Sunday, August 21, 2011
To Padden, with love.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
3 of 4 AND 4 of 4: "Race like you train, except when you don't train, because you still have to race."
We hopped a bus out of Spain, leaving almost as quickly as we came. Our general feeling was of such pure contentedness that we more or less forgot to say goodbye to Spain. And that, it seemed, was the major theme of our trip. We were there (there meaning each and every unique place we passed through) for no more than mere moments. We were traveling with a motive. Four countries in two weeks. I had never before traveled in such rapid motion. And now that I'm back I dont really feel that I can even claim to have been to Spain or Italy - the days spent were so few and the hours mostly passed inside of trains or some other method of travel, there was hardly time to look around. People, nature, language, arcitecture, traditions, music, food, all new and waiting to teach me something but more or less neglected. Where most of my learning came from was myself and Dave and what it is to travel in fast forward. I am a go-to-one-place-stay-for-as-long-as-I-can sort of traveler. I thrive in the transition between being lost in a new village and slowly learning its ways until it feels like a home and THEN picking up and going somewhere else. Creating small lives for myself all over. But Dave and I, we conquered differently. We went full to the brim with motivation and we didn't stop until we had finished our tasks. And oh, how we suceeded. Yet as rapid and rushed as it was, I enjoyed every moment.
So we were leaving Spain. We had about a week to be back in Greece, and all we needed to do in the meantime was bike up the most vicious climb in the Tour de France. Go time. We arrived in southern France, just over the border, to a small town with amazing landscape views, old forts, good pizza and better cider. We camped a night, near a river, and it rained on us and I woke up proud of my 18 Euro tent - serving me much better in a french rainstorm than any fancy REI tent ever had in Humboldt County. I thought back to one particular night waking up in 5 inches of water and leaving to make a driftwood fort on the beach cursing my tent the whole way and becoming intensely soaked by that rain. A bonding experience for an interesting time. Different story. Anyways -
After a serious night of sleep, catching up on the hours and hours we had been missing, we woke, donned soaked sneakers, and made our way to a train station as the sun rose slowly. Train after train, until we reached Grenoble, France. Our final destination. We unloaded, navigated unfamiliar subway routes (one of my favorite activities) and made our way to our couchsurfer's house. WHO happened to be incredible - a garden full of cacti and tomatillos, "bringing mexico to france", he claimed, as well as home cooked food, an abundance of books, good music and a blow up mattress on a hardware floor. Paradise. That night we slept like royalty.
The next day was spent with preparations: navigating, purchasing, bicycle renting, and a little bit of fear for the pain I was about to be in. The lack of training was setting in. Maybe I should've ridden a bike, at least once, in the past few months. But here's what Dave said on the matter, as we sat drinking the best beer I had had in maybe a year at a street side cafe under an umbrella trying to hide from the sun:
"Okay, here's my plan. Don't train. Go to Europe. Drink a lot of beer. Eat horribly. Start biking up the mountain and by about the tenth kilometer I will be so delirious with pain and exhaustion I'll be convinced I'm riding an escalator to heaven. It will be easy from there on out. I don't see how what could be possible go wrong."
So in that I found faith, and the next day we woke early, even after a late night barbeque and some homemade liquor tasting. We were ready, we were dressed, on our bikes, full of carbs, two water bottles each, all yellow and orange from powdered electrolites. I had a small bag with a camera, some food, and a can of white spray paint. I took one last look at my legs, and knew they wouldn't feel this good again for a long time.
As soon as we started ascending I felt I had made a mistake. This felt horrible. WHY would anyone in their right mind volunteer for this. It didn't help that the first two switchbacks were the most difficult by far, the longest and steepest. But Dave was right, after we got going it was easy to become so delirious that a rhythm pedal after pedal, foot down after foot down moving slowly but steadily upward became second nature. My mind was somewhere else and willingly I let it stay there and I just kept moving forward. We took copious breaks, every two or three switchbacks, but it didn't matter. There was no stopwatch and we had all day to make it to the top. A few times I thought I might just keel over, just fall over the edge of the mountain, but then there was Dave to sing to me and get me going again. Other times I felt I could go on in that manner forever, felt fantastic and proud of my body and pushing every limit of what I am capable of. I do love a good challenge, and this one surely took the cake.
21 switchbacks and 2 1/2 hours later we made it to the top. A lovely couple from San Jose bought us lunch and we downed those victory beers. Sitting there in glorious satisfaction while simultaneously dreading what my legs would feel like when I did stand up. Thinking about the descent. And where to spread the ashes. And sleeping. I was exhausted. I looked at my hands, made a fist, and then stretched my fingers out long, and slowly back to a fist, contemplating how all the little muscles in my hands and fingers, and how they would hold up with the breaking while going back down the mountain. When we did finally stand up (more painful than I thought) and sit back on those saddles (horrible. SERIOUSLY horrible. I understand now why people wear those padded biking shorts) and begin to descend, all the pain was more or less erased, replaced with an overwhelming sense of achievement. We went down to the switchback #1, and stopped. The view was fantastic, there was a green hill with purple and yellow wildflowers, and space on the street to leave some writing. If you've ever watched the Tour de France you know the way the streets look, all covered with messages for the riders, for family members, anything anybody could think of to write, or draw, was there on the course. And we were going to add to it. In between the traffic, the cyclists, we snuck onto the road shaking that can and writing letter by letter "kick kaas" as big and legible as we could muster.
The story of Kick Kaas is a little lost to me.... but something about my dad being at a meeting and someone misspelling his first name, "Kirk" putting a c instead an r and there it was Kick Kaas, and I can just imagine him laughing to himself thinking that is the perfect nickname. He later had a bike with Kick Kaas written on the side and my entire family now has shirts with his face in a caricature fashion that read Kick Kaas and all in all it is an inside-outside family joke, now written there on the course for all Tour de France racers to contemplate... while we were writing it one cyclist came by an exclaimed "Kick Ass! It's the same in every language!" and I smiled. He understood. And after it was written I scampered up the little green hill, contemplating the view and kneeling among the wildflowers. There I left the ashes, where he would watch riders cross over his name, while looking at the view, seemingly spreading out for ages in front of him. It was perfect. Easy and at peace. I left him there, mounted the bike one last time, and made my way from clouds to town.
The end.
And one more time, just to clarify:
So we were leaving Spain. We had about a week to be back in Greece, and all we needed to do in the meantime was bike up the most vicious climb in the Tour de France. Go time. We arrived in southern France, just over the border, to a small town with amazing landscape views, old forts, good pizza and better cider. We camped a night, near a river, and it rained on us and I woke up proud of my 18 Euro tent - serving me much better in a french rainstorm than any fancy REI tent ever had in Humboldt County. I thought back to one particular night waking up in 5 inches of water and leaving to make a driftwood fort on the beach cursing my tent the whole way and becoming intensely soaked by that rain. A bonding experience for an interesting time. Different story. Anyways -
After a serious night of sleep, catching up on the hours and hours we had been missing, we woke, donned soaked sneakers, and made our way to a train station as the sun rose slowly. Train after train, until we reached Grenoble, France. Our final destination. We unloaded, navigated unfamiliar subway routes (one of my favorite activities) and made our way to our couchsurfer's house. WHO happened to be incredible - a garden full of cacti and tomatillos, "bringing mexico to france", he claimed, as well as home cooked food, an abundance of books, good music and a blow up mattress on a hardware floor. Paradise. That night we slept like royalty.
The next day was spent with preparations: navigating, purchasing, bicycle renting, and a little bit of fear for the pain I was about to be in. The lack of training was setting in. Maybe I should've ridden a bike, at least once, in the past few months. But here's what Dave said on the matter, as we sat drinking the best beer I had had in maybe a year at a street side cafe under an umbrella trying to hide from the sun:
"Okay, here's my plan. Don't train. Go to Europe. Drink a lot of beer. Eat horribly. Start biking up the mountain and by about the tenth kilometer I will be so delirious with pain and exhaustion I'll be convinced I'm riding an escalator to heaven. It will be easy from there on out. I don't see how what could be possible go wrong."
So in that I found faith, and the next day we woke early, even after a late night barbeque and some homemade liquor tasting. We were ready, we were dressed, on our bikes, full of carbs, two water bottles each, all yellow and orange from powdered electrolites. I had a small bag with a camera, some food, and a can of white spray paint. I took one last look at my legs, and knew they wouldn't feel this good again for a long time.
 |
| lookin reeeaalll good. check out davie's shoes for a good laugh. |
As soon as we started ascending I felt I had made a mistake. This felt horrible. WHY would anyone in their right mind volunteer for this. It didn't help that the first two switchbacks were the most difficult by far, the longest and steepest. But Dave was right, after we got going it was easy to become so delirious that a rhythm pedal after pedal, foot down after foot down moving slowly but steadily upward became second nature. My mind was somewhere else and willingly I let it stay there and I just kept moving forward. We took copious breaks, every two or three switchbacks, but it didn't matter. There was no stopwatch and we had all day to make it to the top. A few times I thought I might just keel over, just fall over the edge of the mountain, but then there was Dave to sing to me and get me going again. Other times I felt I could go on in that manner forever, felt fantastic and proud of my body and pushing every limit of what I am capable of. I do love a good challenge, and this one surely took the cake.
21 switchbacks and 2 1/2 hours later we made it to the top. A lovely couple from San Jose bought us lunch and we downed those victory beers. Sitting there in glorious satisfaction while simultaneously dreading what my legs would feel like when I did stand up. Thinking about the descent. And where to spread the ashes. And sleeping. I was exhausted. I looked at my hands, made a fist, and then stretched my fingers out long, and slowly back to a fist, contemplating how all the little muscles in my hands and fingers, and how they would hold up with the breaking while going back down the mountain. When we did finally stand up (more painful than I thought) and sit back on those saddles (horrible. SERIOUSLY horrible. I understand now why people wear those padded biking shorts) and begin to descend, all the pain was more or less erased, replaced with an overwhelming sense of achievement. We went down to the switchback #1, and stopped. The view was fantastic, there was a green hill with purple and yellow wildflowers, and space on the street to leave some writing. If you've ever watched the Tour de France you know the way the streets look, all covered with messages for the riders, for family members, anything anybody could think of to write, or draw, was there on the course. And we were going to add to it. In between the traffic, the cyclists, we snuck onto the road shaking that can and writing letter by letter "kick kaas" as big and legible as we could muster.
The story of Kick Kaas is a little lost to me.... but something about my dad being at a meeting and someone misspelling his first name, "Kirk" putting a c instead an r and there it was Kick Kaas, and I can just imagine him laughing to himself thinking that is the perfect nickname. He later had a bike with Kick Kaas written on the side and my entire family now has shirts with his face in a caricature fashion that read Kick Kaas and all in all it is an inside-outside family joke, now written there on the course for all Tour de France racers to contemplate... while we were writing it one cyclist came by an exclaimed "Kick Ass! It's the same in every language!" and I smiled. He understood. And after it was written I scampered up the little green hill, contemplating the view and kneeling among the wildflowers. There I left the ashes, where he would watch riders cross over his name, while looking at the view, seemingly spreading out for ages in front of him. It was perfect. Easy and at peace. I left him there, mounted the bike one last time, and made my way from clouds to town.
The end.
And one more time, just to clarify:
-Visit Denali State Park
- Visit the pyramids in Egypt
- Run with the bulls in Pamplona
- Visit Australia, and New Zealand
- Hike the Pacific Crest Trail
- Visit the great wall
- Go to France and ride the Alp D’Heuz
- Race in Ironman Hawaii in Kona
- Live on a beach.
- Visit the pyramids in Egypt
- Visit Australia, and New Zealand
- Hike the Pacific Crest Trail
- Go to France and ride the Alp D’Heuz
- Race in Ironman Hawaii in Kona
Monday, August 1, 2011
Part 2 of 4: San Fermin
The place looked like an image straight out of a Where's Waldo book only everyone is dressed like Waldo and you're just trying to find your friend. We'd lost Lauren the night before, the morning before really, and now we looked for her in a sea of white with hints of red here and there. What a sight, everyone dressed the same like that. Every bus, park, street, restuarant and bar filled to the brim with those outfits. Little red sashes and bandanas floated in a sea of otherwise all white. A red balloon drifting towards an overcast sky. A drop of paint on a clean canvas.
We'd arrived on an over-crowded bus, carrying eager tourists to a weekend of party and drink with the undertone of a religious spanish festival. A very deeply rooted and loved tradition. We arrived in time for the firework show, watched it and the people around us, took a deep breath, and dove in. We had nowhere to sleep, it was sometime around midnight, and we took off walking. Down every road we could find, keeping ourselves awake, we devised a plan. Three dances in every bar, and we would leave when they asked us to buy a drink. We carried on and on up and down merging into the crowd and the movement, surrendering to the festival as it is, an opportunity to party, dance, meet, drink, and not as it once was.
Already we had made the decision not to run. I couldn't justify myself running. I had no place as a tourist to take part in such an old tradition, nor did I have an understanding of the festival deep enough to find a reason to run. It wasn't right. However, The List clearly says "run with the bulls", not "go to pamplona and maybe run or probably just watch". So I struggled with that. To go against my initial gut instinct and run, or to not follow the diction and only half achieve the goal. I sat with those thoughts and waited for some clarity.
The night moved ahead, quickly. Friends made through dancing, drinks, street side mayhem. Our white outfits slowly became a blur of red and brown, too much of everything staining any purity a mess of color. Morning peeked slowly across the town and we staked our spots for the running. Waiting patiently as workers placed wooden barriers along the course, one to keep out spectators and another to provide a safe haven for runners needing a break, be it because of injury, exhaustion or just plain fear. As soon as our barrier entered the concrete we clambered to the top, fighting for space with anyone around us. And we made it, Dave and I, sitting together on the topmost plank of those old fences, near to the bullpen and with a wonderful view of the street and surrounding old buildings. Every way I turned was a perfect line of excited faces, identical outfit after identical outfit, one by one down the row. Those who didn't make it to the barriers climbed on anything - stop signs, street lights or the few trees near enough to provide the view. Together we climbed, and together we waited. Sitting 2 hours on a piece of wood two inches wide as the sun grew brighter and anticipation reached a maximum level.
The actual running was faster than I thought it would be. As soon as it started it seemed to be over. The first alarm sounded and the crowd grew tense. Here it was - mob of people coming up the road, looking absolutely terrified and stumbling all over one another, causing falls and all levels of confusion. Eventually the bulls came, one after the other. Huge, silent and focused. Running towards the pen and the inevitable, paying hardly any attention to the frantic running around them. I thought to myself how easy it would have been to run, how I should probably have just maned up and done it right the first time.
After 2 hours of waiting around those barriers, the run was over in hardly 15 minutes. We climbed down, spent a rough morning wading through trash filled streets, stepping over the little flowing rivers of who-knows-what dripping down every street, and searching high and low for Lo. We talked of plans. We wanted sleep. Needed sleep. 3 nights on boats, 1 night of camping, and now we found ourselves at the biggest party in Spain and we were losing momentum. We'd seen the festival, and that was that. We'd embraced it, but one day and one long night was more than enough, so we brainstormed on what would be next. Camping in the mountains, Barcelona or mobbing it up to France. We simmered on our ideas...
But then there remained the problem of the diction. Would I be able to really say I ran with the bulls? Could I cross it off when really I just watched? Would it be worth it to man up and spend another wild night to make sure I had done the job right? I was torn. In the end I settled on the thought that nowhere on the list does it say he ever would have wanted his daughter running, and in fact I'm pretty sure he wouldn't have. That combined with the fact that I didn't feel comfertable with it made me okay with my decision.
We settled on a train ticket to southern France, just over the border, to get ourselves out of Spain and on to our next destination. We had about 2 hours before our train, so we gathered our luggage and set out on the next task: the ashes. The whole time I had been at San Fermin I thought constantly about where to put the ashes, and I still hadn't come up with anything. Where could I leave him amongst the chaos of the city? It was too filthy, too crowded, and with too much concrete. I wanted nature and peace. When I finally placed the little container of ashes in my hand, familiar feeling now on the third go, I walked without a destination in mind, following Dave to somewhere he remembered, somewhere that maybe would be nice enough for me to feel okay leaving him there. Right near to the corral, where they keep the bulls before the running, there is a church, and behind the church a grassy hill leading out of town. I stood awhile admiring the location, feeling beyond thankful for Dave, and making a plan to climb over the little fence and put him somewhere in the grass, near to where the bulls are released, where he could watch all the action. I turned to look at the corral, empty now after the running. Some tourists were poking around taking pictures, and there was even a space between two fences big enough to crawl through and I noticed impacts in the dirt left from the hoofs of eager bulls and I thought how they would change when new bulls came in for the next days running, and wondered how it was that so many big animals fit into such a seemingly small space and no wonder they were angry and I thought again of the hoof prints and it hit me.
Run with the bulls. He didn't want me to run with the bulls, he wanted to run with the bulls. I could have done it for him but I didn't and that was that. But it didn't matter anymore, because it was him that wanted to run, and it was going to happen.
I crept in past the picture taking tourists, through a slit in the fence, and stood there in the empty corral, my footprints mixing with those big circular indentations and I felt a little small but happy. I hurried more than I would have liked to; I wasn't supposed to be in there and I wasn't about to get kicked out before I could manifest this idea into reality. Little black container of ashes, lid popped open, turned upside down and thats where I left him, in a neat little row, waiting waiting like I did for the bulls. And there they would be, those big creatures, confined, frustrated, ready to run, with little bits of him on them. There he would be running with the bulls the next morning, and the morning after, on and on. The idea filled me with happiness until I thought I might burst, and it was all I could do to just stand with the widest grin on my face staring down at the little line of grey mixing slowly into the light brown dusty dirt. It was perfect. In the midst of the biggest party in Spain I heard nothing, time stopped a bit and peace prevailed to make space for all the perfection of that moment. And then I remembered the tourists and the cameras and I felt more than I little goofy so I turned, making my way giddily with hops and skips to Dave and together we left Pamplona, and all its madness, on a slow bus to southern France.
We'd arrived on an over-crowded bus, carrying eager tourists to a weekend of party and drink with the undertone of a religious spanish festival. A very deeply rooted and loved tradition. We arrived in time for the firework show, watched it and the people around us, took a deep breath, and dove in. We had nowhere to sleep, it was sometime around midnight, and we took off walking. Down every road we could find, keeping ourselves awake, we devised a plan. Three dances in every bar, and we would leave when they asked us to buy a drink. We carried on and on up and down merging into the crowd and the movement, surrendering to the festival as it is, an opportunity to party, dance, meet, drink, and not as it once was.
Already we had made the decision not to run. I couldn't justify myself running. I had no place as a tourist to take part in such an old tradition, nor did I have an understanding of the festival deep enough to find a reason to run. It wasn't right. However, The List clearly says "run with the bulls", not "go to pamplona and maybe run or probably just watch". So I struggled with that. To go against my initial gut instinct and run, or to not follow the diction and only half achieve the goal. I sat with those thoughts and waited for some clarity.
The night moved ahead, quickly. Friends made through dancing, drinks, street side mayhem. Our white outfits slowly became a blur of red and brown, too much of everything staining any purity a mess of color. Morning peeked slowly across the town and we staked our spots for the running. Waiting patiently as workers placed wooden barriers along the course, one to keep out spectators and another to provide a safe haven for runners needing a break, be it because of injury, exhaustion or just plain fear. As soon as our barrier entered the concrete we clambered to the top, fighting for space with anyone around us. And we made it, Dave and I, sitting together on the topmost plank of those old fences, near to the bullpen and with a wonderful view of the street and surrounding old buildings. Every way I turned was a perfect line of excited faces, identical outfit after identical outfit, one by one down the row. Those who didn't make it to the barriers climbed on anything - stop signs, street lights or the few trees near enough to provide the view. Together we climbed, and together we waited. Sitting 2 hours on a piece of wood two inches wide as the sun grew brighter and anticipation reached a maximum level.
The actual running was faster than I thought it would be. As soon as it started it seemed to be over. The first alarm sounded and the crowd grew tense. Here it was - mob of people coming up the road, looking absolutely terrified and stumbling all over one another, causing falls and all levels of confusion. Eventually the bulls came, one after the other. Huge, silent and focused. Running towards the pen and the inevitable, paying hardly any attention to the frantic running around them. I thought to myself how easy it would have been to run, how I should probably have just maned up and done it right the first time.
After 2 hours of waiting around those barriers, the run was over in hardly 15 minutes. We climbed down, spent a rough morning wading through trash filled streets, stepping over the little flowing rivers of who-knows-what dripping down every street, and searching high and low for Lo. We talked of plans. We wanted sleep. Needed sleep. 3 nights on boats, 1 night of camping, and now we found ourselves at the biggest party in Spain and we were losing momentum. We'd seen the festival, and that was that. We'd embraced it, but one day and one long night was more than enough, so we brainstormed on what would be next. Camping in the mountains, Barcelona or mobbing it up to France. We simmered on our ideas...
But then there remained the problem of the diction. Would I be able to really say I ran with the bulls? Could I cross it off when really I just watched? Would it be worth it to man up and spend another wild night to make sure I had done the job right? I was torn. In the end I settled on the thought that nowhere on the list does it say he ever would have wanted his daughter running, and in fact I'm pretty sure he wouldn't have. That combined with the fact that I didn't feel comfertable with it made me okay with my decision.
We settled on a train ticket to southern France, just over the border, to get ourselves out of Spain and on to our next destination. We had about 2 hours before our train, so we gathered our luggage and set out on the next task: the ashes. The whole time I had been at San Fermin I thought constantly about where to put the ashes, and I still hadn't come up with anything. Where could I leave him amongst the chaos of the city? It was too filthy, too crowded, and with too much concrete. I wanted nature and peace. When I finally placed the little container of ashes in my hand, familiar feeling now on the third go, I walked without a destination in mind, following Dave to somewhere he remembered, somewhere that maybe would be nice enough for me to feel okay leaving him there. Right near to the corral, where they keep the bulls before the running, there is a church, and behind the church a grassy hill leading out of town. I stood awhile admiring the location, feeling beyond thankful for Dave, and making a plan to climb over the little fence and put him somewhere in the grass, near to where the bulls are released, where he could watch all the action. I turned to look at the corral, empty now after the running. Some tourists were poking around taking pictures, and there was even a space between two fences big enough to crawl through and I noticed impacts in the dirt left from the hoofs of eager bulls and I thought how they would change when new bulls came in for the next days running, and wondered how it was that so many big animals fit into such a seemingly small space and no wonder they were angry and I thought again of the hoof prints and it hit me.
Run with the bulls. He didn't want me to run with the bulls, he wanted to run with the bulls. I could have done it for him but I didn't and that was that. But it didn't matter anymore, because it was him that wanted to run, and it was going to happen.
I crept in past the picture taking tourists, through a slit in the fence, and stood there in the empty corral, my footprints mixing with those big circular indentations and I felt a little small but happy. I hurried more than I would have liked to; I wasn't supposed to be in there and I wasn't about to get kicked out before I could manifest this idea into reality. Little black container of ashes, lid popped open, turned upside down and thats where I left him, in a neat little row, waiting waiting like I did for the bulls. And there they would be, those big creatures, confined, frustrated, ready to run, with little bits of him on them. There he would be running with the bulls the next morning, and the morning after, on and on. The idea filled me with happiness until I thought I might burst, and it was all I could do to just stand with the widest grin on my face staring down at the little line of grey mixing slowly into the light brown dusty dirt. It was perfect. In the midst of the biggest party in Spain I heard nothing, time stopped a bit and peace prevailed to make space for all the perfection of that moment. And then I remembered the tourists and the cameras and I felt more than I little goofy so I turned, making my way giddily with hops and skips to Dave and together we left Pamplona, and all its madness, on a slow bus to southern France.
...to be continued...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)