One thing that is nice about seasonal work is the opportunity to shift gears and get involved in something new. This is what happens for me every spring and every fall. It keeps life interesting.
In recent months, I have implemented two additions to my routine, and I feel that they have made significant positive impacts to my quality of life.
Once we got the kitten out of the suitcase and our stuff packed, we flew to Las Vegas where Lisa Aiken -- equipped with camping equipment, food, and drinks for 3 people over 5 days -- picked us up and brought us to the concert site in Indio, California. We arrived at 4am. Of the three of us, Alison grabbed the most shut-eye -- about two hours. That first day, therefore, was a real marathon, but the evening's two sets of music were fabulous.
I have had the same email address on AOL since Al Gore first invented the Internet. And there are advantages to never having changed your address: for example, people all know your address. There are also disadvantages, like my Inbox is full of spam. Also, if you are an AOL user, you know that, unless you are diligent about saving messages, you lose them after a few weeks. Also, AOL's address book is really not user-friendly. 
In the words of Perry White, editor of the Daily Planet, a good photographer eats, drinks, and sleeps with his camera. They are never separated! Which, folks, is why I am not a good photographer, and it is why I have no real race-day photographs of October 11's Royal Victoria Marathon. I just never remember the camera! (The photo, incidentally, is of Ali and me at the ferry dock near Vancouver on our way to the marathon. We're so bad, we didn't even take any shots on the ferry!)
Mark Aiken high-fives an adoring fan
That's right, folks! In addition to my world domination of table tennis and cribbage, add Fantasy Football to the mix. I have joined Marty Courcelle's league -- an organization full of heavy hitters like Marty himself and the much-feared Lori Hennessey, just to name two. I have no idea how Fantasy Football works, what players are what, how games are scored, or -- except for a few members of the New England Patriots -- who even still plays in the National Football League. 
At last report, the Aiken tomato patch had been ravaged by tomato blight. Sadly, this situation is still the case; we have had to throw away over 100 tomatoes and many plants. Still, we have salvaged enough tomatoes to make 2009 our best year yet for the juicy red vegetable/fruits. 
I have reason to believe that my mechanic would have failed my vehicle had I brought it to him for my 2010 Vermont Vehicle Inspection. Obviously, I didn't wait around for the big "F" on the test; I went somewhere else. Where, I will add, I passed with flying colors.
I'm here to tell you about the best investment I ever made: my Triple A membership. Specifically, the emergency roadside towing service. I am currently driving a 2002 Honda -- an extremely nice car, by my standards. But, let me tell you, when you have a history of driving the kind of quality cars I have driven in my life -- starting with Old Betsy, the 1978 Jeep Wagoneer on through to the Stealth (1986 Chevy Cavalier, hatchback, black, undetectable by modern radar methods, that is, if by "modern" you mean circa 1890), to the run of Subarus I drove, right up through my old plow truck -- you need free towing!
I have to ask why. It's 84 degrees Fahrenheit and the humidity is 94 percent. So why -- why -- as I look across my field do I see a guy jogging down my road? It is 2:08pm, the sun is glaring down from the height of its trajectory in the sky, and the guy looks like he is having no fun at all. 
This is not a political blog, but I can't help but add my comments to the many editorial remarks that have been made following President Obama's reaction to the arrest of Harvard professor and historian Henry Louis Gates. 
I have lost count of how many Colchesters I have run. I did not participate during the event's inaugural year (I had never heard of a triathlon at that point), but I was there for the 2nd year as a 13-year-old ironman (that's what we called people who did the entire half-mile swim, 12.6-mile bike, and 3.5-mile run). I crashed my bike at Mile 1 that year, got up, and finished, covered in blood. With a first experience like that, it's surprising that I returned the following year.
But I did, and I'm thinking that I have run about 16 Colchesters. Some years I trained more than others (and some I didn't train at all). One year I participated on a team. One year, my gear bag got caught in my bike spokes (a bike on loan from Leigh Mallory) and I crashed on the way to the start. I got up from that crash too, but my helmet was cracked and the bike broke, so I never raced. I did, however, do the entire course later that day with a very sore shoulder and a wicked headache. Most years, however, things went -- thankfully -- uneventfully, like Sunday: a fast swim, a solid bike, and a quick 5K to finish feeling good with a respectable time.
I saw some familiar faces Sunday: Leighmo, as always, directing the whole event, Anita Dayvies, serving as head timer for the 25th year, Dave Bahrenburg, heckling runners -- I mean, doing the announcing -- Diane B. timing, Mr. Pecor all over the course doing everything, and, of course, Kathy Baumann, Amy Baumann, and Judy Robinson running the refreshment table as they have every year of the 25 year-old event.
Nothing gets things done like a deadline. 
As Independence Day nears, I think everyone should be thinking about what they can do to make the world a better place. Like riding your bike, bringing your own grocery bag to the store, eating food out of your own garden or local farmstand, and so forth. 
photo by Brian McMorrowThe Telltale Shoes
I dismounted my Schwinn Silver Shadow and locked it to the rack. I was dripping wet – my bike shoes squishing like sponges. It has rained biblically this week, but my plan was to ride. Don’t get me wrong; three or four people have offered me rides in cars. Kind, generous people. But I stuck to the plan, changing my clothes upon arrival, wrapping the wet stuff in a plastic bag, and attending my workshop.
Hours later, Pam Houston stands at the podium, reading from her next novel. I’m sitting front row center – I’m not sure why. Ordinarily, I never go for the front row unless it’s a Phish concert. Pam is reading about a unibrowed masseur performing some sort of exorcism to expel her father’s spirit from her lower extremity when I catch the first whiff. I’m not sure what it is. It’s not good.
Pam moves on to a beach in California somewhere, where she is petitioned by a sign-carrying dachsund who wants to play. I catch another whiff of the same something – I’m not sure what. I wonder if anyone else smells it.
I assess the situation. I have Pam on the podium reading to a full room, a person on my left, a person on my right, and my two bags under my seat. The doors are shut and the rain still falls. None of the other doors in the Work Center shut the way the ones in this common room do. And the body heat of the 40 or so people is as good as any heater. I’m warm for the first time all week. In the backpack is my notebook, assigned books, and computer. And in the plastic bag my bike pants, windbreaker, tech shirt, and shoes.
Another waft of putrid haze drifts past. It smells like a men’s locker room. Wait a minute. Those shoes were full of sweat and water this morning. In the cool damp of the classroom where I stashed them all day, all was well. Now, in this warm and stagnant air, I’m suddenly in a code red situation.
I smell it again. It’s the shoes; it’s the shoes; it’s the shoes.
There’s no escape. I look left and then right. All eyes are on Pam reading – something about love, the meaning of life, and the soup of the day. She reads, “Rick looks me in the eyes. He says…” She stops. She inhales, furrows her brow, and cocks her head slightly to the left. “…He says…” She stops again. The pollution from the bag has reached the front of the room. She grabs the podium with both hands, but it’s too late. Pam Houston’s body crumples to the floor in a lifeless heap.
I stand. I pick up the bag with my shoes and tuck it under my arm. I make for the door. I disappear into the night.
Sunday evening started like any other evening game at Boston’s Fenway Park. The sold-out crowd respectfully removed hats as four musicians clad in Red Sox jerseys approached the pitcher’s mound to sing the “Star Spangled Banner.” That’s where the similarities end. The Boston Red Sox – away on a three-game road trip – were nowhere to be found. And the four singers – Trey Anastasio, Jon Fishman, Mike Gordon, and Page McConnell, better known as Phish – made their way to a giant stage in the outfield before the storied Green Monster for their first-ever performance at Fenway.
It's been a long time since the five of us have been together in one place -- since August 15, 2004, in fact. I am speaking, of course, of Trey, Page, Mike, Fish -- the four members of Phish -- and me. That's right, this Sunday, Phish performs at Boston's Fenway Park, and I will be there.
Another Vermont City Marathon has come and gone. It's my 5th consecutive hometown race (the second longest such streak in the Aiken household... Alison has run the last 6), and it was a good one. Here are some notes from this year's event.
Let me tell you about today’s golf outing. First off, don’t mistake me for someone who is good at golf. I admit it; I’m terrible.
Check out my latest article -- about running a marathon in a foreign country -- in the May issue of Vermont Sports Magazine. Also, be sure to pick up your copy of Vermont Sports at SkiRack, PetraCliffs, or any Vermont sports shop. Enjoy!
When I lived in the West, every ski season was followed by an almost obligatory trip to the desert. The trip would serve as a symbol for the warm weather to come and for the imminent change of the seasons. Skiers spend three seasons waiting for winter to come. But each year there is one brief period in time -- the end of ski season -- when, not without some bittersweet feelings, we long for the sunny days of summer.
