Boo Hoff

By James Rose

Boo Hoff is a collection of three unique novellas.

"Fastest Course in the West" is the story of a man's quest to run the California International Marathon in hopes of qualifying for the oldest and most prestigious road racing event: the Boston Marathon. It showcases the physical and mental agony and also the ecstasy of running with purpose 26.2 miles.

"Six and Sunny" tells of the adventures of Chuck Bailey, a young, workaholic management consultant. Bailey grows tired of living his life out of a suitcase and decides to leave it all behind to work as a lift operator at a small Canadian ski resort. Just as Bailey starts to settle into his new lifestyle, an unexpected visit from an ex-girlfriend changes everything.

"Boo Hoff" tells the story of Layla, a resourceful young woman in search of self. Layla attends the SoCal youth rite of passage that is the annual Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival with mixed horror and pleasure. It is about finding one's inner compass and the recovery of innocence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Rose
• Release date: Jul 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781777271220

James Rose

JAMES ROSE grew up in British Columbia’s Columbia Valley and holds a bachelor’s degree in commerce from the University of Calgary. As a journalist, James has written for the Financial Post, Aspen Daily News, Forecast Ski Magazine, among other newspapers and magazines. In 2018, James completed a residency in Environmental Reportage at the Banff Centre for Literary Arts. As an alpine ski racing coach, James has worked with Aspen Valley Ski Club and Team Panorama Ski Club James co-founded rose bros coffee with his brother, Trevor. Boo Hoff is James' second book.jamesrosewrites.com

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Boo Hoff

Books by James Rose

Chung Piece

Boo Hoff

Copyright © 2020 by James Rose

All rights reserved.

This book’s stories and characters are fictitious. Certain long-established institutions are mentioned, but the characters involved in them are wholly imaginary.

For Katie and Ryan

I was a dog on a short chain

and now there’s no chain

~

Jim Harrison

Contents

Fastest Course in the West

~

Six and Sunny

~

Boo Hoff

Fastest Course in the West

Before Crossing the Start Line

BANG!

I’m running. Hundreds of people are in front of me. A far-off volunteer ahead of us runners holding a shotgun pulled the trigger to dramatic effect. Ready, set, go. The blast was extremely loud. Louder than probably everyone anticipated. What the hell kind of shotgun was that? It was so loud it drowned out the Eurodance music blaring from the speakers surrounding the start line meant to pump us up. The two middle-aged women standing and chatting next to me both immediately turned to face the blast, ducked their heads, raised their shoulders, crouched down a little.

Now we’re all running. But not until I step across the actual start line a half mile in front of me will my chip be activated and my time started, officially. But I’m running. The pace is slow, much slower than my sub-3-hour goal. (Sub-3-hour, meaning less than 3 hours for the race.) A pace of 4 minutes 15 seconds will produce a marathon of 2 hours 59 minutes and change—my ticket to Boston. Too many people in front of me are slowing me down. Hurry up! It’s cold at this hour in the morning at this time of year. I’m wearing a lime-green singlet, black shorts, black socks and tangerine shoes. My shorts house a Honey Stinger Energy Gel. I don’t really need it since there are plenty of aid stations throughout the race with the same stuff, but I want to have one on me just in case.

There’s lots of cold air hitting lots of bare skin. There aren’t any clouds when I look up, and now it’s getting brighter. Not long ago it was a dark winter morning. Today is Sunday, December 2nd, and I’m in Folsom, California. From Folsom I will run to the California State Capitol in downtown Sacramento. The distance I will run is 26.2 miles, not counting the half mile before I cross the start line. I’m running the California International Marathon (CIM).

The organizers chose wisely with the name. I was more inclined to pay the several hundred-dollar registration fee with it named the California International Marathon rather than the Sacramento Marathon. I’m not talking to anyone. People around me are talking to people they may or may not already know. I don’t want to talk. I just want to run this damn race and eat fried chicken and waffles and chocolate and beer and everything and anything I want. I’m staying in a hostel in Sacramento. Last night I didn’t get much sleep. My dorm room, with eight double bunks, was filled with marathoners. The light in the dorm—it may as well have been the sun—went on at 4:30 a.m. But up we all got.

Only one guy in the room wasn’t a marathoner. Just a traveler passing through on a budget. Middle-aged guy with a pony-tail and biker garb. Likely unaware of the marathon occurring the next day after his check-in. Must have been thinking, What the hell is going on in here? Guys are sleeping with NormaTec Pulse 2.0 Leg Recovery Systems. Guys are up at 4:00 a.m. Some even 3:30 a.m.

Mile 1

I pass underneath the navy-blue start line arch and step on the pad to initiate my official starting time. As I do this, I use my right index finger to press the button to activate my Garmin Forerunner 35. This little baby is key. In real time, it will show me my pace per kilometre and cumulative time. And whenever I run another kilometre, it will beep and vibrate and display how long it took me and which kilometre I just completed. Everyone around me sports a similar device on their wrist and everyone does what I do when I cross the start line. There’s something like 15,000 runners today. The only other time I’ve run with this number of people was at San Francisco’s Bay to Breakers, a much different event than this one, with booze and partying and costumes and wild, debauched behaviour. Today, it’s elite runners and ex-collegiate runners and anyone trying to achieve their Boston Qualifier (BQ).

On the Boston Athletic Association (BAA) website, there is a list of the top qualifying marathons to run, with CIM near the top of the list. Only marathons the BAA deems eligible can be used to qualify for Boston. That indoor marathon you saw organized won’t do for example. CIM is near the top because it’s a net down race with predictable weather well suited for distance running, and it’s an extremely well-organized event. Net down means the finish line is lower in elevation than the start line. CIM’s organizers do a good job of making it a point to include in their marketing material how great a race it is to use for qualifying to the holy grail of marathons, as CIM is known as the Fastest Course in the West. I’m running and I realize I’m no different than anyone around me. We are all the same. When I was training in Canada in a small town in British Columbia, it was a solo endeavour so unique to almost everyone in town that they would ask me why I was always running the roads. Six days a week of running for the marathon I’m now running, and as my bib pinned to my singlet indicates, I am but merely a number: 9594.

There’s a sound around me I’ve never heard before. The sound of marching. I’m surrounded by hundreds of feet pounding the pavement that produce this eery noise. At no other time in this race will there be this concentration of people to generate this sound.

People are talking, laughing. I’m overhearing conversation and periodically checking my watch to see my pace. By now, I can feel the pace I need after all my running leading up to race, but I still check. Behind me a dentist from Portland, Oregon is talking to his friend about how amazing it was to run into someone also from Portland who he hadn’t seen in a long time. A girl. Dentist found her to be attractive and wasn’t shy about not keeping this frat boy story to himself among the crowd of runners in this first mile. To me, it’s a piggish story. Here’s a middle-aged male dentist talking to his friend about how hot this chick is he ran into. I’m thinking, Dude, show some class. I’m still grumpy, though. I try and tune out the chatter around me. Then Dentist asks me what my goal time is, and I probably don’t look too friendly when I turn my head and say, What did you say?

Sorry, bro. Just wanted to know what your goal time is? I tell him, and that’s it for conversation with Dentist.

I quicken my pace to separate myself from these two idiots. My watch buzzes and I look to see I ran the first kilometre in 4 minutes 5 seconds. It felt like a minute ago I crossed the start line. I’m happy with this, how I feel as I run, and my spirit is lifted. Cute girls wearing the same tank top are running beside me. Tiaras and cheap sunglasses complete their look. They’re in their thirties. I run alongside them, but we don’t speak. They’re talking among themselves about something I don’t care about. I’m able to tune out their conversation much easier than Dentist. The girls are running at my pace. Will they keep the pace? Why do I feel wrong to think they won’t? I hope they do. There, I am redeemed. The march is persistent. I don’t see any kilometre signs like in Canadian running events. There are about 1.6 kilometres per mile. Soon I will see on the side of the road a Mile 1 sign. I’m looking to see if the girl I sat beside on the bus ride from downtown Sacramento to Folsom this morning is near me. I can’t see her. She must be way up there. She’s an elite runner (how to register as an elite, I don’t know) who ran in college and is hoping to run a 2:30:00 today. Good lord. On the ride over, she told me her goal is to run in the next Olympics. She’s from the DC area. She was cute. Runner girls are all cute.

I look over and see the Mile 1 sign. All right, 25.2 miles left ahead of me.

Mile 2

I’m smiling as I think about the bus ride. It was dark at that early-morning hour. From the hostel on Sacramento’s H Street, it was a short few blocks to where people waited to climb aboard. People were everywhere. It was confusing. I walked by a bus without a line, and without thinking twice, boarded and sat myself down. In no time the bus was driving east toward Folsom. It was a quiet ride. Everyone on board was in their twenties or thirties. I was feeling chatty and so began talking to the girl sitting beside me. I ask her where she’s from, she says DC area. Her name, Brittany. I ask if she’s run this marathon before, she says no. We start talking about goal times. Hers is 2 hours and 30 minutes. I’m shocked. I want to ask more, but she seems reluctant to keep talking. Couple more questions and then I realize: I’m on a bus reserved for elite athletes only. I shouldn’t be here. Brittany picks up on this but doesn’t say anything. Did I see a trace of smile on her face? I’m hoping, but probably not. Brittany tells me she is going to run the Olympic Time Trial Marathon in Atlanta in 2019. I tell her I will look for her name in the Olympics, she laughs. She has as full-time job in the DC area, I ’m guessing. I’ve never met anyone like her before. After the marathon she is going to spend some time in Yosemite before flying back to DC. This is her first time to California.

When we arrive to the start line area in Folsom, there is a person outside the bus pointing to the elite runners’ tent. I walk over to the tent with the elites. Inside there is coffee, water, energy gels, bananas. It’s warm. There’s light. Outside it’s cold and dark. The proletariat runners are out there shivering. Here I am with the elites. I sit down and take my sweats and fleece off and put them in a special bag meant for checking in personal belongings. I overhear the talk among the elites. Some are catching up after apparently not seeing each other since the days when they ran competitively in college. Now here they are with jobs in the real world but running as elites in marathons. Everyone looks fit and good. I’m trying to look like I belong. I start talking to a girl sitting next to me and she asks where I’m from. I tell her I’m from Western Canada. She doesn’t ask me anymore questions. Does she know I’m an imposter? I start to feel like I shouldn’t be here. I dismiss that thought. What’s one more person? No one cares. Brittany didn’t. An honest mistake was made by me getting on the elite bus. Glad I did, though, to see how they’re treated. Should becoming an elite be my next goal? I walk outside the elite tent to hand over my bag. At the finish, there will be an area for me to retrieve the bag. It’s cold. I rush back in among the elites.

The marching is still audible. I’m now beginning to notice my environment. Where am I? Nice roads. Clean and well maintained. Mix of deciduous and evergreen trees lining the road. I like it out here. I would never find myself where I am now if not for this marathon. Maybe this is another allure to the sport, the hobby, the lifestyle. Going places. If I qualify for Boston, I’ll be running through Eastern Massachusetts. Places like Hopkinton, Wellesley. What the hell are those places like? What is Folsom like? Before today, my only connection to Folsom was from listening to the song sung by Cash about its prison. Where is that prison? Am I running by it? As I run, my mind wanders. I like that about running. If done without earbuds, as I always do, the mind is free to roam. Unless running induced pain takes over. Like the plains buffalo, my mind starts to graze. I barely notice as one of the tiara girls tells her friends, loud enough for me to hear, she has to take a shit. Her friend tells her she can go in the woods now or wait to go in an aid station porta potty. The girl runs off into the bush.

I look down at Garmin, I’m on pace. The run is going by quickly, different than solo training runs. In the marathon, with thousands of people, I’m knocking off the kilometres. I just hit 3 kilometres and my pace is 4 minutes flat. Ahead a few hundred metres, I see the first aid station. I feel great. Who needs aid this early? This marathon is in the bag. Garmin and I are on good terms, great terms. My body feels looser now. I’m finding rhythm. As Shari, my physiotherapist, said when treating my IT band syndrome a few months ago, Make it 180 steps per minute. Shorten the stride. Less time on the feet the better. Quiet upper body. Relax the shoulders. Avoid shallow breathing. I’m doing all those things. I fly through Mile 2 like a golden eagle soaring over a plains buffalo across an Alberta foothill.

Mile 3

My arms feel strange. I look at them and I see...feathers? I’m no longer pumping arms, I’m flapping wings. I no longer feel like a bird, I am a bird. I ascend through the sky and peer down at the people marching ahead. As I flap my wings, a cool stream of air flows over and under me. I’m aerodynamic and traveling at a speed I didn’t think possible. I glide. Effortless motion forward. I start to descend and then flap my wings to right my course and altitude. The view from up here is altogether different. Above the power lines, now I fly above the trees. I must be now something like a 100 metres in the sky. I could just as easily cheat and not follow the road, but I stay directly overtop. In the sky I mimic the undulations, albeit minor, in the road. I innately measure elevation changes in the sky to the road below. My eyes are closed for moments at a time taking in this extraordinary feeling of flying. I look down again and the road and the urban scape have been transformed. I’m in Alberta flying over rolling prairie, flying west toward the Rocky Mountains. They look old and bold. Large structures jutting out far into the sky above me. I want to climb to their elevation. I flap my wings hard and I feel the pull on my lungs. My beak is open inhaling, by the metre, thinner air. I can’t get enough. I climb and climb through the sky, but I can’t reach eye level with the peaks of the distant Rockies. Must be more than 10,000 feet, those castles in the sky. Proud of myself I am for at least trying. But I’m also cognizant of not using up my stores of energy. I have a full marathon ahead of me. Not quite full, but the bulk of it. I still have heavy lifting to do on the Fastest Course in the West. Until I get to the 32nd kilometre, the course undulates. The last 10 kilometres, from the outskirts of Sacramento to the Capitol finish line, gentle and consistent is the slope downward.

The Alberta landscape below is snowy. It’s the first week of December after all. The snow below wisps in the breeze pushing down from the north along the eastern slope of the Rockies. My feathers act as insulation to the heat produced by my flapping wings. I look straight ahead at the distant mountains to the west. Never in my lifetime have I heard, and don’t think I ever will, someone speak ill of their beauty. That, however, as I’ve come to learn, was not always the case. Time marches forward. Technology improves and when applied to travel through the once ominous mountains by way of better road infrastructure and the vehicles we drive, mountains are tamed. When we have a sense of control over another object or being, is that a prerequisite for assigning awe, wonder and beauty? Is there inherent beauty to a horse that can’t be broken? To a dog that can’t be trained? Why do we destroy the bears that say no in thunder to people threatening their offspring?

I look directly below me on a perpendicular axis as I fly and see roads black with ice. I want to return to California. But I remain in Alberta for the next while to take advantage of my vantage point. To the east along the plains, pump jacks move in slow, steady rhythm. Black roads conceal pools of black gold buried deep in the Alberta crust. The economic engine of Wild Rose Country never sleeps. Drilling rigs slurp and suck and deliver by way of contentious pipeline to refineries on the shores of the Gulf of Mexico. On one plot of land, cattle graze in concert with the rigs. There is an open flame above a few of the rigs. Flared natural gas. The cattle are entranced by it. So am I. Methane into the atmosphere. I can’t smell it or feel the heat. My eyes inform me. What does a cow that stares at flame think? Is it critical? Does it see the flame as a threat? I lift my gaze back to the cold mountains ahead, tilting my wings and pushing up to look straight into the beaming sun. It’s so bright I have to close my eyes. But I stay on this course.

Looking down I see that I’m back in California. I want to return to the ground and run. Touching down on the asphalt, my feathers fall off and in no time I’m myself again. I look down at my Garmin to find one feather caught between my wrist and the watch strap—I don’t pluck it. I let it stay as a reminder of my time in the air. Garmin and I are on good terms. The pace I’m on is 4 minutes flat. The people running in my vicinity are already completely different from those I was running with a couple kilometres ago. How far in am I? Garmin tells me just shy of 5 kilometres. My cumulative time thus far is just shy of 20 minutes. When I reach the Mile 3 marker, I will smile knowing I just spent the last mile flying over cold, snowy Alberta foothill. Do the runners next to me have a similar experience? I ask the man closest to me where he’s from. In between laboured breaths, he tells me he’s from Las Vegas. For the past mile has he been flying over the Las Vegas Strip and looking down at the Bellagio? MGM Grand? I want to ask him, but I don’t. He’s breathing hard and likely reluctant to waste any more energy than he needs. I run ahead and blow past the Mile 3 marker.

Mile 4

Las Vegas catches up to me. He’s running beside me, still breathing hard. Are you that competitive? I want to ask him. If so, save it for the end. Way too early in the race to flash any sort of competitiveness. There are still 22 miles and change to go. I look over at him. He’s looking straight ahead with shades on concealing his eyes. He’s also wearing a running singlet. His arms are extremely hairy. Probably in his forties. I keep my pace and look straight ahead. Best to ignore and run my race. Yoga is a nice balance to running. In almost every way, it is opposite. I remember yoga instructors saying: It’s better not to look over at what others are doing on their mats and better to think only of your movement and posture. Everyone’s body has a different history and we have all been on a different journey. Right now, we all happen to be in the same yoga room. Useless to think there is any merit in comparing yourself in a competitive sense to the person standing to your right in Warrior III. When I first started yoga and digested that message, it was revelatory. We are all on a different timeline. How can we assume the amount of time and focus and energy in the past we’ve devoted to something is equal to the stranger running or stretching next to us? All we know is what we’re capable of doing in the moment and that to improve, it takes practice, commitment.

I grew up ski racing competitively. I used to find myself in despair when others got from the top of a mountain to the bottom through gates in less time than me. I was competitive. I wish I would’ve reframed a loss to that person or those people as: he or they were faster today. What they did in the past enabled them to do what they did on the mountain today. And even if you have a remarkably close training history with someone, people still have good days and bad. Roger Federer, one of the best all-time tennis players who is nearing the age of forty, always gets asked if Father Time is to blame for a loss to a younger person. I’ve seen him asked this question in post match interviews frequently. Many times, he’s given the same reply to the question: On this day he was better.

It’s been a couple minutes and Las Vegas is still running right next to me. I can see him in my peripherals. My watch just buzzed. I’m 5 kilometres in. Las Vegas hears my Garmin beep and asks, How we doin’?

That was 5K, I answer.

And the pace?

Four minutes, two seconds.

Hell yeah. Total time so far?

Just over 20 minutes.

What’s your goal time?

Under three.

You kidding me?

No.

Damn, I gotta slow down. I’m aiming for high three’s

Where’s your watch?

Not a watch guy.

No?

No.

Why not?

Too measured, too much data, man. I run to get away from that.

You done this marathon before?

No. First one.

Really?

Yeah. My mom lives out here and she’s sick right now. I’m looking after her.

Damn. Sorry to hear.

All good, brother.

You grew up here?

Yeah, grew up in Sacramento. Been livin’ in Vegas for almost ten years now.

How’s Vegas?

Not too bad. Just gotta avoid the strip and you’re gonna stay sane.

Much else to do there?

Tons.

Heard the Rock ‘n’ Roll Run is pretty fun.

It is. Come next year!

Maybe I will.

You trying to get to Boston?

Yeah.

Good luck. Must be tough for you?

Yeah. Gotta be under three.

Hence the watch.

I see what you mean, though.

I like going in events like this, but def not why I run.

How come then?

Destress, that kind of thing. And I don’t want to make it competitive.

How come you trying to keep pace with me?

Thought I’d see how long it took for us to start talking.

Really?

Yeah. I look around and everyone’s so serious!

True.

"My mom’s probably got another month or two