The Magic of Mission Peak

Everywhere we go there are parks, trails, and places of interest that polarize the local running and hiking communities.  Central Park is an example among the New York scene.  Several runners in New York and visitors alike find that Central Park is a wonderful place to run, while others consider it dangerous and advise against doing so, especially alone after dark.  Griffith Park holds a similar status in the Los Angeles community.  Several locals enjoy hiking there because of its interconnected network of trails and picturesque views, while others consider it to be overly crowded and too urban.  In the San Francisco Bay Area we have Mission Peak. 

Located just off the 880 freeway in Fremont, California, Mission Peak stands at 2,520 feet in elevation and has become a cultural icon for the city of Fremont.  It belongs to a small range that includes two other nearby peaks and overlooks Silicon Valley and the East Bay.  There are a few different paths that lead to the summit, but the most popular is a 6.2-mile round trip trail that begins in a small parking lot off Stanford Avenue.  With the exception of the final quarter of a mile trek to the summit where the trail turns rocky and rugged, the route is a ten to twelve foot wide cow path composed of hardened mud and crushed limestone.  The first time I visited in March of 2019 it was a chilly, foggy morning with low visibility, but I knew there was something special about this place.  The whole tone and feel of the trail was so serene.  Maybe it was the cows grazing off to the side of the path or perhaps it was the robust, green fields of grass along the slopes of the mountain.  Either way, it had something.  The following day, the clouds had dissipated, and it was clear as crystal outside, so I decided to go back.  After climbing my way up the steep, winding path, I was in absolute awe of the view when I reached the summit.  Mission Peak is perhaps most well known for having a seven foot monumental pole at the top, which is intended to be a symbol of environmental awareness.  It was built with several metal tubes through the sides of it, all pointing to certain Bay Area landmarks.  The 360 view includes San Francisco Bay, Silicon Valley, the Marin Headlands, East Bay, South Bay, and the distant Sierra Nevada mountain range.  The city of San Francisco can also be seen on clear days. 

Since my second visit, I've become hooked, and I now visit the peak on a regular basis.  My favorite method of getting up there is hiking 3.1 miles from the parking lot at a brisk pace, spending a few minutes enjoying the view, then running 3.1 miles back down to the trialhead.  My favorite part is when I get about three quarters of the way up.  The path levels out into a ridge with several rocks and cairns off to the right.  Beyond the cairns is a stunning view of Mount Diablo, the High Sierras in the distance, and an ocean of green mountains as far as the eye can see.  The positive energy, tranquility, and beauty of the mountain form a creative mindset, and I've conceived some of my most imaginative ideas related to my career, writing, music, and life in general while visiting the mountain.  The experience of being at Mission Peak allows me to approach life from a more clear and creative standpoint.  I love listening to chill music on my iPod, like hip hop, psychedelic rock from the 60's and 70's, and cheesy 80's pop songs while power hiking to the summit, but during the faster, more intense run back down to the parking lot, I prefer to crank more energetic and straight forward rock music like the Sex Pistols, Motley Crue, and 90's Green Day.

Despite all this, like I mentioned above, not everyone in the Bay Area shares the same sentiment towards Mission Peak as I do.  Several avid hikers in the community will tell you that it's overly crowded.  This is a justifiable stance, especially taking into account the parking situation.  The parking lot at the Stanford Avenue trailhead is an absolute joke.  There are only forty spots, and parking frequently overflows onto the streets in the surrounding residential neighborhoods.  To me, it's worth the five to seven minute walk to the trailhead, and although some residents of the area have complained about the streets being cluttered with parked cars, my response is they should have known what they were getting themselves into when they moved there.  In reference to the high volume of visitors at the mountain, the most common words of distaste that I've heard about Mission Peak are "I hike to get away from people".  I will say, yes it does get rather crowded, especially on weekends during mid morning.  Some people hate that.  Me? I love it.  Every time I go there I encounter all kinds of people.  Solo hikers like myself, couples, families with teenagers and young kids, white people, African Americans, Latinos, Asians, Middle Easterners, you name it.  People from all ages and all backgrounds.  I have no issues with the crowds because I think it's the coolest thing in the world to see all these people out and about exploring and being active.  Mission Peak has a way of bringing people from all walks of life together with a goal of reaching the summit to enjoy the views and take pictures.  Speaking of pictures, another common miff that I've heard is that people only hike to the summit for the Instagram post.  So?  What's wrong with that?  The views from the summit are breathtaking, and the pole is iconic.  Many hikers pose for pictures next to the pole at the summit, but not before completing a steep and strenuous hike to get there.  If people truly only wanted an Instagram picture out of it, they could easily type "Mission Peak Summit" into Google images, photo shop themselves into the picture, and post it.

Love it or hate it, Mission Peak is a cool and inspiring place.  My response to the disparaging statements is to give it the benefit of the doubt.  Very rarely is something amazing or awesome the first time we experience it.  Sometimes we need to adjust our thinking and see things from a different point of view.  I hope that Mission Peak continues to experience a high volume of visitors and that the naysayers will give it another chance.  In the meantime, I'll keep enjoying it! 



                       

Failure Is Always An Option

"Failure is not an option".  We've all heard that expression or something very similar to it, depending on where in the world we live.  The expression is known for being the tagline for the 1995 film "Apollo 13", but it is also frequently used in several different contexts, often referring to the outcome of future events in sports, the business world, or academics.  Despite it's popularity, it is quite possibly the most ridiculous and idiotic phrase I've ever heard.  Failure is always an option.

Without failure, there would be no life lessons to be learned.  We're supposed to learn from our mistakes.  Even the minor mistakes that people make every day can be considered small failures.  Those mistakes teach us how to learn, grow, and improve ourselves.  Without failure, life would be boring.  I'm not a philosopher and I don't know the meaning of life, but during my thirty-three years on this planet, I've developed a set of beliefs.  Among them is the belief that life is about having ups and downs.  Can you imagine living in a world with only success and no failure?  What reason would we have for celebrating anything?  If it weren't for failure, we wouldn't even understand the concept of success.  We need the downs in our lives to celebrate the ups.  Without failure, there would be no success.  That goes for businesses, sports organizations, and everyone as individuals.  Most successful organizations have as many failures as they do successes.  Take SoftBank, for example.  The investment conglomerate has taken billions of dollars in hits from failed investments, especially in recent years.  Yet, their annual revenue has been rising year over year and reached nearly eighty-seven billion dollars in 2019.  Think about how many games hockey teams lose season after season before winning the Stanley Cup.  A very successful person who I really look up to once told me after one of my failures "At least you went for it.  You have to take chances in life to succeed".  Without failure, there would be no cool stories to tell.  Think about how many great movies out there have plots based on overcoming failure (8 Mile, the Rocky movies, Anchorman, etc.).  Not only does failure teach us valuable life lessons, but it can definitely lay the foundation for an entertaining story.  So, if I hear someone say "failure is not an option" I don't buy into it for a second.  It's complete rubbish.

Whoever the moron is that thought it would be a good idea to apply this silly expression to everyday life probably conceived the idea with the notion in mind that failure is the end of the road.  If the CEO of a company is removed from her position by the company's board of directors, her career is destroyed.  Or if a jazz musician gives a lousy performance because his saxophone is out of tune and his mouthpiece is squeaky, he'll pack up his instrument and never play it again.  This is not the case.  Failure is not the end of the road.  In fact, in my mind, failing is a skill, and people can either be awesome or horrible at it.  If you're horrible at it, you let it destroy your spirit, and before you know it you're pulling a Ron Burgundy, sitting in a bar with an unkempt beard, singing gibberish, and wandering around San Diego drinking milk on a hot summer day.  But if you're awesome at it, you understand that life is 5% what happens to you and 95% how you react to it.  You learn from your failure and overcome it through redemption.  I've been through my fare share of failures in my life, and while I don't claim to be an expert at failing by any means, I've never allowed failure to kill my spirit.

The letters DNF mean only one thing to an ultrarunner; failure.  The meaning of the term (Did Not Finish) is the only thing more daunting than the term itself.  I've earned myself this status twice in my life as an ultrarunner.  Interestingly enough, it was the same race both times, just in different years.  My first DNF was at the 2017 Canyons 100K.  It was my second ultramarathon, and I toed the starting line only eight months after completing my first 50K.  The race proved to be substantially more difficult that I'd imagined.  The first half went pretty well and I felt good, but I made a couple of major mistakes at the halfway point; I sat down for way to long, close to an hour.  I had also eaten too much, and I had a big lump in my stomach by the time I got moving again.  In addition to the mistakes I made at the midway point, my overall training had been deficient.  By the time I hit mile forty-two, my quads couldn't contend with the downhill pressure anymore.  I was in excruciating pain and I could barely shuffle twenty feet before I was forced to walk.  I knew I had no chance in hell of making the cut off at the Rucky Chucky check point, six miles down the trail.  When I finally arrived, sure enough, the volunteers reluctantly informed me that my race was over.  It was a bitter pill to swallow, but I reminded myself that failure is not the end of the road.  I wanted a rematch, so I trained harder and went back the following year.  I had serious doubts about whether or not I could finish the race at the same point as I had fallen apart the year before, but this time, the outcome was different.  I'll never forget that final climb up to Foresthill and the metal gate emerging in the darkness at the junction where the course leaves the trail for the final half mile stretch that is run on pavement.  "You have eleven minutes to go a quarter of a mile!" the volunteer further down the road told me.  A whole year's worth of frustration had suddenly melted away, and crossing the finish line was one of the most profound moments of my running career.  My failure had become a success.  When I DNF'ed at Canyons the second time in 2019, it was even more frustrating because I had finished the year before, and I made yet another major rookie mistake.  Similar to 2017, I had a great first half, but despite the enormous winter we had in California that year, it was a hot day on race day, which was held in late April.  I foolishly neglected to consume salt tablets, electrolytes, and salty snacks before the heat kicked in, and by the time I rolled into Rucky Chucky at mile forty-eight, I was dry heaving, suffering from heat related nausea, cramping up badly, and on the verge of puking.  After drinking some soda and soup broth, I attempted to resume the race, but at the pace I was moving, it was a losing battle.  I knew I wouldn't make the cutoff to the next aid station, so I made the painful decision to drop once again.  This time I wanted blood.  There was no way I was going to let this DNF define me as an ultrarunner, especially when I had finished the race the year before.  To seek redemption, I signed up for the Bishop High Sierra 100K.  This time I would take all of the proper steps to make sure my sodium levels were sufficient, and five weeks after my second DNF, I found myself running the final stretch of the Bishop High Sierra 100K shortly after the sun fell below the mountains on the horizon.  I was so happy I was going to finish, I sang out loud to myself on the trail during that last mile, and crossed the finish line shortly before 9:30 PM.             

My point is that when most people read or hear the word "failure" they flip the hell out.  It seems we as people, are scared to death of failure and it shouldn't be that way.  We should expect failure and welcome it.  We cannot put constant pressure on ourselves to make everything turn out perfectly.  That is just irrational and unrealistic.  Perhaps if we remember the benefits of failure such as learning life lessons and creating more reasons to celebrate success, we can learn to be more accepting of it in our society.  We don't live in a perfect world.  Yes, we should absolutely always plan for success, but if things don't go as planned, it's important to try again and not let the ramifications of failure pound us into submission.  And that, my friends, is why, yes, failure is ALWAYS an option.       

   
 

 

My St. Croix 40 Winter Ultra Experience Part 2: The Frosty Selfie

Seconds earlier, Jamison had given the verbal queue that the race had begun.  I knelt down in the snow along with forty-eight other runners and five skiers, pulled the trigger on my fire starter and lit up the Esbit tabs in my stove.  Once our water began to boil and we got the okay from a volunteer, we could pack away our stoves and start running.  The flames from the Esbit tabs were strong, but my water was slow to boil.  I looked around as other runners were cleared by volunteers and began hitting the trail.  "How's it going?" Jamison asked as he approached.  "Good, just waiting for my water to boil".  "Ah, okay" he answered as he looked down at my stove.  "Did you bring a lid for your container?"  "No" I replied with a shy smile.  "That definitely would have helped, but I think you'll be good to go soon".  Damn it.  Why hadn't I thought to buy a lid?.  It was a minor bump in the road, but based on how things had turned out so far, I couldn't complain too much.  Having run multiple long distance races, I've learned a few lessons about how to react when things don't go according to plan. I've learned that especially for a race like this, it's important to plan meticulously and be organized, but when things don't go according to my original plan, it's important to not freak out.  That would only weaken my spirit, and if my spirit were to weaken, I'd be screwed.  The best thing to do is to stay cool and adapt.  Expect things to go wrong and be ready to act accordingly.  Focus on the present, control what you can, and things will work out.  Several volunteers approached me over the next ten minutes to see how my boiling was progressing.  "Dude, you're so close" they kept saying.  "You should be good to go any minute".  Finally, after what seemed like forever, bubbles began forming on the bottom of the container, and my water began to boil.  "Nice, you're good to go!" the volunteer said.  Thank goodness.  Relieved and happy that I passed the stove test, I packed up, grabbed the end of the thin climbing rope I had fastened to my sled, tied it around my waist, and off I went into the night, pulling my sled about six feet behind me.

I eventually began catching up to other runners and skiers, giving them kudos as I cruised by.  St. Croix State Park has several miles of interconnected snowmobile trails and the entire thirty-eight and a half mile course was located within the park boundaries.  To ensure that we stayed on course, the path was marked with yellow signs containing blue arrows at all junctions where trails intersected.  In addition to these signs, there were small florescent yellow flags on sticks off to the side of the trail every half mile or so.  The trail was in great condition.  Several inches of snow had fallen the week prior, and was now packed down, thanks to the park employees and snowmobile riders.  It was like running on Styrofoam, and the snow crunched underneath my shoes as I glided along.  Even though the path was about twelve feet wide, I stayed as far to the right as I could, occasionally turning my head back to make sure that my gear was still secured to my sled underneath the bungee cords, and nothing had gone missing.  As time passed and miles were covered, I eventually took out my phone to check the time.  Sometimes extreme cold can cause electronics such as cell phones to excessively deplete battery energy in order to remain functional.  In an effort to keep my phone working, I kept it in a Ziploc bag with a hand warmer.  My phone read 8:33 PM.  A little over two hours had passed since I began running, which meant it was time to have some food and hydrate.  During winter races it can be tempting to avoid hydrating and eating, but I made a conscious effort to eat and drink every two hours to keep the proverbial fire burning.  I slowed to a stop, turned to my sled, unzipped my pack, and took a few big pulls of Gatorade from my hydro flask.  I then pulled out a big red bag of Chips Ahoy! chewy chocolate chip cookies.  Since my body would be burning more calories than a usual ultramarathon by keeping itself warm in the extreme cold, I opted to consume high calorie foods with a lot of sugar.  I opened the package and reached into the plastic tray that held the cookies.  I popped two of them into my mouth and stuffed the rest into my jacket pocket, eating them one by one, as I continued running.  Even after stopping for two minutes, I was beginning to feel cold, so I wanted to keep moving.  I took note of what time it was so that I knew to re-hydrate and eat again in two hours.

As I glided along the trail with no sounds to be heard except the crunching of snow under my shoes and the sound of my sled being pulled behind me, my mind began to wander.  I thought a lot about how lucky I was to have met and befriended Tony and Kim.  In early October, my friends and I had found them on the Ragnar Napa Facebook group while recruiting members for our team.  They responded to our inquiry and were quickly added to our roster.  At that time, I was beginning to plan the travel logistics for St. Croix, so you can imagine my surprise when Kim sent our team an introductory message and said "Tony and I are from Hinckley, Minnesota".  I couldn't believe what a coincidence it was.  Of all the cities and states in the whole country, what are the odds that they lived in the same town I would be traveling to in a few months to run St. Croix?  Unfortunately, Ragnar Napa was cancelled due to wildfires, but when it came time for us to part ways, Tony and Kim graciously invited me to come stay at their house during race weekend.  Their house was so cool.  It was like staying in a resort in the mountains.  It had a wood interior, lots of windows, and ample space.  They owned forty acres of land, had a detached garage, and another shack on the property that Tony had converted into his own personal gym, complete with punching bags, a treadmill, mats, weights, and even a stereo.  The night before, as we were heading out to Bear Creek Tavern, Tony and Kim had shown me all of the paths and trails they had on their property.  I couldn't believe how lucky I was to be staying there.  Tony's father had passed away several years earlier, along with my mother.  My only logical theory is that the two of them, wherever they are, must have pulled some strings. "These guys need to meet" they probably said to each other.  I continued along the snowy trail, as the flashing LED lights and reflective gear of runners ahead of me periodically appeared in the distance.  I promptly came up behind a guy and a girl running together.  They introduced themselves and Shawn and Mike, both from the Twin Cities area.  I complimented Shawn on her sled decorating abilities, which included flashing, battery powered Christmas lights.  She was a winter ultra veteran, while Mike was out here completing his first one.  We leapfrogged over the course of several miles, and I eventually bade them farewell as I ran ahead.  It was an absolutely stellar night.  Thin, high clouds consumed a portion of the sky, the stars were steadfast, and a full moon shined brightly from above as the snowy trail sparkled and glistened in the moonlight.  Most of the course dissected through the wilderness, and the path was lined with tall, leafless trees, which blocked most of the wind that swept through the area.  Periodically, I'd glance up above the tree tops at the moon and stars and revel in the beauty of it all.  It was so bright, I scarcely needed my headlamp, so I shut it off.  But after a few minutes I thought "wait a minute.  What if there's animals out here?  It would be nice to be able to see their glowing eyes in the distance so I can at least be aware of their presence".  With this thought in mind, I decided to switch my headlamp back on, although the light was barely needed.  As I progressed farther, I crossed wooden bridges over frozen creeks and eventually the wilderness gave way to a huge clearing.  "Wow!" I said out loud.  I could now see a ways in front of me, and was in complete awe of the surroundings.  I had heard before the race that several runners were unable to make it due to an ice storm in Wisconsin, and I was bummed that they wouldn't get the chance to enjoy this experience.  Among them were the hosts of Ten Junk Miles, the podcast that had introduced me to Jamison and this race.  I felt bad that they had fallen behind the eight ball and couldn't make it, and here I was reveling in the good fortune of my situation.  But we all have lucky and unlucky moments in life, and although I felt bad for them, I was happy that things seemed to be progressing nicely, at least for now.  After all, there was always next year.

Checking my phone again, about five and half hours had now passed since I started, and I soon spotted the lights of the check point in the distance.  When I arrived about twenty minutes later, I greeted the volunteers and prepared for the second and last test.  Part of running St. Croix was to teach runners the importance of having winter survivalist skills.  My stove test may have been slow going, but I successfully passed, and the next hurdle would be passing the sleeping bag and bivy test.  A bivy sack is essentially an outer shell for a sleeping bag that is used for winter camping to keep body heat trapped inside.  Once I exited the trail and made my way into the check point, which was the parking lot of the park headquarters, I removed my sleeping bag and bivy from my sled and rolled it out on the icy pavement.  Before the start of the race I had stuffed my sleeping bag inside my bivy and rolled the whole thing up into the bag to avoid having to do so at the check point, which would have cost me more time.  Once I wiggled inside, a volunteer came over to give me the go ahead.  "How's it going out there?" she asked "So far, so good!  I appreciate you guys being out here".  Volunteers are a key ingredient to making any race happen, but tonight, these guys were especially awesome for being out here in the middle of the night, bundled up in bitter cold temperatures.  I'm glad they had a heated tent to escape to during their downtime, but they still had to bundle up to stay warm in these crazy cold temperatures.  "Okay, you're good to go!" she said about thirty seconds later.  Sweet!  I had passed the final winter survival test.  The final hurdle would be making it through the seventeen miles I had left to go.  If I could do that, I would be home free.  I packed up my sleeping bag and bivy, feeling positive.  That was until I overhead a volunteer tell another runner that his car thermometer read seven degrees below zero when he arrived for his volunteer shift a few minutes earlier.  "Wait, what?" I asked in disbelief.  "Yep, minus seven man.  You guys are bad asses!".  Was it really that cold? My body was generating a lot of heat, so it was hard to tell.  "Number eight, checking out!" I said enthusiastically as I made my way back to the trail.  The volunteers clapped their hands, cheered, and sent me on my way.  Thirty minutes later, I removed my phone from my pocket and for laughs, I decided to take a selfie.  The flash went off, and I took a look at the photo.  I couldn't believe what I saw.  It looked as if someone had thrown a big snowball right at my face.  Snow and frost covered my beanie, my buff, the outer layer of my jacket, and even my eyelashes.  I looked down at my jacket, and sure enough, it was covered in frost.  My muscles were generating ample amounts of body heat, which warmed up my hat and clothes.  The heat crystallized in the frigid cold, and created a layer of frost all over me.  When I saw that selfie, it scared me a little.  Was it really seven below zero out here? Or was the volunteer's car thermometer malfunctioning?  It was a critical moment.  "What the hell am I doing out here?" I thought.  "This is insane.  Why am I out here in sub zero temperatures, in the middle of the night, pulling a sled full of stuff through the wilderness?  Why am I not in bed sound asleep, like a normal person would be?"  Jamison mentioned during the pre-race briefing that we would likely question our life choices at some point during this race.  For me, that time had come.  What in the world had I gotten myself into this time?  Eventually, I burst into loud, psychotic laughter, breaking the midnight silence.  This was the kind of stuff I lived for.  Yes, this is absolutely insane.  Who would do something like this? and why?  I don't know, but man, I love this shit!

Runners go through several phases during ultramarathons, and I was now entering what I like to call, the loopy phase.  It's like a combination of a runner's high and a proverbial acid trip.  "I'm on my way.  I'm on my way! Home Sweet Hommme" I sang out loud, alone on the trail.  Stars shined above, and the moon continued lighting up the white trail as I ran through the trees.  The song I was singing was a favorite of mine, and the tone of it seemed to blend perfectly with my current predicament.  Moments earlier I had stuffed more cookies into my pockets and I looked at them as I held them in my hand.  "Maybe I should see how many cookies I can get in my mouth" I thought.  "Why not make this even more interesting?".  But they were all going in, one way or another.  I soon approached a section of the course that Shawn earlier referred to as "the Lollipop".  There were several hills along this area, and when I approached a downhill section, I sat down on my sled, and rode it down the hill, using my feet to steer (I confirmed before the race that this tactic was not considered cheating because we had to haul our sleds up the hills too).  Shortly after riding down yet another hill, I saw the lights of two oncoming runners. "Is that Liam?" it was the familiar voice of Shawn.  "Yep!" I answered.  Seeing Shawn and Mike was a welcoming sight, but suddenly I became confused.  Why were they going the other way?  "Wow, I thought you guys were closer behind me" I said.  "Oh yeah, we slowed down a lot since the check point.  We're just going easy" Mike replied.  They seemed to still be in good spirits.  "Nice!  See you guys in a little bit" I said as we parted ways.  Why were they going the opposite way? I had been following the blue arrows and yellow flags, so I was pretty sure I was on the right course.  Just then, another oncoming runner approached.  "Hey, nice job" I said.  "Thanks! But you know you're going the wrong way right?" she replied.  I looked at her quizzically in the beam of my headlamp.  "I am?" Using her pole, she pointed to one of the yellow signs with a blue arrow on her side of the trail that marked the direction of the course.  This wasn't good.  In fact, it was horrible.  I had passed the same sign about an hour before.  Not knowing exactly what to do next, I looked ahead and to my delight, I saw a sign with an arrow on my side of the trail about thirty feet ahead.  "Oh, check it out!" I said to her as I pointed the beam of my headlamp at the sign.  She walked over to my side of the trail to get a better view.  "Oh!" she said.  "This must be the part of the course that is out and back.  I knew we had a small section of out and back, I just didn't know where.  Never mind, you're good, sorry!" After a burst of laughter, I wished her luck and continued onward.  Within minutes, I was alone again and there were no lights of any runners in sight.  Despite following the signs, my encounter with the last runner I had seen had planted some seeds of doubt in my mind.  Forty-five minutes later, I was still alone and began feeling very isolated and vulnerable in the midnight wilderness.  "Am I really on the right path?Yes, I have to be" I thought to myself.  As pleasant as running in solitude can be, at this moment, I longed for some company.  The bike race began at 10 PM, and a handful of them had already passed me along the way.  I kept hoping that a bike racer would ride up behind me, just to ensure that I was going the right way.  Just when things were really starting to get sketchy, a bright light shined behind me.  Yes! I'm good.  "Nice job man! I'm so glad to see you.  I wasn't sure if I was going the right way" I said to the bike racer as he passed.  He laughed, gave me a thumbs up, and continued down the trail.  Suddenly, all was well again.  Moments later, an oncoming snowmobile came roaring up the trail.  I waved as he approached, and he stopped and asked me if I was okay.  He had mistaken my wave as a signal for help, but I was just saying hi.  "Yep, I'm good!  Just saying hey" I said.  "Cool, you've got a great pace going.  Keep it up".  He was one of the volunteers patrolling the trails to ensure our safety, for which I was extremely grateful.

A little while later, exhaustion began setting in.  It was 4:30 AM, and my body was feeling the fatigue of trekking through a cold Minnesota night.  There were no mile markers along the course, so it was difficult to tell exactly what mileage I was at, but my educated guess was that I had about four miles left and I'd be done in about an hour.  As I continued along tiredly, I soon spotted something odd and beautiful off in the distance.  Lights.  From a building.  Oh my god!  I didn't want to get my hopes up, so I continued at a modest pace.  As I got closer I couldn't help but think: is this the finish line already?  Holy crap, it was! I had overestimated how much distance I had left, and was euphorically surprised.  Volunteers cheered and rang cowbells as I ran the final hundred feet to the finish line at the Trail Center, where the race had started.  I shouted and threw my arms in the air in celebration as I ran through the finish line, crossing in just over ten and a half hours.  "Wow, that was epic!  Thank you guys so much" I told the volunteers as I smiled ear to ear.  "Congratulations man!" they said as they handed me my finisher's prize.  After a few minutes, I promptly headed into the the building, where the volunteers were cooking up a full-on breakfast of eggs, bacon, pancakes, and coffee.  As I ate, I spoke with a volunteer who was working the check point around the same time I was there.  "I heard it was seven below zero" I told the guy "Yep, at one point it was.  Then it warmed up to about two, and around five by the time I left".  Who knows if it was really that cold, but either way, those temperatures are pretty extreme.  Luckily, I managed to stay pretty comfortable the whole time.  I had a few layers on and my body generated just enough body heat while running to keep myself warm without sweating.  In fact, I even took off my gloves during a decent portion of the race because my hands were surprising warm.  As I finished breakfast and prepared to head out, a runner named Thomas came inside.  I had met him before the start, and he was the only other runner from California who had come out for St. Croix.  He had also successfully finished the race, and we embraced in a celebration hug before parting ways.  As I loaded my sled into the bed of the pickup truck and drove away in the pre-dawn darkness, I couldn't have been happier.

Back at the house, Tony let me in, and I flopped down onto the bed in the guestroom for a nap.  Later on that day, Tony and I went to brunch at the buffet of the casino in Hinckley, where he has worked for the last nineteen years.  Kim, who is a teacher in the Twin Cities area and commutes ninety minutes to work each day, had left earlier that morning to go dress shopping with her soon to be sister in law.  After Tony and I stuffed ourselves at the buffet, he showed me his working area in the backroom.  He was a Tech Engineer, and fixed the slot machines whenever they malfunctioned.  After seeing his work area and getting a better sense of his day to day work life, I was convinced he could fix anything.  Kim arrived back home later that afternoon as I was packing up to head to the airport.  The three of us embraced in a final hug and I told them I'd be back to visit again.  Unfortunately, due to time constraints, I couldn't return to Bear Creek Tavern for a celebratory beer, but I was pretty sure it wasn't going anywhere.  After saying our final goodbyes, I jumped in my truck and headed for the airport.  As is often the case during the drive home from an ultra, I did a lot of reflecting on the journey.  I was happy that everything worked out, and the only blunder I encountered was not having a lid for my stove container.  Things could have very easily gone very badly.  I had won battle after battle, and eventually won the war (finishing the race successfully).  Would I ever do an ultra like this again?  Absolutely.  It was a new and exciting experience, and I loved every minute of it.  But at that exact moment, despite how happy I was, I wasn't thinking about running.  I was exhausted, and I just wanted to get back home to California and into my nice warm bed.           

My St. Croix 40 Winter Ultra Experience Part 1: Welcome To Hinckley

As human beings who don't have perfect judgment, most of us, at least once during our time on this planet, question our life choices.  Maybe it's when we're going through a tough time at work or in a relationship.  Or maybe when our actions result in severe consequences for ourselves or others.  For me, it was twenty-four miles into the St. Croix 40 Winter Ultra.  Thirty minutes and two miles before I had reached this point, I rolled up my bivy sack and sleeping bag and stowed it away in my sled.  As I prepared to leave the check point and hit the trail to grind out the last seventeen miles, I heard a volunteer tell another runner that his car thermometer read seven degrees below zero when he arrived at the check point five minutes ago.  It was shocking to hear, but it wasn't until a short while after I had taken off that the insanity of what we were doing really sunk in.  As my mind processed the reality of this situation and what the volunteer said at the check point, I began seriously questioning what the hell I was doing out here in sub zero temperatures, pulling a sled full of crap in the middle of a winter night in the Minnesota wilderness.

One weekend morning in April, I was listening the latest episode of a running podcast to which I was a regular subscriber.  This episode was particularly interesting.  It was the usual hosts, along with Dusty Olson and another guy named Jamison, who they introduced as the Race Director for the St. Croix 40 Winter Ultra, as guests.  After I finished listening and hearing Jamison's running stories, I was intrigued.  "What exactly is this St. Croix 40 Winter Ultra?" I thought.  When I looked it up on ultrasignup.com I found out very quickly that this was no ordinary ultramarathon.  I was accustomed to California ultras that were held during the spring or summer in the mountains with fully stocked aid stations every six miles.  The St. Croix 40 Winter Ultra is a little different.  Runners traverse thirty-eight and a half miles along snowmobile trails through St. Croix State Park in rural Minnesota in the middle of January.  There are no aid stations, just one check point at mile twenty-two where participants test their winter survival skills.  The race is completely self supported, meaning runners must carry all of their food, hydration, and supplies by pulling a sled along the snowy trail throughout the entire race.  Wait, it gets better.  To ensure that the experience truly captures that of a challenging winter race, the event begins at 6:15 PM and continues through the night when temperatures can easily drop to fifteen degrees below zero.  The fact that the race was held so early in the new year was symbolic to me.  A new year means new experiences and challenges, and this seemed like an amazing way to kick off 2020.  I signed up for the race the day registration opened, approximately three months later.

Fast forward five months, race weekend finally arrived, and during my flight to Minnesota, I found myself feeling anxious about the events that lay ahead.  Despite having finished several ultramarathons, St. Croix was going to be a completely new experience, and my mind was whirling.  Would the store have all the gear I needed for the race?  And even if they did, would I still pass the mandatory gear check? Would I be able to keep warm?  Could I even complete thirty-eight and a half miles running on snow covered trails? The reality was these questions would remain unanswered, at least for now.  I don't do well with uncertainty, but the key to getting through this challenge, I soon realized, was focusing on the present.  Don't stress over what will happen and how things will go.  Just focus on what you can control in this moment, and that will lay the foundation for the future.  These thoughts put my mind more at ease.  I put on my headphones, closed my eyes, queued up David Bowie's Ziggy Stardust album on my iPod, and allowed myself to drift into a plane ride slumber.

Once I arrived at the Minneapolis airport, I made my way to the Enterprise Rent-A-Car counter.  The agent got the information he needed from me, tossed me the keys to the pick-up truck I was renting, and off I went.  Hinckley, the closest town to where the race was taking place, is about an hour and a half drive from Minneapolis, but I had a few stops to make first.  To my delight, there was an REI conveniently located ten minutes from the airport.  The guidelines of winter ultras require participants to carry specific gear that could potentially save their butts if something were to go wrong.  Some of this gear I had packed and brought with me, but the rest of it, I opted to purchase here in Minnesota, mainly due to time constraints.  Once I purchased the supplies I needed from REI, my next stop was the local Menard's home improvement store.  Upon entering, I headed towards the "winter" section of the store and spotted exactly what I was looking for; sleds.  A trusted source (the guy at REI) warned me that he had heard horror stories of people's sleds breaking during winter ultras.  Bearing in mind how brutal it would be to have a broken sled halfway through St. Croix, I decided to buy two sleds.  During the race I would have one inside the other, effectively creating a double layer, and minimizing the risk of the sleds breaking.  Once I made the sled purchase, the final stop was the local Target for food and hydration during the race.  St. Croix is entirely self supported and runners are required to carry all of their food and hydration throughout the entire race.  In fact, the rules state that runners must finish with 3,000 calories worth of food.  After exiting Target, I was finally ready for the journey up to Hinckley.  Although a small, rural community of roughly 1,800 people, the town is notable for being the midway point between the Twin Cities area and Duluth.  My friends Tony and Kim lived right in town and were generous enough to allow me to stay at their house with them during race weekend.  As I drifted into town, driving down the dark country road, I was on the lookout for their driveway.  Remembering the directions that Kim had sent me through text, I soon spotted a small green sign with their address off to the side of the road.  Once I made the turn, the snowy dirt road followed a winding, half mile long path through the dark and desolate woods.  Eventually the lights of a house emerged through the trees and I remember hoping I had the right house, or someone would promptly pull a shotgun on me and tell me to get my ass off their property.  When I opened the door to my truck, the frigid night air hit me like a ton of bricks, and I immediately began shivering.  My cold sensation was soon interrupted by Tony and his dog, Oreo, greeting me with hugs and doggie kisses as they approached my truck.  Kim was inside staying warm, and we all embraced in a hug as Tony and I carried my gear inside.  I dropped my baggage in their guest room, which would serve as my makeshift base camp for the weekend.  Shortly after, the three of us piled into Tony's SUV and headed out for dinner and drinks.  "We think you'll like this place" Kim said.  "Get ready for an experience".  Five minutes later we pulled into the parking lot of Bear Creek Tavern.  The building resembled an over sized cabin, similar to a ski lodge, and rested off to the side of a desolate stretch of country road.  We saw snowmobiles parked in the lot as we walked towards the entrance.  Walking inside and out of the the chilly night, we took at seat at the bar.  Although Tony and Kim only frequented the restaurant once or twice a month, they knew all of the
staff, and even the owners.  They introduced me as their friend from California who "was going to be running forty miles through St. Croix State Park tomorrow night".  Tony soon realized that his friends
were also there, and after dinner, they asked if we wanted to play darts.  I suck at darts, but it was a fun way to bond with the people in the bar.  When we first arrived earlier that night before I had met anyone, I could tell that my presence threw some people off.  Not in a negative way by any means, but Hinckley is a tight knit community, and I was getting lots of curious looks as if people were wondering "who is this guy?".  Luckily for me, I have no issue being the outsider (I'm an ultrarunner, after all), and thus everyone I met was welcoming, friendly, and made me feel right at home.  One of the girls with whom we played darts had dubbed me "California Boy", and as the night went on and the beers kept coming, it was "California Boy this, California Boy that".  The experience of it all made me smile.  Despite being the outcast in a rural Minnesota town, we all bonded, and spent the night sharing stories over beers and games of darts.  Yes, I was different, but rejoicing in those differences was really cool to me.  Bear Creek Tavern was quite the experience, as Kim had said, and I had such a great time, I told the staff I'd come back on Sunday for a celebratory beer if I finished St. Croix.  We embraced in hugs and handshakes and I went to bed later that night peacefully content.

The next day was race day, and it was a beautiful, sunny winter morning as I looked out the window from Tony and Kim's living room.  The back of the house had a large deck, and a frozen creek rested about thirty feet down a steep, snowy hill in their backyard.  After lazing around with Oreo and Tony's cat, Lil' Homie, and having a filling lunch of lasagna and garlic bread, courtesy of Kim, I began the meticulous process of preparing for the epic journey ahead.  Tony and Kim's friend Steve had been kind enough to lend me his bivy sack and zero degree sleeping bag, which runners were required to carry throughout the entire race.  Steve had attempted the Tuscobia Winter Ultra two weeks prior, which had the same gear requirements, so it worked out well.  Once my backpack was loaded with food and supplies, my hydro flasks filled, and my sled packed up, Tony and Kim wished me luck as I headed out the door.  They seemed convinced that I would finish strong, but I wasn't so sure.  We would see.  "Thanks guys!  See you tomorrow morning" I said, trying to remain optimistic.  Their house was a ten minute drive to St. Croix State Park, and when I arrived at the Trail Center at 3:30 PM, gear check was in full swing.  The fire places were keeping the interior of the building warm, volunteers assisted runners, and participants weaved in and out, waiting for the pre-race briefing to begin.  After checking in, a volunteer handed me my bib and instructed me to lay out all of my gear on one of the many picnic tables in the room for gear check.  I had arrived in Minnesota safely, found all the gear I needed at REI and Menard's, and next would be yet another hurdle; the volunteers confirming that I had all of the proper gear.  Among the gear checklist was a zero degree or colder down sleeping bag, a bivy sack, a camping stove, fuel, three blinking LED lights, reflective clothing, 3,000 calories worth of food, seventy-five ounces of hydration, and a sled.  Not to mention all the layers that I needed to wear to keep warm.  Now would be the moment of truth.  I hoped that my gear would meet all of the requirements, since it would have been a shame to come all this way only to be told I couldn't race because I didn't have the proper equipment.  Luckily, I did, and when I passed gear check, I felt I had won yet another battle in a major war.  Once gear check was complete, we all gathered around as Jamison and Lisa, the Race Directors, gave us the pre-race briefing.  A majority of it was common sense.  That is until Lisa warned us about snowmobiles on the trails at night.  "Just so you guys know, if you get hit by a snowmobile, you will most likely die".  That drew some nervous laughter, but she wasn't joking.  All it would take is one accident, and the St. Croix 40 would be a cooked goose.  She then mentioned the possibility of trench foot, frostbite, and hypothermia.  Not the most fun things to hear about before running thirty-eight and a half miles through a cold winter night, but it was important that we knew the risks.  It was on us as experienced runners to take the proper precautions and keep ourselves from succumbing to these conditions.

The final announcement from Jamison was how the start of the race would play out.  St. Croix is a winter survivalist race, and the rules state that runners are required to demonstrate to volunteers that they are proficient in using their winter survival gear at two points during the race; we would need to use our stoves to boil water at the start line before taking off down the trail, and we would need to bivy down into our sleeping bags and bivy sacks at the check point at mile twenty-two later on in the night.  With twenty minutes to go before race start, the volunteers helped each of us fill our cooking containers with twelve ounces of water, and we made our way outside to the start line to set up our stoves.  The sun had now set for the night, and I shivered in the frigid air as I unpacked my stove and fuel in preparation for our first test.  I opted to use the most compact stove possible; a pocket stove that used Esbit tabs for fuel.  Esbit tabs are composed mainly of hexamine, a flammable solid substance that produces no smoke, leaves no ashes, and is capable of producing strong, long lasting flames that can endure strong winds.  As Jamison began counting down the minutes, he advised us that at 6:15 PM, he would say "go" and we would light our stoves, kicking off the start of the race.  Once our water had reached a boil and a volunteer gave us the go ahead, we could then pack up our stoves, and hit the trail.  With a few claps and cheers, we heard Jamison speak: "Everyone ready?! Okay....Go!" We lit our stoves up, and the race was on. 

     

Holiday Season Runner Hibernation

I glanced down at my hot cup of coffee, wrapping my hands around it to warm them up, as I sat at a long wooden table near the window.  I had just finished a seven mile run on the Stevens Creek and Bay trails with the Mountain View Area Run Club Sunday morning crowd, with whom I had been running just about every Sunday morning for the last nine months.  The local Starbucks was relatively calm, as Julie, another member of the group sat across from me.  She had finished her run a few minutes ahead me and we were keeping warm inside as we waited for the rest of the group to finish.  After some post run small talk I asked her if she had any races planned for the upcoming year.  "Not right now" she answered, laughing.  "I'm a little burned out on running".  I jokingly gave her with a wide-eyed look before bursting into laughter, but in reality I knew exactly how she felt.  I too have been going through a similar experience.  As much as I love running, with winter setting in, I've been finding it difficult to scrounge together the energy to get out of bed early in the morning to log miles.  My friends and family in my Michigan hometown are most likely rolling their eyes, but there really is such a thing as a California Winter.  We may not have four distinct seasons like the Midwest, but the weather in late December is undeniably different than in late July.  The sun sets earlier in the day, rises later in the morning, and the temperature drops into the mid forties at night and early in the morning.  There are more clouds, more rain, and more wind.  The weather is one factor, but then there's also the holiday season.  Many of us get more days off of work, which makes us instinctively want to rest and sleep in more.  Subconsciously, we know that the end of the year is approaching, which means our minds and bodies are feeling the physical and mental exhaustion of putting hard work into our jobs, personal lives, and our hobbies and interests over the past twelve months.  I went through a similar situation last December and I'll freely admit that some mornings during the last few weeks of the year, it's a straight up battle to get out of bed before work and go for even a three mile run.  And that's with seven hours of sleep.

A few minutes later, some more of our friends drifted into the coffee shop and sat down at the table, having just finished their run.  After hearing that Samantha (Sammy), Garner, Olga, and some of the other members of the group have been experiencing similar sentiments towards running during the holiday season, it put me at ease.  The morning before, myself and another group had congregated at a park in Santa Clara to go for a group run along the Guadalupe River.  Although it was a glorious morning and there was hardly a cloud in the sky as the sun came up, the temperature had dropped into the high thirties overnight, unusually cold for the Bay Area for this time of year.  Only half of the people who RSVP'ed on the Meetup event page showed up.  I've come to realize over the last few years that holiday season runner hibernation, as I've coined it, is quite normal among endurance athletes.  As we sipped our coffee and shared our feelings and stories about lacking energy to run during the holiday season, a sense of relief seemed to spread throughout the group as we realized that none of us were alone in this predicament.  I especially understood Julie's point of view, having completed the California International Marathon three weeks ago, and Sammy's position as well after she trained hard for several months leading up to the Rock N Roll San Jose half marathon.  Their feelings of exhaustion were justified.  Garner on the other hand, despite his year end exhaustion, was still logging two digit mileage during our group runs, much to his credit since he is not doing it for training, but for pure enjoyment.  

Despite the exhaustion that we as runners feel during the final weeks of the year, once the new year kicks in, the proverbial reset button is hit.  Yes it's still cold outside, yes it's still dark in the morning, but the psychological factor has been overturned.  We no longer feel the fatigue of twelve months' worth of hard work.  We no longer feel unmotivated and unfocused.  In my case, it doesn't always happen right on January 1st, and it happens at a different time for all runners, but we know subconsciously that a new year is upon us.  It's time to get after it.  It's time to use the next twelve months to evolve as runners and people.  Some people sign up for races in advance at the beginning of the year as a form of motivation.  Others take it as it comes.  I tend to do a little of both by signing up for races to motivate myself, but also "winging it" throughout the year as a method of creating an element of surprise to keep life interesting.  There is no right or wrong way.  But one thing is for sure; holiday season runner hibernation is a completely normal occurrence that many distance runners contend with during the last few weeks of the year.  While it can feel dismal at times, the good news is that for many of us, once the new year hits, the proverbial clock is reset, and it's time to get back at it.  And we all have that to look forward to! 

      

It's Not Okay

We've all been in this situation before.  For some of us, it goes a little something like this; it's a typical day at the office and we're sitting at our desks in front of our computers working away, or perhaps sitting in a meeting with our colleagues when, out of nowhere, that email pops into our inbox.  Or, from a different perspective, we walk into work and head to the back room to prepare for our shift.  As we're clocking in, we look up at the announcements board and see that flyer plastered on the wall.  We open the email and we read the flyer: Mandatory sexual harassment training on this day at that time.  All employees MUST attend.  So, we reluctantly attend the meeting (because it's mandatory), with the expectation that it will likely be a waste of time, since many of us clearly know what constitutes as harassment and that it's wrong.  I understand why these meetings and training sessions are required in the workplace, but I think it's a shame that we live in a world where these sessions are necessary.  We're supposed to be grown adults.  This shit isn't rocket science.  Don't harass people.  Don't make them feel uncomfortable.  It should be common sense.  You'd think that people would know better, but unfortunately this is not the case.  Even in this day and age, and even after all the stories that have gone viral over the years, sexual harassment, sexism, and sexual abuse are still, to put it bluntly, big fucking problems in our society.  Sorry for the rude word, but it's the truth.

Sadly, these issues are ever present in today's world, including the world of endurance sports.  Over the years I've heard numerous stories from my former wife and female friends about being harassed by men while running and hiking alone.  Even on social media, men have the audacity to make offensive and disgusting comments on girls' photos, which is not only idiotic, because they're making themselves look like complete dirt bags to hundreds of millions of people, but more importantly, it's just plain hurtful.  Several female public figures in the endurance sports community have spoken out about being harassed by men.  Catra Corbett once spoke on social media about some guy on Mount Whitney telling her that she was "inappropriately dressed to summit" in reference to the running skirt that she was wearing, while not saying a word to the men on the trail wearing shorts.  This moron clearly didn't know who he was dealing with.  Catra Corbett has summitted Mount Whitney numerous times and has run over two hundred and fifty ultramarathons.  In "Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail" a novel written by Cheryl Strayed, she discusses her experience of being harassed by two male hunters in the California wilderness while attempting to purify water for drinking.  According to the book, the encounter made her so uncomfortable, she feared for her safety.  There is a section of the novel "Born To Run" where author Chris McDougall recounts a particular year at the Leadville 100-miler where several Tarahumara men participated.  Throughout the race, the men all referred to Ann Trason, who was also running the race, and is arguably the most elite ultrarunner of all time, as "La Brujita" (the little witch) because they were jealous of her talent.  I understand that this is a story, and it could have been exaggerated for entertainment value, but I don't care if these guys are amazing runners.  They shouldn't have acted that way.  And by the way, Ann beat all of those chumps and gave the following statement to the press at the finish line: "Sometimes it takes a woman to bring out the best in a man". 

While these stories are upsetting, what happened in Georgia earlier this month is downright appalling.  For those who don't know the story,  a young female reporter who works for a TV station in Savannah, Georgia was covering live footage of a local community 5K race.  As she stood on the bridge and spoke into the microphone on the side of the road, runners came up behind her waiving at the camera and cheering.  It was all in good fun until some guy ran up behind her, slapped her on the butt, and kept running as if nothing happened.  She was visibly upset and embarrassed, but to her credit, she only paused for a couple of seconds and looked off in shock before continuing to speak to the camera.  The less humanitarian side of me would have loved it if she dropped the microphone, ran after this guy, and beat the living hell out of him for what he did.  But that would not have made this situation any better.  Instead she did the more rational thing, and later that day, she addressed the incident on her Twitter account and hundreds of thousands of people expressed their sympathy and support for her on social media.  Thanks to the video footage of the inappropriate act, which has now been viewed over eleven million times on the internet, and the help of people within the community, authorities were able to identify the man, and he has now been arrested and charged with sexual battery.  Do I believe he deserves what he's getting? Absolutely, 150%.  I have no idea what this guy was thinking about, or why he thought it was okay to do such a thing, but I can't grasp how brazen, foolish, and disgusting that was.  I'd also like to add that this guy is forty-four years old.  Old enough to know better, and almost double the age of the female reporter.  And, to all the idiots out there who are defending him, I suggest you get with the program and wise up to the way the world works.  Stop living in your little fairy tale of a world where you believe he was just "being friendly" and "joking around".  Get over yourself.  What he did was not okay and beyond inappropriate.

Some people may wonder why I feel so strongly about this.  Why do I give a damn about this so much that I would write and publish a blog post about it?  Well, there's a couple of reasons.  The first and simpler reason is I grew up with a lot of awesome women in my life.  These women include my mother, who passed way fourteen years ago and I miss everyday, my younger sister, several girl cousins, several aunts, and two grandmas, at least for part of my life.  So needless to say, I learned very early in life to always be respectful.  Even despite the fact that my former wife and I are no longer together, we still remain on good terms.  The second, and perhaps more complex reason is this;  life is full of obstacles and setbacks.  Living life is overcoming them.  Given what I've been through in my life, this statement could not be more relevant in my situation.  Millions of people around the world share the same sentiment.  We all work hard every day to be get over the struggles in our lives, whatever they may be.  We all work hard to be happy and live our best life.  Nobody.  I repeat, NOBODY should ever get in the way of someone else trying to be happy and enjoy life.  Perpetrators of sexual harassment, sexism, and sexual abuse are putting a significant damper on their victim's happiness level and quality of life.  And, quite frankly, that angers the hell out of me.

The bottom line is we, as a people, need to put a stop to all of this.  These issues have been going on for far too long, and it seems people aren't getting the message.  So I will say this;  anyone, woman or man (because it happens to guys too, it just doesn't get reported as often) who has experienced such treatment at work, while running, hiking, or anywhere else, please speak up.  Share your feelings and your story.  Raise awareness.  Many of these incidents go unreported and a decent percentage of the public likely doesn't know the severity of these issues.  After the race was over the reporter posted the following message on Twitter: "To the man who smacked my butt on live TV this morning: You violated, objectified, and embarrassed me. No woman should EVER have to put up with this at work or anywhere!! Do better."  Well put.  Do Better.  The next time people think about saying or doing something inappropriate to someone of the opposite sex, I would encourage them to stop being impulsive and think about what they're doing.  Think about how this will affect the other person.  What if someone said or did something like that to your mother, daughter, niece, or sister?  If something seems like it's inappropriate, just don't say or do it.  Period.  Be kind to one another.  Support one another.  To put it simply, just don't be a slimy douche bag.  Thank you! 

Holidays (not) in the Sun

Wow, what a trip!  In my pre-vacation post, I outlined the four elements that inspired my visit to London and now that I'm back, although my knowledge is still limited,  I had an amazing time, and I've learned a lot about what it's like to live there and the city's iconic points of interest.  It's time to revisit these four elements with post-vacation thoughts.  Check it out!

The Culture/City

My main goal during my four days in London was to gain at least a basic understanding of the culture and what it's like to live there.  This is what I hope for every time I travel internationally and I always strive to achieve my objective.  With that goal in mind, I opted to rent an apartment through Airbnb in a non-touristy neighborhood called Highbury near Arsenal Stadium.  In addition to choosing this location, I established a rule that I would travel on foot as often as possible.  Walking through the city neighborhoods and observing every day people of several ethnic backgrounds going about their daily lives, along with spending time in the restaurants and pubs was my favorite part of the trip.  I loved listening to locals exchange banter and gossip about their friends and families over meals and pints of beer.  By the time the trip was over, I had my day down to a routine;  I would wake up, take a shower, get ready, head out the door, walk down the road to a cafe and order a traditional English breakfast (which is delicious, by the way!).  After I received some guidance from a friendly girl at a pub on my first night, and observing locals at the cafe on my first morning, I learned the rules of how most cafes and pubs operate.  Not all of them offer table service, but those that do offer it go about it in a slightly different fashion than that of the U.S.  Rather than ask for a bill when you finish your meal, you simply walk up to the register and pay.  Tips are polite, but not expected, and are left in jars near the cash registers rather than on tables.  In addition to the delicious breakfasts and fish & chips at the restaurants, the staff were always kind and welcoming.  After stuffing myself, I would either walk to other neighborhoods and visit the pubs, or catch the subway to Central London and go site seeing.  I would return to my apartment around 4 PM, rest for a couple of hours, then head back out for the evening.  To give an honest portrayal of what I learned in four days about life in London, it would only be fair of me to paint the full picture; the good, the bad, and the hilarious.  London folk are extremely passionate about the Arsenal football club.  This is a great thing because passion shows personality, however, as I found out, that passion comes with a dark side.  On Thursday afternoon I was having pint inside a pub in Camden Town, and although the patrons seemed to be unusually rowdy compared to the crowds at the other pubs, I didn't think much of it.  I walked to the bathroom and saw that the door was propped open with two guys standing outside near the door and about five guys standing inside.  "Okay, whatever, there's a line, no big deal" I thought as I stood behind the two guys outside.  Seconds later, a guy and girl, who were working as bartenders, came walking over and started yelling and banging on the door.  The guys occupying the bathroom slowly emerged, one by one, half full glasses of beer in hand.  Their glasses were promptly confiscated by the staff, and they were ordered to "get the fuck out".  After reluctantly making their way through the pub, they were literally shoved out the door as the girl bartender shouted and called them "fucking assholes".  A couple of minutes later the police walked in.  I forgot I had to pee and instead walked back towards the bar.  "What the hell just happened?" I thought.  It turned out the guys in the bathroom were partaking in the use of cocaine.  One of the other patrons had tipped off the staff on what was going on.  Before that brief episode I was ready to head to the next pub, but this was too entertaining.  Instead, I sat back down, ordered another pint, and watched more ridiculousness unfold as the bartenders continued to cut people off and kick them out.  When I asked if it was always like this, the staff casually responded that sometimes on match days for Aresnal home games things can get "a bit rough".  I was unaware that there was a game that evening and I was beginning to understand now.  Most of the patrons weren't planning on going to the match, they were just using the excitement of the occasion as an excuse to get wasted and coked out at 1 PM on a Thursday afternoon.  "That's crazy" I said as I laughed at the chaotic nature of the situation.  The staff laughed along.  "Welcome to Camden Town" they responded.  I was beginning to understand what they meant.  Camden Town was a recommended place of interest by a co-worker and I spent a decent amount of time there during my trip.  Known for it's lively night life, eclectic pubs, and street vendors, the neighborhood, particularly Camden High street, closely resembles the setting of the Venice Beach and Santa Cruz boardwalks in California, minus the beach, of course.  Amy Winehouse lived in Camden Town and was deeply involved with the neighborhood prior to her death.  Later that night as I walked through Highbury back to my apartment from the subway stop, I passed several pubs that had signs posted on the doors reading "Arsenal Supporters Only" and "Home Fans Only".  In an effort to keep the pubs safe and free of violence on match nights, the staff unfortunately had to resort to turning away fans of visiting teams for fear of fights breaking out.  This is likely due in part to Arsenal's status as being an extremely successful football club and being intensely disliked by other fans, but nevertheless, it was the reality of how things were.  My thoughts were interrupted as I approached a street corner and a passerby near a pub made eye contact with me.  "Hey mate, you sniff?" he asked.  It was one of three times during my trip that I was offered hard drugs.  And when I say "offered" it wasn't in a sugar coated fashion.  Each time, the guys took the straight forward, no bullshit approach to their offers by brazenly asking me if I "sniffed".  "No, I'm good man" I responded as I laughed.  "Alright" he answered back as he resumed walking.  To my relief, all of the guys who offered didn't want any trouble and didn't try to start any drama when I declined.  They were just pushers trying to make a few pounds and weren't out to hurt anybody.

The Music

Whether it's punk, hard rock, jazz, or R&B, there's no music quite like the London sound.  It touches on ground that so many other musicians don't even realize exists. I've always wondered what it was about the city that produced such creative music.  While there is no short or clear answer,  I figured seeing live gigs at pubs would be a great experience.  While exploring Camden Town on Tuesday, I visited the Elephant Head pub.  Sitting at the bar, sipping a pint glass of Camden Hells Ale, I noticed that the advertisement board behind the bar mentioned open mic night every Wednesday beginning at 8:30 PM, so I returned the following evening.  And the artists did not disappoint.  Among the several participants was a guy playing acoustic guitar instrumentals.  His tone was unique and somewhat dark, sounding something like an acoustic version of a Black Sabbath song.  He played open chords and created percussive sounds by strumming muted strings, snapping his fingers, and tapping the hollow, wooden body of his guitar as the chord faded.  Shortly after his set was over, an older woman stepped on stage.  She looked to be about sixty-five years old, wore a multicolored dress, and rocked a dark blue bandana, tied around her short, curly gray hair.  Seeing these types of outfits isn't particularly surprising to me, but what did surprise me was the gig that she performed.  She stepped up to the mic and asked the crowd to clap their hands in rhythm.  We all obliged and clapped in unison at a tempo of about two claps per second.  Once we were all in sync, she busted into a free style rap about living in London, and continued without missing a beat for nearly two minutes before briefly pausing and asking us to "give her another beat".  We did, and she then rapped for another couple of minutes with pre-written lyrics, but explained afterwards that it was "the remix".  Finally, an older gentleman stepped onstage and performed an act with an acoustic guitar.  He played guitar left handed, which is very rarely seen, and as his set progressed, he jumped around on the small stage and finished off by leaning back and raising his guitar towards the ceiling while strumming a major chord.  The crowd clapped with enthusiasm as if if were the encore of a rock concert.  I found out after he stepped off the stage from one of the other patrons that he was seventy-eight years old and had his own Youtube channel.  Later that night, I saw a five-piece blues band rocking the crowd at another pub down the street, and the following night I attended a gig by a four-piece jazz band at the Marquis of Westminster, near Central London.  While listening to the jazz quartet in the bar basement, I noticed there was no bass player, which struck me as odd because up until then, I didn't recall ever seeing a jazz gig without a bass to fill out the sound.  But before long I realized how unique and cool the dynamic was.  In between vocal verses, the guitarist and saxophone player alternated solos and melodies while the other played the harmonies.  It sounded so full that they didn't need a bass player, and it came together wonderfully.  I had never seen live music performances quite like those gigs before.  There was something very profound and unique about it and during the plane ride home I listened to my favorite musicians from London.  Because I had experienced the city and a sample of it's music scene, the songs gave me a new perspective and seemed to speak to me more. 


The Pubs

This portion can partially roll up into the culture/city portion of this post because the pubs play a key role in defining London's culture.  I visited a total of eighteen of them during my trip and they each had their own personality.  Similar to cafes, tipping is polite but not expected, and if patrons prefer to sit at a table rather than the bar, they order their drinks first then proceed to a table, rather than have a staff member wait on them.  In the States, most people don't expect bars to be very crowded during weekday afternoons, however the pubs in London are a different story.  There were people having business meetings over pints, friends hanging out and gossiping, and others like me, who were there solo.  In one instance, I even overhead a professional interview going on as the two men, fully suited up, sipped from their pint glasses in between questions.  Often in the States when people are running errands they might stop for a coffee.  In London, people stop for a pint of beer.  Most pubs also served food, but unlike in the States, they opened at noon and closed at 11 PM or midnight rather than 2 AM, although there are exceptions.  The more pubs I visited, the more I understood the significant role they play in people's everyday lives.  Being in the presence of locals was a really cool experience, and although I knew that once I started talking I would immediately stand out, I engaged with the staff and patrons and listened to their stories.  A guy I talked to at the blues bar was from a smaller city to the north and brand new to London as he had just accepted a job with Amazon.  Another girl working as a bartender was originally from Paris, but had moved to London twelve years earlier and liked it so much, she never left.  It was a trip to hear the locals who had previously visited the States tell me how much they loved California's surf culture, palm trees, and nice weather.     

The Architecture and Sites

While trying to get a taste of life in London, since I was there, I knew it was also important for me to visit the touristy sites that millions of people from other counties visit each year.  Prior to leaving, my HR Manager at work advised me that her friend Dina would be in London at the same time as me and put me in touch with her.  We met in Central London on my second night there, and Dina and her cousin who was traveling with her took me to visit the Tower Bridge and Tower of London.  Seeing photos on Google is one thing, but when I saw these sites in person, I was in awe.  Walking across the London and Tower bridges was truly a cool experience and I loved how lit up and peaceful they were at night.  I returned to Central London the following afternoon to visit other treasures such as Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, and Scotland Yard.  Although Big Ben was covered in scaffolding, the clock was still visible, and despite the rainy weather, I was pleasantly surprised by the architectural beauty of the Parliament buildings, hotels, and Buckingham Palace.  In addition to the historical sites, Central London has numerous bridges that offer splendid views of River Thames, along with several outdoor Christmas markets during the holiday season.