Bill and I flew out of Seattle to Japan on January 20th, Inauguration Day. Our flight didn’t leave until early afternoon, so we had the opportunity to watch some of the pomp and circumstance of D.C. on television before we had to head down to the airport. We listened to President Obama’s speech on NPR as we drove. Sorry as we were to miss the coverage of the entire day, we were also excited to have our trip finally under way. It had been a long time in the planning stage.
This would be my second trip to Japan. The first was for our honeymoon, when we climbed Mt. Fuji and fell in love with her, that magic giant whose elevation is 12,388 feet at the highest point.
We had a different challenge on our agenda this time. It would be our fourth continent on which we would run a marathon.
When we arrived in Tokyo and debarked the plane, there were two men waiting for us with our names on a sign. We were on our way to Tateyama, Bellingham’s Japanese Sister City. The folks in Tateyama had been incredibly attentive to us as we made our plans. They paid for our entry to the marathon, arranged a homestay for us with a local family, scheduled a meeting with their mayor and insisted on picking us up at the airport. We had wanted to find our way to Tateyama on our own by train, but Michael, the liaison with the Tateyama mayor’s office, called us at least four times asking and re-asking whether or not it wouldn’t be better to have someone fetch us by car and drive us in. Eventually, he wore me down and I acquiesced. I like to take trains when I travel, but we would have to do it on another trip. And anyhow, I decided it might be a relief after a long plane ride to let someone else do the thinking at that point.
If you’ve never experienced Japanese hospitality, you’ve only lived half a life. When we arrived at the hotel Michael had booked for us, a team of six people (eight including us) gathered around a table in the lobby and commenced a meeting about our itinerary. We had contacted Tateyama through the Sister City Organization originally because there was very little information in English about the marathon online, and we’d realized we would need help to register. We never expected Tateyama to take us into the fold and treat us like honored dignitaries, but this is what happened. As Bill and I sat, exhausted and confused as to whether it was night or day, Michael translated for us what the representatives of the mayor’s office, the homestay family, the hotel and the Sister City Organization were planning for us. I tried to follow all the details, but when I realized I was having trouble even remembering people’s names, I finally dug out my pen and paper and took notes so I’d have something to refer to the next morning.
Here’s the itinerary:
Thursday: 10:00am – Our host (Kinuyo) would pick us up with the wife (Mrs. Kitami) of the man (Mr. Kitami) who had driven us from the airport. First they would drive us the full length of the marathon course. Then we would spend the day seeing sights of interest in Tateyama (the sports center and an interesting shrine cut into a mountainside). At 6:00pm we would convene at the Kitami’s for a potluck dinner with other Sister City Organization members who had visited Bellingham in past years. We would meet Kenji, Kinuyo’s husband, and sleep at their house.
Friday: A 9:30am meeting with the mayor who would present us with a gift and an International Friendship Certificate, more sight-seeing (a temple, local flower-growers and a Daibutsu) and then a lovely dinner at the home of our hosts.
Saturday: More sight-seeing in the morning, registration for the race in the afternoon and a formal presentation of plaques commemorating our participation in the marathon during a pre-race celebration in the evening. Sleep at the hotel and get ready for the race.
Sunday: Run the marathon at 10 am. Recover in the hotel room while watching the Sumo championship matches on TV.
Monday: We would leave Tateyama. The son of the hotel owner would drive us all the way (2 hours) to the next city we intended to visit before Bill had to fly home.
The morning after we arrived was foggy. Word was that Tateyama had one of the best views of Mt. Fuji in Japan, but we couldn’t find it. In fact, sight-seeing on our second day, the fog was so bad, we couldn’t even see the top of Buddha’s head as we stood at his feet. But once Saturday rolled around, rain cleared the air, wind blew the clouds and fog away, and Mt. Fuji made an appearance. Sure enough, there she was, across the water, huge and white and powerful.
When we awoke on Sunday morning and looked out the hotel room window, Fuji-san was still there. We were going to get to look at the mountain while we ran. Excited, we dressed and walked a few hundred meters from our hotel to the starting area.
Japanese runners are almost all organized into clubs. These clubs don’t much resemble the “running club” I belong to in Bellingham. They do meet for and support one another on training runs like we do, but they are more of a highly organized troop or team than we. For example, they tend to have about sixty members, all active, who register for races based on their identity as a club. They meet before races and stake out a spot near the starting line, situating themselves as a unit on a tarp or in a tent where they will store their post-race changes of clothes and where they will meet after the race to celebrate and eat. And they often have matching sweat suits. Actually, we’ve found that one of the questions on many applications for marathons around the world is, “Which running club do you belong to?” We always answer with, “Greater Bellingham Running Club,” but we know we aren’t answering the same question we’re being asked.
Because we didn’t have a recognized club to congregate with, we were introduced to a couple who invited us to join them on their tarp and to warm up with and start with them. There was a soccer field where runners warmed up near the race center. There was a big time-clock to the north side of the field that counted down the minutes to the start of the race. A few hundred people, wearing their various club colors, jogged around in circles, stopping from time to time to stretch. We jumped right into the circle and warmed up.
One of the women from the club took me under her wing. She was an avid marathoner with a slight injury, so she assured me she would be running this race at a slow pace. I know from experience that when most runners say “slow,” it never means slow like MY slow, so I didn’t count on running with her, but we did start together. Just minutes before the gun, we headed to the starting line, and I was surprised to see everyone lined up by number. There were signs telling us where we should stand (Bib #s 1100-1700, for example). I lined up behind the sign that indicated my bib number and stood next to my new friend as we waited for the signal that we should begin. We were also divided by sex. The men were on the right side of the line and the women on the left. (This, by the way, surprised Bill and me. We lost each other in the crowd as we were swept into our categories with only time for a half-hearted wave at one another.)
The gun went off and 5000 runners crossed the starting line, one chirping chip at a time. The first few kilometers wound along the bay as Mt. Fuji supervised our progress. I settled into my pace toward the back of the pack and waved goodbye to my injured companion as she soared ahead of me.
Bill and I were the only foreigners in the race, as far as we could figure (we’d asked the mayor about this, who seemed to think so), and most certainly the only Caucasians. Before and behind me, dark-haired runners bobbed along while I, even at only five feet six inches, towered above most. This made me conspicuous to bystanders and fans, of which there were many thousands along the race course. The Kitami’s were among them near the beginning of my run, and I heard them shout my name. I waved.
Just as we turned away from the water on the first bend of the route, I picked out of the crowd some of our new Sister City friends from the potluck dinner on Thursday night. I yelled, “Hello! Arigato. Thank you. Thank you for coming.” At just about the same time a woman runner settled in at my pace next to me and said hello. She struggled in English to ask me where I was from and if this was my first time in Japan. I answered her slowly, simplifying my language, as I had learned to do when I taught English as a second language years ago. Then she asked me a perplexing question. “Are you high school?” she said.
“High school?” I repeated.
She ran quietly beside me for a moment. I figured she was trying to piece together a way to rephrase her question (while I wished for the millionth time in my life I’d taken Japanese in college when I had the chance). Perhaps she thought I was a high school teacher, an exchange teacher, maybe. “Or do you go to University?” she finally asked.
I laughed. “Me?” I smiled at her. “I am forty-one years old.” I said. I held up four fingers on one hand and one on the other.
“OH!” She laughed now, too. “Me too. I born 1968.”
“1967 for me,” I said.
We continued our simple conversation for a few minutes before she said, “Do your best,” and jogged on ahead of me.
Do your best is a common motto in sporting activities in Japan. I noted, in fact, that everyone on the sidelines was shouting it as runners passed by. “Gambate”(pronounced gom-baa-tey) is the Japanese phrase. As we ran through tangled, twisting narrow neighborhoods and alongside dozens of small family businesses, the streets were packed with families, children and the elderly, all repeatedly shouting, “Gambate.” I felt exhilarated by the attention. This was the first time I’d experienced people lining the streets every inch of a race to cheer for all the runners, and I studied the faces of the fans. I especially enjoyed meeting the gazes of some of the small children and the very elderly people who seemed to be eyeing me as if I were an oddity of some kind (which no doubt I was). Most would look away quickly when they noticed I was looking back.
Some of the fans had set up their own unofficial aid stations. I’d never seen such a thing. One crew of women even served their treats on ceramic dishes. Onigiri triangles wrapped in seaweed, miso soup, hot green tea, hard candies, and salty treats were all offered along the way in between the official aid stations with their ample supply of water and fruit.
Before we left Bellingham, I had told Bill that I thought this would be the race in which I would be able to beat five hours. The course was relatively flat, the weather expected to be mild and I was feeling healthier than ever. To support my goal, Bill had calculated what my splits would need to be for each and every kilometer. I am used to figuring my pace in minutes per mile, and I didn’t want to have to do the calculations from miles to kilometers in my head while I was running. Now, on a sheet of paper tucked into the front of my running belt, I had these calculations. I was paying careful attention to them.
Every 2 kilometers were marked on the course. At 10 kilometers, I was running a few minutes faster than Bill’s splits. At 16k, I was nine minutes faster. One old woman watched me pull my paper out of my belt and study it. When I saw she was looking at me, I waved at her. Immediately she smiled, waved back and shouted in English, “YES YOU CAN,” a la Obama. I could see that, yes, I could do it. I just might run a sub-five hour marathon. Only a few weeks earlier I had run a 30 kilometer race in Arizona in 3:13. Why couldn’t I do it now? When I hit 30k this time, I was at 3:18. Not bad. At 35 kilometers, even after a few challenging hills, I’d been running for 3 hours and 53 minutes. I was slowing down, but I could almost walk the last 7 kilometers (4.35 miles) and still come in under my five hour goal. This gave me a sense of relief, so I relaxed a little and stopped looking at my spits, but I kept running.
The route was like a lollipop. We traveled the road along the waterfront with the view of Mt. Fuji both at the start and the end and circled through Tateyama in the middle. As I came down the final small decline and saw the water, pain finally registered in my quads and hamstrings. But when the mountain came into my line of vision and winked at me (I’m quite sure I saw her do this), I remembered that only three years ago, I had climbed to her summit and I took courage, knowing I didn’t fail her then and I wouldn’t fail her now. As the mountain moved further behind me to the left, I strained my aching neck to look at the snowcap now covering the point at the top of Fuji and a flash of triumph flooded through me. I shouted, “WooooHoooo! Yes!” Some runners behind me tittered and whispered something to one another. There wasn’t much talking or shouting among the athletes here; all was serious concentration, but I figured I was already out of place, so a little hoot wouldn’t hurt anyone.
Finally, I saw a man standing near the course holding a large sign reading, “2 kilometers remaining.” At least I assume that’s what it said. I was so close! A few minutes later, I saw Bill up ahead, camera in hand. He had finished his race more than an hour before (3:41, he told me later) and had had time to recover while waiting for me.
I waved with both hands to catch Bill’s attention (though surely he wouldn’t have missed me with my blond hair coming loose from my pony tail and flying wild in the wind). Bill waited for me to come up parallel with him and jogged beside me.
“Hey friend, look at your time!” he said.
“I know. I did it. I’m coming in under five!” Adrenaline was pumping into my tired muscles. “Am I close?”
“It’s around the bend. Go for it.” He dropped back and let me move into the finishing shoot before swerving a bit to the left and running ahead behind the spectators to get a photo of me finishing.
I saw the finish line, fans defining it on either side. Incomprehensible shouts of encouragement washed over me. This was such a welcome difference from the way I usually came over a finish line after everyone had gone home and the recovery food had already been eaten!
There it was. FINISH was written in English. There was no mistaking it. And the clock below it read 4:52! I raised my hands in the air as I heard my microchip beep and screamed, “I DID IT. I DID IT!”
Bill was snapping pictures like crazy of my every motion. I slowed to a walk. Snap. I felt nausea settle into my stomach. Snap. A cramp was threatening to seize up my left leg. Snap. There was no way to collapse, no time to indulge my physical discomfort; everything was being recorded and people were fussing over me, congratulating me. Plus, our host family was there on the spot ready to host us to the recovery food. There was green tea and miso soup awaiting us. And crab-leg bisque. I hobbled along behind everyone the best I could. They whisked through the crowd to a table and, finally, to a chair. Here I sat and stretched, unwilling to move another step until my muscles relaxed and gave me the go-ahead.
This may be the only time I ever finish a sub-five hour marathon, but what a place to do it: Our sister city with Fuji-san looking over my shoulder.
In March of 2010, I completed my seventh continental marathon distance. Follow me now as I keep running and try to finish a marathon in all 50 U.S. States before I turn 50.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Monday, February 2, 2009
I Take It Back
Even before I get around to writing about the race, I have to rescind my former statement regarding my dislike of Japanese food.
The first time I was in Japan, I was almost totally unsupervised in my food choices. This should never happen in some cultures. Left to one’s own devices, one is reduced to looking at pictures or plastic models of various dishes, pointing out one’s choice to the restaurant staff and enduring whatever has been served to one.
This time, because of the hospitality of our hosts in Tateyama and the guidance of my friends in Tokyo, I was advised and carefully monitored with regard to my every meal. Big surprise: It turns out I really love Japanese food.
On this trip I was instructed as to the difference between udon and soba noodles (the first are thick and made from white flour; the second are thinner and made from ground buckwheat). I was introduced to sukiyaki and shabu shabu, two dishes cooked right at the table in a nifty electric boiler. And I experienced a delicious minced tofu dish served with some tender root veggies that made me want to buy stock in the farm that raised them.
As promised, wanting to open myself up to whatever came my palate’s way, I lifted my personal ban on eating mammals while I was accepting the hospitality of our sister city hosts. Actually, unless you are very proficient in Japanese, it would be difficult to be a vegetarian in Japan and almost impossible to be vegan. Verifying the ingredients to any given menu item is both daunting and unlikely for the lone traveler. As I discovered with my first bowl of noodles, even dishes without meat are likely to be cooked in chicken, beef or port stock. Only in the case of homemade food can a foreigner (or at least this foreigner) absolutely substantiate what she is eating.
One evening our primary hosts in Tateyama, Kinuyo and Kenji, took us to the home of some of the sister city organization members for a potluck dinner. As twelve of us, ten Japanese friends, Bill and I, sat on the floor around a low dining table, chopsticks in hand, I inspected the offerings available. The women at the head of the table kept the food circulating while the men at the other end made certain our sake cups were never empty. As each dish came to me, I had my first opportunity to really ask about the details of what I was eating.
“How did you make this?” I asked several times. The answers I received yielded not only information about the contents of my meal, but also an impromptu cooking class. I discovered that while soy sauce is definitely the most common seasoning, sesame, garlic, onion and sake are also important and regularly utilized flavorings. I tried to take mental notes as the sake slowly took its effect on my state of mind so I could attempt to recreate at home some of the tastes I was experiencing that night.
I left Tateyama with an appreciation for my hosts and for the food they had lovingly introduced me to. By the time I reached Tokyo, I was braver and slightly more knowledgeable. I had names for a few things I had tried and liked, and I felt sure that if I could find a noodle shop I could keep myself alive for a few days wandering the big city by myself.
It would turn out that I would not need my newfound knowledge, however. My friends, Marci and Akira, invited me to stay with them for a few days and offered me part two of my edible education. We first took a trip to the grocery store and later to a 100 yen shop (kind of like a $1 store). At the first, Marci and Akira explained the mysterious items I had previously felt were so ominous. I even learned that the fruits and vegetables weren’t as expensive as I had once thought. I had mistaken a small box of strawberries, for example, for 1,245 yen (about thirteen bucks) when actually the sign read “1 package for 245 yen,” which is really not so bad. A few days later at the 100 yen shop, Marci and Akira pointed out their favorite dry snacks. I bought a bag of everything they said they liked, opened them ALL when we got home and sampled each one. My favorites were these little brown sugary nuggets that looked like tiny dog poops but tasted like heaven and some deep fried sweet potatoes covered with a light coating of sugar. Yum!
Finally, on my very last night in Tokyo, after I’d been completely won over and dreaded giving up all my new beloved victuals for the stuff I usually ate at home, I visited a dear old friend for a much-too-short dinner. I’ve known Kakuei for seventeen years and we’ve seen each other through both happy and sad times. I was excited to see him and his lovely wife, Yayoi, and to meet their 22-month old toddler. I was ready to enjoy whatever they put before me, as Kakuei had graciously done when he had visited me in the States over the years and I had offered him the best cheesy, greasy delectables America had to offer. I thought he would be proud of me for my daring dabbles in Japanese cuisine. But Kakuei had read my blog entry about my distaste for Japanese food and taken it very seriously. He had encouraged his wife to order pizza and not to offer me wine. Yayoi disregarded him on both counts, thankfully. Instead she made an amazing salad with slightly browned tuna and a dressing of soy sauce and olive oil, followed by three delicious courses of vegetables, potatoes and stroganoff. She had made a perfect compromise between Japanese and American fare - just in time to ease me back into the familiar.
So here I am, returned to my own bed and my own refrigerator. I honestly never thought I’d say it, but I miss my Japanese noodles.
The first time I was in Japan, I was almost totally unsupervised in my food choices. This should never happen in some cultures. Left to one’s own devices, one is reduced to looking at pictures or plastic models of various dishes, pointing out one’s choice to the restaurant staff and enduring whatever has been served to one.
This time, because of the hospitality of our hosts in Tateyama and the guidance of my friends in Tokyo, I was advised and carefully monitored with regard to my every meal. Big surprise: It turns out I really love Japanese food.
On this trip I was instructed as to the difference between udon and soba noodles (the first are thick and made from white flour; the second are thinner and made from ground buckwheat). I was introduced to sukiyaki and shabu shabu, two dishes cooked right at the table in a nifty electric boiler. And I experienced a delicious minced tofu dish served with some tender root veggies that made me want to buy stock in the farm that raised them.
As promised, wanting to open myself up to whatever came my palate’s way, I lifted my personal ban on eating mammals while I was accepting the hospitality of our sister city hosts. Actually, unless you are very proficient in Japanese, it would be difficult to be a vegetarian in Japan and almost impossible to be vegan. Verifying the ingredients to any given menu item is both daunting and unlikely for the lone traveler. As I discovered with my first bowl of noodles, even dishes without meat are likely to be cooked in chicken, beef or port stock. Only in the case of homemade food can a foreigner (or at least this foreigner) absolutely substantiate what she is eating.
One evening our primary hosts in Tateyama, Kinuyo and Kenji, took us to the home of some of the sister city organization members for a potluck dinner. As twelve of us, ten Japanese friends, Bill and I, sat on the floor around a low dining table, chopsticks in hand, I inspected the offerings available. The women at the head of the table kept the food circulating while the men at the other end made certain our sake cups were never empty. As each dish came to me, I had my first opportunity to really ask about the details of what I was eating.
“How did you make this?” I asked several times. The answers I received yielded not only information about the contents of my meal, but also an impromptu cooking class. I discovered that while soy sauce is definitely the most common seasoning, sesame, garlic, onion and sake are also important and regularly utilized flavorings. I tried to take mental notes as the sake slowly took its effect on my state of mind so I could attempt to recreate at home some of the tastes I was experiencing that night.
I left Tateyama with an appreciation for my hosts and for the food they had lovingly introduced me to. By the time I reached Tokyo, I was braver and slightly more knowledgeable. I had names for a few things I had tried and liked, and I felt sure that if I could find a noodle shop I could keep myself alive for a few days wandering the big city by myself.
It would turn out that I would not need my newfound knowledge, however. My friends, Marci and Akira, invited me to stay with them for a few days and offered me part two of my edible education. We first took a trip to the grocery store and later to a 100 yen shop (kind of like a $1 store). At the first, Marci and Akira explained the mysterious items I had previously felt were so ominous. I even learned that the fruits and vegetables weren’t as expensive as I had once thought. I had mistaken a small box of strawberries, for example, for 1,245 yen (about thirteen bucks) when actually the sign read “1 package for 245 yen,” which is really not so bad. A few days later at the 100 yen shop, Marci and Akira pointed out their favorite dry snacks. I bought a bag of everything they said they liked, opened them ALL when we got home and sampled each one. My favorites were these little brown sugary nuggets that looked like tiny dog poops but tasted like heaven and some deep fried sweet potatoes covered with a light coating of sugar. Yum!
Finally, on my very last night in Tokyo, after I’d been completely won over and dreaded giving up all my new beloved victuals for the stuff I usually ate at home, I visited a dear old friend for a much-too-short dinner. I’ve known Kakuei for seventeen years and we’ve seen each other through both happy and sad times. I was excited to see him and his lovely wife, Yayoi, and to meet their 22-month old toddler. I was ready to enjoy whatever they put before me, as Kakuei had graciously done when he had visited me in the States over the years and I had offered him the best cheesy, greasy delectables America had to offer. I thought he would be proud of me for my daring dabbles in Japanese cuisine. But Kakuei had read my blog entry about my distaste for Japanese food and taken it very seriously. He had encouraged his wife to order pizza and not to offer me wine. Yayoi disregarded him on both counts, thankfully. Instead she made an amazing salad with slightly browned tuna and a dressing of soy sauce and olive oil, followed by three delicious courses of vegetables, potatoes and stroganoff. She had made a perfect compromise between Japanese and American fare - just in time to ease me back into the familiar.
So here I am, returned to my own bed and my own refrigerator. I honestly never thought I’d say it, but I miss my Japanese noodles.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Hit Me With Your Best Shot
Before my high school creative writing teacher introduced me to Gerard Manly Hopkins, before I had taken my college courses in Shakespeare and Medieval Literature, before I began listening to audio versions of Dickens’ work on my long drives down to Seattle, I was introduced to the great female rocker, Pat Benatar, performing the nuanced poetry of song-writer Eddie Schwartz. In the eight grade, I bought Benatar’s 8-track tape called Crimes of Passion and played it on my stereo repeatedly while I slept at night. It seeped into my subconscious and rattled in my head during my days, even while I was at school.
It wouldn’t be long until Crimes of Passion would disappear with all my other rock albums in the crusade my church led to free its young people of the evils of secular music, but it was really too late; the devil had his foothold. I’d memorized the words to every song on that 8-track. They were a part of me. I could throw the short-lived technology into the garbage bin, but I couldn’t extract the lyrics of Benatar’s hits from my personal cannon of literature.
A few weeks ago, in a fit of boredom with my current catalog of running songs, I perused I-Tunes and came across Benatar’s #1 single: Hit Me With Your Best Shot. I downloaded the song onto my iPod and reclaimed one more memory discarded in the name of heaven.
Yesterday, I ran 21.5 miles – the last long run in my training for the Tateyama Marathon. It was one of the most difficult training runs of my life. The trails were still packed down with compact snow and ice, requiring me (or anyone else on the trail) to slow to a careful walk on some stretches. The temperature was in the low forties, but along the waterfront, the wind whipped me in the face and made the air feel closer to freezing. Plus, I must have eaten something the night before that didn’t settle well, because I struggled with a headache and an upset stomach for much of the run.
Just as I was feeling like the elements and this run were really kicking my ass, Hit Me with Your Best Shot blared through my ear buds. I cranked up the volume, listened to the words and sang along, then repeated the song a second time. “Yes,” I thought, inspired by Benatar’s sultry reminder of pre-adolescent rebellion and freedom, “the weather and my body are trying to keep me down, but I won’t be defeated! I WILL conquer these four hours of running! I WILL run through my pain! I WILL keep my balance on this ice! I WILL have French fries when this whole thing is over!” And I ran on, revived and encouraged enough to beat the icy hill I was facing. I sucked up the hurt in my stomach and the snot running out of my nose and I ran. I completed my 21.5 miles a little worse for wear, but alive. Still standing.
The devil may have the best music, but I couldn’t have gotten through yesterday’s run without it. I dedicate this song to long-distance running and to the Marathon. Go ahead, Marathon, hit me with your best shot. I’ll get right back up again. And in a little more than two weeks in Japan, I’ll be putting another notch in my lipstick case!
Hit Me With Your Best Shot
Written by Eddie Schwartz and performed by Pat Benatar
Well you're a real tough cookie with a long history
Of breaking little hearts, like the one in me
That's O.K., lets see how you do it
Put up your dukes, let's get down to it!
Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Why Don't You Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Fire Away!
You come on with your come-ons, you don't fight fair
That's O.K., see if I care!
Knock me down, it's all in vain
I'll get right back on my feet again!
Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Why Don't You Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Fire Away!
Well you're a real tough cookie with a long history
Of breaking little hearts, like one in me
Before I put another notch in my lipstick case
You better make sure you put me in my place
Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Come On, Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Fire Away!
Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Why Don't You Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Fire Away!
It wouldn’t be long until Crimes of Passion would disappear with all my other rock albums in the crusade my church led to free its young people of the evils of secular music, but it was really too late; the devil had his foothold. I’d memorized the words to every song on that 8-track. They were a part of me. I could throw the short-lived technology into the garbage bin, but I couldn’t extract the lyrics of Benatar’s hits from my personal cannon of literature.
A few weeks ago, in a fit of boredom with my current catalog of running songs, I perused I-Tunes and came across Benatar’s #1 single: Hit Me With Your Best Shot. I downloaded the song onto my iPod and reclaimed one more memory discarded in the name of heaven.
Yesterday, I ran 21.5 miles – the last long run in my training for the Tateyama Marathon. It was one of the most difficult training runs of my life. The trails were still packed down with compact snow and ice, requiring me (or anyone else on the trail) to slow to a careful walk on some stretches. The temperature was in the low forties, but along the waterfront, the wind whipped me in the face and made the air feel closer to freezing. Plus, I must have eaten something the night before that didn’t settle well, because I struggled with a headache and an upset stomach for much of the run.
Just as I was feeling like the elements and this run were really kicking my ass, Hit Me with Your Best Shot blared through my ear buds. I cranked up the volume, listened to the words and sang along, then repeated the song a second time. “Yes,” I thought, inspired by Benatar’s sultry reminder of pre-adolescent rebellion and freedom, “the weather and my body are trying to keep me down, but I won’t be defeated! I WILL conquer these four hours of running! I WILL run through my pain! I WILL keep my balance on this ice! I WILL have French fries when this whole thing is over!” And I ran on, revived and encouraged enough to beat the icy hill I was facing. I sucked up the hurt in my stomach and the snot running out of my nose and I ran. I completed my 21.5 miles a little worse for wear, but alive. Still standing.
The devil may have the best music, but I couldn’t have gotten through yesterday’s run without it. I dedicate this song to long-distance running and to the Marathon. Go ahead, Marathon, hit me with your best shot. I’ll get right back up again. And in a little more than two weeks in Japan, I’ll be putting another notch in my lipstick case!
Hit Me With Your Best Shot
Written by Eddie Schwartz and performed by Pat Benatar
Well you're a real tough cookie with a long history
Of breaking little hearts, like the one in me
That's O.K., lets see how you do it
Put up your dukes, let's get down to it!
Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Why Don't You Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Fire Away!
You come on with your come-ons, you don't fight fair
That's O.K., see if I care!
Knock me down, it's all in vain
I'll get right back on my feet again!
Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Why Don't You Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Fire Away!
Well you're a real tough cookie with a long history
Of breaking little hearts, like one in me
Before I put another notch in my lipstick case
You better make sure you put me in my place
Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Come On, Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Fire Away!
Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Why Don't You Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Fire Away!
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Race Report from Arizona
Happy Holidays from Arizona. As you can imagine, Bill and I are thrilled to get out of the snow of Washington and visit his mom in Sunny Peoria (where the Mariners have their Spring Training facilities). It’s only been between 55 and 65 degrees, but I’ll take what I can get given what everyone in the Seattle area is wading through just now.
We flew out of Bellingham into Las Vegas on Friday. Then we rented a car and drove to Peoria on Saturday.
Before we left home, Bill located a 30K for us to run while we were here as one of our final training runs before we do the Wakashio Marathon in Tateyama, Japan. Sunday morning we woke up early and traveled about 20 minutes to Surprise, a town to the West of Peoria. This race was sponsored by the Arizona Road Racers, a large running club in the area.
Mornings aren’t my favorite time of the day. I usually feel cranky and groggy until about noon. As I stood in line at the port-o-johns at about 7:30 am, I eavesdropped on some of the local club members talking about the race we were about to run. The woman in front of me said, “I’m just using this as a training run. I won’t be racing this one.” Then she added, “I’ll probably do it in nines.”
Since I can hardly run one mile at nine minutes, let alone 18.6 miles, and since it was 7:30 in the morning and I felt irritated, I silently rolled my eyes and thought, “Show off.” Glancing around at the small cluster of runners congregating at the starting line, I guessed there were only about fifty runners (turns out there were 95 people in the 30K). I’d be at the tail end, as usual.
Fortunately, there was absolutely no chance of my getting lost in this race as I have so many other times when I bring up the rear. This race was to be an out and back route. And I mean we’d go OUT in a straight line, turn around, come BACK. The whole course was on the Bell Road, a street that sprawls with malls, gas stations and mini-marts for miles on end through Peoria, Sun City and Surprise.
When Bill first told me where the race was going to take place I wasn’t thrilled to run for more than three hours along this exhaust-filled path of retirement suburbia. We’ve spent the holidays in this area of the country before, and Bell Road is one of those avenues concentrated with outrageous congestion during the holiday season.
Once we were at the starting line, however, I was surprised and delighted to discover that the Bell Road hasn’t been developed past the town of Surprise and that our route was going to take us parallel to the White Tank Mountains, right through the best of the desert. There were no shopping centers or housing projects on our route whatsoever, just pristine red soil and Saguaro cacti looking on as we made our way out to the turn-around point.
Indulge me as I relive it. I know I’ll be home next week, and I’ll try to do a 22-mile run in the slush and the mud and the cold. I know I’ll cry when I’m finished and then stand in the shower for an hour trying to warm my bones, so I want to keep this little 30K with the Arizona Road Racers in my memory and my heart as long as I can.
When the foghorn went off and I heard my chip beep as I crossed the official starting line, I noticed right off the bat that the road was at an incline. The first nine miles rose very gradually. The grade was so slight it was undetectable at certain points. The sun lit up the White Tank Mountains and their sienna hues were a perfect contrast to the cloudless blue of the sky. I squinted up into the brightness and visualized vitamin D wafting in through my nostrils and spreading through my limbs and into my bones. I breathed in dry, warm air and heard my lungs cheer, “Yes!”
Absolutely nothing eventful happened during this race. The temperature was perfect (about 60 after 9:00). The view was soothing and filled me with reminders that spring will come even to Western Washington. And the course was simple. My body felt light, buoyed by the knowledge that if we ran UP hill the whole way out, we’d be running DOWN hill on the way back.
I waved to Bill as he was running in the opposite direction at about mile eight (for me) and reached the turn-around at approximately an hour and thirty-seven minutes after the gun had gone off. Once again, as I have noted of late, my pace was faster than I expected it to be. Somehow, I’m stronger and faster without being miserable and without pushing myself much harder than I’ve ever pushed.
The way back was just as full of meditative ease as the way out had been. The sun was in my eyes, low in the sky. I noticed shadows from the mountains smile their blessings on the succulents over which they kept watch, and I let gravity pull me forward down the gradual decline. There were two inclines on the way back I hadn’t remembered the first time through, but I had the energy to push up them without much complaint from my quads.
I crossed the finish line at 3:13:07. I think I ran negative splits in the last nine miles.
Bill wasn’t there to cheer me over the finish line as he usually is. I knew this meant he wasn’t expecting me yet, so I went in search of him and found him waiting to receive his first-place award in his age group.
Just before we packed up to come home, we spent a little time chatting with a man Bill had run with for the first half of the race. “Joel” won third in his very competitive age group and fourteenth overall. As we walked with him back to his car he told us how he had tried and failed to finish the marathon distance nine times. We listened to him recount his disappointments (each a gruesome tale of ending up on the side of the road in ignominy and grief) and wondered at how such a strong runner could get so stuck and so discouraged. Bill and I waved good-bye to him and agreed, as we got into our car, that Joel was a victim of Perfectionism.
Once again, I’m reminded that the best way to run (or to love or bake a pie or write a blog) is imperfectly. My philosophy only strengthens with experiences like these: Run only as hard as you want to and let gravity help when you can.
We flew out of Bellingham into Las Vegas on Friday. Then we rented a car and drove to Peoria on Saturday.
Before we left home, Bill located a 30K for us to run while we were here as one of our final training runs before we do the Wakashio Marathon in Tateyama, Japan. Sunday morning we woke up early and traveled about 20 minutes to Surprise, a town to the West of Peoria. This race was sponsored by the Arizona Road Racers, a large running club in the area.
Mornings aren’t my favorite time of the day. I usually feel cranky and groggy until about noon. As I stood in line at the port-o-johns at about 7:30 am, I eavesdropped on some of the local club members talking about the race we were about to run. The woman in front of me said, “I’m just using this as a training run. I won’t be racing this one.” Then she added, “I’ll probably do it in nines.”
Since I can hardly run one mile at nine minutes, let alone 18.6 miles, and since it was 7:30 in the morning and I felt irritated, I silently rolled my eyes and thought, “Show off.” Glancing around at the small cluster of runners congregating at the starting line, I guessed there were only about fifty runners (turns out there were 95 people in the 30K). I’d be at the tail end, as usual.
Fortunately, there was absolutely no chance of my getting lost in this race as I have so many other times when I bring up the rear. This race was to be an out and back route. And I mean we’d go OUT in a straight line, turn around, come BACK. The whole course was on the Bell Road, a street that sprawls with malls, gas stations and mini-marts for miles on end through Peoria, Sun City and Surprise.
When Bill first told me where the race was going to take place I wasn’t thrilled to run for more than three hours along this exhaust-filled path of retirement suburbia. We’ve spent the holidays in this area of the country before, and Bell Road is one of those avenues concentrated with outrageous congestion during the holiday season.
Once we were at the starting line, however, I was surprised and delighted to discover that the Bell Road hasn’t been developed past the town of Surprise and that our route was going to take us parallel to the White Tank Mountains, right through the best of the desert. There were no shopping centers or housing projects on our route whatsoever, just pristine red soil and Saguaro cacti looking on as we made our way out to the turn-around point.
Indulge me as I relive it. I know I’ll be home next week, and I’ll try to do a 22-mile run in the slush and the mud and the cold. I know I’ll cry when I’m finished and then stand in the shower for an hour trying to warm my bones, so I want to keep this little 30K with the Arizona Road Racers in my memory and my heart as long as I can.
When the foghorn went off and I heard my chip beep as I crossed the official starting line, I noticed right off the bat that the road was at an incline. The first nine miles rose very gradually. The grade was so slight it was undetectable at certain points. The sun lit up the White Tank Mountains and their sienna hues were a perfect contrast to the cloudless blue of the sky. I squinted up into the brightness and visualized vitamin D wafting in through my nostrils and spreading through my limbs and into my bones. I breathed in dry, warm air and heard my lungs cheer, “Yes!”
Absolutely nothing eventful happened during this race. The temperature was perfect (about 60 after 9:00). The view was soothing and filled me with reminders that spring will come even to Western Washington. And the course was simple. My body felt light, buoyed by the knowledge that if we ran UP hill the whole way out, we’d be running DOWN hill on the way back.
I waved to Bill as he was running in the opposite direction at about mile eight (for me) and reached the turn-around at approximately an hour and thirty-seven minutes after the gun had gone off. Once again, as I have noted of late, my pace was faster than I expected it to be. Somehow, I’m stronger and faster without being miserable and without pushing myself much harder than I’ve ever pushed.
The way back was just as full of meditative ease as the way out had been. The sun was in my eyes, low in the sky. I noticed shadows from the mountains smile their blessings on the succulents over which they kept watch, and I let gravity pull me forward down the gradual decline. There were two inclines on the way back I hadn’t remembered the first time through, but I had the energy to push up them without much complaint from my quads.
I crossed the finish line at 3:13:07. I think I ran negative splits in the last nine miles.
Bill wasn’t there to cheer me over the finish line as he usually is. I knew this meant he wasn’t expecting me yet, so I went in search of him and found him waiting to receive his first-place award in his age group.
Just before we packed up to come home, we spent a little time chatting with a man Bill had run with for the first half of the race. “Joel” won third in his very competitive age group and fourteenth overall. As we walked with him back to his car he told us how he had tried and failed to finish the marathon distance nine times. We listened to him recount his disappointments (each a gruesome tale of ending up on the side of the road in ignominy and grief) and wondered at how such a strong runner could get so stuck and so discouraged. Bill and I waved good-bye to him and agreed, as we got into our car, that Joel was a victim of Perfectionism.
Once again, I’m reminded that the best way to run (or to love or bake a pie or write a blog) is imperfectly. My philosophy only strengthens with experiences like these: Run only as hard as you want to and let gravity help when you can.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Japanese Food: Getting ready for the Wakashio Marathon
Well, Bill and I are getting ready to pack our carry-on suitcases and make our way to the international wing of the airport once again. This time, we’re traveling to Japan for the Wakashio Marathon in Tateyama. We leave in mid-January. This will be the fourth continent on which we’ve run a marathon! Sometimes I can hardly believe this dream is coming true.
Every international trip requires research and then specific preparations. For example, you may have to get shots to protect against tropical diseases or buy special clothing for unusual weather conditions. For warm-weather trips, I make sure to purchase extra-potent insect repellent because bugs love me. If there’s a mosquito in the hotel, or the town we’re visiting, it’ll find me. Fortunately mosquitoes will not be a problem on this trip to Japan. That’s one advantage of traveling in the winter.
This time, I’m grappling with how to prepare for a different type of problem. You see, I don’t like Japanese food. I know, I know! I can hear your shock! I am the only person in the world who does not like Japanese food. Everyone, Japanese or otherwise, loves sashimi, tempura, miso soup, noodles and those little triangular rice balls with a surprise inside. I can appreciate the occasional yaki soba or California roll, but I’m not a big fan of the soy flavor in most Japanese food. Rice makes me bloated and constipated. And raw fish does nothing for me. I know it’s unusual and maybe even a sin, but it’s just how I feel.
Bill and I have traveled to Japan before and food was a huge problem for me. We went there on our honeymoon in 2005. Bill had a series of business meetings he needed to attend in Tokyo, so we decided we’d add a couple of weeks onto his trip and make a vacation out of it. We arranged an exciting itinerary that took us to Nagoya for the World’s Fair and to Kyoto to see the ancient temples. Then we made our way to Tokyo where Bill spent between about 8:00am and 4:00pm in meetings while I wandered through the city. This suited me fine. I was able to shop and catch up with a few friends who lived within a short train ride. Each night, Bill and I planned to meet back at the hotel room around 4:30 and go out together for dinner. I’d discovered this one tolerable curry dish that was available at most restaurants.
But on our third evening in Tokyo, I had a full-on food crisis one night.
Bill was in his meeting, expected back at the hotel sometime after 4:30. I was there waiting for him, flipping channels on the TV. Nothing kept my attention (it was in Japanese, after all). There was three-quarters of a bottle of Australian wine on the night stand from the evening before. I poured myself a glass and settled on the bed to wait for Bill. At 5:00, he wasn’t back and I was getting hungry. By 5:30, I knew I’d have to get something to tide me over in case his meetings ran much longer. I had a vague memory from our conversation in the morning, while I was still in bed, that a late meeting was a possibility.
I decided I’d take a walk to the grocery store on the corner. We’d had some trouble with grocery stores in the first part of our trip. We had to rely on the images on the packaging to figure out what we were buying. Usually we guessed right and ended up with the yogurt or tuna we meant to buy, but at least a few times we’d been wrong. Once we opened a container and found some kind of margarine spread when we’d meant to buy cheese. Even though it was a gamble, I hoped I’d be able to find some kind of small snack to get me through till dinner. And anyhow, grocery stores are interesting, great places from which to observe a culture close up.
I scoped one out across the road from the main entrance of the hotel. On my way over, I noticed I was just a bit tipsy from my glass of wine, so I crossed the street carefully. I walked in through the automatic sliding doors and breathed in the fishy soy smell that I was getting used to in the supermarkets. I started on the right side of the store and wandered each aisle, looking for something I recognized. I finally located a tiny jar of peanut butter. That sounded good. A piece of bread with creamy peanut butter smoothed on its surface would go perfectly with cheap Australian wine, I thought. I looked at the price on the shelf below it, listed in yen and then picked it up and headed to the check out. On second thought, I decided I’d better dig the calculator out of my pocket and make the change from Yen to American dollars, so I knew what I was spending. $6.39!!! There was no way I was paying more than six dollars for two ounces of peanut butter. I put the jar back in its spot and kept moving down the aisle.
I walked past packages of dry noodles, jars of mayonnaise, cans of shrimp, bags of chips and numerous objects I could not identify by their packaging, though I picked them up and studied them from all vantage points. Finally, I retreated to the back of the store and the meat section. I stood, staring down at raw meat and sea food I’d never seen before. The “deli” section had pre-prepared food ready to eat on the run, but I couldn’t figure out what most of it was. There was a shrink wrapped bowl of teriyaki chicken, but I didn’t have a microwave back in the hotel room to heat it up.
Finally, I decided that some fresh produce would be an easy answer. With my calculator in hand, I returned to the front of the store and faced down the fruit section. There, like an apparition from heaven, was a Fuji apple! I picked it up and squeezed it. It was firm and my mouth watered for its juice. I made the translations from kilos to pounds and then Yen to dollars and estimated that it was more expensive than I’d pay at home, but not as bad as the little jar of peanut butter. It would have to do. I stuck my calculator in the back pocket of my jeans and reached in my front pocket to pull out my Yen as I walked toward the check-out counter.
Standing at the back of the line, holding my apple in one hand and my money in the other, I watched the people in front of me. Each had a little basket full of items I could not identify. They did not talk to one another or to me, though several of them glanced tentatively in my direction and then averted eye contact quickly when I tried to smile at them. I looked down at the apple in my hand. And I waited.
The checker was slow. I observed her carefully. There was no way to know for sure, but she seemed honest. This was crucial because I took note that there was no little screen next to the cash register displaying the price of the purchase. Once she weighed my apple and figured out the exact price, I would be at her mercy. I would hold my money out to her and trust her to pick out the right coins and give me the correct change.
I felt how dependent I was on others in this country. I pulled out my calculator again and tried to guess at the right change to offer so I wouldn’t look like an illiterate idiot, which of course, I was here. The woman directly in front of me in line gave me a suspicious once-over (I thought) while the woman who had lined up behind me looked at me with pity (I thought). God, this was ridiculous. It shouldn’t be so hard to buy a stupid apple without looking like an imbecile. I made a promise to myself to always be helpful to foreigners in grocery stores when I got home.
I looked down at my apple again. Suddenly, although my stomach was gurgling, I was repulsed by this apple. It was nothing but a representation of my shame and ignorance, my cultural ineptitude. It would do nothing but expose me. I couldn’t imagine anything worse in the world than eating this apple. This apple disgusted me! Suddenly, I decided I’d had too many apples in my life. For all I knew this Fuji apple was grown in Washington State, anyway, right across the mountains from me, maybe on my uncle’s farm.
I stormed back to the produce section and replaced the Fuji apple in the perfect pyramid from which I’d plucked it. Then I left the grocery store.
As I crossed the busy street and made my way back to the hotel, I hoped Bill was there waiting for me in the room. I was agitated now. My hotel room was empty. The clock read 6:00. Bill couldn’t be far behind me at this point. I settled in in front of an unintelligible TV show with another glass of wine.
One hour, two more unsuccessful trips to the grocery store and the rest of the bottle of Australian wine later I began to decompose. By this time, I was drunk. I hadn’t eaten since noon, and I was embarrassed by my incompetence and fear of being mocked by the other shoppers. I started to cry.
I cried so hard that I began to convulse. My mascara ran down my face and my nose plugged with mucus. My shoulders shook, and I even had a touch of the dry heaves. All by myself alone in a hotel room on my honeymoon starving, I sobbed.
At 7:13, Bill walked through the door and found me thus. I managed to open my puffy eyes a little in his direction and I saw his alarm. “Oh my god, what happened? Are you okay? Did something happen?” Poor Bill was frantic.
I tried to speak, inhaling sharply between each word, “I – can’t – shop.” Sniff. “I’m – totally – illiterate – and – so – hungry.” Bill sat down on the bed and held me. I wiped my nose on his collar. He stroked my hair. Then he caught sight of the empty wine bottle by the bed.
“Did you drink all of that?”
I nodded. “I – tried – to – buy – food. The grocery – store didn’t – have any.” We were silent while he held me and I wound down a little. Like a mother with a very small child, he brushed the hair off my forehead and lifted my face so I had to look him in the eye.
“Are you drunk?” he asked me. I nodded. “And you’ve eaten nothing?” I nodded. He studied me earnestly and then stood, lifting me to my feet by my shoulders. Then he swatted me on the bum and said, “Get your shoes on. We’re going to McDonald’s to get you some French fries.”
I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of McDonald’s. It was kitty-corner across from the grocery store, but I’d been so focused on wanting to conquer the supermarket, that it never dawned on me to look for something familiar and comforting. I stumbled, heavily supported by Bill, down the elevator, across the street and into McDonald’s. I was struck immediately by that wonderful thick scent of grease. Bill sat me down at a booth and in a few minutes came back with a fish burger, fries and a milkshake. I ate quickly and then sent him back for another round.
We learned a lot from that experience. So as I get ready for this, my second trip to Japan, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and have realized the most important advanced preparation I can do is come up with an eating plan. Here it is:
1. Forego my recently espoused vegetarianism while in Japan. This will open options for me.
2. Try everything, even if it doesn’t smell good.
3. Locate all fast food restaurants in our vicinity upon arrival and do not be embarrassed to eat what is familiar
4. Bring snacks from Costco to tide me over in a pinch
5. Do not drink alone.
Every international trip requires research and then specific preparations. For example, you may have to get shots to protect against tropical diseases or buy special clothing for unusual weather conditions. For warm-weather trips, I make sure to purchase extra-potent insect repellent because bugs love me. If there’s a mosquito in the hotel, or the town we’re visiting, it’ll find me. Fortunately mosquitoes will not be a problem on this trip to Japan. That’s one advantage of traveling in the winter.
This time, I’m grappling with how to prepare for a different type of problem. You see, I don’t like Japanese food. I know, I know! I can hear your shock! I am the only person in the world who does not like Japanese food. Everyone, Japanese or otherwise, loves sashimi, tempura, miso soup, noodles and those little triangular rice balls with a surprise inside. I can appreciate the occasional yaki soba or California roll, but I’m not a big fan of the soy flavor in most Japanese food. Rice makes me bloated and constipated. And raw fish does nothing for me. I know it’s unusual and maybe even a sin, but it’s just how I feel.
Bill and I have traveled to Japan before and food was a huge problem for me. We went there on our honeymoon in 2005. Bill had a series of business meetings he needed to attend in Tokyo, so we decided we’d add a couple of weeks onto his trip and make a vacation out of it. We arranged an exciting itinerary that took us to Nagoya for the World’s Fair and to Kyoto to see the ancient temples. Then we made our way to Tokyo where Bill spent between about 8:00am and 4:00pm in meetings while I wandered through the city. This suited me fine. I was able to shop and catch up with a few friends who lived within a short train ride. Each night, Bill and I planned to meet back at the hotel room around 4:30 and go out together for dinner. I’d discovered this one tolerable curry dish that was available at most restaurants.
But on our third evening in Tokyo, I had a full-on food crisis one night.
Bill was in his meeting, expected back at the hotel sometime after 4:30. I was there waiting for him, flipping channels on the TV. Nothing kept my attention (it was in Japanese, after all). There was three-quarters of a bottle of Australian wine on the night stand from the evening before. I poured myself a glass and settled on the bed to wait for Bill. At 5:00, he wasn’t back and I was getting hungry. By 5:30, I knew I’d have to get something to tide me over in case his meetings ran much longer. I had a vague memory from our conversation in the morning, while I was still in bed, that a late meeting was a possibility.
I decided I’d take a walk to the grocery store on the corner. We’d had some trouble with grocery stores in the first part of our trip. We had to rely on the images on the packaging to figure out what we were buying. Usually we guessed right and ended up with the yogurt or tuna we meant to buy, but at least a few times we’d been wrong. Once we opened a container and found some kind of margarine spread when we’d meant to buy cheese. Even though it was a gamble, I hoped I’d be able to find some kind of small snack to get me through till dinner. And anyhow, grocery stores are interesting, great places from which to observe a culture close up.
I scoped one out across the road from the main entrance of the hotel. On my way over, I noticed I was just a bit tipsy from my glass of wine, so I crossed the street carefully. I walked in through the automatic sliding doors and breathed in the fishy soy smell that I was getting used to in the supermarkets. I started on the right side of the store and wandered each aisle, looking for something I recognized. I finally located a tiny jar of peanut butter. That sounded good. A piece of bread with creamy peanut butter smoothed on its surface would go perfectly with cheap Australian wine, I thought. I looked at the price on the shelf below it, listed in yen and then picked it up and headed to the check out. On second thought, I decided I’d better dig the calculator out of my pocket and make the change from Yen to American dollars, so I knew what I was spending. $6.39!!! There was no way I was paying more than six dollars for two ounces of peanut butter. I put the jar back in its spot and kept moving down the aisle.
I walked past packages of dry noodles, jars of mayonnaise, cans of shrimp, bags of chips and numerous objects I could not identify by their packaging, though I picked them up and studied them from all vantage points. Finally, I retreated to the back of the store and the meat section. I stood, staring down at raw meat and sea food I’d never seen before. The “deli” section had pre-prepared food ready to eat on the run, but I couldn’t figure out what most of it was. There was a shrink wrapped bowl of teriyaki chicken, but I didn’t have a microwave back in the hotel room to heat it up.
Finally, I decided that some fresh produce would be an easy answer. With my calculator in hand, I returned to the front of the store and faced down the fruit section. There, like an apparition from heaven, was a Fuji apple! I picked it up and squeezed it. It was firm and my mouth watered for its juice. I made the translations from kilos to pounds and then Yen to dollars and estimated that it was more expensive than I’d pay at home, but not as bad as the little jar of peanut butter. It would have to do. I stuck my calculator in the back pocket of my jeans and reached in my front pocket to pull out my Yen as I walked toward the check-out counter.
Standing at the back of the line, holding my apple in one hand and my money in the other, I watched the people in front of me. Each had a little basket full of items I could not identify. They did not talk to one another or to me, though several of them glanced tentatively in my direction and then averted eye contact quickly when I tried to smile at them. I looked down at the apple in my hand. And I waited.
The checker was slow. I observed her carefully. There was no way to know for sure, but she seemed honest. This was crucial because I took note that there was no little screen next to the cash register displaying the price of the purchase. Once she weighed my apple and figured out the exact price, I would be at her mercy. I would hold my money out to her and trust her to pick out the right coins and give me the correct change.
I felt how dependent I was on others in this country. I pulled out my calculator again and tried to guess at the right change to offer so I wouldn’t look like an illiterate idiot, which of course, I was here. The woman directly in front of me in line gave me a suspicious once-over (I thought) while the woman who had lined up behind me looked at me with pity (I thought). God, this was ridiculous. It shouldn’t be so hard to buy a stupid apple without looking like an imbecile. I made a promise to myself to always be helpful to foreigners in grocery stores when I got home.
I looked down at my apple again. Suddenly, although my stomach was gurgling, I was repulsed by this apple. It was nothing but a representation of my shame and ignorance, my cultural ineptitude. It would do nothing but expose me. I couldn’t imagine anything worse in the world than eating this apple. This apple disgusted me! Suddenly, I decided I’d had too many apples in my life. For all I knew this Fuji apple was grown in Washington State, anyway, right across the mountains from me, maybe on my uncle’s farm.
I stormed back to the produce section and replaced the Fuji apple in the perfect pyramid from which I’d plucked it. Then I left the grocery store.
As I crossed the busy street and made my way back to the hotel, I hoped Bill was there waiting for me in the room. I was agitated now. My hotel room was empty. The clock read 6:00. Bill couldn’t be far behind me at this point. I settled in in front of an unintelligible TV show with another glass of wine.
One hour, two more unsuccessful trips to the grocery store and the rest of the bottle of Australian wine later I began to decompose. By this time, I was drunk. I hadn’t eaten since noon, and I was embarrassed by my incompetence and fear of being mocked by the other shoppers. I started to cry.
I cried so hard that I began to convulse. My mascara ran down my face and my nose plugged with mucus. My shoulders shook, and I even had a touch of the dry heaves. All by myself alone in a hotel room on my honeymoon starving, I sobbed.
At 7:13, Bill walked through the door and found me thus. I managed to open my puffy eyes a little in his direction and I saw his alarm. “Oh my god, what happened? Are you okay? Did something happen?” Poor Bill was frantic.
I tried to speak, inhaling sharply between each word, “I – can’t – shop.” Sniff. “I’m – totally – illiterate – and – so – hungry.” Bill sat down on the bed and held me. I wiped my nose on his collar. He stroked my hair. Then he caught sight of the empty wine bottle by the bed.
“Did you drink all of that?”
I nodded. “I – tried – to – buy – food. The grocery – store didn’t – have any.” We were silent while he held me and I wound down a little. Like a mother with a very small child, he brushed the hair off my forehead and lifted my face so I had to look him in the eye.
“Are you drunk?” he asked me. I nodded. “And you’ve eaten nothing?” I nodded. He studied me earnestly and then stood, lifting me to my feet by my shoulders. Then he swatted me on the bum and said, “Get your shoes on. We’re going to McDonald’s to get you some French fries.”
I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of McDonald’s. It was kitty-corner across from the grocery store, but I’d been so focused on wanting to conquer the supermarket, that it never dawned on me to look for something familiar and comforting. I stumbled, heavily supported by Bill, down the elevator, across the street and into McDonald’s. I was struck immediately by that wonderful thick scent of grease. Bill sat me down at a booth and in a few minutes came back with a fish burger, fries and a milkshake. I ate quickly and then sent him back for another round.
We learned a lot from that experience. So as I get ready for this, my second trip to Japan, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and have realized the most important advanced preparation I can do is come up with an eating plan. Here it is:
1. Forego my recently espoused vegetarianism while in Japan. This will open options for me.
2. Try everything, even if it doesn’t smell good.
3. Locate all fast food restaurants in our vicinity upon arrival and do not be embarrassed to eat what is familiar
4. Bring snacks from Costco to tide me over in a pinch
5. Do not drink alone.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Winter is coming
In the eleventh grade I was introduced to the following poem:
Spring and Fall: To a Young Child
MARGARET, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
Gerard Manley Hopkins
I remember my feelings after that very first reading in Mr. Hanby’s creative writing class. I could see Margaret standing among the red and gold leaves, crying because winter was on the way. I knew just how she felt. For me, the changing of the leaves meant the end of summer, the beginning of school and rain. At the time, I only vaguely understood the weighty predictions in the poem that someday Margaret would consciously weep over her own mortality.
Later, in graduate school, Gerard Manly Hopkins’ poem came back to me. As I learned to be a therapist, to sit with individuals and families whose pain came from horrific events I could scarcely imagine, I sometimes wept. When I heard from children of abuse at the hands of their parents or from spouses trying to recover from their partner’s infidelity, I occasionally experienced a sadness that settled in my chest cavity and ached and ached, even after I had closed the door to my therapy room and gone home.
I hung Hopkins’ poem on my office wall to remind myself that even as I ached for the plight of my clients, the twinge in my chest was really my own. It was my pain, my own mortality, my own sadness that gave it such strength. “Sorrow’s springs are the same,” after all. The events of life are different for each of us, but grief belongs to us all.
Last week this poem came to my mind again. I took a run through the woods near my house and found myself treading through thick fallen leaves. I kicked at them as I jogged along and watched as the wind picked them up and they floated down again. The first lines of the poem came to mind: “Margaret, are you grieving/Over Goldengrove unleaving?” And the question changed. “Cami, are you grieving/Over Bellingham unleaving?”
I was. I am. A change is coming. On the surface, it is the change of the seasons. I’ve spent a glorious, comfortable summer running in my shorts, sweating, breathing and dreaming. I’ve run perhaps hundreds of miles on these trails in the last few months. And every moment I was full of grateful joy for the warmth and the green and the dry. Now it will all be different. Now, I will wear double long sleeves and long pants, and I will have to muffle my face to keep the crown on my left molar from freezing and giving me shooting pains that punch me in the eye. Now I will run many days on the treadmill in my garage watching videos when the rain forbids that I venture out to the trails.
But there is also another change that came home to me as I ran through the leaves last week. I’ve turned a corner. It dawned on me that when I turned forty-one this year, I became older than either of my grandmothers were when I was born. I became the oldest person in my family NOT to have a child or beyond that, a child with a child. This year, I started experiencing peri-menopausal symptoms and I noticed things sagging that never sagged before. My mortality is giving a shout out, asking me to listen. And I hear it, loud and clear.
But there is something else I hear, as well. Freedom. As I am grieving that life is so damned short, I am also more of myself than I have ever been. I may be sagging, but on the other hand, I no longer painstakingly cover my sagging body to protect others from my unsightly skin; I trust them to turn away if they must. I’ve given up watching people’s faces with every word I say to determine if they like me or if they think I’m smart or funny. I already think I’m smart and funny. And although I accidentally offend people from time to time, I apologize more easily than ever because I’m not surprised when I make a mistake. I’ve come a long way since eleventh grade.
As summer turns to fall, this year and in life, I will be crying from time to time for what will be lost. I really do prefer the sunshine and the green on the trees. But this season I’m going to wrap myself up in my running gear and, as often as I can stand it, get out into the wind and the mud and appreciate the grit and groundedness of fall, the sparse trees, the bare, basic trunks, the core without the accoutrements. I hope all of you will do the same.
Spring and Fall: To a Young Child
MARGARET, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
Gerard Manley Hopkins
I remember my feelings after that very first reading in Mr. Hanby’s creative writing class. I could see Margaret standing among the red and gold leaves, crying because winter was on the way. I knew just how she felt. For me, the changing of the leaves meant the end of summer, the beginning of school and rain. At the time, I only vaguely understood the weighty predictions in the poem that someday Margaret would consciously weep over her own mortality.
Later, in graduate school, Gerard Manly Hopkins’ poem came back to me. As I learned to be a therapist, to sit with individuals and families whose pain came from horrific events I could scarcely imagine, I sometimes wept. When I heard from children of abuse at the hands of their parents or from spouses trying to recover from their partner’s infidelity, I occasionally experienced a sadness that settled in my chest cavity and ached and ached, even after I had closed the door to my therapy room and gone home.
I hung Hopkins’ poem on my office wall to remind myself that even as I ached for the plight of my clients, the twinge in my chest was really my own. It was my pain, my own mortality, my own sadness that gave it such strength. “Sorrow’s springs are the same,” after all. The events of life are different for each of us, but grief belongs to us all.
Last week this poem came to my mind again. I took a run through the woods near my house and found myself treading through thick fallen leaves. I kicked at them as I jogged along and watched as the wind picked them up and they floated down again. The first lines of the poem came to mind: “Margaret, are you grieving/Over Goldengrove unleaving?” And the question changed. “Cami, are you grieving/Over Bellingham unleaving?”
I was. I am. A change is coming. On the surface, it is the change of the seasons. I’ve spent a glorious, comfortable summer running in my shorts, sweating, breathing and dreaming. I’ve run perhaps hundreds of miles on these trails in the last few months. And every moment I was full of grateful joy for the warmth and the green and the dry. Now it will all be different. Now, I will wear double long sleeves and long pants, and I will have to muffle my face to keep the crown on my left molar from freezing and giving me shooting pains that punch me in the eye. Now I will run many days on the treadmill in my garage watching videos when the rain forbids that I venture out to the trails.
But there is also another change that came home to me as I ran through the leaves last week. I’ve turned a corner. It dawned on me that when I turned forty-one this year, I became older than either of my grandmothers were when I was born. I became the oldest person in my family NOT to have a child or beyond that, a child with a child. This year, I started experiencing peri-menopausal symptoms and I noticed things sagging that never sagged before. My mortality is giving a shout out, asking me to listen. And I hear it, loud and clear.
But there is something else I hear, as well. Freedom. As I am grieving that life is so damned short, I am also more of myself than I have ever been. I may be sagging, but on the other hand, I no longer painstakingly cover my sagging body to protect others from my unsightly skin; I trust them to turn away if they must. I’ve given up watching people’s faces with every word I say to determine if they like me or if they think I’m smart or funny. I already think I’m smart and funny. And although I accidentally offend people from time to time, I apologize more easily than ever because I’m not surprised when I make a mistake. I’ve come a long way since eleventh grade.
As summer turns to fall, this year and in life, I will be crying from time to time for what will be lost. I really do prefer the sunshine and the green on the trees. But this season I’m going to wrap myself up in my running gear and, as often as I can stand it, get out into the wind and the mud and appreciate the grit and groundedness of fall, the sparse trees, the bare, basic trunks, the core without the accoutrements. I hope all of you will do the same.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
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