It's raining in Atlanta. I know this because I spent the night at the Comfort Inn here, courtesy of Delta Air.
Our flight out of Seattle was delayed and our flight out of Atlanta to Santiago wasn't. Last night Bill and I stood at a window in the airport with 15 distraught Chileans and watched our plane leave without us. One woman was lecturing the Delta employee who had the misfortune to be serving us that leaving Chileans on the ground in the U.S. during this difficult time in Chile was a "moral problem" for the airline.
Bill and I were distraught as well, but we had mentally prepared for trouble. Nothing about this trip has gone smoothly. I'd told Bill before we left Bellingham that we had to expect EVERYTHING to have gliches and bumps. If anything went as planned we could chalk it up as a miracle, but organizing this journey has been a bumpy ride from the beginning. There's no reason to expect it to change now.
So as of this moment, the plan is to fly out of Atlanta tonight at 8:20 PM and arrive in Santiago at 8:00 AM in the morning (March 13). At that point we will catch a SKY AIR flight to Punta Arenas, arriving there at 2:40 PM.
The main problem with our new itinerary is that we've lost our friend Marina. Marina was the lone, remaining runner from the original group. She was flying out of LA (to El Salvador, then to Peru, and finally to Santiago). We were supposed to meet up with her in Santiago and fly down to Punta Arenas together. My guess is that she's worried about us, and I'm worried about her being worried. Cross your fingers for us that we connect with her quickly when we arrive in PA.
We're supposed to do our Punta Arenas run the day after we arrive (on March 14) and Marina and I are supposed to fly down to King George Island on the 18th. I'll blog more if I can.
Peace!
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.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Chile's Earthquake
Twelve days before we are scheduled to leave on our trip to Punta Arenas, one of the worst earthquakes in history hit Chile. Bill and I have been sitting at home watching the news unfold, hoping the damage won’t be catastrophic and wondering what this means for our trip.
The first thing I did was contact our four connections in and around Punta Arenas: Mackarena, Maritza, Marcelo and Ben. I’ve heard back from everyone and all have reported that Punta Arenas didn’t feel a thing. Apparently, they didn’t experience so much as a shiver while their northern friends were holding on for dear life. Each reported that they had family in the affected area but that everybody they knew was accounted for.
The next thing I did was email Dimas’ family. My readers will remember Dimas and Ana Rosa as the lovely people with whom we stayed in Brazil last June. Their son lives in Sao Paulo and we’d heard that the quake had been felt there - all the way across the continent. We wanted to make sure they were okay. They’re fine. Again, they didn’t feel anything.
So, as we continue to watch and read about the dire situation in Santiago and surrounding areas, since I’ve ascertained confirmation that everyone we know is safe, we have come to the question of what this means for our trip. Many of you have asked me this question. So far, all I know is that the international airport in Santiago sustained some damage, but the runways all came through the quake(s) without much trouble. The airport was closed for a couple of days, but today it opened for international flights.
We are scheduled to leave on March 11 from Seattle and to reach the airport in Santiago on March 12 for a jumper flight down to Punta Arenas. At this point we have not changed our plans, but we’ll be in contact with our airline up to the minute we leave. Thank you to those of you who didn’t know whether or not we were already in Chile and worried about us. There are many people to worry about, but we are not among them.
I’ll keep you posted as we get closer to our departure date.
The first thing I did was contact our four connections in and around Punta Arenas: Mackarena, Maritza, Marcelo and Ben. I’ve heard back from everyone and all have reported that Punta Arenas didn’t feel a thing. Apparently, they didn’t experience so much as a shiver while their northern friends were holding on for dear life. Each reported that they had family in the affected area but that everybody they knew was accounted for.
The next thing I did was email Dimas’ family. My readers will remember Dimas and Ana Rosa as the lovely people with whom we stayed in Brazil last June. Their son lives in Sao Paulo and we’d heard that the quake had been felt there - all the way across the continent. We wanted to make sure they were okay. They’re fine. Again, they didn’t feel anything.
So, as we continue to watch and read about the dire situation in Santiago and surrounding areas, since I’ve ascertained confirmation that everyone we know is safe, we have come to the question of what this means for our trip. Many of you have asked me this question. So far, all I know is that the international airport in Santiago sustained some damage, but the runways all came through the quake(s) without much trouble. The airport was closed for a couple of days, but today it opened for international flights.
We are scheduled to leave on March 11 from Seattle and to reach the airport in Santiago on March 12 for a jumper flight down to Punta Arenas. At this point we have not changed our plans, but we’ll be in contact with our airline up to the minute we leave. Thank you to those of you who didn’t know whether or not we were already in Chile and worried about us. There are many people to worry about, but we are not among them.
I’ll keep you posted as we get closer to our departure date.
Monday, January 25, 2010
My First 50 K!
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.
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.
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.
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