At four o’clock Saturday morning my alarm sounded and I hopped out of bed. Friday night I’d set the coffee maker to start brewing the moment I awoke so that by the time I stumbled down the stairs, my java would be waiting for me. This was the day I would run my first 50 Kilometer race (31 miles). It was called the Pigtails Run, and it was a low-cost ultra-marathon about two hours south of Bellingham being put on by one of the members of the Marathon Maniac’s club, Van Phan, in Renton, Washington. The route consisted of three 9.6-mile laps around Lake Youngs and then a 2.2-mile out-and-back stretch after the third loop to get us to an even 50 kilometers.
I was nervous. Twenty-four days earlier, I had run Mary’s Last Chance Marathon on New Year’s Eve and then lazily tapered over the past few weeks. I’m in the process of trying to qualify for the Marathon Maniacs, so I have to get three marathons completed within 90 days. I was looking for local options that wouldn’t require much travel time. Bill discovered the Pigtails Run online and suggested I use it as my second race. This made sense to me because of its low cost and close proximity to home, but it terrified me to think of running five miles beyond the marathon distance. I’d tossed the idea around for more than two weeks before deciding to give it a try and registering for the race.
Bill drove me down to Maple Valley Saturday morning. I got out of the car and felt the rain pelting my head and shoulders. I was disheartened because I would have to start the race already wet and cold, but there was nothing that could be done. I’d have to suck it up and try to keep a good attitude. At 7:30, Van said, “Go,” and off we went. I’d read that there were about 80 people registered for the 50K. Many other runners came out for just one or two loops. Bill hung around the starting line while I made my first loop around Lake Youngs. When I came through that first time, he asked me, “Are you going to keep going?” It hadn’t occurred to me (yet) to bail out of my commitment and cut the race short because of the weather, but apparently he’d been standing under the tent with the volunteers watching runners do just that. I just shook my head, took a handful of potato chips and a licorice rope from the aid station and turned to head back out for my second loop.
On the second loop, the rain continued. I’ve heard that in Northern languages there are dozens of words for “snow.” As I puttered around on this second loop, I enumerated in my mind the different words we had for water coming down from the sky in the Northwest. There is “mist,” “drizzle,” “sprinkle,” “showers,” “downpour,” and my favorite (because it sounds so scientific, but is really a catch-all for the meteorologist to predict what we already know is inevitable), “precipitation.” This day, the precipitation came in the form of light but steady run-of-the-mill raindrops.
The already damp trail became muddier with every passing hour. For long stretches there was no way around the muck. We runners had to plod through it, and my shoes became soaked. The back of my running tights were splattered with brown mud, too. Everyone who passed me wore the same streaks. Near the end of the second loop, I saw Bill coming toward me. He had agreed to support me by running the full third loop with me. By the time we met, I’d been running for nearly four hours. He took one look at me and insisted that when we got back to the aid station, I should change my socks and shoes and put on a dry set. He was sure I would be getting blisters with all the water and dirt saturating through. After four hours on my feet, however, my back and legs were getting tender and when the time came, Bill had to unlace my shoes and take them off for me.
A little short of three miles into the third loop I looked at my Garmin and saw that I’d traveled 22 miles. Usually, in a marathon, I’m sore and ready to be done at 22 miles in. That’s exactly how I felt now, but I still had nine miles remaining. Suddenly, a knot formed in my throat and I felt tears come into my eyes. A sob escaped me and I had to stop running and gingerly bend my head over between my knees (no easy feat) to avoid panic. Bill turned to look at me. “What’s wrong? Did you hurt yourself?” he asked.
I hadn’t hurt myself, but I did feel completely overwhelmed. “I don’t think I can go another nine miles,” I said. “I can’t do it. I can’t.” But I just needed to say it out loud and give myself a moment to adjust to the reality that I would be out on the trail for at least another two and a half hours. My body hurt, but I know a little something about running by now: If you put one foot in front of the other, you move closer to the finish line. I did want to turn back and quit, but even that would require almost three miles of running, so there was no easy way out of what I’d gotten myself into. I breathed for a couple of minutes and tried to collect my wits. Then I got up and shuffled on.
By now, my pace had slowed to 14-plus minutes per mile. As I jogged, Bill did a brisk speed-walk beside me, which felt demoralizing. I asked him to run ahead because it was too psychologically painful to watch him walk while I was struggling so hard. He took up a routine of running ahead and then waiting for me and cheering wildly when I came by, which helped. I felt encouraged by his applause and relieved of the feeling that I was holding him back from getting a decent run in.
Near the end of the third loop I told Bill, “I want to do the last 2.2 miles by myself.” The truth was that I wanted to walk the whole distance, and I didn’t want Bill to know or to try to encourage me to keep running. I thought I might blow up at anyone who encouraged me to go any faster than I felt I could pull off at this point. He begrudgingly agreed to let me finish on my own. As I refilled my water bottle and started back out onto the muddy trail for the last stretch, I saw three women coming toward the aid station. One looked bedraggled and exhausted as I did, but the other two, who ran together, looked happy and fresh. I only knew that they’d gone the whole distance because of the mud that streamed up and down their legs. I waved at all of them, grateful not to be the very last soul on the course and then continued toward our turn-around point. I mostly walked, jogging only on the flattest section of the trail. Eventually the other three women and I were clustered together as we hiked the final hill and rounded the last corner within sight of our finish line. All together, we whooped and cheered when we saw Van waiting for us with her clipboard to write down our times. Done. Seven hours and 17 minutes.
I don’t know if I’ll ever try another 50 K race. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done and I cannot imagine repeating it. Bill reminds me that I said the same thing after my first marathon. He predicts I’ll be running a 50-mile race before the year is out. I say he’s crazy. We’ll see who’s right.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Reflections from 2009
It’s December already. I’m in Arizona for the holiday and enjoying the relative warmth. I love the feeling I have when I can see the sky. I feel the world is large and open rather than tiny and gray the way it feels at home during winter in the Northwest.
This last Sunday, Bill and I ran the Desert Classic 30K for the second consecutive year. We were both recovering from colds that made us stuffy and wheezy, but it was glorious to be in the dry desert, running beside the White Tank Mountains. I had three hours and thirty-five minutes out there to think and breathe. I used my time to reflect on this last year of running and traveling.
We started the year off in Japan with a marathon in Tateyama, followed it quickly with a trip to South Africa and then another to Brazil in June. On top of our inter-continental races, we ran a marathon in Kelowna, British Columbia in October. In between the marathons, we crammed in a number of other races of various lengths and planned, re-planned and planned again for our 2010 pilgrimage to the bottom of the planet. It’s no wonder I am a little tired, a little poorer than at the beginning of the year and a little worldly-wiser than when I started last January.
The journey to complete a race on every continent is almost over. I’ve got one more this coming year and then I get to put on the ring I bought to celebrate my victory. You’ve all followed me from the beginning through the sleepless nights, the bowel problems, the bleeding, the arguments with my beloved and the long, long hours moving toward each finish line. Thank you for coming along so far. And thank you in advance for sticking with me through 2010, as well. I’ve learned so much it would be impossible to summarize the lessons, but I feel inclined to jot a few of them down as I reflect on this past incredible year. They may sound simple, but they've meant a lot to me. Here they are.
1. Always run at your own pace. No one else’s pace will allow you to breathe properly, follow a thought all the way to its conclusion or get into a proper day-dreaming mode. Every time Bill and I violate this principle and try to race together, we both feel agitated and out of sync with ourselves and each other.
2. Believe in yourself when you stand at the starting line. It’s a long way to the finish line, so a good dose of faith gets you started on the right foot. There’s no point in negative self-talk or pessimism. If you have to spend more than five hours with yourself in a messy physical state, you may as well try to be good company.
3. Forgive quickly and often. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from traveling internationally with my partner, it’s that almost nothing goes as planned – and this can produce a lot of anxiety. When people are anxious, they are not their best selves. These moments should not be allowed to define a relationship. When the person I love best acts like he would sooner shove me off the train than reach our destination together, it’s best to forgive the moment he apologizes rather than hold a grudge. I may need the same courtesy in ten minutes or less.
4. Embrace every moment in life wholeheartedly. In Brazil, a young runner from Mexico befriended me and waited for more than an hour after crossing the finish line to see me come through. I’ve learned to fall in love with people quickly and to let them go with an open heart. Every encounter, every intersection is sacred and precious and deserves my investment, even if it lasts a very short time.
5. And finally, keep putting one foot in front of the other. I know people who run the marathon in a little over two hours, but I’m on the course much longer than they are. I’ve learned that the finish will come, if you keep moving slowly forward. This applies to everything in life. Don’t quit on that argument you’re in the middle of or the paper you have to write. There’s a finish line somewhere out there. Of course, there’s always another starting line, too. Life doesn’t give us much rest, but it comes in cycles so we get a little breather now and again.
I hope you’ve had a wonderful year full of insight, sacred intersections and moments of celebration at the end of your races. Happy New Year and here’s to the races yet to come!
This last Sunday, Bill and I ran the Desert Classic 30K for the second consecutive year. We were both recovering from colds that made us stuffy and wheezy, but it was glorious to be in the dry desert, running beside the White Tank Mountains. I had three hours and thirty-five minutes out there to think and breathe. I used my time to reflect on this last year of running and traveling.
We started the year off in Japan with a marathon in Tateyama, followed it quickly with a trip to South Africa and then another to Brazil in June. On top of our inter-continental races, we ran a marathon in Kelowna, British Columbia in October. In between the marathons, we crammed in a number of other races of various lengths and planned, re-planned and planned again for our 2010 pilgrimage to the bottom of the planet. It’s no wonder I am a little tired, a little poorer than at the beginning of the year and a little worldly-wiser than when I started last January.
The journey to complete a race on every continent is almost over. I’ve got one more this coming year and then I get to put on the ring I bought to celebrate my victory. You’ve all followed me from the beginning through the sleepless nights, the bowel problems, the bleeding, the arguments with my beloved and the long, long hours moving toward each finish line. Thank you for coming along so far. And thank you in advance for sticking with me through 2010, as well. I’ve learned so much it would be impossible to summarize the lessons, but I feel inclined to jot a few of them down as I reflect on this past incredible year. They may sound simple, but they've meant a lot to me. Here they are.
1. Always run at your own pace. No one else’s pace will allow you to breathe properly, follow a thought all the way to its conclusion or get into a proper day-dreaming mode. Every time Bill and I violate this principle and try to race together, we both feel agitated and out of sync with ourselves and each other.
2. Believe in yourself when you stand at the starting line. It’s a long way to the finish line, so a good dose of faith gets you started on the right foot. There’s no point in negative self-talk or pessimism. If you have to spend more than five hours with yourself in a messy physical state, you may as well try to be good company.
3. Forgive quickly and often. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from traveling internationally with my partner, it’s that almost nothing goes as planned – and this can produce a lot of anxiety. When people are anxious, they are not their best selves. These moments should not be allowed to define a relationship. When the person I love best acts like he would sooner shove me off the train than reach our destination together, it’s best to forgive the moment he apologizes rather than hold a grudge. I may need the same courtesy in ten minutes or less.
4. Embrace every moment in life wholeheartedly. In Brazil, a young runner from Mexico befriended me and waited for more than an hour after crossing the finish line to see me come through. I’ve learned to fall in love with people quickly and to let them go with an open heart. Every encounter, every intersection is sacred and precious and deserves my investment, even if it lasts a very short time.
5. And finally, keep putting one foot in front of the other. I know people who run the marathon in a little over two hours, but I’m on the course much longer than they are. I’ve learned that the finish will come, if you keep moving slowly forward. This applies to everything in life. Don’t quit on that argument you’re in the middle of or the paper you have to write. There’s a finish line somewhere out there. Of course, there’s always another starting line, too. Life doesn’t give us much rest, but it comes in cycles so we get a little breather now and again.
I hope you’ve had a wonderful year full of insight, sacred intersections and moments of celebration at the end of your races. Happy New Year and here’s to the races yet to come!
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Antarctica Update
Well, I’m getting personal messages from friends and readers asking what’s going on with regard to our trip to Antarctica. I’ve been a little out of blogging commission for a couple of months. It isn’t that I don’t have plenty to say. If you know me, you know that’s true. It’s just that there’s almost too much happening; it’s hard to pick what to write about. I’ve felt bogged down and blocked to tell the truth. A few days ago, because the weather was cruddy, I ran about five miles on the treadmill in my garage and watched an episode of Six Feet Under from Season Two as I ran. There’s nothing like running in a dark, cluttered room reflecting on the topic of death to give you an appreciation for life and encourage you to crawl out from under you metaphorical rock. So here I am.
You may have noticed that I took my posting about Antarctica off of the site. Here’s a very short version of what happened.
We had our trip to King George Island planned out almost to the minute and were getting ready to send our deposit in to the tour company we were working with when we got an email from them explaining our plans had to be put on hold. Apparently, someone had alerted the U.S. Department of State that we were organizing a marathon on Antarctica and (because most of Antarctica is a protected area) the State Department was concerned about this. They, in turn, contacted our tour company and started asking questions about our plans.
In a manner of speaking we were, certainly, organizing a “run” back and forth on a footpath, and the distance we hoped to travel was the marathon distance, but we were only organizing this for a total of five people (enough to charter the flight and to justify the use of a qualified guide on the island). All the tourists that travel with the company walk on the path we had been given permission to run on; we had no plans to divert from the usual routes traveled on the island.
Over the course of the past few weeks, we’ve continued to get messages from our tour company and from a representative of the State Department (who has been quite helpful, actually). As it turns out, it isn’t really any governmental agency that wanted to stop us, though it was because of the questions the State Department asked that got the ball rolling. It was actually the airline that contracts with our tour company who decided they didn’t want to jump through additional hoops to get us permission to run.
If you think all of this is confusing, join my club.
“So what is happening now?” you ask. What’s happening now is that I’m flying to King George Island as planned in March, but I’m not organizing anything. Bill will come with me as far as Punta Arenas, Chile and he’ll hang out there for a couple of days while I fly into the Antarctic Circle and experience King George Island. I will be accompanied by two wonderful women with whom I’ve been in communication over the past few months through the original planning process.
As we get closer to our trip, I’ll give you more details. We still plan on a 42K run/race in Punta Arenas and we look forward to seeing King George Island. Stay tuned for more.
You may have noticed that I took my posting about Antarctica off of the site. Here’s a very short version of what happened.
We had our trip to King George Island planned out almost to the minute and were getting ready to send our deposit in to the tour company we were working with when we got an email from them explaining our plans had to be put on hold. Apparently, someone had alerted the U.S. Department of State that we were organizing a marathon on Antarctica and (because most of Antarctica is a protected area) the State Department was concerned about this. They, in turn, contacted our tour company and started asking questions about our plans.
In a manner of speaking we were, certainly, organizing a “run” back and forth on a footpath, and the distance we hoped to travel was the marathon distance, but we were only organizing this for a total of five people (enough to charter the flight and to justify the use of a qualified guide on the island). All the tourists that travel with the company walk on the path we had been given permission to run on; we had no plans to divert from the usual routes traveled on the island.
Over the course of the past few weeks, we’ve continued to get messages from our tour company and from a representative of the State Department (who has been quite helpful, actually). As it turns out, it isn’t really any governmental agency that wanted to stop us, though it was because of the questions the State Department asked that got the ball rolling. It was actually the airline that contracts with our tour company who decided they didn’t want to jump through additional hoops to get us permission to run.
If you think all of this is confusing, join my club.
“So what is happening now?” you ask. What’s happening now is that I’m flying to King George Island as planned in March, but I’m not organizing anything. Bill will come with me as far as Punta Arenas, Chile and he’ll hang out there for a couple of days while I fly into the Antarctic Circle and experience King George Island. I will be accompanied by two wonderful women with whom I’ve been in communication over the past few months through the original planning process.
As we get closer to our trip, I’ll give you more details. We still plan on a 42K run/race in Punta Arenas and we look forward to seeing King George Island. Stay tuned for more.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Rio de Janeiro Marathon Race Report
GETTING THERE
In order to get from Ribeirao Preto, where we'd been staying with Bill's Brazilian family, to Rio de Janeiro for the race, we took a “sleeping bus” on Tuesday night. The ride was twelve hours. Unfortunately, Bill and I could not both get sleeping berths. At my insistence, Bill took the bed and I took the upright seat on the upper deck.
Why I would make such a magnanimous sacrifice? I can assure you it was completely selfish. If I don’t sleep well on any given night, I’m tired the next day, maybe a little labored in my physical movements and certainly prone to cry more easily than usual. But if Bill does not sleep, his face goes dark and the world becomes his victimizer. He changes from the reasonable man I adore into a threatened rattle snake snapping at every real or imagined enemy (I write this description with his full approval, by the way, and his admission that he deserves it).
It is in my best interest to help Bill get the sleep he needs. I am, one might even say, co-dependent on Bill’s sleep. That is why, after saying goodbye to Ana Rosa, Carlos, Mai, Jussara, Luiz and finally, Dimas, Bill snuggled into his cushioned pull-out easy chair with the fluffy blanket and pillow provided by the bus company in an enclosed heated room while I shifted stiffly in a vinyl chair up above, freezing and watching the hours tick by.
As expected, it was a tough night for me (but still better than the alternative). As soon as we reunited the next day, I was sure to let Bill know that my misery trumped his. Never was I so glad to arrive somewhere as I was to get to the bus station in Rio. A stationary restroom and a cup of thick Brazilian coffee went a long way toward refreshing me before we found our way to the hostel we’d reserved (Botofogo Easy Hostel).
We rested up for an hour or so, but not being ones to let the soles of our shoes grow cold, we soon got down to business exploring the city. From the chaotic avenue that ran perpendicular to the side-street our hostel was on we could see the Christ the Redeemer statue situated atop Corcovado Mountain in one direction and Sugar Loaf in the other. We were in the most beautiful city on earth!
Our most important task, of course, was to find our way to the race expo and pick up our packets. Tired as we were, we located Rio’s convention center, a large, bland cement building that took up two city blocks. We entered it and were greeted by a fitness fair where every kind of exercise equipment imaginable was being displayed and demonstrated to race participants as they wandered around looking for Registration. It took us nearly twenty minutes to discover that all foreign participants had a special registration area where young, energetic volunteers in bright orange jerseys were getting the chance to practice their various language skills. A cheerful young woman greeted Bill and me and walked us through the packet pick-up process with rapid and perfect English.
I’d almost forgotten why we were in Brazil by this point. For a week and a half, we’d been living with Bill’s Brazilian family in comfort, touring and visiting and eating and totally ignoring the other purpose of our trip. But the race expo was evidence that an event with more than 5000 participants was about to take place in this city. Our numbers, chips and race shirts were my personal evidence that in a few days, I’d have to run 42 K. I hoped I could do it. While I was in better health than before my last race in South Africa, Bill and I were both coming into this marathon somewhat compromised.
Let me lay out a few of the conditions under which we would stand at the starting line of our sixth continental Marathon on Sunday:
1. We’d been eating dinner at 11pm all week with Bill’s wonderful Brazilian family. Each day lunch had been served at about 5:00, appetizers at 9:00 and dinner after that. Bill and I had done our best to keep up with our hosts in these late-night extravaganzas.
2. We were both incredibly constipated due to this total disruption of our digestive routines.
3. We’d been drinking plenty of good Argentinean and Chilean wines every night.
4. We had walked at least 100 miles in our explorations of Sao Paulo, Ribeirao Preto, and Rio de Janeiro.
5. I had several mosquito bites around my ankles, and Bill had a deep gash in his left shin that he’d gotten by banging it against a bed frame at one of the places we’d stayed.
6. The young people staying at the hostel, while delightful and interesting, kept us awake with their talking in the common area until at least 4am each morning (and in case they’re reading this: We love you anyhow).
We’d do our best, but we had concerns.
During the next days before the race, we met and developed a special relationship with two guys who were staying at our hostel: Kevin from California and Omar from Mexico. Kevin was finishing the very quest Bill and I were on; he was in Rio to complete his seventh marathon on his seventh continent. We understood the time and expense and passion he had put into his dream and we both felt proud to have the opportunity to be part of his completion and celebration. He’d made the trek to Brazil alone, but we wanted to be sure he’d get properly toasted after crossing this finish line. Omar’s participation in this race was just as significant. He was in training for what would be his first marathon in Mexico City and had come to Brazil NOT to finish the Rio Marathon. His plan was to run 22 miles with the pack and then drop out, but when Kevin, Bill and I heard about his training regimen over the past months, we knew Omar could easily finish this race and encouraged him to think about going all the way.
Omar spent an entire day considering our exhortations and came back to the hostel the evening before the race with the announcement that he would run the full marathon on two conditions. One was that he would do it slowly (four hours, he said). The other was that we were all sworn to secrecy (sorry Omar!). He wanted his family to be able to celebrate the Mexico City Marathon with him as if it were his first.
Together we were “Team Rio!”
RACE DAY
Sunday morning came early. We’d barely fallen asleep at 4am as the hostel quieted down when our alarm sounded at 4:30. At 5:15, Team Rio jammed itself into a taxi and made its way from our little purple hostel to the finish line at the Flamengo Beach. We couldn’t see the ocean water in the dark. We couldn’t even hear the waves of the tide over the engines of the busses that waited to take us to the starting line 26.2 miles away in the town of Recreio, but we knew they were there.
This was a point-to-point Marathon, my favorite kind because it makes you feel like you’ve gone somewhere. You don’t end up where you started, though of course in this case we would because we boarded the bus at the finish and rode to the start. Easy come... easy go. I guess.
At the park near the starting line in Recreio, we watched the sun rise over the Atlantic Ocean. As we stretched and munched on granola bars, local fishermen pushed their boats over the surf and people in wetsuits with large colorfully illustrated boards swam into the sea to try and catch a wave to ride in.
My three men and I snapped pictures of the sky and rocky coastline as the colors shifted over the water from blue-grey to green to red and orange and finally back to a deeper blue. There were clouds, but not many, and there was a perfect, gentle, warm breeze coming from the South. Winter in Brazil didn’t hurt my feelings; that’s for sure.
I waited for fifteen minutes to use the toilet, but the line was moving slowly. I finally gave up when I heard the call to get ready for the start. I had to hope to find a portable toilet on the course at some point early in the race (I didn’t). We crowded into the starting chute. No one seemed to be seeding him or herself by pace, so Omar, Kevin, Bill and I all stood together as we waited for the horn. Once it sounded at 8:30, I bid goodbye to the fellas as they ran ahead and concentrated on finding my pace.
My body felt heavy (I supposed it was heavier than when I’d left home two weeks earlier), but I had good energy and I was excited to be running on continent number six!! Who in my life would have ever imagined this for me? I set my stopwatch so I could measure my progress, but even at the first three kilometer marker I could see my pace was sluggish. This Marathon was not going to be about a personal record for me. That was fine. I wasn’t feeling like competing, anyway, even with myself. I gazed out to the East where the sun was low in the sky. This race had plenty to offer besides a fast course. For this runner, it would be entirely about the views I’d take in over the next several hours.
How many ways are there to describe the Ocean? Cobalt. Foamy. Wild. Speckled in light. Violent. Lonely. Container of life. Overwhelming. Demanding. Emerald. Serene. Secure. Full. Spilling over. Salty. Grey. Angry. Complicated. Filling the hole in the heart of the world. Vast.
The ocean seemed to encompass me as I ran next to it. Sometimes in front of me, sometimes behind, always to my right, it wrapped itself around the coast of Brazil and around my attention as I puttered away. Only to the left, to the West, could I not see water. That’s because it wasn’t my ocean, not the Pacific Ocean that seeps through the Strait of Juan de Fuca into the Bay that I can see from my front yard. This was another ocean that I didn’t know very well, one that lived on the other side of my country and alongside this country where I was a stranger in awe of how big the world is and how little I’d seen of it even though I’d put my feet on the soil of six continents.
The course was flat as it wound its way beside the coastline. I watched almost the way one watches a film as the terrain at the water’s edge became rocks and cliffs, then sand and palm trees. Beach after beach trolled by at my slow pace. From Recreio to the Barra da Tijuca shoreline, the Quebra-Mar, Sao Conrado, and Leblon beaches, the sun shone on the rose, blond and peach-colored sand. Every few blocks during the early and later stretches of the course, refreshment stands sold fresh coconut milk and cold beers. As the hours progressed, each beach I passed grew more populated with patrons than the last.
My legs were strong if elephantine in their performance. I’ve run enough races by now, though, to know that all I needed to do was pick them up and move them forward. I didn’t worry that I wasn’t “feeling” as light as I sometimes feel. I only needed to enjoy the journey at whatever pace my legs would carry me.
The day warmed. I saw a sign at a bank claiming it was 23 degrees (75 degrees Fahrenheit) at about mile nineteen. As the heat rose, so did the humidity. Sweat dribbled down my face from under my hat. My inner thighs chafed (once again, I forgot to "Vaseline" a very key area). And the roof of my mouth became sore. I speculate the latter was from the smog. Brazil is totally self-sufficient in its energy sources and one of these sources is ethanol alcohol made from sugar cane. The millions of cars on Rio’s roads run on a combination of ethanol and regular gasoline. My hunch is that the way ethanol burns creates a kind of pollution I’m not adapted to and it irritated me. But it’s just a theory (anyone know the facts?). Shortly after I noted the temperature, I got my first glimpse of Sugar Loaf. Sugar Loaf, or Pao d’Acucar, as they say in Portuguese, watches over the Rio coastline from the top of its 1,299 feet of granite and quartz. It beamed in the sunlight, smiled at me and reassured me that the end was not so far away. Next I was running along Ipanema.
The roads were closed to vehicle traffic for the weekend and this beach, even in the winter, was a Mecca for ill-fitting thong bikinis and circles of young people keeping soccer balls in the air. I continued to follow the orange cones that indicated the course, grateful for the aid stations faithfully placed every three or four kilometers along the route. My bladder was beginning to complain, but I couldn’t see an easy way to relieve it, so I ignored the feeling of fullness for the moment.
By this time I could also feel the predictable ache in my legs and back and shoulders, but I still felt stalwart, solid in my ability to finish with the joy in my heart I’d started with. There would be no crying here in Rio as there had been in South Africa, but nonetheless, my pain was intensifying as I approached Copacabana Beach. I could have used some encouragement. I don’t know if the onlookers along the pedestrian trail that paralleled the beach had more enthusiasm for runners at the front of the pack, but at more than four hours into the race, I was left to myself. Sun-bathers on the beach and families out for their Sunday walk were totally indifferent to me and the other stragglers at the tail of the pack. Just about when I was nearly dying to hear someone shout some words of support, a female American voice come from somewhere saying, “Come on! Not far to go! Good job!” I tried to find the woman with the voice, but never spotted her.
Once or twice more, someone applauded as I passed them, but for the most part, it seemed the folks in Rio were fairly unimpressed by my pain and my efforts.
Finally, I reached Flamengo Beach, where I had caught the bus about eight hours earlier. There was the finish line, a speck in the distance. A large park at the edge of the beach had been commandeered as a recovery center and was peppered with temporary tents and port-o-potties (thank heavens!). Here, fans and runners lined the fence and cheered as I approached. Relieved to be among supporters, I looked for Bill’s face in the crowd and couldn’t see him, but I was a half kilometer from the actual finish line yet. As I drew closer to the finish banner and still couldn’t find him, I wondered what to do. I’d never come over a marathon finish line without him there to greet me, and for a moment I thought maybe I should pull over and let other runners pass until I could spot him. But then I heard him calling my name and followed the sound until I could make him out amidst the mass of faces.
Bill was balancing on a stone fence post to elevate himself above the crowd and, as usual, he had his camera in hand. I waved and felt a sharp pain in my shoulder and neck with the movement. I’d been on the course for five hours, thirty minutes and twenty-three seconds. All the muscles in my body were stiff and spent.
I crossed the line and heard the beep of the chip register under my feet as I slowed to a walk. Closing my eyes I gave a silent thanks to my body for doing what I’d asked it to do even though I hadn’t been very kind to it on this trip. Unfortunately, closing my eyes caused me to lose my balance for a moment. I snapped my eyes open to find my equilibrium and as I did I saw Omar standing directly in front of me.
A Mexican Flag was tied around his neck and flowed down his back. His arms were open wide to take me in and bring me back into balance. “Great job!” he said. Omar had finished his very first marathon in 3:46 and then had waited for nearly two hours for me to cross the line. I was touched.
Volunteers were standing on the sidelines with bundles of medals. To get mine, all I had to do was get my chip from my shoe and trade it in. I bent to reach down toward my feet but my body revolted with surges of searing pain in my lower back. Omar shook his head at me and lifted my shoulders to return me to an upright position. Then he, tired and sore as he must have been after his first marathon, knelt and unlaced my shoe, removed my timing ship and retied my shoe before walking me to the edge of the crowd where I traded the chip in for my medal.
Bill came around front of the ruckus to meet us and once I was finally out of the finish area, Omar handed me off to Bill and headed back to the hostel to get a shower and get ready for our celebration later that night. Kevin was already there with a friend who had flown in from the States at the last minute to support him. We would follow them just as soon as I had relieved my bladder (there were no lines at the toilets now), stretched and recovered enough to move again.
Sitting on the grass in an enclosed area, I straightened out each of my legs and leaned into the best stretch I could manage, and I reflected. Had I really just completed not only my sixth continent but my third continent in this very year? I’d never even done more than two marathons in a single year before 2009.
“We’re crazy!” I said to Bill.
“No kidding,” he agreed.
Bill had finished his race in 4:12, not one of his better performances. As we hobbled back to the hostel he told me he felt the humidity and the effects of our eating and walking over the past weeks, too. I must say he looked pretty ragged and worn.
CELEBRATION
But there is no rest for the weary in our world! After showering and imbibing with a beer or two, we settled in front of the television with other hostel guests to watch the final championship game of the Confederation Cup football (soccer) tournament that was happening in South Africa. The USA and Brazil were competing against one another. The USA, Mexico, Brazil and Holland were represented in the living room with us. We chose sides and shouted our way through the game.
For our part, Bill and I cheered for the American team, but we both secretly hoped that Brazil would win because we had plans that evening that could be affected if Brazil lost. We were planning on attending a football match at Maracana Stadium between two of Rio’s most popular teams. Maracana is one of the world’s largest football venues. It holds 85,000 fans. And the Brazilians can be very testy if their teams don’t win. We didn’t want Brazil to have reason to be angry with us before we got the chance to experience a football match at the famous stadium.
Fortunately, Brazil was happy that night and we got our sore butts off the sofa and made our way on the subway to Maracana with a small group from the hostel.
After the football match we finally celebrated with a buffet dinner at a Brazilian barbeque restaurant! I’m told the meat was very tasty (I stuck with salad and bread). Most importantly, we toasted each other. We toasted Kevin for finishing SEVEN!!! We toasted Omar for number ONE!!! And we toasted ourselves for SIX AND COUNTING!!! Whew.
In order to get from Ribeirao Preto, where we'd been staying with Bill's Brazilian family, to Rio de Janeiro for the race, we took a “sleeping bus” on Tuesday night. The ride was twelve hours. Unfortunately, Bill and I could not both get sleeping berths. At my insistence, Bill took the bed and I took the upright seat on the upper deck.
Why I would make such a magnanimous sacrifice? I can assure you it was completely selfish. If I don’t sleep well on any given night, I’m tired the next day, maybe a little labored in my physical movements and certainly prone to cry more easily than usual. But if Bill does not sleep, his face goes dark and the world becomes his victimizer. He changes from the reasonable man I adore into a threatened rattle snake snapping at every real or imagined enemy (I write this description with his full approval, by the way, and his admission that he deserves it).
It is in my best interest to help Bill get the sleep he needs. I am, one might even say, co-dependent on Bill’s sleep. That is why, after saying goodbye to Ana Rosa, Carlos, Mai, Jussara, Luiz and finally, Dimas, Bill snuggled into his cushioned pull-out easy chair with the fluffy blanket and pillow provided by the bus company in an enclosed heated room while I shifted stiffly in a vinyl chair up above, freezing and watching the hours tick by.
As expected, it was a tough night for me (but still better than the alternative). As soon as we reunited the next day, I was sure to let Bill know that my misery trumped his. Never was I so glad to arrive somewhere as I was to get to the bus station in Rio. A stationary restroom and a cup of thick Brazilian coffee went a long way toward refreshing me before we found our way to the hostel we’d reserved (Botofogo Easy Hostel).
We rested up for an hour or so, but not being ones to let the soles of our shoes grow cold, we soon got down to business exploring the city. From the chaotic avenue that ran perpendicular to the side-street our hostel was on we could see the Christ the Redeemer statue situated atop Corcovado Mountain in one direction and Sugar Loaf in the other. We were in the most beautiful city on earth!
Our most important task, of course, was to find our way to the race expo and pick up our packets. Tired as we were, we located Rio’s convention center, a large, bland cement building that took up two city blocks. We entered it and were greeted by a fitness fair where every kind of exercise equipment imaginable was being displayed and demonstrated to race participants as they wandered around looking for Registration. It took us nearly twenty minutes to discover that all foreign participants had a special registration area where young, energetic volunteers in bright orange jerseys were getting the chance to practice their various language skills. A cheerful young woman greeted Bill and me and walked us through the packet pick-up process with rapid and perfect English.
I’d almost forgotten why we were in Brazil by this point. For a week and a half, we’d been living with Bill’s Brazilian family in comfort, touring and visiting and eating and totally ignoring the other purpose of our trip. But the race expo was evidence that an event with more than 5000 participants was about to take place in this city. Our numbers, chips and race shirts were my personal evidence that in a few days, I’d have to run 42 K. I hoped I could do it. While I was in better health than before my last race in South Africa, Bill and I were both coming into this marathon somewhat compromised.
Let me lay out a few of the conditions under which we would stand at the starting line of our sixth continental Marathon on Sunday:
1. We’d been eating dinner at 11pm all week with Bill’s wonderful Brazilian family. Each day lunch had been served at about 5:00, appetizers at 9:00 and dinner after that. Bill and I had done our best to keep up with our hosts in these late-night extravaganzas.
2. We were both incredibly constipated due to this total disruption of our digestive routines.
3. We’d been drinking plenty of good Argentinean and Chilean wines every night.
4. We had walked at least 100 miles in our explorations of Sao Paulo, Ribeirao Preto, and Rio de Janeiro.
5. I had several mosquito bites around my ankles, and Bill had a deep gash in his left shin that he’d gotten by banging it against a bed frame at one of the places we’d stayed.
6. The young people staying at the hostel, while delightful and interesting, kept us awake with their talking in the common area until at least 4am each morning (and in case they’re reading this: We love you anyhow).
We’d do our best, but we had concerns.
During the next days before the race, we met and developed a special relationship with two guys who were staying at our hostel: Kevin from California and Omar from Mexico. Kevin was finishing the very quest Bill and I were on; he was in Rio to complete his seventh marathon on his seventh continent. We understood the time and expense and passion he had put into his dream and we both felt proud to have the opportunity to be part of his completion and celebration. He’d made the trek to Brazil alone, but we wanted to be sure he’d get properly toasted after crossing this finish line. Omar’s participation in this race was just as significant. He was in training for what would be his first marathon in Mexico City and had come to Brazil NOT to finish the Rio Marathon. His plan was to run 22 miles with the pack and then drop out, but when Kevin, Bill and I heard about his training regimen over the past months, we knew Omar could easily finish this race and encouraged him to think about going all the way.
Omar spent an entire day considering our exhortations and came back to the hostel the evening before the race with the announcement that he would run the full marathon on two conditions. One was that he would do it slowly (four hours, he said). The other was that we were all sworn to secrecy (sorry Omar!). He wanted his family to be able to celebrate the Mexico City Marathon with him as if it were his first.
Together we were “Team Rio!”
RACE DAY
Sunday morning came early. We’d barely fallen asleep at 4am as the hostel quieted down when our alarm sounded at 4:30. At 5:15, Team Rio jammed itself into a taxi and made its way from our little purple hostel to the finish line at the Flamengo Beach. We couldn’t see the ocean water in the dark. We couldn’t even hear the waves of the tide over the engines of the busses that waited to take us to the starting line 26.2 miles away in the town of Recreio, but we knew they were there.
This was a point-to-point Marathon, my favorite kind because it makes you feel like you’ve gone somewhere. You don’t end up where you started, though of course in this case we would because we boarded the bus at the finish and rode to the start. Easy come... easy go. I guess.
At the park near the starting line in Recreio, we watched the sun rise over the Atlantic Ocean. As we stretched and munched on granola bars, local fishermen pushed their boats over the surf and people in wetsuits with large colorfully illustrated boards swam into the sea to try and catch a wave to ride in.
My three men and I snapped pictures of the sky and rocky coastline as the colors shifted over the water from blue-grey to green to red and orange and finally back to a deeper blue. There were clouds, but not many, and there was a perfect, gentle, warm breeze coming from the South. Winter in Brazil didn’t hurt my feelings; that’s for sure.
I waited for fifteen minutes to use the toilet, but the line was moving slowly. I finally gave up when I heard the call to get ready for the start. I had to hope to find a portable toilet on the course at some point early in the race (I didn’t). We crowded into the starting chute. No one seemed to be seeding him or herself by pace, so Omar, Kevin, Bill and I all stood together as we waited for the horn. Once it sounded at 8:30, I bid goodbye to the fellas as they ran ahead and concentrated on finding my pace.
My body felt heavy (I supposed it was heavier than when I’d left home two weeks earlier), but I had good energy and I was excited to be running on continent number six!! Who in my life would have ever imagined this for me? I set my stopwatch so I could measure my progress, but even at the first three kilometer marker I could see my pace was sluggish. This Marathon was not going to be about a personal record for me. That was fine. I wasn’t feeling like competing, anyway, even with myself. I gazed out to the East where the sun was low in the sky. This race had plenty to offer besides a fast course. For this runner, it would be entirely about the views I’d take in over the next several hours.
How many ways are there to describe the Ocean? Cobalt. Foamy. Wild. Speckled in light. Violent. Lonely. Container of life. Overwhelming. Demanding. Emerald. Serene. Secure. Full. Spilling over. Salty. Grey. Angry. Complicated. Filling the hole in the heart of the world. Vast.
The ocean seemed to encompass me as I ran next to it. Sometimes in front of me, sometimes behind, always to my right, it wrapped itself around the coast of Brazil and around my attention as I puttered away. Only to the left, to the West, could I not see water. That’s because it wasn’t my ocean, not the Pacific Ocean that seeps through the Strait of Juan de Fuca into the Bay that I can see from my front yard. This was another ocean that I didn’t know very well, one that lived on the other side of my country and alongside this country where I was a stranger in awe of how big the world is and how little I’d seen of it even though I’d put my feet on the soil of six continents.
The course was flat as it wound its way beside the coastline. I watched almost the way one watches a film as the terrain at the water’s edge became rocks and cliffs, then sand and palm trees. Beach after beach trolled by at my slow pace. From Recreio to the Barra da Tijuca shoreline, the Quebra-Mar, Sao Conrado, and Leblon beaches, the sun shone on the rose, blond and peach-colored sand. Every few blocks during the early and later stretches of the course, refreshment stands sold fresh coconut milk and cold beers. As the hours progressed, each beach I passed grew more populated with patrons than the last.
My legs were strong if elephantine in their performance. I’ve run enough races by now, though, to know that all I needed to do was pick them up and move them forward. I didn’t worry that I wasn’t “feeling” as light as I sometimes feel. I only needed to enjoy the journey at whatever pace my legs would carry me.
The day warmed. I saw a sign at a bank claiming it was 23 degrees (75 degrees Fahrenheit) at about mile nineteen. As the heat rose, so did the humidity. Sweat dribbled down my face from under my hat. My inner thighs chafed (once again, I forgot to "Vaseline" a very key area). And the roof of my mouth became sore. I speculate the latter was from the smog. Brazil is totally self-sufficient in its energy sources and one of these sources is ethanol alcohol made from sugar cane. The millions of cars on Rio’s roads run on a combination of ethanol and regular gasoline. My hunch is that the way ethanol burns creates a kind of pollution I’m not adapted to and it irritated me. But it’s just a theory (anyone know the facts?). Shortly after I noted the temperature, I got my first glimpse of Sugar Loaf. Sugar Loaf, or Pao d’Acucar, as they say in Portuguese, watches over the Rio coastline from the top of its 1,299 feet of granite and quartz. It beamed in the sunlight, smiled at me and reassured me that the end was not so far away. Next I was running along Ipanema.
The roads were closed to vehicle traffic for the weekend and this beach, even in the winter, was a Mecca for ill-fitting thong bikinis and circles of young people keeping soccer balls in the air. I continued to follow the orange cones that indicated the course, grateful for the aid stations faithfully placed every three or four kilometers along the route. My bladder was beginning to complain, but I couldn’t see an easy way to relieve it, so I ignored the feeling of fullness for the moment.
By this time I could also feel the predictable ache in my legs and back and shoulders, but I still felt stalwart, solid in my ability to finish with the joy in my heart I’d started with. There would be no crying here in Rio as there had been in South Africa, but nonetheless, my pain was intensifying as I approached Copacabana Beach. I could have used some encouragement. I don’t know if the onlookers along the pedestrian trail that paralleled the beach had more enthusiasm for runners at the front of the pack, but at more than four hours into the race, I was left to myself. Sun-bathers on the beach and families out for their Sunday walk were totally indifferent to me and the other stragglers at the tail of the pack. Just about when I was nearly dying to hear someone shout some words of support, a female American voice come from somewhere saying, “Come on! Not far to go! Good job!” I tried to find the woman with the voice, but never spotted her.
Once or twice more, someone applauded as I passed them, but for the most part, it seemed the folks in Rio were fairly unimpressed by my pain and my efforts.
Finally, I reached Flamengo Beach, where I had caught the bus about eight hours earlier. There was the finish line, a speck in the distance. A large park at the edge of the beach had been commandeered as a recovery center and was peppered with temporary tents and port-o-potties (thank heavens!). Here, fans and runners lined the fence and cheered as I approached. Relieved to be among supporters, I looked for Bill’s face in the crowd and couldn’t see him, but I was a half kilometer from the actual finish line yet. As I drew closer to the finish banner and still couldn’t find him, I wondered what to do. I’d never come over a marathon finish line without him there to greet me, and for a moment I thought maybe I should pull over and let other runners pass until I could spot him. But then I heard him calling my name and followed the sound until I could make him out amidst the mass of faces.
Bill was balancing on a stone fence post to elevate himself above the crowd and, as usual, he had his camera in hand. I waved and felt a sharp pain in my shoulder and neck with the movement. I’d been on the course for five hours, thirty minutes and twenty-three seconds. All the muscles in my body were stiff and spent.
I crossed the line and heard the beep of the chip register under my feet as I slowed to a walk. Closing my eyes I gave a silent thanks to my body for doing what I’d asked it to do even though I hadn’t been very kind to it on this trip. Unfortunately, closing my eyes caused me to lose my balance for a moment. I snapped my eyes open to find my equilibrium and as I did I saw Omar standing directly in front of me.
A Mexican Flag was tied around his neck and flowed down his back. His arms were open wide to take me in and bring me back into balance. “Great job!” he said. Omar had finished his very first marathon in 3:46 and then had waited for nearly two hours for me to cross the line. I was touched.
Volunteers were standing on the sidelines with bundles of medals. To get mine, all I had to do was get my chip from my shoe and trade it in. I bent to reach down toward my feet but my body revolted with surges of searing pain in my lower back. Omar shook his head at me and lifted my shoulders to return me to an upright position. Then he, tired and sore as he must have been after his first marathon, knelt and unlaced my shoe, removed my timing ship and retied my shoe before walking me to the edge of the crowd where I traded the chip in for my medal.
Bill came around front of the ruckus to meet us and once I was finally out of the finish area, Omar handed me off to Bill and headed back to the hostel to get a shower and get ready for our celebration later that night. Kevin was already there with a friend who had flown in from the States at the last minute to support him. We would follow them just as soon as I had relieved my bladder (there were no lines at the toilets now), stretched and recovered enough to move again.
Sitting on the grass in an enclosed area, I straightened out each of my legs and leaned into the best stretch I could manage, and I reflected. Had I really just completed not only my sixth continent but my third continent in this very year? I’d never even done more than two marathons in a single year before 2009.
“We’re crazy!” I said to Bill.
“No kidding,” he agreed.
Bill had finished his race in 4:12, not one of his better performances. As we hobbled back to the hostel he told me he felt the humidity and the effects of our eating and walking over the past weeks, too. I must say he looked pretty ragged and worn.
CELEBRATION
But there is no rest for the weary in our world! After showering and imbibing with a beer or two, we settled in front of the television with other hostel guests to watch the final championship game of the Confederation Cup football (soccer) tournament that was happening in South Africa. The USA and Brazil were competing against one another. The USA, Mexico, Brazil and Holland were represented in the living room with us. We chose sides and shouted our way through the game.
For our part, Bill and I cheered for the American team, but we both secretly hoped that Brazil would win because we had plans that evening that could be affected if Brazil lost. We were planning on attending a football match at Maracana Stadium between two of Rio’s most popular teams. Maracana is one of the world’s largest football venues. It holds 85,000 fans. And the Brazilians can be very testy if their teams don’t win. We didn’t want Brazil to have reason to be angry with us before we got the chance to experience a football match at the famous stadium.
Fortunately, Brazil was happy that night and we got our sore butts off the sofa and made our way on the subway to Maracana with a small group from the hostel.
After the football match we finally celebrated with a buffet dinner at a Brazilian barbeque restaurant! I’m told the meat was very tasty (I stuck with salad and bread). Most importantly, we toasted each other. We toasted Kevin for finishing SEVEN!!! We toasted Omar for number ONE!!! And we toasted ourselves for SIX AND COUNTING!!! Whew.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Our First Week In Brazil
We've been in Brazil one week. As soon as we arrived at the Seatac airport my worries about Antarctica receded. I settled into the immediate bustle of ticketing and security checks and last-minute calls to say goodbye before turning off my cell phone for two weeks.
The flights (from Seattle to Atlanta and then Atlanta to Sao Paulo) were smooth, except that I was upgraded to Business Class for our first leg and Bill was abandoned to the lifestyle to which he has become accustomed back in coach. I smuggled him a warm sandwich and a bag of chips but, alas, there was nothing I could do to get him my bottomless glass of chardonay.
In Sao Paulo we were met by Bill's friend, Dimas and Dimas' son, Lucas. Back in 1967Bill had come to Brazil as an exchange student and lived with Dimas' family for six months. I watched as Dimas walked gingerly up to Bill and studied his face before uttering a very tentative, "Bill?"
Bill returned Dimas' gaze, blank for a moment and then I saw recognition dawn on both men's faces.
"Dimas!" Bill acknowledged and there were hugs and kisses and introductions all around.
We stayed our first several days with Lucas in an apartment on the sixth floor of a building in the heart of Sao Paulo. Lucas oriented us and gave us a good deal of his time, showing us a few of the city's best views and explaining televised "futebol" matches to us.
Once Bill and I had our bearings, we ventured out on our own and visited museums, parks and monuments until we were ready to collapse. We figure we clocked in with about forty miles of walking and exploring last week.
Bill and I agree that our favorite stop in Sao Paulo was at a temporary exhibition in the MASP (the Art Museum of Sao Paulo) by a Brazilian artist named Vik Muniz. "Vik" lived in the United States for many years but traveled extensively, creating his images in and from unusual artistic media. His portaits of several people who made their home at one of the world's largest garbage dumps, for example, were formed in the white space beneath thousands of objects retrieved from the trash heaps. Vik then took photographs of his works and blew them up to a huge scale. They stood anywhere from six to twenty feet in height. Look him up.
After Sao Paulo, we took a five-hour bus ride to Ribeirao Preto. This is the place Bill called home for six months after his junior year of high school. He had been back only one other time in 1973 for about six weeks. The city, then a town of 100,000 people, is now populated by 500,000 and is much changed from Bill's memory of it.
Dimas again collected us, this time from the bus station, and took us to the home he shares with his wife, Ana Rosa, in a downtown condominium. We've been here a few days now.
How can I describe the homecoming of a prodigal son? I've sat back and watched the kissing and hugging and questioning and the muddling through of two languages to give the answers. We've spent countless hours over food and drink and conversation with this lovely, large family. And Bill has said to me he feels that something in his life has finally come full circle.
I've been the observer, the silent capturer of images these past few days. I see the body language of a big, loving family and the volley of words passing between them. Occasionally I hear a phrase or a syllable that resembles French or English and I guess at the topic of conversation. Sometimes someone translates the gist for me. And then there are long stretches when everyone switches to English, however inconfident they may be with the language, purely for my benefit. I'm embarrassed by but grateful for this gift when it happens. The rest of the time I am understandiong what is happening through my intuition and my understanding of family systems.
Everyone should do this, by the way - sit a few hours with people who do not speak your language. It's a wonderful way to hone other kinds of knowing besides just that which comes from words.
Speaking of words, one of my quests in the last few days has been to find a book in English. I only brought one novel along with me and I've finished it. In a couple of days we'll make our way to Rio de Janeiro on a bus ride that will take about twelve hours. I can't see doing that without at least one book.
Dimas took us to the mall here in Ribeirao and I found a paperback copy of The Kite Runner in English. I took it to the cash register. They rang it up and told us it would be 78 Reais. That's 39 dollars to you and me, folks! I looked over at Bill. He was pulling out the money and counting out the bills, unthinking. I knew once he realized the actual price, his placid expression would be replaced with (how shall I say this delicately?) rage, horror, shock.
"That's 39 bucks, Bill. Forget it," I said. Then I turned to Dimas. "It's 78 Reais. Isn't that a lot?" I asked.
"Too much. Let's go," Dimas decided and we walked out.
I've never paid 39 dollars for a paperback book, and I'm not desperate enough to do it now (plus my marital bliss is far more valuable to me than that particular book), but I'm still in need of reading material for the bus. So last night I put the problem to the whole extended family.
"We found an English book at the mall, but it was too much money. Can I get one cheaper?" I asked. There was a flurry of conversation in Portuguese. The internet was consulted. Another flurry. There were questions I had to address. Did I like romances? (Not so much.) How about mysteries? (A little better, but not a lot.)
It was finally discovered that there is a used bookstore in town with thousands of books in English. And in the meantime, Dimas would search his shelves for something that would tide me over until we could get there. After much rummaging, there was one book in English in Dimas' and Ana Rosa's house, a copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach, left in Brazil some thirty-six years ago by one William P., my own dear Bill. Talk about coming full circle!
So, today we're having lunch at the family's sports club, visiting a used book store and generally enjoying this beautiful town. There's more to tell about (like Ana Rosa's concert with the symphony, our visit to an old sugar plant and Brazil's conversion to ethanol alcohol in lieu of gasoline for their cars), but it will have to wait.
The marathon is on Sunday the 28th in Rio. I'll post a race report when I'm home (and perhaps a book report on J. L. Seagull).
Love to all.
The flights (from Seattle to Atlanta and then Atlanta to Sao Paulo) were smooth, except that I was upgraded to Business Class for our first leg and Bill was abandoned to the lifestyle to which he has become accustomed back in coach. I smuggled him a warm sandwich and a bag of chips but, alas, there was nothing I could do to get him my bottomless glass of chardonay.
In Sao Paulo we were met by Bill's friend, Dimas and Dimas' son, Lucas. Back in 1967Bill had come to Brazil as an exchange student and lived with Dimas' family for six months. I watched as Dimas walked gingerly up to Bill and studied his face before uttering a very tentative, "Bill?"
Bill returned Dimas' gaze, blank for a moment and then I saw recognition dawn on both men's faces.
"Dimas!" Bill acknowledged and there were hugs and kisses and introductions all around.
We stayed our first several days with Lucas in an apartment on the sixth floor of a building in the heart of Sao Paulo. Lucas oriented us and gave us a good deal of his time, showing us a few of the city's best views and explaining televised "futebol" matches to us.
Once Bill and I had our bearings, we ventured out on our own and visited museums, parks and monuments until we were ready to collapse. We figure we clocked in with about forty miles of walking and exploring last week.
Bill and I agree that our favorite stop in Sao Paulo was at a temporary exhibition in the MASP (the Art Museum of Sao Paulo) by a Brazilian artist named Vik Muniz. "Vik" lived in the United States for many years but traveled extensively, creating his images in and from unusual artistic media. His portaits of several people who made their home at one of the world's largest garbage dumps, for example, were formed in the white space beneath thousands of objects retrieved from the trash heaps. Vik then took photographs of his works and blew them up to a huge scale. They stood anywhere from six to twenty feet in height. Look him up.
After Sao Paulo, we took a five-hour bus ride to Ribeirao Preto. This is the place Bill called home for six months after his junior year of high school. He had been back only one other time in 1973 for about six weeks. The city, then a town of 100,000 people, is now populated by 500,000 and is much changed from Bill's memory of it.
Dimas again collected us, this time from the bus station, and took us to the home he shares with his wife, Ana Rosa, in a downtown condominium. We've been here a few days now.
How can I describe the homecoming of a prodigal son? I've sat back and watched the kissing and hugging and questioning and the muddling through of two languages to give the answers. We've spent countless hours over food and drink and conversation with this lovely, large family. And Bill has said to me he feels that something in his life has finally come full circle.
I've been the observer, the silent capturer of images these past few days. I see the body language of a big, loving family and the volley of words passing between them. Occasionally I hear a phrase or a syllable that resembles French or English and I guess at the topic of conversation. Sometimes someone translates the gist for me. And then there are long stretches when everyone switches to English, however inconfident they may be with the language, purely for my benefit. I'm embarrassed by but grateful for this gift when it happens. The rest of the time I am understandiong what is happening through my intuition and my understanding of family systems.
Everyone should do this, by the way - sit a few hours with people who do not speak your language. It's a wonderful way to hone other kinds of knowing besides just that which comes from words.
Speaking of words, one of my quests in the last few days has been to find a book in English. I only brought one novel along with me and I've finished it. In a couple of days we'll make our way to Rio de Janeiro on a bus ride that will take about twelve hours. I can't see doing that without at least one book.
Dimas took us to the mall here in Ribeirao and I found a paperback copy of The Kite Runner in English. I took it to the cash register. They rang it up and told us it would be 78 Reais. That's 39 dollars to you and me, folks! I looked over at Bill. He was pulling out the money and counting out the bills, unthinking. I knew once he realized the actual price, his placid expression would be replaced with (how shall I say this delicately?) rage, horror, shock.
"That's 39 bucks, Bill. Forget it," I said. Then I turned to Dimas. "It's 78 Reais. Isn't that a lot?" I asked.
"Too much. Let's go," Dimas decided and we walked out.
I've never paid 39 dollars for a paperback book, and I'm not desperate enough to do it now (plus my marital bliss is far more valuable to me than that particular book), but I'm still in need of reading material for the bus. So last night I put the problem to the whole extended family.
"We found an English book at the mall, but it was too much money. Can I get one cheaper?" I asked. There was a flurry of conversation in Portuguese. The internet was consulted. Another flurry. There were questions I had to address. Did I like romances? (Not so much.) How about mysteries? (A little better, but not a lot.)
It was finally discovered that there is a used bookstore in town with thousands of books in English. And in the meantime, Dimas would search his shelves for something that would tide me over until we could get there. After much rummaging, there was one book in English in Dimas' and Ana Rosa's house, a copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach, left in Brazil some thirty-six years ago by one William P., my own dear Bill. Talk about coming full circle!
So, today we're having lunch at the family's sports club, visiting a used book store and generally enjoying this beautiful town. There's more to tell about (like Ana Rosa's concert with the symphony, our visit to an old sugar plant and Brazil's conversion to ethanol alcohol in lieu of gasoline for their cars), but it will have to wait.
The marathon is on Sunday the 28th in Rio. I'll post a race report when I'm home (and perhaps a book report on J. L. Seagull).
Love to all.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Training for Brazil: Trial #2
As I write, I’m in a little cabin in Tennessee outside of Knoxville. I came here to visit my friend, Wendy, and to get some writing done. I’ve had a lot on my mind lately, and I’ve had trouble finding time to settle down and get my writing completed. This has been a whirlwind of a year.
Soon (tomorrow actually – it took me a while to get this posted), Bill and I leave for Brazil. We are about to run a marathon on our SIXTH continent! I can scarcely believe it. This has been a lot of work and a lot of fun.
As I took a run along a rolling road beside farm houses and log cabins, catching the scent of honeysuckle in the air and watching for snapping turtles on the ground, I let my thoughts fly free in a stream of consciousness.
It went something like this:
Ooh this is a bigger hill than it looked last night when we drove this course…. I hope I don’t get tick and end up with Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever…. I wonder how the dogs and Bill are doing back home…. I hope I’m ready for this race in Rio…. I hope my Aunt S is OK…. What if I can’t get on that boat for Antarctica next spring????
And there I stopped (thinking, not running). I needed to focus on the scenery around me and breathe deeply into the moment or I was going to move into “panic mode” and my run would be derailed.
Just before I left for Tennessee, a couple of things happened. First, my dear Aunt S went into the hospital and was in ICU for more than a week with a tube down her throat. I went to see her once she was awake and stayed in touch with my cousin by phone on a daily basis, but I was terribly worried about her, and about my grandmother, for whom my Aunt and cousin do most of the care-giving. My family is aging, as are we all, and I worry if everyone will get what they need when they need it to keep their lives comfortable in the process.
Just as my Aunt S was stabilizing (she’s home now, by the way, and on the mend) and my anxiety was abating, I got an email from Marathon Tours, the company that runs the Antarctica Marathon saying I wouldn’t be on the 2010 trip. Maybe, they said, I’d be on the 2011 boat to Antarctica. This crushed me. As you know, I have a book contract to write about the effects of this 7 continent journey on my life and all my chapters, including the one on Antarctica, are due next year! Bill and I have spent a lot of money and time and effort to make this whole seven-marathons dream happen. And I’d been told earlier this year that as people were dropping out of the 2010 trip because of the economical decline, I would most certainly be moved from the waiting list to the real list by May. But when no one called me to confirm this, I finally got in contact with the company and found out I’d been jilted (apparently they had to cut back to one boat and cannot guarantee my participation even in 2011). Now what?
Actually, I have some hope. Bill and are getting creative. If we can’t elbow our way onto that boat in 2010, how will we find our way to Antarctica?
Ah, once I get to the idea phase of “panic mode,” I know I’m out of the worry woods. Back on track with a strain of thought I could follow constructively, I kept running and started brainstorming. What if we charter a private boat and just show up for the race? What if we take a helicopter to one of the islands and run 26.2 miles as charted by our Garmin? What if we plug in a treadmill at one of the research stations on the continent and run until we’ve completed the marathon distance?
Now my thoughts were coming fast and, just as I was getting to some pretty absurd schemes, I found myself back at where Wendy and I had agreed to meet and I put my ideas on pause.
So now I’m writing my readers just to say, I’m off to Brazil on June 13th (tomorrow), but I’m in search of creative input from anyone who has a thought about running a marathon (official or unofficial – it doesn’t matter to me) on Antarctica.
If you have any ideas of how to get to Antarctica (contacts for cruise ships, info about which islands have runnable terrain, the address of a friendly penguin), send them my way! I’ll do anything it takes to get us there (safely) and back in time to write my last chapter and turn my book in.
I’ll try to post while I’m in South America, but I’ll most certainly post a race report once I’m back.
See you in early July.
Soon (tomorrow actually – it took me a while to get this posted), Bill and I leave for Brazil. We are about to run a marathon on our SIXTH continent! I can scarcely believe it. This has been a lot of work and a lot of fun.
As I took a run along a rolling road beside farm houses and log cabins, catching the scent of honeysuckle in the air and watching for snapping turtles on the ground, I let my thoughts fly free in a stream of consciousness.
It went something like this:
Ooh this is a bigger hill than it looked last night when we drove this course…. I hope I don’t get tick and end up with Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever…. I wonder how the dogs and Bill are doing back home…. I hope I’m ready for this race in Rio…. I hope my Aunt S is OK…. What if I can’t get on that boat for Antarctica next spring????
And there I stopped (thinking, not running). I needed to focus on the scenery around me and breathe deeply into the moment or I was going to move into “panic mode” and my run would be derailed.
Just before I left for Tennessee, a couple of things happened. First, my dear Aunt S went into the hospital and was in ICU for more than a week with a tube down her throat. I went to see her once she was awake and stayed in touch with my cousin by phone on a daily basis, but I was terribly worried about her, and about my grandmother, for whom my Aunt and cousin do most of the care-giving. My family is aging, as are we all, and I worry if everyone will get what they need when they need it to keep their lives comfortable in the process.
Just as my Aunt S was stabilizing (she’s home now, by the way, and on the mend) and my anxiety was abating, I got an email from Marathon Tours, the company that runs the Antarctica Marathon saying I wouldn’t be on the 2010 trip. Maybe, they said, I’d be on the 2011 boat to Antarctica. This crushed me. As you know, I have a book contract to write about the effects of this 7 continent journey on my life and all my chapters, including the one on Antarctica, are due next year! Bill and I have spent a lot of money and time and effort to make this whole seven-marathons dream happen. And I’d been told earlier this year that as people were dropping out of the 2010 trip because of the economical decline, I would most certainly be moved from the waiting list to the real list by May. But when no one called me to confirm this, I finally got in contact with the company and found out I’d been jilted (apparently they had to cut back to one boat and cannot guarantee my participation even in 2011). Now what?
Actually, I have some hope. Bill and are getting creative. If we can’t elbow our way onto that boat in 2010, how will we find our way to Antarctica?
Ah, once I get to the idea phase of “panic mode,” I know I’m out of the worry woods. Back on track with a strain of thought I could follow constructively, I kept running and started brainstorming. What if we charter a private boat and just show up for the race? What if we take a helicopter to one of the islands and run 26.2 miles as charted by our Garmin? What if we plug in a treadmill at one of the research stations on the continent and run until we’ve completed the marathon distance?
Now my thoughts were coming fast and, just as I was getting to some pretty absurd schemes, I found myself back at where Wendy and I had agreed to meet and I put my ideas on pause.
So now I’m writing my readers just to say, I’m off to Brazil on June 13th (tomorrow), but I’m in search of creative input from anyone who has a thought about running a marathon (official or unofficial – it doesn’t matter to me) on Antarctica.
If you have any ideas of how to get to Antarctica (contacts for cruise ships, info about which islands have runnable terrain, the address of a friendly penguin), send them my way! I’ll do anything it takes to get us there (safely) and back in time to write my last chapter and turn my book in.
I’ll try to post while I’m in South America, but I’ll most certainly post a race report once I’m back.
See you in early July.
Training for Brazil: Advice for me? #1
So, I started “developing” when I was ten years old, but it took me twenty years to get comfortable with my breasts.
My breasts grew more quickly than I was ready for and by junior high, I was big enough for the boys in PE class to shout, “Watch out Cami, you’ll give yourself a black eye!” when I ran around the track. This contributed to my giving up running until sports bras were invented/discovered/marketed widely.
I remember my first sports bra! It hooked in the back like a regular bra, but it pulled the girls in tight enough that they didn’t bounce anymore when I was in my aerobic dance class. I was elated! I loved the new stability in my life. And I wore this little ditty, or something similar to it, until I started running.
The first time I ever ran for more than one hour, my loyal friend, my tight, cozy, cotton bra – the one that had freed me to exercise with other people in the room and to overcome the trauma of Jr. High – failed me. I chafed.
I’ve talked about chafing before. It’s one of the most frustrating things about running for me. It happens when two things rub together, any two things. When your two thighs rub together (mine do) or when your shoe rubs against your ankle bone, you chafe. It’s not a blister, per se; it’s more like a rope burn. If the chafing happens over a long enough period of time, you bleed. Maybe you’ve been to the finish line of a marathon and seen men with blood on their shirts where their nipples would be. This is from chafing.
Sports bra chafing happens just under the breasts at the edge of the bra. For me, it’s like I’ve been sliced across my torso with a razor blade. I quickly learned early on in my long distance running experience that there were a few things that can prevent this. The first thing I had to address was the cotton. Synthetic material wicks away sweat better than cotton and is softer against the skin, so I switched to a bra made from polyester and lycra and tossed out all my cotton. Then I learned about Vaseline. Applied liberally on skin surfaces that may rub against something, Vaseline lubricates the area and eliminates friction. These tricks have saved me from the experience of coming h ome after a long run and wincing in the shower as the warm water washes the salty sweat down my body into my new raw wound.
So knowing what I know, why did I take a twelve mile run a few weeks ago without lubing this area? Why did I wear not one, but two tight sports bras and Vaseline all my usual spots except for my upper torso under the elastic? I can’t say. I forgot, I guess. In the midst of making sure I had my energy gel, my iPod, my water, my running belt, my phone and the new little digital voice recorder I just bought (so I can record inspiring thoughts as I run), I forgot to grease under my breasts.
Six miles into the run, I felt the chafing begin. I tried to tuck my shirt up under the bras to create some space between the thick seam and my skin, but it wouldn’t hold. I tried to run with my thumb under the elastic, but I couldn’t keep up that position. At mile ten, I could tell I was in trouble. An open sore had developed in a straight line front and center under my breasts. I had two miles left and the best I could do was grit my teeth, turn up my music and live with the pain.
When I got home and stripped out of my sweaty clothes, I saw the wound. It was a red splice across my skin measuring about four inches in length, raised and full of puss. As I expected, the warm water in the shower hurt like a mother and brought tears to my eyes. But the real problem was that I couldn’t wear anything (regular bra, shirt, robe) afterwards for about three days without pain. I’d really done a doosey on myself this time. It was the worst one I’d ever had. And I had to keep up my training, so I needed to put that damned sports bra on again, over my oozing sore, on Tuesday. It hadn’t even scabbed over yet.
The next week of running was a comedy of bandages. Tuesday I wore a large band aid with Vaseline underneath, which slipped off after a mile. Wednesday I tried a burn pad adhered with masking tape. Friday I used a blister pad.
None of these methods really held through the sweat, so I put the dilemma to Bill for his expert input. I suppose you can im agine my alarm when I walked in the house after a trip to the grocery store and saw Bill holding up a roll of duct tape! He claimed runners widely accept the use of duct tape to prevent blistering. I had a 15-mile run on the schedule for Sunday and I’d been worrying over my chafing wound all week. His proposal was that I lube up with Vaseline across the red mark, place a gelatin burn pad over the top of that and then run a strip of duct tape across my torso under my breasts where the elastic of my sports bra would sit.
I wasn’t thrilled with the image this created, but I was game if it would prevent further injury, and I foolishly trusted Bill. He sounded pretty sure of himself. So I tried it. The problem is, my breasts sag (I’m 42, people!). So the tape partly gaped on each side under each breast. My creative solution was to run another piece of duct tape between my breasts to create an upside down “T.”
Needless to say, this was a disaster. I launched out on my 15 miles and about half way through, the duct tape started irritating me. I could feel new chafing happening where the vertical strand of tape was between my breasts. In stages, I disassembled the bandage. First I took off the center piece of tape and inspected two new little red marks right on either side of the upper part of my cleavage. Next I took off the horizontal piece and shoved the burn pad between my breasts to soften the new rubbing there. Finally, I pulled that out when I could feel the gel disintegrating because of my sweat. Now I was back to just me and my sports bra with no buffer between us. I’d have to take whatever consequences would come.
There’s both a moral and a question here. The moral is that lubing the areas that chafe is crucial, and if you forget, you’re better off going home and starting over for all the energy it’s going to take you in the next week or two to manage the pain. The question is, does anyone have a solution as to what to do once you have chafed? Is there a product I’m unaware of? A method for protecting the wound while you keep running? Or do you just gut it through as I did?
My breasts grew more quickly than I was ready for and by junior high, I was big enough for the boys in PE class to shout, “Watch out Cami, you’ll give yourself a black eye!” when I ran around the track. This contributed to my giving up running until sports bras were invented/discovered/marketed widely.
I remember my first sports bra! It hooked in the back like a regular bra, but it pulled the girls in tight enough that they didn’t bounce anymore when I was in my aerobic dance class. I was elated! I loved the new stability in my life. And I wore this little ditty, or something similar to it, until I started running.
The first time I ever ran for more than one hour, my loyal friend, my tight, cozy, cotton bra – the one that had freed me to exercise with other people in the room and to overcome the trauma of Jr. High – failed me. I chafed.
I’ve talked about chafing before. It’s one of the most frustrating things about running for me. It happens when two things rub together, any two things. When your two thighs rub together (mine do) or when your shoe rubs against your ankle bone, you chafe. It’s not a blister, per se; it’s more like a rope burn. If the chafing happens over a long enough period of time, you bleed. Maybe you’ve been to the finish line of a marathon and seen men with blood on their shirts where their nipples would be. This is from chafing.
Sports bra chafing happens just under the breasts at the edge of the bra. For me, it’s like I’ve been sliced across my torso with a razor blade. I quickly learned early on in my long distance running experience that there were a few things that can prevent this. The first thing I had to address was the cotton. Synthetic material wicks away sweat better than cotton and is softer against the skin, so I switched to a bra made from polyester and lycra and tossed out all my cotton. Then I learned about Vaseline. Applied liberally on skin surfaces that may rub against something, Vaseline lubricates the area and eliminates friction. These tricks have saved me from the experience of coming h ome after a long run and wincing in the shower as the warm water washes the salty sweat down my body into my new raw wound.
So knowing what I know, why did I take a twelve mile run a few weeks ago without lubing this area? Why did I wear not one, but two tight sports bras and Vaseline all my usual spots except for my upper torso under the elastic? I can’t say. I forgot, I guess. In the midst of making sure I had my energy gel, my iPod, my water, my running belt, my phone and the new little digital voice recorder I just bought (so I can record inspiring thoughts as I run), I forgot to grease under my breasts.
Six miles into the run, I felt the chafing begin. I tried to tuck my shirt up under the bras to create some space between the thick seam and my skin, but it wouldn’t hold. I tried to run with my thumb under the elastic, but I couldn’t keep up that position. At mile ten, I could tell I was in trouble. An open sore had developed in a straight line front and center under my breasts. I had two miles left and the best I could do was grit my teeth, turn up my music and live with the pain.
When I got home and stripped out of my sweaty clothes, I saw the wound. It was a red splice across my skin measuring about four inches in length, raised and full of puss. As I expected, the warm water in the shower hurt like a mother and brought tears to my eyes. But the real problem was that I couldn’t wear anything (regular bra, shirt, robe) afterwards for about three days without pain. I’d really done a doosey on myself this time. It was the worst one I’d ever had. And I had to keep up my training, so I needed to put that damned sports bra on again, over my oozing sore, on Tuesday. It hadn’t even scabbed over yet.
The next week of running was a comedy of bandages. Tuesday I wore a large band aid with Vaseline underneath, which slipped off after a mile. Wednesday I tried a burn pad adhered with masking tape. Friday I used a blister pad.
None of these methods really held through the sweat, so I put the dilemma to Bill for his expert input. I suppose you can im agine my alarm when I walked in the house after a trip to the grocery store and saw Bill holding up a roll of duct tape! He claimed runners widely accept the use of duct tape to prevent blistering. I had a 15-mile run on the schedule for Sunday and I’d been worrying over my chafing wound all week. His proposal was that I lube up with Vaseline across the red mark, place a gelatin burn pad over the top of that and then run a strip of duct tape across my torso under my breasts where the elastic of my sports bra would sit.
I wasn’t thrilled with the image this created, but I was game if it would prevent further injury, and I foolishly trusted Bill. He sounded pretty sure of himself. So I tried it. The problem is, my breasts sag (I’m 42, people!). So the tape partly gaped on each side under each breast. My creative solution was to run another piece of duct tape between my breasts to create an upside down “T.”
Needless to say, this was a disaster. I launched out on my 15 miles and about half way through, the duct tape started irritating me. I could feel new chafing happening where the vertical strand of tape was between my breasts. In stages, I disassembled the bandage. First I took off the center piece of tape and inspected two new little red marks right on either side of the upper part of my cleavage. Next I took off the horizontal piece and shoved the burn pad between my breasts to soften the new rubbing there. Finally, I pulled that out when I could feel the gel disintegrating because of my sweat. Now I was back to just me and my sports bra with no buffer between us. I’d have to take whatever consequences would come.
There’s both a moral and a question here. The moral is that lubing the areas that chafe is crucial, and if you forget, you’re better off going home and starting over for all the energy it’s going to take you in the next week or two to manage the pain. The question is, does anyone have a solution as to what to do once you have chafed? Is there a product I’m unaware of? A method for protecting the wound while you keep running? Or do you just gut it through as I did?
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