and the dogs. I have plans for endless hours of reading and long walk-runs on the trails of O'Neill Park, now overgrown from the winter rains and as green as emeralds.

And yet... I've just finished writing a book. My birthday is just a few days off. Cross country practice doesn't start for three weeks. This seems like an ideal time to commit some senseless act of mischief.

First things first: get someone to watch the dogs for a few days. Maybe drive up to Mammoth Lakes for the Rock Trail and duck tacos at Roberto's. Or fly to the Netherlands for Springsteen's June 11 show (I've got enough miles and flight credits to do it for nothing). You know, something stupd crazy. I literally have the chance to go anywhere for a few crazy days.

Except Moscow. No one's going to Moscow these days. But you know what I mean.

My friend Terry Johnson, a hardcore mountain biker, has a saying that I may have already quoted in this space: "I don't have a second home. I don't have a sports car. I don't have a boat. I don't have a mistress. But I do have a bike." This is his justification for spending ten grand on a carbon fiber bike.

Or, as I like to think of it, spending money on experiences rather than possessions. I'm not big on material goods. Beer, running shoes, and books — that's where I spend those writing dollars. I have no interest in a second home, a Porsche (well, a little), a boat, or even a new mountain bike. And one woman in my life is quite enough, thank you. But I love travel. I bask in the aroma of a pub far off the tourist track. I slapped down my credit card in an instant for the privilege of flying in a Spitfire — and would do it again tomorrow. Buying stuff just for the sake of owning more means nothing and is easily forgotten, but experiences are forever. Watching the spotlight go dark on the Eiffel Tower, exploring Hawaii's North Shore, snorkeling off the Maldives. Those remembered moments find their way out my subconscious once every while and make me smile.

So I could spend this June 6-13 week doing something nonsensical, jet-lagging, and uncomfortable.

Or maybe I'll just stay home. Like Buckaroo Banzai said, "no matter where you go, there you are," Travel and the odd adventure means an escape, though not always an escape from the stuff running around your head that deserves a little attention. There's something amazing to be said for a week of alone time, sleeping late and reading books in the backyard. Sounds like quite an experience.

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Summer camp counselor.

Fast food grill cook.

Disc jockey (college station).

DJ (local professional station).

Pizza Hut (one day in Amarillo. Long story).

Gas station attendant.

Busboy.

Gardener.

Waiter.

Bartender.

Night shift systems backup guy.

Procurement specialist.

Cost and scheduling analyst (fancy term for data entry).

Marketing coordinator.

Freelance magazine writer.

Author.

I'm procrastinating right now, as I must do before sitting down to solve a hard writing problem. Procrastination is fear of failure wrapped up in random thoughts and actions. Hemingway's comments about needing to "clean the refrigerator" before sitting down to write pretty much sums it up. And while I know exactly what's happening right now, I'm going to humor this impulse, just for fun.

Here goes: I don't have a CV or keep a resume but procrastination has fueled a sudden and intense need to write down my employment history since the age of fifteen. The Pizza Hut gig came while hitchhiking from Marquette, Michigan to California in 1981. My buddy Kurt and I were tired of the road and Amarillo seemed like a good place to spend the summer.

But after one day on the job at that Pizza Hut we decided there were many better options. Gas station attendant might sound a little mundane, but gas-station-attendant-by-the-beach-in-San-Clemente offered many more opportunities for meeting girls than Pizza-Hut-in-Amarillo.

I also didn't mention my gig teaching writing at Chapman College, or the year spent producing a movie. And I should add a multiple next to the waiter and bartender era, having performed those tasks at several Orange County dining establishments before finishing college. I had certain issues with late nights and punctuality back then. Also, coaching distance runners doesn't make the list, despite being twenty years in, because it's never once felt like a job.

Each occupation on that list could have been my life. Choice of career shapes friendships and habits and even brain function. I have plenty of friends who never left the restaurant business or gardening or even the quiet hell of the corporate world. They have done very well for themselves. Their thought process models that of their business.

What am I procrastinating over? Revising Taking London. My editor in New York, a quiet genius, suggested the original manuscript was not the act of brilliance I originally believed. He noted flaws in my attempts at suspense, thought a few passages were more than a little overwrought, actually requested new chapters to fill a couple holes, and, most painful of all, saw through my shortcuts.

He challenged me to write a better fucking book.

This sort of constructive criticism would have once sent me into a rage. I would have vented about being misunderstood, passive-aggressively resisting any change at all.

Now I love it.

This is a chance to reinvent the story, adding new pieces to the dramatic puzzle. This is also a challenge to go from good to great (hopefully — thus, the fear of failure and procrastination). Having an editor tell me the story needs work presents a wonderful creative challenge. This is what I mean about an occupation changing your brain.

My brain is a writer's brain, not that of a restaurant owner or DJ. There are no numbers in my thought process, only pretty sentences. My weekend has been a forced act of concentration as I problem-solve story issues in my head, attending a birthday party without being mentally present. Forcing myself to listen closely to a really smart sermon. Making eye contact when spoken to. After thirty years learning how to build a narrative, my subconscious has been working overtime — even in my dreams — finding ways to fix pacing, tense, content, and word choice as I endure social obligations and wait for the wonderful moment when I find my way back to the writing desk and attack the revision.

As a new writer it was all about my tender creative feelings. Now I am a servant to the story.

The process of acquiring all the knowledge and ability began with that camp counselor job (makes it sound like I was changing lives, when pretty much all we did was play softball and keep kids from drowning in the lake). A winnowing out. A time of selection. Saying no to other careers and saying yes to writing meant focus on a singular skill set that applies to no other occupation. It also means shedding skill sets that don't apply which is why I am horrible at math. Don't need it. And I can't throw a curveball.

When I quit that gardening job so long ago (insert "lawn mowing" and "weed pulling" for "gardening." I was not the guy masterminding the look and appearance of Sherman Gardens), the head guy handed me my final check and said with a straight face: "I hope you find what you're looking for."

Gardening was his forté. He couldn't see why anyone would want to do anything else. Yet those words still motivate me like that Jack Palance line about the "one thing."

I found it. Short of finding your soul mate, figuring out your singular skill set is the most wonderful discovery I can wish on anyone.

In other words, I am finally back at my writing desk and equipped to revise this manuscript. So let's get to it.

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Brandi Carlile howling like Exene Cervenka. Willie and Dolly next on the turntable. Ribs slow cooking on the grill. Stone and Chardonnay on ice in the Yeti. Hot afternoon sun scalding the pavers, reminding me to hose down that spot where the dogs do their business one more time.

The boys are of an age where luring all three home at one time requires a special reason — Christmas, Thanksgiving, Mother's Day. The BBQ is supposed to start at 2 but they know we're not going anywhere, so they will arrive with fiancées and girlfriends and gifts and dogs whenever they feel like it.

Calene and I are just fine with that fluid schedule. It's her day so she gets to be the DJ, putting music on the turntable and turning it up loud enough that we hear it in the backyard. The two of us sit in lawn chairs as we wait, watching the May marine layer give way to that searing sun. The hillside across the valley is still yellow with mustard plants but the brown of summer already shows in spots. Rosé for my queen, IPA for me. Something about a cold drink on a lazy day with the sun on your face just feels right.

The cancer is such a constant that we don't need to talk about it. I tell her about yesterday's track meet and its mixed results for my distance crew — but not too long, this being her day. A short pause to appreciate a great guitar riff. Then we are on to conversational shorthand: plans, gossip, backyard projects. Hopes and dreams.

I first laid eyes on Calene thirty-seven years ago this week. Almond brown eyes sparkling, firecracker wit, a tight skirt that dared me to look away. Nothing's changed. She reaches over and absentmindedly runs a nail down my deltoid and an electric charge runs through my body.

I pour refills and check the barbecue. Cooking ribs is my Achilles Heel. I just never get them right, no matter what the recipe. They've been on for three low and slow hours and I feel like this might be my lucky day. The rub is brown sugar, dried mustard, garlic powder, smoked paprika, kosher salt, ground black pepper. When we first got married I had a little propane grill out back of our apartment, then I went to wood when we got into the house, now I'm back to gas on the island grill I waited fifteen years to build. Calene knows what I cook well and what I don't, so ribs on Mother's Day is a testimony to her faith that this time I might just get it right.

We sit in the sun, thinking our own thoughts during gaps in the conversation. When she wonders when we should finally replace the upstairs carpeting I tell her I was about to say the same thing. That happens a lot. I tell her that I love her and she tells me that she loves me too.

Django barks. Loud, sudden, sharp. Devin's here, straight from a camping trip. Then Connor, dressed like Yves Montand in turtleneck and jacket. And Liam, taking a break from moving into a new apartment. All stepping through the front door at once. Hugs and kisses. Unnecessary apologies about tardiness. Laughter. Everyone talking all at once.

Calene's first Mother's Day was thirty-three years ago. It was a novelty to say Happy Mother's Day to my bride for the first time. This was before she grew into the Mama Bear she has since become. I may be her soulmate but these boys — they're men now, but will always be her boys — are Calene's everything. She will go to war for them. Her laughter is the most honest and delightful sound I know. It carries over the living room as the boys tell stories about their day.

I go back outside to check on the ribs. They're not amazing. Just pretty good. Then I take a moment to memorize everything I am hearing and seeing. This is my lucky day. I want to write it down and forever remember how good this Mother's Day feels.

And so I have.

I hit my deadline.

There is no pretending it was easy. Perhaps you missed last week's blog post — the one that never occurred. April was a whirlwind, as all deadlines must be. No matter your business, hitting a deadline means hyperfocus and sacrifice. And it's not just working fast. It has to be the best, which means not just writing, but editing (and more editing), and research (and still more research).

But now it's done. Taking London is off to the publisher, where we will commence rounds of editing and copy editing and fact-checking, then the addition of photos and maps, then printing, publicity, and publication right around this time next May. For those of you keeping score at home, the paperback of Taking Berlin comes out June 6 (nice D-Day pub date).

The fourth book in my Taking series doesn't come out until 2025 but is currently the answer to the question I seem to be hearing a lot from friends lately. My wife asks, too, though with some trepidation. Simply:

Are you taking any time off between books?

And what does that look like?

The answer to the first question is yes. In fact, I've already taken six days, as of this writing. I give my runners two weeks off between seasons (track to cross country and vice-versa) to let their bodies rest and get their heads straight. So two weeks seems like a good number. I'll probably take another week of doing this and that in the office before I start researching something new.

But the second question is tougher. For two decades I've balanced writing books and coaching distance runners at the local high school. I actually changed to a school closer to my home three years ago, a move which revitalized me in so many ways. The environment is just nicer — something I didn't think I needed in my life until the vibe dropped itself into my day so neatly, making me wonder where it had been all along. We had a big track meet yesterday and my runners all validated the season training plan by looking so incredibly strong and smooth as they powered around the track. They might talk a little smack on Strava but they sure do back it up when it counts.

I've got a fantastic balance in life right now, this combination of writing in the morning and coaching in the afternoon — creativity and chess, introversion and extraversion, indoors and out.

But track season is coming to an end, perhaps this weekend, or perhaps as far off as Memorial Day. This is the time of year when I wonder what it might be like to have those afternoons free. I've been having this discussion since all the way back when I began coaching, as those reading this space for decades will remember. (Hello, Susie B.) I travel plenty but parts of me wonder what it might be like to do longer journeys: hike the Santiago, write a book from a cottage somewhere remote, train for a fall marathon (which fall, I'm not certain), maybe follow the E Street Band around Australia. Lord knows I obsess about the setlist each and every time the Boss performs. Might as well get on a plane and find another show or two.

Or maybe just spend more time with Calene — though that would drive her crazy.

That's what the next few weeks will look like: planning the future. I've definitely committed to cross country in autumn. And I'll be working on a new book. But at what point in life do you say goodbye to a very good thing and wander in search of another? Do I stick around high school coaching and risk getting stale? Or worse: irrelevant. Coaching is a drug, a massive hit of positivity and endorphins and that nonstop jolt of good karma when you take an athlete new to the sport and make them a champion. Or even just the best they can be.

I love the plotting and word play of writing.

I love the physiology and personal connection of coaching — banter, exhortation, a simple high five.

Both are daily. Neither is a grind.

I'm sixty-two in a month, young in writer years but getting on for a distance coach — though I am really enjoying this "wisdom" phase of life, where I know when a runner needs more or less of some workout at a certain time in the season. My runners made me feel pretty good about those years of accumulated knowledge yesterday, beating flashy teams taking shortcuts and talking smack. I'm a long way from being tired of seeing a young athlete accomplish something they once believed impossible.

So, should I stay or should I go?

That's what the next few weeks look like.

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