The Human Side of Jogging

Jogging (or running) rhymes quite well with blogging, except that the former has been with us since our species became bipedal. While initially it was a function resorted to get to places faster, most times it was also a smart defense mechanism to escape from any imminent danger given that compared to the rest of the animal kingdom, our brute strength and size put us at great inherent disadvantage.

But it was in the 60’s and 70’s when we found yet another use for it, and invested it with the unique term, jogging, to denote a specific activity for specific purposes. Apart from the usual purposes, we elevated it as a form of physical exercise with the primary intent of pursuing a quite necessary ingredient in good living - keeping our bodies fit and limber, and in the process, our minds, too. It has been said that man is the only animal that needs exercise to keep fit. The others like lions, cheetahs, monkeys, etc. are fit because of the natural activities in their lives. Leading to this popular put-down, that man is the only animal who drives 7 miles to a park so he can run for 2 miles around it.

Jogging definitely has caught on rapidly with the entire world. We see its devotees in parks, tracks, mountain trails, and yes, even on city streets reeking with exhaust fumes. There must be millions and millions of them around the globe.

But for maybe an equally great number, it is still an activity to be shunned. The very mention of it as a form of physical exercise is enough to turn people off. Unquestionably, many of us are averse to the idea of having to sweat to get fit. Many would much prefer to choose from any of an unknown number of pills or equally great numbers of diet plans to arrive at such degree of fitness.

But what is missing in the present discussion, and those conducted most everywhere else, is that this function of jogging (or running) is also fun, albeit it is not all unalloyed pleasure. The activity itself, after many sessions and after gaining some degree of having adapted to and liking it, is fun; and even more fun because of the ensuing physical and mental benefits that undoubtedly spring from it.

You could take my word for that, since I have been at it for almost 20 years. And for that, I swear on my bible for running:

The Complete Book Of Running, the definitive work on jogging written by James F. Fixx who lived what he preached.

The lonely travails of a solo runner? Maybe.

But there is fun, too.

And the family who runs together, maybe also stays together?

The Sky Above Us

Lately, media has assaulted our already hyper-wracked senses with disturbing images of the sky, the firmament, the heavens, or call it whatever suits your fancy. Tell-tale images of the sky in various forms of man-made ugliness - smoke blackened, pock-marked, mottled and muddied. Most especially the skies around Israel and Lebanon.


The pristine as dawn blue skies that typically define our visual perception of Eden on earth has now been usurped by skies that clearly have been violated and trampled by the “dogs of war” – with brushstrokes created by rockets and artillery, by thick dark forbidding plumes emanating from targeted buildings and flesh. Sharp Imagery of contrails easelessly crisscrossing the void above our earthly sights, hurtling toward targets locked for destruction. Contrails that noiselessly herald their beginning to presage the oncoming mayhem that will be wrought on their projected points of impact.

Paradoxically, the succeeding images we feast our eyes on are the indescribable destruction wrought by these violations of the sky. Of buildings razed to the ground. Of grotesquely-countenanced mourners holding lifeless bodies of loved ones, with dirtied faces and teary eyes uplifted toward the same sky, clearly pleading for deliverance from their pains and suffering.

How ironic. That man desecrates the sky and still finds the temerity to look at the sky for deliverance. Since time immemorial, man has considered the sky as the abode of something or somebody greater than him. To him, the sky represents the delineation between his earthbound existence and that of an unfathomable unknown where resides things he is not fully capable of knowing and reaching. Thus, in prayerful supplications, we usually have our voices and eyes lifted upward to the heavens. In deep awe and reverence.

It is of little surprise then that lately almost as a conditioned reflex I have turned upward, toward the Pacific coast, to recapture endearing memories of once beautiful and almost mystical images of skies lit to different brilliant colors, obvious temporal displays authored by a Being quite prideful of His work.


Unsurprisingly, one still finds the beautiful imageries of sky everywhere else one looks, undaunted and undiminished by the ugliness visiting it in other parts of the firmament.

And as if in obvious taunt, it shows more of what is in store for those willing to view the sky as a vision of beauty, grace, and omnipotence, and not a medium for bringing death and destruction to the earth below.

This time it requires some fees for viewing, a sort of entrance fee as a way of making sure that those who view, view it with purpose and effort, and not simply by accident of looking at a sky that is after all everywhere man turns.


Where else but in the not readily accessible and inhospitable environment of Antarctica, where the omnipotent Resident of the sky opts to show yet another display of grandeur – a sky looming like an iridescent mother of pearl (nacre).

The Beheading Of John The Baptist

One of, if not the most, menacing ugliness in these current but protracted conflicts between Christians and Muslims has been to me personally the gruesomeness and senselessness of the graphic beheadings we have witnessed in media and elsewhere. To date I still cannot fathom or make sense of the need to behead one’s “enemies”. Especially in the deliberately brutal manner they are carried out, quite a departure from those old antiseptically-done procedures that do not faze polite society as much, such as those done through the French guillotines or even those executed by the Japanese Kempetai with their lethal samurai swords which were used in the Philippines during the last world war. Sudden, Swift and Clean.

My short term memory comes replete with recent images of the beheadings that I have allowed myself to consume and store internally. From the most current, of the two US soldiers in Iraq, to the one done by the Abu Sayyaf rebels to an American named Sembrano. From the one of Nick Berg, to another American worker, and yes, even that of Daniel Pearl. Throw in the other stories I have read about of Moslem rebels in Mindanao who beheaded captured soldiers, and adding insult to injury, cut their genitals and stuff them in their mouths.

Enough memories for any sane man to try to escape from these gruesome images, to a place of serenity, of profound mystical truths, of a place to celebrate man’s more noble ordination. A place such as Holy Scripture.

But lo and behold, I open up the recommended daily reading for July 30th in Christ In The Gospel, published by the Confraternity of the Precious Blood ( April 1949 edition), and I am brought to the sixth chapter of Mark’s Gospel, where he narrates the beheading of John the Baptist by King Herod.

Quite dispassionately, and almost nonchalantly, Mark describes the beheading thus:

And grieved as he was, the king, because of his oath and his guests, was unwilling to displease her. But sending an executioner, he commanded that his head be brought on a dish. Then he beheaded him in the prison, and brought his head on a dish, and gave it to the girl; and the girl gave it to her mother.

Mark does not say more about where the head went next, except to end that the disciples took John’s body and buried it in a tomb.

A little historical background may aid our understanding of this almost unnecessary beheading.

Though the Jews were under Roman rule during that time (Remember hand-washer Pontius Pilate? He represented Rome in that part of the empire.), King Herod ruled over the small Jewish state. He himself was not even considered a Jew, since his mother was of Arabian descent and his father was Idumean.

To his credit, Herod actually liked John the Baptist and found him interesting and intelligent. It was his current wife, Herodias, erstwhile wife of Herod’s brother, Philip, who disliked John because he had commented that their union was not lawful.

It was the dance of the virginal Salome, daughter of Herodias, that would seal the fate of John. History would label this, the dance of the seven veils. Seven? A reference to the 72 promised virgins in Allah’s heaven?

Impressed by her dancing, Herod promises Salome anything she wants. Salome asks mom. Mom asks for the head of John. And so be it!

John loses his head at the hands of a non-Jew king.

What can anybody make of this?

What Could Lead to A Blogger Burnout?

Graphics Credit


And incivility, maybe?

First observed how civility in public discourse in the blogosphere appears headed for the wayside, in Bloghopping: Uplifting or Unraveling?

And now, read who the first casualties may be:

James Joyner of OTB voices his concern and provides some details and recommendations:

Wizbang’s Paul has hung it up, I think for good this time, saying “It just ain’t fun anymore.” The last straw was a recent flamewar he got into with Ace but he’s been tired of the travails of blogging for quite some time. Coincidentally, his colleague, Jay Tea, is taking a hiatus having just helped a friend get through his father’s dying days.

My least favorite part of the “blog job,” though, is the incivility in comment threads and the occasional cross-blog flamewar. While OTB’s comment threads are quite civil compared to most blogs of comparable traffic, there are a handful of regulars who forget the number one rule of our site policies: “Remember that the people under discussion are human beings.” The follow-on — “Comments that contain personal attacks about the post author or other commenters will be deleted. Repeated violators will be banned. Challenge the ideas of those with whom you disagree, not their patriotism, decency, or integrity.” — is something that I’ve largely refrained from enforcing, since it’s a lot of work and I hate to alienate regular visitors. (Underescoring mine)

Professor Bainbridge agrees we should have civility:

James Joyner balances his desire to avoid offending regular readers of his blog against his desire to avoid having his "comments section be an unfriendly place." I've tried to let my comments section be a free speech zone and to date have banned only three posters whose nastiness proved intolerable. Long live civility!

Bruce of Gay Patriot agrees, too, and does more: (Immediately deletes the first comment for his blog entry)

Commenting and Trackbacks: Commenting and trackback/pingback capability is provided to encourage thoughtful discussion of the ideas posted on this site. We welcome open debate and viewpoints that differ from those of the post authors. That said, we wish to keep the conversation civil and the following policies, subject to change without notice, apply:

Remember that the people under discussion are human beings. Comments that contain personal attacks about the post author or other commenters will be deleted. Repeated violators will be banned. Challenge the ideas of those with whom you disagree, not their patriotism, decency, or integrity.

The use of profanity stronger than that normally permitted on network television is prohibited. A substantial number of people read this site from an office or in a family environment.

The several comments on James Joyner's blog entry appear in agreement that ad hominem or personal attacks have no place, even in comments; on the other hand, being too stringent may inhibit open discussions.

But bloghosts have to make this delicate and at times difficult choice:

"....balances his desire to avoid offending regular readers of his blog against his desire to avoid having his "comments section be an unfriendly place."

"Just remember that by “making a few folks mad” you’re also making the majority of your readers and commenters much happier."

Hoping To Catch A Glimpse Of Mike Arroyo And Son Mikey

Approaching SF:(Click on pictures to enlarge)

July 21st, Friday, was a trying day for us, trying to survive the heat wave that was gripping the entire Continental USA, with temperatures soaring as high as 114F, even in the normally cool Bay Area where cool breezes from the Pacific Ocean normally provide the buffer for any heat onslaught from the summer sun. Fog sheets that stubbornly tarry till the late mornings and eagerly make early showings in the afternoons can always be counted to cool the area, bringing down temperatures by as much as 20 degrees compared to inland areas

So what better time to take that trip to the coast, to Baghdad by the Bay, San Francisco, and Fogtown, Daly City. Egged on further by the naughty possibility of catching a glimpse of First Gentleman, Mike Arroyo, and political son, Mikey, who were said to be billeted in a downtown hotel, reportedly brought to the Bay Area by the arrest of former Agriculture Undersecretary, J. Bolante, in southern California for “visa-related” problems.

With the wife and three grandkids in tow, we were on our way by 9 a.m. for the 70 mile trip hoping to take advantage of the HOV lanes for vehicles with three or more passengers. We got to the Bay Bridge toll gate just in time to also get a free pass for having more than 3 passengers.

Coming from our Tracy side, from the East Bay, getting to San Francisco is much like meeting the most beautiful girl for the first time, in grand and exciting fashion. As one climbs the upper deck of the elongated Bay Bridge, which stretches 4.5 miles from end to end, one begins the process of actually meeting face to face that most beautiful girl for the first time. As the veil of anticipation is lifted coming out from the dark Treasure Island/Yerba Buena tunnel, the searing spectacle of the San Francisco skyline opens up in Cinemascope grandeur as the upper deck slithers through at treetop level the downtown area. The resplendent and familiar skyline looms large and inviting at a comfortable distance, close enough for one to recognize the many familiarly notable building structures.

We had to hold on to our bursting impatience, however, since we had decided to park the truck in Daly City and ride on rapid transit, BART. Friday was also the annual Spare The Air Day, the annointed date when all public transportation, trains, buses and even the fabled cable cars, would be free to the riding public for the entire day.

After a little grocery shopping session, purchasing fresh fruits and vegetables, Filipino bread, and the universally-liked dumplings, siopaos to those familiar with Chinese cuisine, we dug in for a little lunch. Ample preparation for our rigorous day of a walking tour of SF downtown. Dressed comfortably in t-shirts, jeans or shorts, and my handy Canon Powershot in ever-readiness, we were on our way by 1 p.m.

Bart Station:


A brisk walk to the Colma BART station served to raise our energies up and prepare us for the 20 minute sedentary ride that would take us downtown. About six station stops later, we were ready to disembark at the first downtown station, Powell Street.

Emerging from the musty bowels of BART’s below street level station, we immediately basked in sunlight made hospitable by a steady cool breeze, very usual in SF downtown. Even in the thick of summer, including Indian summers grade, SF always enjoys steady cool breezes that meander through between tall skyscrapers, giving the impression of wind channels operating around the city. And as is usual with that kind of climate, sun-loving San Franciscans and the many tourists that crowd its hotels were all out in unabashed celebration, in their most undressed fashion. Swarms of tight tank tops, short shorts, and those now ubiquitous low-riding pants were in abundance. SF men’s fashions have not really veered much over these years, but the women’s have been taken to some highs and quite literally to record lows. Now so many things are taken for granted and accepted. Tank tops that cover only half of the upper torso and pants that have gone basically south, seemingly restricted downward only by nature’s unique placement of where the pubic hairline is. Pants of course do not go ankle-deep, mostly just knee-deep.

Nikko Hotel:



Anyway, with such pesky distraction resolved and set aside, we proceeded to climb a couple of blocks around the area of Union Square, anchoring a centerpiece which is a rather ancient monument memorializing Admiral Dewey’s naval exploits in the Philippines’ Manila Bay during the Spanish-American War. A left turn and we were at the front entrance of Nikko Hotel, the purported place where Mike Arroyo was supposed to be billeted. Staked the place for several minutes, making mental notes of the passersby and clandestinely stealing some picture shots from three sides of the hotel building. Though compatriots darted in and out of the hotel and from business tenants around the hotel, no clear sign of any Arroyo presence. Shared some uncomfortable moments when I had to stare at a couple of compatriots hoping to waken in me any possible latent signs of familiarity, and they in turn stared back. But no such luck and the antsy disposition of my walking companions finally convinced me to move on.

Union Square:



Next we parked ourselves in Union Square, where an art exhibit was in progress. And where also a good many of regular lunchtime habitués were either finishing up their Styrofoam-encased lunches or sprawled on the lush green lawns that border the park square for a few minutes of sun-worshipping. Seen more compatriots, some transparently tourists but mostly employees of businesses around the area enjoying a piece of their lunch break. Still no determinable sign that Arroyo or his group was around. Sidled close to some passerby to catch snippets of their conversations and maybe connect some of the dots.

A few more minutes of leisurely sleuthing and finally, thirst and hunger dictated the next move. So we hied toward Chinatown, a few blocks away. A round of dimsum and soda gave us our fill. And we were ready again for some strenuous walking, up and down the undulating hills of San Francisco.

Yerba Buena Gardens:



We headed toward the general direction of Yerba Buena Gardens in South of Market (SoMa), the newly rennaisanced and recently heavily invested area of SF. And where a good number of FilAms also reside, mostly elderly FilAms ensconced in high-rise affordable housing units. New, bright, and spanking buildings now circle the entire area which used to be referred to as the seedy and decrepit South of Market area. After the initial auspicious upgrade of the Moscone Convention Center some years back, suddenly the entire area has been transformed to an enviable sight at par with the rest of the city, and in some respects even better. Now as if to not completely obliterate vestiges of the past, the old and solitary St. Patrick Church along Mission St., continues to stand as proud sentinel pointing to its gloried past, impressive in its deep dark golden hue emitted by its brick structure, quite anachronistic in a newly-invigorated neighborhood of tall buildings hued mostly in drab gray or brown.

Many FilAms point to this church as their parish and as far as I can remember there has always been a FilAm priest to minister to its ethnic parishioners. Yerba Buena Gardens, with its modern urban greenery hemmed in the middle of the imposing structures around, is also where many FilAm events are held.

Again a nice menagerie of interesting scenery and pictures, but no sign of our enticing targeted celebrities.

4 o’clock p.m. found us loitering inside one of the buildings called Metreon, which specializes in kids’ games and movies, and exhibits. Got awed by a miniaturized mock-up of the ship Titanic and gushed at one of its original gigantic bell whistles displayed in the lobby.

Tired and a bit personally disappointed, we trudged to the way out and proceeded toward one of the BART stations along Market Street, some three blocks away.

Ronald Reagan and St. Patrick Church:


And we paid our final lazy farewell to a life-size bronze statue positioned outside but still inside the garden area. He looked like the late Ronald Reagan, last famously known as two-term US president but also known to Californians as one of its colorful and engaging governors. Funny but the statue showed him with multiple arms and legs. Couldn’t find any plaque explaining the obvious freakness. But knowing San Franciscans, I did not bother to learn more. Anything resembling weird, bizarre, out of this world, unearthly, etc., one can find it in San Francisco.

Exhausted but cradled comfortably by our BART seats, the trip back to Daly City was quite uneventful. The free fare day sure brought out a lot of residents, out of pallid existence indoors into a hot date with sunlight tanning.

Thus ended my little sleuthing trip disguised as a walking tour of downtown San Francisco.