Fun in the Desert

Before I go any further here, there is something I need to admit. I’m weird.  Yes, just like everyone else, I have a side of me that is what some people would call off the wall, strange, and abnormal.  But let’s face it, we all have our little quirks.  If we didn’t, no one would have any uniqueness to them and we would be like robots.  Being completely normal is…not normal at all.  So, now that I got that out of the way, here’s how I’m weird.  I like to explore places that most people probably couldn’t care less about.  Places no one has any reason to visit and therefore, largely go unnoticed.  When I was a kid, I discovered a city about thirty minutes away from my suburban Michigan hometown called Novi, Michigan.  I thought the name of the city sounded cool so I wanted to go there and check it out, just to see what was there.  When I brought up to my dad, he stopped what he was doing and gave me a puzzled look.  “Why would you want to go there?  There’s nothing there” he said.  Finally, I was able to convince my mom to take me out there for lunch on a random Saturday.  In college, I dated a girl from the town of Gobles, a small hamlet just outside of my college town.  Fascinated with this town, I was able to convince one of my roommates to drive out there with me to a bar to have some drinks and shoot pool.  I can’t think of any particular reason why I wanted to visit these places other than to explore and see what was there.  I have always liked to venture out to small, no-name, desolate places and see what kind of trouble I can get into, so to speak. 

It was a rainy Saturday morning in Los Angeles, and I was, again, feeling adventurous.  It was time for another field trip.  I wouldn’t be driving to the local trails or the beach to go running this morning.  Instead, I was going to drive out to the California high desert and set off on a run to another town that I was intrigued by; Landers, California.  A tiny desert town with a population of around 3,000, Landers is located in San Bernardino county, just north of Joshua Tree National Park.  I stumbled upon this place a couple of years earlier while reading online about the Giant Rock, supposedly the largest freestanding boulder in the world.  The town is in the middle of the Mojave Desert and is composed of dirt roads, mobile homes, modest sized houses, a few restaurants and gas stations, a couple of stores, and large desert fields chock full of Joshua trees, desert plants, and random junk.  However, due to it’s remote desert location, the town is known for having spectacular sunsets, dazzling star filled night skies, and world class sunrises.  Still, unless you’re an astronomy enthusiast, or just a curious individual who likes to explore, there probably isn’t much of a reason to visit Landers.  There may not much happening there, but today I was going to see for myself.

The rain fell on my windshield as I drove along the 10 freeway eastbound through the cities of Upland and Fontana.  Rain was forecasted in and around Los Angeles, but the high desert area was forecasted to remain sunny and dry.  By the time I reached Mount San Jacinto, the rain had stopped and some of the clouds had dissipated.  The sun was now making its way into the sky with rays of orange light breaking through the clouds in front of me.  The 10 freeway is a major gateway that passes through the Coachella Valley into the cities of Palm Springs, Palm Desert, and Indio, followed by miles of open desert to the Arizona border, to Phoenix, and beyond.  I had never been further east in Southern California than the Indio area and I thought about how fun it would be to travel this road and see all the places it passed through.  I would have to save that for another day though.  To get to my destination, I would need to exit the 10 and make my way north up highway 62. 

As I arrived in the town of Yucca Valley, I pulled into a gas station near the road on which I was going to be running.  When I opened my car door, a rush of cold morning air blew inside.  It made me shiver, but it was refreshing as I stood outside my car and took a deep inhale of the clean, crisp desert air.   I walked inside, used the rest room, and made my way to the checkout counter with a big bottle of water.  The clerk and I were chatting as she rang up my purchase.  “It’s raining all over LA, so I came out here to unwind and go for a nice long run” I told her.  “Where are you running to?” “I’m going to start here and go to Landers and back” I explained.  “Wow, good for you!” She said, smiling.  “Thanks!  We’ll see how it goes”.  I exited the gas station and drove to a small residential street off the 247 highway to park my car.  My plan was to run along the side of the road in the bike lane, head north from Yucca Valley, and turn around once I got to Landers.  I made my preparations and headed out on foot towards the 247.  The road in front of me climbed a few hundred feet, curving off to the left in the distance.  On both sides of the road were large rock formations, resembling giant light brown marbles and stones in a heaping pile.  As I made way around the bend, the piles of rocks formed walls on either side of the road.  It was early in the morning and the road was still relatively quiet, but every few minutes, a car would pass by.  I was running with the traffic, so people on my side passed cautiously, while on coming drivers gave me looks as if to say ‘whoa, you’re running out here? Okay, that’s cool, I guess!’  Just then, a pickup truck passed by and gave a couple of quick taps of the car horn as they drove up behind me.  Initially, I was annoyed, but as they passed, the passenger leaned out the window and flashed me the peace sign.  Those feelings of annoyance were promptly reverted, and I smiled, returning the favor.  Shortly after reaching the bottom of the hill, I came upon an intersection with a dirt road.  As I approached the intersection, a jeep came barreling down the dirt road and fish tailed to a stop, kicking up a cloud of dust.  I cruised by and waved to the occupants.  They were two teenage guys who were off-roading on the desert trails.  They looked surprised to see me but smiled and gave me a thumbs up.  As time passed, the road gradually got busier.  I was nearing the crest of another hill when an old SUV came down the road towards me in the oncoming lane.  I didn’t take much notice until I heard a loud bang as it passed by.  The startling noise shook me from my focus and my head spun to the left.  ‘What the hell was that?’ I said out loud.  Seeing the smoke from the exhaust pipe, I realized the SUV had backfired as it passed me, due to the restrain that the driver was putting on the engine to get over the steep hill.  However, the desolation of the desert environment was making my imagination run wild, and my mind pondered the idea of some strung out meth head driving down the road early in the morning and thinking it would be pretty hilarious to fire his gun in the air as he drove by, just to scare the living hell out of me.  Running down the hill was steep, and I had to slow myself.  By the time I reached the bottom, I saw a sign indicating that Landers was just another five miles up the road.  I continued along with nothing in sight except for the open road, the blue ski, and the mountains in the distance.  Several Joshua trees crowded the sandy, rocky desert landscape on either side of the road and I reveled in the morning calmness of the desert.  Only when I paused my ipod did I realize how peaceful it was.  There was not a sound to be heard except the pattering of my feet.  It was so soothing that I decided to keep my ipod paused for a few minutes and just enjoy it.  A few more miles were covered, and eventually the town of Landers came into view.  I had found a trail that ran parallel to the road that wove through the Joshua trees, which had just dumped me back on the roadside as I entered the outskirts of town.  Once I reached eight and a half miles, I crossed the road, and began heading back to Yucca Valley.  About a half a mile later, I came upon an establishment that consisted of a Valero gas station and a small building that acted as the local diner, liquor store, convenience store, deli, etc.  When I entered the building, I made a left towards the dining area and walked past some tables towards the restroom to relieve myself.  As I walked out, I saw in front of me a middle-aged lady sitting at a table by herself sipping some coffee.  We made eye contact and I nodded at her as I was walking by.  “How far are you running?” “Hmm, let’s see” I answered.  I pulled out my cell phone to check how many miles I had covered on my Strava app.  I’ve gone about nine miles and I’ll be doing seventeen all together”.  “That’s great!” she proclaimed with a big smile.  “I love it.  We’ve been watching you out on the road.”  I didn’t sense that she was a runner or that she would be taking up the sport any time soon, but I was flattered that she was intrigued and excited about my little desert running escapade.  “Thank you!” I said, smiling back. “Thanks for the support!”  “Alright!” she proclaimed again, throwing her arms in the air.  Just then her family came and sat down. I bade them farewell and headed back out the door.  As I ran down the road and headed back towards Yucca Valley, I got a nice cadence going, thanks to the new burst of energy I got from my encounter in the diner.  It was moving to me, knowing that some of these people driving along this desolate road were supportive of my adventure and yet they had no clue who I was, where I was from, or why I was doing this.  But they saw some nut case out here running along the side of the road and they thought that was pretty freaking cool.  I continued to get occasional waves and nods from passing vehicles, and eventually I came over the top of the final hill.  I was treated to a spectacular view of Yucca Valley with the town center directly in front of me, the mountains and the desert resting on the horizon.  I made it back to my car, jumped in and started heading back home.  During the drive I laughed to myself about the morning’s events and thought about how unique this run was.  I felt like I had gotten a small taste of what it was like running Badwater, only it was much cooler outside.  The last thought I had before drifting on to other thoughts was “wow, running sure has taken me places!”   

Safety First

A strong energy coursed through my veins as I ran through a parking lot running parallel to the Pacific Coast Highway, the beach to my left, and the road to my right.  I had been running for about two hours, having left home on foot around 6:00 AM.  A few miles prior, while making my way through downtown Santa Monica, I stopped at Philz Coffee for a little pick me up.  Nothing says ‘good morning’ seven miles into a morning run like the heavenly aroma that hits you when you walk into a coffee shop.  With a piping hot cup of Aromatic Arabic blend, I exited Philz with a smile.  I was still smiling now as the energy boost from my treat from carried me along pleasantly. 

Janet and I had planned to go hiking with some friends at Escondido Falls in Malibu this morning, so the plan was for me to take off on foot from our place early, make my way out to the Pacific Coast Highway, and run along the side of the road until Janet and our friends picked me up along the way.  I estimated by my timing that I would be able to get somewhere between seventeen and twenty miles of running in before they found me.  The Pacific Coast Highway is known for it’s scenic driving, as well as a popular route for road cyclists.  The long stretch of highway that passes through Pacific Palisades and Malibu has a bike lane that varies in width along certain parts of the road.  The end of the parking lot was nearing and, looking over towards the road, I noticed the bike lane had widened to a size that would allow ample room for me to run along the side of the road clear of automobile traffic.  I ran towards the guardrail that separated the parking lot from the road, stepped up onto a wooden block that held up the guard rail, and hurdled myself over.  That was a mistake.  Apparently, the block was not secured to the rail, and when I stepped up and pushed myself over the rail with one leg, the block came loose, and my knee came crashing down onto the metal guardrail.  Luckily, I didn’t fall, but I stumbled over the rail and limped for a few seconds until the sharp pain forced me to stop.  I hopped back over the guard rail and sat down on a steadier wooden block to regroup.  I looked down at my knee to inspect the damage.  No marks except for a very small scrape.  This was good.  It hurt, but it wasn’t as bad as it could have been.   I flexed my knee, massaged the sore spot, and after a couple of minutes, I stood up and began running again.  The pain quickly subsided, and I was no longer limping.  Although I was grateful for the minimal damage that had been done, I grew a little apprehensive as I ran along the PCH with cars and trucks passing by so closely.  They were coming up behind me, and all I could do was hope and pray that everyone was paying attention and I wouldn’t become PCH roadkill.   The situation made me reminisce on a similar experience I had five years earlier while I was running in Silver Lake, where I was living at the time.  I had run around the Silver Lake reservoir a few times and was on the final stretch of the return journey to my apartment.   My route would take me right on Glendale boulevard from Rowena street, then a left onto Waverly Drive, and I would run down the hill, which would deposit me into the front yard of my building.  As I ran up the right side of Glendale boulevard, I saw that the intersection with Waverly was approaching a few hundred feet ahead.  I quickly glanced over my left shoulder and didn’t see any cars coming, so I glided to the left across the road while still running straight.  Just as I was approaching the median, I heard the screech of breaks behind me.  The next thing I knew, my ipod went flying, and I was knocked over and lying on the road, with a stopped pick up truck behind me.  I didn’t take any time to think about what happened.  I just stood back up and picked up my ipod.  The driver rolled down his window.  “Wow man! Sorry about that.  Are you okay?” “I’m good!” I shot back with a smile.  And just like that, I continued running onto Waverly drive, and down the hill to my apartment.  It wasn’t until I arrived back home when It actually dawned on me what the hell had just happened.  During the half mile run home from where I was hit, I didn’t feel much pain but when I sat down on my bed, I could feel it beginning to set in.  Nothing was broken, and I was relatively unscathed except for a couple of minor scrapes from when I fell onto the pavement.  All I had was some pain in my right calf, so I grabbed an ice pack and applied it to the painful area to avoid potential swelling.  “Holy shit!” I thought to myself.  “I just got hit by a truck while running!” I took a few minutes to be thankful for the miraculous outcome of this situation.  All I had was some pain in my calf and a few scrapes.  The thought of how much worse this situation could have been made my stomach turn.  I then scolded myself for how careless I had been by not looking more carefully when crossing the road.  Sure, the guy in the truck was at fault, but I could have easily prevented that from happening, had I been more diligent in looking before crossing the road.  Overall, I was incredibly thankful.  I ran with a limp for a few days, but gradually the pain worked itself out.  From that moment on, I not only crossed streets with extreme scrutiny, but I always waived to people in cars when they gave me the right of way.  It may seem strange, but I guess it’s a subconscious way of me saying “thank you for not hitting me”.

 

Cars continued to wiz by and despite the wide bike lane, I still stayed as far to the right as I could.  The road was to my left, and to my right, a solid rock wall.  My wife had asked me before I began this trek if running on the PCH was safe.  I told her that it had a bike lane, so yes, it is, provided the drivers are paying attention.  I felt safe as I looked ahead towards the ocean, the blue sky, and the coastline in front of me.  Houses sat in the hills of Malibu to my right in the distance. The beautiful setting, with the help of my body being in motion, helped completely abate the pain from my guardrail fall.  As I continued up the road, I came upon a gas station.  I couldn’t carry much, but I thought it was a great opportunity to get some water and a small helping of snacks for the hike.  I went inside and purchased a couple of bananas, an apple and large bottle of water.  With the bottle of water in hand, and the food crammed into my hydration pack, I resumed forward progress.  Ten minutes later, I was startled by a car horn.  I turned around to see my wife’s car approaching with several passengers, including our friends, Brady, and another dog.  By this point, I was getting pretty worn out, so I was happy that they picked me up when they did.  I jumped into the backseat and we drove off to the trailhead. 

    

A few hours later, we arrived back at our car after a nice hike to Escondido Falls with the dogs.  I didn’t say anything, but I was relieved to be done.  I’ve never felt worse after going on a run than I did before, but that particular run took a bit of a toll on me, physically.  It won’t be the last time I get hurt while running, but thankfully, after that morning’s mishap, I managed to walk away without any major injuries.  The reality is that accidents will happen but all I can do is be as careful as I can and remember that safety comes first.  

Ragnar Los Coyotes

For as long as I’ve been running I have always appreciated the excitement of racing as a team and the amount of reliance and team work that is involved.  The Ragnar Trail Los Coyotes race is a beautiful challenge.  If your ideal weekend consists of getting together with seven of your friends or family members, camping, running on trails around the clock, exploring, and not getting much sleep, it doesn’t get any better than this.  Traditionally, Ragnar has only hosted road relay races but since unveiling the trail series in 2013, it has grown to sixteen relay trail races across the United States including one in Ontario, Canada.  California is home to two of these races; Ragnar Trail Tahoe at the Royal Gorge Cross Country Ski Resort near Soda Springs, California, and Ragnar Trail Los Coyotes on the Los Coyotes Indian Reservation near Warner Springs. 

      

The previous summer, Janet and I teamed up with some of our friends and participated in the Ragnar Tahoe race and enjoyed it immensely.  So, when my friend Denis invited us to join a team he was putting together for Ragnar Los Coyotes, we jumped at the opportunity and at 7:00 AM on a chilly Friday morning in November 2017, I found myself standing in line to watch the Ragnar Safety video on the Los Coyotes Indian Reservation near Southern California’s Cleveland National Forest.  The short video which outlines safety rules and tips for trail running is required to be watched by all participants prior to the race.  Accompanying me was my wife, Janet, and our friends Tony, Denis, Yesenia, Monica, Anthony, and another Janet, who we’ll call Janet H to avoid confusion.  Janet H’s fiancé, Zach, an active member of the Marine Corps, had also joined in on the trip to be our volunteer, as it is required that each team has an extra person to volunteer for one shift during the race.  Our team was scheduled to begin running at 7:40 AM so after taking some team pictures, Yesenia, our first runner headed to the start line while the rest of us walked back to our camp site to set everything up.  Each team consists of eight people and there are three trails; a green one which is just over three miles in length and the easiest, a yellow one which is also just over three miles in length and slightly more challenging, and a red, which is by far the most challenging both in distance and terrain, measuring just under eight miles.  Each team member runs all three of the trails once for a total of twenty-four legs.  The running order is chosen before the race and is followed consistently around the clock.  All three of the trails begin and end at what is called the Ragnar Village which includes bonfires, food trucks, company booths, gift shops, and entertainment.  Our campsite was about a quarter of a mile away from the village along the trail where runners would be passing by day and night.  We were much more prepared for this race than we were for Tahoe.  The year prior, we hadn’t thought to bring a canopy for shade, a camping stove to heat up food, or an air mattress to sleep on comfortably.  We took mental note and brought everything we needed this time around.  Once we had our tents and canopy set up, we heated up breakfast burritos with our camping stove and cheered on runners as they ran past.  Yesenia is a quick runner and was closing in on the green loop, so Tony, our second runner prepared to head to the transition area to meet her.  Tony is an endurance sport animal who had participated in the Chicago Marathon, The Elk 50K in Oregon, hiked Cactus to Clouds, and completed a Tough Mudder in the four weeks leading up to Los Coyotes.  Moments after he departed the campsite, we saw him running down the trail heading out on the yellow loop.  Tony arrived back at camp a short time later and Monica, our third runner headed out to tackle the red loop.  With 1,750 feet of elevation gain and measuring nearly eight miles long, it was the toughest loop on the course, so we expected that it would take Monica around two hours to complete this section.  Almost exactly two hours later, we received the notification that she was a quarter of a mile away from the finish, as our fourth runner, Janet H, anxiously waited to begin her first leg of the journey.  Upon arrival, Monica had told us that she encountered a man on the trail around the three-mile mark who had twisted his angle after stumbling on a rock.  It was a desperate moment and he felt helpless, so Monica followed a great example of what a true runner should do in such circumstances.  She peeled him up off the trail side and paced him for the rest of the loop.  When he wanted to quit she encouraged him to keep moving forward and reminded him that yes, he could do it, and that his team was awaiting his arrival.  Although the pain was intense, he made it the whole way and they crossed the finish line side by side.  Janet H took off upon Monica’s arrival and finished her loop a short while later.  When we asked her how it went she said it was great except her ribs were hurting.  We found out that just nineteen months ago she was hiking on a snowy trail in the San Bernardino Mountains up to Cucamonga Peak when she lost control of her footing and fell six hundred feet down the side of a mountain.  She was airlifted to a nearby hospital where she spent the next week and a half recovering, and it required tremendous amounts of hard work and physical therapy to get back to where she was now, which was still not completely one hundred percent.  I was shocked but delighted to hear that she was out here hammering tough miles on rugged trails a mere nineteen months after she had nearly died.   Anthony went next.  A long-time friend of ours, he has accompanied Janet and I on many adventures and races over the years.  Although he is built more like a line backer than a runner, he displayed pure grit and determination, and always raced at a consistent pace with a strong finish.  This time was no different, and he tore up the trail, finishing with flying colors.  Denis headed out next, our team captain.  Denis was an accomplished racer in his own right, having participated in several Spartan races, marathons, and numerous challenging hikes.  He ran at an impressive, steady pace and when he arrived back at the transition area, Janet, my wife was up next.  Although she runs on flat surfaces somewhat regularly, she hadn’t done much hill training and I knew that the hills on the trails would slow her down a bit.  I was the last runner so after she finished, it would be my turn.  I changed into my running gear in our tent and prepared to head to the transition area, but upon exiting my tent, the rest of the team informed me that Janet had passed by a few minutes prior.  I quickly made my way to the transition area, surprised and proud of her for finishing so quickly.  Upon arrival, I began my first leg, which was the yellow, moderately difficult loop.  The course climbed up a narrow fire road for the first mile, then dropped down onto a single-track trail that zig zagged through the woods and eventually deposited me back onto another fire road that led back to the village.  When I returned, Yesenia was waiting for me and began her second leg of the journey.  We were now one third of the way done and had gone through our entire line up.  After having dinner and wandering around the village, Janet and I decided to get some sleep for the night shift.  She was scheduled to run the red loop beginning around midnight and I didn’t want her to be out there all alone in the dark, so, following Monica’s advice, I joined her for this leg of the trail.  Shortly after leaving the village, the course climbed a wicked one-thousand-foot ascent on a grated fire road.  To conserve our energy, we hiked up the incline to the crest of the hill, which proceeded down a narrow single-track trail into the midnight wilderness.  With our headlamps lighting the way, we followed the winding path through the woods and up a gradual incline through a meadow.  It was a beautiful night in the mountains.  The moon was partially hidden by thin, dotted clouds, and millions of stars filled the sky brightly.  Other than the sound of our feet tramping on the ground, it was complete silence.  We proceeded through the meadow and out to the peak before continuing onto another fire road that descended for the next couple of miles.  As we made our way down, we had a nice cadence going and Janet was making great time.  We eventually arrived at a junction where the fire road crossed a paved road where there was a water refill station.  The course continued onto another dirt road and began a tough incline similar to the one at the beginning of the course.  About half way up this climb, Janet stopped dead in her tracks.  She looked at me like a deer in headlights and said, “It’s times like this when I wonder why I signed up for this”.  There we were, out on a desolate fire road in the middle of the night in the mountains.  We only had a mile and a half left but the village might as well have been on another planet.  It seemed as though the incline would never end.  What were we doing out here?  But Janet had been here before.  She had been pushed to complete exhaustion, but she knew what to do.  She took a sip of water, a deep breath, and plowed forward up the incline.  Eventually the path flattened out and the lights of the village came into view.  We finished a short time later and I was so proud of her!  She had almost no hill training and just gutted out eight miles on one of the hardest courses in the entire Ragnar Trail Series in the middle of the night.  I gave her a big hug and congratulated her.  After we crossed the finish line together, Janet departed back to the campsite and I took off to run my leg of the green trail.  She later told me she was so hungry that while I ran the green loop, she woofed down two Hershey bars, a handful of Doritos, and two breakfast burritos at our campsite before passing out in our tent.  As I approached the village towards the end of the loop, it was nearing 3:00 AM.  A string of headlamps come down the path in the opposite direction as other runners made their way out to the course.  I shouted words of encouragement as I passed them, and made my way to the finish.  After finishing my second loop, I refilled my cup full of coffee, bundled up, and sat under our canopy watching lit up runners glide by.  I decided around 4:00 AM to try to get some sleep.  I entered our tent and snuggled up next to Janet on the air mattress, not removing my jacket, socks, or long pants.  Even with all these layers and a blanket on, I struggled to stay warm in the forty-degree weather.  I was able to sleep for a couple of hours and when I woke up, we had some breakfast and cheered on runners.  By this time, Janet H was on her final leg of the race and we estimated that our team would be finished around 1:30 PM.  We lounged around camp and shared stories until it was time for my wife, Janet to begin her final leg.  This meant that when she was finished, it was my turn to run the red loop and then we’d be done.  She tore through the yellow loop in fifty minutes and when she arrived at the transition area, I took the bib from her and began the final leg of the race.  I knew it would be difficult since I had been out there the night before, but I was thankful that I knew what to expect.  I took it easy, running slowly up the incline to the ridge where the trail continued down the single-track trail.  The scenery was beautiful as the path wove through trees and forest and rolled over small hills in between boulders.  As I ran, I thought about all the stories I had heard in the last day.  I thought about how hard Denis had worked putting the team together and coordinating the race, how many races Tony had done in the past month, about Janet H was running not even two years after a horrible accident, her fiancé Zach volunteering for us, Monica helping the injured man, Anthony and Yesenia toughing out the difficult terrain without much hill training, and my wife for hammering through the red loop the previous night even though she was having such a tough go at it.  I thought about how unique and awesome our team was, how everyone had their own stories and experiences, and how much of a true team effort this race really was.  I thought about what an adventure it had been over the last twenty-eight hours and how close we were to being done.  I was only four miles away from our team finish.  And just like that, I went into go mode.  I hammered down the fire road, passing runner after runner, proceeded past the road crossing, and ran up the incline when the village came into view once again.  The last quarter of a mile was ran with lots of excitement.  I as I approached the finish line, I searched for the rest of the team.  The tradition for Ragnar is that the whole team joins the last runner during the last hundred feet or so of the course so that everyone can cross the finish line together as a team.  Unfortunately, no one was to be found and I looked at my watch realizing that miraculously, I had finished about twenty minutes before my projected finish time.  Eventually, they emerged from the village and we all joined hands and crossed the finish line together, finishing right around our estimated time of 1:30 PM.  After a round of high fives, hoots and hollers, we collected our medals, took team pictures, packed up our campsite, and hit the road.  We rendezvoused on the way home at a Mexican restaurant for lunch in Temecula where we exchanged more stories about the race and congratulated each other.

When Janet and I finally arrived home, we cleaned ourselves up and went to bed immediately afterwards since we could barely keep our eyes open.  I reminisced on how great of an adventure it had been and how much I loved these types of team races and the bonds and friendships that come as a result of achieving such an accomplishment.  I lied down and fell asleep within seconds, my final thoughts being how proud I was of everyone on our team and how I couldn’t wait to do it again.   

Why Getting Older Is Not Such A Bad Thing

For most people, when a milestone birthday begins approaching, they begin thinking a lot.  This is particularly true when approaching a new decade such as thirty, forty, or fifty.  People start thinking “Am I where I want to be in my life? Are things going to change? Oh man, I can’t believe I’m going to be thirty!  Where has the time gone?”  There are many different sentiments that people have about aging.  Some people embrace it, and others will say, often in a joking manner, that getting older is not such a great thing.  As my thirtieth birthday approached, there was no shortage of people teasing me with the typical “dirty thirty” and “it’s all downhill from here” banter.  But as I write this, I am seventeen months into my thirties and for me, my thirties so far have been nothing short of amazing.  When I say “amazing” I don’t mean that things have been perfect. In fact, far from it.  Since I’ve hit thirty, there have been incredible highs as well as devastating lows.  I’ve learned to embrace and celebrate the highs and keep my head up and plow through the lows.  It hasn’t always been easy, but attitude is everything.  Your whole life is in your hands and it is what you make it.

As I reflect on how far I’ve come since turning thirty, I now see that with each decade of my life thus far, there have been major changes, even as far back as when I was ten.  When I was ten and eleven years old, I began focusing more in school and being more social.  I wasn’t a straight A student, but I achieved better grades, made more friends, and turned the tables with a lot of schoolmates I had problems with simply by changing my attitude.  When I was nineteen years old, I was a student at Western Michigan University.  One day in November, I was done with classes for the day and was preparing to go to work at my part time job which I worked three nights a week at a local restaurant.  As I was about to leave, I heard a knock on my apartment door.  When I opened it, I saw my dad standing there.  He hadn’t called and said he was going to make the two-and-a-half-hour drive to come see me, so I could tell right away that something was amiss.  “Hey Dad” I said confusingly.  “What’s going on?”.  He didn’t answer. “Dad?”  after a good ten seconds, he finally embraced me with tears in his eyes and told me that my mom had passed away earlier that day.  I simply couldn’t believe what I was hearing.  I was in so much shock, I could barely articulate a response to what he said.  It didn’t seem real.  I had to have been dreaming.  But it was, unfortunately, very real and all I could do was deal with it as best as I could.  After the initial shock wore off, and I went through the grieving process, things got weird.  Even though I had been away at college, a life without my mom around was a bizarre and sad feeling.  I was in a haze for the next several months and although I continued to live a typical college life of partying and good times, I sometimes felt very hollow. Even with the comfort of my friends, my life seemed dreamlike and I found it difficult to focus on anything.  I thought about my mom every single day.  But then my twentieth birthday approached.  School was about to let out for the year, and soon I would be heading back to my hometown, working a full-time summer job, spending time with old friends and family, and taking a break from school.  By this time, I had a chance to reflect on what happened and the haziness of my life subsided.  At one point, I think it was on a random Saturday night after a party, things became crystal clear and I had a decision to make; I could either dive face first into a life of drugs, alcohol, and despair to cope with the pain or I could not let this beat me down and I could rise above the pain and put that energy into being happy, having fun, and improving myself.  It was a crucial moment.  The last five months had been weird and the blow to my family was devastating, leaving a black hole in my life.  But was I alive?  Was I healthy?  Did I have a lot to be thankful for even though my mom was gone?  The answer to all three of those questions was “Yes”.  Would my mom want me to spiral down a path of self-destruction? Did I really want to throw away everything I had in my life at that point, including a great family, great friends, and a college education?  “No” on both accounts.  It was as if I had awakened from the five-month dream I was living in, and the choice was clear; Time to start improving things.  I subconsciously began a transformation including taking less for granted, treating people better, being truer to who I am, not letting things bother me too much, and getting into better physical shape.  The most challenging part of the transformation was the physical part.  I had a busy schedule and didn’t always prioritize exercise.  I stood around six feet tall and weighed one hundred and eighty-five pounds.  I wasn’t obese, but clearly not in great shape.  I began running at twenty-two in December of 2008 and soon dropped to one hundred and fifty-five pounds.  I felt better than I ever had before and when I reached twenty-nine, I looked back at how much I had changed during my twenties.  I had earned a college degree, lost thirty pounds, suffered a tragic loss, rebuilt myself, moved to Chicago and Los Angeles, became more carefree, had lots of friends, and discovered my passion for running. 

   

When my thirtieth birthday rolled around, I didn’t experience any kind of weird feelings about getting older or a milestone birthday.  Instead I thought to myself “what’s going to be instore for me in the next decade?”  And man, has a lot happened since then.  I’ve since dealt with the tragic loss of our dog, gotten married, improved myself professionally, cleaned up my diet, and continued to push my limits in running.  When I was thirty I ran my first ultra-marathon; the Bulldog 50K, I attempted a 100K race in Foresthill, was handed my first DNF, learned from my mistakes, and began running longer distances on more challenging mountain trails.  Over the three years I worked at BlackLine, we had quadruped in size, gone through a full IPO, and filed our first 10-K.  I learned a ton, and found a better job that has allowed me to learn even more.  I’ve learned how to be a good husband (still learning), and began eating healthier.  I have since incorporated more fruit and vegetables into my diet, placing less emphasis on meat, and even eating at vegan restaurants for the first time and going vegetarian one or two days a week.  My morning breakfast now consists of a piece of peanut butter toast, an apple, and a cup of Greek yogurt.  I’ve been drinking lemon water, eating avocados, and, thanks to the juicer my wife and I purchased a few weeks ago, been drinking homemade juice.  I’m one month shy of thirty-one and a half now and I still have eight and a half years left in this decade.  I plan to keep all of this up and will keep learning and growing throughout my thirties and inevitably, when I hit my forties, there will be new challenges, new setbacks, and most importantly, new experiences and opportunities to learn and grow.  It will be no different than how it’s been with my twenties and thirties.  Milestone birthdays should not come with fear.  If you’re living life the way you should, they should come with a sense of adventure.  Instead of looking at what you don’t have, look at what you’ve accomplished, set goals, and be excited about what is in store for you next.  It doesn’t matter who you are, if you aren’t constantly challenging yourself, learning new things, and finding new ways to improve yourself and your quality of life, you’re missing out on what life is all about.  There’s a whole world out there for us.  Get after it!

Lost and Found

There are several factors that mold the persona and behavior of humans.  Much of it stems from childhood experiences, parenting, and what our minds absorb when we’re young.  As we grow we follow our own morals and beliefs and do what we think is the right thing.  However, no two people have the same exact reality.  What one person believes is the right thing may seem idiotic to another person.  Most runners, hikers, and other outdoor enthusiasts are generally happy people.  And happy people often look out for each other and will help someone else who has an unfortunate mishap, while others may take advantage of their situation instead.  So, I like to think that runners, hikers, and other outdoor enthusiasts have adopted the ‘do the right thing’ type of moral attitude, rather than act selfishly.  At least that’s what I was hoping during my drive home from my morning trail run on Sunday.  Allow me to explain why.  

Earlier that morning, I began running at 6:00 AM on the Ice House Canyon trail towards the saddle, then proceeded up the Three Tee’s Trail towards Telegraph Peak.  The morning air was cool and still as the sun slowly rose.  It was the first time in the last several months that I required the use of my arm warmers in this section of the San Bernardino Mountains.  When I reached Telegraph Peak, the sun had made its way into the sky as I stood, admiring the view.  On my way back down to the parking lot I was having a blast.  I was cruising down the trail at a nice pace and I felt good and energized.  All was going splendidly until I arrived back at the parking lot and patted the left side of my shorts.  That’s when I realized something peculiar.  This was the pocket I had put my cell phone in, as I had so many other times when I went running.  But when I patted it, I felt nothing.  I lifted my shirt and peered down my left side, and sure enough, my phone was gone.  “Shit!” I exclaimed.  I stood there for a moment, then turned around and headed back up the trail, eyes glued to the ground, searching carefully.  I began seeing some of the people I had passed moments earlier before reaching the parking lot.  Our exchanges went a little something like this: “Dude, are you going to jog back up again?” “(laughs) nope I dropped my phone.  You haven’t seen a phone on the trail, have you?” “Nope, sorry.  Good luck”.  “Whoa man, you again?” “Yeah, I dropped my phone.  You haven’t seen it, have you?” “Aww dude that blows.  Sorry man, I haven’t”.  “Did you lose your keys, man?” “Nope, cell phone”.  After about five minutes of walking at a brisk pace up to the trail, I began to realize that this was a losing battle.  The last time I had used my phone was to take a picture on the Three Tee’s Trail near Telegraph Peak.  After that, I hadn’t checked my pocket to make sure it hadn’t fallen out.  Essentially, the damn thing could have been anywhere between where I was standing and six miles up the trail.  And if that wasn’t ridiculous enough, add 4,600 feet of elevation gain.  I didn’t have the time or sufficient water supply to trek that far again.  I decided the best thing to do was to head home and figure it out from there.  It was approaching 9:30 AM and it made little sense to spend potentially another four hours wandering around the trail.  Once I reached the base of the mountains, I called my wife, Janet from Von’s in Claremont.  The ladies working the balloon counter were kind enough to let me borrow the store phone after having a chuckle at my current predicament.

   

And that brings us back to my thoughts on how outdoor enthusiasts are generally “cool” people.  Based on the people I’ve met and befriended through the running and hiking community, reading memoirs by Dean Karnazes, Scott Jurek, and other outdoor enthusiasts, and the level of impact that outdoor activities has had on my own life, I have formed the theory there is a direct correlation between our happiness level and how much time we spent outdoors.  Sure, it’s nice to watch a hockey game or a TV show on a weeknight after work while eating dinner but Janet and I very rarely watch TV during the day on weekends.  Some people prefer to spend their weekends indoors glued to their TVs and laptops.  That bores me.  I’d rather be spending my time outside on the trails or out and about with Janet and Brady eating at good restaurants, walking around town, or running errands.  The more we spend time outdoors, the happier we are, and happy people are generally more understanding of others and treat them with more tolerance and compassion.  This thought is always in the back of my mind, but at this particular moment it was burning in my mind like a wild fire, mainly because I was hoping that if someone found my phone on the trail, they would be living proof of my theory and would either turn it into the ranger station or contact Janet so it can be returned to me, rather than try to sell it or throw it away.  Most people who hike the Three Tee’s Trail are in a no phone service area for a good portion of the day, so my plan was to wait until late afternoon and call and text my phone from Janet’s phone to see if anyone had picked it up.  If someone had found it, they would likely be finished hiking and in an area with service by late afternoon.  If that didn’t work, I would try calling the ranger station to see if anyone had turned it in.  I was going to try everything I could before having to resort to getting a new one.  

Once I arrived back home, I took a shower and we headed out to run a couple errands and stopped at Corner Bakery for lunch.  We had just sat down and were waiting for our food to arrive when I noticed that Janet’s phone was buzzing on the table.  I looked down and to my amazement and delight, the caller ID said she was getting a call from my cell phone!  She picked it up right away.  The guy who was calling had been hiking earlier that day and stumbled upon my phone near the junction where the Ice House Canyon Trail meets up with the Chapman Trail.  Luckily for me, I don’t lock my phone so he was able to get in and see my text messages.  Judging by the texts between Janet and I, he made a strong assumption that she was my wife or girlfriend and dialed her phone.   He lived in Upland and said he would be home for the rest of the day.  Later on in the evening, we killed two birds with one stone and had dinner in West Covina before stopping at the guy’s place in Upland.  I received my phone back, thanked the guy immensely for his act of kindness and honesty, and all was well again.  I was extremely grateful that I had my phone back in one piece and narrowly avoided the frustration, not to mention the financial burden, of getting a new one. 

I felt extraordinarily lucky because my theory on outdoorsy people proved to be true.  This guy is a testament to the fact that there are some very honest people on the trails who watch out for others and generally care about their well-being.  Not that I don’t love the city of Los Angeles, but if I had dropped my phone there, for example, things could have easily swung in the other direction and the chances of getting my phone back likely would have been much slimmer.  These qualities are they kinds of factors that create a strong sense of friendship and unity among those who frequent the mountain trails.  This guy saved my ass, and if I get the opportunity in the future, I will surely return the favor for someone else!

Euro Honeymoon Part 2: Greece

The windy, narrow road passed by old ruins, stone walls, and along the foothills of a small mountain range as we rode through the hills of Santorini in the back of a taxi.  Finally, we arrived at our apartment which was situated in the hills above the village of Emporio. Our Air bnb hostess was awaiting our arrival and after greeting us, we began walking up a flight of winding white stone steps that led past other apartments up to ours.  Our apartment was one of the highest on the hill and included an enclosed patio and a small pool about the size of a hot tub.  The interior was small but very charming and perfect for two people.  Our hostess was delightfully talkative and helpful as she showed us around.  We marveled in the conversation and listened to her patiently, but we had a dinner reservation in Imerovigli in thirty minutes that we didn’t want to miss.  I finally was able to break in and ask her how far away the town was.  “Oh, that’s far at all” she replied.  “It’s about two, maybe three cigarettes”.  I looked at her quizzically.  “Two or three cigarettes?”.  She sensed my confusion and began laughing.  “In Santorini, we measure car ride times by how many cigarettes you can smoke along the way”.  By two or three cigarettes, she meant that the car ride was about twelve to fifteen minutes.  All three of us had a good laugh at that one.  Thirty minutes later, we arrived at La Maison restaurant and were escorted to our table.  Once we sat down at our outdoor table, I noticed the view and thought I was dreaming.  The sun was beginning set, turning the horizon reddish orange.  Directly in front of us was a beautiful view of the ocean with the island of Nea Kameni in the center, some twelve hundred feet below.  White buildings lined the cliff side above the ocean on either side of us and were visible all the way down the coast in both directions, owing to Santorini’s unique shape loosely resembling a backwards “C”.  The white buildings were mostly villas and houses and were lighting up as the sun gradually set.  Our food was remarkable and we lounged around for a couple of hours, taking in the view.  When it was time to leave, we had trouble dialing a cab driver with our cell phones, so the hostess kindly offered to call for us.  She came back a minute later letting us know that the driver was on his way.  “Efcharisto poli” I said, thanking her.  The people of Santorini were incredibly welcoming and accommodating.  Our hostess at our apartment had also helped us by calling the same cab driver who had dropped us off from the airport to drive us to the restaurant.  We made small chit chat with the wait staff.  Many of them were from the mainland, close to Athens, and were in Santorini doing seasonal work.

 

We spent the next three days riding our rented ATV around the island visiting beaches, shopping in Thira, sailing around the caldera, swimming in the ocean, and eating delicious cuisine at the local restaurants.  As a gyro fanatic, I was thoroughly impressed with the food just about everywhere we ate.  The gyro was juicy and flavorful, but the tzatziki sauce was noticeably more robust than most of the Mediterranean restaurants I frequented in the U.S.  Every morning I woke up and went for a run to start off the day.  I would run from our apartment down the windy road into Emporio, and out to the beach.  After returning home, I would take a shower and ride the ATV down to the local bakery to buy fruit and baklava for breakfast.  When I bit into the first piece of baklava I had, I almost fainted.  It was about two inches thick and deliciously sweet with honey dripping from the bottom as I picked it up.  Three days later, we departed the ferry boat and arrived on the island of Mykonos.  Santorini had been beautiful and relaxing, but Mykonos, which is known for its vibrant night life and being home to over forty beaches, had a different vibe.  The view from our villa was the best yet.  It rested peacefully at the end of a steep, narrow road overlooking the pure blue ocean below with other Greek islands visible in the distance.  As the sun fell below the horizon, the lights began to shine from the houses on the hills and the ferry boats in the ocean.  The next morning, we jumped into our rental car and headed out to explore the famous beaches.  Our hostess was very informative and told us about the best beaches to explore the night before.  We stopped at a small restaurant at the foot of the hill near the water where the food was delicious and my Greek coffee was strong, muddy, and thick as motor oil.  It was better than any coffee I had ever had in the United States and wired me with energy.  The fascinating and magical thing about Mykonos is that one moment you could be driving through old ancient ruins in the middle of nowhere, and the next moment you crest a hill and a beautiful beach appears below.  Such as the case when we drove to Paradise Beach.  It was a gorgeous sandy beach with umbrella chairs, a gift shop, restaurant, and of course a couple of bars.  We laid in the sun and when we got too hot, we’d run into the clear blue ocean and swim for a while to cool off.  Then we’d lay in the sun and dry off and repeat the same process over again.  We followed the same process at Super Paradise Beach, which was a little bigger and known for its parties.  When we left the beach at 6:00 PM, dance music was playing and people were already starting to dance on the tables in the bars.  I imagined what it would have been like if we came back at 11:00 PM.  We spent the evening walking around the town of Mykonos, which is the main town on the island and where most of the island’s residents live.  The town offers numerous activities and services catering to tourists including several restaurants, bars, clubs, and stores.  The scene resembled an outdoor mall as we walked along the narrow walkway through a maze of white buildings.  We passed expensive clothing stores, gelato shops, restaurants with small outdoor tables, and clubs with dance music thumping inside.  There were all walks of life around.  College students, millennials, and older folks from all over the world and everyone seemed to be having a great time. 

The next morning, I awoke before dawn feeling energized.  The jet lag had turned my sleeping pattern upside down and although I was getting enough sleep, it was difficult to wake up before sunrise, which was something I am used to doing regularly.  This was the earliest I had woken up during our trip and I thought it would be a great opportunity to get a longer ten or eleven mile run in.  I threw my gear on and opened the door to our villa, breathing in the fresh, cool air.  I took off down the narrow road, running down a steep downhill path with lights along the hill in the distance below me leading to the ocean, which appeared to be a giant black hole in the predawn darkness.  The path led to a junction where the road forked off to the left and continued down towards the ocean with the other road veering slightly right, leading further into the hills towards a lighthouse.  I chose the latter.  Our hostess had talked about a lighthouse located at the end of a desolate road in the hills that had a great view.  After a steep climb, I came upon it.  It rested majestically atop a hill on the edge of a cliff side.  The steep road had led to a small dirt parking lot with a path leading up to the lighthouse.  The sun was just cracking the eastern skyline and the light still shined brightly, bringing back memories of visiting the beaches in Michigan where just about every pier has a lighthouse at the end.  During the overnight sailing trips with my Dad and his racing pals along the Michigan coastline, we would always see the lighthouses on shore, sometimes using them as navigation tools.  I always marveled in how cool it looked being out on the lake in the middle of the night and watching the lights make their 360-degree turn, flashing out on the lake, around the mainland, then back out to the lake every few seconds.  I stood on the cliff side admiring the view of the ocean and slowly turned back, looking towards the hills behind me.  I noticed a distant mountain peak a few miles away that appeared to be the highest point on the island.  Once I found my way back to the dirt parking lot, I located a road that appeared to lead towards this peak.  The road began a gradual incline and crested a hill, with several houses and villas along the road at the top.  From there, it dipped down and started winding towards a small valley where a few horses were standing in the field below.  I veered to the left, crested another hill, and came upon a fork in the road with one path continuing straight, the other leading towards the peak.  At the corner was a wooden sign in the shape of an arrow pointing up the road to the summit.  All it read was “Kastro” in Greek letters.  I figured this was likely the name of the peak and I began running up the road, which soon turned to a dirt trail along the mountain side.  The peak was getting closer and closer and after several twists and turns, I finally made it to the rocky summit.  I was standing on the highest peak in the area which offered a sweeping panoramic view of the island of Mykonos, as well as the surrounding islands and the ocean.  The sun had now made its way into the sky, adding a vibrant orange to the surroundings.  The experience was surreal.  I spent about ten minutes admiring the view on top of that peak and for those ten minutes it felt as if nothing else mattered.  All my concerns melted away and I didn’t have a care in the world.  I didn’t think about the future, or the past.  I just lived in the moment.  I focused completely on the present, on what I was doing and where I was at that particular moment.  While running down, I thought about the story of Pheidippides, the ancient Greek messenger who ran from Marathon to Athens to deliver the news of a Greek victory over the Persians in the Battle of Marathon and immediately collapsing and dying after proclaiming the victory to the people of Athens, thus creating the basis for the modern-day marathon.  I was about one hundred miles away from where this run took place but running through the hills in the country where long distance running was invented was one of the most inspiring experiences of my life.  My journey continued down towards the ocean, along the road, and when I arrived back at our villa, I had covered around eleven miles.  Janet was awake in bed so I drove into town to get us some breakfast.  I felt like the happiest guy in the world and was all smiles when I greeted the employees of the bakery and fruit market with an enthusiastic “Ya Sas!”, a standard Greek greeting that doubles as both hello and goodbye. 

The following afternoon, we boarded our flight to begin the long journey home.  We had a twelve-hour layover in Moscow, followed by a twelve-hour flight back home to Los Angeles.  Let me tell you, spending twelve hours in an airport terminal is not pleasant.  It was tough getting sleep on a tile floor using a backpack as a pillow, and after listening to the flight announcements on the PA system almost non-stop for eight hours, it took every ounce of composure I had to not scale the pillar like a koala bear, tear the speaker off and throw it out the window.  When we finally made it home, Janet and I both fell asleep at 5:00 PM and slept straight through the night.  I awoke in the middle of the night thinking about our trip and what an incredible journey it was.  The history, delicious food, kind people, natural beauty, all things I will miss about Italy and Greece, and how I would love to return to both countries someday.  My last thought before falling back asleep was how rejuvenating it felt being back home in my own bed.   

Euro Honeymoon Part 1: Italy

A delicious smell filled the air as I ran past a small bakery sandwiched between two apartments in the narrow alley way.  Inside the window lay trays full of Italian pastries, cakes, and cookies.  I inhaled the heavenly aroma, thinking that I had just found a great place to stop by and get some breakfast once I finished running and took a shower.  Tall apartment buildings with the occasional store on the ground floor lined the narrow alley way as I ran along, the alley eventually giving way to a sidewalk.  It was a typical city block with sidewalks on either side and buildings, shops, and restaurants lining the way.  Only one minor difference; there was no street between the sidewalks, there was a canal.  The city of Venice (or Venezia in Italian) has over one hundred and seventy-seven of these canals.  Acting as streets, they divide the city into one hundred and eighteen different islands which are all connected by over four hundred bridges.  I ran down the sidewalk and onto a bridge where I stopped to take in the view.  Colorful venetian style buildings lined the canal in a straight line before curving to the right in the distance.  The sun had begun to make its way into the sky and was casting an orange glow on the water and the boats that rested in the water tied up near the sidewalk.  

Janet and I had arrived in Venice the evening before.  It was the first of many cities we would be traveling through during our epic Italian/Greek honeymoon.  We were starting off in Venice and would be traveling through Florence and Cinque Terre before flying to Greece and spending time in Santorini and Mykonos.  I ran past a small hole-in-the-wall restaurant where Janet and I had gotten pizza the night before.  It was quite small with only a large pizza oven, a counter where orders were taken, a glass case beneath the counter to display pizza slices, and another small counter with a helping of condiments and napkins.  There was no place to sit inside and could probably accommodate no more than ten people at once.  I’ve said for many years based on experience that these restaurants always have the most delicious food.  We stumbled upon this place the night before while walking around town and I told Janet “This pizza is going to be awesome.  I can tell by the look of this place”.  And indeed, it was!  The slices were large and thin with fresh ingredients and incredibly appetizing.  I’ve had plenty of delicious pizza in the USA but this was on a whole new level.  It was unlike any pizza I had tasted before.  The deliciousness of authentic Italian pizza derives not only from the freshness of the ingredients used but the way it is prepared.  The dough is stretched extremely thin and is often cooked only for a couple of minutes at an extremely hot temperature which creates a crust that is crispy on the outside and moist and soft on the inside.  The serving of cheese is relatively light and the sauce exquisitely fresh.  With tomatoes being a key ingredient in Italian cuisine, the tomato puree combined with garlic, olive oil, and oregano gives the sauce a distinct and robust flavor.  The pizza was so good we went back for seconds and thirds.  And of course, we had some tasty gelato and red wine for dessert from the gelato shop and wine bar which were conveniently located within fifty feet of the pizza joint.  

Cafés were opening, produce stands were being set up, and souvenir shop owners were opening their stores as I ran down the relatively quiet walkway which would be cluttered with thousands of pedestrians within an hour.  One of my favorite things about running in an unfamiliar place is people watching.  It’s fascinating to run by watching the locals go about their day to day lives in a place that is so different than home.  Every city and every country has their own unique way of life and running through these neighborhoods offers a unique look at the everyday morning routine for the inhabitants of such places. 

Running in Florence (Firenze in Italian) was a different vibe.  We stayed in a loft in a quaint residential neighborhood up in the hills on the outskirts of town, about three miles from the town center.  Unlike Venice where it was relatively flat, my route in Florence followed a narrow road that climbed up a gradual incline.  As I casually strolled up the road, the quiet, residential neighborhood slowly faded away, the area becoming more remote.  Approaching the foothills of the nearby mountain range, a stone wall came into view up ahead.  As I got closer, I could see that the road continued as it curved up to the left past the wall.  Turning to the left, I now ran with foothills to my right, and a distant view of downtown Florence to my left.  I ran past a couple of rows of houses as I crested the hill and began descending back down.  I ran carefully, thinking that a car could come whizzing up the narrow road without warning but I didn’t see any cars anywhere.  I began to realize that unless someone lived in the row of houses at the crest of this hill, they would likely have no reason whatsoever to drive down this road.  As I continued to descend, the road passed through a small vineyard with trees lining the side of the street.  I reveled in the tranquility of the experience.  It was a beautiful, sunny morning, not too hot, not too cool.  It was dead silent when I paused the music on my ipod and I decided to unplug for a little while and enjoy the peaceful surroundings.  The quiet street eventually led down to a busier main road and I was soon deposited back into civilization.

We had friends from Los Angeles who just happened to be traveling through Florence at the same time so we made plans to meet up that afternoon.  After rendezvousing at the San Marco Piazza, we walked together and climbed the four hundred and sixty-three steps that led to the top of the giant dome at the Florence Cathedral.  The view from the top of the Duomo resembled a sea of large, rectangular white and yellow buildings with brick red rooftops being dissected by narrow streets with the occasional clock tower or cathedral poking through.  In the background lay the green peaks of the Apennine Mountains.  The climb to the top had gotten our hearts pumping but the sweeping, panoramic view was well worth it.  After climbing the Bell Tower and visiting the Uffizi Gallery, we dined at a steak restaurant recommended by a tour guide.  He advised us to use our fingers when ordering a steak.  The best way I can describe this process is to hold your hand out like you’re going to shake someone’s hand, lower your thumb, and you use your fingers to show how thick you want your steak.  You use all four fingers if you want the thickest cut, or three fingers for the next thickest cut, etc.  We did as the tour guide instructed and twenty minutes later a whopping forty-nine ounce, rare cooked, masterfully prepared steak arrived at our table.  It was the biggest steak I’d ever seen and looked like something that you would feed a crocodile.  It took all four of us to finish it and it was delicious!  

The next morning, we bid our friends farewell and while they continued their journey to Rome, Janet and I headed to Cinque Terre.  This distinct region along the northwestern coast of Italy is composed of five small distinct villages all connected by boats, trains, and hiking trails.  The area is not accessible by car from the outside but several trains are available with stops in all five villages.  Like Venice and Florence, Cinque Terre had a personality all of its own.   But unlike Venice and Florence, there were no museums, souvenir vendors, or tall towers to climb up.  The landscape resembled a rugged mountain village with a small downtown and featured several colored buildings along steep cliffs, some with long drop offs, and blue ocean below.  Along the cliffs were several harbors and the land loosely resembled the shape of a horseshoe which made for some great views and sightseeing.  Following the walkway, we came to a small harbor where several people were swimming.  Jumping off the cliff side into the clean, turquoise Mediterranean water was incredibly soothing.  We swam around for a while and later sat at an outdoor lounge enjoying Campari spritzes and appetizers while taking in the view.  We sat there for hours and as the sun set, the lights of the buildings began to shine, creating a multi-colored scene of buildings on hills along the cliff side.  The view was breathtaking and we couldn’t get enough.

The next afternoon, we were on a train back to Venice to stay for one more night.  We loved Cinque Terre and would have loved to have stayed longer but we were thankful for our visit and happy that we had a chance to experience three very distinct areas of Italy.  It was nothing short of beautiful and we were now ready to head to Greece for part two of our trip.