the world of cherie

Inka Express!

2012-01-31T21:15:00.000-05:00

There are buses leaving every hour on the hour from Puno to Cuzco. We could have done that. But instead, we took the Inka Express.

The Inka Express turned the 6 hour bus ride into 10 hours. Sounds miserable – right? But not really. You stop at four different neat sites along the way, have a guide, plus a (horrible) buffet lunch is included. The buses have big windows, you get coca tea and water and soda, and it’s a lot more peaceful (but also a lot more expensive) than the regular bus.

Wayne and I decided it was worth it.

The owner of the Duque Inn hooked us up – we got seats 1 & 2, which are the best on the bus. We had views through the front window and through the side windows. It really is a picturesque ride, which is the reason that Wayne was able to persuade me into not taking a night bus after our nights on Lake Titicaca.

The first stop was Pucara, where we stopped at an archeological museum and saw some interesting findings and learned about the people that lived in Pucara before the Incas came and ruled it, like they did everything else. Then we stopped at La Raya, which is 4,318 meters high. Ouch. We took a few photos, saw lots of vendors. Then lunch, which had zero options for vegetarians (Okay, I lie. I ate tomatoes, cucumbers, lettuce with a potato squash stew. I was starving as soon as we left.) Then, we headed over to Raqchi, where we saw the ruins of an ancient Inca settlement. It was very special as there was almost no one there, so we got some great photos and our guide told us some interesting stories about the area. Finally, we visited San Pedro Church in Andauyalillas, “the Sistine Chapel of the Americas.” It was the most incredible church I’ve visited outside of Europe (probably). It was a beautiful church with amazing murals and lots of ornate decorations painted with gold leaf – 24k. Nice.

Next, another 45 minutes on the bus and then in Cusco.

Comfy seats, chill environment, good sites, it was definitely a good decision to opt for the Inka Express over the normal bus to Cusco.

The Insanity

2012-01-31T21:07:00.003-05:00

Sometimes, traveling is just insanity.

Like when your tour guide can barely speak English and you’re the only one on the tour in the middle of the jungle.

Or when there’s a bat swooping your room while you sleep.

Or when there are some incredibly slow hikers with issues tainting your trek

Or when there’s a scorpion – no, two – on the wall of your hut that you are to sleep with.

Or when your room smells like dead mouse and you have to pretend things are just okay.

Or when your boyfriend has horrible altitude sickness and you realize you really both should stick to sea level, with his altitude issues and your asthma.

Or when you don’t want to go on a tour and your hotel owner sends you on one anyway without you knowing.

Or when your laundry isn’t done, they fold it while still wet, you’re freezing wearing wet clothes, and they lose a pair of your underwear which is a big deal since you didn’t bring enough with you.

Or when you make a reservation and they give it away and aren’t sure why you’re upset.

Or when there’s another hidden cost.

Or when there’s another identical hat.

Or when there’s another long bus ride.

Or when there’s another toilet without toilet paper.

Or when the toilet doesn’t flush when it should, it must be.

Or when you just are so sick of it all…

You remember that you love traveling. You love the new experiences, trying new foods, the cheapness of things, not working, having time to be creative and write on the long bus rides, the freedom, meeting new people, seeing new and unusual things, not having to wear uncomfortable shoes, improving your grasp of a foreign language, doing what you want, not having to work, not having the scheduled bs of life back home…

And really, it’s all worth it. It really is.

Lake Titicaca

2012-01-31T21:04:00.000-05:00

We took fancy first-class from Arequipa to Puno, where I suffered a miserable migraine. We couldn’t find my medicine, so I took two Aleve, which took forever to work. Ah, the joys of altitude.

We arrived to the Duque Inn, a place full of false promises, but which we still liked regardless. Our room was on the top floor, which can feel like it’s a marathon to climb those steps. Still, life was good. We explored Puno, and there’s honestly not very much to explore. We had jugos frescos (maracuya, fresa, y mango y pina mixta) and I bought another pair of legwarmers and mittens, and we searched in vain for my Peru treat obsession, chocolate wafey candies, also by the name of Sublime Wafers. They’re kind of like kitkats, but with a little bit of peanut butter. Failed at this task, I ventured into a pharmacy to see if they had my migraine medicine, and they didn’t, but they gave me something else mysterious that I now have in my purse. I’ll update you all if I use it. We did the usual wandering of the streets, eating strange street food (Something like fried crispy dough with dulce de leche all over and shredded coconut.), ice cream, wandering, talking, all hand-in-hand in a way that we never seem to have enough time to do back home. It was lovely.

And then it was time to eat, of course. We found a restaurant in the Lonely Planet that mentioned “Andean Cheese Fondue” and Wayne was sold. We also got a salad and this amazing cheese bruschetta with fig. But wow, cheese. We did decide we’ll snag one of our mom’s fondue pots when we get home and start making fondue more.

We got up early and hopped on what we thought was simply a boat to certain islands but was actually a tour. (We were misinformed by the owner of our hotel.) Oh well. We swallowed our hopes and let ourselves go along with what was in store.

First we went to Uros, one of the floating islands. It’s pretty cool – they pile these reeds on top of floating sod, stake the sod into the water (so they won’t float away – but you still get the sensation of floating!). Their lives are linked to these plants – they build their homes and boats out of the reeds. It’s pretty incredible. Unfortunately, it seems they subsist on tourism and the whole visit felt slightly less than genuine – though it was interesting, I won’t deny that. Wayne and I went with one girl who showed us her family’s home and then dressed us up in their traditional clothing – which is beautiful, even if she did put an orange skirt on me and not the rosado I would have hoped for. Then she tried to sell us all these crafts she made, many of which were just not our taste. (I’m polite, right?) Wayne ended up finding a neat little mobile to buy for his parents, but we did feel pressured to buy something – and neither of us liked that.

Then we took a little boat ride to another floating island on their “Mercedes” of their boats (Cost: 10 soles each), where I bought a pair of alpaca socks (My feet were freezing) and we paid 1 sole to use the bathroom (disgusting) and bought some coca tea, which does seem to help with the altitude. Or so they say, so we keep drinking it.

We were on the boat another three hours to Amantani, which is the highest island on the lake. We did a homestay with a family – they knew no English, so I definitely wouldn’t recommend a homestay to anyone who doesn’t know Spanish (Unless you’re with someone who knows Spanish; Wayne had me serve as his translator and still enjoyed himself.). Our family wore traditional gear – big skirts and carefully embroidered tops. Most of the island were farmers – and the work was done communally. We ate lunch – quinoa soup and fried cheese and rice and veggies. Then we skipped out on our “tour” stuff and hiked Pachamama and Pachatata, two different mountains with ruins on the top. We were the only ones on both of the mountains, so that felt pretty special. We took photos and talked and explored uninhibited.

Then we were both feeling the altitude, so we took a nap. We did notice, however, that our room smelled badly. Being familiar with the smell, we both realized it was eau de dead mouse – or perhaps some other animal. We searched the room, lifting the blankets, under the bed, and decided it was probably in the wall. It was pretty horrendous. We lit matches but it didn’t help.

We got up before dinner and chatted a little with our host family. We had dinner, centered around potatoes, of course, and Wayne shocked me by being unable to finish his dinner. Altitude sickness is real. It started pouring so our host family decided not to go to the party, though I thought it was cancelled. I think our host dad may have been drunk from the earlier festivities. Regardless, Wayne was ill so we went to bed. It was only 8:30p.m., but altitude makes you tired. (I remember my first weeks at Naropa in Boulder, I slept 10-12 hours a night, until my body became accustomed to it.) I woke up at 3a.m. when Wayne was breathing heavy and complaining of a splitting headache. He drank water, took an ibuprofen, and eventually the pain stopped and he fell asleep. But he was so miserable that I decided if he was the same in the morning, we’d head straight back, grab our bags and head to Cusco early (which has a lower elevation than Lake Titicaca).

After breakfast with our host family, and goodbyes, we hiked down to the ferry and we all went to Taquile. Another island with a traditional indigenous culture, though the attire was different. The women wore shawls with pompoms signifying their marital status, and the men communicated their marital status and political power through their hats. The attire was carefully made and quite beautiful.

We walked around, I bought a pair of Alpaca gloves as a present, and then our “group” went to lunch where I was served another disgusting vegetable tortilla (Think: vegetable omelet cooked in too much oil that somehow tastes disgusting – and I really love eggs.). I ended up leaving, letting some poor backpackers eat my meal and wandering around.

And then we climbed down 543 steps to the ferry. The island has most of the town and its inhabitants living high up. Nobody seemed especially friendly, and I suppose I would be irritated if my tiny little village became a tourist destination. (Hell, I’m annoyed at the tourists in my city, and I live in New York!)

We headed back to Puno on the world’s slowest boat. When we arrived, a shower felt lovely, and then we got amazing fusion food (We’ve found the fusion food here to be the best, even if they did serve Doritos (!) with the guacamole.) and of course, I got a pisco sour.

We randomly found a shop that sold my chococlate wafey candies and fun alpaca goods. And then, we found a fair trade shop where they teach women how to knit and give them a skill, women that live deep deep in the city where they can’t sell it – and they sell it for them. I wanted to support a good cause, plus they had great craftswomanship, so I bought some stuff to support them.

And then, being at altitude, we were exhausted, so we sat around, trying to book hostels and finally, fell asleep wrapped tight into each other’s arms yet again.

The Toilets n Peru

2012-01-31T20:53:00.002-05:00

I’ve traveled quite a bit, and I would have to say, of all the countries I’ve visited, Peru wins the distinct honor of most disgusting toilets. Toilets that don’t flush, toilets you don’t even want to squat over, and toilet paper is rare. Even in hostels/hotels, when you have private rooms, toilet stall doors that never close, sometimes you have to purchase the paper (or they will give you a very limited amount for your trip).

So my recommendation – always have toilet paper with you, wherever you go. Bring instant hand sanitizer – I’m not a huge fan of that stuff, but otherwise, there’s nothing.

And until then, though I’m adoring traveling, I’m really looking forward to returning to my world of clean toilets back home.

Arequipa, the White City

2012-01-28T22:05:00.000-05:00

We got to Arequipa and immediately headed out to the main square to meet my friend from Huanchaco, Jon. Wayne had never met him and of course, with a few pisco sours, and random dinner at Che Café, we all quickly bonded. We laughed about traveling, about drinks, about more. We ended up completely smashed, finding a candy store and discovering the elusive wafer candies that tasted oh-so-delicious when drunk (and delicious the next day when we were sober as well!).

The next day, was our explore Arequipa day. We had a short run (My asthma proves to be problematic at high atltitude.), then went to Monasterio de Santa Catalina, which was really interesting. We learned a lot about the nuns. After, Wayne and I had lunch for 7 soles ( a little more than $2) and then went to Museo Santury to see the frozen body of an Inca maiden – very interested. We learned all about how these select royal children were raised just for the purposes of being sacrificed. Sad. The body was well-preserved due to ice and snow covering the mountain.

Then Wayne and I explored Arequipa, walking around, eating popcorn, helados, popping into various shops and streets, people-watching. It was so nice because for so long, Wayne and I have had such opposite work schedules that we haven’t had time to just chill, to just walk around, hand-in-hand, talking. It was really lovely.

We had dinner again with Jon, eating at the horrible Wild Rover hostel (though the food wasn’t horrible). Then we found a club and got 2 for 1 pisco sours and got wickedly drunk.

Then, we had to get up at 2:45 to get picked up for a two day Canyon de Colca trek. Canyon de Colca is the second deepest canyon in the world. (The first deepest is another in Peru in a more remote region. Also, Americanos, this canyon is twice as deep as the Grand Canyon.) We squished into the back of a minivan where I promptly fell asleep and Wayne stared out the window and tried to sleep. We arrived in a small town at a freezing restaurant where we ate bread and cheese and jam and coca tea for breakfast, drove a little more, then stopped an amazing lookout where we saw condors and some other animals. We drove a little more and then began day one of our trek.

We climbed down to the bottom of the canyon, which took a few hours. The soil was dry and rocky and the footing could be slippery and I fell on my butt and another hiker’s shoe at one point (Better than landing in mule poop.).

When we got to the bridge at the bottom, we waited as our guide instructed. And waited. And waited. Our group was only eight plus our guide, and the first six of us waited. Apparently, two of the girls had problems – one had knee problems and downhill was problematic for her, and the other was afraid of heights. I’m not sure why they thought it was a good idea for them to sign up, but we ended up spending a lot of time waiting (and less time in the pools!). Then, we hiked another hour to our lunch spot, where the food was actually decent. There were lots of avocado groves we walked through, so of course we had delicious chunks of avocado with lunch.

We walked an easier hike, mostly flat and down, passing agave and aloe vera and all these beautiful places whose names I don’t know. We walked on this tiny single-track trail that was the only way to get around the towns – there were no roads. You had to hike many kilometers over rocks with steep ups and downs and cactuses on other sides, with just mules as your method of transport – and you had to lead them so it’s not like you got to relax. Our guide told us some interesting stories until he had to go back to help the others in our group.

We waited at the next bridge for another hour or two. The sun sunk low in the sky as we waited. But then the all arrived and we headed to Paradiso.

Paradiso had warm water pools – heated by a waterfall high up that was fed by a rather warm lake. The sun was setting but Wayne and I jumped in the pool anyway and swam around for a little bit. Then we went to our room to change and I noticed something odd on the wall, something I had never seen before.

“Uh, Wayne. Is that a scorpion?”

Wayne looked at the wall and just stared. And stared.

We went to our guide. He told the property owner. He followed us to our room. He looked at the wall and then smashed it with a tissue. Just like you’d kill a little bug at home.

We were a little nervous so we put all our stuff in our bags, worried about bugs. Then we ate dinner and went to bed. Wayne and I were a little nervous and slept tight, holding each other and I dreamed about scorpions. When we woke up, we were both alive, unbit, but we had a new scorpion on our wall. We quickly dressed and prepared to climb up the canyon.

Our guide estimated three hours. From the start, it was a difficult climb, my calves aching at the beginning but soon getting used to it. My asthma struggled, and I used my inhaler as the altitude increased. We got to the top in two hours, an hour less than our guide said we should climb it in. And then we waited. And waited. We grew colder and colder, no longer moving, the sun not yet fully over the mountains. We ate our snacks and moaned with hunger and cold.

We were waiting for a slow German hiker, and a South Korean guy who brought his entire backpack – all 17 kilos of it! – on the hike. They were having a tough time. The two Dutch girls who had problems the prior day were taking mules up. Just when Wayne was proposing to save the day by running down to help them, our guide came up. He told us they would be a lot longer, and gave us directions to our breakfast restaurant. We went into Miriam’s which had plastic lawn chairs and nonfunctioning water in the bathroom, but Miriam served us rolls and eggs and butter and marmalade and we put the coca leaves in water which helped us with the altitude and recovery.

After everyone hiked in, they ate and we headed out to an amazing lookout point. Then we went to the hot springs – many in our group were too lazy/poor to head down, but Wayne, a Swedish backpacker, and I fully enjoyed the hot pools – our favourite pool was outdoors and at 40 degrees Celsius.

We ended up befriending these two old Peruvian guys who shared their drinks with us and told their stories. Wayne and I ordered pisco sours which we drank in the water, stretching our legs, enjoying the day.

After we returned to the bus, we went to a buffet, which surprisingly had vegetarian options. Then we stopped and saw some lamas and alpacas and took photos, and headed back to Arequipa.

We were tired. We showered, flipped through our Lonely Planet and tried to make plans. We grew frustrated, and headed out to dinner. I had an Arequipa Sour, which was papaya juice instead of lime. It was pretty incredible.

And then we got back to our room and cuddled up together, sleeping until it was time for one more run in the beautiful city of Arequipa.

Lima, Part III

2012-01-28T19:14:00.000-05:00

And so I returned to Lima.

After my luggage was embarrassingly searched (oh, how foul it smelled after four days in the jungle!), I flew a peaceful flight to Lima.

After a chatty cab ride, I arrived at the Barannco Backpackers Inn. After I dumped the stuff in my room, and gave my dirty clothes to the hostel to wash, I headed out for a long run. I ran along the water, enjoying the parks, the pretty views, the other runners. I headed home for a shower and to try to grab something small to eat, as Wayne was arriving that night and I had a feeling he’d be hungry.

As my body was used to jungle time (bedtime after dinner, rise at 5am), I could no longer stay awake until Wayne’s flight arrived. I crawled into bed and passed out for a few hours, waking around 12:30. Shortly after, I heard the door opening and a very familiar very American voice. He arrived, looking like anyone does after a long flight, telling me of his lost luggage. It was incredible to be back with him, and see him. Since we had gotten together last February, this was the longest we had ever been apart. It felt so right, so perfect.

Because Wayne was hungry (of course) and I was starving as I hadn’t eaten after my long run, we wandered out. A vegetarian restaurant (!) I had passed earlier, only noting that it was in a train car (Perfect for mi novio) and that it was open until 2am. We headed inside, ordered a salad, sandwich and a pizza, and of course, two pisco sours. The drink of choice.

After, we headed back and went to sleep for a few hours. We awoke early, and ate the typical breakfast in Peru of bread and marmalade and butter for breakfast. Then we headed out, walking down along the beach, walking around the beautiful streets. We were in love with Barannco and decided to change our plane tickets on the way back to spend more time in Lima before we flew back to the States.

We ate lunch – Wayne’s first Peruvian meal. Of course, I got the eggs/rice/platanos/salad option, which I’ve had plenty of times before. We also got pisco sours and tried the delicious yet scarily neon yellow Inca Cola, which we both discovered we secretly love. And then more walking on the streets and on the beach. And then a flight to Arequipa!

Pics of the Amazon

2012-01-24T08:05:00.000-05:00

The Amazon, Part II

2012-01-24T07:54:00.002-05:00

After getting a boat ride from a farmer, I hopped a cab for the bumpy, muddy 20km ride into Puerto Maldonado. In the cab was the driver and cook in the front, my guide, me, an Italian backpacker, and an American nonprofit founder/medicinal plant shaman, plus in the trunk, a mother, her four kids, two giant backpacks, and two packs and the spare tie were on the roof of the car. Typical.

I arrived at the Tambopatu Hostel, and was very unsettled. My jungle experience had been ruined, was awful, and maybe I should just fly to Lima. Maybe.

A bunch of friendly backpackers welcomed me, and the owner and jungle guide was there. He told me about a trip leaving the following day, an overnight that would allow me to make my flight back to Lima. Sold! Plus he seemed friendly, came recommended, and not just by the guidebook, but by other travelers I had met, including the Shaman.

The next morning, after a very good for-a-hostel breakfast, we walked down to the ferry – all 11 backpackers and 2 guides – with giant rubber boots. We all struggled with our bags which were weighed down with heavy clothes and rainjackets, which we didn’t need, and giant 2.5 liter bottles of water, which we did need. We got on a boat for about 45 minutes, applying sunscreen, enjoying the breeze, spraying on bug spray. We were already getting bit up.

After we arrived, we put on our rubber boots and began hiking in the sweltering rubber through a very muddy trail. Quickly, we saw monkeys, birds, fire ants leaf cutter ants, and lots of other insects, trees, plants, and wildlife. After around an hour, we got into a canoe and went across the lake.

We hiked a few minutes and then found our cabins. Mine was a private room in a hut I shared with two Chilean girls. A mosquito net over the bed, wooden floors, thatched roofs. It was rustic.

We had enough time for a short swim before lunch and I was a little nervous – this is where they found caiman and pirannahs, but our guide convinced us it was okay. He went in first to show us, and after one or two steps, we saw it wasn’t. He stepped on a fresh water stingray.

He went up to the lodge, where they burned a termite’s nest – the smoke healed disinfect and heal the wound. Someone also gave him an antibiotic. We were sweating, but no one else was hurt.

After lunch, I sat in the shade and wrote a letter. After getting bitten up by ants, I headed down to the water. It was cooler and I continued writing in the shade, but finally, after others urged me, headed in for a quick swim. I splashed a lot while I entered and exited, but was still scared.

Our afternoon hike was focused on medicinal plants. We ate native fruits, brazil nuts. Our guide pointed out all sorts of wildlife, and we were sweaty and dirty but so enthused.

After a short break, we hopped in canoes for a sunset ride. We saw monkeys – so many monkeys, hanging in the trees, so cute! We saw lots of birds, including the infamous “stinky bird” (that sounds like it has asthma). After the sun set, our guide caught two caimans and passed them around the boat.

We had dinner, and then, went on a short hike to look at various tarantula.

Then bed – around 9am. No electricity means an early night.

I woke up at 5am, due to a bat swooping around my room. Freaky. I crawled out, keeping as close to the ground as possible. We headed back to the canoe for another ride – more monkeys, more birds, just a beautiful day. We climbed high high high, many spiral staircases up, to see an incredible view.

Then breakfast, chatting.

And then – a hike with just the son of the property owner. We did not talk, but sweated, pushed, and quickly completely a tough hike. Everyone else was on a boat ride, but I was off to catch my flight.

The Amazon, Part I

2012-01-24T07:53:00.000-05:00

I had been in the jungle years ago in Brazil – it was one of the most incredible travel experiences of my life and I couldn’t wait to repeat. Sure, there were scary and gross and filthy moments, but it was a lovely experience.

I had booked a tour to the Nape Ecovillage and Botanical Gardens through Rainforest Expeditions – highly recommended in my Lonely Planet and sounding like an amazing trip. I’m sad to say this wasn’t the case.

I’ll keep it as short as I can: I arrived and discovered I was the only person on my guide’s tour – and oh yeah, I was her first tour ever. No one else was there, my guide was shy and quiet and didn’t know a lot. The schedule had been changed – hunting and fishing with traditional forms had been added, along with a fishing trip. Vegetarian says NO! A jaguar had been in our hut a few days prior – our hut which had giant screen-less, glass-less windows, and no doors anywhere. I was frightened to sleep. The bugs were also scary! Our first day, we did maybe 30 minutes of activities, and the second day 4 hours. And then we were done, and I had two more days. I asked repeatedly for them to take me back and they resisted but finally agreed. Nothing was right and I was unhappy. I was so sad because I had so looked forward to this part of the trip for a long time and it was so saddening that it was not working out like I had so hoped.

Cusco, Part I: The Run

2012-01-23T18:54:00.001-05:00

This trip, too many times, I had long layovers and no time later/earlier to run. So I learned the brilliant option of checking your bags. Sometimes, as in Cuzco, they charge way too much. But at least they store your stuff.

After changing in the VIP Lounge (where they stored my bags securely), I headed out to run to Plaza de los Armes. On the way, I stopped at a pharmacy to get much-needed Cipro. No prescription necessary, just a short chat with a pharmacists and 5 soles later (or around $1.60USD), I got medicine that tamed my wild Peruvian belly.

And then I kept running. I ran fast. I asked a friendly painter for directions. ‘Ay, muy linda,’ he told me of the plaza. And I ran.

I ran past tourism like I hate it, like I haven’t seen in a while. While running, people tried to sell me things, to have me change dollars to soles (Why? Like every smart traveler, I hit up an ATM for the best rate, and I had enough soles!), to get me to hop on the Macchu Picchu tour.

Cuzco was pretty, yes. The hills reminded me of Chacha – but I think Chacha is prettier. It was green and lovely and quaint and colonial – but I sometimes get sick of the massive tourism.

After an hour and a half, I re-entered the terminal, people perplexed and amused. I went through security, changed and freshened up in the bathroom. And then I had enough time to buy an internet password, email those I loved one last time before the jungle, and get excited for the next step in my journey.

Chiclayo

2012-01-23T18:52:00.000-05:00

Originally, I was torn between Chiclayo (much closer to everything else, and with an airport) and Chachapoyas. Yes, an overnight bus ride – but if you get first class, like I do, it’s not so bad. But the overnight bus left me with the option of taking another 12 hour bus ride to Lima or flying. I found a fairly affordable flight and figured I could do the best of both worlds and see Chiclayo! Bueno!

I arrived bleary-eyed but ready to explore the city – until the kindly security guard informed me that it was too dangerous for me to walk around. My friends had been pickpocketed in the city a few days prior, and the news was bursting about the assault of a North American woman. I don’t know what happened, but it seemed to be pretty bad as everyone was quite worried. I thought about getting a hotel just for a place to take a nap, shower, and have a secure spot to crash, but the affordable ones listed in Lonely Planet had all seemed to shut down. (Several people verified this for me.)

So I chilled in the bus station until 7am, and then joined the masses on the streets. With my pack in the bus station’s luggage storage, I still had my laptop, passport, kindle, camera, iPod – I had to be careful. So I walked cautiously, trying to ignore the many stares/comments I got.

I explored the main square, various streets, and then got breakfast. “Tienes comida vegetarian?” Hmmm…She pointed out there was spaghetti con veduras. “Para desayuno?” She shrugged. I decided I couldn’t deal with any more eggs, so I ordered that for breakfast. It was with some sort of soy sauce, no onion because I requested that, and tons of cabbage. It was edible.

After breakfast, I wandered around the town a bit more, and then, dealt with the drama (and expense) of mailing things back to the States. And then I headed to the even more extreme drama of catching a combi (minibus) to Lambayeque. I hopped off when I got to the town, and someone told me how to get to the Museo Tumbes Reales de Sipan.

The site of Sipan is about 40km from Chiclayo, but this wasn’t that. Basically, when they discovered this tomb, they moved most of the stuff to this site to be restored and displayed. It’s one of the top ten archeological museums in the world and is just gorgeous – it’s laid out in the same way as the tomb, in layers, so you walk around on ramps like you are layers in the tombs – and the tombs are arranged in a similar way that everything is found. It includes the skeleton of the young (He died in his 40s.) Lord Sipan, who died young with a terrible bone disease – maybe arthritis. Because he was royalty, he did not walk – he wore golden sandals. (FYI, If I’m ever a lord or president or ruler, I will not wear shoes you can’t walk in. I will make running a national past-time.) Anyway, all his jewelry, his clothing, everything is on display. They also found the bones of several others buried with him – his wife, concubines, soldiers, etc. I’m sorry, I love Wayne, but if he dies, I’m not jumping into that burial site with him.

The museum is only 10 soles (a little more than $3USD), but to get a private guide (which really helps to tell a lot more of the story than is on display – which, by the way, is only in Espanol) is only 20 soles – so you get someone telling you all about everything, answering your questions – for a little more than $6USD.

It was absolutely fascinating, and I was full of questions. Also very cool – you get to see people fixing and working on restoring remains in a building to the side of the main building.

After, I got ensalada de fruta con yogurt, miel y cereals (fruit salad with yogurt, honey & muesli), and then returned to Chiclayo. I got my bag from the bus station, was very relieved, as the bus station personnel have proved themselves incompetent many times – temporarily losing my bags in Chiclayo when I was transferring buses to go to Chacha, marking my bags for Trujillo when they were destined to Chiclayo – and then arguing me that my bag was going to Trujillo and shouldn’t stay with me.

With time to burn, but not sure what to do, I decided to head to the airport early. I used the wifi, relaxed, and enjoyed not being in a rush, for once.

Photos of Chachapoyas!!!

2012-01-23T18:44:00.000-05:00

Chachapoyas!

2012-01-19T13:22:00.000-05:00

Cha-Cha!

Of course I'm down with a town that nicknames itself Chacha.

Lonely Planet says something along the lines of, even if you have a few weeks to see Chachapoyas, that’s still not enough time.

They’re so right (despite being wrong about some of the bus times).

After an amazing waterfall hike on Monday (2.5 hours there, 2.5 hours back, amazing views, challenging inclines and declines), I was exhausted, and glad for a bed (especially as I had taken an uncomfortable overnight bus on the last ticket available (i.e., not comfy!)).The hike took us to one of the tallest waterfalls in the world, and provided constant glances of the various waterfalls from the lake. It was quite lovely.

Tuesday, again with Elizabeth and Florian (my new German friends I met in the Chacha bus station that I spent every day with in Chacha), we headed on a tour of the sarcophagi. Imagine – you hike 25 minutes down a steep path and then you finally look up – and you see, deep high up in the cliff crevices, sarcophagi. They are massive, made of clay and stone, weighing many, many kilos. They are filled with mummies and valued possessions – but they have been placed in these very precarious high-up, hard-to-get-to spots. Amazing, when you think about it.

And then we headed to a cave in the middle of nowhere. A cave where we wore rainboots b/c it was too mucky and wet to not, completely dark. We saw bones, amazing cave stuff like stalagmites and such, interesting and beautiful.

And then, tired again, sleep. Rewarding travels.

In the morning, I headed to Keulap. This is why I came to Chacha, partially. Keulap is similar to Macchu Pichu. Yes, you should go there. But beautiful – it’s not crowded. It’s an amazing civilization, built in layers, surrounded by a fortress. It was history. Better than a history class.

And with so many amazing things, like the incredible views we constantly experienced, being in spiritual vortexes – it was a lucky amazing time.

I Miss Peanut Butter!

2012-01-19T12:50:00.000-05:00

I Miss Peanut Butter

To be honest, peanut butter isn’t my favourite. (To admit that would be sacrilegious in my current relationship.) It’s almond butter. But right now, I would pay about $20 for a peanut butter sandwich. Jelly not necessary, but it would be a nice touch.

Traveling as a vegetarian can be difficult. I remember crying and eating cookies for dinner in Valencia, Spain; realizing I must stay in hostels with kitchens in Eastern Europe (or I’d starve); wandering around aimlessly Christmas Eve night, being chased by a rabid dog, looking for something to eat.

So yes, I’ll admit culture is a big part of food and when I don’t eat the food of the culture, it is missing out on some of the culture. But I also don’t want to give up my morals or ideals.

I’m a vegetarian for a few reasons: I think it’s wrong to eat animals. I think it’s environmentally wrong to eat animals (in the U.S. – factory farms, cutting down trees in rainforests to provide grazing space for cattle.) I also don’t like the taste. It started as a taste thing, but morphed into other reasons.

But when traveling – it can be difficult.

Peru has been difficult. Beans and eggs. More eggs. Eggs. Eggs in the form of tortilla veduras, which I am sick of (especially after it’s been cooked in 3 cups of oil and I’ve eaten it three days in a row). I’m sick of it.

I was fantasizing about peanut butter. My boyfriend already promised to bring me a jar (which knowing him, he’ll eat most of on the plane ride down).

It’s so hard.

Sometimes, I just don’t even want to eat. And when my stomach isn’t cooperating, bananas and yogurt it is. And you know what? That often tastes better than the vegetarian option.

I’ve already planned my victory meal upon return – I want a salad, full of leafy veggies. And for sure, as Pomsey would like, I’ll be baking some of my infamous pumpkin chocolate chip cookies.

In the meantime, I’ll stomach as much of the food as I can in between all the other amazing things I’m experiencing while traveling.

Because this is how it is sometimes...

2012-01-19T12:47:00.000-05:00

Wednesday I got up at 6, ran, showered and got ready, checked out, went on a tour all day of Keulap, got back, repacked, headed to overnight bus, slept on a bus (which isn't the best slept), woke up at 5am, and ended up in shady Chiclayo bus station. I put my bag in the bus station storage, which worried me b/c the bag attendant seemed so confused by what I wanted to do that I fretted all day about the contents of my pack. Then, after being advised by the security guard that I shouldn't wander until much later in the day because a North American woman had been assaulted (coupled with the fact that my friends who I had just left on the bus told me they had gotten mugged here), I nervously sat in the bus station.

And sat.

And sat.

Finally, unable to take it any longer, I asked the security guard if he thought it was okay. He nodded. I walked to Plaza del Armes, tried to find something to eat, finally found a cafe. They lacked vegetarian items, as usual, but suggested spaghetti con veduras. For breakfast? Okay. I didn't want any more eggs. Of course it was nothing like what I wanted/planned. But it was okay.

And then I explored the square, and mailed a letter to V, and then I hopped on the minibus to Lambayeque (1soles30). Then I went to Museo Tumbes Reales de Sipan. 10 soles gets you in, and another 20 soles gets you a guide. I had my own personal guide, which was pretty neat, and he explained pretty much everything as we walked through the museum. And then I grabbed some fruit and yogurt (YES!) and hopped on another minibus back to Chiclayo.

At the bus station, I grabbed my bag. I was too tired to do much else. I thought about exploring the market, but that's where my friends got mugged, and I had too many valuables on me to risk that. So I headed to the airport early.

And I sit here, bleary eyed, exhausted, yearning for my bed tonight, for a nice run in Lima (if it's safe, if there's time...), and I know, that traveling's not always what you want it to be, but it has to be something else to get you there.

Huanchaco

2012-01-16T21:25:00.000-05:00

I went to Huanchaco because it had beaches, it had surf, it had ruins. Sounded fun to me.

I arrived oh, five or six hours later than planned, due to airplane delays (oh fun!). I was so exhausted from when I arrived, but that didn’t seem to make sense. All I did was sit on a plane, in an airport, and go running. True, I didn’t sleep IN a bed, but…I got to the hostel, it was quiet save a group of drunk Australians, so I completely crashed out and slept hard for almost ten hours.

I got up, went running, and when I came back, I asked the woman at the front desk of the hostel about heading to the ruins. She offered a tour, but I needed another person. Hmmm. Then she told me about surfboard lessons. When I came out of the shower, she was knocking at my door, telling me I could go on the tour in twenty-five minutes. I quickly dressed, threw a bunch of stuff in a bag, and ate my first real meal since I left – avocado and egg sandwich with fruit salad and passionfruit juice. Ah, I love Latin America.

The other person from my hostel turned out to be a pretty nice guy named Jon. We ended up quickly developing a rapport, teasing each other, telling stories. We met a much older couple in their sixties who were dating and traveling (How bold! I love it!) and we laughed with them as well. We visited Huacas del Sol y de la Luna, had lunch in Trujillo, went to Chan Chan and all of the associated sites and museums, which featured some pretty ridiculous “dioramas.”

After, we rehydrated with pisco sours, which I must say, are amazing. We went to the Jungle Bar Bily, which is on the main strip of Huanchaco. Pisco sours contain pisco (a grape brandy), lime, sugar, sour mix and egg whites. The egg white thing grossed me out, but just don’t think about it, and you’ll easily suck them down. Then we got dinner at Otra Cosa, the vegetarian place, and went back for a maracuya sour, which was made with maracuya (passionfruit). And then I tried to figure out if I should go to Chachapoyas or Chiclayo – nah, nah – or Huarez.

I woke up early, went for a run, then ended up at a surf lesson. I used to love surfing but I’m giving it up – I had a really bad time last time in Costa Rica and I’ve just been scared since then. And I don’t feel comfortable. He did “theory” and we spent some time in the water but I just didn’t feel it. I think I’m over surfing. I know it’s “cool” but honestly, I used to love it but I can’t get there anymore. I don’t feel in control anymore. And I don’t feel like I want to do it anymore. But that’s fine – I have writing and sewing clothes and running and Burning Man and my family and the beaches are good for running on or chilling with a book or playing board games with Gwendolyn. I don’t need to surf. I don’t need to do everything. And I guess admitting that, figuring it out, not challenging myself when I’m supposed to have fun, well, I think that’s a big first step.

I got back to the hostel and found out the direct bus to Chachapoyas was sold out, along with the buses to Huarez. Crap. I didn’t know what to do. I guess I could take a bus to Chiclayo and then grab a bus to Chachapoyas – but what if those were sold out? I pulled off my bikini, grabbed my pack, and Jon accompanied me to the bus station where I bought exactly those tickets. Then we went back on the bus which was of course, insane, and ate, I showered, and then we chilled and made more travel plans.

So much of what I do while traveling is planning – talking to other travelers about where to go next, figuring out the logistics, booking buses and planes, hostels, figuring out where to store my pack. Like I have that logistical problem when I get to Chiclayo – 8 hours in Chiclayo with my pack is a long time. I’ll figure it out, I suppose. I usually do. Even if it sucks for a little bit, I figure it out in the end.

Is Life a Marathon or an Ultramarathon?

2012-01-16T20:59:00.000-05:00

Is life an ultramarathon or a marathon?

Sometimes, the journey isn’t about where you go but what you find within yourself.

I feel like much of what traveling is about is about finding myself. I discover more and more each day about the world, about people, about other cultures, about myself.

I think that people are marathoners or ultramarathoners.

I used to be a marathoner. Now I’m an ultrarunner.

Sure there’s the non-runners too, but what I’m talking about doesn’t even apply to necessarily running, but it’s a metaphor for life.

Marathoners are obsessed with specific goals, times. They measure themselves against things much grander than they can achieve (i.e., they’re 5 hour runners dreaming of running Boston), they become obsessed with pace, they are particular about goals and times and water bottles and outfits.

Ultrarunners have a goal – “I want to go sub 21, but I’ll take sub 24. And if it’s a bad race, as long as I finish. But if that ITB that’s been flaring up becomes unbearable, I know I’ll have to stop.” And then the race is about that nice girl you run with from mile 19 to 39, whose name you never got but you know that she is a biologist who works in a big lab for a pharmaceutical company, but wants to move to a university except she would have to move towns and her son is in a great school and very fragile and she doesn’t like to move him around. And it’s about those homemade cinnamon chip cookies you get at mile 68. And about those ghosts you saw dancing in the woods at mile 84. And it’s about getting too cold and total strangers giving you the clothes off their backs and everyone helping you – everything helping you – to finish and discover more about your inner self.

As I travel the slow route – 15 hour bus rides, sleeping on uncomfortable hostel beds, waking up too early, napping sporadically on planes, long days, drinking, meeting amazing people, meeting mean people. Seeing ancient ruins or rainforests or beaches or mountains or deserts, all on the same trip – and experiencing the best and the worst and the most mediocre of all.

It’s about experiencing everything. I don’t want to go to a cruise – only the highlights – because you miss the realness of things. Sure, I don’t like the long bus rides and the beds collapsing on me in the middle of the night and the bad food (Can we say gross cheese with some mushy veggies and occasional noodles called vegetable lasagna?). I would much prefer an easier life, but honestly, sometimes that’s not an option. To get to where I’m going now – Chachapoyas – I took a 20 minute cab to a 4 hour bus to an 11 hour bus – overnight. There’s no other way.

If I want to go to the jungle and see these ruins and see what Peru is all about – then I need to take it all – cheesey sauce and all. I just sometimes wish I could fast-forward to the good parts, through the pain and unpleasant experiences

A Run Through Lima

2012-01-13T18:48:00.000-05:00

So far, just ran in Lima. I have never been sexually harassed so many times. I'm pretty sure there must be a law, "See woman running, honk/leer/slow down car/say something/whistle."

I had a long time in between flights, but not enough time to head out and explore Peru, so I checked my stuff in the airport, and headed out for a run.

It was great to stretch my legs - I ran in places I'm sure no one has ever run before - it seemed that way, based on reactions. I ended up running along this dry creek/river - I was high up on the banks, and below saw lots of dry spots, rocks, trash - so much trash, burnt trash, all kinds of trash. And people walking in the water, washing clothes, picking up the trash (to see if something would be useful).

And I ran on by. I don't wish to take photos, like some people I know, for these are the things that are not just images in your head, but experiences stamped on your soul.

And so I run, everywhere I go, through dusty, polluted air, past stray dogs and curious cars, I run.

I's Funny the Things You Miss

2012-01-13T18:27:00.000-05:00

Sleeping in the airport, waiting for my flight to Trujillo, I was awkwardly draped across the chairs (Can they ever make airport chairs comfy?), I was comforted by the thought that you were holding me. I woke up a while later, surprised I wasn't wrapped in your arms, our white comforter over us, and I felt a thick lump of sadness in my throat.

And although the possibilities are endless, I'm stuck in that transit hell that always drags me down, and I can't think of anything but how much I miss you, how you really make everything better, how we don't necessarily need to explore the world when we have the world in each others' arms

But we do and we will.

Watchung 50k+ Race Report

2012-01-08T18:54:00.000-05:00

Sometimes, I feel like certain ultras shouldn't even be called whatever distances. As Rick the RD said himself, "You are NOT running a 50k. It's more like 33 or 34 miles." So let's just accept the fact that yesterday I ran for a while at Watchung Reservation.

The day was only slightly chilly at the start - I think 38 degrees or so. We gathered in by the start/finish/aid station/drop bag area. I had never seen so many people at one of NJ Trail Series races - good! I also saw a lot of familiar faces, which was great fun.

I started off enjoying the day, though to be honest, I had a cold, though over the course of the day, I felt heaps better. (I guess I spit/blew all that phlegm out?) The first loop, I ran with a few different people, by myself.

The course was mostly single track. I ran this race twice - in 2009, there was a blizzard which made following the white blazes that marked the trail difficult. In 2010, it was horribly cold and there was snow everywhere. This year, no snow, mild temperatures, and I could see the trail.

And the trail, well, you might not want to see it. TONS of rocks, rocks, rocks everywhere, with some roots thrown in here and there, just for fun. Hills, but nothing too perilous. Well, for an ultra anyway.

You run maybe four miles that take forever, including a steep climb. Then you hit an unmanned aid station and fill up on water, just water. And then you run another 3, 4 miles, including through an abandoned village, and next to a pretty lake. And then you get to an awesome aid station with pop tarts and Oreo cookies and pretzels. And yeah, water. And then you get to the main aid station with more pop tarts and blueberries and pretzels. And the course is up and down but full of quiet NJ winter woods and it's a nice day for running, of course.

Except I had a wicked asthma attack the day before. The kind of asthma attack I don't get often, that left me flailing and Wayne freaking, trying to put my inhaler in my mouth. The kind of inhaler that left me shaky for hours. And I obviously wasn't recovered, because every hill I hit left me breathless. I had to walk most hills, even hills I could normally run, because if I didn't, my breathing would go crazy. And my goal was to finish without an asthma attack. I know from experience - the more attacks I get, the more I get, and it's a cycle. And if I can prevent it, I should. Four puffs of my inhaler and moderation where necessary kept me good.

My cold left me feeling crappy and at one point, the thought hit me. My boyfriend had the same cold (though he was further along in the journey) and, rightfully so, he was doing what one should do when they had a cold - drinking lots of hot tea, sleeping lots, resting. What was I doing? Running an ultramarathon.

ANIMAL!

Or psycho, anyway.

My second loops was quiet, I mostly ran by myself. I stupidly forgot gaiters and probably stopped 8-10 times to empty out my shoes. I also threw up a little in my mouth so I drank some water, walked up a hill, and began running slowly.

Ah, the fun of ultramarathoning.

The third loop was much easier. I got through the first and the second. I could do this. I thought of the finish, I ignored the pain in my hip the best I could, I ignored the pain in my shin the best I could, I pushed on.

The water - delicious! And I pushed. "Are you running a race?" "Yeah." "How far?" "50k." "Huh?!" But I was gone.

At the second to last aid station, I enjoyed a cinnamon pop tart. Delicious. Do they serve these in gourmet restaurants?

Two guys and I started together. One faded. The one guy, a French transplant living in NJ and I talked about life, about vacation, about quality of life, about work-life balance, about change, about love. Those things that you suddenly discover four miles from a finish of an ultra. It all comes out in a beautiful conversation.

And we pushed forward. There was cheering of "DADDY" (not for me) as we surged forward.

And we finished, with mud on our feet, aches in our muscles, and smiles on our faces.

Just a little run in the woods...

Next Up....PERU!

2012-01-08T18:25:00.000-05:00

I'm really excited - I head to Peru on Thursday and I will joined by mi novio 11 days later.

It's weird - in traveling, I find something I don't find in ordinary life. It's challenge. It's learning about new cultures. It's learning about myself. It's learning about the world. It's learning about history, not just the fake BS one we learn about in U.S. History textbooks. It's pushing beyond my limits. It's living outside my comfort zone.

I'm very comfortable right now - beyond it. I like my work, love my running, am completely in love with my boyfriend and our life in our happy apartment with a happy (yet persistently hungry and absolutely adorable) cat. We drink wine and hot cider and throw parties and cook dinner and go out to dinner and get tipsy and walk down the street, arm in arm, kissing. And we're so lucky.

But we want more. We want to know more outside our apartment, where to be honest, I think we both would be find hibernating for a while. In each others' arms, watching Spanish-language movies or eating Thai food or making eggs - this is really happiness and absolute contentment and BEYOND - but we want more. We want to explore it all together. I'm going to miss my kitty and our bed and my kitchen and my cooking and reading under a pile of blankets, snuggled up....

But there's a whole world out there and it's waiting for us to explore it.

First, solo, I'll head up to Trujillo. Then to Haunchaco. And then, to Chiclayo or, if I can figure it out, Chachoyas. And then back to Lima. And then Puerto Maldonado. And then to the Amazon for a few days. Then back to Lima, where I'll get to reunite with mi novio. And then to Arequipa, Lake Titicaca, Cuzco, Macchu Picchu.

Of course, most of this is subject to change. And probably will.

Travel Healthy

2012-01-03T14:06:00.000-05:00

When I head down to my beloved Latin American countries, the only bad thing is the need for immunizations. Typhoid, malaria, yellow fever, all that good stuff. I have to get typhoid pills (Apparently, they only last five years and mine expire tomorrow. Oops. Let's stay away from typhoid tomorrow!) and malarone.

When Crista and I went to Argentina, I had malarone, which is a pain just because you have to take a pill every day. But since I'm on asthma meds (three different meds each day), it's no big deal to remember to take yet another pill. Crista went on a different pill (I don't want to say which because I can't remember and it's hard to determine from the CDC's website) but she ended up with a wicked sunburn after 30 minutes in the sun (poor girl ended up on the beach with a hat, jeans, and long sleeved shirt while I was in a bikini) and had psychotic dreams....horrible scary dreams, murder-crazy-freaky dreams. Someone at my hostel in Manaus was on the same thing and went psycho, screaming, freaking out during a nightmare. Completely scary.

For Peru, I only need typhoid and malarone. Glad that yellow fever lasts another 10 years...

I found a great place in NY to get travel immunizations - New Yorkers, pay heed. Wall Street Medical Associates (actually located on 156 William Street) is an affordable place to get shots. A lot of other places charge you a consultation fee (not covered by insurance) but drop by this walk-in clinic 9-3 or call 212-233-3040. *No financial interest for me, by the way. Just letting you know what I know!*

Old Me

2012-01-02T18:35:00.000-05:00

Today I ran the 5 minutes to the gym, then went on the rowing machine (my favourite!), followed by 35 minutes on the elliptical, and then strength training. ROAR. Then I ran back home, roused my sleepy boyfriend, and we headed out for a run.

Then I did errands, shopped, ran around all day, came home, and went on another run. I pushed it, running like Michael Wardian does to train for trails in the city (never running in a straight line, approaching obstacles like they are opportunities - that's my line, not his, but I think that's his idea).

This has nothing to do with that it's 2012. I'm an athlete and this is my regular training.

I really don't like the "New You" crap that everyone buys into for the very end of the year/beginning of the year. I went to the gym this morning to see crowds of people using machines incorrectly, creating crowds and waits where there needn't be any ordinarily. Sigh. It's part of this media machine that teaches us to hate our bodies - we must reshape and reform and lose weight. But the way most people in the U.S. eat (tons of processed crap, on-the-go fast food), it's nearly impossible. Eating well is a high priority for me. I have been cooking up a storm of soups lately and am stockpiling my freezer with various soups to grab and heat up another day - that's my kinda fast food, a good red lentil squash apple soup, homemade by me!

I guess if a new year inspires people to healthier living, awesome. But do people really change, I wonder?

My new years' resolution is to write more. Spend more time with my grandmas. Improve my Spanish. Keep traveling. Keep being me.

These are all things I do now, but I just wanted to let you know, I plan on keep doing it.

So yes, do something healthy. Go to the gym, and rather than go a few times now, and then realize in April it's been three months since you went, but you swear you'll go - only to forget and then finally cancel in June - KEEP GOING. Find something that gives you exercise that you love, whatever it is. And keep doing it b/c it's good for you.

And soon, next year, your resolution will to keep being that OLD YOU. Keep the good things, you know, that exercising you are actually doing, and keep on doing it.

Happy Old Me,
Happy New Years!

2011!

2011-12-31T15:27:00.000-05:00

And 2011 is almost over. As I sit here, while my chai cooks on my stove, I can't help but think back on the past year. Lots of running, lots of running, lots of traveling.

Happy after an all-nighter on the playa with my love!

I started in the streets of Leon, Nicaragua, surrounded by strangers who became friends, other backpackers who I discussed philosophy and love and Spanish and life with mere moments after meeting them. The local radio station put the speakers in the street and we danced with old ladies and shared bottles of delicious Flor de Cana rum while we celebrated our love of life.

Then I continued traveling, experienced a painful breakup, ran to beautiful places around Central America, improved my Spanish, and somehow found myself back in NY. Flew to Florida to see my Gram, cried at the loss of my Papa, and ran 50 miles.

Flew back to NYC, tried to push all the sadness out of my heart as I ran my slowest ever 50k through snow and ice and wet freezing cold puddles and misery. Got frostbite.

Fell in love. Right after the frostbite, I fell in love. The first night, he touched my toes, and told me they were cold. I let him warm me up. I let the next few months - really, to be honest, this next beautiful year - be absorbed with utter happiness in our love.

Ran Umstead 100 Miler. Fought with my sister, mother. Made up. Ran Bear Mountain 50 Miler. Skipped the Peaks Ultra to head to Tahoe and Big Sur for a wedding on my 32nd birthday. Gunks Fatass 50k.

Philly for work. Then PEX to dance and experience freedom. Intoxication to absolute fun. And amazing conversations of what is this all really about?

No one ever really knows.

Burning Man prep was a blur. Costumes, shopping, sewing, sewing, sewing, ultra prep. Night before flight found my boy and I making numbers for the race.

And the week was bliss...self-discovery and amazingness and it can go on forever because everything you want is there.

And then the worst 100 miler ever. Horrible. Went from 3rd place woman in BRC 50k to the back of the Rio del Lago 100 miler.

I lost my love for running.

I ran Vermont 50, as a fun run, with friends. It felt great.

Flu. Bad running. Just love.

And November. Ran DWG 50k. Fun.

Then Cajun Coyote 100 Miler. Didn't meet my goal time but made second woman. Had a blast. Once again, my love for trail running exploded. And visited New Orleans.

And a million other things - more races and parties and Occupy Wall Street and protesting hardcore and Team Odwalla Athlete and being so busy I can barely breathe and NBR runs and my sister is pregnant and one of my best friends had a baby and I grew tougher at running and did a few speed workouts and ran twice a day and studied Spanish lots and visited my Gram in FL twice and started baking and cooking again and let the wounds all heal, my grandfather is in a better place, and my cat grew sweeter, and I read more and I broke down and got a Kindle and I ran to the beach and I called both my grandmas two or three times a week and started knitting again and made blankets for friend/babies and loved my lightweight shoes but also ran in Hokas and almost ran away to a million different places 5,000 times, but never would because love always keeps me warm and happy and one day, we'll live in our little bungalow on the beach in Costa Rica with twelve cats, writing, fighting for equality.

Happy 2011 - it's been great. 2012 will be even better!

Run in the Rockies!

2011-12-28T18:10:00.001-05:00

To my East Coast Tri-State Ultrarunning Pals, a run in the Rockies means a run in Rockefeller State Park. I did have days in my life where running in the Rockies meant running in the Rocky Mountains where I, for two years, lived (ahhhh, the Naropa Boulder days...), but this is quite different.

Rockefeller State Park is a nice place to run trails - they're all carriage trails, so nothing too technical, though if you're like me, you'll end up with small stones in your shoes (and a bee, as Tony once witnessed during a flailing, screaming, shoe-kicking incident at the end of a way-too-long run last summer). There's a bunch of hills that I did repeats (7x this one horrible hill today), hills that Tony makes me run hard up, and lots of gentle ups and downs. Great training b/c unlike Bear Mountain where you end up hiking because you are climbing essentially, mountains, most of these hills are runnable unless you choose this time to pull out your phone to look at your Google map to see where the hell an exit to this park may be.

But I digress.

A great thing about this park is you can get here via public transport. You can go via a ride to the Pleasantville train station following these directions; however, it's almost 3 miles and I have never run that way. The plus of going that way is you enter by the main entrance of the park, which is where the bathrooms are (Sometimes, you just don't want to find a tree, and there are some parts in the Rockies were trees are not as common as you'd like!), plus water fountains (that might only be on in the summer) and a soda/other beverage machine (I think they have water and vitamin water too!). I know these trails best and also, you're close to the lake which is a cute 2 or so mile run around.

Today I went via the Tarrytown Train Station, where the trains seem to run more often. And it's less time running on the roads - 1.4 miles! I use these directions, but my play-by-play might help you more. I run up the hill behind the train station, up this street called Franklin. (If you get lost, ask anyone how you can run to Broadway.) When I get to Broadway, I hit a left and run down for a bit, past the cute little town of Tarrytown (good Greek place on your left, should you be hungry on the way back) and past all the official looking buildings and past the high school. You'll make a right just after you pass the Horseman Diner and head up the steep 448 - and then you'll make a left onto the OCA (Old Croton Aqueduct Trail). You run down this for a little while - at one point, the trail disappears but keep going past houses in the general direction and you'll end up back on it - and when you see trails on your right, go that way - those are the Rockies!

Other nice things about this park - you can park for free at the high school across from the OCA entrance (or sometimes!) and if you get to the main lot of the Rockies it's free before 8am, I think. If you come up via train, you can hide a gallon of water and change of clothes/etc in the woods, as I have done before. Mostly, I love it because it's pretty, you can run by Stone Barns and see the super cute pigs and cows and animals (Vegetarian Cherie doesn't think of eating these!), deer!, flowers, the hills are manageable but still push you, you see people but not so many.

I love the Rockies! Training for Santa Barbara 100 Miler in April followed three weeks later by Bear Mountain 50 Miler - I'll be training here for the long faster runs.

Care to join?

He Sang to Me

2011-12-28T17:45:00.000-05:00

It was the second-to-last day of Burning Man. The last day for many people. The Man had burned last night. My campmates were unpacking, picking up moop, giving away food. It seemed so awful to let it all fall apart. My boyfriend was absorbed in the process of making ice cream. I needed to leave, somewhere, I don't know. I couldn't deal with everyone I loved for an inexplicable, painful reason.

So I biked around. I headed to Center Camp. People were dazed, with the dust and lack of sleep and intense environment and I'm sure, other substances. I felt sorrowful, and I couldn't figure out the cause. I thought of my Papa, who had died one year and mere days earlier.

I sat on a couch. I wasn't sure why, except that I couldn't handle my grief standing up. The guy next to me made room, smiled, and offered popcorn. I blinked back tears and shook my head.

I closed my eyes and listened to the music.

I still felt numb, but my soul was thawing. I wondered what was happening back at my camp, but I didn't want to be there. I needed to be someplace that that was not. I needed to find something else. Something deep inside me.

And I still felt - weird. Later, Gwendolyn attributed it to me being sad that it was the second-to-last day of the Burn and she let me have my bad mood. She loves me like that.

And then, the scruffy but intensely special singer on stage, began singing, "I'm For Today." I got him. I understood him. It all made sense.

I'm for today -
I'm for the birds who fly away -
Free as they came,
Free as they came.

I blinked back tears. I listened hard. I clapped my hands until they ached. He finished singing, this wonderful Aaron Glass. He gave me a hug and a CD.

I hopped on my bike. I sang again and again, the chorus which pulled me up. As I biked, I swear everyone listened, and was waking up in their own way.

But it's Burning Man, everyone wakes up in their own way.

Is 100 "It"? (Or, Why Do I Run 100 Milers?)

2011-12-20T14:16:00.000-05:00

For years, marathons were IT for me. I trained and trained and trained, and if I bombed, I cried and was depressed for days, or if I did good, I still was depressed that I didn't do quite as good as I hoped (though my first Boston Qualifying Marathon was an exception).

Then, sub in 50 milers for marathons....

Then, 100s...

And I can't seem to get away from 100 milers, though I find them so brutal, so tough, so rough, so horrendous, so painful, so soul-destroying, so demoralizing...

...yet so uplifting, for moments here and there, and most especially, when you're done.

But really, I love 50 milers best.

Marathons sucked so much when they sucked. They can be amazing, but when they hurt, it's not fun. And it's not pretty and sometimes you can't get beyond the pain. And fast, yes, you have to run fast. Ow.

But 50 milers...they're just the perfect distance. You're over in a day. You start running early, and you finish early enough to get dinner with your loved ones and shock/appall/impress them with your eating capabilities. Maybe you'll even head out for a drink or two (because there will, of course, be an amazing party that night) and then you'll plead exhaustion, crash for a few hours, or more, be stiff the next day, but feel pretty good. You can run slower than a marathon, eat cookies while you run, see beautiful trails, bond with rad ultrarunners. Even if it sucks, it's only 50 miles.

But that last sentence - you can't explain that, you can't really feel that, until after you run 100 miles. And then it seems easy. You need to run 100miles to feel that. To appreciate it.

100 miles...why? Why do I keep going back? Why?

There's that point where it's dark (It seems like the middle of the night, but it might only be 8 or 9pm. You've been up for hours, you're tired, it is the middle of the night to you.):

And everything starts hurting. Your feet are swollen, you took off your compression leg sleeves miles ago because your calves were so swollen that your sleeves felt unbearable. You have a million blisters (or maybe just one). You are nauseas, you're hungry, you have go to the bathroom, right now, right now, can we please just stop, oh pacer, just let me stop for one minute, you feel like you're going to die, you want to die, you hate this, you hate everything, why did you sign up, you paid how much to run this far, you swear you're never running a 100miler again, oh, this sucks, your shins hurt so bad, this hurts so bad, you want to be in bed, it is horrible....

Or maybe that's just me? Yeah, I didn't think so.

But there's this glimmer. 100 milers are where - as my pacer Kathy told me at Rio del Lago - you learn to be tough, you prove just how tough you are. It's where you discover something deep inside yourself. I don't find that in any other race. It's where you learn to push past pain. It's where you learn to push past reasonability.

I do love running 50 milers best - they are my favourite race - but I still keep signing up for 100s. I do them as my goal races, my key races. 50 milers are often just training runs, build-ups. But I love them best. Should I focus on them instead? Should I enjoy my runs more?

Sometimes, I want to spare myself the agony and just sign up for a 50miler. Like, maybe I should do that for the 50 mile at the Santa Barbara Endurance Race instead of the 100. But I get this feeling that I'm being wimpy - I know the 100 is what will push me, what's harder.

It's not wimpy. It's a different option. I'll have to run it differently...

I think as I'm writing this, I realize WHY I run 100milers. They are the best way to challenge myself. With my writing, I challenge my creativity, my thought process, my view of life. But when I run 100 miles, I challenge my body, push it past pain.

You know what? When it's all over, and your body is aching and you're thirsty and exhausted and hungry and sore and in pain and everything hurts - YOU DID IT. You ran 100 miles and that is something so hardcore that so few people can say. You got to be out there in nature, running through beautiful woods, on lovely trails, bonding with amazing people (and of course, nature), bonding with yourself, thinking deep, thinking clear, thinking pure.

And so, I love 50 milers best.

But I will continue running 100 milers to challenge my soul.

Missing back in the day....

2011-12-20T09:55:00.000-05:00

Yes, those good old rave days, where you'd apply blue eyeliner to me - "Hold still, Cher" - and I'd blink anyway, and then we'd talk about the big puffy down vest we'd be wearing over tube tops. But that was the era of so much more.

That was the era of connecting. That was the era of people engaging with people, of conversation, of phone numbers written on wrists, on long walks around the East Village over bad cups of tea and coffee, of shopping for lacy vinyl clothes we couldn't afford that we bought anyway, of meeting guys every time we hopped on the train, because, hey, life was about making connections.

Now, everyone is shut off. It makes me sick. On the train, everyone is plugged into their iPod, their mp3 device, blasting music that I wonder if it will cause more damage to their eardrums than dancing on top of the speakers to Scott Henry's infamous June 5th set years ago on the Baltimore Waterfront. No one talks to each other on the train, unless it's to curse you out for accidentally stepping on someone's foot. Do people loathe reality so they must distract themselves? Or is life just so much more pleasant when you're not in the present moment? Or...?

You go to a bar and in line for the bathroom, where I actually met friends in the past ("Hey everyone, this is Jessie, we just talked in the bathroom line for the past twenty minutes and she also was at that Superchunk show at Lollapalooza back in the nineties too!") - and everyone's on their smart phone, looking at Facebook, obsessing over whatever. I don't get it. Why can't you be in the present moment? I assure you, it's bound to be more interesting than what others are posting on Facebook. Or people who are checking their phones while they sleep, or during sex.

I'm not a Luddite - I have a smart phone, a Kindle, a netbook, a laptop, and a work computer. Sometimes I'm using most of those at the same time. But a lot of the times, I just prefer to be writing a letter to my girl V, reading one of my Moosewood cookbooks in between dicing peppers, curled up in bed with my kitty and an Anais Nin diary, drinking tea with a friend, writing a story, running in the woods, jumping off a dock, walking along the edge of the ocean with feet partially wet/very sandy.

And to me, those are the things that life is really about. Maybe Facebook and Twitter and all these things are a way of sharing that - but shouldn't we be in that very moment first?

Live in the present moment. Stop distracting yourself.

When did my feelings change like this?

2011-12-19T16:57:00.000-05:00

I suppose it was in the woods somewhere, out at one of the ultras, but I no longer have the love or respect for NYRR. Oh, I admire that they put on one of the greatest marathons - my favourite marathon indeed! - but where is the love of everything?

When I went to pick up my number for admittedly, a MUCH smaller race, Cajun Coyote 100 Miler, the RD joked around with me while wearing a stuffed alligator hat. Volunteers gave me Mardi-Gras beads, joked about the cherry vodka-blue-marshmallow drinks they'd be serving later. It was fun.

When I went to pick up my number for a recent 15k in Central Park, I got SCREAMED at my NYRR volunteers when in the registration room. Screamed. I was putting on my Dtag while waiting in line - apparently, I could wait there doing nothing, but not put on my Dtag. I left the room. I did not want to deal with this.

NYRR raised the price of the NYC Half-Marathon to $117. Assuming I don't have to travel for work, I plan on running a 50 miler the following week for $69. Pay almost twice to run nearly a quarter of the distance? Yes, the course is fast. Yes, they have to shut streets down. Yes, they have to pay cops and security, and yes, don't forget appearance fees for top runners. But really? Do I really want to?

Honestly - I've gone back and forth a bunch of times in my head. I don't have to travel. (Though I generally don't fly for anything less than 50miles.) It's close. It's easy. Lots of friends will come. Probably not my parents. But still. My whole running club! But the principle...and $117.

I have a few hours left. I probably won't sign up, but NYRR, when did you start being so expensive and stop being so much fun?

Maybe it's that I discovered another world, ultrarunning, with its casual laid-back atmosphere and cheaper fees (I've paid less for 100milers than I have for the NYC Marathon and I get a lot more out of a 100miler - tons of food, gear, fun, and a helluva lot more pain!).

But maybe, really maybe, things have changed...

Heroes...

2011-12-15T11:54:00.000-05:00

Jenn Shelton is an ultrarunning hero of mine. She is fierce, kills it, runs hard, runs for the love of it.

A recent article about her was really interesting and made me fall for her all over. She says bad-ass things like,

"When I'm out running in the mountains and I get that fear that a cougar is following me and I'm going to die, I think, 'It's OK if the cougar eats me because I've done some really cool things."

During last year's Javelina Jundred, I got caught two miles from the start/finish/aid station without my light. I figured I'd get back before it got dark. (It's always hard in ultras when it's super sunny and the middle of the afternoon or even early afternoon to be like, "Yes, I need to carry this bulky headlamp the next 15-20 miles because I'll need it for that last mile" or if you get slightly off schedule...)

I was running when I got to the tricky part. Shannon was in front of me, and Jenn had blasted out a loop or two, racing, before she dropped - and was now pacing Shannon. I passed, but hung close to them - Shannon and Jenn both had lights. Suddenly, Jenn spoke up. I had never talked to her, merely smiled as we passed each other during the race, said hi. She asked me if I had a light.

"Nope. Mine's back at my drop bag. This part took me a little longer. I got nauseas," I told her.

"Here," she said, running up to me, handing me her flashlight. "Use this. This part's tricky footing. Give it to me when you see me or if you don't, give it to Maria. She's a volunteer at the aid station."

I thanked her profusely, and took off, much more confident with a light of my own.

In the aid station, I proceeded to change my shoes and socks, suck down a coconut water, stuff as many homemade cookies in my body as possible. A random guy - that's ultras, random people just help you - offered to hold the flashlight up for me.

"This is a great flashlight," he told me while I rooted in my drop bag for my headlamp.

"It's not mine," I said as I finally found my headlamp and strapped it on. "It's Jenn Shelton's. She just lent it to me because I didn't have a light."

"Nice of her," he told me as I slathered Body Glide on. "This is a $100 flashlight."

And that's what I love about ultras. One of the fastest women ultrarunners drops the race - I'm not sure race - but doesn't quit. She paces her friend. Then she helps a fellow ultrarunner - someone she doesn't even know at all - and lends her an expensive flashlight.

When I finally passed Jenn and gave her the flashlight back, those thanks were from deep within.

And to all ultrarunners - I say thank you for rocking so hard.

You Don't Want to Run 100 Miles, Or, Some Videos From My Last 100 Miler

2011-12-11T18:53:00.000-05:00

At Cajun Coyote 100 Miler, I carried a camera on my second loop (miles 20-40) so I could record the beauty and craziness of the course. Here are some things to scare the crap outta you.

Hallucinations, way too early in.

Crying because I really need water and I'm out

Vanilla gu or pudding?

Cajun Coyote 100 Miler: A Race Report of a Very Unusual 100 Miler

2011-12-11T17:25:00.000-05:00

So the good news on the Cajun Coyote 100 Miler first, I suppose:

I was second woman!
It reinstilled my love in the love run - oh, trails, how alive you make me feel.
I ran through some beautiful places.
While my time was far from my PR, I still had a smashing good time.
It was like Burning Man - we all had "race names" and I used my playa one, Cherry Bomb, as my name.
One of the most fun races I ran.

I arrived at the start and knew I was in the right place - the RD was wearing a stuffed alligator hat and the volunteers were wearing Mardi Gras beads. In my race bag (one of those little sneaker bags) were lots and lots of beads, a nice tech shirt that actually looks good, a Lip Smacker (Yes! I loved them when I was 9 years old and they're still great!), a mask, homemade soaps, bug wipes, Hammer samples, and other fun. Everyone was excited, chattering under the Christmas lights about the day to come. Numbers were written on a select body part - you'd run into an aid station, shouting your number and your nickname. My nickname was, of course, Cherry Bomb.

At the start...

#111, Cherry Bomb!

The course was five 20 mile loops. Louisiana's a flat state, and this was in the bayou, so it was flat, right?

WRONG!

Me at the start

Yes! Get me outta here!!!

Loop One: Miles 1-20
The race started with the RD saying offhandedly, "Bye!" And we took off!

I started out at a good pace, chatting with a guy doing his first ultra (who later went on to win the 100k) and a guy from Maine. We talked about dysfunctional relationships, work, running. The first 4.3 miles - up to the first aid station - were the hardest. Up, down, steep, short, up, down, repeat. And a rock to trip on, a root, focus, focus. Through some miracle I did not trip at all on this single track rocky-and-rooty course.

The next 4-ish miles were the easiest. Lots of ups and downs, but not as hard as the first section. Right before the aid station you run down into this ditch and then up. Oh, fun. And then up a little hill and to Jeff's aid station - Jeff who didn't sleep the entire race. I love ultra volunteers.

Then there were eight miles to the unmanned aid station. Mentally, it was a challenge. I also had to be careful and conserve my water each time. At this aid station, there was water, a container of Heed, and a jar of pickled pig's lips. No one dared open it - yuck!

Ew! Pigs' lips as ultrarunning snack

And then a mere four miles or so to the main aid station. This wasn't so terrible, some hills, but it was only four miles.

And then you were back.

Overall, the course was up and down and up and down and up and down and up and down on single track. Enough rocks and roots and twists and turns and bridges to keep your eyes on the ground at all times - but wait, look up, don't miss those orange blazes. (The RD put heaps of ribbons up which were helpful...until the trail maintenance volunteers decided to help out and remove all the ribbons. ARGH!)

Loop Two, Miles 20-40
I repeated everything.

On the move!

Fueling up

I ran a bunch w a guy from Maine who I got into an extensive discussion with about dysfunctional relationships. We'd lose each other on and off - he'd spend extra time in an aid station, and I'd leave him, or he'd get a speed burst. It was a nice way to pass the time.

And then I was alone, but it was okay. I felt free, alive, in love with the run. I was here to run 100 miles, yes, but the real reason? I needed vengeance on the 100 mile distance. My last 100 was so wretched that I needed to prove to myself and the world that I loved this. And I did. I did. I felt alive as I ran across a wooden walkway (which were SO pretty and I loved them during the day but at night were positively frightening) across the bayou. I thought, "Yes, yes, this is why I'm here! This is what it means to be alive."

Loop Three, Miles 40-60
It got harder. That goes without saying.

Crossing the bridge

I had my light but I wouldn't need it until the end of this loop. Things got rough and I pushed and I felt the pain but I pushed and I pushed and I pushed. I thought of coconut water and Odwalla bars and of my cat back home, sleeping for sure, and of The Godfather, which I was re-reading for the third time, and created sentences in my head in Spanish and about what to get V for Xmas and everything, everything, everything. I thought and then I blanked and I pushed and I pushed harder and hardest of all, I pushed the tears from my eyes and wouldn't let them escape. I was tougher than this.

It got dark. It was okay. I was tough. But my headlamp battery wasn't. It was impossible to see. I got freaked. I began singing loudly, scaring the armadillos, comforting myself. I wonder if KRS-ONE ever thought when he was writing "How Bad Do You Want It" that some ultrarunner would use it to push herself during a 100miler.

I could barely see. I slowed down, squinting with my pathetic light to see the markers. I had to walk, to avoid tripping on things I couldn't see. Finally I arrived at an aid station and they gave me batteries. It was a relief to get back to the main aid station and get my kickass headlamp and pacer.

Loop Four, Miles 60-80
My pacer was new to ultras, and we barely knew each other, but that wasn't a problem. We quickly began talking, laughing, getting to know each other.

About seven and a half miles in, we got to an intersection and couldn't find the next blaze. No worries, there it is. Oops. Rather, that is the orange blaze we just passed. We ended up running three extra miles. Argh. When I figured it out, I began running super hard. I was so upset that I just pushed, pushed, pushed and tried not to think about it. When we got to the next aid station, I inquired if I'd have to pay extra because, after all, everyone else paid for 100 miles and here I was, running 103 and paying the same price!

Things felt rough but I felt mostly good. I was eating throughout the race - grilled cheese and rice at the main aid station, quesadillas at Jeff's aid station, and vanilla gus and honey stingers in between.

Loop Five, Miles 80-100
It hurt.

I was psyched to be on my last loop but my shins were killing. And I was SO tired. I felt wretched. Of course, if I didn't, something would be seriously wrong with me.

A light was behind me. Push. Push. I can't let it pass me. My pacer and I would talk, or we would say nothing but breathe and think and push. Then there would be times where it would get to me, and I would say to Jessica, "Talk. Say something. Anything," and she'd amazingly well respond, "Well, at work..." or "My kids..." or whatever. She could have been reading the ingredients on a cereal box to me and I would have found it soothing.

It got later. It got worse. Each aid station was a beacon of hope, the volunteers so cheerful, so wonderful, so nice and helpful. I inhaled grilled cheeses. I drank ginger ale. They were so helpful and nice.

I started to cry. Jessica told me not to cry. I was unable to listen to her. I cried harder. This hurt so much. I worked so hard, why was I running so poorly? How have I been getting slower, getting further from my goals? Why did it hurt so bad?

We started talking, laughing. I pushed. "Mile 97!" "Mile 98!" And harder.

And then we were on the road. I couldn't believe I was almost done. As I came in, everyone cheered. And the RD was there and everyone was awake. It was over. Somehow.

Food was prepared and shared. I sat there, stunned and exhausted. I called New York, was told I sounded totally out of it. I was told not to drive.

The RD gave out finishers' hats, and I was second woman. I won a free pair of sneakers. We joked around, and I was stunned at how I was able to run into the finishing area not that long, and now, now that the clock had stopped for me, walking was near impossible.

In the middle of the night, I thought about how hard it was. It's so hard. 100 milers are a million times harder than a marathon, a lot harder than a 50. But it's SO hard. Mentally. Physically. Everything hurts and it's hard to remember why you should push. And it's hard to break through. Those people that are WINNING - they impress me. Because when I run, I'm in my own race. I'm competing against myself. I'm running for the love of it, for the struggle of the day, for discovering within.

And really, it takes 100 miles to find a lot of that out. Because if it didn't, why would we be doing it in the first place?

You're Only As Old As You Feel

2011-12-11T13:57:00.000-05:00

This morning, my legs were tired, reminding me that yes, I did run 100 miles last week. I started feeling better as we headed over the Pulaski, running back to my house with Wayne. Some guy nodded at us as we ran past, as he was wearing his Boston Marathon gear and Wayne was wearing my old Boston shirt. (I arrived one year too late at the expo and they only had men's large shirts...thanks, Boston, I train my butt off to qualify for you, and then train my butt off for you, only to get a men's large shirt?!?!). I started talking about Boston - I don't actually like the course. There's a lot of gaping sections of nothing, boring suburbs, and I don't know, it just doesn't love me how NYC loves me.

We're passing this older guy - I'm feeling better and thinking, let's run hard in - when he hears us talking about Boston and starts telling us about all the time he's run Boston. Fourteen times. About the crowds at the start and how he hears it's in waves now and how he did ultras in the 70s and 80s and he did the Shea Stadium one my friend Ray K did and how much he loves running. And this guy is 70 but he looks so incredible.

Wayne and I slow down our pace and talk to him the rest of the time, and I swear, it was one of the most beautiful Greenpoint runs I've had in a while. It was really special to run with some an interesting and amazing individual - and yeah, he's 70 but he was so young at heart.

I'll be there someday!

Packing...

2011-11-29T20:50:00.000-05:00

Right now, my living room is a 100 mile mess. There are two pairs of running sneakers (one a half-size bigger for the last 70 miles), headlamps, water bottles, 2 hydration systems, sports bras, a visor, panties, a lace skirt, almond butter, a 24-pack of vanilla gu, body glide, work papers, barrettes, arm warmers meant for Burning Man but now running ones when I lost my running ones, and too many other things to name. And somebody please tell me to never again fly standby (i.e., just a carry-on!) when I am running 100 miles AND spending 5 days in New Orleans. I'm not scrimping on race supplies, but there's a chance I may not have enough clothes in NOLA. Oh well. I'll repeat. Skirts, anyway!

I'm excited. I'm nervous. I'm a lot of things. My last 100 mile race was the biggest disaster of my running career. I felt like I pushed it hard, so hard, it really was crazy difficult - but I somehow, ran my suckiest time ever. I wish to forget that now.

In a way, I'm out to redeem myself. I need to prove to myself - I need to run my heart out for 100 miles. I want to PR - oh yes, that's the ultimate goal. But really, it's to discover the love I have for the sport, the fun, the excitement. Last time I ran to prove how tough I was - so tough that I pushed myself beyond the limits of sanity. This time, I will run to prove to myself that this is my first love. (Sorry, Wayne. Not like you're #2 but I fell in love w running when I was 13 and you when I was 31! You and running, you're the two most important things in my life.) I will run to discover the beauty of every step. If it sucks, I will not acknowledge that. A secret, friends - I'm going to pack my little iPod mini that I use at the gym - if it blows, I'll pull that. But really - I won't need it. I know that.

The first 20 - fun, energetic. Next 20 - I'm there, but I got it. Push it. Next 20. Push. Push. It's getting hard but it's not dark yet. Thoughts of seeing Jessica at mile 60 keep me going. Next 20 - I meet my pacer. Change shoes, clothes, get a grilled cheese in my belly. Final 20 - poor Jessica (my pacer) might shove me into the swamp. We'll get to know each other better than people who've known me for years - she'll tell me about the first person she fell in love with, I'll talk about that awful first kiss and that really terrible thing no one else knows - you cross the boundaries, in ultrarunning, everything and I mean everything comes out. She'll laugh at me as I hallucinate ridiculous things, as I pour my heart out, as I trip, as I drop my cookie on the ground and pick it up and keep eating it with the dirt, as I pee on my glove and put it back on, as I cry my heart out, as I bless the stars, as I talk about La Playa de Estrellas de Mar in Bocas and putting starfish on as a bikini top, as I babble, as I reach upwards and forwards, reaching, reaching, reaching...

Until I finish.

Which I will.

Remember, DNF is not in my vocabulary. I tried to include it, Kathy (amazing pacer at Rio del Lago) would not let me. I am seeking redemption. I will buckle. I will push beyond my limits, beyond what anyone thinks another person is capable of. Pain? Hah. Pain is weakness leaving the body. I will push forward. I will win. Not the race, necessarily. I will win for myself. I will have fun. I will enliven my spirit.

And then I will celebrate in the streets of New Orleans after.

Because I run for the love of it.

Occupy Yourself!

2011-11-22T19:33:00.000-05:00

I'm very excited that an article I wrote about my experiences at the Occupy Wall Street movement, Occupy Yourself, has been published in Her Circle.

He Was the Winner, and Oh Yeah, She Won for the Woman

2011-11-21T20:51:00.002-05:00

I know it's partially my job as a librarian at a women's nonprofit that does this, but I can't help noticing how the focus in race reports is always, "HE won!" "He came in first." And then there's a "Oh yeah, and for the women, so-and-so came in 1st, or 5th overall, running ___."

Why?

Yes, women rarely win overall. There's a combo of reasons why men are faster than women (less body fat than women; easier ability to lose body fat; more muscles). Occasionally, in ultrarunning, women do win outright, which is awesome. The super awesome Jessi Kennedy outright won the NJ Ultra 100 Miler in March. Yay! Some might dispute this, but based on my personal experiences, women seem to have a higher pain tolerance than men, and thus, can push themselves more. (Feel free to debate this one. It might just be all the men I've known!)

In a recent race on the Willamsburg Bridge, I was the first woman. I was so excited! At the finishing ceremony, the organizer gave a hooded sweatshirt to the male winner - and another to the last place person, and another to a random person. Why not to the first female finisher? I didn't even think of it until a friend complained that he was annoyed that I wasn't recognized.

Yesterday, I was so excited that one of my teammates in NBR won the Brooklyn Marathon. I loved the coverage that often mentioned us, and I cheered him on the entire time. I was really happy for him. It was an amazing honor for him to win a marathon at 24 and the coverage of him was really great!

But then, I started thinking about the woman (whose winning time at 3:14 is just 14 min off my PR...hmmm....) who won. She was mentioned as an afterthought in many of the articles. He got some great press, great quotes. And not much is learned of her.

In this NY Mag article, almost three paragraphs are devoted to the male winner, and a sentences in parentheses is all the female winner gets. Seriously. Why can't both get three paragraphs?

Why? Why does this happen? Why, even in co-ed sports, is the focus still men?

When I run races, yes, I push myself, and I like to see a high overall place, but I know the one that my sponsors and other care about is my gender and age group placing, which, sorry, men aren't included in. So why is so much coverage so male-centric? Why does Ultrarunning Mag way more frequently feature a male on their cover (and thanks to my friend Lesley for raising this point in a letter to the editor to them), and why do their articles focus so much on the top male competition and then gives sparse mention to top women?

When will we have gender equality in sports?

For some stats on Women in Sports, check out this factsheet!

Brooklyn Marathon!

2011-11-21T20:31:00.000-05:00

The first annual (ha!) Brooklyn Marathon in Prospect Park was held on Sunday. It had a really great vibe - less like one of the anally organized NYRR events and much more like a chill ultra. It was smaller, but the medals were good, the RD was friendly, and the weather rocked. The course consisted of two lower loops and six full loops on the pretty, occasional small hill course.

I voluncheered w my team, NBR, at one of the aid stations. I chalked cheerful messages on the course, made signs and taped them to the ground, filled cups with water and gatorade, and screamed my head off.

One of my less finer moments was when I cheered on teammate Ray and raised my arms - which smacked into a runner who decided to turn around and walk in the other direction (not sure his reason) - I felt so terrible but he was very nice about it. And he kept going! (And my arm hurt, but that's besides the point!)

I ended up pacing Wayne the last 2+ laps which was a lot of fun. On four hours sleep, I felt pretty rough but the pace was manageable, for six miles for me anyway! I chattered away, wouldn't let him drop the pace, and tried my best to motivate him. It was really wonderful when he PR'd by 8 minutes, going sub 3:30. I was so happy for him!

To those who insist upon only doing big races, you're missing out on a chill vibe, individual attention, and lots of fun!

How to Prepare for a Protest

2011-11-19T19:17:00.000-05:00

My friend Margot sent me some of the below tips in an email (and I added a few of my own...). Proper prep is SMART for protests and can help you should you get in difficult situations.

--Assume subways may be closed at some point - it may take forever to get home, esp if there are barricades, street closures, etc.

--Bring pen and paper

--Charge up my cell phone, bring my charger with me

--Wear warm clothes, hat, gloves, possibly foldable umbrella, layers

--Eating before, and also, bring snacks (energy bars, sandwiches, something easy and portable)

--Let someone know where I am going so they can check on me and bail me out if I get into trouble

--Bring water

--Bring a bandana or scarf in case of pepper spray or tear gas, and sunglasses/glasses

--Bring ear plugs in case LRAD sound equipment is used against protesters (it is like pepper spray but it uses sound waves).

--Leave inessential items at home (I'll bring a small amount of money but not a lot, no credit cards, nothing I want to lose)

--Carry a bag that zippers up in case you are arrested and tossed around. Don't have a lot of things that could fall off you - loose scarves, etc. The cops will pull it off you and toss it on the ground.

--WRITE THE LAWYERS GUILD # ON MY BODY. Here is the number: 212-679-6018

--Remain hyper alert. See where people are getting arrested, how the cops are acting, what is going on. Sometimes you can avoid getting arrested by simply stepping back.

--Smile. Dance. Sing. It helps diffuse the tension.

--Take photos of injustice and violence.

--Do not let them intimidate you. That is their goal. Do not shirk down.

--If someone heckles you, try not to get angry. Instead, respond to them with facts or sarcastic love.

--Wear comfortable shoes.

We may not wish to get arrested, but things are in chaos and it could happen whatever we wish. So we should be prepared. The cops will take all papers so you need the number on your skin. If arrested, try to get your name to witnesses so they can give it to the Lawyers' Guild. Keep your wits about you and spell out your name to witnesses. Or take the names of anyone you witness getting arrested and call the Lawyers Guild.

N17....An Occupy Wall St Protest Day

2011-11-17T23:40:00.000-05:00

7am:

I met with some friends by the red cube at 7am. Smaller marches left (yellow flag (I think), black flag, and we were green flag), and I was with a group of people who did not want to get arrested. I did a few cheers (Capitalism Does Not Work, Resist) but everything was too crazy for me to do any formal radical cheerleading.

Our march headed out last, and we marched down Cedar and turned here and there and eventually ended up on Pine St and William St. I was with a marching band, and we were dancing. Everyone seemed in good spirits, especially as there was also a group of trees (or rather, people dressed like trees) dancing and chanting. I asked passing workers if they wanted to dance and they laughed and declined. It was fun. On Pine and William, we were all in the streets, dancing and chanting and the mood was good...until suddenly the cops started shoving violently and crazily. There were tons of cops - all in riot gear (w their masks pulled down) and they were out of control. I saw journalists go flying and get yelled at. Protesters pushed really hard. I felt myself being shoved backwards and they were screaming at us to stay on the sidewalk. People started sitting in the middle of the street to stop traffic...and were getting arrested. This happened every so often for a while.

The scary thing to me was - it wasn't one or two cops arresting people. It was five cops. It was NINE cops. It was disgusting how they were shoving people. The people weren't fighting back - they were just being passive and not moving.

Wall Street is insane, people!

2pm, when getting lunch:

i walked around the area and it's quiet. there are TONS of cops, even very far down wall st and away from things.

when i got up to liberty square, the cops would not let me even walk on broadway in front of the park. i ignored them and acted like i was in a rush and they somehow let me go.

i wanted to get into the park but it was completely surrounded by barricades and cops weren't letting anyone in. so the crowd on the outside built up.

cops were arresting people. someone was hurt at one point; a person was bleeding from their head. i did not personally see that but the people next to me all did. everyone was yelling, "Shame!"

And then...

the cops all began walking out.

some people left the park after they left. some people entered.

was the park ours? no one knew.

i stayed a little longer. as i left, i noticed cops congregating. and more sirens.

i don't know what is happening.

it's weird. it feels like a complete police state. cops are walking around, menacingly swinging their billy clubs, face masks down w their riot gear. it is not a nice feeling.

530pm:

I left work and headed over to Foley Square. The cops were sending me around in circles and I couldn't actually get there. Somehow I pushed through and slipped through these cops hands and ended in the parade right behind City Hall.

The crowd was fairly diverse in age, race/ethnicity, background - I talked to a lot of interesting people. Things got really tight and crowded and we weren't moving. I did some cheers, and had a blast chanting with people.

We started moving and I began talking to all different people about what we had done, seen that day. It was really exhilarating.

I was under the impression we were going to Liberty Plaza, but right after my boyfriend left, I ran into Margot (from the Burner list) and found out that we were marching over the Brooklyn Bridge.

Suddenly, a mic check was called and someone told us that half of the crowd was stuck behind the barricades. No one knew what to do. Margot and I decided to do a mic check so we raised awareness to the greater crowd, then got everyone to go back to the barricade. We chanted, "Let them through..." until they finally did. That felt WONDERFUL.

We marched to the bridge. I got a little nervous, honestly, hoping I wouldn't get arrested, but I decided I didn't care. I had the legal number on my arm. I didn't have my asthma medicines (which I need to take twice a day) so I crossed my finger. I was fine.

It was beautiful. We were chanting. I did a few cheers. People were projecting images onto the Verizon building - 99%, We're winning, and other beautiful images/words. It was so wonderful. I was dancing.

It got slower and we dragged as we got closer to the stairs. Two women in front of me wearing heels were all into it, cheering louder than anyone else. This was not the stereotypical "activist" crowd.

We headed to Cadman Plaza Park. A GA was due at 8pm. People headed out, as did I. Margot stayed to see the cops chilling in front of Dunkin Donuts.

It was a beautiful, empowering night.

Are you there, God? It's me, Cherie.

2011-11-16T21:44:00.000-05:00

Cherie's Running Secret: When You Find Shoes You Love, BUY THEM!

2011-11-16T21:35:00.000-05:00

When you find a pair of sneakers you absolutely love, STOCK UP. Sneaker companies are constantly coming out w new models, and I find the newest models don't always match up. I had a pair of shoes I wore for a year - or rather, a model, I had several pairs of shoes.

Currently, I'm obsessed w my Saucony Grid Flex sneakers - in pink and black, naturally.

I fell in love instantly. However, I couldn't seem to find these except in a nasty color, but luckily, found them for even cheaper (Hello, $49 for running sneakers!!!) on a discount retail site, 6pm (NFI!). So despite the shoes being fairly new, I have a backup pair already. I would've bought more, but I bought the last in stock! I'm going to buy another pair or two because it's so nice to not have to think about what fits right and what feels good.

Oh Saucony Grid Flexes, how I do love you!