Author Archives: jrwmacdonald

The Vatican

29 Thursday Oct 2015

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I don’t even no where to begin so I’m just going to go for it. The day started out much like yesterday but with blue skies. We got off the bus outside the Vatican and marched ourselves to the ticket office associated with the bus tour company we purchased our tickets from on day one. There are thousands of people milling about the street leading to St. Peter’s Basilica. The crowds are a little overwhelming. I’ve seen this courtyard in front of St. Peter’s dozens of times on television. It’s eerily familiar. I took a long look at the Basilica. Dad said he’d like to go in after the Vatican Museum but I knew better. I wondered just how much walking lay before us.
We fended off the up sell at the ticket office and began the walk to the Vatican. We walked down a long street enclosed with the enormous exterior brick wall of the Vatican on our left and to our right a long line of vendors selling knickknacks from a goo that made a farting noise to pictures of the Pope. At the end of the lane we came across the line to get in. I had been a little annoyed with the price of our “skip the line” tickets until I saw the line. Dad would have been done by the time we made it to the front of that torture chamber. 
The Vatican museum essentially consists of stairs and rooms in a never ending labyrinth of art. Lilli and I once visited the Vancouver Art Gallery together. If she is reading this post she might think I just described my own personal hell. I generally don’t get “art.” The Vancouver Art Gallery features things like a pile of broken couches as a central attraction. I don’t get it. At the Vatican we found what you might call real art. If that makes me sound like a snob so be it.

It was all a little much though. We probably walked through less than a third of what the Vatican has to offer in about 4 hours. It was overwhelming. By the end every painting looked the same. The lead up to the Sistine Chapel was so extraordinary that the chapel itself was nearly something of a let down. Of course, we shared the entire experience with 30,000 of our closest friends. Standing room only folks. If you ever have the opportunity to visit the Vatican do it and I suggest bringing along a small pair of binoculars. A neck brace might help too.

The long walk with all the stairs was pretty hard on dad. I wondered a couple times if we’d have to get the Swiss Guard to carry him out. He powered through and I made sure to find him a bench to occupy every now and then. We put in about 15,000 steps today (according to my iPhone) I suspect that translates to somewhere between 12-14 kilometres.

We arrived back at the hotel a quarter past 3. Dad took a nap and like yesterday I set off on my own. I found a laundromat with the help of my good friend Google and took our clothes for a cleaning. In the hour they took to clean I walked a 6k loop through the streets of Rome. Turns out that suicide in Rome is only 28 euro. That’s the cost of renting a scooter for the day. I estimate it would take me less than half the day to kill myself on one of those things. If I had a different travelling companion yesterday’s post might be my obituary.

Tomorrow we board the train for Venice. I am extremely interested in experiencing a city without automobiles.

 

Michelangelo’s Pieta (Replica in the Vatican Museum)

  

St. Bernard trampling on the demon by Marcello Ventusi (1563-64)

  

Selfie with St. Peter’s in the background. Taken from a courtyard in the Vatican Museum.

 

Raining in Rome

28 Wednesday Oct 2015

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We woke this morning to the sound of rain pattering off the tin rooves of the neighbouring buildings. I knew I should have packed that umbrella. I at least brought my rain jacket. Breakfast was a croissant, muffin, yogurt and a hot chocolate. Everyone here wants me to drink cappuccino or coffee. For the first time I feel like I am missing out on something good. People are generally shocked, borderline offended even, when we don’t order coffee. My hot chocolate was made with an espresso machine so it was all frothy. Thats practically the same thing, I’m sure.

We headed out into the rain a little after eight with a plan to purchase tickets for the “hop on hop off” bus. Turns out there are 4-5 companies to choose from. Seriously! Now I need to compare prices and routes and timing and… forget it, we picked the closest one. Along with the bus tickets we purchased “skip-the-line” tickets to the Vatican and the Sistine Chapel for tomorrow. I am looking forward to tomorrow.

We boarded the two decker bus and climbed to the open air second floor. I generally enjoy these bus tours. I’ve had some memorable tour guides. A fellow in Chicago was especially entertaining but unfortunately this tour came with an automated voice that echoed through cheap earbuds. Between explanations of stellae and bascilica it ran poor renditions of Vivaldi. I suppose when you accomodate a dozen or so languages a recording is a necessity though I’m certain the Vivaldi is not.

We chose to ride the bus through its complete circuit once and then decide what to do from there. Watching the bus manouver through the busy streets, down cramped lanes and through the masses of unpredictable pedestrians was nearly as entertaining as the history. Actually, much more entertaining. Whoever wrote the script for the tour must have been trained by the same people that produce elevator music and 1970s sex education videos – let’s suck the fun out of  everything! The traffic was awesome though and I was anxiously awaiting Jackie Chan or some other ninja chasing a bad guy to come tearing through the bus at any moment. Dad suggested we sit in the very front of the bus for the thrill factor and joked that if mom was here she’d kill the bus driver.

I wanted to get off at every stop: “oh look Piazza Venezia!” “Whoa the Circo Massimo, remeber that scene from Ben Hur!” “St. Peter’s Bascillica, sweet!” “Hey, look at that sweet bike path along the Tiber… with absolutely no one on it.” How on earth do Romans out preform Americans in cardiac health when every second person has a cigarrette hanging out of their mouth and the only bike lane in the entire city is exceptionally empty? In the end we opted to hop off at the Coliseum. 

Now this is an impressive set of ruins. There is poetry in its construction. The Romans used the loot they stole from the sack of Jerusalem and the destruction of the temple to build this monument of death and suffering. Some estimates put the number of lives lost in the Coliseum over a million. They could flood the ampitheater and stage mock sea battles where thousands could die for the enjoyment of others. It is a temple dedicated to all that is wrong with humanity. Naturally, we are preserving it with utmost care. It is impressive, no doubt. I can hardly imagine the colossal undertaking it must have been to construct. We circumnavigated its circumfrence but chose to avoid the crowds and long lines to get inside. We scaled the Palatine instead and to hear dad it might as well have been the Himilayas. Actually, he didn’t complain at all but he was breathing like a draft horse. We took our time and enjoyed our surroundings.

A small cafe overlooking the Coliseum entertained us for lunch. They had some amazing pizza.  The Italians know how to eat. After lunch and a little more sightseeing we climbed back on the bus. It began to rain. We were stuck on top of the bus. It was a miserable wet ride back through the majority of the route.

We disembarked at the Piazza Barberinni. There is a fabulous water fountain here by the artist Bernini. I need to look up the story behind it. Imagine a triton suspended by the fins of four dolphins. He kneels on scaly legs a conche shell pressed to his mouth, head drawn back to sound the instrument before him. The Triton’s body in similitude of the perfect man is shining with the life giving water pouring from the shell in his hands. I wish I could better describe it to you but words are failing me. I think I can now say that I have a favorite piece of art and understand just a little the passion some exhibit for great art. I’ll include a picture here but like all amazing things pictures are inadequate. 

Dad was beginning to fade quickly by this point so we headed back in the direction of the hotel. Along the way was the Basilica S. Maria Degli Angeli E Dei Martiri. It is a squat romanesque like structure with crumbling brick walls and the appearnce of antiquity. It looked open so I headed inside to escape the rain and was not prepared for what I would find. This was the Rome I was looking for. The domed ceiling was much loftier than I’d expected and the walls home to impressive depictions of early Christianity. John the Baptist’s marble head lay on a platter in a corner. God was being swept away on a cloud while Adam and Eve fled from the garden. A sign before a ropped off sanctuary invited those who wished to pray to enter and do so. It was dark inside the building and the little light that filtered through the stained glass was subdued. I could not restrain from taking a few pictures, as rude as that probably was. I kept the flash off at least.

We were back in the hotel by 3pm. Dad was spent. I took a moment to relax and then headed out on my own while he took a needed break. We are remarkably close to one of the main public libraries in Rome. I was keen to see it. Surely the Romans will have magnificent libraries? The exterior of the Biblioteca Nazionale is far from inspiring. It reminds me of ugly utilitarian soviet architecture. The inside, to my dismay, is a reflection of the outside. The librarians at the desk confiscated my driver’s license as payment for entry. A large open and commodious library full of arbrite desks, old CRT computer monitors, microfiche readers and row upon row of ancient card catalogs. In a city that has been the inspiration of the western world for centuries lies a library that is the antithesis of ispiration, institution. There were plenty of people studiously occupying the desks, bent over their laptops with piles of books scattered about them defying the sterility of their environment to rob them of their souls. I don’t want to talk about it any more; its too painful.

I wandered the streets of Rome after that to absorb all I could and let the rain rinse off what I’d just experienced. I found myself at the national museum. It was growing late so not worth the 13 euros to explore its interior but the courtyard alone was worth the visit. There are several dozen headless statues that I really wanted to stand behind and take a picture of my head on their marble bodies. Alas, I was alone. Another gorgeous fountain, this one complete with fish in its green ringed pool. Beautiful.

We ate dinner at a table on the bustling streets after a stroll through Rome’s famous shopping district. The food was okay but not up to the standard we have already come to expect. When eating a meal on the corniche in Muscat with the family I told the kids to take a deep breath and let the place sink in. “You are making a memory” I said. I hope that memory lasts for them and this one for me.

 

Dad stands in front of the Coliseum or Flavian Ampitheater

  

A painting in the Basilica S. Maria Degli Angeli E Dei Martiri.

  

The fountain at the entrance to the Rome National Museum

  

One of many public drinking fountains in Rome. At least I hope it is for drinking cause I drank some… not before seeing others do the same of course.

   

Fontana del Tritone, a 17th century fountain from the sculptor Bernini

 

Fabulous pizza at a cafe outside the Coliseum

First Impressions of Rome

27 Tuesday Oct 2015

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That was a long flight. The snow began to fall as we boarded the first plane in Prince George this morning and while I was looking forward to warmer climates my thoughts were with my family. Winter is not my favorite season. It is lovely here in the high teens but rain is threatening. A short flight from PG to Vancouver; then Vancouver to Toronto where we endured a 4 hour layover and a much too expensive airport meal until finally the long hop over the Atlantic to Rome. I was feeling the fatigue when we stepped off that final plane with a train ride and short walk ahead of us. Dad weathered things fairly well but he was looking a little pale when we stepped onto the train for the ride into Rome.

Rome smells of stale cigarretes. Home to the greatest of renissance artists the city has fallen to modern spray paint enthusiasts. Every sign, every train, every brick wall save the ruins is the canvas of the masses. The homeless are not friendless; often a dog or two accompanies them on the littered and broken sidewalks. The city is everywhere in disrepair. Broken concrete and fading paint blend with the ruins and the litter to tell the story of former greatness, of better times.

We walked a block or two past the hotel and had to back track. It was easy to miss. It is literally a hole in the wall. A small bronze plaque next to a nondescript wood door is all that announces the Independence Square Hotel. We had to ring the buzzer to the second floor for the proprietor to let us in. The doors are so narrow that even I must turn to squeeze myself in. The hotel is closer to a Bed and Breakfast but without the breakfast (correction the proprietor just knocked on my door to let me know he’d made a mistake and breakfast is included). The hotel is home to 4-5 rooms sharing two bathrooms. The room includes a sink and mirror though. A single bed and no prospect of a cot. Thank heaven it is a king bed. It made little difference to me as I was unconcious as soon as my head touched the pillow.

It was just after noon (Rome time) when we let our bags down in the hotel room. Our day started at 4:15am and it was now almost exactly 24 hours later. I planned to sleep for two hours and then get moving. I really don’t wish to be wide awake at 1am. The two hours became three before I could wrestle myself up let alone dad. We headed out on foot without any real plan.

We played the tourists. Walking through narrow streets lined with scooters and Smart cars we caught glimpses of the Coliseum in the distance while wandering past nameless brick ruins. In front of the Santa Maria Maggiore an African man selling baubles and trinkets had a “gift” in our hands in moments and was requesting a “donation.” He got his donation. It makes me wonder if we are prepared for India. Perhaps by the end of the week.

An oblisk stands in front of the Santa Maria, chipped and fading with an inscription so badly worn that I could never decipher it even if I knew Latin. We walked past the ristorantes and the pizzerias dodging traffic and weaving our way through the masses. The open doors of a church, St. Pauls’s, and the works of a local artist drew us off the streets for a moment. An Opera was scheduled for this ancient edifice but it was many hours away and we were already fading fast.

We stopped for dinner at a cafe a few streets from our hotel. The food was excellent and surely enhanced by the night air and the atmosphere of night traffic and passing strangers chatting in Italian. It was 6pm when we reached the hotel again and 6:20 when dad slipped into what I wish were a quiet sleep. His nose horn is playing an incongruous melody behind me as I type this out. He’ll be wide awake at 3am.

 

First Roman meal.

 

Dad infront of a random church

 

 

Turns out this hotel room is super tiny

 

The Canadian Death Race

05 Wednesday Aug 2015

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The Canadian Death Race (CDR) was my second ultra marathon. At 125 kilometres it is nearly double the distance of the first ultra I ran back in September, 2014. At the time I thought that ultra was pretty tough with some significant elevation change. Here is a little perspective for you: my total time for the 63k Mad Moose Ultra was a little less than 7 and 1 half hours. So when I finished leg 2 of the 5 leg CDR having run only 46k with a time of 7 hours and 3 minutes I began to realize this was a different breed of race.

There were somewhere between 1000-1500 runners in the CDR. This made for a fun start with the music going and a charged atmosphere as runners tried desperately to find an appropriate pace. The first leg is rated the easiest at 19k with comparatively tame trails. I say comparatively because on its own a good chunk of the leg is fairly technical and a few poor souls took some hard falls early on.

Jeremy and I strolled into the leg 1 finish in a cool 2 hours 3 minutes. The crowd was thick in the transition and spectators cheered us on. Jeremy was good about hustling us through the pit stop. I tend to take too long at these places.

Leg 2 began to climb almost immediately. We ran some distance on a quad track before entering single track that proceeded nearly straight up the side of a mountain. We planned to share a single set of poles. This it turns out was foolish. Running the CDR would be exponentially more difficult without two good running poles.

Before reaching our first summit Jeremy began to take a turn for the worse. He soon had both poles and was struggling to keep up. He began suggesting I go on without him at about K25. I hoped he was just hitting an early wall and we could push through. We moved slowly down the mountain in a tight pack of runners. The downhill so steep that many runners had to slide down on their rears. In dips and valleys we found mud and muskeg which made for even slower going.

At k31 Jeremy looked pale and was insistent that I move on without him. He threatened to pull out of the race all together unless I took the poles and left him there. He planned to take an hour and try to recuperate. I figured a remote possibility of his completing was better than none so I did as I was told and moved on. I’ll be honest, I thought he was done at that point. This was a serious blow to my mental state. It helped that I quickly began overtaking many runners but thoughts of how Jeremy was likely out of the race made progress bitter sweet.

Up and up leg 2 continued, culminating with a spectacular view of the surrounding country side. Any thoughts of the worst of the leg being over were quickly dashed. The trail followed a power line nearly directly down the face of the mountain. It was so steep that I began longing for the uphill. The incline was taking a toll on my quads which were now nearly shredded. I pictured Jeremy coming down that trail without poles and tried not to complain.

Jeremy had drug himself into the aid station where the medics gave him a rundown. He was wrapped in a blanket to combat the chills he was experiencing and he learned that his resting pulse rate was in excess of 128 beats per minute! The medics considered pulling him from the race but decided to let him sit an hour and check his fitness to continue then. So as I was approaching the end of the power line from hell Jeremy had recuperated and set off to run me down.

I saw the most beautiful woman in the world wearing a fluorescent vest (Lisa) marshaling runners through an intersection just 800 meters from the end of leg 2 (which happens to be the start/finish line). I met Lilli and Kirsten at the line who were kind enough to crew for me. Meaning, they filled my water bottles and watched over my stuff. They were awesome having waited around for us to show up 2 hours longer than we anticipated arriving. And there was no “we.” Jeremy was still out there!

A blister had begun to form on my right heel. I took some time in transition to clean it and apply mole skin. For a month I debated buying new shoes but put it off until, in typical James fashion, I broke down and bought new trail shoes two days before the race! Do you really need to break shoes in nowadays? Turns out the shoes worked great, all things considered.

It was 3:00pm when I finished leg 2 well under the 5:30 cutoff but much longer than I’d planned to be. The girls wanted to know what to do with Jeremy’s gear. I refused to give up on him and asked they leave it where it was and have mom come down and crew for him (as the girls were scheduled to take over Lisa’s volunteer tasks at 3pm).

Leg 3 followed the river valley for 19k. Frankly, I think this was the easiest leg of the race (it was less technical than leg 1). The weather may have had something to do with its relative ease. I understand that generally this trail is fraught with bogs and mud. The dry weather left just enough room on the edges of the puddles to keep our feet dry. Realizing that this leg would have few hills I held back a little to give my legs a little time for recovery before the onslaught of leg 4.

I arrived at the end of leg 3 at about 6:20. The transitions between legs were great. There were plenty of people to cheer you on as you ran in. I love to get the crowd going so I always pick up the pace a little and shout something like: “I can’t feel my legs!” (That one always draws a cheer).

I must have looked a little out of sorts at the end of this leg as the nurse was grilling me hard or maybe it was the comment about my legs. This was the furthest I’d ever run! I’d just covered 65k and run for a little over 10 hours and I understood quite profoundly that I was only about half way. After a short rest long enough to refill my bottles and shove some food in me I would be off. I took a moment to pull out my phone and switch off airplane mode (airplane mode to conserve battery life). Rats, no cell service. There was no way to know for sure if Jeremy was out or if he managed to carry on.

So, unknown to me Jeremy was only 40 minutes behind me. He had come into the leg 2/3 transition about an hour after I’d left it. Unlike me he did not have the luxury of holding back on leg 3 and he had just descended leg 2’s quad crushing descent without poles. He made up over 20 minutes in leg 3. A look back at his splits put him in the top 30 soloist runners for that leg – he was moving!  As Jeremy approached the transition spectators rallied to let him know he was moments from the cutoff and to make it he’d have to sprint it in. I wish I had been there to watch as he dug in to race the clock. He timed in right at 7pm and then promptly threw up.

10 minutes later Jeremy was still at the aid station in recovery when another soloist came in to find she’d missed the cutoff. Runners can be the nicest folks. She was happy to lend Jeremy her poles for the remainder of the race. He would need them.

Starting out on leg 4 I was with a nice older lady who was completing the leg as a relay team. I managed to stay with her for about a kilometer and a half before she pulled away. I knew she had fresh legs and certainly was deceptively athletic but watching her pull away at the beginning of the steep climb up Mt. Hamel was quite the reality check.

I’ve heard other racers talk about this leg as the “assault” up Mt. Hamel. I’m not so sure who exactly is being assaulted… I have a feeling it’s the runner and not the mountain. It is an ascent of over 2000 feet on ever steeper switch backs. There is a bail out part way up the mountain (a couple stoic volunteers in a Jeep). I dug my poles in when I reached them and rested for a moment or two.

Leg 4 is 38 kilometers. I fell in with a group of runners part way up the mountain and it turned out that several had attempted to solo the run in the past. For some this was their 2nd or 3rd attempt. One able looking veteran in pink socks indicated that it was best to reach the end of the leg by 2am at the latest – 7 hours away! Another reality check!

Just short of the summit I realized I had not eaten anything in a couple hours. My stomach really didn’t want me putting anything in it. I was suffering from stomach cramps and even the thought of food threatened to have me expel all I had managed to ingest. I forced myself off the trail and sat down. Without exception every passing runner asked if I was alright (such nice people). I forced down an Eatmore bar refusing to stand until it was all gone.

The summit of Mt. Hamel provided some spectacular views. I arrived there just as the sun was setting. The bald mountain top looked down on Grand Cache and the stunning rolling Smoky River valley.

The wind was intense at the summit. I would only be up there for a short time (they make you run the length of the table top mountain and back – more than a kilometer). I resisted getting out my jacket, toque and gloves until I realized that I must be bleeding energy fast to keep myself warm.

So it was that a few kilometers later on the far side of Mt. Hamel I was sitting on a rock in what the race organizers called “Boulder Garden.” I was stowing my cold weather gear and the sun was setting fast. I had made a fatal mistake. Jeremy and I (more optimistic than prudent) had stowed our headlamps in our drop bags which were at Ambler Loop about 7-10 kilometres away.

Naturally, the first runner to come across me on that rock asked how I was doing and I mentioned my predicament. She didn’t hesitate to lend me her spare torch. Otherwise I may have had to follow a runner with a light and that had nothing but disaster written all over it. A few hours later I would learn that a runner tripped in the dark on Ambler Loop to cut her knees, elbows, bloody her nose and break a finger. (Thanks for the assistance Erin – if you are reading this).

It was a further blow to arrive at Ambler Loop to my drop bag which was clipped to Jeremy’s. Was he still out there? Was he without poles on that unforgiving ground? His headlamp was in the bag at my feet.

I believe it was about midnight when I arrived at Ambler Loop. The support staff here were fantastic. There was a fire burning and a chair seemed to be waiting just for me. After a quick rest and a forced feeding I set out on the loop. Here was a segment of trail I could wrap my head around. It was 5 kilometers. To this point with just a watch I was out of touch with my pace. I thought I must be taking as much as an hour to cover 5k and was beginning to worry about cutoff times. When I finished the loop I was rather pleased to see I’d made the distance in almost exactly 40 minutes. Another 10.5 kilometers would bring me to the end of leg 4 and the home stretch.

A steady downhill on a dirt road, fantastic. I can make up time here. I ran with a nice guy for a while until stomach cramps forced me off the road. If you think burpees are hard try squatting next to a tree after running 100k. Yeah, there is just nothing pleasant about that picture.

I pulled into the end of leg 4 pretty pleased with myself that it was only 2am. Another forced eating and I took 20 minutes here – I felt I deserved it. I checked my phone and found I had cell service. I texted Lisa to find out how Jeremy was doing. She hadn’t heard from him so that could mean only one thing – he was on the trail! He was still in this thing!

I toyed with the idea of waiting for Jeremy at the aid station but I had no idea if he’d make all the cutoff times. How long could I wait? If I sat too long would I be able to get going again? I had to push on and hope for the best.

Leg 5 was single track and some quad trails through fairly dense forest. There were reflective tacks pinned into trees along the route to help you find the way. It was a bit spooky at times running without another soul in sight through the shadowed canopy of the forest. To hear the patterned footfall of a runner far ahead or behind was actually a comfort.

It was a quick, though creepy, 7k of twisting trails to the next aid station. Again I forced down some food. It was a fruit source bar that tasted like dirty feet. After just a few minutes I left the aid station to make my way to the river just a few hundred meters away.

I rounded a corner to descend on the river bank and standing on the shore was Death. The river roiled black behind him and cast a mist upon the bank. He stood, motionless, in flowing black robes his face a skull. His right hand held a clear chalice filled with silver coins. The price of passage already paid by runners that had come before. At the start of the race every runner was given a coin to pay the ferryman. I’d stashed my coin in a gel pocket of my pack. With relief I paid the toll and climbed aboard the river boat leaving Death to collect the fairs of those that would come behind.

This was it. 15 kilometers and the race was over. I understood, however, that there were two rather aggressive hills between me and the finish line and I wasn’t sure how much I had left. It was 4:12 when I left the boat and I went straight at it. There was no way to know how fast I was traveling or how slow! After what felt like forever I saw a kilometer marker. It read 3k! “What! Are you serious,” I thought! I must be moving at 20 minutes per kilometer. I began to wonder about my ability to make the finish line by 8am. I pushed on as the sun broke the horizon and I caught glimpses of Grand Cache at what seemed an unreasonable distance away.

I eventually caught the group that had taken the boat before me. They were confident we were making good time but I couldn’t believe it. I broke away from them but one, Jeff, kept pace. He assured me we were fine but I was convinced we still had 10k to go and we’re moving too slowly. Then there was suddenly a spectator who congratulated us with the information that we had only 3 kilometres left.

Jeff and I sped walked along the now gravel road together and discussed how tired we were, how stupid this was and how we should stick to easier events like Tough Mudders or Spartan Races. Then we hit pavement and I knew we were less than a kilometre from the finish line.

I left Jeff then and like a horse that has caught the scent of home I broke out. It was a gradual climb I was making but I was doing it at a run and oh how smooth the pavement slid beneath my feet. I was breathing like a steam train but I didn’t care as I passed runner after runner on the final stretch. I thanked my pink socked friend as I passed him by and then was heading down hill and I was fighting tears of joy! Deep breaths. Deep breaths. I rounded the final corner and felt the grass beneath my trail shoes and bolted for the line like I had only been out for a 5k. My water bottles broke free from my pack on my chest and scattered across the field as I came through the line to time in at 6:24:37 am. I’d done it! I’d pushed myself through 125 kilometers. Someone had collected my water bottles and was giving them to me. I then laid down on the grass to take the weight off my feet.

I was only there a few moments when Lisa turned up with the kids. They’d missed me crossing the line by just minutes. I suppose I should have walked the end.

Lisa convinced me to take a shower. If Jeremy was still out there he was probably an hour behind me. The showers were close but it still took me nearly an hour to get the job done. Washing my legs was the most difficult… Try standing on one leg in a shower after running 125k. Yeah, I sat on my butt.

I was in the stands watching the runners come in at 7:20. Where was Jeremy? Every minute that passed seemed to spell disaster. Then there he was coming down the street with about 20 minutes left on the clock. I was shouting and moving (ever so slowly) to intercept him at the finish line. I couldn’t believe it! He had rallied from what seemed like the end. It was a reawakening, a resurrection. He had come back from the dead and he looked it.

Jeremy demonstrated incredible tenacity. He raced the clock to nearly every cutoff. That performance will be one I’ll never forget.

It has taken me a couple days to get my feet back under me. I was unable to eat anything solid for about 24 hours. My stomach took a far worse beating than my legs. The leg pain I can handle. In fact, at about kilometre 70 I truly could not feel my legs anymore. Now that I can eat again my mind is drawn to whether I couldn’t get that time down under 20 hours. If you’ve read this far you have something of the endurance gene in you too – maybe I’ll see you out there next year! I just need to work out how to train my stomach.

 

A Farewell to the Middle East.

04 Monday Aug 2014

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featherA few months ago I went for a run and got a very sharp thorn in my shoe. The thorn was so sharp and so long that it went all the way through the sole of my shoe and stuck me in the bottom of the foot.  I had to stop and dig the thorn out. I held onto the thorn while I ran, thinking that once I got home I’d take a picture of it and write a small post about the cruelty of the desert. I was unable to keep a hold on the thorn while I ran. I dropped it and lost it and then promptly forgot all about it until tonight.

As I went for my last run tonight in the Middle East for what is likely to be a long time I thought about my experiences here. I thought about how hard it is to run in the summer heat.  It was about 38 degrees Celsius with about 70 percent humidity tonight. That is really unpleasant. Yet there I was outside running in it. I felt like perhaps I’d won a little game against nature or not “won” so much as tied or forced a draw. The desert hadn’t beat me.

As I contemplated how harsh the desert is, how mean and vindictive, how unforgiving and exacting it can be I saw on the ground in front of me a feather. It was the feather of an Indian Roller. These are beautiful birds with brilliant shades of blue. I kept running for 30 or 40 meters before I suddenly felt like I should collect that feather. I turned around and retrieved the feather. It was then I thought of the thorn I’d lost. I held tight to the feather and managed to bring it all the way home.

I realized tonight as I ran that this is what I hope my children can do with their experiences here in the Middle East and the rest of their lives. I hope they can lose the thorns they collect along the way and keep the small pieces of beauty they find. It felt a little like this place was giving me this feather, this small reminder that no matter how harsh, how unforgiving and how unpleasant there will be beauty and something of worth in our experiences.

So here at the end of one adventure and the beginning of another I pause to be grateful for the journey. I am grateful that there have been no thorns that have pierced too deeply or stung so bitterly that I can not lay them down and appreciate the small beauties and tender mercies of life. I recognize that that ability, to lose the thorns, to see and appreciate the good, comes from something greater than me. It is a gift. Me, I am the guy that keeps running despite the treasure at his feet. It takes a few extra meters before I’m compelled to stop a while and appreciate what is before me.

Ramadan

29 Sunday Jun 2014

Posted by in Islam, UAE

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This will be our second Ramadan in the UAE. I quite enjoyed the relaxed pace of things last Ramadan and look forward to a general slow down in this holy month. On a practical level, for us, it means that my work day is reduced to 6 hours (without a lunch break).  Generally this means I’ll be in the office from 7am to 1pm.  Today, however, I am on the reference desk until 4pm so I won’t go in until 10am. I’m using some of that extra time to write this post. Ramadan also means changes in traffic.  The roads will generally be better except for right before Iftar when everyone is racing to get to the place they need to be to break their fast and late at night when folks are heading home after long meals and social events.

The word Ramadan, I understand, means “great heat.” I suppose that can have a symbolic as well as a practical meaning. Muslims fast from sun up to sun down over the entire month (I do not recommend that the Inuit convert anytime soon).  The devout find themselves in a period of deep reflection and prayer as well as study of their sacred text. It is believed that the Quran was revealed in the closing days of Ramadan.

The moon has been sighted and Ramadan begins in the UAE today. While the lunar calendar could be calculated mathematically they still declare the start of Ramadan based on actual sighting of the moon. I kind of like that. It inspires a sense of watchfulness and readiness for things to come.

I’ve been thinking for weeks about how I could participate more fully in Ramadan. I’ve mentioned to a few muslim friends that I was considering fasting.  They did not seem offended in any way that I would join in on the holy month. Islam is not my religion or my culture but I do have deep respect for the good it can do in the lives of the people who live it. I am fasting today – this first day of Ramadan – I won’t commit to any fasting beyond that. I will, however, spend more time with my sacred books and in prayer this month. It should be an interesting cultural experience.

Fasting is also a part of my religious heritage. We fast the first sabbath of every month. In most of the world that means from after the evening meal on Saturday to the evening meal on Sunday. The money we save during that voluntary fast is then given as an offering and used to relieve the suffering of the poor and otherwise afflicted. I am terrible at fasting.  When I remember to do it inevitably my Saturday evening meal ends somewhere around 9pm and the Sunday evening meal begins around 3pm. Fasting during Ramadan I suspect may take on a similar shape for me.

My real plan is to post daily during Ramadan much like I did over Christmas. I am looking forward to a month of reflection.

Ramadan Kareem

Marathons and a Mountain

19 Saturday Apr 2014

Posted by in UAE

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The last post to this blog was January 30th! This is what happens when routine takes over and adventures simply become living. Of course, our lives have been fairly eventful and we may come to regret not writing them down as time spirals on. I have always wanted to run a marathon and I got my chance earlier this year when I ran the Dubai Marathon with my running buddies: Jeremy and Steve. I did okay for a first marathon (not as well as I’d hoped) but I’m happy with the experience. Before I jump into the story of that race, though, I want to relate a recent marathon of a different type.

During the last week of spring break Lisa and I travelled to Sri Lanka on vacation. This was my and the kids Christmas gift to Lisa. I won’t tell the story of Sri Lanka here we’ll save that for another post (possibly Lisa will write it). Lisa and I have a tendency to take these trips without the kids… We’ve been to Mexico, Hawaii and Disney World without the kids (left them with grandparents). Most recently we were in Hong Kong.  When we went to Hong Kong we hired a nanny to look after the kids.  This time, however, we hired no one and the kids remained home alone! I expect that some might judge us irresponsible for doing so.  Certainly, I had some trepidation leaving my children for a week largely unsupervised. Though we did not make the decision lightly or without preparation.

Kirsten is a few months away from 14 and we’ve prepared her to take care of her siblings for many years now.  She’s taken the babysitting course and has been given increasing responsibility in caring for her siblings since she was 9.  Our week in Hong Kong demonstrated that Kirsten really did not need the help of the live in nanny we hired. It was an excellent trial run.  Lisa prepared frozen meals for dinner each night with instructions for reheating and we had several family conversations where we played the scenario game: “What would you do if… someone was choking? the house was on fire? the toilet suddenly burst and water was pouring all over the floor?”  etc.  Emergency numbers were posted on the refrigerator and all our campus friends and neighbours were aware of our kids being home alone.  How wonderful to have such a great support network of caring people willing to be there for my kids!  A big thanks to the Palmers for checking in with the kids frequently and our neighbour Raji.

In addition to all of this scaffolding and support we signed Jaron and Lilli up for a weeks worth of day camps at the Epicenter.  They would go to the Epicenter each morning beginning at 8 where they’d get breakfast (they had to pack their own lunches) and remain there until 5pm.  Those lucky kids had one fun activity after another: crafts, water fights, treasure hunts, cooking classes, talent shows (in which Jaron and Lilli took top prize with their rendition of “Let it Go.” Lilli sang and Jaron played Olaf) and more. Nearly every night we also took the time to video call the kids with Skype from our hotel.  Really the kids were well supported in there week long marathon without the parents. Yet, to leave my little ones for so long, however calculated, was hard.  I still find myself sneaking into their rooms late at night to watch the rise and fall of their chests… are they breathing? Will that ever go away?

When we finally returned home and found our kids alive, well and thankfully happy to see us I was reminded that this slow growth of independence is the plan and that God our Father and friend is perhaps as anxious for us as I was for my kids.  As we told our stories to each other Jaron related an incident to me.  About half-way through the week the Epicenter took the kids to Wild Wadi Waterpark in Dubai for the day (crazy lucky kids).  This is a giant outdoor water park with huge slides, wave pools and the like (Kirsten joined them that day).  As Jaron tells it he was with a group of Epicenter kids in line waiting to get on a big slide.  Jaron was at the back of the line and when he got off the slide none of his friends were at the bottom, he was all alone.  Being small and alone in a giant water park with thousands and thousands of strangers would certainly be frightening. In his rising panic Jaron might have run off in search of his friends but he relates “Dad, something said to me ‘wait’ so I waited and before long some of the leaders came and found me.”

Some may say that Jaron is a smart little boy.  Others may say that he has been taught well. I would love to take a little credit but I can’t.  Jaron was not in much danger, of course, he may have wandered panic stricken around the park to eventually have been found and consoled but thankfully he (and his leaders) didn’t have to endure that. Some will call it good intuition but I am reminded of a missing flash drive at the start of this bold adventure and the clarity with which its location came to my mind. So I am driven to conclude that this was a small and tender mercy of the Lord.  To my mind the words once came “stand up and go to work!” and ever since it has been the motto and clarion call of my life.  Perhaps for Jaron he may find himself being reminded in future days simply to “wait.”

——-

If only I had been impressed to wait when the gun fired and the Dubai marathon began back in January.  There were over 20,000 people at the start line that morning as we squeezed in to the throng.  Jeremy, Steve and I had to get up very early in the morning to make the race and were lucky to find a parking spot quite close to the start.  I’m not sure I could relate adequately the nervous tension that spread through me in the last moments before the start.  I had a plan though.  We’d trained well and I was more than confident that I could cover the distance with some ease.  In 2013 I recorded more than 1,728 kilometres in training runs and the last quarter of the year saw 200-250ks each month.  I was ready for this…

The plan was simple.  I would run at a methodical 5 minutes per kilometre for the entire race. With a little sprint at the end this would give me a time of 3 hours and 30 minutes.  Very respectable.  It is far from say a Boston qualifying time (3hr and 5min) but for a first marathon I would be quite happy with 3:30.  I wore my hydration pack so I could carry my gels and other fuel as well as Lisa’s iPhone for some tunes.  The iPhone served the dual purpose of tracking my run so I would know exactly what my average pace was. I was well prepared to execute my plan and then the race began.

I started out at what I thought was a nice 5 minute kilometre. I enjoyed running in the huge crowd of people.  Mostly I enjoyed passing so many people. I felt fluid, controlled, exhilarated. Then my little running assistant lowered the music volume and reported my average pace… 4min 12sec.  “Whoa! Maybe I should pull back a bit” I thought.  My legs said no.  I carried on 2, 3, 4, 5 I felt unbeatable.  I began to find a groove amongst the runners and a few I could pace off.  Again it occurred to me that I wasn’t following the plan but I reasoned that I really ought to give it all I’ve got (how else will I find out just how much that is) maybe I could pull off a miracle and run a Boston qualifying time… visions of glory. I kept moving.  I came across the 10k mark feeling great and in excellent time.  The plan was completely forgotten.

The Dubai marathon has a couple out and backs.  As I made the first turn (about kilometre 15 I think) I was still feeling pretty good and I felt good calling out to my buddies Jeremy and Steve as I passed them going the other way. (Jeremy was planning for about 4hrs and Steve about 30 minutes longer).  Somewhere between kilometre 18 and 21 I began to realise there was something a little off.  I wasn’t fuelling as I normally would. I just could not stomach the gels or the power bars though I continued to take on fluids my pace was rapidly slowing.

When I crossed the halfway mark I was far from a personal best and I could sense trouble was coming on.  From the half marker to about kilometre 30 I was running against a wall; my pace was well over 5 minutes per K and I was consoling myself with my overall average.  I could still finish within my goal and no one need know I ran like an idiot.  Around K 32 I was feeling better; I was energised by the idea of only 10k to go and still a decent average.  By K 34 though I was descending into one of the most painful runs of my life.  My right thigh seemed to seize completely as a cramp came on suddenly.  I pushed on passed a few defeated runners.  Consoled by the fact that I had not resorted to throwing up as some were.

By the turn around at kilometre 36 I had a wicked cramp in the front and back of my right thigh and my left calf was almost completely locked up. Slowing down was the only way to keep going.  If I stopped I would not be able to walk let alone run.  Only a few hundred meters from the turn around point I was blown away to see Jeremy coming the other direction – he was not far from me at all.  This could not happen… could it.  At about kilometre 38 Jeremy was suddenly at my side.  “Oh, hi Jeremy, great to see you!”  I might have said while secretly wanting to die and cursing in silent mental anguish.  He asked if I was hurt.  Not technically I thought but I had excruciating cramps in the front and back of each thigh and both calves at this point.

The noble Jeremy ran with me for a few minutes before I finally told him not to wait.  I was pretty angry with myself and a little resentful but honestly super happy for Jeremy (even then) that he was going to slaughter his goal.  I suspect that had I not told him to move on he’d have run with me the whole way in – jerk! 🙂 Despite the leg cramps and my awful 6min + kilometre pace I figured I could sprint out the last kilometre and pass him at the end. It was not to be.  It took everything I had just to pick my pace up a fraction the last few hundred meters.  An ounce faster and my legs would have seized completely and they would have needed to take me off the field on a stretcher.

In the end Jeremy finished just over 3:40 and I was a little more than 3:42.  Not a bad time considering my stupidity.  We hung out at the finish line for Steve… though I couldn’t really have walked away if I wanted to.  Steve came across the finish line looking like a Greek god out for a Sunday stroll, spot on with his goal.  My enthusiasm never fails to lead me a little astray but in a small (very very small) way I’m glad of how it all turned out as I won’t soon forget it and maybe just possibly the lesson will come back at a time when I really need it.

—-

With the race behind us Jeremy and I set out on another adventure the very next day.  Our schedules had finally permitted a return to Jebel Shams.  If you’ve read previous posts you may recall that we nearly died on the mountain back in July. We wanted to tackle it again but in the winter and with the intent of camping at the summit.  The day after the race we drove to Oman and the mountain.  We arrived in the dark and setup base camp just a few meters away from our July camp.

The next day still rather sore from our marathon we set out on a two hour return hike into one of the canyons.  This hike (without packs and no hills) we hoped would get our legs moving.  We were also interested in exploring the abandoned village at the end of the hike.  Village is a rather grand word for what we found.  A smattering of small low roofed rock huts pressed neatly into the side of the cliff nearly invisible from any distance.  A single track hugging the canyon wall provided access to the village and I could not help but wonder what life might have been like for its former occupants. Did hostile neighbours force them back into the canyon?  Possibly but it seems more likely that they came for the water.  There wasn’t much of it even in winter but there was water there.  The inhabitants had built a small earthen cistern to catch the water coming from some spring up the canyon wall and a rudimentary irrigation system to water their crops.  They had terraced the canyon to create small garden plots; no small feat.

By the time we got back to base camp it was lunch time.  The mountain awaited and so did our 45 pound packs.  A good deal of our weight was water – we would not make the same mistake we made last time.  Each of us was carrying 6-8 litres.  The summit was only 9 kilometres from base camp but the “trail” very difficult.  The rough trail, the heavy packs, the elevation, the marathon all conspired to make for some very slow moving.  We moved at more than 45 minutes per kilometre!  Literally less than a tenth our running speed.  The summit was reached with nothing but pure determination.

Indeed, we never actually made the summit proper.  We were likely about 500 – 1000 meters from the summit marker when we had to make a choice.  The last rays of the sun were winking out when we found a small flat like piece of ground about the size of the tent.  There were places for tents at the summit; we’d seen them there on our last trip but our light was gone.  We had headlamps and would likely have been fine but we were well aware  of the 1000 meter straight drops around us.  Did we dare scramble over this rocky path weighed down in the dark?  For perhaps the first time in my life (assisted by Jeremy) I made the cautious decision.  We dropped our packs.

The temperature at the summit was just above freezing.  Almost as soon as we stopped moving and the packs hit the ground we felt the cold.  At base camp it was in the low 20s and the bottom of the mountain in the 30s (celsius).  I’ve long ago learned to pack for cold weather so we were soon crammed in the tent comfortably warm stuffing as many calories down our throats as possible. The food polished off I laid down on my mat and didn’t move a single muscle for a good hour as Jeremy and I talked.  I fell asleep that way only to wake up several hours later so completely immobilised by the sleeping bag and fleece and layers of clothes I was wearing that I found myself in a panic attack.  I’ve never really experienced anything like that before.  I’ve felt panic from close encounters with death or when I’ve been in serious danger but never have I experienced anxiety and panic at this sort of level and simply by being confined.  I think I’d stressed my body to the point that my brain was reacting badly.  As soon as I’d extricated myself from the confines of the sleeping bag the anxiety subsided. Let’s not do that again.

The hike off the mountain the next morning was faster but not by much. The weight was reduced by our dwindling water supplies and all the food we’d consumed. Yet, we had found a new level of weariness. Last night I went to a celebration party for a friend who just completed the Marathon des Sables in Morocco (6 days – 250+ kilometres – most unforgiving climate and terrain). It had me wondering why we humans find this sort of thing so compelling.  Perhaps the same reason why women have multiple children (I’d only get talked into that once ladies if the tables were turned – you all are crazy). There is something about not just the act but everything leading up to it.  You prepare physically and mentally and then you take yourself as far as you believe your body and mind can go and then go further. It is experiences like those (physical, mental, spiritual, emotional) where we are stretched beyond our believed capacity and we experience huge leaps of growth that make life worth living.

 

Staying the Course

14 Monday Oct 2013

Posted by in race, UAE

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My last post was August 23rd.  It has been over a month and a half since I’ve written, not that I have not tried.  There are two draft posts sitting in the queue waiting for me to conjure the determination to finish them.  Though, the chances of that I must admit are rather small.   It seems that just as life gets exciting I lose the determination to write it down.  I really ought to finish the story of our trip to Salalah.  Since Salalah Lisa and I spent a week in Hong Kong the kids have started school and I just competed in my first triathlon a few days ago.  Life here in the UAE is taking on a familiarity kin to home and while that is allowing us to stretch out and feel more comfortable it is eating away at the defences that keep us from complacency and too much ease.

The last year I believe has helped us grow closer as a family than any year previous.  We have had to rely on each other in a strange land.  My kids will probably grow up and find someplace to settle down never to leave it again.  Last night Kirsten was telling me how she wanted nothing more than a log home on a lake with a couple horses.  I challenged her to think about what she might need to do to make that dream a reality – that was not an easy conversation.  As always I think she took it as me punching holes in her dreams.  Of course that could not be farther from my intent.  I’ve learned that dreams rarely become reality when they are not sought after, struggled for and pursued.  We all need plans and the capacity to alter them when we must and a thorough enough understanding of the course ahead to avoid those alterations where possible.

Jeremy and James ready for swim Jeremy and James ready for the 750m swim.

My first triathlon was more difficult than I anticipated.  It was only a sprint triathlon but that was far enough.  The course included a 750 meter swim, 21.5 kilometre cycle and a 4.6 kilometre run.  At the start of the race I lined up with my competitors on the beach waiting for the signal to enter the water.  Swimming is probably my worst event and I should have known that I did not belong at the front of the pack.  The guy next to me was psyching himself up breathing deeply and bouncing in anticipation.  He looked bent on murdering that course.  The signal was given and 150 men and women exploded into the water.  It was a wreathing mass of arms and legs.  I could feel my competitors slide past me brushing my sides and slapping my feet as they surged to overtake me.  Soon they were swimming full over me pushing me beneath the warm waters of the bay.  A few times I took massive swallows of the salty water before I could carve out a space for myself.  Two thirds of the racers would pass me by.

We made two laps of a triangular course.  I had long ago given up the front crawl and resorted to a breast stroke when I saw the second wave of competitors enter the water.  The rhythmic slap of a hand against my foot forced me to push harder determined to give no more ground as the final lap neared the end.  I was pleased to leave the water but was concerned about my time.  It turned out that I was 30 seconds faster than I’d predicted, emerging after approximately 17 and a half minutes.

I wondered about my friend Jeremy who was racing with me.  Was he at his bike already?  I was glad to see it still there when I pulled into the transition.  I worked frantically to prepare myself for the cycle.  Jeremy would arrive before I left the transition. I was not far ahead.  I lost one of my water bottles when I entered the course. As I crossed a speed bump I heard the bottle strike the ground and then saw it roll away.  I would not stop for it.

Biking is not my favourite event.  I don’t even own my own bike.  Some friends have lent me a bike for the past few months.  It was collecting dust in their home with a flat tire.  Unfortunately the frame is much too large for me.  With the seat as low as it can go I can just make it work.  I was awed by the intricately engineered master pieces that glided by me again and again, both man and machine.  Lithe and tuned machinery was matched by sinuous and practiced bodies.  The course was a mind numbing 4 laps of a nearly flat out and back road.  It was difficult to keep the correct number of laps in my head (is that 2 laps or three I just did).

As I transitioned from bike to run I moved into my element.  The sun was up now, however, and the temperature rising fast.  I finished off what was left of my remaining water bottle ignored my gel pack and stretched into the run.  I’d practiced this and knew what that bike to run transition could feel like, frankly terrible.  My practice had paid off though, I felt hardly any disadvantage as I moved into the run.  It was my turn to glide past my competitors.  As I approached the first aid station I wanted to drink the entire table of water. I settled for a sloshing glass as I ran past; the majority of its precious contents watering the pavement.

A stitch formed in my chest.  Its been a long while since I’ve felt one of those.  I compensated by drawing deeper breaths, the pressure of my full lungs easing some of the pain.  I ignored the pain and pulled a little harder.  I made the second u-turn and felt great except for that annoying stitch.  As I approached the half-way mark a race marshal pointed me left but within a few moments I was feet from the finish line.  This can’t be right!  I turned around “where do I go?”  It was chaos. The marshals now pointed me right and I fell in behind the racers I’d been stocking the last couple minutes.  Those following me breathed their frustration as we altered course and returned to the track.  One more lap.

Again the aid station was looming before me and I slowed even more this time determined to get the majority of that water into my system.  It was nearly over.  No one had passed me on the run so far.  I made my final u-turn and opened up.  One, two, three, four I glided by others.  A few minutes more and there was the finish line. The announcer called “Here comes number 15 and he’s flying.”  I poured myself out into those last few meters until there was nothing left.

They really needed a longer breakaway after the finish line it was hard to stop.  A volunteer took my timing chip and I made my way to the aid station and water.  I’d had three cups of water before I was approached by a race volunteer.  “You missed the third u-turn, you know?”  What!  She explained that there was this awkward dog-leg to the course right by the finish line (that place of chaos) that I was supposed to run.  I was defeated, how could I have worked so hard just to mess it all up.  The dog-leg was a mere 25 meters one way (I was supposed to do it twice – I shaved 100 meters from the course).

I had no one to blame but myself.  Yes, it was a poorly designed piece of the course.  Yes, it should have been better marked.  Yes, I clearly was not the only one who missed it (likely the reason I was not disqualified for the oversight).  In the end though I did not study the map well enough but relied on the runners ahead of me and the well intentioned marshals on the course.  In that moment when I was told I’d missed the turn I was defeated, crushed.  Joseph once said that “hell is the torment of disappointment” and in that moment I fully resided there.

I returned again and again to the aid station.  I could not get enough water.  I tried cheering Jeremy through the finish line but I’m afraid I was not really present.  We skipped the awards and breakfast and headed for home.  I was feeling off.  At home I crawled into bed – I was freezing.  It was the flu or dehydration I couldn’t be sure.  Several hours of fitful rest took me through hot and cold flashes.  It was only sheer mental determination that kept me from throwing up in bed.  My back was out too. I could not move without the feeling that something might break.  It had to be dehydration.  By the evening I was nearly 100% again.  Rest and electrolyte replacement did the trick.

In the end I was not disqualified but I’ll always know my time is just a bit off.  I had the fastest run of all the novices even when calculating for the missed section of course.  Yet that little victory is tainted by the memory of disappointment (I’m sure it will fade).  So Kirsten when I ask you how you plan to reach your dreams I just want you to study the course so that even if they don’t work out the way you envision you’ll know that you did your best.  In the end its not the obtaining of the dream that really matters but the pursuit of it. You’ll have race marshals on the ground directing you, peers that you will follow and certainly peers following you too.  Your peers and the marshals directing the way aren’t perfect they may steer you poorly so don’t rely on them fully.  Study the course so you can be confident in your decisions.

It is fine to stay the course but no matter the temerity of spirit or determination of soul it will prove futile if you do not first know the course you pursue.

Fear, Pain and Choice

23 Friday Aug 2013

Posted by in UAE

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This latest adventure took us across the barren Arabian Peninsula to the land of Salalah in Dohfar on the southern coast of Oman a round trip of nearly 3,000 kilometres by car.  A stone throw from the Yemen border we found amazing beaches and astounding views of tropical like landscapes rising dramatically from the Arabian Sea.  Cooler temperatures made for tolerable nights in tents.  The journey took 6 nights and 7 days and was packed with adventures ranging from interesting and entertaining to painful and life threatening.  Kirsten is still in Canada so there was a little more room in the car but we’d have gladly squished together to have her with us.  Our company included our Ozzie friends the Ziegelbauers: Joe, Alison and their two boys Reef (4years old) and Jacob (6 months old). It will take me several posts to tell the whole story.  I’ve decided however to relate nearly the last adventure while the swelling has yet to go down and the tale is still fresh in my mind.

Our last day of camping took us to Wadi Uyun (a better transliteration I think is Ayoon). The Wadi is north of Salalah and is just outside the reach of the rains that have painted that area green.  Wadi Uyun is once again settled into the parched landscape that characterizes the Middle East.  Nonetheless It is not wholly outside the influence of the rising mountains and sea that combine to cool the region.  Wadi Uyun leaves behind the humidity of the coast but retains cooler temperatures.  The evenings were a refreshing 24 degrees celsius and we were also favoured by some light rain.

Camp at Wadi Uyun. You can see the pools off to the left.

Camp at Wadi Uyun. You can see the pools off to the left.

We set up camp on a flat rocky ledge overlooking the wadi canyon.  The view gave tantalizing glimpses of shimmering pools amongst the rocky walls below.  Clearly there would be all sorts of swimming possibilities here if we could reach the pools.  Our guide book promised cliffs of varying heights for jumping and diving but warned that the descent into the pools may require a helping hand or a small length of rope.  In the morning I led Lisa, Lilli, Jaron and our little friend Reef (4 years old) into the adjacent wadi which spilled its infrequent contents into wadi Uyun.  We did not get far before I ascertained that the descent was too dangerous for the kids and turned us all around.  Disappointed the kids picked their way back over boulders and across fissures and crags to our camp with promises that I would explore other routes to the water below and if I found a safe one lead them through it.

Alone I set out to find an alternative route into the wadi.  I wasn’t alone for long.  Jaron could not be persuaded to remain behind and I did not have the heart to press the issue.  He is nimble and capable with a little help from his Dad.  He followed not far behind.  I reached a ledge that dropped about 5 feet and cautioned Jaron to remain behind as I determined if the path could be continued beyond this little drop.  After lowering myself and continuing on for a few metres more I could see that indeed we had found a navigable way to the Wadi bed below.  I turned back to help Jaron make the descent just as I heard him cry out.  The land sloped upward from the 5 foot drop that I had just descend so that Jaron was about 15 vertical feet above me.  I could see the terrified look on his face as he screamed again and called out “Dad! bees!”

Circling above Jaron were two or three very large hornets.  “Just remain calm son.  No sudden movements and they’ll leave you alone.”  He was doing pretty well I thought at keeping calm as I stepped up to the ledge to climb back to him.  He cried out and I knew he’d been stung.  “Run, Jaron, Run!” I called as his screams intensified and I realized he must be receiving multiple stings.  I scrambled up at what seems now an impossible speed.  He wasn’t running when I reached him despite my shouts. Circling around him was an unbelievably large and dark cloud of nasty and enormous hornets.  I charged scooping up Jaron in my left hand and pulling my wide brim hat from my head with my right hand.  I swung the hat wildly no doubt crushing dozens of the monsters as I poured all my strength into carrying Jaron and me up the rocky landscape I had so carefully descended moments before.  I felt the first sting on my exposed thigh which spurred me to greater speed and faster slashing movements with my hat.  The hat tore free from my hand on a downward slash and flew away behind me.

Dead Oriental Hornet

Dead Oriental Hornet

“Water!” I screamed over and over as I flew up the hill.  In pursuit were a dozen or so mad hornets.  I hoped that we could throw water to defend ourselves against our pursuers.  My panic stricken mind was picturing a garden hose and spray nozzle, two things we could not possibly have at hand.  Joe, perplexed by my cry for help nevertheless came running with a large bottle of water.  He grasped my intent rather quickly as he sloshed water into the air at the oncoming hornets as I sprinted past.  Sadly the water was not as effectual as I had imagined it might be.  I took Jaron straight to the car and deposited him as Joe called “Don’t lead them into camp!”  I was horrified  that I’d just led a dozen mad hornets into our little camp.  Scooping up a towel I ran back toward the hornets swinging and then circled around camp leading the devils away.  Amazingly they followed me and to their deaths.

The nasty things having been dispatched I sucked air and began to take stock.  Incredibly It appeared I had just the one sting on my thigh.  Jaron was not as lucky.  He tallied up 8 stings in total.  One on the back of the head and several on his arms and torso.  We gave him some liquid tylenol (Panadol here) for the pain and he holed up in the back of the car nursing his wounds and refusing to come out.

The hat

The hat

My hat!  My hat, was back down the hill somewhere near the source of those horrible things.  They had a sting I was slowly realizing to match the immensity of their long wing span.  Had it been my ball cap I’d have left it without a thought but this was my leather Australian made Jacura hat.  They cost somewhere between 80-100$ and I’ve had it for years.  This hat has been on countless adventures with me. There was no way I was leaving it behind.

As I began walking back down the hill I answered the others queries as to my sanity with a rhetorical question “would Indiana Jones leave his hat behind?”  Armed with my towel I headed back down the hill.  I hadn’t gone far though before I was set upon by more hornets.  Retreating and slaying my pursuers I began to strategize my next attack.  I put my pants on over my shorts and tossed on a hoody.  I put on my leather gloves and duct tapped my ankles, wrists and waist to keep the critters out.  With a scarf wrapped around my head and my hood up I ventured back down the hill.  Again I was set upon almost immediately and still a good hundred yards or more from where my hat must lay in the dirt.  I was less afraid armoured as I was but my confidence was short lived as the first stinger passed through my hoodie into my forearm and the second caught me in the ear.  Again I was forced to retreat.

I thought this getup would be sufficient protection.

I thought this getup would be sufficient protection.

I put a second hoodie over the first and tightened up the scarf.  This time I made a wide circle to come at the probable location of my hat from the other side and up wind from the enemy.  I spent an agonizing five minutes or so searching the hill side in as stealthy a mode as I could go.  I looked over the edge of the cliff and down deep fissures wondering if I’d see it hopelessly out of reach.  Then I saw it laying out in the open only 20 yards away.  It was being swarmed by hundreds of hornets.  I inched closer wondering if I could make a mad dash for it when my wondering stopped.  I’d been stung in my other leg.  I began to back off quickly as I was set upon once again.  This time they seemed to take aim for the little exposed flesh that I had, my face.  I swatted at them but one got through stinging me in the neck and sending me into a rage.  Somewhere in that scarf was a wicked little creature bent on causing me pain and I was determined to cause its death.  It must have been a terrifying site for Lisa as I clawed at my face and neck and staggered up the hill.

What I needed I thought was a flame thrower.  Sadly I had nothing that I could use to make one.  I was defeated.  I was still inclined to find a way to rescue my hat but I started to suspect that the only thing keeping those extraordinarily aggressive monsters a way from camp was the hat they seemed so intent on destroying.  We began to finish breaking down camp.

When we all got into the car I asked Jaron how he was feeling.  “Dad, I prayed when they started to circle me but He didn’t help me.  I got stung anyway.”  He said through his tears.

“Oh, son I wouldn’t be so sure about that.  I was there to get you wasn’t I?  In life we will have fear and pain. God will not keep us wholly from harm but what matters is what we choose to do with that fear and how we choose to react to that pain.  We are safe now.”  At these words the now familiar buzzing of the hornet erupted and a single black, red and yellow monster rose from some unknown hiding place into the cabin of the car.  With shouts of surprise the doors flew open and we spilled out, all except Jaron.  He was screaming but frozen in fear.  I wrenched open his door and unbuckling his seat belt pulled him free.

I couldn’t help but laugh.  We straightened out the car searching for hiding hornets before piling back in.  I was immensely grateful it showed itself then and not while I was speeding down the highway at 120 km/hr.  Back in the car we continued our conversation about what we learned from this experience and quickly came up with a list.

  • Never go off by yourself while we are camping (Jaron has a tendency to do this and I do not wish to imagine what might have happened if he had been alone).
  • God does not completely shield us from harm but He will help us get through hard things.
  • Do not let fear or pain rob you of your wits.  Fear and pain should move us into action.
The sting looks like a nasty zit.

The sting looks like a nasty zit.

There are probably many other lessons we can learn from this experience but this was the list we came up with in the car as we drove away from our campsite.  When we got back to the UAE we looked up this species of hornet and learned just how lucky, how blessed, we had been.  The Oriental Hornet is extremely aggressive and its sting is particularly venomous.  The single sting to my left thigh had me limping by that evening.  It feels like a particularly nasty bruise at this point.  The sore area around the sting is larger than my hand.  The white pustule burst emitting a small amount of puss at one point.  Not all of the stings were this bad but the one on my right forearm and my neck in addition to this one remain sore and irritating.  Jaron miraculously reports that none of his stings are continuing to annoy him.

When a hornet is killed or attacked they release pheromones that mobilize the colony into defence and attack.  These pheromones were likely all over my hat I used to smash my way through them to claim my son.  Our friend Wikipedia reports:

If a hornet is killed near a nest it may release pheromone which can cause the other hornets to attack. Materials that come in contact with pheromone, such as clothes, skin, and dead prey or hornets, can also trigger an attack, as can certain food flavorings, such as banana and apple flavorings, and fragrances…

Dropping my hat was probably exactly what I needed to do to keep the entire colony from chasing us down and bringing them all into camp with me.  It also explains why they so readily followed me and seemed to leave everyone else alone.  At one point Lilli had two hornets on her but they did not sting.  As she ran past me I took one out with my bare hand and Lisa managed to get the other off of her without getting stung.  In the end I think Jaron’s prayer for help was answered.  It meant the loss of my hat which is sad but I am happy to make that sacrifice if it leant to the protection of our little party.  If I am ever swarmed by hornets again I hope that I can take a few out with some spare article and abandon it as I flee for my life.

As we travelled down the highway Jaron spotted another hornet in the car.  “Mom, Dad there is a hornet in the car.” he said in a very controlled voice.  Keeping his eye on the threat he armed himself with a shoe.  Further investigation revealed that there was not in fact another hornet but he believed there was.  I was glad he didn’t scream out in panic as we raced down the highway.  This time his fear did not rob him of his wits he mastered it and prepared to defend himself and others.  I think he learned a powerful lesson with this experience.  Though it leaves me wondering what further adventures may be in store for him having been required to learn these things so young.

Jebel Shams

22 Monday Jul 2013

Posted by in Oman

≈ 1 Comment

I approached the cliff’s edge with some trepidation.  The large stone in my hands was easily in excess of thirty pounds.  With a small swing I released the stone over the edge mindful not to let the momentum pull me over with it.  I dropped to my belly and inched forward as quickly as I could anxious to see the stone before it struck the earth beneath it.  The stone cut the air with increasing force so that before I could bring my face over the lip of the cliff the rising volume of its whooshing decent told me it had not struck yet.  Looking down I could see the stone had become a deadly projectile.  “Now” I thought but it sped on, the air cutting with still greater volume.  Crack! The stone partly vaporized into a fine mist and like the crackle of an exploding firework the remaining small fragments of the stone scattered along the valley floor.  “That was Awesome! Jeremy bring that camera over here you’ve got to get this on film.”  He made to approach the cliff, he wanted to join me in my juvenile fun, but the height was too great.  I threw a slightly larger stone from the precipice but sadly I have no video of its fall.

We had reached the ridge leading to the Jebel (Mount) Shams summit when I threw the rock.  We had already passed some amazing views by this point.  Jeremy and I had set out after church on Friday for the mountain with plans to make our ascent early Saturday morning. We located the trail head and setup camp.  The trail begins right next to a mountain top hotel at approximately 2000 meters and climbs about 1000 meters in just over 9 kilometres to the summit.  Jebel or Jabal Shams (depending on who is doing the transliteration) is the 110th most prominent peak in the world and the highest peak in Oman.  It is at the same height that an airplane’s cabin is pressurized, about 10,000 feet.  The drive from sea level to our Friday night camp was highlighted by the ever declining mercury.  The temperature was about 46 celsius when we began our ascent and plummeted to 28 degrees where we stopped to setup camp.

Jeremy and I had packed well for this adventure.  We each had half a dozen 1.5 litre bottles of water we had frozen solid the night before.  In addition we both brought our hydration packs which each carried 2 litres of water. We also brought an assortment of excellent meals and snacks.  Of course, we are both pretty physically fit so we anticipated a good hike with some stunning views.

Neither of us had hiked the mountain before and we did just a cursory online exploration before we set out.  As we relaxed in front of the fire Friday night we went over the “maps.”  I’d like to say we had some excellent topos but what we had was a red squiggly line on a white paper with some highlights.  Looking at this “map” for the first time we had an indication of the distance, it read 9km.  It wasn’t clear whether it was 9km return or 9km each way.  A friend and her husband made the hike she claimed in 6 hours return which led me to suspect the trip would be 18km.  So we began to reason out just how much water we might need.  We’ve been running a good deal lately.  I can run 21 kilometres in 40+ degree weather with the 2 litres in my hydration pack.  So we reasoned 18km, factoring in the ascent, should only require maybe 2.5 litres.  If our friend could make the round trip in 6 hours we could do it in 5 maybe even 4!  Pride goeth before the fall.

I’ll just take a moment here to point out that I am an idiot.  Those who know me well are acquainted with this fact.  I, however, seem to forget this often.  I have this ability to talk people into doing things they would never do if they were left to their own devices and it generally always turns out… .  I can’t say badly.  It generally always turns out to be memorable – yea, that works.  2.5 litres of water (really 2 litres of water and 500ml of sports drink) is ludicrously too little.  Even if I thought it would take 4 hours to make the hike I should have realized that 4 hours is significantly longer than an hour and forty minutes (my 21k time).  The other factor that never really penetrated my thick skull was we were at high altitude which was going to make this climb more difficult than I could imagine as I relaxed before the fire.

I was panting hard as I watched a heavy bead of sweat roll off Jeremy’s face and splash against the rock at his feet.  We were about an hour out of camp so it must have been around 6:30am.  The sun was still low in the sky and the temperature was likely still in the mid twenties.  Why was I out of breath?  The fact that I was at high altitude and getting higher with every step never really got through to me.  An hour in and the sports drink was gone.  It was clear that we would need to ration our water.  I was hopeful that we were nearing if not passed the half way mark.

The “trail” was extremely well marked.  Not that you could see a well worn path.  There were painted Omani flags about every 50 feet.  Only a handful of times on the trip did we really struggle to locate the next yellow, white and red marker.  A mighty thanks to the folks that trudged up that mountain with cans of paint! The climb was a continual march upward over a field of stones.  I had read before I came that it was highly advisable to wear hiking boots.  Unfortunately, I do not own a pair of hiking boots so my Nike barefoot runners would just have to do.  The entire day was an exercise in hopping from one stone to another in a giant game of leapfrog.  In this game though you never knew which stone would snag your foot and try to pull you down or stab at your exposed ankles or kicked up by your left foot come down wickedly on your right foot.  My feet hate me.  Jeremy had hiking boots but he wasn’t spared.  He had not worn his boots in over a year!  He stopped by my house tonight and I got a look at the blisters covering his toes – ouch.

It took us 4 hours and 10 minutes to reach the summit of Jebel Shams.  I had a little over 1 litre of water remaining.  Jeremy a little less.  There is a metal plaque cemented to a pile of rocks at the summit showing the cardinal points and indicating the names of mountains and towns that can be seen from the stunning 360 degree view.  There was no shade to be had but I suspect the temperature at the summit was still in the low twenties.  It was rather comfortable.  I lied down on a smooth rock for a nap.  We stayed there perhaps 30 minutes.  The birds were beginning to dive close to see if we had expired.

I had hope that the trip down would go more quickly than the trip up.  My hope was in vain.  Our efforts to conserve water meant that we had been running on the minimum for hours.  Thankfully I had brought several granola bars and Jeremy had not only some great snacks but energy gels to keep him going.  Breakfast that morning consisted of boiled eggs and fruit but time was getting on that a real meal was in order.  At about the 6 hour mark Jeremy became very quiet and his pace slowed considerably.  At about the 7 hour mark we both ran out of water.  Just moments later we met a group of three men hiking up the mountain fully loaded with gear to camp at the top.  They were jealous of our light packs.  We were jealous of the water that surely was in theirs.  We learned that they were each carrying over 11 litres.  Smart.  They pointed out that literally at our feet was a litre of water left by previous hikers that would be safe to drink.  We each took a few mouthfuls of the hot liquid and left the remainder for the next wayward travellers.

Being on the mountainside we could see our destination in the distance, surely it was not long now.  At this point I was beginning to develop a few blisters.  My heels and ankles were already bruised.  Afraid that Jeremy would sit or fall down somewhere behind me and I would not be able to find him among the rocks I took up the march just behind him.  At the eighth hour my throat had become painfully dry and I could feel my lips burning.  I sucked on a small pebble to keep my throat moist.  I’ve had heat stroke twice and I know how quickly it can come on.  I was brush-cutting in Northern BC when I’d forgotten my water in the pickup truck (a half kilometre away).  I decided to spend a tank of gas before I trudged back to the vehicle to get it.  A tank of gas took nearly exactly an hour to burn. It was morning and the sun was not yet high. I could make an hour.  In coveralls, rubber boots, gloves and a hard hat running a saw and exposed to the rising sun an hour was all it took.  When the brush-cutter’s engine made the familiar upward pitch in volume indicating the gas was nearly spent it turned out so was I.  I barely had time to release the saw from its harness before I was puking and then crapping and then lying in what little shade I could find beneath a small bush.  It was nothing short of a miracle that I didn’t die there alone in the shade that day.  I fell asleep there for sometime and then waking pled for help.  I managed after that to drag myself back to the truck, water and life.

I kept mentally running over my condition.  If Jeremy collapsed in front of me could I make a sprint to the vehicle and back for water? I could.  At the ninth hour we arrived back at the vehicle.  I poured ice cool water over my head and face and then drank deeply.  I noticed for the first time that my forearms were burnt.  I’d applied sunblock that morning but clearly I’d been out long enough that a second or third application would have been wise.  I pulled off my shoes and socks to find my legs from the knees to the ankles were burnt too.  My white feet made a comical contrast.  I poured water over my feet and slipped on some sandals.

It took 30 minutes or so before we were no longer shaky.  We’d made it.  Now it was a simple matter of driving the 6+ hours home.  Jeremy showed some remarkable endurance – he drove the entire way.  I was certain to yap his ear off to keep him going – a fate worse than what we’d met on the mountain I’m sure.  We stopped in Al Ain after a world record border crossing time.  We crossed the border just before Iftar and the guards kindly provided us with water and dates. Ramadan Kareem.  In Al Ain we stopped at the mall and ordered piles of greasy fries and burgers and then patiently waited five more minutes, our steaming fries cooling in front of us, for Iftar to begin. We washed that down with ice cream from Cold Stone.  I could not help but be grateful that the climb was so much harder than anticipated.  The ice cream was 1000 times better than it would have been otherwise.

For the adventurers that may stumble upon this blog looking for information on the Jebel Shams hike and who managed to read all the way to this point (clearly you have the dedication to make the summit) here are a few words of advice:

  • Carry at minimum 4-6 litres of water.
  • Be sure to have excellent footwear (hiking boots)
  • You will sweat and be walking I recommend Vaseline to take care of the chaffing
  • Carry sunscreen – wear a wide brim hat
  • Pack plenty of high protein snacks and some simple sugars
  • Expect to spend 8-10 hours on the mountain if you don’t plan on camping at the top
  • Take a camera – do not be a chicken. Film a falling rock (just be sure to take a good look before you go throwing things at people or goats or donkeys).
  • Enjoy the view

And now a short message from our sponsors… or well some footage from our climb: