Martin Dugard's Blog, page 2

Greeting from Copenhagen, home to tall men and beautiful women. Callie and I just ran into my good friend (and four-minute miler) Joe Fabris in the train station. Sheer coincidence. Travel and its adventures sometimes yield random moments of wonder like that. Pretty amazing.

I'm researching and writing my way through Europe. Next stop is Hamburg, then on to Munich to check out the 1972 Olympic marathon course and tour the Olympikstadia where Frank Shorter won gold and Steve Prefontaine finished fourth in one of the most exciting races you will ever watch.

Copenhagen was a great writer's retreat, a compact place with a gorgeous new metro and miles of good walking along the waterfront. We don't know the city so we depended upon the kindness of friends to guide us around. Mike Brough gave us a listing of sights and especially food courts. The Little Mermaid statue was splendid, though not as wondrous as Broens Street Food. I developed a theory that Danes spend so much time alone during the winter that they congregate in mass numbers when the weather is warm. You could see it in the crowds eating and drinking at Broens, and also the hordes of sunbathers laying out in temperatures no Californian would dare. Not on sand, but on the pavers lining the canals. Every now and then someone would dive into the cold Baltic waters but for the most part it was all about basking in the fleeting sun.

The Bear was filmed here for its last season. We sought out a number of the locations, though mostly for the food. The local hot dog at Joans Polser is everything I had heard about, though we did not have time to seek out the chicken sandwich at Poulette. I can, however, verify anything you might have heard about Copenhagen being a foodie town. Everything was fresh, innovative, and perfectly cooked. The beer was cold and served in large glasses, which made me very content.

A UCI World Cup bicycle race finished in the heart of the city yesterday. So much going on. So much to see. My habit has been to write late in the evening in our cozy hotel room at Villa Copenhagen. As with most travel, the break from our normal daily routine at home has fostered creativity and conjured dreams about new life challenges. When I went to Copenhagen Central to buy tickets yesterday the agent told me that every train out of Denmark was booked for the next ten days. "Insane," he said about the number of tourists. He found us seats eventually but I was unworried. Part of me was hoping he would say no. A train is not the only way to Munich. Even as he sought out tickets, I was wondering about a ferry to Stockholm or Gdansk, maybe some other amazing adventure through a roundabout destination.

That is for another day. The train is fast and the countryside beautiful. Not quiet — the man taking calls through his headset makes sure we all know his business. I think he believes he is surrounded by only Danish speakers, so intimate are the details of his call. But that's travel.

I was going to write something political for Barack Obama Day but I just don't have the energy. I'm so sick and tired of being fearful. Tired of hearing the word "dystopian." So, with the words of "Long Walk Home" ringing in my ears ("that flag flying over the courthouse means certain things are set in stone; who we are and what we'll do and what we won't"), I think I'll just write about the signing I'm doing this afternoon. Because it gives me great joy, which is very much what I need right now.

Book signings have gone the way of the dodo bird, as bookstores become fewer. The old author publishing day thrill of driving from bookstore to bookstore, moving every copy of my book to the front table or making sure the cover faces outward from shelves, then signing every copy in stock is no more. There's only one local bookstore for me to drive to. Not even Costco sells books. So to have the luxury of speaking before a small audience about my book, answer a few questions, then sign books with a written dedication feels luxurious.

This afternoon's signing at Barnes and Noble in Aliso Viejo starts in an hour or so. Obviously, I need to get cracking. But for those of you who will one day publish your own book and wonder how to prepare for a signing, let me walk you through it.

It's a Saturday, so I sleep in a little. Cross country practices don't start until Monday, but once we get up and running (pun intended), I won't be able to sleep in again until December. Then it was a long cup of coffee with Calene, planning our divide and conquer day. She's off for Father's Day lunch with her dad. There's a neighborhood BBQ this evening. Then it was off to Perspire for a sauna, followed by a run in O'Neill. The boy scouts are setting up for their annual takeover of my beloved wilderness park, so I am very glad I will be away all next week.

Got home at 11. Quick lunch. Shower. Tried to figure out which clothes I want to wear today — certainly not coat and tie, but my wife will be very displeased if I go with a hoodie. Decisions, decisions. Put that off for the time being. Spent an hour working on the running book, which is at a very pivotal point in the writing. Sadie sleeps at my feet. Love that dog. Django has been digging up my garden lately. I love him, too, but he's in the doghouse right now.

That's it. All I have to do is drive to the signing. I carry a couple Sharpies, even though I know they'll have plenty. This is a great sunny day for a sandwich at Board & Brew, but if I have a sandwich I'll have a beer, which I don't like to do before I speak. Even stone cold sober, I am more than capable of a well-placed F-bomb. I don't think the book buying public needs that from me today, particularly if C-SPAN is filming the whole thing.

I'm off. Wish me luck. I don't plan what I'm going to say. Wherever you are, however you are spending your weekend, I pray your day is safe, sane, and vitriol free.

I went to Disneyland for my birthday. It's the ultimate place to people watch. Calene and I go now and again just to walk around and enjoy the vibe. Ride the roller coasters. It's best in February on a rainy day when all the kids are in school. But even yesterday's sticky-hot, overcrowded Sunday had its moments.

What I realized most yesterday is that the whole world loves Disneyland. I know, I know: "not me," you're thinking to yourself. Too crowded. Too expensive. Too corporate. Too many loooooong lines. Too, too, too.

Yeah, I agree to all that. I spent a small fortune on two bottles of water. The charge for the Lightning Lane that allows you to jump the line was $58 per person. Do I really need to pay $116 for Callie and I to ride the Incredi-coaster? I think not.

But I saw all walks of life at Disneyland yesterday. The diversity was striking. The United Nations of Disney. I was struck by how patient and polite everyone behaved, especially when standing next to someone their social opposite. I heard "excuse me" and "thank you." I saw more grown men wearing Monster University baseball caps than LA Dodgers caps. Men and women driving those little scooters not running people over. Got a big hug from Pluto. Heard people speaking in French, Italian, Spanish, and a whole lot of Southern accents. Small crowds of gay men. Small packs of students with their high school class. Large family reunions. The tragically dressed. The impeccably dressed. A dad calming his very tired son on Small World (yes, we rode Small World, if only to see the character choking the chicken), asking if it was time to go back to the hotel and jump in the swimming pool, then maybe come back later for the parade.

You know what I noticed most of all? People just being themselves.

And it was wonderful. I only saw one guy with a blatantly political t-shirt or form of statement. Everyone was just getting along, waving at strangers on the train because that's what you do at Disneyland (yes, we rode the train), waiting for their own hug from Pluto.

I think we're all going to be just fine.

It's been a busy week with Taking Midway publicity. There's been a couple radio call-ins, a Zoom or two. I put on my best face and pick up the volume, then answer questions. There's no such thing as bad publicity and I'm enjoying every minute. The book is off to a good start. A lot of five-star Amazon reviews. There's always someone who sneaks in a three-star, or even a one-star, mostly based on issues having nothing to do with the book. Things like Springsteen in Manchester or the final chapters of Confronting the Presidents.

Some interviewers ask why I'm not working with Bill O' anymore. I just tell them fifteen years was great, but enough. No need to explain further. I think some people want to hear some terrible story, which just isn't the case. A fifteen-year relationship is hard to come by these days. Fourteen bestsellers and millions of books sold is the legacy.

It was time to go solo again. I'm a far better writer than I was fifteen years ago. The Taking books are stronger for all those years writing the Killing books. Not to disparage the Killing series, but the Taking books are better. More emotion. Better story. I'm seeing that in the reviews like the positive Wall Street Journal piece this week. I'm much more than a typist, as I was once described. I have a birthday coming up this week and many interviews ask if I plan to keep writing books. The answer is a definite yes. I plan to go out like William F. Buckley (or perhaps Nelson Rockefeller). Writing is like the air I breathe.

But Memorial Day has me thinking of what's next. I still need to find bandwidth to launch the podcast. Track season just ended, which means three weeks off before cross-country starts. I've got projects that will keep me busy writing through the end of September. With all the chaos in this house because of cancer and the busy writing and coaching schedule, you'd think I would embrace, say, a gap from October 1 until December 5 and the end of cross country.

I think, more than anything else, that I need to spend some of that downtime working on my health. I just had a great physical but this whole mind-body-life balance has me thinking of more than just selling books. I'd like to be more flexible, look less like a linebacker and more like the runner I've always been (let's just say the muscle and weight have been armor in a time of anxiety, as if might need to fight for my life. Now, it's time for that to go). I don't really need to run any more marathons but I sure would like to run up a mountain again. I'd also like to sleep better, not waking up at 3 a.m. to solve the world's problems.

I'll be 64 on Sunday for those keeping score at home. It's that point in life when your friends are celebrating their 70th, as happened to a buddy of mine last week. There was a slideshow. Lots of memories and smiles. I cried. Sometimes those slideshows feel like a summation, as if the celebration of life memorial service is next week. I don't buy into that. But I'm cognizant that there is a point where I need to start making a list of all the books I will regret on my deathbed not writing if I don't do them now.

Weird, isn't it? To steal a line from Ferris Bueller:

Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.

So today we celebrate the lives lost by our servicemen near and far by living our own lives to the fullest.

Taking Midway comes out tomorrow. I almost forgot. I mean, not really. I get paid on publication, which makes it worth remembering. It's getting great reviews. Also nice. But almost a year has passed since I finished. That's the nature of this game. You write a book. Make it the best you can. Then wait and wait and wait until it goes into stores.

That's not why May 20 crept up on me. Take last week. I flew out to Palm Beach to discuss a new project. I'd never been. Didn't know what to expect. It was well past midnight when I got to my hotel. Arrived in total darkness. Impossible humidity. Thick heat. Bugs making noise in the darkness.

I woke up to the most amazing ocean view. Went for a run on a path between the Atlantic and Lake Worth. Sweated through my shirt in about five seconds. FInished feeling ready and focused for my meeting, which lasted the better part of the afternoon and evening. Ended the day with dinner on a bar on the pier, sipping cold beer as the sky turned black and a storm rolled in. I've always loved a good tropical downpour and this was no exception. Just sat there listening to the rain pound the tin roof, strong warm wind washing over me. I could have sat there all night.

In the morning it was on to New York. I was there for Taking Midway publicity. Spent three hours in a studio with Julian Dorey, talking history and writing. I had no idea I could talk so long without a break but it was fascinating. Not sure when it comes out but I'll let you know. Really great discussion. Ended the afternoon with a call to Des Linden to talk about the running book. Had a scotch with my agent. Took the subway uptown to watch an all-star cast in Glengarry Glen Ross. Went to bed early, anticipating a 3 am wake-up for the predawn flight back to Orange County. Made it home in time for practice. In the middle of all this, I wrote a couple hours every day, proving once again that writing happens anywhere.

There's actually more to talk about, like the great day of racing at the track championships yesterday — a meet so great that not even three hours of LA traffic on the way home could diminish because I ended the drive with a Matador pizza from Ballpark.

Here's the thing: I went into the week thinking I might cancel the whole trip. Too busy. Too this. Too that. Bottom line is that I'm so enamored of my daily routine that I didn't want to bust out for a few days. So glad I did. So very glad.

And now I have a new book coming out. Calene tells me I need to work on my gratitude practice. So this is me saying thank you. Life is very good indeed. Let me know what you think of Taking Midway.

I don't know how it got to be May. There are boxes of Christmas decorations on the garage floor outside my office waiting for me to put them away. We're almost halfway to Christmas. Do I just leave them out? They're not bothering anyone.

I was listening to a podcast (Huberman Lab) the other day. He was talking about the auditory process, and how white noise helps people focus. As those Christmas decorations attest, I don't have that problem. When a project has me in its grip I can shut out everything else. This goes double when a book project combines with coaching to overwhelm my subconscious. It's a good problem to have if you're me, because my thoughts are never far from problem solving. People in my life suffer, however, because I let a lot of other balls drop. I can be distant, unreachable.

So it's nice when events collide to snap me awake. I found out we had a new pope as I was finishing a workout in O'Neill the other day. Mike the Homeless Guy keeps sentinel at the south entrance. When he's off his meds his rants can be alarming. But that morning, he just called out that we had "an American pope." Which is how I found out this landmark news. It was such an offbeat moment in history — I mean, who ever thought we would have an American pope? — that it completely rocked my thought process. Finding out he went to Villanova and is a Chicago White Sox fan (and regrettably, a Bears fan) made the pope feel like a regular guy. First time I can remember that being a thing. Then it turns out he's of Louisiana creole roots, with grandparents descended from slaves. Utterly mind-blowing.

And then the news that our president is being given a $400 million dollar aircraft. As a personal gift. From a foreign nation which harbored the 9/11 mastermind. Which claims it has no intention of using this gift to curry favor. And that he'd "be stupid not to accept it." I'll just leave that there. Not a profile in courage.

Then it was 100 degrees here in the OC this weekend. For the first time I can ever remember, a track meet was actually halted for several hours to allow for conditions to improve. I just ended up going home and streaming the rest. One of my runners benefited from the delay, posting a 17-second improvement in the two-mile.

So those three very divergent occurrences yanked me out of the creative cycle just in time for Mother's Day. The boys brought dinner. We all sat around and hung out, keeping the conversation very away from popes and presidents and track meets. Just a family sitting down and ignoring their phones for an afternoon. It was pretty amazing. A lot of love in the room.

Anyway, it's May, with all that implies. Time to put away the Christmas decorations.

I was walking through the grocery store parking lot, heading in to pick up a few supplies. Just minding my own business. A middle school kid on an e-bike swerved to miss an approaching car and braked to a sudden halt ten feet in front of me.

"How do you like my bike?" he yelled. Yelled. Like we knew each other.

It was sudden and unexpected, a character in a movie breaking the fourth wall and talking to the audience directly from the screen.

I have many opinions on e-bikes but they all make me sound like a grumpy old man. So I simply said, "Great."

"Do you know what it cost me?"

He looked too young to have a job. But maybe he mows lawns. I mowed a lot of lawns to make a buck when I was his age. But no one mows their own lawn in suburban Orange County, let alone go door to door to ask if the guy with the messy grass wants to pay to have it done. So I just gave the kid the benefit of the doubt and assumed he was very thrifty with birthday money from his grandparents.

"How much?"

"Six thousand bucks," he answered gleefully. And I do mean gleefully, as if he'd struck the mother lode.

"Good for you," I said, still walking. I tried to sound like I meant it. Sarcasm would have been mean. He zoomed away, no doubt in search of someone else with whom to share his good fortune.

As I walked into Pavilions, my first thought was, "This is great for the blog. I can't make this shit up."

My second was to mentally conjure the litany of petty meaningless gripes that bother me on a day to day basis: middle schoolers popping wheelies on e-bikes as they weave in and out of traffic, extended bed pickups sticking out into the middle of a parking garage, people who insist on halting the flow of traffic to back into parking spots, small yippy dogs, and on. Like I said, they all make me sound like a cranky old man. If any of these apply to you, please forgive me. I'm sure you have your own litany, one of which might include opinionated authors.

Then I got around to wondering why all those things bugged me, and I honestly had no idea. None of them inconvenience me all that much. They're part of daily life, but not part of my own life, meaning that we don't have a middle schooler or an e-bike in the house. They're just something I encounter out around town.

And I don't think it's about change. I'm a creature of routine and habit, but I have no problem with a wrinkle in the landscape. I was out running in O'Neill the other day, coming down a beautiful tree-covered trail known as Twisty Tire. A voice called out from behind, shouting for me to get out of the way. I turned to see a guy on one of those single-wheel motorized unicycles negotiating the rutted path. It annoyed me that he was on the path at all — park signs specifically stating that motorized vehicles are not allowed on the trails. But hey, I've trespassed enough and thumbed my nose at so many rules that I am not technically in a position to judge some guy who's on the verge of a gruesome crash because he made a bad life choice by bombing downhill on a mono-cycle. And did I mention that poison oak grows on both sides of that trail? That would be some crash.

I just think it's fun to be irritated now and then. Not complaining. Just the littlest bit ticked. OK, maybe cranky.

So I hope that kid enjoys his 6k e-bike. I also hope he purchases a helmet. That's his jam right now. Who am I to steal his joy?

This week is Trinity League finals for track and field. Frosh-soph and JV race Tuesday. Varsity on Friday. I may have been enormously busy over the last four months, or maybe just distracted, but the end of the season is coming way too fast. May will bring the section and championship races but the majority of my runners will be done by Friday.

Left unsaid is that cross-country training starts in mid-June, a few weeks of easy miles and team building before July's Mammoth Camp, start of school in August, then the season itself. I am definitely more of a cross-country guy, and have already been running stats to see what we need to do to play on the big stage at the State Meet and Nike Cross Nationals in November.

But I've changed the way I've coached over the last twenty years. The focus is on the daily process. Results can't be the goal. It's how you get there that matters. Then the results take care of themselves.

Which is why I'm a little discombobulated track is coming to an end. What bothers me is the six-weeks between seasons.

The process of designing workouts and showing up at 6 a.m. for our twice-weekly doubles is almost meditative. It puts my day in sharp focus. The runners make me laugh. I will drift when the season ends, a void in my day. I'll sleep a little longer without that 5 a.m. alarm and I won't have to cut my afternoon run short to make it to p.m. practice on time. But the extra three hours in my day will be a vacuum. is there an opportunity in that in-between?

The obvious thought is to work more. I've got a book on deadline. But a couple extra hours of writing isn't the answer. I call it work but it's not. Taking Midway comes out May 20, and I'm aware that the publication date of a book is as much a finish line as the State Meet. But in both cases it's the process that makes it fun. With coaching, it's the alarms and the hours spent wondering how much threshold work and race pace work a week might require. With writing, it's wondering what words or characters will make a story bigger and more enchanting. When I'm done with a book I'm as lost as I'll be when track season ends.

The London trip with Callie last week was the rare time I left the team mid-season. Fares were great and there was research that needed doing. We walked across the Tower Bridge's glass floor, visited our favorite paintings at the National Gallery, located the finish line for the 1908 Olympics. (It's worth noting that the bridge's glass floor doesn't cover the whole upper level. Just a section about thirty feet long. Wood and steel on each side, then that section of glass showing a long drop into the Thames — a void, a challenge, an in-between.)

At Waterstone's I picked up a copy of Paul Theroux's new book of short stories. An editor friend had just stoked my creative fires by sending the Springsteen Nebraska bio, Deliver Me From Nowhere. I should have saved them for the coming in-between break, but I finished one in a night and the other is halfway done. They got me out of my head, pulling me away from track and deadlines.

So that's the update for the week. It's been a year since I made the decision on Malta to go solo again. As you readers know, this time has not been without a few frights. But this process of coaching and writing is a most enjoyable salvation. I have one of those rare jobs where the work is more fun than the vacations. That short trip to London reminded me there's a big world out there, waiting to be explored. The in-between times don't need to be a period of drift, but a short break requiring their own special process. Those six-week of inactivity present a chance for a magic all their own, no different than the euphoria of walking across that glass.

"What's our gate?" I asked Calene. We were connecting through Denver.

"B43."

Wow. I'd waited sixteen years to pass through that gate again. My flight out of New York got delayed by weather back in 2009. I was there to have lunch with my agent and the guy who became my co-author. The flight landed so late during that particular Denver connection that I slept in the airport to make sure I got the very first flight out in the morning. That, and I was too cheap to pay for a hotel room for just four or five hours of sleep. Airport seats are separated into individual sections, making it impossible to lie down, so I slept on the floor behind the counter at Gate B43.

The old counter was tall and wide like a wall. So I could pretty much sack out without interruption. Airports are not quiet places late at night and into the early morning hours. Vacuums, floor polishers, workers talking loudly. I remember waking up a lot.

There was no emotional homecoming as Calene and I boarded. It was hard to tell my old sleeping spot because the new desk is more like a podium. We were on our way back from London after a research trip. I feel good about the sleuthing I did during our stay, finding all the things I needed to find, and a little more.

But I couldn't help but marvel at how my life has changed since that long ago night at B43. That was twenty books and more than a dozen bestsellers ago. Our sons graduated college. With Taking Midway coming out next month, one story idea being pitched is the notion that I'm one of the best selling historians in America, yet few people know my name. I don't bring that one up often, but I take a little delight in it. All of that happened since B43.

I became a better writer. I wasn't bad before, but I wasn't as confident. Into Africa, published in 2003, still sells a lot of books and gets five-star Amazon reviews. So does Farther Than Any Man, my first attempt at writing history.

I think the biggest change is that I'm not as competitive with other authors. I still keep score. The bestseller comment a few grafs up is proof. That vestige of my early career was more about being jealous about other people's success. Now I compete by trying to become a better writer, working out new ways to tell a story. I still haven't finished my fiction book yet. Which is proof that I'm still a work in progress.

B43 is just a gate. But it's also a reminder of God's blessings. I thought of that again this morning, when I woke up in my warm bed at home to hear the pope died. His message of prayer and gratitude resonated with me like no other spiritual leader. A lot going on in the world right now. Sometimes it's just nice to shut out the white noise and bad news — instead giving thanks for the little diversions life brings our way, and the people like Francis who remind us to look for them. If I hadn't slept in the airport that night I would not have remembered the significance of that life transition so well. But I did and I do. Sleeping on the floor was worth it.

I wonder how the Madagascan Martin Dugard is doing?

There is a British Martin Dugard, a speedway legend from Eastbourne. There is also a Dugard Corporation, which engineers machine tools. Facebook shows a bunch of other Martin Dugards.

But it's been thirty-two years since I was in Madagascar, covering the Raid Gauloises adventure race along the desolate southwest coast. It was my first big journalistic adventure. I flew literally halfway around the world (LA-London-Mauritius- Reunion-Antananarivo) and had to take three weeks off from my corporate job. The trip was the making of me, with temperatures so hot the French journalists knocked off ten degrees because no one in the Paris bureau would believe that it was more than 120 in the shade along the Mozambique Channel.

We passed the time in the Mangoky River, sitting up to our necks in the muddy water as we waited for teams to come through a checkpoint. That night, shining a headlamp out onto the water, all we could see were crocodile eyes reflecting off the light. We ate fresh zebu for dinner one night, though I chose not to look as the animal was slaughtered, butchered, and thrown in the stew pot by locals. Had to spit out the hairs from its coat as I dined.

Photo credit: Nathan Bilow

When we finally got to the finish line along a pristine white sand shoreline, the water was too shark infested to swim, but i did my best Peter Pan leap for a photographer. I missed my young sons and the "off to Neverland" bound was a way of saying I was coming home soon. Nathan Bilow took the shot, which is now framed on my office wall.

When I returned from Madagascar and got fired for having the temerity to take three weeks away from the cubicle, that photo cast the deciding vote in my becoming a professional full-time writer. Calene took a long look at the shot and swore she'd never seen me look so happy. The rest is family history.

I tell the story better in Surviving the Toughest Race on Earth, the saga of my adventure racing years. But one day during the Madagascar trip I stepped away from the competition to wander through some local wilderness. I was approached by three armed, uniformed policemen. They looked menacing, though when one is alone in a foreign wilderness and three gun-toting officials approach, everyone looks menacing.

One of them pulled out his notebook. "What is your name?" he asked.

I told him. "Please write it down," the policeman ordered.

He handed me a pencil and the notepad. I did as I was told, not sure if I was about to be arrested. I would have a similar experience ten years later in Africa and spend a few days as a prisoner in Sumbawanga, Tanzania.

The policeman looked thoughtfully at what I'd written. "My wife had a son today," he told me with a sudden smile. "We will give him this name."

I can't imagine the wife's reaction when he came home with that bright idea. Probably the same look when I told Callie I wanted to chase writing full time. But if that woman went along, the Madagascar Martin Dugard will turn thirty-two in November.

So I wonder how he's getting along. Just a thought. But I hope he does a little writing now and then.