Rocinante Always Wins

Running sick

2008-02-23T16:34:00.002-05:00

After nearly a week of bleary-eyed, stuffy-nosed mornings during which I was too tired and too ill to work out, I slept in this Saturday and prepared myself mentally for an afternoon run. Even though it was not much over 30 degrees out and a half slush, half ice mess still clung to the ground, I donned my running tights and sneakers for a nice long speed workout.

There's been a particular strain of ick floating around my office of late, infecting nearly everyone over the last two weeks. I fell later than most, but fell just the same. Not quite flu strength, its left me incredibly tired and congested nonetheless.

But in all honesty, I find that there's nothing like a good workout to help restore some feeling of health in my body. I was definitely not at the top of my game during workouts this week, but when they were over, my sinuses were clear and the flush in my cheeks and the slight ache in my muscles felt like a normal post-workout fatigue. For at least 15 minutes there, I felt relief...I felt normal! It's hard to say if working out while sick prolongs or hastens my illnesses, but I tend to believe the effect is a draw, at worst.

And speaking of health...when I returned from my run I found a note from Kate taped to the TV. She'd gone out for a haircut but could I please pick up this package at the post office -- it's our new free water tester that she'd ordered from the DEP.

While my pursuit of good health has led to a lot of sweat, Kate's has veered more in the direction of purging toxic chemicals from our lives (getting rid of our Nalgene bottles and making our own cleaning products) and localizing our diets (signing up for a CSA this summer and hoping to obtain meat products from free range farms in the tri state area). Between our respective obsessions I'm convinced we'll both live to 150.

Running's many ensembles

2008-01-19T15:17:00.000-05:00

It's been a little while since I've written a post, but not because I've been lacking in ridiculous athletic adventures and misadventures. It's more an equation of my time and energy. Rather than regale you with all those little mis ifs, I'm going to stick with the two for which I have excellent visual accompaniment...

Our second attempt at sweating in the new year!

This is starting to become a new tradition for Kate and me. Last year, at the stroke of midnight, we celebrated the start of what would be an amazing year for us by running 4 miles in Central Park while fireworks exploded over our heads and drunk revelers cheered us on. Hoping to start another great year, we returned to the midnight run, but this time we added a few more interesting elements to the night.

First off, we spent the earlier part of the evening chowing down on a big spaghetti and meatball dinner with heaps of wine and some champagne -- just what every runner needs at the start of her midnight run! We also took the costumes up a notch this year (a number of the racers wear them). Mine was okay - 70s runner. The shorts definitely garnered me plenty of attention on the subway. Somehow the men just don't seem to notice that yes, I'm wearing tiny shorts, but they are OVER full running tights. Clearly, bum is bum, regardless of how many layers it's covered by.

But Kate's costume really made the night. She wore my mother's 30+ year old dirndl with purple thigh high socks...an outfit so good, strangers asked to have their picture taken with her and the drunk revelers cheering us on could be heard remarking "what a great outfit!" as we loped by. I'd have to agree; it was a great outfit. And a great start to the new year.

My newest ailment and newest remedy

So now I am doing battle with plantar fasciitis. It boils down to one symptom -- heel pain. After going to dinner with some friends, all of whom are athletes and do a fair amount of running, I got some new tips on how to treat this particular problem, namely this crazy sock that stretches out your foot. Kate loved it so much she took this picture of me relaxing in my sock one night.

But to digress briefly, it's amazing how much time a group of endurance nuts can sit around swapping injury and remedy stories. "Where does it hurt? Cause last year my ankle hurt here and it was tendonitis." I pull my pant leg up and swing my leg into the air so it can be seen over the dinner table as I gesture to the inside of my ankle. "Does anyone know what to do for this problem in my foot?" someone else asks. "Yeah, I had that last year..." and on and on it goes.

Ah, the glories of endurance sports. But then, if it were easy, none of us would like it so much. And on that note, I'm off to register for some races for the year!

New forms of torture for a new year

2007-12-29T17:25:00.001-05:00

Now that the trip is over and I've settled into working life once again, my focus returns to athletic pursuits. With a new year just around the bend, not to mention the big 2-8, it's reflection time. Don't go expecting some intensely deep explorations of life and love here -- I'm talking strictly training reflections.

While I've yet to register for any races, I have gotten Kate to verbally commit to doing a longer race this summer. This of course commits her to being my training partner as well, though whether she realizes that or not remains to be seen. (It will become quite clear when I start waking her up at 6 a.m. every morning! Shhh, don't tell her just yet, I have to break the news slowly.)

I've also signed up for a Crunch gym membership (and got Kate to sign up, too), which is a major step up from the last two years at the Columbia University gym. I can actually get on the machines without waiting five to ten minutes for each one; nearly every cardio machine has a personal TV with way more stations than our cable-less apartment; and there's spinning classes!! I've been dreaming of endless spinning classes since we moved to NYC over two years ago so this has been a long time coming.

Let me just say, these classes are a serious workout and not for the faint of heart. This morning we made our way to a class (during which I got to test drive my fabulous new Sidi's and spds -- expect an "ode to my fine new Italian leather shoes" post at a later date) taught by a woman who hooted and literally barked and growled from the front of the room. At one point, she even started yelling "MUSH, MUSH!" at us. Now, just to be clear, this was a pre-noon weekend class sandwiched between Christmas and New Years and everyone was sporting a bit of a post-holiday coma when they walked in the door.

Within ten minutes, everyone in the room was dripping in sweat. The steam from the huffing and puffing bikers actually managed to cover the mirrored walls in condensation -- a little gross I realize, but a vivid testament to just how hard this workout was.

Final verdict on the class: It's awesome! The more it hurts and the crazier the instructor, the more convinced I am that I must return! And bring my girlfriend with me :)

One last post from NYC

2007-11-21T15:03:00.000-05:00

Well, friends, you may be relieved to hear that this is finally the last post of our trip (some 2 weeks after we have been back in the US of A). All of the pictures are now finally up on flickr. We've had a wonderful time looking through all of them and pretending we are still on vacation. But actually, we are back to working life. Jess started this week and I start very soon...

This blog will now revert to Jess's triathlon blog, so if you want to continue receiving email updates, you can follow Jess's trials, tribulations, and witty commentary on being a 3-sport athlete.

As one final piece of entertainment, here's our "Top 5 Adjustments to Life in the States":

1. Toilet paper goes in...the toilet! In nearly all the places we visited, throwing TP in the toilet was a big fat no-no. Jokes of toilet paper tossers taking down entire towns' sewage systems - at least I thought they were jokes - quickly got us on board. Not until returning did I realize how well I'd been trained. It took us each a good two weeks to break ourselves of the trash can.

2. Openly gay people are everywhere! Oh, how I missed my brethren. We encountered exactly 4 openly gay people in our entire 3 months of travel and all of them were men, two of whom were even Americans! It was actually shocking how few gay travelers there were and what an oddity we seemed to be at times to the European backpackers that we met everywhere. This is an adjustment I'm more than happy to make.

3. The U.S. Postal Service still sucks. Well, this isn't really an adjustment, but rather an excuse to rail against the postal service on my blog. We sent two packages from South America to Jess' parents, one from Argentina which arrived in a timely manner, and one from Chile. The package from Chile never reached their house and when we finally made it home, devastated that so many of our gifts for friends and family had been lost in the mail, and cursing ourselves for trusting a South American country's postal service, we found a package slip in our mailbox. Jess ran to the post office because the slip claimed that the country of Chile had been attempting to send us a box that we had thus far failed to pick up (mind you, we had already filled out both a forward of mail request and - when that didn't work - a hold mail request) and that they intended to send it back to the "sender" the day before we got home. Fortunately, their incompetence meant that we probably had some wiggle room on that date. Jess recovered the package from the postal worker who insisted that she had "screwed up" in filling out the package slip. You decide - here's a photo. Now whose address is under "Sender" and whose is under "Addressee" (sorry, I know it's a little dark).

4. Speedy service in delis and restaurants. Throughout South America, getting someone to take your order at a restaurant is only a little less hard than getting them to bring the check. On the other hand, there is never any pressure to leave! Coming back to New York, the speediness of the service was extremely refreshing and relaxing. However, I also had to readjust to being in and out within an hour, a long line stretching out the door.

5. In the end, nothing has really changed. Perhaps the most surprising thing about coming home was how much everything was exactly as we left it. It had felt, at times, like we were traveling for years. Yet when we arrived home, all the same scaffolding lined the buildings on our block and the same dude was chilling on the front stoop greeting everyone. My office is still working on the same projects and the train is still packed.

Lastly, we just wanted to say thanks for following our South American journey and have a Happy Thanksgiving!

One Last Story from the Southern Hemisphere

2007-11-12T21:54:00.001-05:00

Upon reflection, I felt I had to share one of my most memorable experiences from South America. As Patagonia is known for being a land of extremes, it is natural that our trek through Torres del Paine National Park (Chile) produced for me a list of superlative experiences:

1 Best Water. Throughout my many backpacking trips I have always lamented the fact that water had to be filtered or treated before drinking. It seemed wrong that water in the forest wasn't naturally clean enough for human consumption. Not only is all the water in Torres del Paine fit for human consumption (except for the one salt lake), but it is the cleanest water I have ever tasted. In fact, as pure glacial runoff, it tastes like absolutely nothing and I have never before tasted water like that. Actually, if wet could be a taste this would be it--just refreshingly wet. It's very satisfying to be hiking over streams all day, from any of which you can take a big gulp.

2. Sharpest Peaks. As a very young mountain range, the Andes are comprised of many thin, jagged spires that have not yet been eroded. Hiking through Valle Francais, surrounded on 3 sides by these sharp peaks felt quite like being inside a ring of snow-capped shark teeth.

3. Best Sunrise. On the last morning of our trek, Jess and I made the totally irrational decision to hike for 45 minutes up a steep boulder field in the pre-dawn, sub-freezing temperatures with our head lamps while being blown around by fierce Patagonian winds. We did this to see the infamous sunrise on the towers and, shockingly, we were the only ones who made this decision on this particular morning. We had no way of knowing the sunrise would be any good because it is entirely weather dependent and the weather is very local--perhaps very different at the towers than at the campsite. Our gamble paid off however and we saw the most colorful pink and purple. The sharp granite towers were also lit up in a beautiful orange-pink color behind a sage-green milky lake. This lasted for about 2 minutes, after which we promptly headed back down the boulder field for some hot tea and oatmeal in our sleeping bags.

4. Coldest Hands. As a once-frequent backpacker I have had some very cold hands on snowy and wet days. However, it was not until I found myself washing dishes in the snow with glacial runoff in the bitter wind that I really felt as if I had lifeless stumps protruding from my hands. Fortunately, it seems that blowing hot air on them every 30 seconds has saved me from frost bite.

That's it for now. In the near future, you can look for one more wrap-up post. More photos are now up on flickr and all of them should be up very soon.

Back in the U.S. with a few more stories to tell

2007-11-09T11:38:00.000-05:00

As many of you are aware, Kate and I recently made our proud return to the States. But never fear, we still have a couple of stories to share before we put this blog to rest (and photos to upload).

The final three weeks of our trip had us in tiny towns, on a boat for four days and trekking through amazing parks. All amazing experiences and almost entirely lacking in internet connections. Thus, we turned old-school, writing journal entries to be transposed onto the blog at a later date. Kate will soon give you the story of our visit to Torres del Paine in Chilean Patagonia and I will now give a run through of our last big adventure of the trip... I could have called this post "How I ended up sleep-deprived, fueled for days on only bread and cheese on a glacier with dark lenses taped to my glasses" but I thought that might be taking the theme a little too far. Regardless, I think I need to start this story a little before the actual glacier...

Oct 30
4:50 a.m. Kate and I rise, strap on headlamps and scramble up boulders in darkness for an hour to view the famous Torres of Torres del Paine at sunrise (something she will describe in more detail later).

6:03 a.m. Sunrise! We brace ourselves against the glacial winds and watch the spectacle.

6:20 a.m. Freezing, we climb back down for yet another breakfast of oatmeal and tea. We break camp and hike the two hours back to the refugio where we'll meet our bus.

6 p.m. We finally arrive in Puerto Natales where we promptly find ourselves sitting outside the hostel waiting for someone to show up and unlock the door.

7 p.m. Finally inside the hostel, we fill the next five hours with washing ourselves and all our clothes, repacking, eating an instant soup dinner and preparing for tomorrow's trip to Argentinian Patagonia.

Oct 31
6 a.m. Rise and shine for more stale bread, jam and Nescafe.

7 a.m. Bus to Argentina's Parque Nacional los Glaciares. All day we snack on more bread and some cheese left over from our five day trek in Chile.

1:30 p.m. Finally arrive in a section of the park where you can see the famous Perito Moreno Glacier and its amazing blue colors (a glacier that is actually advancing). We take a boat to get up close, but not too close as giant chunks periodically fall off its sheer face.

4:30 p.m. Arrive in El Calafate, the highly touristy Argentinian city that serves as the base for exploring this part of Patagonia. We check in to a hostel, unpack our bags, and look forward to a full night of sleep and a hot, filling meal in a real restaurant.

5:15 p.m. I talk to the girl at the front desk about our options for the three days we have left in Patagonia before our flight to Buenos Aires. Immediately my interest is peaked by a trip to the Fitz Roy section of Glaciares (yes, it really does look like that!) and a tour that involves 12 hrs on your feet, at least three of the 12 in crampons hiking around a glacier. Down side is, to go, we must catch the bus to El Chalten in roughly 30 minutes, a town four hours away, and go on the tour tomorrow - the first day of the season that this particular tour will run. No other date will work with our flight.

5:30 p.m. We toss aside our dreams for a long night's sleep and a warm meal and decide to go for it! I toss things back into our bags and run to the bakery for yet more bread -- our dinner on the bus -- as Kate runs for the ATM (the next town being so small it doesn't have an ATM or a bank).

6 p.m. We hop on the bus and find ourselves to be half the occupants - one of the others being a local from El Chalten who proclaims it heaven as he shares his mate with us on the 4+ hour drive and the other our driver who keeps joking in Spanish that the horrendous Patagonian winds are going to ensure we arrive no earlier than 2 a.m.

10:45 p.m. We arrive in El Chalten and check in to the hostel from which our tour will leave early in the morning.

Nov 1
12:30 a.m. I wake after only an hour and a half of sleep itching horribly. A quick inspection of the bed confirms my fears -- bed bugs! I wake Kate, capture a bug in an empty pill bottle and make my way to the front desk. Kate describes the problem to the girl at the front desk who seems a little doubtful but can't deny the problem given my specimen and obvious bites. She switches us to another room.

1 a.m. We pack our bags again and move them to the new room. Before climbing in the beds, Kate does a thorough search and finds more bugs. The girl at the front desks allows us to sleep on the two couches in the lounge inside our sleeping bags.

3:30 a.m. Cleaning staff turn on all the lights in the lounge and begin dragging chairs around. After about 20 minutes of this, the lights go off and they leave.

5:30 a.m. We rise to pack our bags again, eat a quick breakfast of two eggs and bread, and grab yet more cheese sandwiches to fuel ourselves for the 12 hrs of walking ahead of us.

7 a.m. We leave for a 2.5 hr hike/speed walk to the base camp where we meet two more guides and are outfitted with crampons and harnesses. As it was a perfectly sunny day with a bright blue sky and we were about to spend hours on a glacier with the ozone whole hovering over us, we layered up on the sunscreen. The light also necessitates serious eye protection. Unfortunately, I'd lost my shades to the gods of Torres del Paine several days ago. The shades, however, were the changeable lens types and I still had the dark lenses in my possession. Thus, I made another incredibly fashionable decision and taped them to my glasses with medical tape.

9:30 a.m. We hike from base camp, passing a beautiful lake at the foot of a glacier nestled against a series of peaks - some steep granite spires, others black volcanic cones. From here we cross a river by means of a wire bolted to boulders on each side (hence the harnesses). Once the entire group reaches the other side we hike up and down steel slopes through forest.

Noon We reach the glacier itself and are welcomed by the most intense winds of my life. Our guides provide the following instruction for dealing with the winds, "I raise my hand; Duck!" After strapping on the crampons, we make our way up the glacier till we reach the glacial plateau.

1 p.m. We eat our cheese sandwiches as the guides set up a top rope leading down the side of a giant ice cave. They convince each and every one of us (there being 6 people in our group, including us) to have a go at ice climbing. Pick. Pick. Foot. Foot. Repeat. After reaching the top I proclaim ice climbing to be my newest hobby -- what a rush!

2:30 p.m. We make our way back, first to base camp, then to town.

7:30 p.m. We finally arrive at the bed bug hostel, a little sore, wind blown, exhausted, famished and utterly exhilarated by one of the most amazing experiences of our entire trip. How appropriate that it came in our last days in South America. Only a few days later I'll return to the States a happy, satisfied and slightly melancholy traveler.

How I ended up soaking wet while standing on a smoking volcano

2007-10-21T18:51:00.000-05:00

This time, unlike the jungle adventure, it was all my fault. I was the one dying to climb the active Villarica Volcano in the Chilean lakes district.

We had taken an overnight bus from Santiago to the town of Pucòn after having met an exceedingly helpful expat in the bus station who bought our bus tickets with his discount card and filled us with enough recommendations to keep us busy for well over three weeks (we had one and a half, mind you). I slept only lightly on the bus so I was quite bleary-eyed when I pulled back the curtain of the window in front of me (we were sitting in the first two seats on the second level of the bus) and wiped off the condensation with my sleeve. Looking around I was immediately taken by the green pastures that reminded me vaguely of the Finger Lakes in summer. As we rounded a bend in the road, a giant snow covered cone rose from the distance belching a stream of white smoke against a perfectly blue sky. Definitely not in the Finger Lakes. Thus began a brief but dramatic relationship with Volcàn Villarica.

Though we arrived at our loding by 9 a.m., it was already too late for volcano climbing this day. Instead, we hiked through a national park after reserving our ascent for tomorrow.

We rose before 6 a.m. the following morning to prepare and eat. The bus pulled up at 7 a.m. and took us to the main office where we met the rest of our group (about 10 tourists and 3 guides) and gathered our gear - packs, ice picks, cramp ons, mountaineering boots, gaitors, fleece hats, fleece neck warmers, mountaineering mittens, some kind of weird pant/butt attachment designed to facilitate sliding down a mountain on your behind, shell pants, jackets, lots of food and water. Thus equipped, we drove an hour to the base camp to judge the weather.

When we arrived we were clearly sitting in the middle of a cloud. Our guides proclaimed the conditions to be ¨hermosa!¨, assuring us that we'd climb out of these clouds before long. Off we went, Kate and I bringing up the rear as our group trudged ever so slowly through the snow and up the mountain.

At the first rest stop we were both impatient to get moving as the group was climbing way too slowly for us to make it to the top in the required 6 hrs. Off we went with one of the guides to form the ¨fast group¨. This ended up being the only group to reach the summit and consisted of us, our guide and a British couple.

We did indead emerge from the clouds eventually to be greeted by beautiful views and blaringly white snow. We could not, however, see the summit. It turns out we were between cloud layers for a bright shining moment and would soon find ourselves buried inside a cloud once again, unable to see more than 10 feet in front of us. This lack of visibility was probably for the best. If it had been clearer I would have been able to see just how steep the slope I was half walking up, half slipping down, really was. As it was, every time Kate or I glanced up to look around we got instant vertigo and tripped over ourselves.

As we continued upward, the clouds became downright mean and started throwing things at us. Any stray hairs, including eyelashes and wisps falling out of our hats collected ice and snow, and my shades became coated with water, only maginfying the feeling that I had no idea where I was going...just keep following the blob that is our guide in front of me.

This was the point at which I started realizing that we looked like a line of hardcore mountaineers from documentaries I'd seen in the past. It was a short leap from that thought to specifically ¨Touching the Void¨ which, if you´ve never seen it, is not the movie you most want in your head as you climb a peak in South America.

My slight nervousness developed into a near paranoia when our guide stopped us to explain the proper use of the ice ax should you find yourself sliding uncontrollably down the mountain...right way, you stop... wrong way - and I quote here - 'Adios'. I proceeded one step at a time by putting my foot exactly where our guide had just removed his own - in other words, right on his ass. Kate did the same directly behind me.

When we reached the top, Kate and I walked up the crater and peered down only to be welcomed by a suffocating belch of sulphur. We ran away coughing and tearing up, yet still were quite satisfied that we'd reached the summit to receive a nice big sulphur ¨hola¨from the volcano.

After some sulphur cloud shrowded victory pictures, back down the mountain we went with me just inches behind the guide yet again. We descened via a different route which our guide softly informed me can be tricky to find in cloudy conditions such as this but without which you had to stay on the mountain top. Why he saw fit to share these little pearls of wisdom with only me, I can't be sure. Over the course of our hike I also got to hear several tales of dead tourists who'd falled off precipices, their bodies unable to be found till summer - all of whom, oddly enough, seemed to be Israelis. Maybe it was because he was annoyed with my walking practically on top of him, but stories like these only assured that I would continue to do so all the way up and down the mountain.

We slid down much of the mountain on our behinds, walking on the less steep sections and sliding through the rest while using our ice picks as breaks. The snow got slushier and soopier as we went down and began piling up around me till my pants had become about as slushy as the snow. Very cozy, I assure you.

Before too long we were back in the cloud break. At this point sliding was done and I tromped quickly down the slope, legs wide, wet pants sticking to my body. By the time we reached the parking lot we were again in a cloud - this one so thick that I couldn't find our van till I was standing nearly on top of it. Miraculously, I was still sunburned, not to mention wet, a little cold and famished. There was nothing to be done about the burn, but I addressed the others easily...first we camped ourselves by a wood stove and ordered dinner in town (I ate a completo gigante which is a glorified giant - and I do mean GIANT - hot dog); then followed a bottle of wine at the hot springs just out of town. Soaking in the dark with a bottle of wine, a light rain falling all around us -- the perfect end to a mountaineering day.

Adventures in Transport

2007-10-21T18:47:00.000-05:00

As NYC residents, we are well aware that public transportation is a grand adventure, but in South America it´s more than that...it´s a cultural education. On our trip, Jess and I have had a wide range of public transportation experiences. The buses in Argentina were 1st class and the buses in Bolivia were more of a 4-wheel drive adventure. In Patagonia, though, we´ve been downright amazed at the ability to reach the most remote locations via public transit. As a tranportation planner, I have to also say that I am quite impressed by the variety of services available on this bus system. Of course it carries passengers. It also carries mail, packages, sacs of potatoes, groceries, and gifts and personal messages from one person to another. People even put their babies and small children on to be delivered down the road. Of course, given the remoteness of the locations, luxuries such as bus terminals, advance tickets and assigned seats tend to evaporate. Rather, you set out with a vague notion of how to get somewhere, a pocket full of small bills, some fortifying snacks, and hopefully a little luck.

Our first inter-Patagonia trip was from Pucón to Puerto Fuy (foo-ee). This is a little town of about 300 people on the shore of Lake Pirehueco, close to Argentina and surrounded by virgin forest and glacial waterfalls. Two bus transfers later, we found ourselves in this tiny town where you are more likely to run into pigs, cows and horses on the street than cars or people. The next day was Sunday, however, and we found ourselves with 12km between us and the national park no bus. Therefore we proceded to walk the 12km. Just when we started to realize that this was taking a long time, a pick-up truck pulled up and offered us a ride. This was very generous considering the truck had one bench seat with two people already on it. We gladly accepted, however, and the two of us squeezed ourselves into the little seat for door-step delivery to the park. After some glacial waterfall viewing, we of course had no choice but to walk again. After some rejection though we were able to score a lift in the back of an overcrowded pick-up and were dropped at the door of a lodge where we were able to rent a tandem kayak for the afternoon.

The following day was Monday so there were buses but not until 3pm, so we got a late start on a long day of travel. After boarding in Puerto Fuy, we were immediately joined by another 60+ people, meaning that we had to stand in an overcrowded bus for the next 2 hours. This took us to Panguipulli where we flagged down a bus for the next leg of the journey as it was pulling out of the "terminal". This bus let us off on the side of the road where we were to wait for the bus to Osorno. What we didn´t realize was that it was a holiday. After 3 full buses left us standing on the side of the road, we had almost given up hope for the night and began to wonder what 2 gringos might need to do to find a place to crash for the night. Fortunately, on the next bus I was able to secure us 2 spots that were technically unavailable. We finally reached Osorno late at night in the pouring rain, one leg away from our destination for the day. We stayed in a cheap hotel near the bus terminal that served a free breakfast of stale bread and instant coffee. Thus nourished, we headed to a sheep farm just outside the small town of Puerto Octay, which doubled as a hostel. It´s called Zapato Amarillo (or Yellow Boot) and had a giant, yellow wooden boot on the side of the road. You are just supposed to tell the bus driver to let you off at the "Yellow Boot". This is where we relaxed and made plans for our next adventure.

We decided to search out some natural hot springs on the edge of the temperate rainforest and made our next bus plans. We boarded our 1st bus and were let off at the junction of two country roads. Here we were picked up by a 2nd bus that took us to the small town of El Poncho on the edge of Lake Rupanco. This town consisted of one supermarket that sold cookies and crackers. Here we boarded a ferry to take us to the end of the lake where we were to stay in a little cabin at the end of the lake on yet another sheep farm. This ferry accommodated about 10 people and facilitated door-step delivery of each person with their sacs of potatos and flour brought along on the bus. The bus gets close to the shore, the plank goes down, you jump off and the boat pulls away. No stopping necessary.

While this may seem like a lot of work for 2 people on vacation, we felt it was worth it as we lounged in our private hot spring, dug out of a black volcanic sand beach, on the edge of a crystal clear glacial lake, surrounded by temperate rainforest and several volcanos.

Arequipeños!

2007-10-02T10:17:00.000-05:00

Jess and I were recently in Arequipa, Peru and had a taste of life in this city made of white volcanic stone. We were enjoying a traditional Incan meal of seafood stew and became chatty with our waiter, Jose Luis. We didn´t think much of it until he found us on the street the next day. He was very friendly and, as we were on our way to the bus station to buy tickets, he even offered to go with us. However, we didn´t go in a taxi. Instead he offered to show us how to travel like real Arequipeños (people from Arequipa)--in colectivos. The colectivo buses are mini-vans with destinations scribbled on the windsheilds. They ply the streets as someone from inside shouts out a list of destinations and prices in rapid succession. If there are any takers it will stop. Taking the colectivo was our first introduction to life in Arequipa.

Later that evening we were invited to a party at Jose Luis´s house for his brother´s engagement and birthday. After a frightfully fast drive in his cousin´s car to an outer section of the city, we arrived and were introduced to his family. His mother, father, brothers, and lots of other family members were all in attendence and we were the conspicuous visitors. However, we were welcomed wholeheartedly. We were immediately seated and given a hearty meal of quinoa soup, duck, potatos, and coca cola. Afterwards the cocktails began with a mixture of strawberries, milk, and pisco (a local liquor made from grapes). This was a warm-up for the dancing and continued pisco consumption that would dominate the evening.

The tables were pushed to the wall and a pisco and sprite drink was served. Jose´s brother seemed to be a budding DJ and got the evening started by mixing some salsa and merengue music on his computer. Jose´s cousin asked me to dance and we were soon joined by the rest of the family. The dancing continued for hours and was interupted only for birthday cake and toasting to the birthday boy. As the evening progressed, Jose´s brother decided to put on some trance and other club music for the benefit of the Americans. Jess and I danced in the middle of the room with the brother and cousin to the cheers from the rest of the family. Then came more salsa and merengue. The party broke up around 2am and after thanking his family we were taken home tired and full of pisco and soda.

The next day we were off to Chile, where we spent a few days in an overcast surfing town called Iquique. As a day trip from here we went to Mamiña, whose only claim to fame are hot springs and mud springs, which is exactly what Jess was looking for. After covering ourselves in mud and baking in sun, we rinsed in a thermal pool and were ready for lunch. Fortunately, the one open restaurant in town, serving its one lunch dish, appropriately called "lunch" and one beverage (Sprite), deined to serve us after sitting at a table for not less than 30 minutes. No matter. Our next destination happened to be closed for siesta, so we had all the time we needed. After soaking for a few more post-siesta hours in a private thermal pool, we emerged and waited for our mini-bus. One hour later we were still waiting and starting to worry that we might not make it back that evening. This was the only bus of the day. However, there was nothing to do but keep waiting and the patience paid off. An hour and a half late, but very apologetic, our driver arrived. He had fallen asleep. After a speedy return trip (maybe too speedy) we arrived back in Iquique almost on time and totally cleansed.

We are writing this post from a little town called La Serena, not quite half-way down this long skinny country, but at least 24 hours from the northern border. Tomorrow we visit the penguin reserve before making our way south yet again. Stay tuned for penguin pictures and more updates!

How I ended up hiking in the Amazon in a wool shirt and my pants tucked into my socks

2007-09-25T16:40:00.000-05:00

Let me just start by saying, I must really love my girlfriend. There have been a number of times that I have allowed her to convince me to partake in activities that I had sworn off for life. On this trip alone she has several times convinced me to change our itinerary to follow some new adventure, including adding two unplanned countries to our journey -- Uruguay and Bolivia. Now, this is not to say that I have ever regretted allowing her to pull me from my somewhat rigid proclomations against certain activities, just to illustrate the degree to which my seeming inflexibility fades with the appearance of the puppy dog eyes and an excited face.

As you may have guessed at this point, one of my 'I am not doing that!' exclamations applied to the Amazonian jungle. Bugs and I have a very unequal relationship, which is to say, they love me and I, in turn, hate them. Having declared all blood sucking insects my sworn enemies, I saw no reason to seek them out unnecessarily.

I went astray by convincing Kate that she too should read our guidebook as I had already done months before. Dutifully fullfilling my request, she poured through numerous sections on towns (and entire countries) that I had avoided bringing up during the planning process. As she read, she would excitedly tap me on the shoulder and relate details of various locations that peaked her interest. I, at that point, would make my best, most stern 'we don't have time for that' face, but ultimately her excitement and curiosity almost always won out.

It was by this means that I succumbed to researching and eventually booking a jungle tour before we left for the Inca Trail. After a few days rest, we set out for 5 days and 4 nights in the Madre de Dios region, a feeder river of the Amazon located near the Bolivian and Brazilian borders in Peru.

Mind you, I had not exactly packed with a jungle adventure in mind, though we did have a hefty supply of 30% deet bug spray and malaria pills due the to the overcautiousness of Kate's travel doctor. The result is that I had to decide between sweating profusely inside my wool long-sleeved shirt (not having any lighter weight long-sleeve shirts) on a 90 degree, 95% humidty, 6 mile trek through the jungle or being driven insane trying to fight off bugs for over 4 hours. From the title of this post you can guess which option I chose.

Additionally, because of particularly aggressive ants that latch on to your shoes as you walk and procede to climb up your legs under your pants and chomp on you, I made the fashion-forward decision to tuck my pants into my socks. A smart choice, I might add, as I did find several ants on my pants, which is a far better place to find them then under your pants.

Despite the fact that I was drenched in sweat (and still sustaining some bites on my small patches of uncovered skin, namely my neck), it was a great day. The hottest and longest hiking day of the 5 we spent in the jungle, but full of memorable sights. On the hike our guide lured several tarantula out of their homes in the ground - one the size of my fist; spotted a 'monster' frog that looks remarkably like the dried leaves covering the forest floor; caught a transparent butterfly whose wings are completely see-through but for a touch of fuschia on the tips; teased out a baby caiman (alligator) in the lake we visited and its 10 foot long mother; introduced us to the call of the howler monkey whose territory we walked straight into in time to see several of the monkeys including a mother with its baby clinging to it; and pointed out the Amazon's largest snake, the Anaconda, sunning his over 30 foot long body beside the lake (the width of this guy was slightly larger than my head and he is capable of comfortably eating a child of 4 feet or so, though he only really needs to hunt once a year and spends the rest of it basking in the sun and digesting). Additionally, we saw tons of birds including colorful macaws and Hotazins (at least, I think that's how you spell it, but here's a good picture nonetheless), a stick bug, numerous turtles as well as jungle plants and flowers.

I probably lost about 5 pounds in water weight on that particular day, but the heat certainly made the lack of hot water at our lodge a downright blessing. That this town is a mere 30 min plane ride from Cuzco - 18 hrs by bus because of the poor road conditions - and the Andes is just amazing to me. They are working on building a road and expect to have it completely paved in the next 3 yrs, cutting the journey down to 8 hrs by car. There are also plans for a bridge over the river, making the trip to Bolivia and Brazil more navigable as well. (Presently vehicles have to be put on a boat and ferried across the river, much like what we experienced on our trip from La Paz to Copacabana where our big tour bus was put on a very rickety boat while the rest of us took a more sea-worthy vessel across a small section of Lake Titicaca.)

So ultimately, I should stop my whining because it was a pretty amazing experience. All the same, I did my best to minimize developing a photographic record of what I looked like on that particular day, though I think Kate sneaked in two which she might presently be uploading on the computer next to me. I'll let you all search for them!

The Inca Trail: Amazing!

2007-09-19T09:33:00.000-05:00

Yesterday Jess and I completed one of the activities in our trip that we were most looking forward to: the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu. This benchmark also means that we are done with half of our trip, which is sort of unbelievable. However, the Inca Trail was everything we had hoped it would be. For 4 days we fell into a comfortable routine of hiking till exhaustion, eating, sleeping, and seeing Inca ruins. The food was also amazing: 3 or 4 courses of good local food for breakfast, lunch and dinner with plenty of snacks in between. We had a lot of fun with the other couples in our group--an interesting assortment of people from England, Sweden, Holland and Portugal.

The Incan Trail was certainly anything but flat and the Incan´s don´t appear to have been interested in switchbacks. We hiked mostly stone stairs up and down the Andes for 4 days. The second and hardest day involved hiking over Dead Women´s Pass at 13,776 feet. The pass is so named because the profile of the pass looks like a woman lying on her back, including her nipple which we spent hours staring at trying to reach! On the third day we saw several ruins as we continued to hike up and down two more passes. Our extremely knowledgable guide taught us a great deal about the Inca Empire and ethic, some of which survives to this day in remote mountain communities.

However, the fourth day, when we were to arrive in Machu Picchu, was when the real contest began. The checkpoint at the beginning of the final stretch of trail leading to Machu Picchu opens at 5:30 am and everyone wants to be the first group to reach the Sun Gate for the postcard picture of the city at dawn. Our group woke at 3:30 that day in order to eat and queue up at the checkpoint--ensuring that we would have a competitive advantage on the final 6 km hike. After passing through the checkpoint, our group broke into a run, fueled mostly by the desire to be first for it´s own sake (we were a bit of a competitive group). I suspected that it might not really matter all that much but the game had already begun.

We lost a bit of steam when we arrived at a set of stone stairs leading straight up for about 50 feet. The stairs were each about 6 inches deep and 2 feet tall, meaning that all 4´s were necessary. Afterwards the trail leveled out a bit only to take a sharp left turn into an even longer and steeper set of stairs. This is when it began to feel like a real pilgramage. I thought maybe the Sun Gate would be at the top...but it wasn´t. When we did arrive a few minutes later we realized that we had won! We were the first group to the Sun Gate overlooking Machu Picchu! It took me a minute to locate the ancient city, however, because it was obscured in a giant cloud that wouldn´t burn off for an hour or so, by which time it would be filled with tourists. No matter however, because they also sell the postcard pictures and they are probably better than I could take anyway.

For the next few hours our guide gave us a tour of the city and explained that this was likely the center of learning and religion for the Incas: here they were undertaking the study of astronomy, experimental farming with plants from the Amazon, and worship of the Sun. It was also the location of the Temple of the Condor, one of the three mythically important animals for the Incas (the others being the serpent and the puma). It was an amazing city and I think that the 4 day trek made us appreciate it even more.

After exploring Machu Picchu a bit on our own we headed down the mountain to the nearest inhabited town called Aguas Calientes, so named because of its thermal springs. Our group indulged in some beer and pizza and headed for the springs to soak our achey muscles.

Feeling two parts tired and one part nostalgic, we headed back to Cuzco where we prepare for our next trip, this one to the Amazonian jungle. As we have had more luck with the internet connection here, you can find some new pictures on Flickr now. Our new strategy is to post only highlight photos, not all the photos and some are quite old as we have much catching up to do. Enjoy!

The World´s Most Dangerous Road

2007-09-11T17:31:00.000-05:00

After what had seemed like an eternity in the driest desert on the planet (no joke--not even an insect lives there), Jess and I thought it might be nice to have a change in ecosystem. This is the reason we chose to ride mountain bikes down the world´s most dangerous road in Bolivia. This road, now only used by tours and mountain bikers since the construction of a less crazed road, drops roughly 10,000 feet in 80 kilometers. That is to say, it is 90% downhill riding, which is about all the biking we were up for after 6 weeks of being lazy vacationers.

The road began in the mountains outside of La Paz where glaciers and clouds flanked the road. The guide gave us instructions on proper braking, which would be our primary occupation for the next 6 hours. We also loaded up on the clothing layers which we would shed throughout the day. After getting a few kilometers under our belts (and one drug check-point), the sharp sting of cold air started to ease and the clouds got a lot more dense. We also started to see some small scrubby plants. This was the beginning of the cloudforest. The air slowly got more humid and the plants more dense though the mountains peaks remained dramatically steep. We dropped a couple of layers in the support bus.

Soon we were riding through the clouds and it started to rain on my glasses. The pavement gave way to gravel and the greenery got greener and bushier. Moss and vines started to appear and we had to do a bit of uphill riding before the road turned to dirt and rocks. After droping another layer in the bus, the clouds slowly disappeared and the trees got bigger and more tropical. We saw bananas, butterflies and squaking birds. Yet the peaks and drop-offs remained quite steep and our guide had us pause to look at a dead truck that had fallen 600 feet strait down into a gulch. He also pointed out a precipice from which several political dissidents were tossed (perhaps not remarkable when one considers that the country has had over 220 coups and 175 presidents in about 155 years of independence). We paused for some bug spray and a snack.

It was then time to decend into the Yungas, the tropical coffee, banana and coca-growing region. We stripped down to bare essentials for the final drop as we passed terraced agricultural plots in the mountain-sides and rode through small waterfalls. We made our way to our final destination: the animal refuge in Coroico. There we ate a much deserved buffet with beer among the monkeys (recovering pickpockets), maccaws, and jungle chickens.

I write this post from the beautiful Lake Titicaca--birthplace of civilization according to the Incas. Tomorrow we are off to Cuzco to prepare for hiking the Incan trail to Macchu Pichu. More stories will surely follow!

Living the high life

2007-09-03T16:14:00.000-05:00

We´ve been spending our time at a pretty high elevation lately. After travelling to Chile under a full lunar eclipse, we spent four days trying to rid ourselves of the light nagging headaches that are so common when you jump thousands of feet. Fortunately, the coca leaves kept it all under control. You buy them in packages of maybe $1 or 2, stick seven leaves in your mouth and chew, swallowing the juice and spitting out the leaves. They work so well that I wonder if I´m going to undergo a withdrawal when we leave the coca-legal countries.

Kate described our first few days in San Pedro de Atacama - salty lakes, hot springs and geysers - in her last post. After mastering the 16,000 foot elevation of the geysers, we decided we were ready for a larger physical challenge. We rented mountain bikes and sand boards and headed out for the dunes. I´m sure I´d say differently right after finishing a half ironman, but really, lugging your bike through the sand with a board on your back and then climbing up sandy dunes when you´re at 9,000 feet is probably on par with the effort expended completing a triathlon. All that energy to spend 30 or 40 seconds flying down a dune - and in my case, trying not to eat too much sand as you wipe out in an effort to control your speed. Fun, but I won´t be starting my sand surfing career real soon.

Having decided that we hadn´t punished our bodies enough, we kept the bikes for the rest of the day and rode out to another ¨Valle de la Luna¨. It turns out this a really popular name for parks in South America...you´d think half the continent resembled the surface of the moon! I have to admit, however, that this park was pretty darn amazing, with giant sand dunes, multi colored, striped cliffs and amazing views. I´ve never seen anything like it in my life. We sat there for a good hour at the top of one dune recovering for the ride back and taking in the breathtaking scenery.

Jump ahead one day and we find ourselves on a 3 day tour of Bolivian sights with quite the international group - Ireland, Scotland, Japan, France, Holland, Australia and the U.S. all being represented. I think the iconic image of these past three days must be a circa 1985 four by four with heaps of luggage, a spare tire and spare gas strapped to the roof, bumping its way across this lonely, high desert leaving behind a stream of dust. What a crazy place this is...where the lakes are red, green and white, where the flamingoes share the landscape with a rare cousin of the llama and smoking volcanoes. I don´t think the dust will be off our packs, clothes or hair till we leave Bolivia and I barely remember what a paved road feels like at this point.

Hasta luego, mis amigos!

"Vale La Pena"

2007-08-30T13:41:00.000-05:00

This is a Spanish phrase that I have come to know well. It means "worth the pain". This is how I would describe yesterday, for example. We joined a tour to the lagoons outside of San Antonio de Areco, Chile where we are staying. The lagoons are not the usual swampy type that this word usually signifies. Rather, they are salt lakes in the desert surrounded by a ring of volcanos (some of them active!). We arrived at the first lagoon, which was shining bright blue in the middle of a stark white salt flat and we were here to swim. This desert (the driest in the world) can drop below freezing at night even in the summer. This keeps the surface of the lagoon water so cold that it burns. However, there is a hot thermal spring under this lake that meets the cold at a depth of about 3 feet. This lagoon is also extremely salty so that there is no actual swimming necessary. This is what I knew before jumping in.

Jess jumped first and proceded to scream. So I waited. After a minute she settled down and said that it was fine. Although I didnt believe her I jumped in anyway. The effect was quite wierd. The top 3 feet of my body was burning from cold. The bottom of my legs and feet were burning with heat. And I was bobbing in the water with no need to tread. I couldnt tell if I was cold or hot--just uncomfortable. I couldnt take it for long but it was quite the experience and reportedly quite therapeutic. I was glad to get out of the pool and into the heat of the day to sip some pisco sour (an extremely sour local cocktail) with our guide. All things considered, vale la pena.

I would also use this phrase to describe today. A mini bus pulled up to our hostel at 4:20 this morning for the tour to the local geysers. From here we proceded to drive up the mountain to a height of about 16,000 feet. When we arrived, the ambient temperature was -11 degrees celcius (or 12 degrees farenheit). The combined effect of exhaustion, altitude sickness, and below freezing temperature may not sound like somethig that a reasonable person would inflict upon oneself on vacation. But we did it for the geysers. Our destination was a field of steaming and spitting geyers located in what was essentially the crater of a volcano. There were streams of orange, red and green bacteria flowing from what looked like mini-volcanos and the emmitted water quickly turned to ice, making the field slippery and steamy at the same time.

The sun shortly came over the mountains and warmed things up somewhat. Just in time, in fact, for our next thermal bath. We arrived at a pool that looked like a field of steam and we gladly shed our clothes and headed in to warm up. Although we doubted it at 4:20 am, at this point we pronounced the trip vale la pena.

Unfortunately, internet connections here havent been substantive enough to upload pictures. So we are only able to describe our adventures. We will upload the best ones when we can.

The road to Salta

2007-08-27T14:54:00.000-05:00

It´s been a while since we´ve had reliable enough internet access to update the blog. When it takes 10 minutes for the gmail homepage to load, you know you´re not meant to be sitting at a computer :) We´ve been in a lot of smaller cities since leaving Mendoza and visited several parks along the way. But rather than give a light overview of everything we´ve been up to, I´m opting to give a more in depth description of one particular leg of the journey...

From Tucuman, we caught the one bus that goes to a small town called Cafayate. The road was full of switch backs and changing scenery, prompting much tapping of the shoulder and exclamations of "Look!¨" and "Did you see that?!". At first every donkey elicits such a response, but they soon become pasé, as do the goats, sheep and llamas. Five hours later, we arrive in Cafayate, a town of no more than 9,000. I declared it heaven with its warm sun, cheap food and great wines, and convince Kate to spend three nights here. But it was the road to Salta, about 4 hrs north of Cafayate that was truly incredible.

Within about 5 blocks you´re on a dirt road. Eventually the pavement picks back up as the road passes two famous wineries, their vines dormant for now. The torrontes grape vines are soaking up the dry, dusty air and the gale-force winds that make them flourish in the one and only place on earth. They produce a fruity smelling, but satisfyingly dry white wine for which the area is famous within Argentina.

After another 5 or 6 km the wineries and scattered trees give way to shrubs and cactuses before melting into sand dunes, held together with harsh, hardy looking bushes and giant candelabra cacti. The chard remains of trees destroyed in flames a few years ago dot the landscape, preserved by the dry, arid climate. The sand transforms from yellow-brown to pink and red quickly. The greens, browns, yellows and reds of the shrubs extend as far as you can see. One plant in particular - Kate´s favorite - stands out with its nearly flourescent green bark. It´s called a brea, electric green because its bark does the photosynthesis work in the winter.

Suddenly it seems as though the whole world has turned red with cliffs and spires rising up out of the sand and purple, blue mountains peeking out from the distance.

Slowly the road begins to rise, winding its way up through canyons beside the mostly dry riverbed of the Río Conchas. The place is known as the Quebrada de Conchas or La Quebrada de Cafayate.

Now color variations break the red hills...in perfect lines are woven all manners of yellows, shades of pink and stark white and black. The sandy floor glitters with small and large chunks of quartz - white, yellow and pink. Sections of greens and yellow plant life mark where a river sometimes flows.

The striations become more and more dramatic till you can barely believe what your eyes are telling you. And still you´re driving up, getting closer to those mountains all the while...the cliffs around you climbing higher and higher. The sky behind them is the kind of bright blue only achieved in such dry places.

Ruins like a mini Mesa Verde are carved into a cliff face. The rock seems to rise out of the ground at the most alarming angles, as though the earth had just ejected chunks here and there, calling to mind the Flatirons of Boulder, Colorado...only these are red.

A line of white dots marks a particularly strange formation called "The Friar". It´s hard to believe it´s actually natural as it looks like a rough sculpture. Before long we pass another odd formation just a few meters off the road, "The Frog". A giant composite rock, its base of red stone, shaped just like a squating from with the legs folded and appropriately rough skin.

Off to the left a steep mountainside reveals giant fissures, one known as "The Cathedral" stretching back no more than 100 meters into a huge opening big enough for one rioutous mass. The next, "La Garganta del Diablo" or Devil´s Throat (this one sounds so much better in Spanish, I think), winds back much further, seemingly endless if you can manage to scramble up the steeper sections.

This entire time the bus has been stopping to let people off the what seems like the middle of no where...nothing but rock and a mostly dry river. Where are these people going?

More and more of the rock is covered in scrubby green bushes and the river bed sprouts stunted trees. The road remains flanked by pink sand. And it continues like this for at least another 45 minutes, during which my heavy eyes start to close. Three hours later we´ll find ourselved in Salta, our last stop before crossing over the Andes to Chile.

Update

2007-08-20T07:25:00.000-05:00

By the way, not all the pictures described on the blog post are yet uploaded. Look for them soon!

More News on Argentina

2007-08-19T17:03:00.000-05:00

Much has happened since the jugoso steak post. There are ups and there are downs. We get spoiled and we have to rough it. As you could tell from the photo postings we took a day trip to Colonia del Sacramento, Uruguay. It was beautiful! It was sunny, warm and quiet. We ate good food and drank good wine. We were further spoiled by our two day trip to an estancia (ranch) in San Antonio de Areco, which is a traditional gaucho (cowboy) town. We splurged a little and got a beautiful room with big white fluffy bedding, a crackling fireplace and big bath tub. There was always coffee, wine and pie to be had and we spend two days relaxing with the cows, turkeys and horses. We figured that we deserved it after the week we spent in a dormitory hostel room in the hectic city of Buenos Aires.

However, our luck was soon to turn. The plan was to take a short bus ride back to Buenos Aires to catch a long bus ride to Mendoza. Our travel agent said that the ride to Buenos Aires was 1.5 hrs and that we could catch a bus two hours later to Mendoza. Not only was the bus ride two hours long to start with but our bus also broke down on the side of the road when we were 10 minutes away from our destination. That didn´t end up mattering though because when we got to the bus depot we sat in standstill traffic for the better part of an hour, ensuring that we missed our scheduled bus to Mendoza. When we got into the depot there were thousands of people covering every square foot of the place. It was Dia de the Liberator, General San Martin, and a long weekend. Everyone was leaving the city. We managed to get our tickets exchanged for seats on a later bus, though we had to sacrafice our cama class, meaning that we didn´t get fully recling seats for the 15 hour overnight bus ride. There wasn´t time to grab anything for dinner but luckily/unluckily enough there was food on the bus: a styrofoam tray with every variety of ham and cheese sandwich...and a coconut square for desert. Breakfast was free too: cafe con leche and something that can only be described as 10 layers of tasteless cardboard bread pasted together.

We arrived in Mendoza yesterday. It was snowing but we were glad to be here. Yesterday we explored the wineries via bicycle (it warmed up a bit in the later half of the day). Mendoza is interesting because it is in a surprisingly undeveloped area for being such a famous wine region (as the pictures show). The wines and olive oils were fabulous and we got to tour the vineyards and facilities to see how it all worked. Today we are off on a two hour bus ride to San Juan to see the Valle de Luna. It´s a desert landscape that is supposed to be beautiful and, as the name suggests, a bit other-worldly. Wish us luck on this next piece of the adventure!

Estoy jugoso

2007-08-15T09:11:00.000-05:00

We are now one week into our trip and I have already eaten more meat than in the rest of my 27 years combined. My stomach is handling the transition pretty well given the about face my diet has taken. Now, lest you think this means the food is bad, let me tell you a little story about two gringos in a fancy restuarant in the excessively trendy neighborhood of Puerto Madero in Buenos Aires...

The restaurant had been included in an article in the New York Times listing eating establishments that are worth the price of a plane ticket, so our expectations were high. We were also prepared to plunk down some serious cash thanks to my generous friends at Environmental Defense (I promise you guys, I put it to good use!). We arrived at a respectable Argentinian dinner hour, 9pm (most restaurants are not open till 8), but given that we did not have a reservation, we were seated, and I mean seated with the pull out your chair take your jacket off type service, in the waiting area. After consulting the waiter for some help in choosing a nice Argentinian malbec from the book sized wine list, we settled in for a wait. Plate after plate of tasty appetizers appeared at our table till we were shown to a table that resembled a giant tree stump.

Immediately upon being seated again, a new platter of tasty treats appeared. They were so good that Kate even ate the mushrooms and I ate what appeared to be a thin slice of cold, mostly raw beef. Kate opted for a salad as she has been seriously missing the greens and was banking on my steak being big enough for sharing. It was a good bet. I ordered the medallon de lomo (a giant tenderloin steak) and learned how to say rare from the waiter, jugoso, literally meaning juicy.

When my steak appeared it came on a giant plate all on its own with the little guy above resting on it. He was indead juicy and we ate every last bite of that steak. It was so good, I had tears in my eyes. When we were ready to leave we had to flag down the waiter for the check (they never deliver it without you asking) and got the biggest shock of all.

Dinner cost us 200 pesos, or roughly $65. I guess we will just have to go again!

There are plenty more stories to tell but I will leave it at this for now...you can check the newest pictures for more details. You will not find, however, find any pictures of a second incredible dinner we had in Palermo (think SoHo) where they gave us free champagne and chorizo and olives as we waited for some famous parrilla (grilled meat). I will refrain from telling you only about food in the future, I promise! Next up, we will be at an Estancia in the Pampas for two days and hopefully will have some good horseback riding experiences to report. By Saturday, we will be in Mendoza which will be all about wine, wine and more wine.

We're here!

2007-08-10T08:15:00.000-05:00

This is just a quick note to say that we are safely in Buenos Aires and enjoying ourselves. Pictures soon to follow. Our cell phone is working, we found a nice little hostel, and everything is as cheap as promised. And we haven't even gotten sick yet. There are, of course, so many things that could have gone wrong so we are as happy as can be. So far we have done some shopping, visited the enormous cemetary where Evita is buried, seen a tango show, and eaten some beef. We are looking forward to some clubbing and a soccer match this weekend. We'll post again soon!

Sailing Glory

2007-08-06T14:02:00.000-05:00

I have a penchant for sea sickness. Numerous boat outings have consisted of lots of head over side time. Typically, I most enjoy being at sea when unconscious. Thus, you might understand my fear when Kate's dad suggested we help crew for his weekly sailing race while we were in town. That and I don't know a thing about how to sail, let alone race.

You can imagine my surprise when I not only avoided getting sick, but also helped crew on the winning boat! While my contribution primarily consisted of staying out of the way and running from side to side to dangle my feet over the appropriate side of the boat, I did learn some handy sailing terms and attempted to man the sheet of the spinnaker (hopefully I got my terminology for pulling a rope right!).

Tomorrow we fly to Buenos Aires where it looks comfortably cool, unlike sweltering NYC. For now, enjoy the new sailing photos!

A Beautiful But Rocky Start

2007-08-01T14:09:00.000-05:00

Jess and I have had a beautiful beginning to the trip. We first traveled to Whistler to do some mountain biking and hiking (and in Jess' case ziptreking). As luck would have it, we happened to be visiting during a mountain biking festival, called Crankworx, and were able to watch some of the most hard core types throwing themselves off ramps the size of ski jumps. We began our downhill mountain biking experience a bit more humbly on the green and blue trails. For those of you who are not familiar with downhill mountain biking, this actually involves taking your 45 pound tank of a bike (think dirt bike without an engine) up the ski lift and riding it down trails that are built on ski runs - or between ski runs, weaving through trees, down rocks and over narrow wooden bridges. As it turns out, rocks are harder than snow and Jess came away with some gnarly rock-shaped bruises, as featured in our photos.

On Wednesday, we took the gondola up to the top of the Whistler peak to do some hiking. Our chosen trail boasted a fabulous sign -- "Danger: beware of avalanches, crevasses, rock slides, and unmarked terrain. Have a nice hike!" It involved some beautiful mountain views, waterfalls and snowy slopes that we tried not to slide down. Apparently the warning was sufficiently scary as we had the trail all to ourselves. It was altogether a fabulous hike--except that Jess somehow contracted a case of poison oak.

Thursday we rented some cruiser bikes and spent the day in the fabulous city of Vancouver munching seafood and envying it's car-free bike lanes. By the end of the day, however, Jess was working on a nasty cold.

On Friday Jess' parents drove us down to Seattle where we've spent some time visiting with family and hiking on the Olympic Peninsula. We took a small hike through the moss-covered trees of the Hoh Rainforest (small due to seriously itchy poison oak rash acting up) and then headed straight to the coast where we did some hiking, tidepooling, and sunset watching (tip for anyone with poison oak rash: the ocean heals all). On this rare portion of our trip Jess avoided obtaining any new injuries or illnesses.

The next leg of our journey involves flying back to NYC on the 5th and on to Buenos Aires on the 7th. We'll keep you all posted from there!

Whistler and Vancouver photos are up!

2007-07-29T23:37:00.000-05:00

I'm not going to write more details right now, but I wanted to make sure all our fans out there got to see our first batch of photos. Kate should be following up with more commentary soon, but I added some narration to the photos so you can get a general idea of what we've been up to in the last week.

It's really happening

2007-07-17T06:56:00.001-05:00

Kate and I are both done with work at the end of today, meaning we're officially on vacation by 5 p.m. The focus of this blog is thus going from triathlon training to full time travel adventures.

We plan to stop in internet cafes to update the blog and download pictures pretty regularly (whenever our memory card runs out of space that is). Follow along by adding us to your feed reader or signing up to get an email whenever a new post goes up (see sign up box on the right). Photos will be added to my flickr account, but we'll also link to any new ones in each post.

If you want a postcard, email one of us with your mailing address and we promise to send you at least one!

jessica

Roadkill

2007-07-05T19:10:00.000-05:00

Rocinante is now a murderer. But it wasn't his fault -- that chipmunk was hell-bent on suicide, I tell you.

The crime was committed yesterday during a fun 4th of July ride with some friends on an incredible stretch of greenways that continued, almost unbroken, for roughly 40 miles. Rocinante was hugging the wheel of the bike in front of us, cruising at a very comfy 16 to 17 mph. The greenway was winding through a fairly densely wooded section. We both got lax - let our guards down. Suddenly, a renegade chipmunk skirted out in front of the rider in front of us and was clipped by her rear wheel. Within seconds both of Rocinante's wheels had sealed the deal for the furry critter.

It all happened so fast! And while there was no time to prevent it from happening, there was certainly plenty of time to replay the gruesome scene over and over in my head. Poor chippy. I suppose I could just say that the little guy was maimed from his run-in with the rider in front of me. Rocinante was just being merciful in finishing off the job. Yes, I think I'll stick with that rationale...that way I don't have to think of my poor bicycle as the fugitive he now is.

What comes next?

2007-06-28T20:15:00.000-05:00

It's been several weeks since my race and with no races coming up, the inevitable question must be asked: What now?

Well, I've been running 2 or 3 times a week since my race and doing a bit of riding here and there. I've avoided trips to the pool altogether. Swimming can get incredibly boring for me without a goal (in fact, boredom with swimming is how I got started in the sport of tri!) and after this last race, I have little motivation to maintain or work on my swimming. Last year's swimming motivation came entirely from my absolutely insane entry in the Little Red Lighthouse Swim (5.8 miles in the Hudson). Given how fast my swim was at the Mooseman and how much work the other legs of my race need, I feel I could do just fine on a once a week swim schedule in the future.

Anyway, the running and biking are soon to cease as well. Why? I'm going away for 3 and a half months!!! One week in Vancouver, one week in Seattle and three months in South America. The epic trip is now only 3 weeks and one day away and it suddenly hit me this week...I'm really doing this!

Yet, even though my brain is mostly filled with travel plans, a little room for thinking about my next triathlon season remains. Given that my next racing season seems to occupy at least as much mindshare as speculation over my next job, I must be officially hooked. I'm thinking of joining a tri team of some sort in the city, doing my first sprint (woah -- scaling down, what a concept for me!) and trying to add some serious speed to my olympic time. Maybe there will even be a new sister for Rocinante (no one tell my girlfriend this, please)! I'm backing away from the half for at least a year...or at least that's what I'm thinking right now, but given that I have 3+ months of potentially attitude-changing travel ahead of me, it's hard to say what will happen next.

Here's what I know for sure --

What comes next for Rocinante? A storage space :(
What comes next for the blog? Travel blog transformation!
What comes next for Jessica? A giant leap into the unknown

How I Spent 6 hrs of My Life

2007-06-17T09:45:00.000-05:00

So I'm finally sitting down to relive and record what happened at the Mooseman Half Ironman two weeks ago.

Day before
Kate and I rented a car and drove up to Bristol, NH which took a little more than 5 hrs. At this point I'd already been checking the weather forecast religiously for a week, hoping that with each new glance the chance of thunderstorms and rain would disappear. After getting burned by the weather at my last race, I was freaking out. Seven months of training only to be shot down by mother nature!

I tried to calm myself by talking through everything with Kate during the car ride. I must be the luckiest person alive to have a partner who will humor my rants for 5+ hrs without once hinting at boredom or exasperation. Eventually I decided that I'd gotten a lot out of those seven months of training, race or no race. I also decided that being nervous was only going to intensify the one preventable problem that could possibly keep me from finishing -- my gut. So I spent the rest of the day up till bed time repeating a mantra of "it's just for fun".

Kate's cousin and girlfriend met up with us later that evening and we pitched our respective tents in a giant field of triathletes -- bikes and gear strewn about. We chatted and laughed till about 9:30 when I decided I should get ready for bed, only to find we were the only ones in the campsite still awake!! It also downpoured that night, cooling the air a good 10 to 20 degrees. It turns out, that was the only serious rain we'd encounter till the ride home.

Prerace morning
I awoke at 4:30 a.m. to a din of alarms going off all over the camp, one after the other. First on the agenda was stuffing calories into my uncooperative stomach. I love food and I did not want to eat a single thing. I downed a couple of Ensures and took forever to eat a bagel with almond butter and a banana as Kate braided my hair. We packed up camp and headed over to the race. I'd racked my bike the previous night and covered it in garbage bags to keep it relatively dry. After laying out my gear and pacing the transition area to make sure I knew how to find my stuff from every possible direction - swim entrance, bike exit, bike entrance, run exit - I grabbed my wetsuit and Body Glide, made my fifteenth visit to the restroom and headed to the beach.

I'd dipped my toes in the lake the day before and thought, "this isn't that bad!" I was thinking the same thing this morning as I eased into the water till I was in up to my shoulders and the water really started to seep into my suit. Suddenly the full sensation hit me -- "Fuck! This is cold!!" I took probably no more than five strokes before climbing out and finding my fans on the beach to console me.

The swim (1.2 miles, 29:01)
I was in the last wave of the day (5 of 5) consisting of women under 35 and relay teams. The only men around were, therefore, part of a relay and only doing the swim. I wanted to thump them all in the head.

I made me way to the center front. I always try to put myself in the front because, in all frankness, triathletes are crappy swimmers and I am not. I'm not being conceited here -- as will be seen when I get to the bike -- just a realist. I prefer not to get kicked or punched and because I'm fast enough, the best way to avoid it is to put myself at the very front and stay up there. I suppose in a way I've avoided a triathlon right of passage (getting beat up on the swim) by being fast, but I'm totally okay with that!

The water stopped feeling cold within a few minutes and I settled into what felt like a very easy, comfortable pace. The water was amazingly clear and fresh. A major change from all my Hudson River swims of late. By the time I reached the beach, I'd swum through loads of athletes in earlier waves and felt awesome. I flashed my fans a big smile and a thumbs up as I ran up the beach to transition. First leg done - check!

Transition One (3:52, total: 32:53)
I've never used a wetsuit stripper before but I couldn't resist taking advantage. I unzipped my suit and stripped it down to my waist, flopped onto a mat of turf, stuck my legs up in the air and two preteen boys grabbed the sides of my suit and, flip!, it was off. Okay, that was cool!

I made my way to the bike to see the usual scene -- most of the bikes were still racked, meaning their owners were still in the water. I took some time to wipe my feet, put on socks and shoes, buckle my helmet, put on gloves and stuff three packs of Cliff Shots in my shirt pocket. I grabbed Rocinante and we were off!

Bike (56 miles, 3:20:18, total: 3:53:11)
Miles 1-10: I feel flippin' great. Forgot my shades in transition, but that's okay. It's overcast, kind of lightly spritzing and I notice the hardcore types aren't wearing any either (as they fly by me). In the first couple of miles you can see the lake and there's still lots of folks out there. I feel strong and happy. I'm having fun and I start to eat my Cliff Blocks and drink my water. I pass the first aid station and don't take anything yet. At the bottom of the steepest climb on the course a devil dances to tunes as she screams "To the top!" and I laugh.

Miles 11-25: Life is bad. Life is awful. My stomach wants to reject everything in it and I can't stop thinking about how long this bike ride is. I dropped my water bottle along the way and I've been picking up a new bottle at every aid station. I'm forcing myself to eat the Cliff Blocks but I really don't want them. Everyone is passing me and I fear I'm not going to finish this race. I don't know it at the time, but this is to be my lowest point of the day.

Miles 26-35: Thank the heavens I kept eating! I'm no longer nauseated, I've finished one of the two loops and life is sooooo much better. I know that while I've been passed a lot, there's no one on the run course before I've finished my first loop so I'm definitely still in a respectable place. I'm drinking and eating as I should be.

Miles 36-56: My back hurts. I have to pee. This ride feels interminable. While my stomach is under control, I'm tired and feeling a little dejected. I'm averaging below what I thought I could do. I'm like one of ten people on this course without aero bars. The ride is beautiful so I try to think about that and eventually I get to an aid station where I can run into the port a potty and relieve my aching bladder. Scattered fans yell "you look great!" and do the wave. I love them all. And then I see the finish and I'm so overcome with joy I start to cry.

Transition Two (3:51, total: 3:57:02)
I choke back a few big fat sobs and get myself under control. I notice that this time, most of the bikes are racked, meaning a lot of people passed me on the bike course. No matter, it's done! I start to jog for the exit wondering how this is going to feel after I was so wiped out by the bike. It feels so great to be upright and on my feet that I almost start crying again! I make a pit stop at the port a potty and I'm on my way!

Run(13.1 miles, 1:58:50, total: 5:55:50)
The run course is two loops. Kate's cousin runs much of the first loop with me (apparently against the rules, but something we don't find out till about mile 5 and counter to the answer she'd received when she asked race organizers whether she could do it). It feels like I'm on auto pilot. I'd resolved to do the first loop at whatever pace felt comfortable and walk through every aid station (one about every mile) to drink a glass of water at each. To my surprise, that pace is about a 9 minute mile.

The second loop is a bit more deserted than the first, but I'm passing people and almost never getting passed. This is not an experience I'm familiar with and it keeps me pumped up as I start to feel exhausted. With three miles left I decide not to drink any more water or walk. I can finish this thing in under 6 hrs after all!

And then just like that, I'm across the finish line and it's all over.

1.2 miles of swimming, 56 miles of biking and 13.1 miles of running later, I'm half iron and all pride.

Half Iron, Half Pain

2007-06-12T21:00:00.000-05:00

I've been a bad, bad blogger, but I chalk it up to being too busy exercising and socializing - as well as too damn worried about my race to talk about my race.

But now, the race is done! That's right, I'm half iron. Which begs the question, what's the other half of me made of? During the second loop of my 13.1 mile run, I was contemplating that very question. At that point I knew I was going to finish (not something I was totally convinced of during the entire race), it was just a matter of how fast. The first answer to that question? Hostess cupcakes!! I immediately became nauseated and pushed the thought aside, moving on to some other diversionary line of thinking. When the race was done and I was sitting waiting for my free massage sporting my moose antlers, I thought "pain! the other half is pain!"

The pain has subsided and now I wonder, is the other half of me made of perseverance or tenacity, or just sheer stupidity? (This is a rhetorical question, thank you.)

Given that it's getting kind of late, I'll leave off my full race report for later. For now, here's some eye candy from the race.

Cycling + BBQ = heaven

2007-05-07T18:13:00.000-05:00

My weekend can be summed up quite simply: cycling, eating, more cycling, more eating, sleeping. And it couldn't have been a better weekend for it! It was amazingly beautiful out.

Saturday consisted of a ride with the NYCC through Connecticut, while Sunday was dominated by the 5 Boro Bike Tour. The tour is a huge extravaganza -- the biggest cycling event in the city. I heard this year's ride hit 32,000 riders!

The route takes you down the southbound side of the FDR, over the Queensboro Bridge, on the BQE to the Verrazano-Narrows and into Staten Island. Basically, the ride is full of amazing views, not the least of which is a sea of cyclists extending for hours and hours. Apparently my parents heard about it on Fox News and I even met a few SU alums in town for the ride on Saturday. (They were riding up St. Nick's and looking rather lost when I led them back to the west side trail -- building up my "helping lost and clueless and out-of-towners" karma!)

The tour is notoriously crowded and somewhat accident-prone given the number of riders packed together. I find it relatively easy to avoid collisions though. It just takes a little care, and I'm not out there to set any land speed records. That's why it makes me nuts when these "hardcore" cyclist types get all cranky about the tour...as though riding in it makes you less of a cyclist! Frankly, I can't imagine anything more empowering than taking over major highways and bridges with seas and seas of bikes. I say the more, the merrier!

The best part of the tour? Finishing it off with a gorging at Dinosaur BBQ. What can I say? Riding is great and all, but guilt-free calorie stuffing, now that's priceless.

Commuting as exercise

2007-05-03T18:45:00.000-05:00

I've recently rediscovered the beauty of multi-tasking. A few weeks ago it occurred to me that I live about 8 or 9 miles from my office -- a distance that takes about 40 minutes door-to-door via the subway. Given that I was doing 10+ mile runs, it was thus not unreasonable that I could just RUN home! Of course running 8 or 9 miles was definitely going to take more than 40 minutes...but consider how many minutes it would take to go home, change and then run for 9 miles!

Since that revelation I've been able to space out long bike days and long run days by something more than 12 hrs. My legs love me for it.

Of course, the run home from work hasn't been perfect each time. Last week I ran a whopping 13 miles, but only after having allowed my doctor to give me a tetanus shot and eating like crap all day. Not the best decisions I've ever made. The result? Well, let's just say I have firsthand experience of nearly every public restroom on the west side greenway from 23rd to 148th. At least I learned something from my stupidity. This week's 15 mile run was executed with relative ease (in as much as one can reasonably apply the word "ease" to a 15 mile run).

Today, I only needed an hour of riding which was covered by riding to and from work, a distance that takes the same 40 minutes as my subway commute. Check!

As an aside, I am now reasonably certain I'm going to lose my left toenail as well. Just in time for sandal season!

Computer held hostage by mean graduate student

2007-04-23T20:56:00.000-05:00

There have been no blog posts for a while now, and lest you think that means I haven't been working out, let me set the record straight. I've been working out like a fiend still, though I've lost my appetite for logging workouts (my appetite for food remains ferocious). Last week I completed a 12 mile run and did a 65 mile group ride that zoomed down the LIE service road at a frightening 22+ mph. I even scored myself some sweet bike glove sun burn lines (no picture, sorry).

No, the reason for my long absence on the blog is the girlfriend. The thing is, I have to use the girlfriend's computer to bring you these lovely little tales each week. She, however, has been selfishly hogging all the computer time in her quest to finish her thesis and graduate with a degree in less than a month.

At least it will be over soon. Which means I can post here more often and, much more importantly, I won't have to do all the dishes around this place!!

Somewhat disturbing side effects of long runs

2007-04-02T18:52:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I ran 10 miles -- hallelujah!! I'm only 3.2 miles away from half ironman glory. That's nothing! However, I must admit that these long runs are exacting a tole on my body in ways I never expected:

1. Willingness to jump into a cold bath. I discussed this new habit last week, but I have a picture to add this week! I can't actually say that the fleece and the hat make me any warmer but it helps with the psychological pain of these baths.

2. Relentless hunger. I'm actually somewhat nauseous immediately after a long run but the next day -- watch out food, here I come!

3. I'm all alone! The girlfriend was running with me till I topped the 7 mile mark. After that she bailed. I thought this was a pretty reasonable decision on her part given that her only workouts were these long runs once a week, but I miss the company after 60 minutes.

4. Unusual scabs. The most alarming one is on my sternum where the bottom of my sports bra rubs against my skin. Initially I tried putting Body Guide and/or Vaseline on, but after 8 miles or so it still hurts. Now it's just a little scab :(

5. Impending death of my toe nail. This is disgusting, so avert your eyes if you are faint of heart. I think I'm going to lose the nail on my big toe. Yesterday after my run I took off my sneakers and noticed the nail on my right big toe was rather dark. I pushed on it and it did NOT feed good. I even had to keep it out of my ice bath because it felt really uncomfortable under water. Today is no better, so I'm preparing for the worst -- this sucker is going to fall off, I just know it.

Taking the plunge

2007-03-26T19:31:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I went for the longest run of my life -- 9 miles. If you had told me before January 2005 that some day I would run 9 miles, I would have laughed my ass off. If you had told me that some day I would run 9 miles, then climb into a tub of freezing cold water and marinate in it for 10 minutes, I would have started to cackle till I fell over mid cackle and continued cackling as I rolled around on the ground for a while.

In case it's unclear, that's exactly what I did yesterday (only after having swum for 45 minutes at 7 a.m. on a Sunday and only before an hour and a half of yoga and in between consuming three times my body weight in food).

It's torture. Just look at this gnarly rugby player who is clearly struggling with the overwhelming urge to jump out of his ice bath, chase down his trainer and beat him/her to a pulp. I decided to endure the torture simply because getting out of bed the day after a long run was even more torturous. I was going to try icing all my joints (knees, hips, ankles) instead, but that just seemed like way too much of a pain. It does seem to make a difference, even if every child within a three block radius has been corrupted by my copious amounts of swearing during the immersion process.

Besides, if Runner's Magazine says it's so, it must be!

Redefining sexy

2007-03-22T19:58:00.000-05:00

The fashion and cosmetic industry experts would you have believe that a woman is most attractive and alluring when she's swathed in the latest haute couture and painted to perfection. I have to report that a little spandex, a sports bra and copious amounts of sweat have always produced more consistent results for me!

It never ceases to amaze me the reactions that my workout attire, messy hair and flushed face can elicit from the male population in my neighborhood. They stare, they whistle, they yell "hey baby" and "good lookin'". Tonight I got a few calls as I walked from Riverside to my apartment and another "hiii, darlin" once inside my building. When I walked in, I immediately went to the bathroom to blow my nose for another 10 min, but when I looked into the mirror my hair was a sweaty, awful mess.

Now, I believe I look good in my running clothes (that's my standard running ensemble pictured there, minus the hat which was a celebratory flourish for my New Year's run in Central Park) but I have no illusions about my overall appearance. Looking in the mirror tonight just confirmed my suspicions that men could care less about your face or your hair or your expensive shoes. They just want to see some curves!

Back in the saddle

2007-03-19T20:50:00.000-05:00

I've been completely knocked out by a cold for the last week and completely avoiding my blog for the last month. Five days with no exercise. It's been quite a while since that's happened! Tonight I climbed back on Rocinante for a light 60 min spin during my Northern Exposure viewing in the hopes I might sweat the last of this cold right on out.

I remain unconvinced that my exercise alone is going to do the trick so I just added some NyQuil to the equation. I must type quickly now before coherent thought becomes an impossibility.

These five days have also provided me with an opportunity to really examine my whole triathlon quest. The first few days I was racked with guilt over the workouts I was missing, as though a few days without biking, swimming or running were going to land me back at square one after months of diligent work. As my cold continued to get worse and I began hurtling toward total despondency, the girlfriend stepped in with some sage words, "Baby, it's supposed to be fun."

It hit me like a ton of bricks. I choose to do this. Presumably, I choose to do it because I like it. No one makes me do it. I'm the only one who cares if I miss a workout - the only one who'd be crying on race day if I didn't cross that finish line. While my friends and family cheer me on, they only care about how I do because they know I care.

The question is, am I having fun crossing that finish line? And more importantly, am I having fun during the long quest that it takes to even reach the starting line?

Those workouts where you can feel your fitness building are definitely fun. Even the totally exhausting, pushed yourself a little too hard workouts are fun when they're over and I know I toughed it out. What isn't fun is the guilt whenever I miss one. So I'm saying to hell with the guilt.

If life gets in the way of a workout because I wanted to hang out late with friends or take advantage of some event in this wild, crazy city, then so be it. If it means I don't cross the finish line on race day, then I'll know it's because something else was more worth my while. If the only thing I can say about six months of my life is "I did a half Ironman" then that is NOT time well spent in my book. And I accept the consequences of that decision, with a smile on my face.

A week without running

2007-02-22T19:19:00.000-05:00

My runs last week sucked. There is no other way to put it, really. They blew chunks. I was in pain; I felt slow; I was sure I was never going to be able to do that damn half ironman. So I took drastic measures -- I cancelled all running for a week. I swapped a bike for a Sunday run and added some extra swimming.

I wanted to see if, after a week of no running, would it at least not hurt me to walk. I hobbled through most of last week, desperately cluching the hand rail on stairs and trying not to wince as I walked down the street. I even dreamed that I had to do a half ironman in reverse order (half marathon first) and was trudging along ever so slowly while thinking "I am never going to be able to finish this!" Eventually the pain in walking went away. Today, I ran.

I ran free as a bird -- no heart rate monitor, no treadmill, no outdoor track. I ran down Riverside Drive after dark all by myself and I could not have been happier. It felt like a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I don't know what's going to happen next with my running, but for the first time in a LONG time I had a run that I actually enjoyed. Tonight I go to sleep with a big fat smile on my face. Maybe tonight I'll dream of finishing that f-ing half marathon!

Failing and being okay with it

2007-02-12T19:16:00.000-05:00

I typically have an extremely hard time failing at anything, especially my self-inflicted goals. I have an even more difficult time accepting any type of failure, coming to terms with it and moving on. I'm not sure how I overcame this personality quirk (is it those fish pills I've been taking -- apparently they are supposed to "stabilize mood"!!), but I am totally okay with the fact that I did not complete my 14 hrs of training last week.

First of all, I was sick and decided that resting was a higher priority. This ended up being a pretty good choice, I think.

Secondly, I only missed that 14 hour mark by one lousy 45 minute work out (deducted from my least favorite sport, running).

I used my new "reality-based" attitude on a grueling 1 hr and 40 min run yesterday, to great success. My ankles were killing me, so at the 1 hour mark I decided that I'd complete the last 40 minutes by doing run/walk intervals. I stopped briefly to stretch and wallah, my ankles were like new again! It was truly amazing. After I stretched, they completely stopped hurting. After 10 min more of running the pain would be creeping in again, at which point I'd walk a little and stretch again. Presto! Back to normal again. Usually the day after these long runs are incredibly painful for me. I usually swing my legs out of bed and as soon as my feet hit the floor -- PAIN! Today, the hurt only a little and it went away completely by the middle of the day.

This whole moderation thing is really mind-blowing.

The $30 Solution to My $450 Problem

2007-02-06T19:23:00.000-05:00

While I didn't completely ignore the podiatrist's advice from a few weeks ago, I never called to make a follow up appointment during which I was supposed to have molds of my feet made for orthotics -- specifically $450 orthotics.

I'm not in favor of ignoring medical advice in general, but in this case, I've decided to at least try taking things into my own hands before I lay down that kind of cash. With this can-do attitude I headed for my local running store and looked for orthotics that tout arch support as their key attribute. The most expensive ones were Powerstep Pinnacles, coming in at a whopping $29. Even better, these suckers came with a 30 day money back guarantee, for any reason, and had some fancy seal saying they were "podiatrist designed". I was sold!

I'm happy to report an exceedingly high level of satisfaction with these insoles. I took the soles out of my running shoes (who knew those things came right out??) and slipped these ones in. Since then my runs have been relatively pain free.

Typically the first five to ten steps are sheer misery for me, sending pain coursing through my lower legs and feet. During my first (and every subsequent) run, that initial pain had completely disappeared. I still get a bit sore and at the end of long runs and the day after those long runs, but I ice and heat every night and it's mostly under control. The dream of Half-Ironman glory lives on!

Oh, and in case you were worried about my big toe joint as well, it seems to have subsided into a subtle ache at times, pain free at other times. I keep taking my over the counter pills, as prescribed by the girlfriend/medical savant, as they seem to help. Whether it's a placebo affect or actual chemistry I cannot know, and nor do I care, frankly.

Reassessing my luck

2007-01-29T20:38:00.000-05:00

Earlier in life I complained bitterly of having bad luck. When the outcome of anything I cared about came down to chance, I always seemed to tip to the losing side. As I got older, I complained less but instead adopted a more fatalistic, resigned attitude.

My belief that the gods of chance hated me has stuck with me and perhaps even increased through my triathlon-related injuries and pains.

The girlfriend has long told me that my bad luck mantra was misguided. Personally, I've always thought that this was just something that any person with extraordinary luck feels obligated to say to someone with continually bad luck.

My life philosophy, however, was turned on its head this weekend when the girlfriend was struck with a comical string of bad luck. It actually doesn't sound that dramatic in the telling, but when you watch someone who's always been the golden child of the universe knock her full glass of wine over, shattering it into a million pieces, one evening and having the handle on her mug of coffee come clear off in her hand, sending her coffee all over her clothes and chair, the next morning, you start to question your black and white assumptions about good and bad.

The girlfriend's recent string of bad luck doesn't mean mine has turned particularly good, but I have uncharacteristicly high hopes.

A depressing visit to the podiatrist

2007-01-21T10:55:00.000-05:00

Last year I suffered from some tendinitis in my right ankle. I went to physical therapy for about four months and managed to control the pain enough to get my workouts in and bust my goal for the New York City triathlon. After that, I stopped running and took some time off, hoping it would finally cure my ailments.

Now that I've been ramping up running again, I can say with authority that the pain in my ankle has not disappeared. In fact, it's spread to my other leg. It hasn't been debilitating, but the first 10 or 15 minutes of every run really suck.

Then, a few weeks ago, my big toe joint on my left foot started giving my grief. On the girlfriend's goading I made a doctor's appointment. I had a feeling my ankle problems were the product of falling arches, but I hadn't a clue what was causing the toe joint issue. The doctor told me to take a Motrin after each meal and referred me to a podiatrist.

The podiatrist x-rayed my foot with the ailing toe joint. He also measured the flexibility of my big toes by pushing them backward which, on my sore toe, hurt like hell. I actually felt like it was going to break. It turns out I had about half the range of motion I should on that toe. He thought I must have jammed it or something, but there also is a structural problem. My feet are bony, is basically my diagnosis. So bony, in fact, that my toe joints are ramming painfully against my shoes with every step, and there's not a thing that's going to change that. Great.

Even better, the ankle/falling arches issue can be resolved with $450 orthotics which my insurance doesn't cover. Awesome.

I didn't make an appointment to get orthotics yet. I might try a cheaper insert first. The girlfriend also did some research about my toe ailment and has prescribed fish oil supplements for me.

Two days after this really depressing visit, I went for a record-breaking 1.5 hr run. It actually felt really great with very little pain. Go figure. For now, I'm going to press on doing two runs a week and seeing if perhaps the elliptical wouldn't be a good substitute for one run a week. After that, maybe I'll just work on popularizing the sport of aquathons!

Fare thee well my Pearl Izumi shorts

2007-01-21T10:31:00.000-05:00

As previously discussed, my cycling shorts were getting a little worn around the edges. Still, I pressed on, paying only lip service to a trip to the bike shop for new shorts. After all, shorts aren't cheap. I continued riding each and every ride in the same shorts, washing them with Woolite in the sink after each workout. And such it might have continued but for a tragic accident in the bathroom sink, the site of my short's untimely end.

The tragedy was the result of a home improvement project taking place at the same time. The girlfriend had just coated a few boards with a sealant (to make new shelves for the bathroom) and was soaking the brush in lacquer thinner. Unfortunately, she had chosen a cheap plastic cup as the container for this soaking. Even more unfortunate, she had placed said cup on previously mentioned bathroom sink. Upon returning to the sink to fish out my shorts I found that the lacquer thinner had chemically melted the plastic cup and proceeded to run all over the sink.

My shorts, thus, had been marinating in a chemical hazard for a good 10 or 15 minutes. One sniff of the shorts and I knew, it was too late to save them.

What an anticlimactic way for my shorts to go. It's like a great warrior being stabbed in the back while he's sleeping. I had expected them to bite the dust in some epic fall (an experience I've yet to have, but that's another post), or finally wear a whole after a gnarly century ride.

Rest in peace, my shorts. Thank you for protecting my tush and bones for all those thousands of miles. You will be remembered as a steadfast, trusty companion who met your tragic end far too soon.

Pop culture confessions

2007-01-13T22:01:00.000-05:00

I have some embarrassing habits which I go to great lengths to either paint in an endearing light or simply hide. The girlfriend, I can assure you, is well versed in all of them by now. Only she could tell you, for instance, how often I have watched Bend it Like Beckham while riding my bike on the trainer.

It's cold(ish) and dark out during most of the hours I can ride now. This weekend, it would be warm enough to do my 4.5 hrs of required riding outside, except that it's raining and forecasted to continue raining the entire time. That means most of my logged biking time is on the trainer.

Whenever possible I watch something new from Netflix as I ride. We get no TV reception, so actual programming is out of the question. Ultimately, I end up relying on our DVD collection for entertainment during most of my rides. I'd say one out of every five rides or so I watch Bend it Like Beckham. Since I have enough time to watch about 2 or 3 movies this weekend - it's almost a guarantee that it's going to be part of my weekend.

I confess: I am addicted to a pop-ish movie about girl athletes set to undeniably poppy music.

Just wait till I tell you what's on my running mix. As a preview, can I just say, George Michael ROCKS!!

This woman CAN run

2007-01-08T21:23:00.000-05:00

I ran across this article while at work for reasons completely unrelated to running or triathlon. While it makes little sense that compact fluorescent bulbs led me here, I don't feel the need to justify this tenuous connection, except to say, the world wide web is weird sometimes.

Should you have no desire to read this article, let me sum it up for you: unless you look like a man, women, you shouldn't be running.

Thanks Michael Boyle, this is just the genius analysis I've been looking for -- a position that none of my physicians, physical therapists or friends in those professions has agreed with. Because what's a PhD when you have conviction and a paying speaking gig?

One of the elements in this article that really antagonizes me is his highly dismissive, sexist manner of addressing this issue. For example,

You can't run to get that cute little runner's body. It's actually reversed. You have to have that cute little runner's body to survive running.

Right. The only reason women run is to get that "cute little runner's body". None of us like our breasts or hips. We all want them gone!

And further,

The bottom line: Running is not good for most females. If you want higher-intensity exercise, ride a stationary bike. Take a spin class, use a stairclimber, and don't run.

Oh, a stationary bike! Can I? Can I please?! I just love the bike that doesn't go anywhere.

Putting my sarcasm aside for a minute, when I was suffering from some knee pain in my first year of triathloning, it was actually caused by cycling, NOT running. But I suppose since that was outdoor cycling, rather than the safe little stationary bike, Mike is still right.

My advice to the ladies with curves? If you want to run, friggin' go running. If you're in pain, go see a doctor. Whatever you do, don't take advice from columnists with no medical cred.

How the other half sweats

2006-12-30T10:33:00.000-05:00

My trusty (and cheap!) gym at Columbia University is closed this week. It's not a catastrophe really; I only hit up the gym for my weekly yoga class and two weights sessions each week. While I have a plan for dealing with the yoga -- take a short break and then start taking lessons at my instructor's house -- I was forced to come up with a different solution for the weight lifting sessions.

Fortunately, I had a couple one-week trial memberships to two of the fancier gyms in the city. I managed to lose the one for Equinox but I had safely stashed the one for the Reebok Sports Center in my wallet months ago. (It came out of my NYCC century ride registration packet.) I dug it out, called the number on the card and set up an appointment for yesterday after work.

I anticipated a full dog and poney show and a pretty aggressive appeal to join, but it was fairly low key. They just gave me a pass, a map of all six floors (!!) and a schedule for the 150+ weekly classes. Oh, and they did give me an additional paper with membership prices on it. The monthly membership (just under $200) is a little more than I pay for a full school year of access to Columbia's gym. I actually thought it would be worse, but it turns out the real kicker is the "initiation fee". I can't help but think of the cost of joining some exclusive frat or sorority in college when I think of this gym. We're talking $1200 -- for the priviledge of joining!!

There's no denying the gym is beautiful and insanely spatious, however. I'm always intimidated by the trappings of wealth, but I was so ridiculously uncomfortable in this place. I took the elevator to the sixth floor and started working my way down till I found the equipment I needed. It ended up being a room the size of all the three tiny rooms at Columbia in one (and mind you this was repeated on several floors).

There were probably no more than 6 people in the room when I walked in and all of them were men. Worse yet, I swear they were all staring at me. Since this is getting long, I'll relate my experience with the staring folks later. For now, let me just say this gym is ludicrous and I'm not going to let these rich folk intimidate me out of making good use of my free week there.

And on the theme of saying good things about my workouts, I busted that training goal of leg pressing 130 lbs. My glutes are crazy sore today, but the satisfaction of having lifted 160 lbs lives on!

The holidays are taking a toll

2006-12-28T19:49:00.000-05:00

I'm going to take a minute here just to whine a little. It's great to have lots of fun things to do during the holidays -- people to see, parties to attend, family to visit -- but it's really cramping my triathlon style and it's definitely killing my blog.

I spent this past weekend in my hometown with my parents. The holiday weekend fell over the end of my "prep" period, requiring 8.5 hrs of training a week, and the beginning of my "base 1" period, which requires 10 hrs of training. Meanwhile, there's not a pool or a bike trainer in sight. So I resigned myself to running. I actually ran roughly 16.5 miles that weekend and I can say with utter certainty that it sucked.

My body still hates to run, and running sans rest days does NOT help. My parents also live on top of one long, steep hill which ends each run in utter agony. If I were in a positive mood I'd refer to this hill as "icing on the cake", but I'm more inclined at the moment to describe it as hell.

Ok, whining done. The upside is, I'm still getting the hours of training in, even if I'm not really getting the blog posts done.

These shorts were made for riding, and that's just what the'll do

2006-12-14T20:59:00.000-05:00

Yesterday as I spinned my way through another bike workout, I noticed how uncomfortable my bike seat was. My bike seat hasn't really bugged me much in the past (minus the occasional saddle sores, which I probably should not discuss publicly), so I'm guessing this was the inevitable sign that my padded cycling shorts are getting worn out. That little shammy just doesn't have the fluffy tenderness it once did, sadly.

This got me to thinking...how many miles have these shorts travelled?? Well, this is going to sound insane, but when I had to replace my chain late last summer, I calculated that I'd put over 2000 miles on my bike since it was purchased in Feb of 2005. I bought my shorts the same day I bought the bike and I've worn them for every single ride minus my actual races. Since the chain was swapped out, I've logged many more miles. I don't care to count the actual number cause I really don't like to think I've been wearing anything so close to my body for thousands of miles.

I'm a little disturbed frankly...and I need some new shorts...

Why yoga counts

2006-12-12T21:21:00.000-05:00

I'm now in the middle of the third week on my training plan, and so far, so good. In commencing my official training, I did face a few moral conundrums that my bible couldn't answer. None were more challenging than whether yoga class should count toward my weekly training hours.

After collecting the applicable evidence (namely the ability of my weekly Iyengar class to make me sore after each and every class) I decided that yes, indeed, for this triathlete, yoga counts. Besides, I thought this soul-searching wasn't worth agonizing over for too long given that I only had two weeks of yoga class left when my training began. Of course, now my yoga instructor has invited me to lessons at her house (presumably because she recognizes the yogi inside me -- or at least that's what I tell myself).

Regardless, I'm pretty sure I'm going to continue to count yoga time as training time. Any time you are levitating off the ground while simultaneously placing your knee behind your shoulder, that should count for something! Here's a picture of the pose we were attempting in our last class, called Eka Hasta Bhujasana. I can't claim that my pose looked exactly like the picture, but I can certainly attest to the stiffness in my arms and hips yesterday. Other pain inducers included bhujapidasana (saying that one is about as difficult as performing it) and paripurna navasana.

That class was about as tough as my first-ever 75 min run on Sunday. Yes, strike up the band -- I ran for 75 relatively pain-free minutes this past weekend. But back to my point -- yoga is hardcore and it counts, dammit!

The other weight training

2006-12-07T21:40:00.000-05:00

Numbers, numbers, numbers. Training for a triathlon is full of numbers. Goals, targets, zones, distances, paces and now, weight and percent body fat. I started this by deciding that I had to weigh 135 lbs in order to run as fast as I want to. That's not a dramatic a weight loss for me -- about 7 pounds. Given that I've lost about 10 pounds from when all this triathlon madness began, that doesn't seem so tough, right??

But nothing is ever easy and isn't each pound supposed to be harder than the last? Not to mention, skinny just isn't in my genes. When I look around my family I see exactly zero people you'd be tempted to call "skinny" and quite a few you'd call, to avoid more negative terms, "big-boned". And yet, taking the fatalistic view and just giving up seems like a cop out.

So recently I took a body composition test during a "health fair" at work. The nice lady told me that 26% of my body mass is fat. Mmm mmm. Turns out body composition is a popular test among triathletes, but all the other female tri bloggers seem to be in the teens! I can't even imagine what I'd look like at 15% body fat. I would certainly not look like the person I think of as me, and I rather like me.

So what is my aspiration? To run fast. To be low risk for injuries. And to be the curviest fast girl out on the course!

Beyond training

2006-12-05T20:47:00.000-05:00

Yesterday morning I woke up at 6:15 a.m. to go for a swim. The girlfriend and I stepped out the door in the pitch black and were hit by some of the first really cold air of the season. Even though I knew I wouldn't, I had a strong desire to climb back into that warm bed with the fluffy down comforter just calling my name.

When we turned the corner, however, I looked straight down the street to see a gigantic full moon across the Hudson slowly sinking into the lights of New Jersey. I was completely mesmerized by that sight - and it only got better as the George Washington Bridge, all lit up, came into view.

Not to be all nostalgic, but I would never had gotten that amazing glimpse if it wasn't for my silly obsession with this activity -- lord knows I would certainly have been in bed yesterday at 6:15.

The same has certainly been true of biking. Anyone who really wants to be intoxicated by the idea of the size and grandeur of Manhattan needs to see it from the George Washington Bridge the day after a major rain storm has cleaned all the smog and haze out of the air. The gray buildings stand in amazing relief against a blue sky decorated with innocent, puffy clouds. And yet, I have not a single picture of these things to share with you. I guess you'll just have to venture out there on your own!

More equipment failure

2006-12-04T20:44:00.000-05:00

While this equipment failure isn't nearly as outrageous as my bike gloves, I still find it noteworthy. Perhaps rules of etiquette dictate that one should not put a picture of one's used sports bra on a web site for the world to see. But, all rules were meant to be broken.

So this picture is basically just the back of my extremely tired and worn out Moving Comfort Fiona Bra. I put a lot of miles on this thing, so I am certainly not disappointed in its performance. Yes, that unusual color on the clasps is rust. That's what happens when you swim repeatedly in salt water in a bra with metal clasps. And if you're eyes are extremely well trained (sorry the picture's a little blurry but I didn't have the patience to take another) you'll notice the bottom bracket is broken. I think I can safely say I used this thing to the end of its life.

While the title of this post is "equipment failure", I can't help but say that this bra is a miracle. I had resorted to always wearing three "sports" bras for running when I met this beauty. The fact that it was introduced to me by a salesMAN in the Boulder Fleet Feet, is no less miraculous.

The angst I hold in this case is for the stores of New York City. This bra is already expensive - $40 - without having to pay for shipping after ordering it online. I couldn't find this bra after questioning countless salesman in sporting goods and running stores. Not one of the buyers for these stores seem to think that women with anything over a B cup like to run. In a city large enough to find a market for just about every hair-brained product ever created, something so simple as a sports bra for C and D cup women is impossible to find??

Ok, I feel better now...

Blogger Beta makes me happy

2006-11-27T21:26:00.000-05:00

Today is the first day of my new training plan -- on my way to half-ironman glory, starting with one swim early this morning. Now that I'm in full on workout mode again, I figured this would be a great time to start a TriFuel account and start logging my workouts. There appear to be some cool features here and it makes it easy for me to share my workouts.

In the midst of trying to find my "public" domain, I found out that the site automatically creates an RSS feed of your log when you enable sharing. While I found this quite cool, I was a little hesitant to launch into adding the feed to my blog, but I decided to give it a whirl. I'm not a super technical person -- setting up that list of races you see down the side of my blog took me at least a half hour with Blogger. With Blogger Beta, adding the beautiful feed of my workouts that you now see under my profile took -- drum roll please -- 2 minutes!

I love you blogger beta. You and I are going to have a great relationship. I can tell. If only everything was this easy.

You want how much of my money??

2006-11-18T09:54:00.000-05:00

Now that half the races I was considering doing next summer are already sold out, I decided to look through my remaining options last night. I have a few criteria that are turning out to be mighty restrictive: (1) a half-ironman race relatively close by, (2) an olympic and maybe a sprint that I don't need to rent a car and get a hotel room to race, (3) all races take place in May and June.

Each year, I've done one triathlon (two Olympic distance races). The more I've read up on triathlon, the more I realize, this is not what other people do. It's like putting all your eggs in one basket. One thing goes wrong and you feel utterly deflated. All that training only to get a flat tire or just get too nervous and not pull through. I figured this summer, I'd be smart, I'd do a few races. That possibility, however, is getting decidedly slimmer all the time and it's making me a little depressed.

First of all, who knows their schedule this far in advance?? My girlfriend is graduating this coming May but her college hasn't even scheduled their commencement ceremony yet. I know roughly when it is, but two of the races I'm considering fall in the "danger zone". Her sister in CA is also going to be getting married some time this spring -- likely May or June. That's not scheduled yet either.

Secondly, who can afford all these races?? After all the other gear costs of triathlon and race entries you have travelling to and from races, shipping equipment and finding lodging. That's why the races I've done in the past have been close enough to my home to avoid having to get a hotel. I love this sport, but I refuse to spend all my money on it. Where's the poor, aspiring triathlete scholarship?!

Now that I'm done griping, here are the races I'm looking at: The Mooseman Half Ironman, Harriman State Park Tri (half or olympic), the New Jersey Devilman, and the Tupper Lake Tinman. All but the Harriman race would require overnight lodging and rental cars, most likely. What a bummer. The New York City Tri is a great race precisely because it's smack dab in the city -- why are there not more urban landscape races? Why, oh why?

The Evolution of a Workout

2006-11-15T19:53:00.000-05:00

1o:00 p.m. yesterday Decide I'm going to swim in the morning. Set the alarm clock and go to bed

6:15 a.m. today Alarm goes off. I tell the girlfriend to hit the snooze.

6:25 a.m. Alarm goes off again. I tell the girlfriend I'm tired. She puts up a big fight by yawning and saying "okay" as she resets the alarm for 7:00 a.m.

7:00 a.m. Alarm goes off again. Girlfriend turns it off and promptly wiggles further under the covers.

7:23 a.m. I realize we are still in bed and force myself to get up and into the shower. While in the shower I rationalize my missed workout by deciding to go to the gym or for a run after work. I decide I need the cardio exercise more than the lifting and tell myself I'll run.

8:15 a.m. Pack a bag with running clothes for the gym in case the weather is bad. This way, I won't find myself looking out the window of my office at 5 p.m. and deciding that it's too awful out to run when I get home and too late to go home, get clothes and go back to the gym.

6:00 p.m. Decide the weather is good enough to run outside, but man, it's dark out. Am I really sure about going for a run tonight??

6:45 p.m. I go for a run! Given that it's dark out, and I believe in taking every precaution when running in the dark - especially since I live in the north end of Manhattan, I run over to Riverbank State Park where there's a track with tons of stadium lighting, lots of people and security guards. On my way over this evening, I happen to notice a lot of police milling about and a few squad cars pull into the park as I'm making my way over from Riverside Drive. More and more officers everywhere and I start to get worried that something has happened at the park. As I walk by the lit up gymnasium I peek inside to see the band warming up for the Police Academy graduation! I think this run will be quite safe, thank you.

8:00 p.m. Fully exercised and stretched out, I sit and tap away at the laptop as the best girlfriend in the world cooks my dinner.

Thank god every workout isn't this hard!

On another note, I revisited my training plan recently. I haven't paid it much mind since I'm not actually on it till Nov 27, but when taking a peak, I noticed that I promised I'd write at least two positive things about my training each week in my blog. Since I'm training for training in all my other sports, I'll get some practice in on this front as well.

Positive statement: I used to be plagued with side cramps during my runs. I'd have to stop and walk it off probably 1 out of every 3 runs. I've had positively no stomach/side discomfort on a single run since I started back up. I have my physical therapist to thank for this new miracle!

Out of town guests and marathons

2006-11-07T22:35:00.000-05:00

The girlfriend and I had out of town guests visiting for nearly a week recently, meaning my workout schedule has been light to nonexistant. Despite no workouts, each night they were here I dragged myself into bed, thoroughly exhausted. Why is it that ushering around out of town visitors doesn't count toward my training?!

Aside from pure exhaustion, other symptoms included an insatiable appetite. We managed to eat our way through the entire city, from Brooklyn pizza to Chinatown dim sum. At the very least, this must have been Zone 1 endurance work, right? (Note: This is a rhetorical question not intended to illicit an actual response.)

We checked out part of the New York Marathon while our visitors were here...one of my favorite NYC events. There's nothing quite like the thousands upon thousands of bobbing heads pounding down the pavement in an unending sea.

Every year, I feel completely inspired watching that race. This year I'm under the delusion that I'll join NYRR and do enough races to get into the 2008 marathon. For training, I'll follow a regular regiment of out of town guests and overeating. I'm already on the path to marathon glory!

Revelations of the triathlon variety

2006-11-07T22:02:00.000-05:00

As I try to avoid obsessively checking cnn.com for election results, I turn to my beleaguered blog. Time has been tight with some out of town guests visiting, but I assure you that I return refreshed!

For tonight's post I've tapped a guest blogger. Initially I hoped that inviting a guest would mean loads of praise for my superb guidance, sage advice and exemplary status as a role model. Those hopes were sadly crushed, but the entertainment value of this advice from first-timer "B to the Wizzo" is quite high.

In taking on my first triathlon last month - a sprint at Lake Anna in Virginia - there were indeed many lessons I learned the hard way. Certainly you can train, study, solicit the advice of erudite triathlon elders, but until you actually compete in one, it's all just theory, right? Ever the sympathizer, Rocinante Always Wins requisitioned a guest blog entry detailing the harsh realities facing the rookie triathlete (and there are many):

1. At least buy me a drink first
Was it wrong for me to feel strangely violated and used by the curt volunteer in charge of inking my race number onto my arms and legs? Here it is, 7 o'clock in the morning, I've stood in line to strip in front of this woman and all I get is "Number? ... Age group? ... Turn around. ... Done." I think that's how they run triathlons in prison.

2. You know you're a little too serious when...
As I was sitting in my car before the race, rocking out to AC/DC, I watched some dude with OCD take for-ev-er making the tiniest, most inconsequential adjustments to his and his (apparent) girlfriend's bikes. Does it really take 20 minutes to get your race number in ex-act-ly the right spot? Do you really require four water bottles each (measured and filled with an ultra-precise mix of Gatorade and water, probably Perrier) for a sprint? How many times do you need to check the brakes and wheels on your $3,000 tri bikes, seriously?

Watching him throughout this excruciating process, my girlfriend Jessica asked me, "How come you're not doing all that?"

"My bike's going to work the same as it did yesterday," I said, then got an eye roll as I turned up the volume on "Rock and Roll Ain't Noise Pollution".

3. Wetsuits: Friends of the modest
Look, I swam for many years as a youngster, so I am well familiar with the concept and workings of a Speedo. I can appreciate its hydrodynamic fit and, in a triathlon, the advantages wearing one must offer when it comes to making a quick transition to the bike. What I don't need is to find myself at the starting line right behind some "plumber butt". Drawstrings, my wide-bottomed friend, drawstrings!

I also tracked down Jessica so I could tell her to check out the voluptuous "moobs" on a nearby Clydesdale-class competitor. Another eye roll: "Grow up."

4. Full-contact freestyle
I was confident of (or, resigned to) the fact that the swim would be the best leg of my race by far and was even prepared for some gentle nudging and jostling at the start.

Not quite. The first 300 meters was like a nature video on Amazonian piranha. All I could see were whirlpools of churning water between the violent bludgeoning of kicks and elbows. In vain did I search for my plumber-butted guide amidst it all. Worse, I expended so much energy trying to fight through the pack that when I found myself swimming alone at the halfway point, I couldn't really get a strong pace going, and my time was ultimately more than three minutes slower than it was in the pool. So fine, I'll trade a little extra distance for calm water: Next time, I'll be way out there on the right, next to the guys with inflatable water wings."

5. Should have ridden my Big Wheel
It would have been just as fast as my biking performance, and more comfortable. I'd read somewhere that if there was any leg of the race that could withstand some neglect during the training program, it was the bike. Why? Bike training, this article reasoned, requires a disproportionately large commitment in order to realize any significant improvement, and in a sprint tri, you're not going to benefit much from what will ultimately be a negligible time difference.

I don't recall the author of said article, but when I do, that dangerously unqualified dispenser of crappy advice will be on my hit list. My little Trek road bike and its platform pedals certainly wasn't to blame as men - and yes, women - with thighs bigger than my head zoomed past me on their whirring flying-saucer wheels. No, I was feeling the burn and cursing the day I found that stupid article. From now on, Mistress Bicycle shall command equal time.

6. Can I get a crazy straw with that?
Perhaps partly as a result of my negligence vis-a-vis an embarrassing lack of bike preparation, it took me a good half-mile to get a decent pace going on the run, but that wasn't the most disappointing part. I learned it requires an acrobatic feat of dexterity to grab a cup of water and drink it while running. After three failures in three attempts (splashing my face, shirt and an increasingly irritated competitor five feet behind me), I made the executive decision to just carry a sippy cup with me in my next race.

7. The perfect meal
With apologies to everyone across the northern swath of the U.S. who doesn't have the privilege of living within striking distance of a Waffle House, I declare this chain of sublimely greased breakfast food is a post-race destination beyond compare. I even ran into one of my fellow racers there - perhaps in his early 50s - who had a bit of introspective wisdom to impart before turning his attention to a plateful of hash browns.

"How'd you do this morning?" I asked him.

"Well," he said, "I didn't win, and I didn't puke."

The man was a philosopher. I reciprocated by acknowledging that I too had neither won nor puked, and perhaps, in that moment, truly became a triathlete.

Well said, B to the Wizzo, well said.

My Halloween costume

2006-11-01T07:42:00.000-05:00

Last night, as little ghosts and ghouls hit up the stores in my neighborhood for sweets, I was rocking my fab Halloween costume in the gym. Okay, so maybe I can't really call my workout clothes a costume. I can't help but wonder if my dedication has reached some new obsessive level. Recently I've also been trying to convince the girlfriend that we should do a 5k in Central Park at midnight on New Year's, which incidentally, is also my birthday.

Before I started getting too worried about my addiction to triathlon last night, I looked around the gym at all the other obsessives. I was working out at the Columbia University gym, so I definitely expected it to be totally empty. Instead, it was packed! Well, not as packed as I've seen it before, but I had to wait to get on almost every machine.

On another note, for anyone worried about my inability to get out of bed, have no fear, I've risen to the challenge! I've been yanking myself out of bed early a few times a week now -- and I'm not even on my training plan yet.

Counting on daylight's saving

2006-10-25T06:32:00.000-05:00

Since my last post I have failed twice to answer the call of the alarm clock. Apparently public embarrassment is not sufficiently motivating. Each morning the alarm goes off I lie in bed thinking, "what am I going to do at the pool anyway?" So this morning, I'm prowling the web for swim workouts.

I get way too bored in the pool these days so I'm hoping to spice it up by having a series of workouts and also adding in some non freestyle. Butterfly work would probably only do me good!

Swimming World has a searchable database of workouts, so I might start there. The 30-min "Stay fit" and 60 min "Remember swimming is fun" workouts sound like they should be right up my alley. If that fails, perhaps I'll turn to about.com. If all goes as planned, soon I'll be reporting that I ran 3 times this week, lifted twice and yes, even got up to go swimming a few times.

The hardest part of swimming - getting out of bed

2006-10-19T20:23:00.000-05:00

After my epic 5.85 mile swim, I decided to lay off the swimming for a while, a much deserved break I felt. Conveniently, my pool of choice, Riverbank State Park, was also closed for maintenance all of September. After it reopened, however, my "vacation" from the pool turned into a big ol' source of guilt. I put off the return till after the big biking weekend, but still, the guilt plagued me!

Finally this morning, I made my proud return to the pool, despite having to drag myself (and the girlfriend!) out of bed long before sunrise. The swim itself was not particularly noteworthy. As with all my first swims after a long break, my arms felt ready to fall off. It's amazing how all that lifting makes not one lick of difference when it comes to that first swim.

But that's not important! I got up -- that's what matters. And I'm throwing down the gauntlet by publicly declaring that I'm going to swim tomorrow morning as well. I'm hoping the public declaration -- and fear of humiliation -- will pull me out of bed tomorrow at 6:30. Here's to the experiment...

My new lucky number: 175

2006-10-16T19:30:00.000-05:00

That's right, the girlfriend and I each rode 175 miles this weekend. And to think, it was all a big accident! If I had told her that we should do a century ride and a 60 mile tour (that ended up being 75) on the same weekend, all I would have gotten was a dirty look. I thought it was pure insanity too, but after a little thought -- and with the registrations already paid -- it seemed like a brilliant challenge!

Mind you, this was my first century ride ever. Despite the fact that my eyes were bloodshot and I opted for the subway over riding back from the finish on Sunday, I felt like a modern day, real world Super Woman.

My bike may be "cheap" by road bike standards, but Rocinante and I have officially gone the distance. Just as I was sentimental about the junker mini van I learned to drive on, Rocinante will always hold a special place in my heart, long after I've run him completely into the ground.

Out of pure curiosity I had to figure out how far 175 miles could take me if I'd ridden them straight. In fact, the distance from NYC to Boston is not much further. My muscles may be stiff and sore, and my rear my have suffered irreversible damage, but the pain only deepens the sense of accomplishment. Nothing like extreme discomfort to let you know that you're definitely alive!

My new favorite website: MyBikeLane.com

2006-10-12T07:04:00.000-05:00

Car parked in the bike lane, forcing you to swerve into traffic? Take a picture of it, note the license plate and add it to MyBikeLane.com. I love this idea...my focus on riding over the past year has forced me out into the streets of New York where it's an every road user for himself free for all. When you're up against huge trucks and erratic cars and taxis, it's no secret that the cyclist has to be on constant alert.

The answer: take the bike lane, right? I try to take the bike lanes wherever possible, but more often than not, cars just see this as extra parking space in NYC. Of late, I've taken to 'reminding' people that they are in fact in the bike lane, not a parking spot as I cruise by. From the 125th St stop on the Metro North to my apartment in West Harlem I probably reprimanded about 20 cars parked in the St. Nicholas bike lane.

This site is probably going to be my new best friend. Makes me wish I had a camera phone!

It never ends

2006-10-10T20:04:00.000-05:00

This is my cycling glove. I know, I know -- it's not pretty. It looks like I either (a) got in a big fight with a very nasty dog, (b) crashed and skidded on my palms, (c) got ravenously hungry while on a ride one afternoon or (d) all of the above.

As it turns out, none of the above is the correct answer. This, it would seem, is normal wear and tear. I can't help feeling a little outraged here. These gloves cost me $35 -- more than I have ever paid for a pair of gloves in my life, much less ones with no fingers and a general lack of warmth for the wearer's digits. I might add that these gloves were Pearl Izumi's. That is a reputable maker of cycling gear! I have no bones with my $60 Pearl Izumin shorts. They have (more or less) saved my tuckus from much pain and grief. But these gloves raise my ire.

I bought them no earlier than April of this year. April!!

Someone please tell me that I've been doing something horribly wrong to my gloves and that yes, they should last longer than this. The REI gloves I had previously certainly lasted no longer, but I'm pretty sure they cost $15.

Just when I thought the list of gear was getting shorter -- that my endless outlay of funds to feed my triathlon habit would soon ease up -- my gear starts to wear out! There's no justice.

Fall was made for cycling

2006-10-08T20:30:00.000-05:00

There are many reasons to love fall, particularly when living on the east coast...fresh apples, apple pie, apple cider, hot apple cider(is there a trend here?), pumpkin patches, pumpkin pie, fresh corn, vibrant colored forests, turning off the AC, no more sweat dripping down my back while waiting for the subway...and I'll just spare you the rest, but believe me, the list continues.

Added to the list of reasons to adore fall -- the most awesome, beautiful riding weather in a fall wonderland of reds, yellows and oranges.

The girlfriend and I rode up to Cold Spring through Harriman State Park and past Bear Mountain. What a day! It was the kind of ride that just permanently marks your face with a smile -- it was challenging, breath-takingly beautiful and just, plain fun. After all those hills I feel like super woman walking down the street. "Yes, you are in the presence of a total bad-ass and don't even know it," I thought to myself while riding the train down to yoga class at Columbia University.

If only the fall could last forever!!

Where it all began

2006-10-04T21:07:00.000-05:00

I just submitted the following in my application to be a sponsored triathlete at raceathlete.com. I was so proud, I had to repost. I can't really imagine that I'll be selected. If I were picking the athletes, I'd probably go for the cancer survivor and the couch potato turned Ironman over myself, but what the hell...why not try!

After spending four years at college during which I was always on the go, settling into the working world was no small feat. Every day, I would go to work, sit at my desk and stare at my computer. I could feel my behind widening -- evolving to fit it's new use of permanent perch -- and my mental state began to deteriorate. Fortunately, I was living in Colorado at the time, so it wasn't long before I found a goal - a means to give myself that physical challenge I'd been starving for.

The Boulder Peak!

For someone who'd publicly sworn to loathe running for all eternity, this required some backpedaling, but earning the title of "triathlete" would be worth the temporary loss of face. So I bought my first road bike for $450, a pair of $80 running shoes and some really great sports bras and I began to train, one 5 minute running interval at a time.

Several months, one diagnosis of patellofemoral syndrome, and a much firmer, happier behind later - I climbed my way up Old Stage Rode and, eventually, across the finish line.

And that was all it took. The addiction had taken hold.

Since then, I've moved to New York City, joined a cycling club, an open water swimming group and volunteered to be a workout leader for the first NYC Danskin Team in Training. I've also done a 5.85 mile swim in the Hudson, several bike tours and, most proudly, completed the New York City Triathlon having shaved over 30 minutes off my Boulder Peak time.

And I still have that $450 bike.

I would love to have more resources (ie better equipment) to feed my addiction, but I know, either way, I'm going to stick with it. I've managed to balance a career in environmental non-profit work with tri training thus far. I know I'll continue to maintain that balance because I'm determined to do so, and when I'm determined, nothing is going to stop me.

Beautiful, tough ride

2006-10-02T19:43:00.000-05:00

The girlfriend and I paid my parents a visit this past weekend up in the Finger Lakes region of New York, taking our bikes with us. The ride was beautiful, though the weather was decidedly less so. The first hour sped by with an average cruising speed of over 20mph! We were passing those tractors and buggies (horse and buggy is as common a means of transit as car on some of the roads up here) left and right!

As soon as we turned onto Route 14, which traces the west side of Seneca Lake, things got a bit more challenging.

20 mph gusts of wind blowing due north and bikes pointing due south on a slight incline, does not a happy joy ride make. And then it had to get a little worse, with a slight, constant drizzle beating down on us. Suddenly, the 20mph speed plummeted to 12 or 13. Fortunately, we were able to make some pit stops at a few wineries along the way. The wine tastings added some much needed warmth to our ride!

Note to self: check the weather before deciding to go for an "easy" ride.

Sick time = planning time

2006-09-26T19:22:00.000-05:00

I've been sick over the past few days. That means there is little to report in the training/ physical recreation arena, aside from a very miserable run on Sunday. It was pretty clear that something was seriously amiss since my heartrate was barely approaching 160 and I felt like I was going to keel over and die.

In between time spent supine on the bed and soaking stiff muscles in the tub, I did some playing with google's spreadsheet application. Pretty cool stuff! I went ahead and uploaded my shiny, new annual training plan. The original spreadsheet I snagged from Joe Friel's site. I had to update the dates and then do a little formatting magic in google, but now my beautiful plan is up and ready for action. Now I just have to follow it!

Heather, over at Funnymoods, has drawn my attention to another logging tool at TriFuel. I'll start entering individual sessions in it once I actually starting swimming, biking or running again!

Lincoln Tunnel look out -- Rocinante is coming!

2006-09-23T12:19:00.000-05:00

So the girlfriend and I signed up for the MS Bike Tour on Oct. 15. We'll be doing the 60 mile ride, which looks like a pretty stellar route. The deciding factor for me was the chance to ride through the Lincoln Tunnel! Now that's pretty cool. I'm sure I'll be cruising through it faster on my bike than the last time I tried driving through it -- an experience that falls somewhere between getting stuck in Detroit for 2 days on my way back from Christmas with the family in 2004 and one epic 1.5 hr subway ride to work this winter.

Of course, the ride also gives me an opportunity to raise money for a great cause. The MS Society does some amazing work and you can help them continue doing that work by donating. Help me meet my pretty modest fundraising goal!

Bar with a view

2006-09-21T20:40:00.000-05:00

This is tangentially related to tri training, but given my propensity to mix working out with booze, I couldn't resist mentioning a visit to my new favorite Manhattan bar. The Hotel QT sports a bar with a pool -- a pool with a swim up window to the bar!

If only the pool was lap-swim size -- I could grab a drink after a set for my "active" recovery. Just kidding, I would never do anything so decadent, especially at these drink prices.

Aside from any aspirations to mix swimming and drinking, the bar is related to the sport of tri because I was there to commemorate the recent victories of New York's Team Danskin Training. I didn't get to see all the ladies cross the finish line, but I'd been helping lead workouts since mid-July, so it was gratifying to hear all their race day stories. What an inspiring and eclectic group of women! With a wide range of ages, body types, incomes, and professions among them, they certainly prove that the title of triathlete is worn by an astoundingly diverse bunch of women.

In fact -- getting back to my new favorite bar -- one of the women was an accomplished synchronized swimmer in her former life. Talk about party tricks! From behind the bar (on the 'dry' side), I watched as her leg emerged from the water with a wine glass daintily held between her toes!

Only girl in the weight room

2006-09-18T20:25:00.000-05:00

Eventhough I'm still several weeks from diving into full training mode for my spring races, I decided to ease myself back into weight training last week with a new routine copied word-for-word from the Triathlete's Training Bible.

I've done most of the exercises plenty of times before, and in fact, did them in the Columbia University gym - my wallet's gym of choice - last year. Otherwise meaning that I've found all the necessary machines, know how they work and won't commit any embarrassing faux pas, with one notable exception...the squat.

Now, I've been visiting weight rooms since I was 14 and I don't let myself get easily intimidated by the grunting, sweaty male population camped out in them. But the squat - that's another matter entirely.

First of all, it's a very compromising position, made only worse by the fact that you're forced to perform it in front of a full length mirror. Secondly, this is the lift that all the super huge boys love and it takes up a lot of space in the weight room. Ultimately this means that there's always a wait for one of the two squat stations. I can feel their eyes boring into my head as I struggle to get off the six 45 lb plates that the last dude left on the barbell. I can sense their impatience as they watch me struggle through three sets of 20.

To ease the tension of the situation I try friendliness on the burly weight room enthusiasts. I ask them to alternate sets with me so they don't have to wait as long. They look at me with such shock you'd think I wasn't speaking their native tongue. Then they proceed to do sets of five reps and make the hurry up face if I don't rush back into my next set. I'm doing 20 reps for crying out loud!! You just spent less than 30 seconds. Sigh.

Here's where I lament the fact that women stay as far away from free weights as possible. I'm trying to blaze the trail here, but every time I turn around the ladies are still smiling and waving from a safe distance, stationed behind their elliptical machines and treadmills.

So I'm left squatting, trading sets with dudes like this. My only solace is my ability to laugh at the many (not all!) self-important, over juiced guys who actually think they look good in this position! My goal, aside from improving my bike and run force, is to leave them wondering what is with the blonde pigtailed chick walking around the weight room softly chuckling to herself.

New York moments

2006-09-16T19:05:00.000-05:00

After days of hobbling precipitated by my first visit to the weight room in months, I went on a fairly short, light run this afternoon. The sky had that beautiful blue that you only see in NYC after it's been raining for several days straight. I think of the air around here as a big sponge that gets coated with brown smoggy soot till it gets completely soaked and wrung dry with a giant rain storm. Unfortunately, there are no such cleansing rain storms for my lungs, so I can only imagine what the brown air is doing to them! But, I digress...

It was the perfect day for my first run in over a week. I strapped on the HR monitor to keep my ego from pushing me too hard, and pranced down Riverside just letting my mind wander.

When I saw a boy sitting in the grass park behind the Grant Monument playing his trombone, I couldn't help but smile. This is another one of those "only in New York City" moments that seem to happen so often when I'm out running or on my bike, or even at the pool. Now I've seen people playing instruments outdoors before (I was in marching band for years), but this was a particularly amusing set up. He was sprawled out in the grass -- clearly not a serious musician -- but had taken the time to lug a music stand out there with him and was playing off sheet music. On my way back up Riverside he was no longer playing, but rather sitting in the grass flipping through his music while smoking a cigarette and listening to his ipod.

For the rest of my run I thought of all the people and places I've encountered simply through training for a triathlon. Training for a race has been an amazing way for me to become acquainted with this crazy, huge city and make it my home. The breadth and scope of this place is amazing and as long as I keep training, I'll keep finding more reasons to love and respect it.

My toes are sore

2006-09-11T20:23:00.000-05:00

It's a widely known fact that nearly all women's shoes are torture devices. Personally, I tend to stick to the Dansko clogs, but occasionally I try to fool myself into believing that I too can wear the latest, greatest fashion. So I set out, buy some fancy shoes and a few hours into them I find myself begging for my clogs.

I have some uncomfortable shoes in my arsenal, but these shoes are by far the most binding, tear-inducing mothers I own. And I paid top dollar for these puppies! I know climbing shoes aren't made for a leisurely walk in the park, but these suckers only stop hurting when my mind is too engaged in survival to notice pain.

As with any shoe that I've paid over $50 for, however, I feel guilty as hell when I'm not getting my money's worth out of them. I bought these climbing shoes in Nov. '04 and have worn them exactly once...that is, until tonight!

Kate and I checked out the most affordable climbing wall in the city, the 59th street gym, and set out to give all those little muscles and tendons in our hands and feet a little exercise. I'm happy to call that endeavor a big success. I'm not sure my fingers will be up to the task of typing tomorrow, so I'm getting all my keystrokes in now!

Here's what an off-season ride looks like

2006-09-10T19:54:00.000-05:00

Ah, the off-season. It was a beautiful day for a little "adventure" ride to the beach. The girlfriend (Kate) and I set out this morning (or more accurately, afternoon) with a bike map of the city, some PB&Js and beach towels.

One flat tire (mine) and several wrong turns later we found ourselves at Orchard Beach in the Bronx. I'm not sure if this place is a hopping location in the heat of the summer, but it definitely had a sleepy, slightly abandoned feel this afternoon. But not so sleepy that we couldn't find a beer to wash down those PB&Js!

After all the rainy weekends, this sunny, slightly cool weekend was exactly what the doctor ordered. I spent yesterday on the beach as well, helping the Danskin tri ladies finish their trial run at Sandy Hook. The sun and wind left me sleepy and content at the end of the day, even if my swim was barely long enough to get the blood flowing, most of my time on the bike was spent standing in place playing traffic cop and the run was over in less than 15 min.

I'm adding another gratutious photo of me getting sassy on the beach cause I think it'll make a fine shot for my profile. Despite the beer, sand in my socks and sun exhaustion, the ride back went much faster than the ride out to the beach. It's amazing how much time you save by actually knowing where you're going! Who would'a thought...

Another Endurance Sport

2006-09-06T19:02:00.000-05:00

If my parents are to be trusted, I've been swimming longer than I've been talking. And I suppose I've been running since I learned to walk. Cycling I've taken up later in life, but my devotion to the activity has raised more than one eyebrow. Today I add another commitment to the list. Some may call it a hobby; some may call it enslavement or self torture; I call it my shiny, new blog!!

Rocinante, my valiant steed of a bicycle, just got the triple bypass of bicycle maintanence and returned to me in spunky style today. A new chain, a new set of cogs, a new rear tire and a shiny (if not entirely new) drivetrain.

We cruised home together from the bikeshop - I sweating in my colored shirt and dress pants, Rocinante gliding over potholes and threatening glass shards. The blissed out smile reached my lips and I laughed out loud.

God, I love this bike.

So Rocinante, this blog's for you baby!