Trust me, it was in a great location in Palermo. The area was fashionable and trendy, the result of Argentines opening up shops to showcase hobbies after the 2002 crisis. Property was cheap and no one had a job, so sell what you know. Winning hobbies became profitable business.
Sundays are for family and asada. It was cool but not cold. Sunny but not hot. Spring. Again. Parks were filled and people were happy.
We were happy. Thrilled. Ecstatic. All of the above.
We window-shopped and talked, then had burgers and beer. We marveled at what had happened. We met this person and this person and saw this and saw that. I was sore but wasn’t in real pain. My dad’s head was sun burnt. We didn’t care. The race was won.
We were here. Look for us on the wall. Burger Joint, Jorge Luis Borges, Buenos Aires
If you go to the Burger Joint on Jorge Luis Borges, sit at the booth opposite the “Que Ves?” mirror. Look up at the wall and with luck, you’ll see the following: 42K Start to Finish. Jerry and Mike, Buenos Aires, October 13, 2013.
***
We were tourists in Buenos Aires for one last day and the morning after. By this point, we finally figured out the directions of the city, finally figured out the timing and luckily found someone who spoke English at the grocery store. The sushi was fantastic and Café Tortoni was lovely. Vintage. Old-school class, a party amid the crises.
The rest of our time was in Mendoza and Santiago de Chile, both wonderful places to visit. There are stories to be told and someday will be told but for our purposes here, believe me when I say we had a magnificent time. Wine, absinthe, the Andes, Paseo Huérfanos and Bellavista, Valparaiso.
Atop Cerro San Cristobal.
Dad and I cleared Chilean customs with time to spare, so we sat at Ruby Tuesday’s and tried to process our time together and the end of this adventure. We laughed about the Argentine at the parrilla in Mendoza, who kept getting friendlier as he drank. We exchanged thoughts of bad Mexican food (don’t eat the Mexican food in Santiago) and Taco Bell, which surprisingly was good. We thought about Plaza de Armas, Pablo Neruda’s house and still tried to figure out we scored on the apartment in Santiago.
So Dad. This went so well, I’m thinking about trying for another continent. Berlin. The Great Wall. What do you say?
Dad laughs.
I’m serious.
I know you are. That’s why I’m laughing.
Well, we can let the adventure continue!
Well, let me pay off this adventure first.
We embraced and went home, he to L.A. and me to D.C.
***
November 11: 6:28km, 5:23/km
November 13: 7.84km, avg, 6:12/km
November 14 CrossFit:
Mobility (Circle of Death, in which each person comes up with a warm-up exercise as go around the circle. Thus: two burpees, 10 jumping jacks, five squats, five pushups, five situps, five burpees, 10 split squats).
Deadlift 5×5: Got to 145 pounds
Assistance 3:10: Alternate false grip row and L-sit positioning
Conditioning: outside run, medicine ball relay
I woke up late and almost didn’t make it CrossFit. I struggled at first but running outside invigorated me.
The air was crisp. We’re back to autumn again. The past two days were a foreshadowing of winter. Running yesterday was a near-nightmare. I have to remember to wear gloves.
Just like that, it’s coming toward the end of the year.
What a year.
The time ahead is open and uncertain but what is for sure is the road to good air continues. I aim to talk about issues of health and fitness, upcoming changes and what’s next for the celebration of the Jesus Year.
I’ve already signed up for the D.C. Rock and Roll marathon next March. I ran the D.C. half-marathon this past spring, so it’ll be wonderful to run this race in one of the best cities in the world.
Thanks for reading.
***
Speaking of it being quite the year, here’s a sense of before and after.
What a year a difference makes.
That’s me at my friend’s wedding after this time last year. On the right, that’s me now.
In terms of numbers, I went from 232 pounds to 172. Pant size shrunk from a size 38 to a 32. I went from a X-large to medium.
More so, I feel healthy. I am healthy and on the road to becoming healthier. That’s what important.
It’s a long road, filled with challenges but also filled with opportunity.
Note: I’m finally finishing up these blogs, weeks after returning from South America. Part of it was that our trip was so jam-packed that it was exhausting to write coherent blog posts as we traveled. Another part of it is that I’m in denial that the trip is over. So, these blogs become a way to document and remember one of the most fulfilling experiences of my life so far.
First, some theme music.
Chariots of Fire is my all-time favorite movie and on the night before both races, I always play the Chariots of Fire theme song. Please enjoy as preparation for reading this post.
5:00 a.m.
I couldn’t sleep. Too nervous. The puttanesca from last night was at war with my stomach. That made me more nervous.
Alarm goes off. I get up. Shower, put on running clothes and triple-check with grab bag. Tie and re-tie my shoes. Is my CHIP on correctly? Yes, it is. Stop worrying about it.
5:45 a.m. Phone rings. An annoyed man on the other line says something about a taxi and says my name. At this point, I’m not going to bother trying to figure out what he’s saying. I say OK. He repeats himself, speaking much quicker. OK. He hangs up.
Dad comes out of his room. Everything okay?
Yes, it is. I’ll see you in a bit.
I go outside to wait. I’m officially on the clock.
***
The Buenos Aires marathon began in the spring of 1984, although the city counts a marathon held in 1903 as the first modern race in Argentina. Buenos Aires hosted numerous competitions and games in the 20th century and has cultivated a strong passion for long distance running from the 1970s onward.
Aside from 2002 (the year of the economic crisis), a marathon has occurred in the city every year. In 2003, the marathon reconstituted with new sponsors and a new route with 900 runners. Since then, it rapidly grew to become South America’s largest marathon, with 8,000 runners in this year’s edition. (It was reported that close to 9,000 ran, which wouldn’t surprise me.)
Much of the appeal of the maratón is the route. The city is flat, with a decent coastal breeze coming for the majority of the route. Spring brings cooler temperatures but more so, low humidity. With the exception of dust and pollen, this is the perfect time to run in BA.
Map of the Buenos Aires marathon
The route is mostly a loop through the entire city. The start and finish line are on the tip of the Belgrano neighborhood. From the start, runners pass through Palmero and Recoleta, then hit the main highway to turn onto the city center. From there, runners traversed through alleys and side streets to get to Avenida 9 de Julio (the widest avenue in the world), Plaza de Mayo and the San Telmo and Las Bocas neighborhood on the south end of the city.
One of the highlights: The famed Boca stadium in the La Bocas neighborhood.
Runners make a turn toward the ports, go through Puerto Madero and the ecological reservoir then head up Avenida Figueroa Alcorta, taking a last run around the lake to the finish.
***
6:00 a.m.
I head out to wait outside the apartment complex. Party goers are heading back to wherever they came from. Taxis filled with one-day lovers finishing their make out sessions breeze through the streets.
No taxi for me.
The day before, Dad and I rode to the starting line to watch the preparation and get a sense of time and distance. From our calculations, it was about 5k from where we were in Palmero to the starting line.
I gave myself until 6:15 to decide to wait or start walking/running. A taxi would come by, then speed off. Another one. Then another one.
At 6:10, the street went silent. The sun was starting to come up.
Alright, Plunkett, time to walk?
Shit. This is going to suck.
***
There has been one pressing thought that has haunted me for most of my training. It wasn’t how well I was going to do. It wasn’t how I was going to smuggle in my Hammer energy gels into Argentina or which compression socks to wear.
It was: How was I going to get there?
I don’t mean getting to Argentina or Buenos Aires, but the corner of Avenida Figueroa Alcorta y Monroe. This corner was the start/finish line for the marathon. And this corner has been on my mind for months.
The metaphorical thoughts aside, I really stressed about how the hell I was going to physically get there. Here’s why: The race was Sunday morning at 7:30 a.m, which meant the Subté (the metro line) wasn’t open. Buses were running but street closures began the night before and the route diversions could leave me farther away from where I needed to be. That leaves walking or running or get a taxi.
Everything I had read about taxis in Buenos Aires boiled down to two things, most of which was the taxi force was a mafia and they are known for screwing over foreigners. If you don’t know Spanish, well, pay attention, look at the pesos and watch the driver’s eyes at all times.
Good. God.
As you can see, this was weighing on my mind. This last 5k of getting to the damn race became the claw in my brain.
The recommendation was to call a taxi company the night before and make a reservation. I’m going to skip over the conversation but it involved being hung up twice, having the taxi dispatcher yell at me in the fastest variation of Spanish I’ve ever heard and me saying my address five times because I didn’t know what else to say.
Nevertheless, the reservation was made and I attempted to go to bed. By attempted, I was as nervous as I’ve ever been. Hell, that doesn’t even begin to explain it.
I had made it this far and I sure as hell wasn’t going to be derailed by some taxi mafia. Even if it meant I ran another 5k for the hell for it, this was going to happen. I’d come too far to be stopped by this, right?
Right?
***
6:14 a.m.
I turn to walk but look at the street one last time. Coming from the west were two people.They are dressed in running garb.
This is a possibility.
I check for the white tote bags from the marathon. They have them!
I call out, señor, señorita!
They look around, not sure who’s talking to them. I call out again. I hold out my bag and anxiously ask.
Maratón?
Ah, sí!
Taxi or walk?
Oh, we’re taking a taxi.
They speak English.
I exhale and beg to go with them.
Of course, of course.
***
At the 19th kilometer, I nearly slipped on a banana peel.
The fact that the marathon offered fruit in addition to Gatorade and water was a welcome addition. Everything about this race was well-organized and well-done. The bag drop, long a source of tension and frustration for runners, was easy to find and easier to get the checked gear once the race was done.
The half-way mark, sponsored by Adidas.
All the kilometer markers were easily identifiable and the staff was very nice and professional. The military helped out with security, which was quite odd at first to see but they seemed to blend in.
There was even entertainment. A couple dances the tango, a great Elvis impersonator and an even better Michael Jackson impersonator as we crossed the Plaza de Mayo. It helped with the running.
Hard to see (and pardon my thumb) but there’s Elvis (this is leisure suit Elvis.)
I was about 2.5 hours behind the winning group, so when I got my fruit and water, the road was littered, and I mean littered, with banana and orange peels.
I did slide. Twice. Luckily, I didn’t fall. In fact, I didn’t struggle much during the race. No joint problems and no blisters to speak about. I had minor aches and pains (and a sore left ankle that was a minor annoyance the rest of the trip) but that was it.
Although, slipping on a banana peel would have made for a great story…
***
6:17 a.m.
The couple was Marcelle and his wife Medira from Saö Paulo, Brazil. This was their second marathon in Buenos Aires and they assured me this was a wonderful course.
We headed to Plaza Sarimento to get a taxi. After we were refused twice and another driver told the hot Argentine instead of us (to which Marcelle and Medira mocked with impunity. I can attest that the tensions between Brazilians and Argentines is very real), we finally got a driver and headed over.
A few street diversions later, we made it near the starting line. They paid (and insisted I didn’t pay, which was beyond generous) and we parted, they to their running group and me toward the starting line.
The best of luck to you in your race, Mike.
For what I struggled with and lamented as my biggest obstacle, God had gone before me and put in its place comfort and joy.
***
Speaking of entertainment, I met some of the best people along the way.
Luigi and Giancarlo were older gentlemen from Italy. I knew they were from Italy because they told everyone they were from Italy. Plus, it was also on their running t-shirts.
They stopped at every tourist spot and took a picture. It was a testament to how fast they were running (and how slow I was going) they we stuck together for nearly half the race.
Coming along to three-quarters of the race, I kept hearing some yell at the staff. What’s that all about? I finally spotted the runner, a gregarious fellow wearing a Venezuela shirt.
I gotta go talk to him.
His name was Fidel and what he was doing was asking the beautiful female staffers to cheer louder for him as he passed by. One successful, he pledged his love and fidelity (yup, that’s very punny of me!) to each of them. For Venezuelans, there’s plenty of love to go along.
In my broken Spanish, I tell him I’m half-Venezuelan, visited Caracas with my biological father in 1999 and wanted to go back. He was thrilled and in his broken English told me how the city has changed post-Chavez and the hope for the future.
He, like me, ran to finish.
There were Chileans (Chi-Chi-Ch-le-le-le!) and Brazilians. Lots of choruses of sí, sé puede! I thought I saw a few Australian flags on t-shirts. All in all, it was a sea of yellow and us who choose not to wear the official shirt.
But I kept wondering: Where’s Dad?
***
7:00 a.m.
From this point, time is starting to speed up. Runners everywhere, stretching, jogging, laughing with cohorts. Long, long lines to the bathroom, which was a clear indication of the elite runners and everyone else. Everyone else (me included) waits, takes a breath and hopes for the best.
The elite go wherever they can. And I’ll leave it at that.
I see four women with USA and American flags on their shirts.
I called out, Amerícanos!
They look at me.
I ask, where are you guys from?
Oh my god, you’re American! We thought we were the only ones here.
Just before we parted, the lead woman said when I called out for them, she was afraid I was going to throw shit at them.
New Yorkers.
Announcers were on the microphone and runners hustled to get into line. A few more stretches in and I was in place. From my vantage point, it didn’t seem like a large crowd. As you can tell from the photo, that’s not the case.
8,000 people on their way. (Photo courtesy of the marathon staff).
Crowds are cheering, lights from the ESPN station are glaring onto the first competitors ready to start. The countdown begins: diez, nueve, ocho…
It catches me by surprise. After all this, it starts now.
***
The back-end of the marathon was a long stretch through the ports. Miles and miles of open space. The sun was out, the running crowds thinning. It was the spot of the race where the drag kicks on.
Energy starts to wear, the iPod playlists start over. The finish line a ways away but it’s too far to start over. The only way out is through.
The long stretch of the Ports
I’m moving and I hear, “And there’s the runner.”
Here’s my Dad, riding and filming. I was glad to see him, my hug nearly pushed him off the bike. He had made it.
Dad still had his bike from the day before but I wasn’t sure if they would let him follow. But his presence was very much welcome.
I made the joke on Facebook that it felt like the transitions of “Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out.” Dad wasn’t my trainer but he became my pacer. His encouragement and stamina to stay with me made all the difference.
At this point, most runners hit the wall. Contrary to popular opinion, the wall is more of a nutritional issue than a mental one.
I had prepared myself for the wall. Energy gels, NUUN energy tablets and bananas kept me nice and full. The weather was glorious. As I mentioned before, I hit the wall during my training but was prepared for what happened in the race.
When I game to 32km (about 20 miles), I told Dad, “OK, if I hit the wall, it should come right about now. So, watch how I’m doing.”
I kept going. And going. No wall.
Dad said later, “Well, I watched what you did.”
Toward the homestretch, Dad left to get to the finish line. I was tired but still felt good. Seeing the runners who crossed the race, their finisher medals intact, the end was in sight.
I stopped briefly to adjust my ear buds.
WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! FINISH THE RACE!
I took off and sprinted to the end.
***
7:30 a.m.
The line was moving quickly. It only about 90 seconds from the official start to where I was in the crowds. AC/DC is blaring. People are cheering. And yet, I hear silence.
It was quiet as I moved forward. Everything was calm and though I could hear everything and everyone around me, I felt very still. Somehow, I was here. I made it and regardless of how I did or didn’t do, I had already won.
As I got to the finish line, the sound came back. I put my ear buds in, turned on the music and started to run.
Most of my dreams dealt with the finish line. How was I going to feel, what would the weather be like, where was my dad going to be. Those thoughts and feelings got me through long periods of training.
Surprisingly, the real emotion was at the starting line. The naiveté of not knowing what was going to happen and how I would feel. Once I started that race, the wave of emotion hit me.
It was on.
***
Jerry Plunkett!
I yelled toward my father, who was stuck in the crowds trying to get to the finish line. My dad is resourceful, so he meandered the bike through and found his perch. Okay, he’s set.
I wanted it to be over. I didn’t want it to end.
My eyes closed, I sprinted toward the finish. Wait, I want to see this. I want to see me finish with my own eyes.
I cross. And it’s over.
I did it. Start to finish.
Marathon de Buenos Aires is a success.
October 13: Maratón dé Buenos Aires. 42.195km. Time: 4:54:16, 2:27:22 21k split; avg 6:56/km.
***
A month later, it’s still difficult to fully explain the successful running of the marathon. I’ve found myself looking at 2014 marathon schedules, seeing where I can get my next fix. And yes, it is a fix.
The Buenos Aires marathon came about as a whim. Good timing and a bit of grandiosity and lots and lots of training. The marathon was a crazy thought, then a crazy dream, then a reality that required lots of work. Then, it was the real thing. Finally, it was done.
The marathon started as one thing but ended up being something different. It was an adventure but it was an adventure I shared with my dad. It was our adventure, our race. In my mind, we finished together.
Note: I’m finally finishing up these blogs, more than a week after returning from South America. Part of it was that our trip was so jam packed that it was exhausting to write coherent blog posts as we traveled. Another part of it is that I’m in denial that the trip is over. So, these blogs become a way to document and remember one of the most fulfilling experiences of my life so far.
October 7: 5.84km, avg 6:13km
October 8: 4.87km, avg 5:57km
October 9: Leave for Argentina.
On day two, my dad and I completed our first full loop in the wrong direction.
We are on our way to the Expo for the Maratón, located at the exposition center in Recoleta, a neighborhood in Buenos Aires. Looking at a map from a guidebook from 2010 (first problem), we thought we could take a shortcut on Avenida Liberator by going on the side street instead of staying on the main highway.
The directions given by the company running the marathon suggested we take the bus from the Retiro station to get to the expo faster. We, and by we I mean me, decided against that, largely because I was afraid we didn’t have exact change and wouldn’t be able to tell where we were on the bus route (2nd problem).
We were tired, jet lagged and had no clue where was due north (big problem).
So, we are now on the side street, leading us to the port and away from the expo. We’re looking for street signs and there are none to be found. We found stray dogs, kids who pointed at us and remnants of a thriving shipping industry from decades ago. But alas, no expo.
We make a loop and we are back onto Avenida Liberator, now having to backtrack. Along the loop, my mind is racing. My dad is taking this in stride but I’m not one for strides. The thrill is gone. I finally say aloud to Dad, “This is a fucking nightmare. Why did I decide to do this?”
I did what seemed to be the right thing to do: I took off running.
***
Dad and I are both generally confused. What’s up is down here in Buenos Aires and our lack of strong Spanish skills is going to hurt us. I had grand plans to pick up as much of the language as I could as I was training for the maratón. I did to some extent, but that really translates to I really didn’t do it.
We were having problems with technology and direction. Dad decided to get a smart phone a few days before leaving. His provider gave him incorrect information, which led to multiple trips to buy memory cards and SIM cards, before realizing they weren’t going to work at all.
Our eating habits were off. In Argentina, breakfast is at 11, and there’s ciésta between 1 and 5 pm. During that time, one makes it to the cafe, drinks their coffee and eats their medialunas, reads the paper, talks to friends and enjoys the scenery. Dinner doesn’t start until 9 p.m., dessert is at midnight, then it’s time for the clubs. It’s a night-time culture, which fits the newsroom side of me but not the side wanting to be ready to run at 7 in the morning.
This all adds up to two words: Culture. Shock.
The shock was made worse by my intention not to use a travel agency for the trip. Aside from Jess, a twitter friend, we didn’t know anyone in Buenos Aires. And Jess would be at a journalism conference in Brazil.
This is the recipe for a grand adventure and/or a total disaster. In either case, my dad and I would have to rely on each other. And this terrifies me.
***
My mother and I were on the phone one day in late summer when she mentioned that Dad said something about coming to South America with me.
Say what?
Here’s a little background on my dad. He was born and raised in Lakewood, California and aside from a brief sojourn (his wild years, as he would put it) in Costa Mesa, he would live in the Lakewood/Bellflower area his entire life. The Plunkett family have been a constant presence in Lakewood for generations. His parents still live in the house he grew up in, on the corner of Palos Verde and Carson. My dad’s father owned a carpet cleaning business for close to 50 years. His uncle was an infamous city councilman and eventually was a newspaper publisher in Paramount. His other uncle did construction, his aunt was a hair dresser. My dad’s siblings have lived in Lakewood for one stretch or another.
Dad and I. A selfie worthy of Calle Florida.
He is also my stepfather. He and my mother married when I was almost six years old. Plunkett is his surname and I began to be called by that name at that time and legally changed my name at age 24.
He was married once before, had a daughter, Kristen, who lives in Arkansas with her husband and two boys. Aside from trips to Canada and a Caribbean cruise, he has never traveled outside the country.
“Is he serious?” I asked my mother.
He was and when he called and asked, I was shocked. He had never communicated any desire to travel or do anything like this before.
But he was serious. He got his plane ticket and his passport and we were a go.
I had insisted on weekly calls to prepare. They were very helpful, but we both were busy with our daily lives. We did the best we could and would improvise when we got to Buenos Aires.
Here’s a good time to make a confession: As much as I love adventure and spontaneity, it has to occur with a fortified sense of preparation and knowledge of what is going to happen. I will worry and fret over any situation, going through all the variables in my mind to make sure I am prepared for what could happen.
My dad, on the other hand, is the most easy-going and care-free individual I have ever met. He was in sales for many years, currently works at Trader Joe’s and loves it. He is a people person and very likeable.
But you see where this is going…
***
I ran to the expo. I was so angry. More so, I was terrified. I had been terrified about this trip and the marathon for months but now, the fear caught up to me. Every time I had reminded Dad that we were in Argentina, it was really me telling me, “Your insane idea is now reality.”
I waited for my dad and I know I get one breakdown and this was it. Dad was gracious and we got to the expo.
Finally made to to the maraton expo.
We picked up my race packet, got my official t-shirt personalized with my theme for this adventure, “start to finish” and waited to take my picture. The marathon organizers had a wall, where everyone’s picture would go. In my nightmares, I would see that board, with just my picture. But thank God, it would be a board with 8,000 people, with a common goal.
For our purposes, I am number 1504.
The board of runners.
Start to finish, on the board.
***
The next day (Saturday), Dad and I rented bikes to tour the city. Buenos Aires isn’t a biker-friendly city but it’s getting there. One of the positive side effects of the country’s continued economic struggles and it forced individuals to sell their cars and find other ways to get around the city. The subté, the subway system, is fantastic, as are the bus routes but there’s a real gap in transportation. Enter a new bike sub-culture that fits in tandem with a vibrant fitness mindset for many porteños and real business promise.
Braving the streets of Buenos Aires. Not for the faint. For the heart.
The trick to riding a bike in Buenos Aires is to know your enemy.
Your adversary is everyone and everything around you. Because the city is a fledgling bike-friendly culture, bicyclists won’t get the right-of-way. Or any kind of way.
There are some places to stroll but mostly, it’s riding on the streets with the assumption that you know where you’re going. A map provided by Cristian, the owner of the bike rental shop, was incredibly helpful. But in what would become a pattern, we really didn’t know where we were going.
Monument near Avendia Sarlimento.
IMHO, that’s the first lesson of traveling. Figure out the starting and finishing point in any excursion, as well as the emergency route. Otherwise, traveling is the journey of seeing what you’re suppose to see at any given point. Whether you meant to see it or not.
Please don’t see this as a negative on my part. It’s the most positive aspect of traveling: Finding that café that will define your experience. Finally figuring out what street you’re on. Having that moment, that encounter, which is the anchor for your relationship with whatever city you’re and with the people of whom you are a guest.
It’s a wonderful thing.
***
That night, it was time for pasta.
Readers will know that I stopped eating gluten and most wheat products as part of my embrace of the paleo lifestyle. For this week, I ate pasta and bread to start the carb load. An upset stomach the first night aside, the gluten seemed to register with my body.
At dinner, Dad and I were talking about getting to this point. I’ve told him about the time in the HOLE, the desire to run and the desire to make changes. The marathon was an achievement but it was my response to the desire to take the next step.
The next step. That’s a heavy topic. What is the next step? Marriage? Children? Home ownership (in my case, owning a full house)? These are markers, significant ones, but markers. They are the signs of “the next step” but not definitive.
Dad told me, no, this is the next step. In his words, “It’s a wild and crazy next step, that’s for sure.”
We called it a night because there was a marathon to run in the morning. And a next step to take.
***
Before I went to bed, I called for a taxi in the morning. And that my friends, nearly derailed theroad to good air…
The Road to Good Air 