À bientôt, Paris.

Time for cafe cremes to be replaced with drip coffee and to swap almond croissants for toaster waffles. Sadly, we must bid adieu to La Ville-lumière (the City of Light) and begin the long journey home.

It's easy to get into your groove in Paris, meandering through many a kilometer from one historical delight to another. But all good things must come to an end—such as our yogurt and baguette breakfasts in the Jardin du Palais Royal each morning, butchering the French language with our pals Didier and Fred, and watching in horror as our hard-earned American dollars pale in comparison to the Euro...

À bientôt, Paris!

Wide-eyed wonder at the Musée du Louvre

Open to all since 1793: From the outset, the Louvre has embodied the concept of a truly universal institution. Universal in the scope of its collections; universal in its appeal to some 6 million visitors (and a finger puppet named Foo) each and every year.

It is quite possible that Musée du Louvre Director Henri Loyrette is questioning "open to all" after our visit.

Chantilly (not just a topping for your tartin anymore)

After our 3-day excursion to Belgium, it was back to France for one last adventure outside the Parisian city limits. Whereas you can't go wrong with a palatial crib like Versailles, we were looking for something slightly less endorsed by every travel guide, website and blog about France.

A 30-minute RER train ride later, we found ourselves walking toward our answer: The Domaine de Chantilly, home to many an illustrious French Duke and Prince in its heyday; soon to be our 240-hectare playground for the afternoon.

Our stroll through the Château's painting gallery, chapel and library was nothing short of delightful—but it was our walk through the romantic curves of the English Gardens that unveiled unlikely surprises: an unsolicited wildlife tour guide in an old blue truck and a bevy of kangaroos.

Marathon de Paris: the official race report

By: Robert S. Hebert III (Marathoner #42979)
PARIS, FRANCE—OK, so the goals evolved over time....let's just get that out there from the onset.

Having started running the summer of 2007 our hero in his usual regimented way, had his training plan all laid out that would find successive challenges—a 10K, followed by two half marathons. These 3 races coupled with the usual marathon training mileage would find him in battle trim condition for the Paris marathon. Voila!

But the ravages of both age and inexperience would dictate otherwise.

First, a serious IT band injury in September erased the Silicon Valley Half Marathon from the race schedule. Rallying in November, he survived the Rock & Roll Phoenix Half but was convinced upon completion that 13.1 might be his physical limit. A nose-to-the-grindstone training regimen however found him right on track to crest 22 miles 3 weeks prior to the Marathon de Paris. This too, was subverted by ankle and heel injures, and he never logged a distance greater than 20 miles before winging over to Charles DeGaulle airport.

So it was with some wavering bravado that the goal at the start was to beat Katie Holmes's NYC Marathon time of 5:29, or in a word, simply finish—time be damned.

The very fact of running through the streets of the ville ancienne regularly spurred on by the gracious Parisian populous yelling "Allez Robiere"..."Coor-aah-gh Robiere", capped by regularly seeing Mama Foo on the sidewalks at intervals for kisses and photo ops, found our hero running a respectable 4:40 pace at the halfway point.

The route then dipped down along the Seine which—with the Louvre on his right and the Eiffel Tower to his left—provided scenery enough to motivate one to chug along. Then along came mile 20, heretofore the longest distance he had ever run. Even being positive, thinking, 'Every step beyond this point is a new distance...', was not enough to overcome what lay ahead in miles 22-24; a park with little diversion or crowd support.

Left to his thoughts, and seeing others around him begin to fade and walk, our hero had to force himself to persevere. Walking was limited to two 30-second spurts before he continued however falteringly forward. At mile 24, there once again was his love—Mama Foo in her raincoat, running alongside to give him that extra boost needed to turn the final few corners and finish at Avenue Foch in 5:05:15.

The moral of the story: Never underestimate the power of love, or the motivating potential of spanking the running time of Tom Cruise's trophy wife who is 30 years your junior.

Congratulations, Bob. A fine Foo finish indeed.

Un marathoner américain à Paris

Oh the fun they had (and the tales they have to tell).

Coming shortly.
To a Bunny Blog near you.
When the jetlag wears off
And the café kicks in.

Foo Finish

Half Marathoner #22188

Ah, Arizona. Land of cactus, the Kimballs and the P.F. Chang's Rock & Roll Half Marathon.

I have this terrible habit of signing up for events I vow will be a 'personal best' then not training for them. Months before an event, you can find me enthusiastically punching in my credit card number while calculating the pace needed to run a 1:29:59.

But inevitably race day nears and the training has been lackluster at best. So goals must change:

• No hurling until at least the 15K mark
• Limp only if absolutely necessary
• Who cares about time, it's all about the finisher's medal

Bob, my partner in crime, however, is the absolute model of consistency. He actually trains for these things. He's diligent and persistent—dare I say, inspiring.

Who am I kidding? It's annoying.

8:30AM on January 13th, we stood at the start line separated by 26 corrals; two little specks in a sea of 20,285 color-coordinated singlets. But it was during the National Anthem, hand on my heart, looking up at Frank Shorter and World Record Holder Khalid Khannouchi—that the runner in me showed up.

The race report: my 13.1 mile journey through Phoenix and Tempe was wonderfully free of regurgitation or limping, simply a comfortable race with a finish time I didn't deserve (1:51:48).

After picking up my finishers medal, a heat blanket, two bananas, a bag of potato chips, one orange popsicle and a fruit-infused yogurt, I quickly reunited with family and Foo, staking out a spot to cheer Bob onto victory. Barreling through the final two curves, ahead of schedule and looking strong, Bebop would clock a 2:28:52. An excellent half marathon debut and mental milestone for his marathon come April.

Allez, Allez!

Foo Field Report (some narrative spice):

Getting to Juneau
Making their way thru Seatac Monday morning, Bob and Bunny arrived at their gate to hear an odd announcement:

"For those of you unfamiliar with this gate, we board from the rear of the aircraft..."

While this should have perked up Foo's furry little ear and Bob's usual flight paranoia, strangely, it did not. The big surprise was finding out the plane was a 737C, the 'C' standing for combination or CARGO! What looked like a normal plane was actually cargo up front; passengers in back. Mama Foo likes to think of it as a flying mullet.

A bouncy flight thru arctic storms, a dangerously close to mountain peak descent, and a wind shear-filled-crabbing-sideways-wing-dipped-landing in Juneau, had our heroes more than a little bug-eyed. This, of course—a normal landing in Juneau. Small wonder the FAA is testing its new GPS landing system at this scary strip of tarmac.

[Pause here for boring day spent in conference room]

At 4pm, our motley crew scurried out, changed clothes and raced to see the sights before a 5:30 Alaskan sunset. Out to Mendenhall Glacier where Foo made lots of friends and spied many a bald eagle. Thankfully nary an ursine showed up to make Foo's acquaintance.

Our duo drove out to Auke Lake and Auke Bay and enjoyed the view despite low cloud cover and fading light. A Mongolian BBQ dinner at Wild Spice with a Cookie Dough gelato finale would find Foo hare-o-tonic (as opposed to catatonic) and asleep by 9:00pm.

Tuesday morning found Foo and Bob sipping lattes at Silverbow Bagels at 6:30am. More adventures and a little schooling on Mendenhall Glacier later...

Tahoe Footos have been posted

(psst: click on the picture to see the gallery)

Peaklet Bagging in Tahoe

Aahhh...Tahoe in the Fall: the crisp mountain air, the quivering golden leaves of the Aspen trees and the siren song of one last run up the mountain before the snow hits. This idyllic scenario blown to bits the day before with a respectable dumping of snow in the Sierras.

But what a difference 24 hours makes. Early morning surveillance would reveal clear skies and optimal conditions for a frontal assault up Dick's Peak—a mountain top clearly begging to be bagged by a threesome and a finger puppet named Foo.

Our summit team would consist of 4: Mama Foo, Irish "Annie" Colleen, "Bobcat" Bob and our mascot—Ms. Foo herself. Sadly, we would have to leave Dave and Steve behind at the Waffle Hut to ponder how to expend their overabundance of carbohydrates.

The bullet: 4" of snow to trailblaze, 8 solid hours and 12 miles of rocky terrain to hike, 1 sunburned neck, 3000' vertical gain—and a wise decision to bail at Dick's 9500' Peaklet instead of the summit which hovers a skosh under 10000' at 9974'. Safety tip: getting down the mountain safely is just as important as getting to the top.

But Bunny will be back to bag this peak, even if it's the last notch on her belt. To be continued next Spring...