Category Archives: Good breathing

Onward to the Odyssey-American Odyssey Relay review

Pre-Odyssey runs
4/13: 6.94mi, avg 10:07/mi
4/17: 5.46mi, avg 8:49/mi
4/19: 8.28mi, avg 8:38/mi
4.21: 4.06mi, avg 9:17/mi

Od-ys-ssey: n. A long series of wanderings or adventures, especially when filled with notable experiences and hardships.

It was intentional to a race going this quickly after the Rock and Roll Marathon. I’m fully recovered but the opportunity to run with good friends in such a venture was too good to pass up.

In its sixth year, the American Odyssey Relay is a 200-mile race from Gettysburg, Pennsylvania to the waterfront in southwest D.C. Runners traverse with through four states and a District, going around the clock to finish the job.

My friend Aaron invited me to join after a few runners of the Rabbits and Tortoises club dropped out of the race. One was running the Boston Marathon the week before, the other had another child on the way.

I’ve never done a relay before and while I was excited about the possibility, the thought of competing was a bit nerve-racking. I had to pull my own weight and make sure not to let the team down.

The relay is 36 legs total, ranging from easy to the exceptionally hard leg six. Runners run in order, so the person who did the first leg (in our case, our team captain Megan) also ran legs 13 and 25 and so on.

The view from leg nine, post downpour.

Leg 9 -5.7 miles, hard

There’s nothing like a downpour in the back-country.

Little civilization to guide you, it’s you, your running shoes and the elements. And no matter what, the elements will win.

For my first run, I was afraid of the downpour. It would slow me down. It turned out to be a crucible, one that ended as soon as I started.

I was antsy. Being the second group, I didn’t get to run my race until more than nine hours after the starting line. So, we traveled through the battlegrounds of Gettysburg. I started my first leg nearly eight hours after our starting time.

Being in the backwoods, Runkeeper wasn’t really working, so the splits and times aren’t quite available. Neither was Pandora or Gregorian chants, so it was whatever music came to mind. Strangely, it was worship music. The kind my grandfather played on the organ. Here, on the Penn/Maryland border, I was singing “How Great Thou Art” with no one around but God’s creation. That’s something.

I passed two runners early on and had the whole course to myself, so much so I forgot to get on the left side. (Pro Tip: Run on the side where the cars can see you coming. You don’t want cars sneaking up behind you.) Toward the end, a runner came up behind me. Where did he come from?

He was moving fast but I wanted to be faster. He was elite, I was still an advanced amateur. He barely beat me but I’ll take it.

Leg 22-4.7 miles, medium difficulty

There’s running at night. Then, there’s running at NIGHT.

It’s dark, as the world intended. Runners in front look like junebugs along a darken route. It’s one of the most exhilarating moments ever.

I passed by a runner wearing an illuminated frog backpack. I almost went the wrong way, it was so dark and it’s rural.

After this race, I have that much more respect for the rural communities. One really has to know where they are going because it is so easy to get lost. Those long stretch of roads on the side. Fields and farms all around you. Open space. In a way, the open space can feel a bit suffocating, it overwhelms how much there is. There is so much and one just moves, a step at a time.

This leg took me from the Price Farm to the back way entrance of Antietam National Battleground. After living here six years, I know the Civil War happened in these parts but it’s still abstract. Seeing Gettysburg and Antietam brought a grounding to where I currently live and its place in history.

In this leg, I was moving and grooving. I passed several people (getting kills, as it’s called in race lingo) and ready for the baton pass. And yet again, someone comes up on me and almost passes me. I wasn’t going to be passed again, so I hustled up and flew right by him at the transition point.

Waiting for our cohorts at Poolesville junior high school.

“Not this time,” I said as I passed the baton to Aaron. After we stopped, I went over to the guy and had a quick laugh and went our separate ways. It was around 1:30 in the morning and we were going around the clock.

Leg 33-8.3 miles, hard

Each van kept track of kills. Not road kills (although there were plenty) but runners passed along the way.

Such a funny thing. We’d pass people and we’re each applauding the other. The nicest way to die on the race, I say.

The way AOR works is that it’s staggered starts, with the faster teams going later. The aim is that the majority of the teams will finish in southwest about the same afternoon the next Saturday.

I was in the second van, which meant we started late and we finished the race. My two legs were right on the Pennsylvania border and in western Maryland. The relay would continue through Maryland to Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia and the start of the C & O Canal. At that point, it’s a near straight shot on the canal to SW Washington.

When the team was picking leg spots, I knew I wanted a challenge and wanted to feel like I could pull my weight. While I have made great strides in running in the near-two years that I’ve taken it up, I’m still a novice. The team had experienced runners and folks who are athletes.

I picked my spots knowing it would be tough but I didn’t realize until after we got together that I had the third-hardest leg route of the entire squad. Gulp.

The first two legs went well but it was this last leg, leg 33, that worried me the most. Not because of hills — it was mostly flat and easy to run — or because of weather (which was gorgeous) but it was length and time. Leg 33, on the canal from Great Falls to Fletcher’s Cove was 8.3 miles and the last big shot before the final legs to the end.

The team was doing very well. We knew we were making great time but we weren’t quite certain. So, there was little room for error. I mean, this wasn’t a hard-core competition but this is a relay.

So, Steve passed the baton to me and I got going. On routes like this, you worry about the monotony. No hills to climb, just a trail to run. And what a trail it is.

C&O Canal, Great Falls, Virginia.

I haven’t traversed up to Great Falls and this part of Virginia and today was the day for it. Mild conditions, lots of shade and really, the sight of perfection.

About 2/3 of the way through the leg, I heard footsteps. Eh, I thought, I was enjoying my run too much to care. Besides, who would come up to try and beat me?

The footsteps get closer until the guy comes up to me and puts his hand on my shoulder. It’s the guy from Antietam.

Such a beautiful day, I said.

It sure is, he replied. How are you doing?

Great, you?

Better than last night.

And with that, he took off. For a moment, I thought about trying to catch up but he was on the roll. He probably beat me to the transition point by at least 90 seconds. It’s going, I’m calling it even.

Mark and I, end of leg 33.

At the end, I took this photo with him and we chatted. His name is Mark and he was running the relay with his sons. I decided right there that I wanted to be like him when I grew up.

My legs were done and I did my part to help the team. Our part of the caravan got the last two legs on the canal, then rushed to Water Street for the celebration.

The tradition is that the entire team runs at the finish line together. We forgot to tell that to Eric, who was our anchor. He sped by all of us as we’re trying to catch him. Most were in flip-flops and severely sleep-deprived at this point.

But no matter. We started at 10:30 Friday morning and finished about 2:45 Saturday afternoon. Our placing: 27^th out of 127 teams and 5^th in our division (out of 51 teams).

Such a great job by the team and for me, one of the funnest experiences I’ve had.

This is why I took up running: It has opened up new doors and opportunities to meet some amazing people who I would have never had ever imagined. And for that, I’m so grateful. And I keep going on this road to good air.

Rock and Roll Marathon: Homeward Bound

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Note: I’m late on the recap as this past few weeks have been swamped and I also spent a good chunk of time working on this piece for the Post. This is the last element on my list so I can say I have fully recovered.

I still remember when my good friend Greg asked me if I wanted to go running with him. He was picking it up, running from his house to the place where we both worked. He wanted to do a 5K and wanted to see if I would be interested.

I wasn’t. Not even close. He started running and continued when he and his then-pregnant wife moved to Missouri about three years ago.

Imagine our good fortune that he and I would run the D.C. Rock and Roll Marathon together. He stayed with me and my place and it was a wild and crazy weekend. If, of course, one defines wild and crazy by me making healthy food and he talking with his wife and two-year-old daughter.

Me, on the left, and Greg. From his phone. Spoiler! We both finished the race.

Indeed.

This was his third marathon and my second. Our goals were to go a bit faster. I’ve focused my training this winter and speed and consistency and we had great weather to make it happen. My individual goal was to start at 9:30, and eventually get to 9:00 mile pace. With luck, that would get me to close to the 4:00 mark.

The second marathon is tougher than the first. The first is the experience: You run to run, aiming to finish but really to experience it. Of course, you want to do well but you have nothing to base it on, so just get going. Really, the point of the first marathon is to do it, then decide how serious you want to get about running or move on to the next item on the bucket list.

After Argentina, I was hooked and I wanted to become a better runner. Training through all the bitter cold was a bit of a crucible. Aside from using the training to help endure the season, it provided a backdrop on how seriously I would take the training.

When it was time for the marathon, I felt stronger and better. And I felt smarter about the course, perhaps a little too smart.

The tricky part with the Rock and Roll Marathon is that everyone runs the first 12 miles together, then splits off to their respective destinations. The first part of the race was well-known, as I run much of those streets often. It was a thrill, albeit a crowded thrill.

The second part was different. A good different but different. Crossing by the Capitol to the Expressway, getting to the Waterfront, going by Nats Park, then the long stretches in Anacostia and Minnesota Ave on the way.

I run the first stretch of the course often and since I ran the half in 2013, my confidence was high. I knew going into the marathon that this would be two different races: One with all the people and one without.

It’s great to see friends cheering for you, especially having charging Rock Creek Parkway up to Calvert St in Adams Morgan. By the time the half and full runners split, I was in good spirits.

Then at about mile 18, it got hot. Coming through Anacostia Park, it’s a long stretch of trails and grassy knolls. And no shade. No, none, nothing. The weather was all over the place that morning; Cold and windy, calm and serene, then hot.

I intentionally passed on the early water stations because I wanted to avoid the crowds. Even though I had my own water, I was struggling to get hydrated enough. My legs were hurting and I was losing energy, so I had to take some walking breaks.

My trick with walking breaks is pretty simple: Once I start walking, I count from 20 down. The point is to make the break finite, give myself enough time to catch my breath but not enough time to lose the rhythm and make it harder to start running again. There was a few times where 20 seconds was 30 seconds but that trick really helped.

Those hills on Minnesota Avenue toward the end of the race were a killer as well. It was the Wall, of sorts. Mostly hydration and energy and somewhat psychological. I knew this course because I live here. But yet, there was so much of the course that I didn’t know that I could have strategize a bit better.

At any rate, I caught my last wind and ran the last few miles full stride and made it to the end.

Times:
5k: 28:35
10k: 57:17
10 miles: 1:32:23
half: 2:01:05
20 miles: 3:07:52
chip time: 4:11:46
avg page: 9:37

As you can see, I started well and maintained about a 9:15 pace toward the half mark, then slowed to about 10:15 pace toward 20 miles. I finished about 10 slower from 20 to 26.2 than my first 10K, thus how I ended up at 4:11.

Me, finishing the race. Care of MarathonFoto.

For my first marathon that I care about my time, this was a rousing success. I ended up nearly 40 minutes faster than my Buenos Aires time and more so, got to run the race with one of my closest friends in the city we both love.

Up next for me is the American Odyssey Relay at the end of April and then, we shall see what is next in the quest to join the Seven Continents Club.

How I Met your Mother finale — We tell stories to let go

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And now for something completely different…

It’s been a week and most people have gotten over the shock of the How I Met your Mother series finale. There are gazillions of opinions on the internets about the show and whatnot but this was one of my favorite shows and it resonates with me. Thus, my $0.02.

Hindsight is 20/20 and hindsight can be a real bitch. Many things are a real bitch, but clarity on things past is one of the nastiest known to humans.

That type of clarity can be cold and unforgiving. Regrets, miscues, missed opportunities and saddest of all, broken relationships. Life is lived forward and understood backward but that understanding often comes as the second chance at living correctly.

In How I Met Your Mother, the series ends up being (and where the digital wailing and gnashing of teeth begins) of the father reliving stories about his wife who has passed on and when called on it by his daughter, reveals he wants to ask out their Aunt Robin. The ending circles to the beginning with Ted outside Robin’s apartment, blue french horn in tow.

Ted and the blue horn. From CBS.com.

Type in #HIMYMFINALE on twitter and the responses are beyond amazing. Mostly negative, some positive but all personal, it’s CBS’ biggest dream come true to have that type of emotional response to a show.

The most interesting word in many reviews, for me, is betrayal. Fans and critics feel betrayed that the show turned out the way it did. Some say the finale betrayed the ideals of the show, others claim it betrays the fan’s relationship to the Mother, who was just introduced, then taken away. Right or wrong, that’s quite the word to use for a television show finale.

Betrayal comes from a failure to keep a commitment or expectations. Promises and vows that were sealed are unsealed. In this case, did the show turn back on its commitment in telling the story of how Ted met the mother of this children?

Well, no, with more major caveat.

Most shows, movies, book and etc work under the idea called suspension of belief. This means that by watching the show or reading the book, the reader/watcher agrees to the narrative framework set up by the writer. One will buy into whatever is coming his/her way to be in the story. The only trick is that the writer can only do this once, if there are too many “suspensions,” then the reader won’t engage.

With HIMYM, audiences were fully engaged with the characters and with the story. However, where much of the betrayal is coming from is audiences not engaged fully with the most influential character on the show: Not the Mother, but time.

In order for HIMYM to fully work, the watcher has to accept time on the show’s standards. Thus, the present day was 2030, and in our present day of 2014, Ted and the Mother (her name is Tracy McConnell but it’s hard to call her that since she was the Mother for so long. For me, that is one knock on the last season.) are together with baby Penny on the way.

With time, what’s true that one time is true that one time, but it isn’t true all the time. (How’s that for a little blog wisdom?!). Meaning, in that moment, that’s what happened, that’s what was felt and that’s what mattered. So, in 2005 when the show started, Ted and Robin did meet and did try to make it work and eventually couldn’t make it work. Then, Barney fell for Robin and during that time, they tried to make it work. The same is true for the Mother, who lost her first love in 2005 it took her years to regain a sense of finding companionship again.

For the ninth season that was the weekend of the wedding, in that moment, Ted did have feelings for Robin but let them, and her, go. It meant leaving for Chicago but that’s what the times called for. And, despite the last-minute hesitations, Barney and Robin did get married.

It’s tough in translating these movements of time in a linear format such as television and that’s where most folks are getting lost in translation and thus, the sense of betrayal. Of course, if we spent most of this brutal winter watching Robin and Barney get married only to have that fall apart within the first 15 minutes of the finale, there is a strong sense of cognitive dissonance. Frankly, it wouldn’t surprise me if the creators aimed for that to a certain degree.

But, in the eyes of the narrative, it was three years and for them, that was enough.

In my opinion, embracing all the narrative (time and all) helps to recognize what the show was really about: HIMYM is a story about letting go.

For me, the key part was in season nine in “Vesuivus.” The Mother tells Ted that she’s concerned, saying “I don’t want you to live in your stories forever. I want you to move forward.”

It was subtle but that’s the key. Ted is telling the story of how he met his mother to remember and preserve her memory but also to let her go to face the future. Ted tells all the stories about everything the gang ever did: The slap bet, Robin Sparkles, the pineapple incident (Whatever did happen with the pineapple?) and one of my favorite episodes, The Leap, because they are all a part of his memory and what makes him who he is at that present time.

And when that time passes, it doesn’t make him that person anymore.

It’s not that Ted has been in love in with Robin all this time and the Mother was a placeholder. The title of the show might be a fake-out, as actor Josh Radnor put it, but I think he really did let Robin go and full fully in love with Tracy. That seems to be Ted’s way, all in with no pretenses or excuses.

It just so happened that all of this was shown in a 44-minute setting. Time-wise, that’s pretty jarring. Then again, isn’t that true of all our stories? Our stories about funny events with our friends are often, well, short. But the reality of them, the life that’s filled with time that we try to encapsulate in a small moment, is both long and deep and there’s no way to bring it back We just hold it for a moment, then let it go.

I think that’s what allows the kids to tell their father that he should move forward. In the time of HIMYM, it was six years since Tracy’s passing. The question isn’t if that is an appropriate time to move on or not but rather, was it the right time? And for Ted, it was.

The characters are roughly the same age as me, so I feel I’ve grown up with this show. I did leave during some of the latter seasons (because seriously, I couldn’t stand Zoey and Barney’s antics were often a little too much) but I watched faithfully this past season and I’m glad I did. I haven’t met the mother of my children on a train station in a fictional New York town but I have lived my 20s and 30s in an urban environment with many of my friends and I can relate with Ted’s quest for love.

So, like the show says, it’s time to take the leap, get to the station and say hello.

*Also, you gotta applaud Carter Bays and Craig Thomas for playing out with the Walkmen.*

Six years (The daily commute)

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Note: Six years ago today, I moved to the D.C. area. Six years!

Each day, I take the Metrobus to work. It is my best commute so far in my professional life, a near straight line to downtown.

I know the drill. Wait for people to come off, say hello and how are you to the bus driver, pay with the SmartCard quickly. If you need to put money on the card, have it out and ready to go. You have to press your card against the meter twice after activation.

Walk to the middle back. The seats up front are for those who need chairs and the mothers with crying children. Or the crying mothers with children.

Say hello to the Cuban, a nice fellow who lives near the Giant grocery store on Park Road. He hums a tune, unless he’s talking to someone about how the government is messed up. Everyone talks about how the government is messed up but from him, it sounds poetic.

People will move their legs from the aisle if you step over. Go to the back, find a seat, check your phone. Usually, it’s nice to listen to music or a podcast. Catch up on the news or check the newsfeed on Facebook once again. The goal is to drown out, not tune in. It’s a sad fact that drowning out is the default measure but you need to save energy for deadline.

Sometimes, the drunks come on board. The majority are nice drunks, happy as they can be in that moment. The worst are the lamenters because their goal is to have me join them in their current downward spiral.

All the change on 14^th Street! Even in the few years I’ve lived in the District, I’ve seen the neighborhood come and go. That new condo is taking over where the old Salvadoran restaurant used to be. I went there once and it was okay. I can see why it’s gone.

The bus passes through Thomas Circle. I exit on L St. Stop for more coffee but I don’t really need it.

Work, then the shift is over.

MacPherson Square is the best place to wait for the bus because it provides options. The line up 16^th Street is faster but more annoying. Besides, the 42 is better. Crazy happens on the 42 often but that’s why I ride it. It’s worth the price of admission. Just sit in the back and be amazed.

Traveling past the bars on Connecticut Avenue, it’s a constant wonder: Why the hell do people subject themselves to these places? I take pride in never clubbing on Connecticut Avenue, except that I remember I did go clubbing once or twice and really, it wasn’t that bad. Kinda fun, actually.

Working late means joining the fellow swing shift workers. We keep the world running. Cooks, dishwashers, waiters, designers. It’s grunt. It’s production.

Get off in Mount Pleasant, stop by 7-11 for water and the extra Clif bar. Man, those Clif bars have become the new Snickers. I haven’t decided whether that’s good or bad but I need all the protein I can get. So back off.

My friends give me a hard time about walking in my neighborhood late at night but that’s the best time to be out. It’s quiet. If anyone messes with me, I go to the middle of the street and stop and dare them to join me. Usually, they don’t care that much and move on.

I’m home. Check my mail, turn on the space heater because winter is still going on and put my stuff down.

Home. That’s the word you’re trying to remember. Home. How did this place, this space become your home?

Who’s idea was it? Yours? God? Neither or both? This is all Malcolm Gladwell’s fault. He was the one who said to blink.

The test, Gladwell says, is simple. Think of your dilemma or situation. Close your eyes and count to five. When you open your eyes, notice the first thing that comes to mind. Try for that.

You take his test. When you opened your eyes, you are on an Alaska Airlines flight, direct to Reagan National. Wearing shorts because it’s too uncomfortable to wear jeans on a plane, you lined up a possible sublet, vague job possibilities and enough cash for three months.

You blink again and you’re standing in front of the White House just after Obama’s election. It was quiet, just you and some kids playing soccer. In about 15 minutes, 3,000 people would fill this space. More will celebrate on U Street and H Street. You text Lys and tell her this is the most incredible moment ever. It was.

Earlier that day, you and Buck stood in a mass of folks, waiting to get in. A sly joke gets you into the Washington Post. Four years later, you’re working election night for them.

Another blink: Twenty-six inches of snow. Snowmeggedon 2010. You’ve never seen this much snow. Huddled in your apartment with episodes of Get Smart and no Internet, you realize this wasn’t the adventure you had in mind. No job, no prospects, just frozen pizza. The storm ends and you join others outside. The city is at peace and strangely, so are you.

You open your eyes to see your friends around you on your 30^th birthday at Westminster Presbyterian’s Jazz Friday. 30. Yeah, you can see why people shit their pants over this age. But for now, you’re happy you made it.

One year later, you’re in a HOLE. Your best friends who threw you the party last year are gone. Many of your friends are gone. The calling is gone, the dreams are gone. You try to close your eyes and pretend like it’s not happening but your eyes and life are wide open. This isn’t fast. This is very, very slow.

Trying to stay awake, you strain to keep your eyes open. It’s 2012. Adrian is still reading. When you started, he was in the second grade and one of the best readers. Man, you lucked out. You blink again: It’s June 2013 and he’s off to junior high. You give him a copy of The Westing Game. That was your favorite book when you were his age. He says it’ll be his favorite book too.

You blink once more and you’re on 14^th and Euclid in the dead of winter 2012, with the instruction that you’re going to run a marathon soon. Marathons, in fact.

You blink to get the sweat out of your eyes. Running in a D.C. summer is a pain in the ass. You stop at Meridian Hill Park. You just ran 20 miles for the first time in your life. This is the spot where you did your first run. That time, you barely made it through one lap around.

Thirty is now 33. According to the calendar of the Middle-Aged Young Adult, this is the last year you can claim your mistakes on being young and stupid. After this, you’re just dumb.

Lately, you’ve been trying to blink extra hard to see the future. Certain things show up: Athens, Capetown. More words. Family, wife, children. …blurry and abstract but very much there.

Otherwise, it’s the same image over and over again.

Open.

That’s it, just open.

But that’s what to come. And sheesh, haven’t you learned your lessons about knowing before leaping, yet? Pay attention. Stop with the sentimental. Work is to be done.

The District is home. Somehow, this foreign spot became my walking, my knowing. I know this place now.

I know where to go and what to do. That knowledge is automatic and routine but every so often, I will remember how painful it was to gain that knowledge. It almost didn’t happen.

All the thoughts about leaving, all the phone calls about staying, all of it. I remember.

I’m not a native and not establishment but I belong through hard elbows, perseverance and semi-dumb luck.

Every walk to get coffee, every time I went to church and every time I’ve longed for Church and Community but it just didn’t happen, I belong.

People like to say you’re either in or you’re out. That’s not true. That dichotomy is false and really a point of insecurity on that people’s parts. The truth is you’re in because you choose to be in and made your case of worthiness in a successful fashion.

Besides, this city was built on the premise that no one could belong here so that everyone belonged. It just worked out for some to build a house along the Potomac to keep their lack of belonging in an influential spot.

It still doesn’t answer the word: Home. No matter. It doesn’t need an answer now. All that matters is that the word isn’t a question or a resignation; it’s a sigh of wonder. And God.

Confessions of an accidential Caveman #2: Running toward a new border

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Growing up, we Plunketts were a fast food family.
In fact, one of our hallowed religious traditions involves fast food.
At one point, we lived six houses from Taco Bell and running for the border was a favored pastime. One Easter, we were low on funds and time, so we went off to Taco Bell for a quick Easter lunch. We were the only people in the restaurant but it was one of our better Easter lunches. Our family maintained that tradition for many years. It’s a good reminder of how things were and the constant renewal of life.

My mother is a great cook. Self-taught, she figured out how to make fantastic pasta dishes and her chicken enchiladas and albondigas soup is to die for. Whenever she could cook dinner, she will. Even now, weeks before I’m set to arrive for a visit west, my mother texts to ask what I want to eat while I’m staying with my parents.

Dad is an expert omelet-flipper. Really, it’s pretty impressive. I have yet to master that skill; hence the constant scrambles for breakfast.

Sometimes (actually, it was every and often), he mixed up his spices, putting poultry seasoning on toast and putting ginger on well, everything. He’s also a fan of chocolate pudding and potato chips, together. In one bite.

I guess that’s what happens when times change, but values don’t. (Sorry, inside joke.)

Otherwise, we ate fast food, a lot. Both my parents worked long hours in our middle-middle class upbringing in the quintessential suburban neighborhood in California, which predicated on lots and lots of fast food.

The High School Athletic Wall of Fame is located at the McDonald’s on Woodruff and Del Amo. Allegedly, One of the first McDonald’s is up Lakewood Avenue in Downey, it’s art deco signage still in use.

After church on Sundays and youth services on Wednesdays, my friends and I were either at Taco Bell, In ‘N Out (God Bless the Double Double!) or Fuddruckers. Our pastor’s signature line to encourage fellowship was, “Now, everyone go out and have a cheeseburger!” We Evangelicals were big into literalism, so cheeseburgers it was.

Mind you, this is the 90s, before Starbucks went public and the coffee shops started popping up all over the place. In college, our group was at the Buck or the “holy sanctum” of coffee, Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf (I’ll provide the sacred and profane sermon regarding coffee shops another time).

Nevertheless, it was fast food that ruled the day.

I write the above noting that fast food restaurants have changed and continue to evolve. This was before Fast Food Nation, Food Inc and much of our growth in food awareness. Anyone who was a vegetarian, a vegan or god forbid, trying a paleo diet would have gotten stares or in the case of my childhood, the verses in Scripture about how it’s perfectly acceptable (thus Biblically mandated) to eat meat.

Also, it’s an indictment against our consumer industrial complex and how much of the fast food industry disenfranchises the poor, who can only afford fast food to get through the day. While it’s “cheaper” than most food, you don’t truly know how your food is made or produced. While it’s a good starting job for those entering the work force, it bumps corporate profits at the expense of employee health and well being.

What I want to focus on is process, specifically, the joy of cooking your own food.

Apropo of nothing, hot dogs are a delicacy in Chile. This was lunch one day in Santiago. And I wanted a photo of hot dogs in this post.

For years, food preparation was a necessary evil

My cooking skills are elementary. My spaghetti sauce is well known among the circle of friends and former roommates. The Plunkett specialty is chicken and dressing. Chicken and dressing consists of chicken, sour cream, cream of chicken, dressing and Chinese noodles. Add butter, lots of butter, and there was the best I offer, food-wise.

The night work schedule added to the lack of time and convenience to cook. Partly my desire to get out of the newsroom for any moment (Rule #1 to work: Leave as often as possible!), it was a stop for fast food. In downtown, D.C. the options were Subway, pizza that is nothing close to being authentic, Cosi and Five Guys.

Fridays were reserved for Five Guys, so I ate fresh often. As you can see, my eating patterns weren’t the gold standard of healthy eating. My eating consisted of about 20% of my own cooking and 80% of eating out.

Everyone has his/her own reasons for how they eat and what they eat. In my instance, fast food was convenient but more so; it was a comfort and perhaps a sense of security. It buffers against the stress of the job and provided a sense of a home from which I am far away. Fast food also was an opt-out against a deep-rooted fear, the inability to take care of myself. I’m on my own and have grown past the typical bachelor stereotype of empty pizza boxes in the corner. (Now, it’s empty Whole Foods bags in the corner but I digress.) Too often, I allowed that perception to rule my life. If I don’t have anyone else to cook for, which should I put in the time and effort? No one is going to care, so why should I?
The biggest change in switching out was changing the default mode. As the majority of food decisions are automatic and semi-conscious, it takes mindful effort to adjust the process of eating. For me, it was addressing those fears head-on.
Three Christmases ago, my parents gave me Mark Bittman’s How to Cook Everything. That book saved my bacon. Two Christmases ago, my parents also got me a slow cooker and that has been my faithful friend and companion.

One of the first meals I made. Slow-cooked pork and a kale dish that includes cashews, onions and cranberries. ENDORSE.

Now, I own a cask-iron skillet, a Dutch oven, some pots and pans and a steady stream of olive and coconut oils, cumin and pepper. While I enjoy a fine dining experience now and then, my food passions reside in finding hole in the walls and unlikely spots, a la Fast Gourmet (which was a heartbreak in not eating there multiple times a week).
Cooking is still a process, with bits of enjoyment and pleasure. Mostly, I appreciate the chance to make something I know I’ll enjoy. Fast, well, faster food is still an ongoing issue. It’s come to the point where the food ratio has flipped: I cook about 80% of my own food and eat out about 20% of the time.
To this day, I still eat Taco Bell for Easter lunch. It’s the only time in the year I’ll eat Taco Bell. As an adult, the tradition means more to me now than the food.

Sometimes, it takes a 99-cent burrito to celebrate renewal.

Let’s talk: How much does fast food dictate your eating habits? Is it a joy or a struggle? And any great fast food options that are healthy?

Sunday sermon: Holy and broken

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This world is full of conflicts and full of things that cannot be reconciled but there are moments when we can transcend the dualistic system and reconcile and embrace the whole mess, and that’s what I mean by ‘Hallelujah.’ That regardless of what the impossibility of the situation is, there is a moment when you open your mouth and you throw open your arms and you embrace the things and just say, ‘Hallelujah! Blessed is the name…’
The only moment that you can live here comfortably in these absolutely irreconcilable conflicts is in this moment when you embrace it all and you say, ‘Look, I don’t understand a fucking thing at all–Hallelujah’ That’s the only moment we live here fully as human beings.”

The quote is from Leonard Cohen, speaking about his famous song, “Hallelujah.” I’ve been reading Alan LIght’s The Holy or the Broken, a history on that song. For years, it languished in obscurity: Columbia Records didn’t release Cohen’s album with that song and most people who heard the song (or in the case of Jeff Buckley, initially sung the song) didn’t know that Cohen was the writer.

Cohen is a poet by trade, and a damn good one at that. He summarizes my feeble attempt at explaining my current state of things better than I ever could. Cohen’s “Hallelujah” deals with spiritual resignation and irony but ends with a tone of hopeful triumph that other versions of the song leave out. “Even though it all went wrong/I’ll stand before the Lord of Song/With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah.”

Confessions of an accidential caveman #1: Break all your fasts

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Note: I’m coming close to one year of switching over the paleo food template. Amazingly enough, it’s stuck and really become a life-long mindset. These posts deal with how I got here and how my life has changed.

For years, I didn’t eat breakfast. Because of a second-shift job, my breakfast was usually lunch.

If I was up for breakfast, it was donuts. Lots of donuts. And coffee with cream and sugar. That was it: Sugary, creamy coffee and donuts. One would think I was a cop but I was a journalist (a far worse predicament).

I always heard that breakfast was the most important meal of the day. I never believed it. When my energy levels were low for the day and I required more and more sugar to keep going, I didn’t give a second thought to how I ate. I just ate. That, combined with a stressful job in a stressful city, leads to major problems.

I can’t tell you how many boxes of Pepto Bismol I’ve consumed. The stomach-aches, lethargy, continue struggles with acne and being overweight, all constants for most of my late 20s and early 30s. It was a given that after eating wheat, my throat would seem to close in, making it difficult to breathe and swallow. This would last a few minutes before I would finish eating whatever pasta or burritos I purchased.

A week after starting at the Post in summer 2010, my body was in extreme pain. After checking into the emergency room for fear of appendicitis, the doctors asked me about my high blood pressure and struggles with digestive issues.

Look, I just started a new job after months of unemployment; of course I have high blood pressure! I joked the doctors. I was fine but they told me to think seriously about changing my diet.

I didn’t. I walked home because I didn’t want to pay for a cab. I didn’t have any money and because my new health insurance hadn’t kicked in, it would be some time before I had money again (and that’s worth multiple posts but I’ll leave that for another time).

It wasn’t those issues that began the change. For me, it was staring in the mirror that I realized something: I don’t look the way I feel. When I had energy, felt alive, I saw one version of myself. But what was staring back at me was another version. It was that disconnect that was a trigger for needed change. I wanted my outside to match how I felt on the inside.

The Whole30 challenge was the first time I had to think about eating and how I felt about it. One of the biggest realizations was I wasn’t giving myself the right tools to start and complete the day the way I wanted. Much of my concern was about time. I didn’t have enough time to make breakfast, sit down and eat it, then go about the business of the day. The issue was that I didn’t make time for it. More so, I didn’t want to make time for it.

It was difficult at first. Making breakfast means getting up earlier or accepting that getting up late means time is lost on the back end. That mean going to bed earlier, which meant stopped the caffeine intake earlier the previous day, which meant eating breakfast earlier the previous day.

breakfast of champions

My go-time breakfast meal is the scramble. The dish is super easy, consisting of chicken sausage or bacon, yellow squash and zucchini, broccoli, onions, tomatoes and mushrooms if I have them, with two brown eggs. Some pepper and garlic powder, maybe some turmeric to spice it up.

It leaves me full and very happy. In the midst of marathon training season, the scramble combined with a Clif Builders Bar (not shilling for them but they are fantastic) and a banana or some mixed nuts satisfies all the cravings.

It has come to the point where my body craves breakfast. If I don’t have breakfast, I feel it immediately.

Eating a complete breakfast daily is still a difficult task. Irregularities in the schedule make it difficult to get up at the same time every morning and after a tough shift the night before, the last thing I want to do at 8:45 is get up and chop up onions.

As much as I love the scrambles, I crave a little more variety. Being a creature of habit to the point of rigidity, it’s hard to break out and yet feel like I’ve had “breakfast.” For me, it’s not breakfast if I’m not having eggs in some capacity. Goofy, I know but hey, years of seeing those egg commercials paid off somehow from them!

Let’s talk: How do you spice up your breakfasts? Any ideas on variety?

Training #15: “A wild and crazy next step”

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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…

Greetings, air breathers!

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Welcome to the Road to Good Air!

It’s been a few years since The M.A.Y.A. Years ended its run and believe you me, it’s been quite a ride in my beloved District. This M.A.Y.A. (Middle Aged Young Adult for those not in the know) has gotten a little older, a little balder and a lot thinner.

The time from the end of M.A.Y.A. Years and the Road to Good Air has been a momentous and rather bumpy affair. I came to fulfill a God-given calling and now have a God-graced life. I’ve succeeded, failed, lived a good chunk of time in the HOLE and am now entering full-fledged adulthood with a beginners’ brain and a grateful heart.

The Road to Good Air serves a few purposes:

This is my official training blog as I prepare for the 2013 Maraton de Buenos Aires in early October of 2013. A good amount of the posts will be about me running, doing CrossFit or something along those lines. I promise to be intriguing, sexy and so, so interesting, you won’t hate me as I possibly become one of “those” CrossFit people who posts their workouts and all the weird code that seems almost cult-like. (And yes, my flowing CrossFit robe for the initiation ceremonies just arrived today!)
I’ll chronicle my embrace of the Paleo lifestyle: What that means in terms of eating, exercising and changes in perspective. I never thought I would run a health and fitness blog, but like I said, a lot has changed in five years.
In a sense, I have a lot of ‘esplain to do. As much I as can in a fairly public setting, I have stories to tell about the past few years. I want to tell you about the HOLE and what happened when I entered it and eventually found my life in it. I want share about the books that have sustained me and the articles that I hope won’t define me. Finally, I will do my best to share about my journey of faith and my new-found membership to the Church of the Long Run.
I’ll chronicle my Jesus Year here. (Your WHAT? Don’t worry, I’ll tell you all about it.)
There will be photos of Argentina and Chile. Oh yes, there will be.

While this is my personal blog, this is a shared journey. I can’t take all of you with me down south but we’re all on our own journey to good air. A journey to a place where we can breathe easy and breathe true. A place where the successes and failures even out and creates a path that is truly our own and ours together. While your road to good air make not take you to marathons in Latin America, dear friends, but it does take you to a place where slowly and painfully, we become our True Self.

Finally, a couple of housekeeping measures:

I welcome comments and critiques but I do reserve the right to approve and delete comments at will.
The goal is to provide fresh posts three times a week. If you want to subscribe to get posts, you can do so on your immediate right.

Welcome again and let’s get running.

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