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A Dirty Run

14 May
For two years, I ran everyday. Relocating across the U.S. both started and ended my serious running career.

Photo by Sandeep Nandy

Born and raised in Colorado, my roots go far into the ground there. I spent my whole life in Colorado, grew up with friends, fell in love with downtown Denver, had favorite cafes and bookstores. Then I met someone. I graduated college, married, and because my new husband was more transient than I – he proposed we move to Florida. Why not? I wanted adventure too. We settled in Miami, blocks from the beach. But something unexpected happened. This was not an adventure, it was an emotional catastrophe. I became angry, I cried. Although I just married the love of my life, he was new and somewhat unfamiliar. I had never moved, never been away from my family, from my twin sister. I did at least four life-changing events all at once: graduating college, moving, marriage, first real job, first time move away from family. I missed all that was familiar, and I hated Floridian culture (Miami is three times as transient as L.A. with even more drunk people roaming the streets every night). I began to run – a way to siphon the thrashing emotions. I pounded it out. I was in the best shape of my life. Then, we reached two years and decided to move again. Florida to California. I was burned-out, both physically and mentally; we settled in but I couldn’t shake a newfound distaste. I didn’t want to run. I now connected exercise to heartbreak and exhaustion. I had pushed myself too far, what would I do now?

First, you go to counseling and second, you re-introduce yourself carefully to avoid injury. Running gave me clarity, time to myself and a feeling of unconstraint; could I get that feeling back?I’d never run a race before, except against my personal best, but I found out soon enough that it might be worth considering. During my time of cautious re-introduction to running, a few friends of mine brought up the famous Camp Pendleton Mud Run. Curious and partial to doing research, that’s exactly what I did. I found that the four Mud Run’s in 2008, and one in January of 2009, were very popular and thus sold out. Bummer. Sold out status be damned, there’s always an alternate route.

It’s not Camp Pendleton, but Skyline Sports sponsors its own dirty run at Skyline Church. A dusty, hilly, hot spot near San Diego. That afternoon, determined to run again, I signed myself up for a run in the mud. I had four months. On the weekend of November 16th, the temperature reaching above 80 degrees, I met my sister and a friend for the ambitious event.

As beginners go, I felt ill-prepared for even a three-mile run, let alone one that included 20 mud puddles and a 500 foot incline (a little fact I found out about just before the outset). Clean and in a white t-shirt no less, I checked in, got my free t-shirt, checked my bag and pinned on my race tag. One hot dog, three waters and several bathroom trips later, I lined up at the starting line – 3, 2, 1 – and I was off. Our friend darted ahead but my sister and I remained in stride. I just hoped I wouldn’t need the medic. Fire hoses sprayed gallons of frigid water over us as we pounded the pavement in a roundabout from the parking lot onto the dirt trail. Now sopping wet, I faced the first immense mud pie, which turned out to be superficially deep but nevertheless left sticky mounds of dirt around my ankles. Water stands met us at intervals, a relief from the dust runners kicked up at dry patches of the track. People lost shoes, started walking, joyously jumped into puddles and politely passed their competitors. My sister and I continued to stick together, splashing water and ensuring generous amounts of sludge stuck to the other at every opportunity. I was having fun. 18 puddles, one pipe crawl, countless hills, 500 feet and a rocky mud slide ending in a neck-high puddle turned small lap pool; I finished the race at 39 minutes and 36 seconds.

The 5K was hard, no free-wheeling feeling in this run, no adrenaline packed bursts of energy, just a need to finish, and finish dirty, maybe with one shoe left stuck in the mud at 450 feet – a victorious nod to fighting in the trenches. At the end, I was happy and relieved. I was elated, accomplished and inexplicably energetic. I came out on the other end revived; I faced a challenge, finished a race, muddy shoes my badge of honor – ready to run again.

I still run. I run sporadically and for fun. It’s not quite the same, but it’s not different either. I neither hate it nor love it, but it feels good.

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Fly Away Home

12 May

The Little Things

My Days were spent under a less sunny canopy

Almost…

Denver Museum of Nature & Science: An important part of a Coloradoan’s childhood

Indigenous Crystal

Denver! Music plays at their feet

See the rain?! Like California, this can be a rare treat
Final Twilight Drive

Last Stop! 8pm

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Home

1 May

I went home. Home is Boulder, Colorado. About four years ago I left this place for Miami, then Miami for Los Angeles, and homesickness has plagued me the entire time. The bond I’ve felt with home did not materialize this time around. I didn’t feel completely satisfied touching the ground and I don’t want to stay. I might not love Los Angeles, but I don’t hate it either – something I’ve heard plenty of times from Angelenos. It’s like a family dog, troublesome but lovable.

In trying to look for a once favorite quote of mine, which goes something like, I’m a foreigner in my homeland, I found this one “Homesickness is…absolutely nothing. Fifty percent of the people in the world are homesick all the time…You don’t really long for another country. You long for something in yourself that you don’t have, or haven’t been able to find,” said by John Cheever. This statement carries more weight than the former. When I come home, it’s to find relics of my past, the familiar toys, memories and people. These things comfort me and remind me of who I was, because new places make me feel lost. The danger of the unknown.

Los Angeles is as much a home to me as much as I want it to be. An obvious point and late realization, but I was never a child of the world. Stepping into that unknown. As John Le Carre said “we are the sole survivors of a world no one else has ever seen,” and, there is so much more to see.

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Dead Birds and Cold Feet

8 Jun

One breezy Sunday afternoon, my hubby and I made the time sucking drive to Malibu in hopes that we might secure a nice spot for a sunset walk on a relatively secluded beach. With little fanfare, we find El Matador State Beach and drift into the hidden dirt parking lot, pay the $4 dollar fee for our time there, and practically slide down some scarily steep wooden steps down to the sand. The wind was gusty and very cool, matching the temperature of the water and it’s viscious waves slapping themselves against immense craggy bedrock and splashing inside small caves located at the base of the cliff and the end of the shore. The people here were lounging quietly, and I manage to bump into a woman carrying multiple composition notebooks (must be a writer). First we head South and come upon a wedding taking place. They are crowding together to take photos, and the groom picks up his bride in his arms to save her from the fray. Adjacent to the merry group, what looks like a magazine photo shoot is in session (tall model, photographer, lighting assistants, etc.) and beach goers are pleasantly watching the scene. we walked on, our feet sinking into cold sand with each step.

The shore is not very long, its width superficial, as in high tide there seems to be no beach to walk on. El Matador is very rocky, making it more fun to dodge the rushing water and giant seaweed balls, but resulting in stretched toes and sore heels. I almost feel as if I’m visiting a shivery stony beach in San Francisco. I need a thicker jacket.


Within a matter of minutes, the beach ends and we turn to meander towards the Northern Shore. It is far less rocky and broader than its counterpart. More domesticated, it is covered with private homes, their children and parents out playing ball or attempting to surf in the waves. After passing a saddening lifeless bird, and what looks like clear gobs of what must be jellyfish, we decide to head out.

Once more we turn, and the view is breathtaking. The waves have splashed up enough spray to illuminate the large rocks on the southern end of the beach in an illusion of mist, the low sun spreading its rays in sparkles across the water and casting a filmy glow. The cliff stands firm in the background, it’s moss and tentacled flora reaching down to the cream colored silt. Imagine the setting of an Irish folktale.


Finally, I arrive at my first exclamation – such a magnificent panorama cannot be accurately pictured by yours truly. You’ll see I’m no picture pro, but the outline of the reality still shines through. As far as secluded beaches go, we’ve yet to test this beach on a hot sunny day when crowds are at their worst, but it looks like this beach may be more a local spot than tourist traveled. Clandestine beaches are hard to come by, but El Matador appears to fit the bill. With this in mind, the next sunny day that requires a bathing suit will take place at this discrete destination.

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Save Me

23 May


With all the bills I racked up during college, I sometimes wonder if it was worth it (of course it was). Maybe I could have been more fiscally responsible (that’s a big maybe), after all, my parents never were the ones who espoused the benefits of saving. That’s beside the point however, except to say that I’ve learned a lot since then and in just a short time, I’ll be debt free, and doing this: CLICK HERE

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Geisha, Interrupted

8 May

Bar Flower, a novel written by Lea Jacobson, now takes a place among my stash of favored literature. Her writing is eloquent and intelligent, thoughtful and easy-to-read, otherwise described as straight forward – with no guessing at metaphors and vocabulary. All in all, a very skilled artist. In the wake of my increasing thirst for all things Japanese and the country’s darker underpinnings – including those of hostess clubs and virulent prostitution – Bar Flower emerged at precisely the right time. Lea keeps a blog called Geisha, Interrupted that is equally engulfing for the reader. A homage to her life in Tokyo, Japan.

My thoughts today have nothing to do with her book and the world of hostess clubs, but rather Haruki Murakami, who writes in his latest book After Dark this poignant paragraph, chosen by Lea and advocated by myself…

Archetype and Octopus

The following is a passage from page 92 of After Dark, the latest Haruki Murakami novel in English translation. For some reason I found it so brilliant, and, so perfectly bizarre!

* * *

Takahashi: “As I sat in court, though, and listened to the testimonies of the witnesses and the speeches of the prosecuters and the arguments of the defense attorneys and the statements of the defendants, I became a lot less sure of myself. …To my eyes, this system I was observing, this ‘trial’ thing itself, began to take on the appearance of some special, weird creature.”

Mari: “Weird creature?”

Takahashi: “Like, say, an octopus. A giant octopus living way down deep at the bottom of the ocean. It has this tremendously powerful life force, a bunch of long, undulating legs, and it’s heading somewhere, moving through the darkness of the ocean. I’m sitting there listening to these trials, and all I can see in my head is this creature. It takes on all kinds of different shapes- sometimes it’s ‘the nation,’ and sometimes it’s ‘the law,’ and sometimes it takes on shapes that are more difficult and dangerous than that. You can try cutting off its legs, but they just keep growing back. Nobody can kill it. It’s too strong, and it lives too far down in the ocean. Nobody knows where its heart is. What I felt then was a deep terror. And a kind of hopelessness, a feeling that I could never run away from this thing, no matter how far I went. And this creature, this thing doesn’t give a damn that I’m me or you’re you. In its presence, all human beings lose their names and faces. We all turn into signs, into numbers….What I want to say is probably something like this: any single human being, no matter what kind of person he or she may be, is all caught up in the tentacles of this animal like a giant octopus, and getting sucked into the darkness. You can put any kind of spin on it you like, but you end up with the same unbearable spectacle.”

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Erin

5 Mar
Couldn’t take my style cues from a better girl, my fave model – Erin Wasson. Somewhere between the lingo and her predilection for bloody mary’s I think, we’d get along pretty well.A day in the life of a supermodel multitasker – Style.com
Since she won a local modeling competition in her native Texas in 1999, several things have set Erin Wasson apart from her pretty peers. There’s the mole, the pout that won’t quit, the legs—and then there’s her personal style. This last bit, a scruffy but pulled-together look that’s all her own, is what’s been getting rave reviews lately. The designer Alexander Wang asked her to be his in-house stylist last season, and was so pleased with the results he asked her back. We sent Derek Blasberg to catch up with Erin as she prepped for Wang’s fall show and finished a day of errands.
“You’ve gotta feel this stuff,” Erin Wasson says as she caresses the exotic skins and leathers strewn about Alex Wang’s lower Fifth Avenue studio. “It’s so yummy.” This morning isn’t all fur appreciation, however; after a brief directional meeting, Wasson leaves Wang’s studio to find chains that she will link together for the Fall show. Asked what her best skill is, Alex responds, “Just being herself is her best talent. She knows what looks good.”
Meet Erin Wasson’s boyfriend for the next few weeks. “Until the show, it’s just you and me, buddy,” she teases outside Wang’s studio. “Wait, this is a girl.”
It takes a few minutes—Erin only remembered this destination because it had a Starbucks nearby (hardly a good locator in New York)—but we finally found her first stop, Beads World on Broadway, where she looks for feathers and biker chains. “How often do you get a tour of midtown?” she asks, defending her lack of direction.
“I didn’t style before this per se,” says Erin, admitting, however, that her own stuff would often end up in the final shots on shoots. “So Alex has given me an awesome opportunity. When he asked me, I was floored but thought it could be fun. It was.” At Metalliferous, where she continues her metal hunt, we ask if this is a possible new career. “Every day is a new day, and I don’t expect anything from this. I’ve already been so blessed.”
It’s not all work and no play for Ms. Wasson. She’s got a party to go to, so she decides to swing by the Chanel offices to see if there’s anything to borrow that tickles her fancy. “I hope they don’t mind that I’m not trying anything on,” she sighs. “I’m good at knowing what I want immediately.” She wasn’t kidding: Erin was in and out in ten minutes.
Outside the Chanel store, Erin gives her own personal double-C logo. Her own shoes attract some compliments, but she’s not trying to fool anybody. “I got these on the street for like $50,” she says. “This ain’t no Balenciaga shit.”
Although she came by only to pick up a feathered headdress for tomorrow night’s event, she couldn’t not try on a pair of black handmade leather fringe pants at Lost Art. “These are ridiculous,” she tells designer Jordan Betten. “You’ve got some dope stuff going on here.” Jordan, for his part, was happy to play dress-up. He’d be hard-pressed to find a more excited model.
An appointment with a designer, two shops for chains, a fitting, and a stop at a leather shop—not bad for one day. So to celebrate, Erin heads to her favorite spot, the Antique Garage, in Soho for a Bloody Mary. “Oh yeah, that hits the spot,” she says. “Another full day over.” It’s only now that she reveals she got off the red eye from L.A. that morning and has a 5 a.m. call time for a Maybelline print ad the next day. “But I’ve got something to look forward to,” she says with a sly grin. “This weekend is my birthday, and all my friends are going back to Texas to party.”

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