Alawnso Baretti walked down the city street like a dog with a cone on his furry little pup dog neck. The limp was noticeable and the boot that the doctor gave him was brutish and bulky, not to mention that it seemed to be chaff against his leg hair. At an intersection he joined three girls in waiting for the light to change. He had just finished Lolita in the car before the appointment and he fashioned himself a full-fledged nympetaholic, crazy-eyed and easily spooked by cunning black and white patrol units on street corners. The girls couldn’t have been out of 8th grade. One bared her braces at him. Every one of them were wearing their moms’ yoga pants.
One redhead, the prettiest in the trio spoke up, “I hope Starbucks still has the peppermint hot chocolate!” It must have been Christmas or divine intervention because they did. So easily pleased.
He stumbled up the block and stepped in gum on the boot leg. An unsuccessful attempt of grinding it off resulted in a bizarre birdlike dance. Eyes followed his performance from shiny cars. The girls passed him laughing nervously. Across the street on a giant billboard a Goodwill advertisement read “Buy a Child HOPE for the New Year”, however someone spray painted over the HOPE.
Ho. hum. Alfawnso lingered around storefronts eyeing bourgeois menus with dwindling interest. After studying a menu outside a self titled “Latin Comfort Food” place he stepped in and ordered a side of fries. The woman at the counter asked him if he wanted the three sauces that come with the fries. “If they come with it then, yes” he said. He paid at the counter, joking weakly with the waitress about the option of salsa on french fries (which she mistook for a complaint). He vaguely recounted a fact he saw on the news the night before that the average American owns 2 credit cards. He stepped outside, sitting next to the only two customers there: a young couple composed of a well dressed Indian guy that looked like Aziz Ansari and a ditzy white girl that was a stock photo apparition of a generic “white female” Google search. There were probably fifty empty seats.
Alfawnso listened to the Indian guy make Aziz Ansari jokes and the girl laughed stupidly. Back and forth they went, like a ping pong rally, Bam one-liner Bam *chortle chortle grunt grunt*. The man good-humoredly criticized her for going to Germany during the Super Bowl, and then whined that he’d be “the only Patriot’s fan in San Francisco” if they both made it to the Big Game. Life is just tough sometimes. The waitress brought out the fries and Alfawnso pivoted between the ketchup and the salsa verde, the latter actually better than one might expect. The aioli sauce decidedly shouldn’t have made the cut. He rubbed his oily eyes. He wanted to cry in his fries.
A homeless man pissed on the wall a couple feet away but the couple didn’t seem to notice. Baretti drew on the cover of a paperback book from his backpack. The book was called Even Cowgirls Get The Blues. Urine drifted down the sidewalk slowly and collided with one black medical boot owned by one Alfawso Baretti. It was almost graceful the way that the plastic diverted the small rippling yellow creek which flowed onto bigger and better adventures. He cursed the river and left and never came back to the place,parting with a half consumed plate of soggy fries and 53 cents on the table which was timely stolen by the vagrant that relieved himself on the brick wall.
Alfawso Baretti walked into the sunset, surely destined for better days. Although part of his boot and one pant leg were still a bit damp, he looked forward to the day when he could once again run unburdened by his aching leg.
In case you were going to power up those search engines.
I met a man yesterday. I was running dirt laps up on the dirt track when I came across a weathered leathery chap packing up a quiver of yoga mats and jump ropes into an old black Jansport. After a couple tentative laps I approached the guy who had an aura of transient godliness, a quiet knowledge radiated from him like the slightly stale smell I kept detecting every lap upon passing him. The first thing I noticed about the man was the statuesque chisels of his upper body which looked something like if Bruce Lee arm wrestled Chuck Norris and their appendages somehow fused into this mans forearms. Eventually I worked up the courage to approach this Kung Fu Buddha. I said something stupid like “Hey, how’d THAT happen”, pointing to his arms and realizing how my own looked pathetically thin, like they might fly away if the wind picked up.
The man seemed confused.
After I stuttered some more articulate explanation he seemed to understand and he bellowed a great easy laugh (try to imagine Japhy Ryder’s chuckle). Initially it was impossible to tell how old the dude was; he later told me he was 57. His hair was the golden mane of the guy from Hadalgo, and I can’t remember if that was his name or the horse’s, but frankly who cares. He fastened his locks up with a great royal purple ribbon of a headband and his clothes were nothing more than a grease-lighting white T with cut off sleaves and those orange workout pants that Goku wears. You didn’t have to be a genius to see the man on the grass was a badass. We became engulfed in conversation about his various workout regimens, which segued into Thanksgiving, which transformed into cooking, dogs and after sometime an abridged version of his life story. It went something like this:
The man reigned from Oakland but had lived for many years with a Vietnamese family. For this reason he seemed very excited to season his thanksgiving “chicken” with curries, lemons and stuffed with steamed spiced vegetables. He attributed some of his great strength to many years of working in his brother’s automotive shop, in which he hauled whole engines. After taking up jogging when he was younger, he began doing copious reps of pushups, pull ups, sit-ups, and other body weight strengthening coupled with light weight lifting for toning.
His giant oaf of a rottweiler roamed around as we talked. Seeming to notice the dog for the first time, he told me that just days ago when high with a friend, he decided to pickup the dog by her legs and do reps with it’s 180 pound mass. Although I saw no logic or likely possibility to this performance I nodded my head as if I did, eager to please this man who obviously had so many answers. He told me that he’s worked for his brother for years, although they’re opposites; big brother hit the bottle hard but described himself as “new-age”.
He said intensive yoga and meditation was an essential and frequent part of his regimen. He told me he had just finished a deep and enlightening meditation before we began our conversation. He started taking kung fu years ago and worked his way up to a high level under the apprenticeship of several old masters. He still practiced, although never for competition, rather for personal discipline.
It could have been minutes, hours or days that I sat listening to the man on the grass.
I really hoped he enjoyed his curry chicken come Thursday.
Looking at the dust that was accumulating on my old Pokemon VHS box-set, I was struck with a mixed sense of guilt and excitement. These were the adventures that defined my childhood; in almost every photograph captured of me from ages 5-9 years I can be seen holding a lime green Game Boy Color taking my 6 friends (all Pokemon) to the next level. It sounds sad, but I have no regrets. Something told me that this extended obsession actually enriched my life, grounded me as a person, helped me acclimate to nature, appreciate people. But why? After all, in retrospect, Pokemon is only a notch below dog fighting when it comes to entertainment.
However, after watching just one full 60 minute tape (Ep. 80-83: Friends and Rivals if we’re going to split hairs) I realized why this series has been so enduring in the hearts of young Americans of my generation, and why the grounding concepts of Pokemon was actually established almost 200 years ago.
In the 1820s Ralph Waldo Emerson and a group of his contemporaries established a new way of thinking called Transcendentalism which was basically a protest against the general way of thinking at the time, particularly the ideals of the Unitarian Church. They believed that Nature was the greatest teacher, and that establishments like organized religion were corrupting the purity of people’s souls. They basically made a club, published some important papers on their ideals which, as you will soon see are stunningly similar to average Pokemon trainer’s reality.
1. Wilderness Retreat: Ash Ketchum, the protagonist of the original Pokemon series leaves home to becomes the greatest Pokemon trainer of all time. Basically Ash and his homies backpack through the virgin lands from city to city, camping in the wilderness, and occasionally bumming on couches of new-found friends. What would Thoreau be if he never spent a year living on Walden Pond? What would Christopher McCandless’ story be if he didn’t follow his dreams and become one with nature (OK, don’t think too much into this one)? What’s more, even Team Rocket camps out from time to time in their down North Face sleeping bags.
Campfire man-to-man talks.Before the Gov’t Shutdown.
2. Natural Significance: One of the Transcendental Club’s central beliefs was that all nature was significant. In the world of Pokemon the lakes run clear and there seems an evergreen forest that perpetually follows the characters throughout the show. The sunset always looks good when it sets (often making a nice “>To Be Continued” last scene), and the Clean Air Act is very strict. What’s more, they even have Mt. Tam featured in the show!
Mt. Tam lurking in the background.No DDT Here.Rock-climbing!
3. Universal Brotherhood: In Episode 80, Ash meets a talented fellow backpacking trainer named Richie. After 24 hours these dudes seem to be inseparable, displaying just about every broshake one could ever wish to witness. The thing is that this pattern is repeated in nearly every new town, as Ash has a naive habit of trusting about everyone he meets. Emerson and Whitman stressed the goodness in all people, and the theory that all men were connected as one. Emerson says in Nature, “”That Unity, that over-soul, within every man’s particular being is contained and made with all other; that common heart, of which all sincere conversation is the worship.” Either Ash emanates these ideals perfectly or he just possesses a hypnotic charm.
The “Broshake” again……and again
3. Insignificance of Logic: At age 10 Pokemon trainers are turned loose to the harsh world with hardly a grammar school education. All glory set aside: Mom says bye and you essentially become an uneducated transient animal trainer. Although he was a Harvard grad along with Thoreau and many of his colleagues, Emerson’s transcendentals believe that Nature is the greatest teacher and that studied logic is meaningless in comparison. he also said that the greatest truth is found in intuition. So think twice when you send your daughter to U of O for $45,000 a year; maybe giving her a dog, a sleeping bag and the open road is a gooder choice.
Ash and Richie no doubt thinking deep intellectual thoughts.Ash trying to grasp basic addition.
4. Individuality: Although Ash is normally found traveling from region to region with his notorious posse, he always makes time to visualize his next battle. Any real transcendentalist knows the importance of individuality and the power of independence. This is the reason Walt Whitman had the guts to publish work about erotic homosexual memoirs in a time when gays were persecuted. It’s why Emerson had the courage to be radical enough to protest the methods to the church when it was the center of Angelo-Saxon culture! It’s why Ash… It’s why he has the confidence to strut around with a dirty electric mouse on his shoulder.
Original photo credits to a true fan.Ash drinks Gatorade.
5. Pretentious Contemplation of Life: What would a philosophy be without some pretentious intellectual “What is Life?” questions. Emerson claimed that God was in every part of nature and people, an idea originally spun in Eastern Asia. The world of Pokemon represents this inner connectedness between the elements, “animals”, nature and humans. In Episode 80, Ash claims that he will be “the greatest trainer in the universe” and has visions of seeing Pokemon even in the stars. For a children’s show, Pokemon introduces some pretty big themes, especially as we find Team Rocket experiencing outer-body experiences as they fly through a sky of flashing colors.
Pokemon: Always woven with deep philosophical questions.God?TR apparently experimenting with LSD
6. And of course…FREE LOVE!
Weird moments in the club.
***Please excuse the bad image quality it was all iPhone snapped from a VHS.***
I’m a romantic. I love walking the streets after nightfall alone, wandering in and out of illuminated convenience stores, haunting them, hitting on the cashier while I buy dark chocolate. I love going the cinema by myself and giving underrated films a chance. Admittedly I am often disappointed, but it is all worth it for that single one that mesmerizes my persona, leaving me lying awake in my bed thinking.
I hate the streets during the day. The sun reflects off the dirty concrete sidewalk into my face so that I am perpetually cringing, even through my sunglasses. I walk around with my grimace as I sweat, dreading each step closer to the next errand on my list. As a byproduct of my impaired vision I often bump into unassuming civilians, to whom I pitifully murmur an obligatory apology under my breath as I continue on to the next Kinkos, CVS, Safeway, slowly checking off the items my list. I am constantly exciting degenerates because I have a bad habit of staring at them, unsure of what their dark mass is in the blinding daylight until they start asking me for spare change.
At night I come alive. The house looks cleaner. The only inclination one has of the barf on the sidewalk is the smell, because at night you can’t even see it.
I love watching Flotrack videos and sizing up my competition at night. I love looking at gifs on Reddit and checking my Facebook for hours unabashedly once the sun goes down. I love running at night, chasing cars and girls, screaming at people at night hidden by a visage of darkness. I think Portlandia and everything else on Netflix becomes about a million times better at night. I do core exercises, I eat cereal and watch South Park re-runs, write, dream, and lay out my clothes for the morning at night.
I drink tea at night and read books that I wouldn’t give the time of day during…well…the day. I go to class at night, because that’s the only time I schedule the ones I like. I stay up late and tinker with projects in the kitchen alone, listening to Finally Famous and drinking coffee late at night. I drink decaffeinated coffee at night.
The ugliest apartment becomes a bohemian collection of beautiful golden squares in the dark, a jack-o-lantern. I only compare buildings to pumpkins at night.
At night I dress up and go out, talking to strangers and treating myself to ice cream. I get vanilla soft serve and ask for the toppings on the side because I think it’s a better deal. At night, I go for hikes and plan where on the mountain I’ll camp during the weekend, then I do it again next week without ever camping. I only enjoy driving at night, and I exult the engineers that designed the glowing lights on my compact disc dashboard and speedometer. I have decided that these are great people.
I fart on the couch and brush my teeth at night. After much hesitation I always floss because I know it makes you live longer. After washing my face, I charge my laptop, iPod, Game Boy, camera and electric toothbrush and drink a glass of water at night. I do 10 pull-ups and peal off my socks, followed by my shirt, pants, and underwear (in that order) and then admire my thin frame and good looks in my full length mirror at night. I smile and send a text that I know I’ll regret in the morning. I turn off the light, pull up my covers, scratch my balls and turn over onto my left side at night.
As everybody who has traveled on a plane before knows, as you sit in your vegetative state in your awkwardly cushioned seat, you eventually become ravenously hungry. Your body aches for the familiar, a snack, something that can comfort you as you you cruise at 30,000 feet in a pressurized cabin among fat farting old men and screaming babies. You try to sleep, shake your bodily instincts and clamor into a short hibernation state to no avail because sadly you are intermittently interrupted. Right as you start hitting some quality REM’s comes the inevitable, “Excuse me… Sir EXCUSE ME! Do you want a beverage?”
You almost laugh. This is the kind of shit the Japanese would do in WWII, breaking you down slowly until you are so sleep deprived that you almost want to drop kick the attendants head or throw the plastic cup she is shoving in your face across the cabin like a lunatic.
And WHERE are the f-cking snacks anyways? You must have boarded about three hours ago. Do they recognize that most American’s indulge in a meal during the middle part of the day called lunch?
All you want are those peanuts, 10 or 12 grams of hearty protein packed in a tidy self contained plastic encasement. Ever since you found out you were a celiac last year you have had to ignore the little pretzel bag, but luckily God hath invented peanuts, those delectable things that can be so easily transported and so efficiently preserved in any situation.
You fall, disoriented, into a shallow asleep once more, your spine compressing and head kind of floundering around without a secure place to put it until once again you are roused awake. “Would you like some pretzels or peanuts dear?” You look up with those heavy bloodshot eyes, almost happy to see that ugly fake blond beehive hairdo and red lipstick that has rubbed off menacingly onto her front teeth.
“Yes, the peanuts, I’ll take two.”
You take a napkin and engage the seat-back table in front of you. You have an annoying urge to pee, the aftermath of the four glasses of water the attendant felt so inclined to wake you up for, but you ignore it. You feel giddy, like a child unwrapping their newly purchased candy as you rip open the small airline engraved package in front of you. It’s not much, maybe a quarter-cup of peanuts in each small parcel, but you are satisfied, it will get you through the flight and you can go on with your life, vacation etc.
Just as you lift one small first nut to your greedy mouth, you hesitate, place it back onto the napkin and just to be safe, begin scouring the small red wrapper for the ingredient list. This last year of gluten-free avoidance has weathered you into a nutritional fact-checking animal, and you make sure to always double check to avoid the stomach aches, digestive issues and ruined workouts that inevitably follow “contamination”. Still, it’s just a bag of peanuts, so the ritual goes on only out of habit, because undoubtedly these must only contain salt and maybe a vegetable oil, Right?
WRONG. It’s staring at you, the second ingredient in small almost illegible black letters: Unbleached Wheat Flour.
WORD UP AMERICAN AIRLINES STOP PUTTING WHEAT ON THE NUTS! It just doesn’t make sense. Wheat flour isn’t even a preservative, it’s an allergen obviously, and I don’t have any friends that eat it for a snack. Only when people start lapping up gluten flour like Fun Dips will I credit your stupid mistake of a serving choice. Here is to your obvious disregard of 18 million Americans that SUFFER from gluten intolerance.
Next time I’m in your cramped plane bathroom I’m going to derail the smoke detector AND throw paper towels down the toilet! When you tell me to put on my seat belt I’ll refuse, and I’ll continue to use as much data as I can on my iPhone even as we just begin to ascend. I hate you United, I hate you Southwest, hate to Delta and American Airlines, hate to all of you, for your outward ignorance and bitter acrimony. I hope some poor celiac falls fatally ill from your contaminated peanuts and you are sued to bankruptcy. Until you change your ways when it comes to peanuts served onboard, you will never have my respect.
Peter Kibet leads the pack at the 2013 World Mt. RUnning Championship. (Photo by Richard Bolt)20 year old 1st place winner Phillip Kiplimo leads the pack (Photo by Nancy Hobbs)Team Uganda with the Author at the Opening Ceremony.
This Sunday I was fortunate enough to compete in the World Mt. Running Championship in Krynica-Zdroj, Poland. Many people I call friends and acquaintances are probably aware of this by now as I have unabashedly been publishing any small updates on just about every social media device created. Although this is slightly embarrassing in retrospect, sometimes I feel almost an obligation to throw the sport in people’s faces, figuratively stir the pot, so that someday America’s most primitive sport can see the light of day on TV and maybe even the best can receive the sponsorships that I think they deserve.
After reading Adharanand Finn’s Running With The Kenyans, I felt I had a clearer understanding of the oft misunderstood African semi-professional running culture. Finn paints a portrait of Kenya’s notorious running capital, Iten, where even Kenyan athletes running faster than America’s premier running icons struggle to land sponsorships, much less sustainable ones to really support their families. The author states several reasons for this, many being the poverty stricken state of the 3rd world country, lack of marketability of athletes, and frankly because the white world is bored of seeing another Kenyan champion.
Kenya was not at the World Championship this weekend, however Africa was represented by four skinny young Ugandan men named Philip Kiplimo, Geoffrey Kusuro, Nathan Ayeko, and Peter Kibet (in order of finishing place). Having only four athletes represented on a senior men’s (19 and up) team is considered the absolute minimum for a team score, as six are permitted to come with the first four scoring. Each place counts as 1 point and the team with the lowest numerical score wins a big silver cup and gold medals. This weekend Team Uganda finished with a score of 10 points.
Team Uganda placed individually 1,2,3, and yes, 4. They ran in a pack the whole way, occasionally shouting in their native tongue back to a teammate falling back something that sounded like, “Hey man, get your ass up here!!!” and continued to set precedence as a domineering force.
With the Ugandan’s also living in the Hotel Pegaz, I got to spend a lot of time getting to know these guys, as I was eating, living and often hanging with them all for about a week. I first hit it off with Peter, the most experienced team member when we pee’d in the bushes together on the way to the hotel at a gas station. Peter Kibet, placing forth at the race, quickly explained to me after that, “It was a very bad day for him,” never mind the fact that he handed the world’s best trail runners their head in a 13.5K course that is supremely undermined by the words “horribly difficult”.
Peter is the Ugandan that I became closest with because after admiring my ironman wristwatch (worth about $35 new) told me he didn’t own a watch. 20 minutes later we were up in his room trading a world champion Uganda jersey and shorts for my wristwatch which he was very fond of. Burdened by guilt on so many levels, and feeling shameful of my privileged white upbringing, I made sure to throw in a USA issued shirt, an old pair of black Nike training shorts, a pair of old Nike trainers, and, as I’ll soon explain, a black Nike headband. Peter seemed happy with the transaction and we all spent the rest of the afternoon watching weird Polish westerns and teaching Philip how to swim in the pool with floaties.
I inquired about the sponsorship status of my four friends. Only Peter had a sponsorship, that from Puma, which occasionally supplied him with gear but in contract offered no fiscal support at all. Of the others, all were jobless outside of their running careers, included Geoffrey’s with his amazing 5K PR of 13:12 (although admittedly track is not “his specialty”). Among Nathan’s marathon times and 20 year old Philip’s 1st place title that Sunday, it is undeniable that these athletes would be huge targets of athletic endorsement in the states. It made me see just how wide the gap is between the advantages of our two distant nations.
The men are all friendly, passionately good-humored and affectionate even after our first couple exposures. Philip was notorious among our team for shaking your hand and not letting go for several minutes as you talked, walked and joked with him. At the opening ceremony on the second night their thinly-veiled discomfort was evident as they became the big hit to take photos with among all the other teams. Athletes and civilians (American’s included) would walk over to the tight-knit four of them and without introduction have family and teammates snap shots of them together. You could tell that by the end of the night, their new-found “fame” had fatigued them although they never wavered in spirit or kindness to the others.
Back to the Peter’s headband. Although it really wasn’t my place, I couldn’t help but to encourage the Ugandan athletes to wear something that differentiated themselves from their fellow Africans in competition. As a product of the Anglo-saxon ignorance, it is without a doubt that individual identities the ever-present flock of African elites are lost in the “flock” of elite African’s each year. In America we only remember the things that set these world bests apart from their African counterparts, for example:
Mo Farah, Somali-Born Brit, for his charisma, cute British accent, and the “Mo-bot” victory laps that have become his signature crowd pleaser.
Ezikiel Kemboi, Kenyan, for that ridiculous homestretch act where he goes into lane 8, exposes his emaciated stomach and starts dancing
Lawi, Kenyan U of Arizona star, who actually kicks so much ass in the NCAA that in explanation for “only” doubling at Indoor Nationals nonchalantly remarked, “Sometimes you have to give other people some chances to win other things”
Lopez Lemong, Nike OTC athlete, who was a sponsored figurehead for VISA rightfully glorifying his journey from running away from life as a child soldier, a triumphant subject that he has written a book about.
Although all these athletes are among the world’s very best, it is undeniable that these elite African-born runners above have become household names in the running community. However, despite Mo’s recent dominance on the track, there are still numerous East Africans that break the tape first each year, yet when asked who won the race I think many Americans either mumble something quickly under their breath or honestly admit that they can’t recall their name(s). I understand that this topic is sensitive; we are trying to support our rising fleet of American’s that are starting to break major ice at the international level (i.e. Ben True’s heroic battle with Edwin Soi at Reiti), and that’s important. Still, American’s love a story and a bold identity, and at the World stage, we really don’t know a thing about the lives of these East African stars until a tragedy happens like the late great Sammy Wanjiru’s premature death.
As I watched the Ugandans step up the podium in spots 1, 2 and 3 I was humbled to notice that none of their sweats matched like all the other teams in attendance that night. Even more remarkable was the realization that although they were the heroes of the day, not a single one of my Ugandan friends would ever see a photo of themselves on the meadow stand once they got back home.
I came to the keyboard days after the competition to reflect on the lives of these four young men who touched me by their humility, and modest means. I know that they work hard to feed their already budding families at home (only 20 year old Philip didn’t have any children), and I wish them the absolute best in the future. Hopefully this provokes a second thought for frustrated American bloggers before they trash talk the African dominance destined to live on at NCAA’s this Fall. We should learn to respect our speedy friends in East Africa and give them a chance to let their unique personalities shine on a domestic and international front.
How did I find myself sitting here with my legs up in the Hotel Pegaz in Krynica-Zdroj, Poland?
It must have been early June when I sent in my resume to the US Mt. Running team admin, upon a friends recommendation from University of Portland, a frequent feeder school into the “obscure” international team. I was pleasantly surprised to see that Juniors (19 and under) need not run a qualifying race, and being signed to run for UCLA in the Fall I wanted my summer training to be interrupted before my premier collegiate season. So I jotted PRs on the track and cross marks off to the Junior race officiator Paul Kirsch, hoping for the best. One race couldn’t hurt right? Especially because if I made the team I’d be able to look like a complete douchbag running unattached with a US kit and jersey.
Late July I heard back from the selection board while working for Runners Workshop HS XC camp in Tahoe, getting in some free altitude training. Paul tells me I’m on the team, sweats are coming in the mail and I have a mostly paid ticket to the mountain-realm of Poland.
Two weeks later my world is flipped upside down when I decide that for some key family and academic dilemmas that UCLA is not the best place for me to start my NCAA career. After I tell the coach my decision I find myself in piles of paperwork, sanctions, and burned bridges.
While training at altitude weeks after camp and back in Tahoe with friends, I woke up every morning checking my email first thing, looking for any indication of resolve by the NCAA or updates regarding my situation.
In the meantime I had been bumming on the couches and floors of friends in nearby Berkeley, training in Marin trying to get in all the hills I could to prepare for which was now a much bigger deal in Poland. Finally come September 4th, I had my bags packed in my USATF issued Nike suitcase and with some paper, pens and Pokemon Silver version set off for SFO.
At the terminal for our connection flight to Frankfurt, Germany, I met up with University of Portland Soph Danny Martinez (former Saint John Bosco State Champ), and La Costa Canyon HS Senior Emma Abrahamson. Despite being in close quarters with some screaming German babies that I wanted to punch, we made it to Frankfurt 11 hours later intact. In the airport I was contained by German Polizei for having a concealed weapon on my body: A rolling stick. After walking through security a second time I went to my gate without any trouble (if you ever try to sneak WMDs into Germany just go through customs twice).
Landing in Krakow we drive from Krakow to a small mountain town Krynica, which apparently gained notoriety during WWII as a Nazi spa escape. Here we have been posted at the Hotel Pegaz, talking to international friends like the Ugandan team, where we are provided with 3 delicious meals a day and a room which I share with University of Richmond’s Jordan Chavez, a returner from last years team. I don’t know exactly what to expect tomorrow.
The course was nothing short of intimidating when we ran it yesterday with two 4.5K loops with about 5K in downhill and several 20% grades. It is treacherously rocky in parts and single track divides the course in the final kilo and a half. I am trying to soak up whatever I can from team USA seniors like Max King, Magdalana Lewy-Boulet (Polish native), and Joseph Gray.
In a few hours we go into town for the opening ceremony where we will be together with all the teams for the first time. I hear that the Africans and Middle and Eastern Europeans go out especially fast and the start is essentially a facade of elbows. We race tomorrow at 10am Poland time which is about 1am in the US, probably explaining the lack of coverage and popularity of the sport in America. They have told us that this may be the best Junior team yet, and I think we have a chance at the podium, especially with the additions of Danny and I from California, as it is atypical to have sub-9 guys on this team. The speed in the “shorter” track distances is not very characteristic of this kind of running where some of the most successful runners are national class Nordic Skiers that can climb with unprecedented strength.
Tomorrow morning we take a gondola to the peak of the ski mountain to find out the outcome. It takes 15 minutes to get there from the hotel which tells you a little bit about the sharp grade up.
naturesalute 