Woke up this morning feeling very good about The Long Run. Last Saturday I had lunch with a good friend who was a mover and shaker in the running business. He pointed me down a new line of inquiry for the book — one so novel and out of nowhere that I couldn't wait to weave it into the text. At last, after months laboring to separate fact from legend, a clear path forward.

Somewhere in a New York City recording studio, a team of professionals is recording the audio version of Taking Midway. I receive periodic updates, mostly about pronunciations, though I'm on the other side of the country. I'm spending the morning doom scrolling in the chemo ward, wondering if I should wander over to the cafeteria for a bold cup of coffee or just drink the ordinary stuff from the machine. The wifi isn't so good, so I use my phone as a hotspot. In typing that last sentence I learned that hot and spot make one word instead of two.

I just finished Chapter Eight of the new book on Friday. Printed it out then headed to Board & Brew after practice to edit. Just me, the pages, and a pencil. Sitting in a crowded place and losing myself in the words is easy, having spent the early years of my career writing at the kitchen table when the boys were newborns.

I'm a good driver. I told someone the other day that I hadn't been in a car crash since 1982, but that is wrong. I was also in an incident on the way to Devin's lacrosse practice back in 2004. That was pretty terrifying. Some guy stopped in the middle of the road and the only way to avoid hitting him was to swerve up onto a grassy slope. I was driving a Suburban, a wonderful vehicle with the protection of a tank. Devin was fine. I was fine. The vehicle needed a little work but it was drivable soon after. Months later, when I smelled woodsmoke coming from the chassis, I got under the car and found a piece of a tree branch from that day wedged into the metal.

In light of the shit show in the Oval Office the other day, the historian in me is tempted to write at length about Ronald Reagan rolling over in his grave. But that line is as close as I'll come. Instead, I'm watching Black Labrador reels on Insta, among them a very cute story about a dog who looks very much like my Sadie on her way to Starbucks for a pup cup. Just can't get enough of Black Labs. The algorithm knows this. I get constant Springsteen and Lab reels as I scroll, which lifts my spirits in these uncertain times.

Yes, it's escapist.

Track season started yesterday. The weather was glorious, the sort of sunshine-y, not-too-hot-not-cold day that reminded me why I love living in Southern California. Mother Saddleback loomed in the distant background as runners circled the track in their new singlets and shorts. The race announcer backed out at the last minute so I was on the mic. This put me in the position of amiable commentator, calling out each race and its contestants while also turning off the sound so I could coach my runners as they passed. Tacos and Co. sold burritos for lunch, which meant that I bought mine at 10:15 to beat the rush. Carnitas with spicy red sauce.

I've been to New York dozens of times so I don't feel like I'm a tourist. But I don't actually live in New York so that means I am. That in mind, I did my own version of the tourist experience the past four days as I wandered the city.

I was in town for a number of very good reasons: lunch with my agent, speech at the Harvard Club, USATF Foundation Board meeting, Millrose Games track meet, and an after-party. There was a lot of downtime built in so I made this a vacation of sorts….

This author life is a wonderful thing, equal parts strangers writing to tell me how much they enjoy Taking London and others emailing to say their hands are shaking in rage about something I wrote in Confronting the Presidents and they'll never read a word of mine again. I listen intently to the nice words and reply with a thank you. The haters get nothing, not even the nasty response they're praying to re-post on X to show my spiteful nature.

What can I say? The check cashed just fine. My job is to be the best I can be. Working someone into a hot lather is far preferable to people not caring at all.

As Herbert Viola tells Tom Cruise in Risky Business, sometimes you just have to say "WTF."

I'm abbreviating, but you know what I mean. So it is that I took my longtime friend Chris Teske up on a mileage run to Honolulu He's trying to add to his already formidable number of lifetime United miles. I had a little Taking Midway research to follow up on before 2nd Pass hits my inbox.

The journey goes something like this: buy the cheapest possible economy ticket from Orange County to Honolulu. Work the upgrade. Fly to Hawaii. Spend eight hours enjoying the sights and smells of a tropical paradise. Watch the sunset. Fly home. Total elapsed time: 27 hours.

Never underestimate the value of loud music.

My stereo system went down a couple years ago. I didn't know where to go to get it fixed. So my turntable and receivers and speakers sat silent in a corner of my office below the framed Bruce Springsteen "Night for the Vietnam Veteran" poster. My vinyl collection on the bottom shelf of the bookcase remained unplayed. I went in and out of my office each day, consumed by one creative writing demand or another, until I slowly forgot I'd ever ended my work day with Side One of something extremely loud with lyrics that touched my soul.

I'm starting a podcast. It's time. Bloomberg is reporting this morning that "the business of history is booming," which is a far cry from a recent comment by a prominent publisher that "non-fiction is dead." It's also been noted that academic history is being replaced by a trend towards popular history, in which I may have played a small role. Now it's time to capitalize. Cool but scary.

The Queen is back in her castle. All is right in the world.

Thanks for the warm wishes last week. The community that has sprung forth from this blog is notable for its kindness, for which I am grateful. It's also nice to see some familiar names that followed this space as far back as the Tour de France days still checking in. Say what you will about social media and the internet, but I lucked out with this readership.

Cross country season is over. Twenty-four weeks of training and racing came to an end yesterday at the California State Meet. My girls team took third place in our division and made the podium. It was a hard-fought conclusion to the double days, Saturday long runs, summer camp, and those many days in between that make for the consistency needed to become a champion.

The girls were ecstatic. I felt the glow of a top finish and did a little jig. Made it home from Fresno and downloaded to Calene about the great weekend until I was talked out. She listened patiently, then resumed watching SVU. My queen loves her murder mysteries.

My Thanksgiving week began Saturday at precisely 9:24 in the morning. I was standing atop Reservoir Hill at Mt, San Antonio College cross country course. My girls team was racing for their Southern California division title. The fifth and final scoring runner crossed the finish line at 32 seconds past the minute.

Reservoir is a lofty viewpoint, allowing coaches to not only cheer for their runners as they make their climb to the summit, but also follow their progress back down the hill into the stadium for the finish. I was frantically refreshing the Finished Results app to get a final score….

Sitting here at the kitchen table on a Sunday morning. Sadie at my side with her tennis ball, hoping I will throw it across the room even though she knows Calene isn't a fan of fetch in the house. NFL Countdown on TV. Set my fantasy lineup. Feeling great about how the girls team ran at prelims yesterday and scheming a way for them to win the championship next week. All of which is my way of saying it's time for a newsletter instead of a blog. Have a great Sunday!

Our town backs up to the local mountains. Some cities have houses facing the sea. We have Mother Saddleback staring at our backyards. Fire ravaged the steep areas on the very edges of Rancho Santa Margarita a few months ago, burning all the way to the summit and up the slopes of the valley on the other side for miles. Last Wednesday Santa Ana winds roared through the pass connecting our town with cities on the other side of Saddleback.

A funny thing happened when I worked on Confronting the Presidents. I learned we have always been a divided nation. Whether over religious freedom, states rights, slavery, monetary policy, or race (among many others), America has always had one side violently (literally) opposed to another. It's how we roll. The book takes us from George Washington to Joe Biden in chronological order, so it was easy to track each rift as it grew and exploded and was either solved or suppressed. I'm not saying this to condemn the radical divisions in the country right now, though I certainly believe this is the craziest political time in our history by far. I'm just saying that we're decent people. We find a way.

The whole world is in love with Artificial Intelligence. I don't know all the things AI is capable of accomplishing, but people seem to love is that it makes writing easier. Letters, emails, term papers — no more struggling to find the right word and build a smart sentence. Let AI do it.

You know who doesn't love AI?

Writers.

I don't really put a lot of preparation into this space. I like to riff. But yesterday morning I had one of those breakthrough awarenesses that seems tailor-made for blogging. It is this: one of life's great pleasures is being the first to break the toilet paper seal in a newly cleaned porta-pottie on race day. So righteous. So pure. Then to step out into the first moments of a pale morning sunrise and see runners arriving to compete. Washing my hands at one of those portable outdoor soap dispensaries, then wandering off in search of a food truck for a breakfast burrito.

I mean, does it get any better than that?

I'm gambling on the October Surprise.

Every cross country season has two parts: regular season (first nine weeks) and postseason (final three weeks, leading to the State Championship). I've had a pretty good run these past twenty years, making the postseason almost every time with both the boys and girls squads. I love being in Fresno the Saturday after Thanksgiving. The atmosphere is electric, the racing is intense, and I get to see all my coaching buddies. Standing atop the podium is also pretty excellent.

Django blew out his ACL and the vet says the surgery for an old dog is beyond expensive. So he prescribes pain pills and time, saying the joint will calcify. The doggie day care acknowledges his wound by putting a yellow band around his neck to indicate his limp is an injury. Combined with his normal blue collar it looks like he's wearing the flag of Ukraine around his neck. The place is now synonymous for anxiety, unpredictability, and complete What the Fuck.

Confronting the Presidents just hit #1 on The New York Times Best Seller list. That marks my sixteenth time on the list and I think a dozen at the top.

Yet I am conflicted.

I'm a procrastinator who writes books with such total focus that the rest of my life goes on hold. It's like being a double procrastinator. So now that Taking Midway's first draft is with the publisher and I am paddling back to shore, there are a few odds and ends that need attending....