Henry John Deutschendorf, Jr. : A Lyric

On a run this morning, now that I’m largely over my bad cold, it was pre-dawn and the stars were brilliant overhead.  I had lots of trouble identifying any of my companion constellations, however, because there were bands of thin, wispy clouds that obscured some of the stars.  But the ones without any cloud interference were as bright as any time I’ve ever seen.

I was reminded of a line from an old John Denver (born Henry John Deutschendorf, Jr.) song, Rocky Mountain High:

The shadow from of the starlight / Is softer than a lullaby

Now, the music of John Denver, who died in 1997 in an ultralight plane accident, is probably largely unknown and unconnected to the youth of today, but he had a profound influence on my life.  His message of simple connection to nature resonated with me at a particular time in college when I was trying to put it all together. 

Later, many people—me included—soured on Denver when his marriage broke up in a very ugly and public way; his man-of-the people environmentalism was called into question by his installation of a large gas tank around the height of the gas shortage period in the 1970s; and he struggled with alcohol and DUIs.

Time has again mellowed me, and with today’s run, I again was thankful for the legacy of John Denver.  That lyric perfectly captured my moment with the stars this morning. 

Good people can do bad things, and bad people can do good things.  I think a quote from singer Kathy Mattea sums it up:

A lot of people write him off as lightweight, but he articulated a kind of optimism, and he brought acoustic music to the forefront, bridging folk, pop, and country in a fresh way.... People forget how huge he was worldwide.

 

 

Eta Caninae and Creationism

Eta Carinae (image credit National Geographic)

From the science blog Pharyngula, P. Z. Myers has been running some posts from readers on the topic Why I am an Atheist.

One particular post I liked for its astronomy angle came in from Michael Baizley, in which he raises an interesting conundrum for proponents of the young earth theory (i.e., 6,000 year old):

Increasing scientific knowledge did nothing to quell my views on god's creation. Seeing as my favorite star [see NOTE below] was eight thousand light years away, knowing that a light year is how far light travels in a year, knowing that my favorite star was at least eight thousand years old - and most likely far, far older - only made this doubt of god's creation grow. Especially in a world where creationists and fundamentalists, a great part of the United States population (40%, as late), tend to believe the world is six thousand years old.

If my favorite star were eight thousand light years away, and the oldest known sources of light were over thirteen billion light years away, what was the rationale for believing that the world [was] six thousand years old?

NOTE. In doing a bit or research, I'm suspecting that Michaels' favorite star is Eta Caninae, about to blow its stack in the photo above.

See also my previous post on Organ Cave, WV, where science and creationism also collide in documented measurements of natural phenomena.

 

Ultrarunning...and Sirius (the star, not the radio)

Tuesday the bride and I walked together 2 miles at 5:30 am, then I peeled off to run some additional miles.

When we first started out, coming out of our development the street runs east, and there hanging low in the sky was Sirius, the brightest star in the heavens.  It was twinkling fiercely, so much so that the bride swore it was an airplane, but I knew from prior experience that it was indeed "only" Sirius.

I blogged about Orion and Sirius about a year ago, in a post entitled Running Towards Orion, where I wrote:

Ah, and Sirius! This is the brightest star in the sky. You find it by locating Orion’s belt, then drawing a line from his right side (viewer’s left) “down” some 5 or so belt-widths, where you can’t miss Sirius. It unmistakably twinkles. Per the Crystalinks website,

To the naked eye, it often appears to be flashing with red/white/blue hues when near the horizon.

 Sirius is some 8.6 light years away, meaning that the photons sent our way from that star take over 8 years just to reach us. I cannot imagine the number of photons emitted…figure that Sirius radiates in all directions, not just towards Earth.

 

Earth’s diameter as a percentage of the arc of space into which Sirius radiates is vanishingly minuscule. Then what light reaches earth is spread over the entire Sirius-facing surface of our planet. Some of those very photons enter my eyes (as well as those of all other observers), stimulate my retina, and create the brain image I've been taught to recognize as Sirius. That chain of events is almost too much to fathom.

 

So, by all means get yourself outside, pre-dawn, for some Ultra training.  Get a good view of the eastern sky, and look for Sirius...but don't be surprised if you first think it's an airplane.

 

van Gogh...and Ultrarunning

The Starry Night.  Image credit here.

Vincent van Gogh had a birthday this week, on Wednesday.  Born in 1853, this would be his 154th birthday.  Unfortunately for the art world and the rest of us, he only spend some 37 years alive on the planet, dying in 1890.

The connection to Ultrarunning is this: who among us who has had the occasion to run at night doesn't like--no, love--the joy of night running?  Doing something in complete safety that the rest of the world would practically be aghast at?  Enjoying the sheer physicality of using your body to run as it was intended to run, vast distances at a trot?  The silence, the solitude, the peacefulness?

And seeing the stars; for me, the icing on the cake, the awesome beauty and sense of infinite distances.

Several years ago the bride and I saw a traveling van Gogh exhibit in Washington, DC at the Smithsonian.  It was marvelous (I love to use that word!)

What struck me were several things:

--How many of the the paintings I recognized (a lot, and I'm no art expert)
--The vibrancy of the colors, especially some of the blues that he used
--The beauty of his flower paintings (irises, sunflowers, cherry blossoms)
--How his paintings had literal depth: his oils were heaped on, sometimes a quarter inch or more deep

Go see an exhibit if you can.  This image, one of the most famous in the world, is in the permanent collection of the Museum of Modern Art in New York City.  I sense a NYC trip in my future.

BInary Stars...and Ultrarunning

(Image credit here)

I posted this in discussing my long training runs in prep for the Umstead 100 Mile Endurance Race, and have added emphasis:

Also I should say that this winter in southern PA was quite harsh compared to the fairly mild winters we’ve had the past several years. So getting out there for these long runs in the dead of winter, often pre-dawn, was rough. At the end of these long runs I was about done in, although I often think that our bodies are programmed to run the prescribed distance and then mentally shut down.

Want to explore that notion a bit more. This phenomenon has happened to me more times than I can count—having committed to some manner of “long” run (whatever that means at the time)—I often find that when I finish, I am just about in the bag. At that point I cannot imagine being able to run any further.

It’s just like when you prepay cash at the gas station and the pump automatically starts slowing down and then shuts down at the preset amount.

When this happens, I usually think something like “Oh, crap—I’m in the bag at 30 miles. How can I ever think about running 50? Or 100? WTF??”  But then I think, be cool, been here before, this is nothing new.

Because come race day I can do the distance and I can truthfully say that I’ve never been involved in a race day death march where I vastly underestimated my reach and I struggle just to finish.

Seems like the distance planned and the distance run are self-fulfilling prophesies, mutually synched up like a pair of binary stars.

Anybody else experience this phenomenon?

Running Towards Orion

The constellation Orion (“The Hunter”) at this time of year hangs low in the eastern sky before daybreak. Nearby everyone recognizes the constellation from the 3 classic stars that comprise his belt (Mintaka, Alnilam, and Alnitak).

(Image credits here)

This morning I headed out with the bride at 5:40 AM, she run/walking 2 miles and me adding the Harshman Road loop for a total of 5 miles. I should acknowledge today as a milestone—it’s our first run together in years. She was an avid runner prior to having children, but developed hip and knee issues afterwards and was unable to run, only walk. But today she decided to give it a try, with no apparent ill effects, so perhaps the issue is distance- and intensity-dependent. Keeping my fingers crossed….

But I digress. I wanted to focus on Orion and specifically the nearby star Sirius. I was fascinated with the clarity of Orion this morning. The star in his right (viewer’s left) shoulder, Betelgeuse, is visibly reddish and is the 10th brightest star in the heavens. Rigel is the brightest star in the constellation proper and the 6th brightest star in the sky, appearing down at Orion’s left knee. His sword, hanging down from his belt, was clearly visible.

Ah, and Sirius! This is the brightest star in the sky. You find it by locating Orion’s belt, then drawing a line from his right side (viewer’s left) “down” some 5 or so belt-widths, where you can’t miss Sirius. It unmistakably twinkles. Per the Crystalinks website,

To the naked eye, it often appears to be flashing with red/white/blue hues when near the horizon.

Sirius is some 8.6 light years away, meaning that the photons sent our way from that star take over 8 years just to reach us. I cannot imagine the number of photons emitted…figure that Sirius radiates in all directions, not just towards Earth.

Earth’s diameter as a percentage of the arc of space into which Sirius radiates is vanishingly miniscule. Then what light reaches earth is spread over the entire Sirius-facing surface of our planet. Some of those very photons enter my eyes (as well as those of all other observers), stimulate my retina, and create the brain image I've been taught to recognize as Sirius. That chain of events is almost too much to fathom.

All these thoughts while I am running, and seeing the constellation Orion and the star Sirius fade dimmer and dimmer as the sunrise approaches.  Orion fades away. Then a truck passes, the horizon is interrupted by a row of trees; I look up again and can no longer see Sirius.

Till tomorrow, my celestial friend.