And the best picture is . . . .

The Academy Awards for 2017 are upon us.  When they started nominating ten or more movies for Best Picture, I lost interest because I hadn't seen many or most of them.

It was too bad a winnowing process, with too many pictures vying for the top prize.  But I have seen Three Billboards in Missouri recently, a picture nominated for the Oscar, and I was stunned. 

It was wryly funny at first, but then it got real and horrifying, as the horrifying under-pining of the story would suggest.  (A raped and burned to death teenage girl, whose mother had cavalierly, unknowingly, invited her to walk to her destination instead of using the family car.)  There wasn't a sound in the theatre for the last hour as everyone watched, engrossed in the unfolding story as to the gruesome, oh-so-human consequences of each woman's choice.

And the ending is ambiguous, so it can finish (does anything ever finish, except school terms and life?) anyway a rapt, involved viewer thinks it should.  What a tightly constructed story, with excellent writing coupled with superior acting, and I think it should win the big prize.

Yawn, yet another 3K.

A week ago yesterday I ran a special edition of the free noontime Tidal Basin 3K Race. The RRCA had a Run To Work Day for its 50th Anniversary, as I understand it, and the DC representative set up a Friday running of this monthly 3K race, normally sponsored by my running club, the DC Road Runners.

It was a sparse turnout. At noon, the sponsor was begging people jogging by on noontime runs to participate in the race. A workmate of mine ran by, halfway through a six-mile monument run, and I waved him over. He was game, although he had never run a 3K race before. I told him not to start too fast and then to kick it up as he felt comfortable.

Secretly I was pleased. I knew I was faster than this workmate. I have been remiss so far because I have only been successful in persuading workmates to run this race who are faster than me.

My doppelganger Peter was there and I gave him the disinformation that I felt really bad that day. He laughed me off knowingly and then told me he felt bad.

Off we went at noon, eleven of us. The runners froze into place a quarter mile down the road when I ran by Peter, as customary (he often runs by me again the last quarter mile) and Gary ran by me a short while later, as usual. After that, no one changed places anywhere in the race, it just gradually widened out.

I ran well. The guy in front of me steadily stretched out his lead over me, a process repeated all up and down the food chain ahead of me and behind me. I finished sixth in 12:52 (6:55). Woo hoo! I broke 13 minutes for only the second time this year (12:59 in April was the other time). My mile mark was 6:49, and my 2K mark was 8:37, exactly the same as two days earlier. But somehow on Friday I ran the last 1K eight seconds faster than on Wednesday. Go figure.

My workmate ran an excellent 14:04 (7:33) and he came in DFL among the men. Is this a tough race or what?

Afterwards there was trouble. A Parks Policewoman in a plain wrapper spotted us, a small knot of emaciated men and women in short clothes gathered around a plain folding table holding a water jug and cups set on the grass by street's edge at the intersection of Ohio Drive and FDR Drive, 3/4 mile from the Jefferson Memorial and 1/4 mile from the FDR Memorial. She parked alongside us, got out of her sneaker and strutted over to ask for our "permit" to "gather" on Park Service land. The race sponsor said he thought that as long as the "gathering" was under 25 persons, no permit was needed.

"That's just for demonstrations," she said, "not gatherings. And no permit has ever been issued for here. Well?"

I didn't help matters when I blurted out, "Free Tibet!"

She lectured us and told us to read the "regulations" (sure, we'll get right on it) because "it's all in there." Grandly saying she'd "let it go this time," she contemptuously surveyed our pathetic, sweating skinny little group standing there in abbreviated clothes acting as respectful as possible. Then she parked her fat ass in her unit and left. Bah!

Old Cop Cars

A few posts ago, during National Police Week here in DC, I tole you about Colorado State Trooper Zach Templeton, who was taken from us in October at age 27 by a careless teen-age driver. He left behind a daughter, who was the joy of his life.

I didn't know Zach, but I worked with his type when I was a Colorado State Patrolman from 1980 to 1987 and I would have trusted Zach with my life. I always say, if you need help immediately because you're in desperate straits, find a trooper. S/he will act right away to resolve your problem.

Here is Zach's name on the National Law Enforcement Memorial wall here in DC.

I got my pictures back from that week. Enjoy.

Here is the Massachusetts State Police band.

Next is an old squad car. Its hood is up, the universal sign of trouble on the highway. Somebody call a trooper.
Here's another old police car. When I started work for the state patrol, we had two dome lights on top, one blue and one red. That was quite an advancement from the single flashing light on top. You didn't turn them on, you activated them. By the time I left to go to law school, we had a bar of emergency equipment across the top. Progress.

The National Police Week in DC was international. Here are some London bobbies attending the tribute to fallen officers at the the memorial. Do you know why they're called bobbies? I do. Because Sir Robert Peel was responsible for putting the first policemen on the beat in London. Don't know who Robert Peel was? I can't do everything for you. Google him. Or as Stephen Colbert would say, check his wikiality.

Lastly, here's another old squad car. Doesn't it look fast? When I started with State Patrol, we had standard old Chrysler six-cylinders. Man were they powerful. They could get up to speed real fast and go 140 MPH.

Myself, I didn't like going over 90 MPH, and the once or twice I actually went 130 MPH, when there was no traffic and I thought an officer might be in trouble, terrified me. Grimly I went, hands compressing the steering wheel. But you gotta get there. Any trooper would have done the same for me.

He ain't heavy...

I didn’t know him but I feel close to him.

Zach Templeton was 27 when he died in October on a divided highway outside of Denver. He was in the grassy median where he had stopped to help a motorist wrestle a 22,000 gallon plastic water tank back onto the trailer from whence it had fallen. Scott Hinshaw, 38, was also there helping.

Traffic was crawling past the men. When I was a State Patrolman, we called these drivers who slowed down to gawk at roadside spectacles lookie-loos. They are a menace.

Seventeen year old Cody Loos was driving down the road searching the floorboard of his pickup truck for some sunflower seeds to chew on. Such is the price of a man’s life, some sunflower seeds. Loos glanced up to see that traffic was almost stopped immediately in front of him and he jammed on his brakes. His pickup skidded, slid into the median and slammed into Templeton and Hinshaw. Templeton was killed and both of Hinshaw’s legs were badly broken.

No drugs or alcohol were involved. Only sunflower seeds.

The two men lay like crumpled dolls on the ground under Loos’ truck. Moments before, both had looked powerful and resplendent in their Colorado State Patrol uniforms. The blinking emergency lights on their now-empty units added a terrible stridency to the suddenly-chaotic scene.

This is National Police Week in DC. Hundreds of police officers from all over the world are in town to honor the thousands of fallen American peace officers whose names are inscribed on the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial. On Saturday there was a 5K race run in commemoration of the event. Last night there was a service for fallen officers at the Memorial.

I attended and perused the personal tributes laid upon the wall in memoriam. I was a Colorado State Patrolman for seven years and I know the names of several of my then-brethren, and others, who are there.

Some are legendary in Colorado State Patrol lore, like Trooper Tom Carpenter, who was abducted and forced to drive around in his patrol car by his assailant, who held his own service weapon to his head. Before he was brutally killed, Carpenter desperately engaged in outlandish radio traffic as a signal of trouble but no one caught on, and radio protocol was changed after his tragic murder.

As I walked the wall of heroes, I saw a CSP shoulder patch laid by a picture of a virile young man familiarly dressed in sky blue epaulet shirt and french blue slacks with a charcoal gray stripe. One of my own, a Colorado State Trooper taken in October. I reflected upon the photograph showing a strong man of youth and promise, noted the name and went home to research Zachariah Templeton.

So senseless was the devastating accident that claimed the trooper's life that Colorado State Patrol Chief Colonel Mark Trostel, in assuagement, could only conclude that God must have called away Templeton for duty, because never again would Templeton’s three-year old daughter feel his strong hands holding her, nor would his family and friends ever again be cheered by his infectious smile. Hinshaw is still working determinedly to recover from his traumatic leg injuries.

Loos, now 18, expressed remorse at a hearing in March while pleading guilty to careless driving resulting in death, a misdemeanor. Perhaps worse than the sentence he received, two years probation and 300 hours of community service, was having to face several of the victims of his act and listen to their outpouring of understandable rage, bitterness and grief.

Five months afterwards, Trooper Hinshaw would need a wheelchair to attend the sentencing hearing. He felt a guilt that was "absolutely unbearable" that he had survived while Templeton hadn’t. He wished he could have changed places with Templeton. Hinshaw addressed Loos, and spoke of forgiveness.

"I am willing to stand with you and do this community service with you and help you honor this man right here. You messed up, Cody, and that one decision cost a life. [However] I refuse and do not want you to let this ruin your life. ... Be better than you can ever be, always strive to be better, always be unhappy with where you are in life. Carry on, brother, we’ll get better."

The Colorado State Patrol released a statement afterwards that said in part: After the tragic loss of Trooper Templeton and the devastating injuries to Trooper Hinshaw, "our focus has been on assisting the Templeton and Hinshaw families through these trying times." Hopefully the conclusion of the criminal case will allow the Templeton and Hinshaw families "to seek closure and turn a new chapter in the healing process. ... It is also our hope that the healing process may begin for the Loos family as well."

Amen.



In Memoriam to 24 Colorado State Patrol Officers.

An arresting encounter

It seems like all of my recent "encounter" posts involve the police. Here is the closest I think I ever came to getting hauled in while running.

I was running the route of the National Half Marathon with David shortly before its inaugural running. We left RFK and ran down the north side of Constitution Avenue, essentially, to the White House. There along the Ellipse we encountered a construction area where part of the broad open field leading up to the the back fence line of the White House was being landscaped. The sidewalk and parking lane of Constitution were blocked by a temporary chain link fence. A nearby sign read in bold letters, Sidewalk Closed, Use Other Side. (Below: The Ellipse. Constitution Avenue runs along the bottom of this picture, taken from atop the Washington Monument. You can see the National Christmas Tree at the top of the Ellipse)

We had just run five miles in forty-three minutes but we were too lazy to cross the six lanes of Constitution Avenue. Constitution is too busy a street to be running in a traffic lane.

There was a two-foot gap in the fence which led into the construction area. I squeezed through and David followed. This was not a good idea.

We ran along Constitution on the inside of the temporary construction fence. Ahead of us I could see a marked police unit swing out onto Constitution from where three or four cruisers typically sit blocking the entrance way of the road leading into the Ellipse. The road is closed to traffic but the Ellipse is open to pedestrians.

The squad car slowly cruised down Constitution and stopped at the point where we had entered the construction zone. Meanwhile we ran two more blocks and discovered we were in a dead-end. There was no space to squeeze back out of again. It didn't seem like the time to create an opening by shouldering aside one of the posts.

I could see the cop two blocks behind us waiting. I considered scaling the eight-foot high chain link fence like a gang member in West Side Story, but it's never a good idea to scale a fence near the White House. We retraced our steps and ran back out the original opening where, of course, the cop hailed us from his car.

He didn't stupidly ask us for our I.D.s, but he did ask if we knew how to read. He was brightly referring to the big Sidewalk Closed sign. We allowed as to how we could, in fact, read. He asked if we could read English. I decided contrition was the best approach here.

"Geez, officer, there's no way to get out of that work zone down there. Once you go through this entrance, you're stuck." I was pointing to the two-foot gap.

"That's not an entrance. Does that look like an entrance to you?"

"No, I guess not."

"And what does that sign say?"

"Cross to the other side." Hey, I passed fourth grade.

"And...?"

"Uh, I guess we'll be crossing the street?"

"Not here you won't. Do you see a crosswalk here?"

"No I don't."

"There's a crosswalk back there."

One block further back was a signal light with a crosswalk. The cop was grinning wickedly.

"Thank you sir." Shakin' the bush, boss.

While the officer watched, we trotted back a block, crossed in a crosswalk for the first time all year, after actually waiting for the light, and came back on the other sidewalk. We waved to him as we passed and he cheerily waved back. Everyone was smiling big, toothy grins. The better to mutter imprecations under our breaths.

Twenty minutes later we came back the other way as we headed towards the waterfront and SE. The two-foot gap in the temporary fence had been pushed shut.

A strange encounter

Writing yesterday's post reminded me of one of my favorite running incidents, which happened five years ago. I remember exactly when it happened because my kids were still visiting me then, still affording me status as a human being. (They don't acknowledge my existence now. It's a divorce thing that happens to mostly or only guys, called parental alienation.)

I was out running in bitter cold at 3 in the morning on the main street of my town when I ran by a really strange guy. All of my ex-cop's instincts went onto full alert instantly as I ran towards him.

It was about 20 degrees out and raw, yet he was only wearing blue jeans, biker boots and a tight white t-shirt. I don't remember now whether he actually had a pack of cigarettes rolled up in one of his sleeves. His black hair was slicked back pompadour style.

He was striding down the middle of the sidewalk, marching straight ahead without so much as a glance at me. I watched him carefully as I ran past. I refused to succumb to my fears and run across the street before I went by him. Off down the sidewalk he strode at 3 am as though he was late for a lunch appointment.

I scrutinized the nearby Seven-Eleven as I ran by. It looked normal, and through the window I could see the clerk moving about inside. Mentally shrugging, I ran on and turned down a minor artery.

Six blocks later I ran by a blacked-out stationary police car at an intersection. I don't usually bother with the town police, not even early in the morning, not even to wave to them (thanks for those two speeding tickets, guys), but this time I carefully approached the idling cruiser and paused a few feet away. The woman cop rolled down her window to see what I wanted.

"Excuse me, officer, but I saw something that I thought I should tell you about. I ran by a guy about ten minutes ago who was wearing only pants and an undershirt. It's so cold out, you know, that it was strange."

Her hard look of wariness (what, do I have the information sign lit up again?) changed to one of interest. "We've been looking for that guy! Where did you see him exactly?"

"Headed westbound on the north side of Main at West. Across from the Seven-Eleven."

She rolled up her window without a further word and got on the radio. A moment later she roared off towards Main Street, her overhead lights activated. I watched her go, then continued on, marveling at the scenarios that can unfold sometimes when you run. Even at 3 am.

The nighttime encounter

The policeman peered through the windshield of his marked unit at the man in the parking lot who was undressing in public in the dark. It was 8 pm, the cop was just coming on duty, and he had barely climbed into his squad car, parked in the town hall lot, when a man had emerged from a pickup truck parked directly across the travel lane from him, twenty feet away.

The man threw down the tailgate of the truck and sat on it. He pulled off his shoes and peeled off his socks. A few people from an exercise class at the nearby community center milled about in the parking lot.

Standing on the pavement in his bare feet, the man unbuttoned his dress shirt and shrugged it off. Was he wearing anything underneath? It was hard to tell in the gloom but it seemed he was wearing a cream colored t-shirt with writing on it.

The man unbuckled his belt and undid his trouser button. Unzipping his fly, he opened his pants. The policeman's hand tightened on the car door as he stared hard through the night.

The man dropped his trousers and stepped out of them. The policeman started to open his car door. Did the man have on anything covering his lower extremities? Was that a shadow or something form-fitting and dark?

The cop’s hand came back off the door handle. The man was wearing black Lycra shorts underneath high-cut black running shorts. The man went to the cab of his truck, threw his discarded clothing inside and reached for something. He emerged with a yoga mat, wheeled about on his bare feet and strode away towards the community center.

The cop ran the plate to see where this male yoga practitioner lived, then fired up his cruiser and swung out into the street for the start of his shift. Yep, the guy lived in town all right. The cop made a mental note to drive by the address later and check out this guy’s house.

[My brother believes I dislike authority. I don’t know about that, but I do firmly believe in questioning authority. When I saw the cop watching me last night as I sat in my parked car preparing to go to yoga class, I just had to get out of my vehicle and get ready in front of him. Sort of a statement. I wasn't doing anything wrong. Funny thing is, I used to be a cop. Now I’m a lawyer. Sigh. If you’re ever in danger and need help fast, go find a cop because a cop will act swiftly to resolve the situation. On the other hand, a lawyer will be worse than useless.

Last night was only my second yoga class in the last six months. It felt so good to be back at it!]