Some of you received an evite to my Blog Par-tay, but I know some people have followed my blog who have not been on my blog notification email list. You're invited too!
I want to say thanks to those of you who have followed me around the world (and, well, shamelessly encourage you to pre-order my book on amazon.com). So come join me and celebrate the completion of the 7-marathons-on-7-continents quest and the delivery of my book, Second Wind: Seven Marathons on Seven Continents, to the publisher (Seal Press).
Sushi and sparkling cider will be provided.
If you find you can't attend, feel free to check out my website (www.7marathons7continents.com) where you can locate a link for pre-purchasing the book! ;}
Where: Lake Padden Playground Shelter
4882 Samish Way - East entrance
Bellingham, WA US
When: Sunday, June 27, 4:30PM to 6:30PM
To RSVP email or call me.
Phone: 206.890.8694
Email: clostman@aol.com
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.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Report: Antarctic Experience
Bill and I arrived home from our latest adventure last Sunday. Delta kept us on schedule this time (and even sent us an apology letter for screwing up our flight to Santiago on the 11th). We’ve been reflecting on this trip as we catch up on sleep and organize our pictures. What an extraordinary experience we’ve had.
The day after we arrived in Punta Arenas, we completed a 26.2 mile run around town. We’d promised our traveling companion, Marina (from California) that we would help her complete her South American marathon and, tired as we were from missing flights and being vertical for two days, we were determined to keep our word. Our local friends, Mackarena and Marcelo (teachers at Colegio Miguel de Cervantes) had arranged for the newspaper to show up and document our little race. Mackarena's father, Andres, and Marcelo joined us as starters, along with a homeless dog who traveled exactly one mile before abandoning us once he’d decided there wasn’t any food in the deal for him.
Our time in Punta Arenas, both before the trip to Antarctica and after was filled with meals with friends, visiting classes at Miguel de Cervantes to hang out with the children and penguin sightings (apparently rare) along the Strait of Magellan. I have to give a shout out to Moka Joe’s, a little Bellingham coffee-roasting business, for helping me with gifts for our Sister City friends. The folks in Punta Arenas were so hospitable and kind (Mackarena and her husband, Omar, even loaned us their house to stay in for almost two weeks) that we truly can’t begin to repay them, but a little taste of Bellingham left behind will hopefully remind them with every sip that we are grateful for their friendship.
On Wednesday evening (March 17) of our first week, Bill, Marina and I showed up at the DAP airline office for a meeting about the trip the following day to King George Island, Antarctica. As you know, we’d originally organized this expedition with the plan of running 26.2 miles on the island in order to complete the marathon distance on our seventh and final continent. As you also know, in the process of creating said plan, we were told that we could not “plan” or “organize” anything that resembled a “race,” an “activity,” an “event” or a “marathon.” So, alas, saddened and discouraged, I nevertheless agreed to continue on my scheduled flight to King George Island in hopes that I might be able to sneak out of view at some point and run around (even in circles) to meet my goal, while Bill said he wasn’t interested in going if he wouldn’t have a guaranteed chance to run once we touched down.
Wednesday evening, however, Bill had a little change of heart. We met with Carlos, a representative from DAP, in a tiny office enclosed on all sides by thick glass walls. There were five of us squeezed in there: Marina, Bill and I, Kara, a Minnesotan in her thirties who quit her job and is now roaming the world for the few months, and Alex, another American from Illinois who is heading off to med-school in the fall when he finishes several months of international travel and gallivanting. There was one other tourist on the list for the trip the following day who couldn’t be with us, a Russian fellow named Yury, who was flying in late that night. We wouldn’t get to meet him until the next day. After Carlos filled us in on all that we needed to know for the trip, I turned in my chair and looked at Bill. I could see his eyes sparkling, reflecting light from outside one of the big windows. He was biting the inside of his cheek and knitting his brows together. I know that look. He was changing his mind about coming along the next day.
As the five of us passengers had been chatting, I'd explained to Kara and Alex that Marina and I hoped to get out for a renegade run. The two were so supportive and enthusiastic about our idea that Bill began to think it might be worth his while to take a chance and come along. After the meeting, he got up and followed Carlos to his desk to find out if there was room on the plane. There was.
We arrived on KGI at about 1:30 the following day (March 18). Immediately, our guide Alejo, a wild-looking Chilean man in his mid-fifties with a graying beard and astute, clear eyes, whisked us into a Zodiac (after requiring us to change into puffy, flotation suits) and out onto the bay. “The weather is good now. We must hurry.” He said. My mind was so latched onto getting my miles in, come hell or high water (as they say), that I didn’t appreciate what Alejo was communicating. The weather changes so rapidly in this region that tourists can pay thousands of dollars to land on the island and never really have the opportunity to see its majesty. We had no wind and no rain or snow at the moment. We were going to get a rare chance to see the glacier.
Collins Glacier was accessible via the waterway one can see from the little scientific community on the island. I was glad for the wind and chill-resistance of the padded suit as we trolled out into the frigid water passed a blue iceberg, crossing paths with little bobbing penguins. In a half hour we were sitting beside a grand ice pack several stories high, listening to the monstrous glacier live its ancient life without regard to our presence.
I’ve never been that close to a glacier before. And once again, as at many other times on my travels these past few years, I was aware of how much I don’t know. In this case, how much I don’t know about glaciers, especially those in Antarctica. I did sink into the moment and appreciate it, however. I momentarily let my dream of running go by the wayside and said to Bill, “If for nothing else, seeing this is worth every penny.” He nodded in agreement.
It was at the penguin colony an hour later that I rounded up the courage to approach Alejo and talk to him about running. He listened to me express my desire to run while on the island and nodded sagely as I explained how important it was to me. But he was awfully quiet. He did say, “People on the island exercise, too, you know.” He also reiterated, “You cannot plan an event or activity in Antarctica.” Yes. I was clear on that. Very, very clear. But could I run?
By the time we got back to the Chilean barracks for a snack, it was 5:30. We had less than 15 hours left on the island. Our Garmin GPS systems (we had three of them with us) indicated that we had walked only two miles in the course of the day since the plane had landed. There was still a long way to go to reach 26.2. The winds were still calm at this point, but a light flurry of snow was beginning to fall. The sky was darkening. We six tourists sat around for about an hour while Alejo took care of some duties unrelated to us. When he came back, he explained what the evening would hold. He planned to take the group on a walk to the Russian Orthodox Church and to some locations for photo opportunities and then we would come back to the barracks for dinner and drinks.
He looked at Marina, Bill and me and said, “If you stay on the roads. It doesn’t matter how fast you get to the Russian Church. We will meet you there. And I’ll show you the other roads we will use.”
So at 6:30 pm, as the others finished their cups of cocoa and pulled on their warm down coats, we three hopeful runners suited up in our running gear, gathered our energy gels, donned our headlamps (it would be dark by 9:00) and ducked out the door. I wasn’t entirely sure Alejo understood we wanted to run for several hours, but I’d learned by this point that Alejo, himself is a world-class mountaineer and skier. He is well accomplished as an athlete in his own right and had confided to me that he never goes anywhere without his running shoes. I thought we understood each other.
We said goodbye to our new friends and headed out the door to run until one of three things happened. Either the darkening sky would dump on us and we would be forced back indoors; someone would intercept us and tell us we had to stop running; or we would meet our goal.
I hate to tell you this, but I’m not going to reveal what happened. I’ve already said that I’m happy with our trip, but you’ll have to read the book (Title: Second Wind - it’ll be released by Seal Press in October, 2010) to find out what made me so happy. I’m sorry to do it to you – sort of. If you know me well enough to have my phone number, I’ll probably tell you more (I’m cheap – a glass of wine will get you everywhere). For those of you who have been following along and cheering for me, I thank you.
Stay tuned for news of our trip to Torres del Paine, Patagonia’s great national park. Our trip there didn’t include a marathon, but there are some good stories and pics I want to share.
Peace to all.
The day after we arrived in Punta Arenas, we completed a 26.2 mile run around town. We’d promised our traveling companion, Marina (from California) that we would help her complete her South American marathon and, tired as we were from missing flights and being vertical for two days, we were determined to keep our word. Our local friends, Mackarena and Marcelo (teachers at Colegio Miguel de Cervantes) had arranged for the newspaper to show up and document our little race. Mackarena's father, Andres, and Marcelo joined us as starters, along with a homeless dog who traveled exactly one mile before abandoning us once he’d decided there wasn’t any food in the deal for him.
Our time in Punta Arenas, both before the trip to Antarctica and after was filled with meals with friends, visiting classes at Miguel de Cervantes to hang out with the children and penguin sightings (apparently rare) along the Strait of Magellan. I have to give a shout out to Moka Joe’s, a little Bellingham coffee-roasting business, for helping me with gifts for our Sister City friends. The folks in Punta Arenas were so hospitable and kind (Mackarena and her husband, Omar, even loaned us their house to stay in for almost two weeks) that we truly can’t begin to repay them, but a little taste of Bellingham left behind will hopefully remind them with every sip that we are grateful for their friendship.
On Wednesday evening (March 17) of our first week, Bill, Marina and I showed up at the DAP airline office for a meeting about the trip the following day to King George Island, Antarctica. As you know, we’d originally organized this expedition with the plan of running 26.2 miles on the island in order to complete the marathon distance on our seventh and final continent. As you also know, in the process of creating said plan, we were told that we could not “plan” or “organize” anything that resembled a “race,” an “activity,” an “event” or a “marathon.” So, alas, saddened and discouraged, I nevertheless agreed to continue on my scheduled flight to King George Island in hopes that I might be able to sneak out of view at some point and run around (even in circles) to meet my goal, while Bill said he wasn’t interested in going if he wouldn’t have a guaranteed chance to run once we touched down.
Wednesday evening, however, Bill had a little change of heart. We met with Carlos, a representative from DAP, in a tiny office enclosed on all sides by thick glass walls. There were five of us squeezed in there: Marina, Bill and I, Kara, a Minnesotan in her thirties who quit her job and is now roaming the world for the few months, and Alex, another American from Illinois who is heading off to med-school in the fall when he finishes several months of international travel and gallivanting. There was one other tourist on the list for the trip the following day who couldn’t be with us, a Russian fellow named Yury, who was flying in late that night. We wouldn’t get to meet him until the next day. After Carlos filled us in on all that we needed to know for the trip, I turned in my chair and looked at Bill. I could see his eyes sparkling, reflecting light from outside one of the big windows. He was biting the inside of his cheek and knitting his brows together. I know that look. He was changing his mind about coming along the next day.
As the five of us passengers had been chatting, I'd explained to Kara and Alex that Marina and I hoped to get out for a renegade run. The two were so supportive and enthusiastic about our idea that Bill began to think it might be worth his while to take a chance and come along. After the meeting, he got up and followed Carlos to his desk to find out if there was room on the plane. There was.
We arrived on KGI at about 1:30 the following day (March 18). Immediately, our guide Alejo, a wild-looking Chilean man in his mid-fifties with a graying beard and astute, clear eyes, whisked us into a Zodiac (after requiring us to change into puffy, flotation suits) and out onto the bay. “The weather is good now. We must hurry.” He said. My mind was so latched onto getting my miles in, come hell or high water (as they say), that I didn’t appreciate what Alejo was communicating. The weather changes so rapidly in this region that tourists can pay thousands of dollars to land on the island and never really have the opportunity to see its majesty. We had no wind and no rain or snow at the moment. We were going to get a rare chance to see the glacier.
Collins Glacier was accessible via the waterway one can see from the little scientific community on the island. I was glad for the wind and chill-resistance of the padded suit as we trolled out into the frigid water passed a blue iceberg, crossing paths with little bobbing penguins. In a half hour we were sitting beside a grand ice pack several stories high, listening to the monstrous glacier live its ancient life without regard to our presence.
I’ve never been that close to a glacier before. And once again, as at many other times on my travels these past few years, I was aware of how much I don’t know. In this case, how much I don’t know about glaciers, especially those in Antarctica. I did sink into the moment and appreciate it, however. I momentarily let my dream of running go by the wayside and said to Bill, “If for nothing else, seeing this is worth every penny.” He nodded in agreement.
It was at the penguin colony an hour later that I rounded up the courage to approach Alejo and talk to him about running. He listened to me express my desire to run while on the island and nodded sagely as I explained how important it was to me. But he was awfully quiet. He did say, “People on the island exercise, too, you know.” He also reiterated, “You cannot plan an event or activity in Antarctica.” Yes. I was clear on that. Very, very clear. But could I run?
By the time we got back to the Chilean barracks for a snack, it was 5:30. We had less than 15 hours left on the island. Our Garmin GPS systems (we had three of them with us) indicated that we had walked only two miles in the course of the day since the plane had landed. There was still a long way to go to reach 26.2. The winds were still calm at this point, but a light flurry of snow was beginning to fall. The sky was darkening. We six tourists sat around for about an hour while Alejo took care of some duties unrelated to us. When he came back, he explained what the evening would hold. He planned to take the group on a walk to the Russian Orthodox Church and to some locations for photo opportunities and then we would come back to the barracks for dinner and drinks.
He looked at Marina, Bill and me and said, “If you stay on the roads. It doesn’t matter how fast you get to the Russian Church. We will meet you there. And I’ll show you the other roads we will use.”
So at 6:30 pm, as the others finished their cups of cocoa and pulled on their warm down coats, we three hopeful runners suited up in our running gear, gathered our energy gels, donned our headlamps (it would be dark by 9:00) and ducked out the door. I wasn’t entirely sure Alejo understood we wanted to run for several hours, but I’d learned by this point that Alejo, himself is a world-class mountaineer and skier. He is well accomplished as an athlete in his own right and had confided to me that he never goes anywhere without his running shoes. I thought we understood each other.
We said goodbye to our new friends and headed out the door to run until one of three things happened. Either the darkening sky would dump on us and we would be forced back indoors; someone would intercept us and tell us we had to stop running; or we would meet our goal.
I hate to tell you this, but I’m not going to reveal what happened. I’ve already said that I’m happy with our trip, but you’ll have to read the book (Title: Second Wind - it’ll be released by Seal Press in October, 2010) to find out what made me so happy. I’m sorry to do it to you – sort of. If you know me well enough to have my phone number, I’ll probably tell you more (I’m cheap – a glass of wine will get you everywhere). For those of you who have been following along and cheering for me, I thank you.
Stay tuned for news of our trip to Torres del Paine, Patagonia’s great national park. Our trip there didn’t include a marathon, but there are some good stories and pics I want to share.
Peace to all.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
KGI, Antarctica
I am in a hostel in Puerto Natales at this moment. Bill and I are getting ready to visit Torres del Paine, a famous national park here in Chile. There are other residents of the hostel breathing down my neck waiting to use this computer, but they´ll have to wait because I need to tell everyone that we´re back from King George Island, Antarctica!
We arrived in Antarctica by plane at about 1.30pm and immediately climbed aboard a Zodiac (boat) which took us on a tour by water to a blue, glistening glacier that chinked and cracked as we sat in silence watching it. Then we visited a Gentoo Penguin colony of over 10,000 couples (these penguins mate for life). We watched them howl at one another, mourn over the bodies of dead partners and waddle to and fro circumventing the large fur seal that was scratching his back on the rocks at the beach.
While we were at the colony I had a chat with Alejo, our amazing guide, and told him we had a dream of taking a run on KGI. I´ll tell you what he said and all that transpired throughout the evening (including my friendship with two Russian fellows who debated the unfortunte lack of a perfect translation for the ¨F¨word in a particular American joke) when I get back. Suffice it to say for now that I did not come away from my experience in Antarctica disappointed.
Love to all. Stay tuned.
Cami
We arrived in Antarctica by plane at about 1.30pm and immediately climbed aboard a Zodiac (boat) which took us on a tour by water to a blue, glistening glacier that chinked and cracked as we sat in silence watching it. Then we visited a Gentoo Penguin colony of over 10,000 couples (these penguins mate for life). We watched them howl at one another, mourn over the bodies of dead partners and waddle to and fro circumventing the large fur seal that was scratching his back on the rocks at the beach.
While we were at the colony I had a chat with Alejo, our amazing guide, and told him we had a dream of taking a run on KGI. I´ll tell you what he said and all that transpired throughout the evening (including my friendship with two Russian fellows who debated the unfortunte lack of a perfect translation for the ¨F¨word in a particular American joke) when I get back. Suffice it to say for now that I did not come away from my experience in Antarctica disappointed.
Love to all. Stay tuned.
Cami
Monday, March 15, 2010
Punta Arenas Success
Well, after further delays, we made it to Punta Arenas. Our plane out of Atlanta had a leak in the hydraulic system, so we sat on the plane for two hours waiting for it to be repaired, all the while worrying that we would miss our connection in Santiago to Punta Arenas. But our connection was made (miracle!) and four hours later we found our way to our hostel and got some good sleep.
Quickly, after arriving, we phoned our PA friends, Mackarena, Marcelo and Maritza. Marcelo had our American friend Marina with him and she was fine. She´d taken some obscure airline from LA to El Salvador, Peru, Santiago and then to Punta Arenas and never missed a beat, so she´d been in town for a full 24 hours before we touched down.
In the morning yesterday (March 14), we all met at the park at 10am and 5 of us (6 if you include the homeless dog that accompanied us for one mile) commenced our Punta Arenas BYOGPS marathon. We ran through the city, along the Magellan Strait, out toward the country side and finally back into town. We saw penguins, pelting rain, gorgeous views of southern islands and even a funeral along the way. The completion time for us three finishers (Marina, Bill and I all ran together) was 5 hours and 51 minutes. Unfortunately, once we completed 26.2 miles, we still had one kilometer to go to get back to the park where Mackarena, her father, Marcelo and a Punta Arenas newspaper reporter were waiting for us. So we sort of ran an Ultra!
We haven´t seen today´s paper, but we understand there is an article in there about three Americans who came to run the marathon distance in Punta Arenas. I think the name of the paper is El Penguine or something like that. You can try to find it online - or just wait to see a copy when we get home.
Tonight we´ll have dinner at Mackarena´s home and probably stay there for a couple of days. On Wednesday, we have our meeting with DAP, the airline that is taking Marina and me to King George Island, Antarctica. I´ll try to post again once we´ve finished that leg of the journey.
Peace to all.
Quickly, after arriving, we phoned our PA friends, Mackarena, Marcelo and Maritza. Marcelo had our American friend Marina with him and she was fine. She´d taken some obscure airline from LA to El Salvador, Peru, Santiago and then to Punta Arenas and never missed a beat, so she´d been in town for a full 24 hours before we touched down.
In the morning yesterday (March 14), we all met at the park at 10am and 5 of us (6 if you include the homeless dog that accompanied us for one mile) commenced our Punta Arenas BYOGPS marathon. We ran through the city, along the Magellan Strait, out toward the country side and finally back into town. We saw penguins, pelting rain, gorgeous views of southern islands and even a funeral along the way. The completion time for us three finishers (Marina, Bill and I all ran together) was 5 hours and 51 minutes. Unfortunately, once we completed 26.2 miles, we still had one kilometer to go to get back to the park where Mackarena, her father, Marcelo and a Punta Arenas newspaper reporter were waiting for us. So we sort of ran an Ultra!
We haven´t seen today´s paper, but we understand there is an article in there about three Americans who came to run the marathon distance in Punta Arenas. I think the name of the paper is El Penguine or something like that. You can try to find it online - or just wait to see a copy when we get home.
Tonight we´ll have dinner at Mackarena´s home and probably stay there for a couple of days. On Wednesday, we have our meeting with DAP, the airline that is taking Marina and me to King George Island, Antarctica. I´ll try to post again once we´ve finished that leg of the journey.
Peace to all.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Delta Blues
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!
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!
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.
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