A Long Marin Weekend…four days of all we could pack in

Starting with the graduation of our oldest son, Miles, and finishing with a cross-country foot race, a street festival and a celebratory barbecue, our family spent the long weekend indulging in various Bay Area traditions and delights whose schedules neatly avoided collision, and left us happily exhausted.

The festivities began on a cool, sunny afternoon on the San Rafael High football field. Ellen’s mother Lois had driven up to stay with us, and as we all took our places in the bleachers, we surveyed the neat rows of white chairs facing a raised platform, which had been decorated with crepe paper and potted plants. The San Rafael High band (less its seniors) launched into “Pomp and Circumstance” and the procession of graduates entered through a tunnel of faculty members and greenery. We spotted Miles, whom we had instructed to smile for the photos. As he approached, his face was frozen into a stony glare. “He looks like he’s being tortured,” I whispered to Ellen. “He’s probably just nervous, “ she replied, and I hoped she was right.

Speeches were made, music played, and the procession to receive diplomas began. Miles was among the first to make the walk up to the platform, have his name read aloud, receive his red cardboard object (not a diploma, they wouldn’t be released until August)
shake hands, and return to his seat. Soon thereafter, we noticed him chatting up the girl standing next to him, and realized that he had loosened up and seemed to be enjoying himself. Every student had a moment where their name was read aloud, followed by applause. Some of the students had apparently brought their own cheerleaders…one in particular sounded as though she could have sung the national anthem at AT&T Park without a microphone…and others merited only polite applause. I wondered if it was a popularity thing or the fact that some graduates invited their entire extended families. We clapped as kids we had known for years stepped up to be acknowledged, and laughed as Miles’ friend Marcus sported a daisy tucked behind his ear. (I doubt that he would have gotten away with a gardenia.) Miles seemed happy in the company of his friends, and posed for a series of photos that ranged from cute to goofy.

After a celebratory dinner at the Buckeye Restaurant in Mill Valley, Miles joined the Grad Night excursion to the Scandia game complex in Fairfield. He was expected back around 4 am, which meant that we probably wouldn’t see him until the following afternoon but he surprised us with an appearance mid-morning. We had Giants tickets for the night game, and knowing Lois had planned to stay with us, had gotten an extra ticket. She gamely walked the quarter-mile from our favorite parking lot to the stadium, and found the stadium food to be better than acceptable (a Cha-cha bowl and chicken Caesar salad from Orlando’s Barbecue in center field). The Bonds-less Giants tried their best, but couldn’t muster enough firepower to outscore the suddenly-hot Pirates.

Saturday dawned grey and overcast…an ominous beginning to a day we had planned to spend on Mt. Tamalpais at the annual Mountain Play, which this year was “Fiddler on the Roof.” The plan was for me to drive up in the morning and secure seating for six, and occupy myself for several hours while the rest of the party got a picnic together and hopped on a shuttlebus. Towards the top of the mountain, I broke through the fog and realized that it would be sunny at the top. Once I had staked out a suitable spot, I called with the weather report and the location of our seats. While I waited, I was treated to previews of a couple of scenes and the sound of an amplified violin playing the familiar melody. Various other pre-production tasks were carried out (such as a man who came out to water down a cow that was part of the set) and as the start of the play approached, everyone arrived and we situated ourselves and shared some sandwiches and salads. The performance was heartfelt and engaging…the Tevye character was bombastic, energetic and thoroughly charming and the music had a healthy dose of klezmer to keep it from being too generic. Happy and sunburned, we descended the mountain, got Lois to her car and on her way to another social occasion, and returned home for a low-key evening of visiting with our sister-in-law Susan, who we don’t see as oftern as we’d like, and some pasta dinner.

The pasta was a traditional preparation for the following morning’s activity…the Dipsea footrace. I’ve written about this before, but briefly, it’s a 7-mile footrace from Mill Valley over the shoulder of Mt. Tam to the coastal town of Stinson Beach. It’s limited to 1500 participants, handicapped by age and sex (a ten-year-old girl won it one year, more recently the winners have tended to be 60-somethings) and a beautiful but challenging trek through redwood groves, slippery slides, ankle-breaking steps and breathtaking coastal vistas en route to a finish line accompanied by an announcer and a middle-school marching band. It’s glorious fun, and I try not to miss it if at all possible. Nursing a sore leg left over from the Los Angeles Marathon in March, I had fared disastrously in a practice run over the course just ten days before, therefore my training featured little running and lots of hill-climbing and stretching. Ellen graciously drove me to Mill Valley in time to pick up my race bib at 8:00, and we hung out near the Depot to watch the start of the race. My group (54-year-old men, 11-year-old boys and women 19-39) was scheduled to start at 9:10, so we had some time to kill. Soon our friend Terry Parks (an ultramarathoner with multiple 100-mile races to his credit) showed up with the original silver Dipsea trophy (its long and shaggy history is also recounted elsewhere) filled with water. Terry was blessing runners with Dipsea “holy water,” muttering ersatz Latin as he sprinkled a few seekers with Dipsea mojo. Soon a minor stir was created as an ancient creature with a walker moved in our direction. It was Jack Kirk, the “Dipsea Demon,” a legendary figure who had run more than 60 races and continued until he was about 96. Now nearing 100, his running days were behind him but he has become an icon among Dipsea runners, and both Terry and a newspaper photographer converged on Jack as Terry blessed him and the photographer clicked off a few shots. I captured the scene with Terry’s camera…the other photographer’s image would land on the Marin Independent Journal website before the day was over.

Before I knew it, I was in the starting gate, getting ready to head down Throckmorton. I hoped I’d be able to run as far as the Dipsea steps, a point at which nearly everyone slows down to a walk as there are 692 steps. Encouragingly, I was able to keep up with the group past the crowd gathered on either side of the street, and make it to the steps at a relaxed jog without anything hurting. Unless I went into the fast lane (with those in a big hurry, who tend to be young and heedless) I was limited to the speed of the person in front of me, which suited me fine as I was able to conserve energy. Once at the top of the steps…more uphill. Then down, down to Muir Woods and the creek that spans its middle. Leg feels good, I can keep up with these people. Across the creek, then up. And up. Something that feels like rain falls on my head. I continue. Up. Then there is a clearing. Then up. After going up some more, I reach the crest of “Cardiac” and can smell the ocean for the first time. This is the moment every Dipsea runner cherishes, knowing that it is almost all downhill to Stinson Beach. I’m able to air it out a little, as downhill landings don’t seem to aggravate my injury. I pass a few people. I realize I have plenty of gas left, and it’s a good feeling. As the finish line approaches, I see if I have a sprint left in me. I don’t, but am able to manage a reasonably strong-looking effort, documented by Terry’s camera. We find our friend George, who ran a goodly distance ahead of me, and his wife Cindy, and discuss getting together later at a barbecue hosted by Terry. But first, there is another event to go to: The Italian Street Painting Festival.

Every year (and seemingly also on Dipsea Day) San Rafael closes off a couple of downtown blocks, paves them over with a smooth black finish, and turns them over to hundreds of artists who paint sections with chalk, using techniques and imagery that span a range from Renaissance recreations to surrealistic Photoshop composites involving Pez dispensers. Most of the art ranged from pleasing to spectacular…many artists used a combination of a unique vision and superior rendering skills to create startling canvases on the smooth black asphalt. Some of Tyler’s classmates were involved, and we viewed the sections painted by his school as jazzy sounds filtered in from around the corner. Soon it was time to go home and refresh ourselves for the barbecue to come.

We arrived at Terry’s house for the hastily-arranged Dipsea Tribute event, where we were joined by George and Cindy, mutual friends Jeff and Libby, and a couple we met for the first time, Allen and Ingeborg. A wonderfully Californian spread of salad, roasted asparagus, chicken breasts and salmon sustained us through a lively and fun discussion, which had to do with the misadventures of our teenage children and an unfortunate baking incident in which Terry mistook spackling paste for flour. By the time dessert was finished, all of us were feeling the effects of the weekend, and rose to say goodbye at nearly the same instant. Soon we were home in bed…sleeping off four days during which we graduated a son, caught a ball game, traveled up Mt. Tam twice, attended a festival and got invited to dinner. Next weekend should be a little more low-key…all we’re doing is celebrating our anniversary.