Holy Shit...

I'm lucky to have a full set of teeth right now. Hell, I'm lucky I have a head right now. Maybe I should stick to swimming in the pool instead of trying to continue this Monkey Bar Gym crap. 

So like I mentioned in the last post, on swimming days in my workout schedule I'm doing body-weight workouts instead, focusing on upper-body strength and endurance and trying to work the swim-specific muscles. I know there is no replacement for actually swimming, but as I said, I hate the pool, so this will have to suffice. Plus, I feel like a badass listening to Metallica and walking around my apartment without a shirt on doing handstands and weird body-weight moves.

Tonight was the Vegas workout. This workout can be modified to include any four exercises, and is very flexible, very fun, and very exhausting. You take a deck of cards and assign one exercise for each suit. Then you shuffle the cards, and perform the appropriate amount of reps for each suit. Aces are 14 reps, Kings 13, and so on, down through 2's. So in essence, you're getting 104 reps of four different exercises, which is way more volume than if you merely did 3x12 or even 3x20. And it provides variation in that you never know what the next exercise or amount of reps will be, so it' good fun.

I did two of these workouts tonight, back to back. I spent nearly 6 days a week for a month in Prague doing variations of this workout, and at first it would take me about an hour to complete a full deck of cards, or 416 total reps. The goal is to complete the deck as-fast-as-possible, with as little rest as possible. By the end of the month, I was completing most of the decks in 45 minutes or so, and tonight I completed two decks in 1 hour 15 minutes. Not too bad.

Towards the end of the second deck (I only had 3 cards left) is when I almost lost my head. I have one of those pull-up bars that you put in a door frame. It's steel, and compresses itself between the frame, not unlike a curtain rod that holds up a shower curtain. You simple screw it into place, and it's remarkably sturdy. I also have these rubber-band like devices with handles on the ends that I can do different resistance exercises with. Well, for this particular exercise, I had the bar placed about chest-hight in the door frame and the bands attached to it. I stood with the bands stretched towards me, facing the door and the bar, arms stretched our straight, parallel to the floor, holding the bands in both hands. Then, I'd lift my arms straight up over my head, stretching the bands and creating resistance. An excellent shoulder exercise. 

About the 5th rep of this, the bar broke. The bands were stretched to the max, and, consequently, acted like a slingshot and fired the broken bar, now released from the door frame, directly at my face. I was standing about 12 feet away, and the force of the bands catapaulted this 3 foot piece of steel like a boomerang. It did not lose any height due to gravity, and was moving pretty freakin' fast. Somehow, the bar hit my chest first, still parallel to the floor, then bounced up and hit me square in the mouth, immediately inflating both of my lips. I thought for sure that I'd have a mouthful of teeth, and because I couldn't feel my mouth from the impact, I rushed into the bathroom to investigate. There was blood, but it was from my lips, and my teeth were all there. 

I was literally in shock for about 2 minutes afterwards and could not believe that had just happened. Not that it just happened, but because it didn't hit me in the face. The bar weighs like 10 lbs. and was shot at me as if from a cannon and probably could have killed me. I'm still kind of in shock, and still can't feel my face (this only happened about 10 minutes ago). Amazing.

Triathlon Training

I'm beginning Week 3 of 15 today, leading up to the Black Bear Half Ironman Triathlon, in Jim Thorpe, PA. I won the event's 20-24 Age Group last year, albeit against only 10 other competitors. A win's a win though. I imagine this year is going to be significantly tougher, however, since last year was the inaugural event and this year should see many many more competitors. It's my last year in the 20-24 Age Group and my only race scheduled this season (due to working in the Caribbean - a shame, I know), so I want to do well and repeat.

I've set some pretty lofty time goals for myself this year, and I'm not going to achieve them if I keep sitting on my ass over here and not working out as hard as I could. At the moment, I have absolutely nothing important I have to do, which lends itself to me sitting around reading, writing, cleaning and thinking, putting off everything even slightly important until later because I have all day to do anything. It's a bit frustrating, but I'm trying to be productive nonetheless. I've gotten three agreements from magazines to publish my articles, finished the website I'm working on for Sarles Marina, and have been exercising, but that still leaves a lot of time in the day to do nothing.

Anyway, back to the training. This week I put in over 8 hours of work, which is a bit more than what I've been doing all winter, but not near the 12-15 I'll ramp up to in the coming weeks. I put about 100 miles on my new fixed-gear bike last week, which provides a tremendous workout since you can never stop pedaling. It's mentally tough riding in the cold weather too, and at times last week my heart stopped as I rolled ever-so-carefully across several patches of ice that remained on the roads in the shady spots. It feels great to be back on a proper bike with my gear and my shoes that Mom sent over, and I'm quite used to the cold. My feet get numb, but otherwise it's not too bad.

Aside from that I've continued running, though now with more of a purpose to each workout instead of just for the sake of running. Yesterday, for example, I ran 60 minutes at RPE 3 (Rate of Perceived Exertion - scale of 0-10), interspersed with 'stride intervals', where you slowly accelerate to a near sprinting pace for 20-30 seconds, while focusing on short, quick steps and proper upper-body form. I'm noticing that the running is becoming almost effortless, and despite taking a month off from it in Prague, a 10-mile jaunt feels like a short workout.

Swimming is my biggest weakness, and expectedly, my least favorite thing to practice. I've been slacking in this department, and have only been in the pool 3 times since I started training for real two weeks ago. Instead I've continued the Monkey Bar Gym body-weight workouts that I did mostly in Prague, and my upper-body strength has increased measurably. I can hold a non-assisted handstand for 5-10 seconds now, and can handstand with my feet barely touching the wall, for over a minute. This will be my primary means of working out this summer in the islands, and I really enjoy the movements. I have to poop. 

Done and done. Back to racing. In light of my hatred of the pool - due mostly to the fact that the pool here in Uppsala has only one lane reserved for real swimmers, and it's usually clogged up with 5 other people. We have to swim a circle inside this little lane, playing follow the leader. This would be fine is everyone swam the same pace and was doing the same workout. But inevitably, you have people trying to pass each other - mainly me, because I'm so freaking slow - and you have people standing at either end resting. This causes me much grief. One might argue that swimming in a crowd is beneficial practice for a triathlon where 50-100 people might start at the same time. One would be correct, however in a real race, everyone is swimming the same direction, and we're not worrying about a workout, just to get to the bike. It's fucking annoying in the pool - I've decided to focus on the other disciplines for a few reasons. 1). Even in a half-ironman, the pool portion only lasts, at most, 45 minutes. A 5-minute faster swim time in a race that takes upwards of 5 hours will not make much of a difference, and this is all I can reasonably expect to increase in 3 months of training. 2). I hate swimming in the pool. I would much rather focus on biking and running because I actually enjoy them. Maybe I should become a duathlete. 3). I can realistically lower my bike time from last year by 20 minutes and my run time by 30 minutes. I'll gladly trade 5 minutes in the pool for 20 minutes on the bike any day.

Which brings me to my goals for my only race of the year. Last year I finished in 5 Hours, 38 Minutes, with the following splits: 33 min. swim, 3 hour bike, 2 hour run, with about 3 minutes of transition time. I want to break 5 hours this year, and this is how I'm going to do it: 35 min swim (the course was shortened last year making it faster than it should have been), 2 hour 40 min. bike (I'll have to average over 20mph - doable since i averaged 22.5 mph in the Annapolis Tri at the end of last season) and a 1 hour, 40 minute run (also doable - I completed the B&A Trail Half Marathon in 1:35 last March). This is all assuming I run my best-ever half marathon following my best-ever 56 mile bike ride, following my best-ever 2000 yard swim. I've never strung all of these times back to back to back, but then again, I barely trained for last year's race and still managed a 5:38:00. Totally doable this year, and I'm already in better base shape than I was a year ago, with three months to ramp it up. 4:55:00 baby.

An Essay on Indian Nationalism

Revolutionary struggles are traditionally defined by the use of violence as a means to an end; that end being dramatic changes in both the social and political spheres of any given country. From the Revolutionary War that was responsible for the birth of America, to the French and Russian Revolutions, and especially modern, guerilla revolutions in places like China and Cuba, violence played a key role in determining the outcomes. Battles were fought and lives were sacrificed all in the name of revolution and change. 

However, defining revolution in this traditional sense dismisses the cases where non-violence is the means to the ends. Revolution is formally defined as a sudden, profound, deliberately provoked crisis about legitimate state power, tending to produce upheaval and change in both the political and social spheres. The formal definition of revolution includes no such provision pertaining to violence. In the case of India, non-violence was the critical factor in determining the outcome of revolution. Mobilized by a charismatic leader, one Mahatma Gandhi, the people of India used non-violence as a weapon against colonialism, a weapon strong enough to defeat at the time arguably the most powerful nation in the world.

Revolutions do not simply arise. Many factors affect the origins of revolution and also affect the means by which the revolutionary struggle will be conducted. Internal factors such as the relationship between the working class and the elites, the role of government in society, the distribution of land, the overall prosperity of the country, and the economic system, among others help determine the ?need? for a revolutionary uprising. External factors play perhaps an even larger role. In the early 20th century, the Gandhi-led Indian revolution set off a wave of anti-colonial revolutionary struggles. The root of these revolutions was found in the fact that a ?superior? country was ruling over a separate people geographically distanced from the ruling country?s political center. Specifically in India, this gave the Indians a sufficient cause for being upset; they wanted independence and self-rule.

In a similar sense, these same factors help to determine the means by which the revolutionary struggle will be conducted. Will the revolutionaries take a violent approach? A non-violent one? A mass-based movement of the peasantry, or an elite-based movement of the aristocracy?

Finally, revolutionary ideology and leadership play perhaps the greatest roles in determining the outcomes of revolution. At the heart of every revolutionary struggle is the desire for change; and change is felt by the individuals that participate in the revolution. Peoples? everyday lives are affected by revolution; ideologies are created and charismatic leadership emerges in the name of the people, in order to heed to their demands and exonerate their suffering. Essentially, this is what revolution is all about: the people. In India, the charismatic leadership of Mohandas Gandhi and his impact on the revolution was felt by everyone who participated in the revolution, whether by choice or simply by fate. From speeches he gave urging people to support kadhi or to ignore the salt tax, to the letters he so graciously responded to almost religiously, regardless of topic, the impact of Gandhi on the people of India is undeniable. His revolution touched nearly all of India?s people, from all walks of life.

But people alone do not encompass the entire revolution, nor does the outcome of a revolutionary struggle depend solely on the will of those that fight for it. In the case of India, internal and external factors independent of direct human intervention played a substantial role in the ultimate success that the revolution later achieved. Similarly, additional factors determined the means by which the revolutionary struggle was conducted; in India?s case, these factors led to a non-violent struggle against colonialism. However, the means, the outcome, and the effects of revolution are meaningless without the combination of all three. 

Revolution in general depends on an amalgamation of all three ideas into one initiative that defines the entire revolution; its means, its outcome and its effects. The ultimate success of the revolution in India depended on the integration of internal and external factors, the charismatic leadership of Mohandas Gandhi and the participation of the general population who so ardently followed his word.

By examining internal and external factors, revolutionary struggles become much clearer; shedding light on the means by which the revolution is fought as well as the outcome of the revolution itself. In India, several factors, internal and external, relating to society, politics and the general welfare of the nation, combine to create a revolutionary situation in which non-violence became the primary means for dismantling the old regime.  

Britain had ruled over India from the mid-18th century, and did so through a ?divide-and-rule? strategy. Viceroys were sent to maintain control over certain areas of the country, effectively cutting them off from one another, and even going as far as ruling over them with different sets of laws. India was separated through lingual, religious and economic barriers. When the people of India decided they had had enough of the British influence, this made it nearly impossible for them to unite and form a mass movement that encompassed the entire population. Without mass support, India was doomed from the start, as seen in the failure of the Mutiny of 1857, the first real uprising against British rule.

The Indian population attempted to gather widespread support for the first time in 1885 with the inauguration of the first Indian National Congress. According to Jim Masselos, author of Indian Nationalism, the creation of the Congress was the first significant event in forming a national identity in India. Prior to the Congress?s conception, Indian politics consisted mainly of scattered and dispersed regional organizations, bent on dealing with local matters. Congress, in its initial stages, acted rather timidly, as national politics in general were a new phenomenon in India. However, as time passed and leaders such as Allan Octavian Hume - the ?father of the National Congress? ? emerged, so did the stability and confidence of the Congress. Congress began meeting annually to discuss issues of relevance in both social and political spheres. Each year Congress was held in a different location, further emphasizing the nation-wide aims that the Congress had in mind (Masselos).

Britain?s divide-and-rule strategy alone was not enough to force the revolution onto a non-violent course of action. A major factor contributing to Gandhi?s adoption of non-violence as a revolutionary strategy involved an obscure law that made it unlawful for Indians to be armed. This seemingly simple law contributed heavily to Gandhi?s strategy. Without arms, a violent revolutionary uprising was nearly impossible. Gandhi saw that it would be much easier to engage in a non-violent struggle than attempt to unlawfully arm the country with illegal weapons. In order to gain the mass support needed to uproot such an entrenched regime as the British, a different strategy would have to be taken and Gandhi recognized this.

A third factor contributing significantly to the non-violent struggle was India?s reputation as a society and culture strongly rooted in religion. Gandhi recognized this, and as a devout Hindu himself, adopted a strategy founded on non-violence and compromise that was consistent with his religious beliefs as well as the beliefs of many of his countrymen.

While these factors among others contributed to the strategy of the revolution, a final external factor was mostly responsible for the revolutionary struggle. Britain had controlled India as a colony since the mid-18th century, and during the time period between their initial colonization and the first attempts at revolution, India lost much of its national identity, thanks in part to Britain?s divide-and-rule strategy. The de-industrialization of India at the hands of British exploitation in order to hasten their own industrialization also contributed to India?s lack of national character by the late 1800?s. India struggled in the early stages of nationalism to create an identity for itself that would unite the masses. As noted above, the Mutiny of 1857 was narrowly focused, unorganized, and lacked mass-support due to lack of national unity. The creation of the INC was a step in the right direction for India to successfully create a true national character, unique in its own right. However, the progress the INC had made in its first 30 years of existence began to subside and the congress became divided. India was missing a crucial piece that was needed to continue the revolution.

Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi was able to provide the catalyst necessary for a true, mass-based revolutionary struggle. A combination of the factors mentioned previously led Gandhi to believe that non-violence and the creation of national symbols were the best way to mobilize the decidedly disjointed population. Based on previous experiments with Satyagraha (?Truth-Force?) in South Africa and locally in India, Gandhi was able to formulate a strategy of non-violence as a weapon against the British.  

Similarly, the same factors that contributed to Gandhi?s association of national symbols contributed to mass-mobilization, the impetus for a non-violent struggle. He introduced national symbols such as Khadi (Indian cloth), and salt to the Indian public as a way of uniting the country in a way that avoided any social, political or religious implications.

The combination of internal and external factors forced India into creating a national movement. The Indian National Congress provided the initial spark needed to launch such a movement, and later Mahatma Gandhi would provide the catalyst that helped the movement mature into the mass-based, non-violent struggle that it became. By integrating the many factors involved, Gandhi?s choice seemed almost inevitable, and in the end, proved to be successful.

Many similar factors that contributed to the rise of non-violence as the primary means of struggle contributed to the ultimate successful outcome of the revolution. As defined by Samuel P. Huntington, India?s revolution followed an ?Eastern? model of revolution. Huntington?s Eastern model depended on an extremely strong regime entrenched for a long period of time as the ruling body. Before the regime could be detached, the revolutionary country must first build its national strength (Huntington 40). This is significant because Gandhi spent a sizeable amount of his energy on creating a national identity through the means mentioned earlier. The fact that his efforts worked to create a national identity was a key to the revolutions success.

Perhaps the single biggest factor in determining the final outcome of the revolution was the onset of World War II. By the late 1930?s, India was gaining momentum in their struggle for independence as they built themselves up as a nation and continued Gandhi?s non-violent strategies. When Britain became bogged down in the second Great War, they began to lose their hold on India at the same time as India was gathering strength. Anti-colonialism began to take hold in Europe and America as well as around the globe. Prior to this time period, western culture deemed it okay, even helpful for a ?superior? power to govern a decidedly ?inferior? people. Much of this thought process can be attributed to Charles Darwin and his natural selection / survival of the fittest theories. Later, Herbert Spencer adapted these theories that Darwin applied to nature, into theories that could be applied to society. ?Social Darwinists,? as they were dubbed, adhered to the concept that it was a nation?s duty to govern the less fortunate. The British felt obliged to rule over India if only for their own good. Such was the thoughts of the times (Kishlansky 802). Only later would this thought process be reversed. India?s success set off a revolutionary wave against imperialism, contributing eventually to the liberation of several nations.

With the advent of WWII, Britain ultimately became stretched beyond its means. The military struggle was taking its toll on the British, who no longer had the support of the Indian people in their ranks (Prior to 1900 and also during WWI, many Indians participated in the British military, and even Gandhi himself had a strong influence in recruiting Indian troops). But Winston Churchill, Gandhi?s old adversary, remained adamant about refusing India any concessions: ? ?I have not become the King?s First Minister in order to preside over the liquidation of the British Empire? ? (Arnold 208). However, following the Japanese success in Southeast Asia in 1942, Britain?s hold on India became increasingly weaker with time. Britain desperately needed India for the war effort, and clung tightly to the dwindling support that remained in India: ?The loss of India would have been catastrophic for Britain?s morale and its ability to continue the war in Asia, North Africa and Europe? (Arnold 209). By this time during the war, countries abroad, including the United States and even members of British society became increasingly sympathetic to the Indian cause. Gandhi created a stir in the 1930?s with his Salt Satyagraha and Civil Disobedience movements which gathered worldwide attention. 

Combined with the violent retaliation by the British, Gandhi?s movements grew in popularity across the globe. WWII provided the final blow to the British that eventually led to India?s independence in 1947. Britain?s thinly stretched resources and army combined with increasing dissent in both Britain and abroad ultimately led to Britain?s final concession of Indian independence: ?On June 3 1947, Mountbatten announced that the transfer of power would take place by August 15 1947? (Masselos 223).

Several factors contributed to the eventual independence that India experienced, marking the success of a revolution started nearly 60 years earlier. The entrenchment of the British Crown that led to India?s need to build a nation, based on Huntington?s ?Eastern? model was a key factor in determining the revolutions success. Gandhi?s uncanny ability to create such successful national symbols that united the people and at the same time avoided alienating anyone was key to their success. However, the largest factor in the revolutions success remained the onslaught of WWII combined with the weakening of British power and worldwide sympathy gathered across the globe ultimately were the factors responsible for the revolutions success.

Internal and external factors undoubtedly play a critical role in determining both the means of revolution as well as the outcome of revolutionary struggles. However, human interaction ultimately plays the greatest role in any societal struggle, be it revolutionary or otherwise. India?s successful revolution depended on the people that fought for it. The charismatic leadership provided by Mahatma Gandhi provided a catalyst for mass-mobilization. Gandhi is often credited for India?s success at creating an independent nation and oftentimes the role of the common person is overlooked; yet without the masses and ultimately the individual, no revolution can be successful, regardless of the leadership. Gandhi based his movement largely on non-violence and compromise and emphasized the importance of the individual in the struggle for freedom. Gandhi?s adherence to the individual is reflected in his countless speeches, letters and personal journals throughout the revolutionary struggle. By examining these letters, speeches and personal notes, Gandhi?s revolution becomes clearly centered on the individual and his commitment to appeasing the common man at all costs, by personally imposing his ideologies on them through intimate communication.

Often heralded as Gandhi?s most successful non-violent, non-cooperation movement, the Salt Satyagraha of the 1930?s crystallized the myth of Gandhi and solidified his nickname as the ?Mahatma.? The people of India literally lived and died by his advice; Gandhi was well aware of this fact and was eager to do whatever was necessary to help the revolutionary cause, especially from his leadership standpoint. But the period during the Salt Satyagraha in the 1930?s marked an era in which Gandhi?s communication with his followers was critical to the revolutions success. By this point, the movement was gathering huge momentum, and it reverberated around the globe, touching places as distant as America. Nevertheless, Gandhi remained committed to communicating his ideology and advice at all costs.

Gandhi maintained near God-like power over his people during the imperative stages of the revolution. Prior to the Salt Satyagraha, Gandhi laid out specific plans for what was to occur when he gave the final word to begin action: ?they all may regard this as the word from me that all are free and those who are ready are expected to start mass civil disobedience regarding the salt laws, as from 6th April? (Gandhi Vol. 49, Page 3). He later lays out the plans by which the movement is to follow, defining specific courses of action pertaining especially to non-violence. This is merely a prelude to the personal and minutely detailed communication that Gandhi maintained with the people of India.  

Gandhi was able to maintain constant communication with those more intimately connected to the leadership of the revolution. Gandhi?s subordinates apparently requested his advice on nearly every subject. Responding to a letter from Narandas Gandhi, ?Bapu,? as he often signs his letters, gives explicit instructions on what to do with everything from money and donations to incoming letters, articles and even luggage, yet at the same time gives no indication of ever feeling bothered by these seemingly trivial queries: ?Send money to Krishnadas as and when he asks for it. You need not consult me so long as he asks for Rs. 100 at a time and the total does not exceed Rs. 1,000. If you yourself feel like asking me, you may do so? (Gandhi Vol. 49, Page 19). Gandhi?s incredible patience and compassion shine through in numerous letters such as this and others.

Many cases exist in which an individual ensconced in the revolution struggle appeals to Bapu for advice on how to contribute individually. One such case involves a woman by the name of Anasuyabehn Sarabhai. She apparently had requested a plan of action from Gandhi of how to further help the cause of revolution. Gandhi?s response echoes his ideology once again, that the revolution is an individual struggle, and its success lies in the hands of those who fight for it: ?Shankerlal and you should carefully study the suggestions I have made to the women and if they appeal to you, take up the work. Do not do it because I have suggested it, but consult your own desire. No work once started must be abandoned afterwards? (Gandhi Vol. 49, Page 69).

Perhaps the greatest insight garnered from Gandhi?s extensive collection of personal letters comes in the form of his strict adherence to his ideologies, at all costs. Numerous letters reflect Gandhi?s ultimate ideology of individual struggle and non-violence; however perhaps none more than a letter addressed again to Narandas Gandhi. Seemingly frustrated by the salt tax, Narandas, in his own way trying to contribute to the revolution, asks about smuggling salt. Gandhi?s response once again echoes his already solidified beliefs: ?We cannot smuggle salt even for committing disobedience of the salt law. How can we employ as a means of satyagraha what is in itself wrong?? (Gandhi Vol. 49, page 70). Regardless of the potential success smuggling may have for the revolution, Gandhi remains strict in his ideology, forbidding any such action. In a letter addressed to Bhai Kantiprasad, Bapu offers advice on how this individual can personally contribute to the revolution: ?If there is nothing else you can do, you should at least do khadi work? (Gandhi Vol. 49, page 14). Gandhi is reinforcing khadi as a symbol of national identity while at the same time offering sound advice on how one particular person can contribute to the revolution.

The effects of India?s revolution on the people who participated in it are surprisingly accessible. Personal concerns of those involved in India?s movement for independence clearly shine through in Gandhi?s countless letters. People of all walks of life, including the commoner right up to Gandhi?s fellow leaders were greatly affected by his ideologies and the revolutionary struggle itself. After examining the letters, tremendous insight is garnered into the real effects the revolution had on the individuals who battled in its name.

Revolutionary struggles arise from intense pressure on all aspects of a society; political tension, economic tension, and general dissatisfaction of the population all contribute to the revolutionary situation. By examining numerous factors involving both internal and external conditions, historians are given a clear indication of how a revolutionary struggle is conducted and ultimately whether or not it is successful. But in my opinion, much more is needed to determine the true means of revolution. Factors themselves do not produce ideologies; they do not fight for a cause, they do not die for a cause. Internal and external factors do in fact play a significant role in determining whether or not a revolution will occur and to some extent the means by which a revolution is conducted. However, it is people who ultimately decide the revolutions fate. 

Historians tend to overlook the importance of the individual when analyzing revolution and instead focus too intently on conditions and traditional ?theories? of revolution. Mahatma Gandhi was all too aware of the importance of the individual and based his entire movement on this fact. By adhering to the individuals? concerns, Gandhi was able to create a mass-movement founded on national symbols and individual participation. In the end, Gandhi?s revolution was ultimately successful not due to the numerous internal and external factors surrounding British rule, but instead on the tremendous willpower of his leadership and the individuals who subscribed wholeheartedly to his method and ideologies.

Another Interesting Quote from Another Interesting Musician

"Some balls are held for charity

And some for fancy dress.

But when they're held for pleasure

They're the balls that I like best.

My balls are always bouncing

To the left and to the right.

It's my belief that my big balls

Should be held every night."

-Angus Young, AC/DC

In Sweden, Canada is 'Kanada' and nobody is circumcised

I just watched a Peter Forsberg interview completely in Swedish. I know he's a Swedish guy and all, but he lives in America and now plays (again) for the Colorado Avalanche. It just seemed weird for him to be speaking Swedish.

On a related note, the Swedes spell 'Canada' with a 'K'! For some reason this is immensely satisfying to me. It also raises some questions. Why do other languages spell and pronounce countries differently? Why can't all countries just be spelled in their native languages. America is always 'America', Germany is always 'Deutschland' and Sweden is always 'Sverige.' Why have languages come in and changed everything? And how the hell did we get the word 'Germany' from 'Deutschland' anyway?

Finally, on a completely unrelated note, Dane would fit in marvelously in Sweden! Apparently circumcision is a very American (and Muslim, and Jewish) tradition, and it has definitely not spread to the Nordic countries. Why this conversation came up tonight I do not know, but after some fact-checking on Wiki, I've determined that I'm decidedly in the minority. Maybe it's a warmth issue or something.

Interesting Quotes from Interesting Musicians

"I absolutely feel crazy at times. Anybody who turns on the TV and actually thinks about what they're watching has to believe they're going insane or that they're missing something everyone else is seeing. When I watch the Fox News Channel, I can't believe how much nerve those people have and how they assume that people are just going to swallow that shit. And I find myself thinking that I must be missing something."

-Thom Yorke, Radiohead

"I'm almost scared to say this, but I'm really starting to believe George W. Bush wants to experience the Rapture in his lifetime."

-Jeff Tweedy, Wilco

"You can't go home with the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. You don't sleep with the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. You don't get hugged by the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and you don't have children with the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I want what everybody else wants: to love and to be loved, and to have a family. Being in love has always been the most important thing in my life."

-Billy Joel

At the Weekend

Monotony was starting to set in, so we opened a bottle of wine and sat on the balcony in winter jackets and scarves and we drank. We spoke about the future mostly, and joked about what we must have looked like to the neighbors across the way, had they taken two seconds to look out the window. Our balcony doesn't have the best of views, overlooking a gravel-covered road that doesn't allow cars, and a two-story brick apartment building (identical to ours and the dozen or so others around the complex) provides the dismal backdrop. But if you stared into the sliver of black sky that poked out from under the overhanging roof, you could see the stars through the haze of our frozen breaths, and that's why we sat there.

Choosing red wine seemed like a good idea at first (I always prefer red wine in winter, while in summer it's best to drink wheat beer). As the time passed the wine became too cool, and I wished it had been white instead. We hid the opened bottle inside the closed balcony door to preserve what warmth we could. I've been quietly looking forward to the warmer climes of the Caribbean, and she has been troubling over a decision to switch schools. I spent a large part of my wine recalling old memories of my college classes and just what the Tourism program was like back home. With no resolution, but both feeling alive, we drained the last of our glasses and returned to the warmth of our apartment, and I wished I was outside again.

The next morning I made breakfast for myself and a cup of coffee for the wallpaper man. The house was disassembled, the dining table, couch, chairs, plants and small refrigerator all piled on top of one another in the center of the room ensconced in protective plastic. The man was painting the ceiling a bright white, and he wasn't sloppy. The old wallpaper had been torn down the day before, and the walls were bare, save for vertical white stripes of leftover glue. After attempting a brief conversation in misunderstood Swedish with the wallpaper man, I bounded out the door, my bag stuffed full of what I'd need to spend a day on the streets of Uppsala. I had my laptop, my book (Sterling Hayden's Wanderer), my spiral notebook, my Speedo and goggles (but no towel – I'd regret this), a thermos full of milk, a Ziploc full of muesli, leftover hummus sharing space in an old Tupperware container with some broken pieces of knackebrot, and two containers of whole wheat pasta. I pedaled into town on my newly acquired girls bike with the green frame and blue seat that was six inches too low for me.

My days have been spent exercising, writing, reading, and trying to do interesting things so that I have something interesting to write about. I sat down in a small café, Café Linne, my favorite spot in Uppsala to have a cup of coffee, but since I stopped drinking coffee this week I had a cup of tea. The cups they serve tea in are enormous, and I'd pee about six times that day, and it became very difficult to focus on a cohesive essay when I constantly had the urge to relieve myself. I got through editing an essay I planned on sending to a magazine. Then I focused on a few blog entries, drank some more tea, peed a few more times, and headed to the library where I devoured every word of a recent Spinsheet magazine, "researching."

I was in a wine mood that evening. I returned smelling like Chlorine because I didn't shower with soap after swimming in the pool. 2000 solid meters of training interspersed with tips on my form as she swam circles around me, and I became frustrated. I'm fitter than most, so why am I so freaking slow in the pool? The apartment resembled something like normalcy, save for the pile of crap that remained in the center of the living room. The plastic was gone, and the walls now glowed a soft lime green, which was supposed to be striped and grey but the wallpaper man couldn't follow directions. I organized the place, even going as far as re-installing the psychedelic curtains and watering the plants. Our blue couch does not match the green walls.

Since I was supposed to meet her for a drink after work, I opened a bottle of wine. It was cheap and Italian and tasted cheap but didn't taste Italian. I drank the whole bottle and then got on my bike again, feeling like a superhero, and rode into town faster than I ever had before, my scarf trailing heroically in the breeze behind me. Toward the castle I flew, and I descended upon the town, where she waited for me on the bridge. We turned a corner and crossed under an ancient iron gate into an enclosed yard filled with large oak trees. The pub was down the cement steps of an old basement, and the entrance was two steel doors set at a 45-degree angle, opened towards the sky, the kind that hid the entrance to your best friends basement where you'd go to hide and play army with nerf crossbows. They asked me for my ID, to which I obliged, and they did not ask for a cover fee. We emerged into a small room with brick walls that gently curved inwards and formed the arched ceiling, low enough that I had to duck in places. Small alcoves with protective iron grates on either side of the room housed candles that provided the light and the ambience. Nirvana's Unplugged in New York played loud enough to hear, but soft enough to enjoy, and my 5^th glass of wine tasted remarkable.

She worked again the following morning, but not too early, and we enjoyed an enormous breakfast together. My mind was submerged in fog, but I was not hung-over, and I set out before her, bag packed again, but this time for fun and not work. The bus to Stockholm was to leave at 10:40am, and I only left the apartment at about 10:33, nervously walk-running to the stop where I met her friend Karin, pronounced Car-in. We made small talk about Sweden and traveling and tea, and once we hit the open road I dove into my book and didn't emerge until well within the city limits. My astounding sense of direction was of no use when we got off the bus, because I did not know the destination. I was at the mercy of Karin, and resigned to the role of follower as we rode the escalator downhill.

She finally showed up about six hours later as I was making dinner for us all. The first glass of wine evaporated the fog in my brain, and the second only made me sleepy. The third heightened my senses, and the fourth put my in a decidedly cheerful mood. I ate far more than I should have on Saturday evening, including an entire steak, a large fillet of salmon, two football-sized baked potatoes drowning in olive oil, grilled Portobello mushrooms, zucchini and a salad. I topped it all off with a chocolate-filled banana that spent 10 minutes melting in the oven and about one minute melting in my mouth.

We rode the train back to Uppsala because I love riding the train in Europe, a method of travel that somehow went the way of the covered wagon in America. I began the journey reading my book, and writing my own story in my head. My mind speeds along with words and sentences, yet I struggle to put them on paper. Every waking hour I spend rehashing my life and trying to figure out how to make it sound interesting when the stories flood the pages in my head. In a moment of clarity I immediately put down my book and spent the duration of the train trip staring out the window and watching the scenery go by. I experienced the present and at that moment detached my brain from it's longing of the past and restrained it from speeding into the future.

I decided then to start doing things worth writing about. I thought to myself, if I want to write a book about my life someday, now is the time to fill the pages with experience. The writing will be easy then.

The scenery drifted by, and my right arm supported my head, while she stroked the forearm of my left with her soft fingers. She has hands that are difficult to describe, but are the first thing I noticed about her long ago. Hands were the first things I noticed about every girl I've ever laid a curious eye on, and if they were not right, the girl was immediately dismissed. Her hands were right. When we met, they were athletic but unmistakably feminine, and they were perfectly proportioned, the knuckles not too big but not too small either, and when she nonchalantly rested a hand on a knee, they assumed an aesthetically pleasing form that I usually associate with boats and cars and mountains. The only other person with hands as perfect as hers that I've ever met was my high school gym teacher, but she was a foot shorter than me.

Most of the way we saw farmland and horse racing tracks and green forests with grey rocks in them and no snow and it could have been Berks County but no, it was Sweden. The train stopped and we got off and we walked the few miles back towards our apartment. I rode the one bike we had between us while she sat on the back, her hands securely around my waist. We waited until we were on the bike path though, so the police wouldn't catch us like they did two weeks ago when I pedaled, drunk, into town to see a band. Then we got home, she went to work, and I commenced reading, then writing some. I tried to fix myself a hot drink with rum and fresh squeezed orange juice, because alcohol always makes me write better and we were out of wine, but it tasted terrible so I poured it in the sink. Darkness had settled in long ago, and the hour approached 10:00pm. I read what I had written, and I was pleasantly surprised by the words like I always am after completing an essay, and then I wanted to go outside in the dark and run, because I wanted to have something more to write about later, but I couldn't. 

Work in Progress

Don't know where this is going yet, but I think it's my best. 

"We need to get some more beer."

"What?"

"More beer. We need more beer."

"Right. I'm on it."

Joji sprang to his feet and resumed walking as if he'd been standing all along. The rest of us remained seated, cross-legged on the ground, in what was supposed to be a circle, but by now resembled something more like an amoeba.

I was tired from the long afternoon. And more than a little drunk. But it was the kind of 'satisfied' tired that one only gets from an afternoon so inherently enjoyable that you can sink into yourself in the evening and simply relish the feeling of being tired, when the world is right with itself and nothing matters except the dirt upon which you sit and the people with whom you converse.

Joji soon returned, though 'soon' is a relative word. For all I know it could have been 3 minutes or 3 days; in fact, it didn't matter. Time didn't matter to the rest of them either. 'Now' was all that existed, all that was ever to exist in my current state of mind, as well as in theirs.

"Down the hatch!"

I gulp a glass of beer, which is small for a glass but rather large for a gulp. The men to my left and to my right are nameless, but they are cheerful, and so my soul is at ease. I pass the glass to the man on my right, who sits cross-legged, though comfortably, in the grass beneath a coconut tree. I am also sitting cross-legged, though rather uncomfortably. This fact is apparent to my companions, and they laugh as I awkwardly contort myself so as to keep the blood flowing to my feet. The gulping continues.

The glass has nearly circumnavigated the circle, and now resides in the sinewy hand of my leftern neighbor. He tells me his name is Joji, and initially I think he says "George." I even record this in my journal. One of his companions, whom I later learn is his cousin, dutifully pops open the aluminum cap of another Fiji Bitter, and the revelry can resume.

Three hours pass in the waking world; we change locations. The scene is similar now, simultaneously more civilized and more barbaric. We sit, for real this time, on stools surrounding a round wooden table. The bartender dutifully uncaps another round of Fiji Bitter, and the revelry can resume.

There is no gulping this time, and I take advantage. My friends have done this before; I'm merely a novice. I cannot keep up. The room is a foggy memory, yet I experience it in the present. Somehow I find the safety of a comfortable bed.

…

The roosters are at it again. It's pitch dark outside, but for some reason they feel the need to discuss the matter of morning, and rather raucously. Lying in my bed, the ceiling looks like it belongs in a Swiss ski chalet, not a hostel in the South Pacific. I continue to have similar thoughts as I wait for the sun to break the horizon.

It's only 6 o'clock, and there is not much to do at that hour. Though my room could cater for 4-5 people, I remain alone. In the silence of dawn, my thoughts are friendly and deafening.

It's chilly but clammy at that hour of the morning, and the sky is a hundred different shades of grey, but it's not raining. The atmosphere is playing tricks on me…I feel cool enough to wear my jacket, yet immediately after I begin walking, I'm drenched with sweat and the humidity is stifling. I think about taking my jacket back to the room, and then I keep walking.

...

The atmosphere is close, it's damp. I know my destination, and I don't know what waits for me. I nearly turn around, anxious with thoughts of what lies ahead, afraid to face the young girl whom I'd met the day before, before I transcended with my friends and Fiji Bitter. She was extraordinarily friendly, and her name was Teresa. I remember this fact immediately, and do not have to consult my journal. I stumbled upon her and her friends one day prior while ambling up the beach that overlooks Beqa Lagoon. Beqa Island sits on the horizon. 

I shouldn't be afraid. She welcomed me as a friend. We played volleyball and watched kids doing front flips into the ocean. 

Triathlon Training and Bicycle Racing

This one is for me. I guarantee nobody who reads my blog is going to really care about this entry, so skip if you like.

Since I?ve accepted the reality that I?m not going to be working until I return home, I?ve needed to occupy myself with something productive. There are about 14 weeks until the defense of my 20-24 Age Group title at the Black Bear Half Ironman triathlon up in the Poconos. I?m going to make the most of them, and try to get in really good shape in time for the event. Last year I finished in something like 5:45:00. This year I want to break 5 hours.

I found an excellent 20-week training plan for a half event online, catered to novice triathletes like myself who have a good base of fitness, and want to improve. I?ve decided to cut out the first 5 weeks, since they are mostly base training anyway, and I?m already exceeding the workout times and intensities of those few weeks. It?s been really nice to have a plan to stick to, knowing everyday what to expect from a workout, from time and mileage down to perceived exertion. The workouts average about 90 minutes a day, and usually include two or more disciplines. For example, today I?ll swim about 2000 metres and then bike for 45 minutes on the trainer.

Yesterday I ran an out-and-back course, running a negative split, meaning the ?back? portion of the run should be faster than the ?out.? Feeling fantastic after running an easy pace of RPE 2-3 (on a scale of 0-10) on the way out, I blasted home in 24 minutes and had to have been running faster than I ever have before, knocking a full seven minutes off of my ?out? time of 36 minutes. It was one of the best workouts I?ve ever had, and I felt fresh and springy afterwards.

Tomorrow I?m off, which is good because Mia and I are going to Stockholm to our third roommate Johanna?s house to have a good old-fashioned American BBQ, with yours truly as the chef. A bunch of their friends are coming over, so I?ll be surrounded by about 8 Swedish girls?tough life, right?

On another note, the Tour of California began on Sunday, with the deciding stage coming today, a 15-mile time trial that should determine the overall winner. This is cycling?s biggest race of the early season, and by far the biggest race on American turf. Only in it?s third iteration, it?s already attracting the best teams and the best riders from around the world, and is quickly becoming a marquee event on the pro calendar, only a notch beneath the Grand Tours of Europe. Last year American Levi Leipheimer, who was once a minion for Lance, won the overall and is looking to defend his title again this year, grabbing the yellow jersey after a demanding Stage 3 in the mountains.

Stage races almost always come down to the best climbers and the best time-trialists. On flat roads, nearly everyone is equal, and though the sprinters ultimately get the stage win, they never put any time into the peloton because everyone arrives at the finish more or less at the same time, and whoever can jump off the front in the last 200 metres wins the race. Climbing stages, however, are a different animal. The lighest, fittest riders can make it up and over the mountains much faster than the sprinters, and can effectively put several minutes into the weaker climbers. On the biggest mountain climb of Stage 3, Levi and an elite group of the best climbers hammered up the slopes and put a huge gap into the rest of the peloton. Levi and another Dutch rider shot off the front alone, crossing the finish line a full 4 minute ahead of the main pack.

So after stage three, only 5 riders remain within striking distance of the jersey. They also happen to be some of the best time-trialists in the world, including reigning two-time world champ Fabian Cancellara, who sits only 30-odd seconds back of Levi. After a flat Stage 4 in which the main peloton should cross the line at more or less the same time, not affecting the overall standings, it will come down to who can beat the clock in Stage 5. Levi is one of the best in the world against the clock, winning the final Time Trial is last year?s Tour de France. But Cancellara is fitter this year, and should be a major threat. In fact, he?s not known as a climber at all, but managed to stay in the front group in Stage 3, stunning Levi and the front-runners, giving himself a shot to win the overall with a big ride today.

Which brings me to another issue. Cycling is an interesting sport in the way the races are handled. There is the Pro Tour, which is sort of like the PGA Tour of cycling, and includes many of the major races in Europe, and a handful elsewhere around the world. All of the biggest and best teams are ?Pro Tour? teams, much like a football team is a member of the NFL. So the Pro Tour races therefore get the best teams and the best riders and are the biggest races.

However, the UCI, which governs the Pro Tour, has been at war with the organizers of the Grand Tours like the Tour de France, Giro di Italia, and Vuelta y Espana, over matters of anti-doping. Subsequently, they?ve pulled these races, the biggest in all of cycling, out of the Pro Tour calendar, and are now running them as independent races, and may invite whichever teams they choose, Pro Tour or not. In a world without doping, this would be ok?they?d invite the best teams with the best riders anyway. But that?s not the case, and this year?s Tour de France, among other big races, will not see Alberto Contador defend his title because ASO, organizers of the Tour, declined to invite his team, Astana.

Astana is a Kazakh team, sponsored by Kazakh companies and the government. In 2006 and 2007, they were mired in doping problems and were kicked out of the Tour both years because of that. Last year, Lance?s former Discovery Channel Team won the Tour with Contador for an 8th time under director Johan Bruyneel. The team also included Levi, who placed third, and was undoubtedly the most powerful team in the peloton (again), even without Lance. Discovery did not renew their sponsorship of the team last year and they folded. Suddenly, Johan, Contador, Leipheimer and the rest of the Tour de France-winning team was out of work.

Enter Astana. Looking to shake things up and create a clean team, they hired Bruyneel as their new director. He subsequently fired everyone else on the staff, including most of the riders, and hired basically everyone from his former Discovery Team, including Contador, Levi and Andreas Kloden, another Tour favorite. So now Astana is under new management, with a new roster, new bike sponsorship (Trek, of course), pretty much new everything. They have 3 legitimate Tour contenders in Kloden, Levi and Contador, and without question the best supporting cast of any Pro Tour team. Problem is, the Pro Tour no longer regulates the Tour, so Astana got snubbed.

ASO, the organizing body of the Tour, reasoned that with Astana?s past doping history and disruption of the Tour in recent years, they didn?t deserve to come back. Fair enough. But the only thing that remains from the old team is the name of the sponsor. They have even implemented external doping controls for the entire team, spending over $1 million this season alone to make sure their riders are clean.

Furthermore, ASO did not snub other teams mired in scandal, including Rabobank who fired Michael Rasmussen for suspected doping during the last week of the Tour, who was poised to win the whole thing, wearing the yellow jersey when he got the boot. ASO is under enormous criticism from the American cycling media to let Astana in the Tour, and Levi even launched a campaign called ?Let Levi Ride? with a website, t-shirts and stickers.

Interestingly, in France, the decision to boot Astana has received praise, simultaneously giving the Americans another reason to hate France. They see it as a good thing, whereas the rest of the world sees it as an enormous debacle, something that could ruin the Tour. Riders from other teams are already threatening to boycott the Tour altogether if Astana cannot ride. The peloton wants to ride against the best, and there is no sense in winning if the favorites are sitting on the sidelines. It?d be like the Master?s not letting Tiger play?who wants to win if they don?t have a chance to beat the best in the world?

Similarly, the fans are already boycotting the Tour. Nobody, myself included, wants to watch a bunch of second-rate riders duke it out on the slopes of the Alps and Pyrenees without the likes of Levi, Contador and Astana leading the charge. It will be an enormous shame if this ends up killing the Tour. I don?t think it will, and I still have a feeling that ASO will reverse their decision as the pressure mounts, especially if Levi can win in California, proving that his Astana squad is the best in the business. That said, if the decision does kill the tour, it might end up turning the Tour of California or another yet-to-happen Grand Tour in the US into the marquee cycling event of the future. It?s going to be interesting to see how it all plays out.

Eventually, I will become this man...

If I were rich enough to endow a prize to the sensible traveler: $10,000 for the first man to cover Marco Polo's outward route reading three fresh books a week, and another $10,000 if he drinks a bottle of wine a day as well. That man might tell one something about the journey. He  may or may not be naturally observant. But at least he would use what eyes he had...

-Robert Byron.

This is my favorite travel quote. I love the part about reading books and drinking a bottle of wine everyday. I already do that.

Interestingly, I received the book Marco Polo’s Travels from a college professor at Penn State. I did exceptionally well on an exam in my tourism class, and the professor, a Portuguese fellow, wrote a nice note on the inside cover wishing me luck in my own travels. I still haven’t gotten through the book. I will one of these days.

Time is running short in Sweden. After being abroad for nearly three months now, it’s suddenly nearly time to return. I’m already regretting the things I didn’t do, while enjoying the memories of the things I have done. But one month still remains, and much can be experienced in that short time. I’m finally out of my rut, finally out doing and experiencing things. It’s so easy to be lazy and disgruntled about your situation, but when you finally step outside and make a real attempt to experience the world, it’s amazing how quickly your attitude can change. Fuck that mood changing like the wind business - time is what you make of it, and I have the power to control my mood, I just have to do it.

I’m writing this from a café in Uppsala, one I’ve never been to before. It’s called ‘Café Cappuccino.’ Not a very original name, but atmospheric nonetheless. I chose it because there are large picture windows framing the people outside as they walk and bike by on the street. Lots of light shines through these windows, and it’s a beautiful day outside today, much too warm for February in the far north.

Mia’s dad brought me a new bike the other day. Not new, but new to me. My green machine got two flat tires in a span of about 2 hours, and the wheels are rusty and shot, so in the dumpster it went. Now I have a nice little green girl’s bike, with a lovely swooping frame, big brown saddle, and silver fenders. It’s about 4 sizes too small for me, and my knees nearly rub the handlebars when I pedal. I look ridiculous on the thing. It’s much better than walking.

Renewed Vigor

My mood changes like the wind, and tonight it's blowing fair astern, and spirits are high. Luckily, I don't let myself sink too far in the lows, and I've re-committed myself, not to finding work, but to finding happiness, whatever that entails. 

I have a page from a magazine that I tore out hanging above my desk. It's an advertisement for the Lance Armstrong Foundation. The background is all yellow, and in the center there is a photo of Lance after completing the 2007 New York Marathon (in 2:45 by the way), obviously spent from the effort, gingerly removing his sunglasses and shuffling towards the camera. Under the photo it reads: "Whatever your 100% looks  like, give it." It's a nice reminder and motivator of what I value in life, and if I'm going to sit around on my ass all day giving about 7%, then I deserve to be miserable.

Focus. That's the problem. That's been my problem ever since middle school when I had the nice little meeting with all of my teachers, the principal and the guidance counselor after receiving my first ever 'C' in Ms. Huntzinger's English class. I still think it was undeserved, but they had a point. When I get my mind set on something, it happens, no matter what. I just need to figure out what I'm going to set my mind on at the moment, and not let myself get lazy and distracted.

This is going to sound silly, but I registered for the Black Bear Half Ironman triathlon a few weeks ago. It's June 1, about 15 weeks away. I raced in it last year, winning my 20-24 age group in the inaugural event. I want to win it again this year, my last year to race in the younger age group, my last real chance, without sacrificing my entire life, to do well before entering the 25-29 age group with the big boys. But if I really want to win, I need to get off my ass and start training for it. My 'base' fitness is probably better than it was last year at this time, but I've been dogging it lately, exercising just to be able to tick off an hour here and there and get it over with. Granted, I can go out and run 12 miles no problem, but I'm not pushing myself like I used to. If 12 miles is easy, run 15. I used to take this attitude, and I still profess to, but I need to start acting it out, and I will.

I like to write about life a lot. I need to start taking my own advice. How can I sit here and talk about dreams and goals when I'm not pursuing my own 100%? To have any credibility I need to start living the life I write about. I am, to an extent, but I'm being lazy about it. I'm halfway there. I have enormous potential to do great things, and the longer I sit around and wait for good things to happen, the sooner I'll find that time has passed me by and I'll have fallen victim to 'life' like everyone else. 

I'm taking the good with the bad. This morning was a down moment for me, and I didn't feel like doing anything except sitting on the couch eating popcorn and watching Kill Bill, which is exactly what I did. I'm glad I can recognize my negative attitudes and force myself out of them. The future is limitless. I'll test the limits. Stay tuned.

Existence

A man approaches me, wearing a royal blue coat with a white stripe running lengthwise across his back, from one wrist to the other. He strides confidently, his brown leather shoes guiding him with utmost precision over the smooth tiles of the underground. I glance away, not wanting to appear suspicious. I notice he is carrying a black leather briefcase, for what purpose I am not sure. I tell my subconscious to remember this moment.

The underground station was painted, depressingly colorful. A rainbow of yellow, green, blue and finally purple stretched the length of the tube, above the tracks. I remained in the exact same position I'd been in when the blue-coated man crossed in front of me. My feet hadn't moved an inch, and my body remained motionless, save for the reflex of breathing. I was disoriented this far underground, my usually reliable inner compass bewildered, threatened by the artificial light and the unnatural wind. Usually I'm very adept at finding my way around, especially at finding my way home, wherever that may be, but not here. My instincts were confused, and I was forced to rely on unintelligible maps and diagrams, of which I understood little.

The waitress speaks English. I'm the only person in the café, but she doesn't seem to mind. Well, I am now. A few moments ago a group of friendly looking middle agers had just gotten up, evidently satisfied with their beers, their coffees, their meals, whatever it was they were indulging in. I hadn't noticed. I'm having difficulty with the candle on the table. Set in interestingly molded, colorful clay (though probably purchased from a department store), the single flame on a rather large table continues to lick the tips of my fingers, reminding me of its presence. Luckily it's only my fingers. I should have probably blown out that flame straight away, but I rather enjoyed its ambience.

Outside the earth continues it's everlasting march around the sun, shrugging aside the last glow of daylight, ushering in the darkness. Lights are turned on across the city, landmarks illuminated so the tourists can take their photos and bask in their personal glory of another destination checked off the list, another photo framed with history. I sit, subconsciously aware of my surroundings, questioning my motives for being in this place at this exact moment in time. A glass sits to my right, deep red and nearly opaque, my motivation to create. I take the last sip, the English-speaking waitress appears right on time, and I motion for another.

'Smokin' cigarettes and watchin' Captain Kangaroo.'

Later this evening I will leave the café. It will close at 10pm, and I will be forced to move on. I know this, because I've been here before. This café has become my haven, my place of solitude in a city slowly destroying itself at the hand of the almighty dollar. I'm a cancer and a victim at the same time. The café would not exist if not for people like me, yet I enjoy it's atmosphere to escape these people. When the bill comes, I will pay the exorbitantly high price offered only to tourists like myself, but I will feel satisfied that I've found a place off-the-beaten path, devoid of the tourists I try to escape. I will pass along the 'secret' knowledge of this café to others like me, letting them in on my little secret. Unknowingly yet completely aware, I will contribute to the destruction of a city, a culture, an idea.

The traveler seeks adventure, seeks the unknown, seeks the authentic. The traveler is inherently mistrusting of every other traveler, wanting to keep secrets to himself, refusing to share the most coveted places, the most exciting experiences. The traveler seeks only for himself, selfishly satisfied with his own discoveries. He returns to the real world and regales his friends with enchanting tales of strange lands and stranger people. He is not one, but a culmination of all travelers, yet believing that his experiences are unique, that he has sought and found authenticity which others shall never experience. He holds this above others, immensely proud of himself for 'going against the flow' and creating his own unique adventures.

The traveler seeks unique cultures, wants to experience rituals no other has ever experienced in far-off, mystical lands. But when does culture become commodity? When do the norms of a distant culture become theatre? The moment the traveler experiences a strange culture in a strange place solely for his amusement, that culture ceases to exist. It has become an act, a play instead of a ritual. The curiosity that every traveler carries as his most important baggage, destroys that which he restlessly seeks.

I stand motionless, feet shoulder-width apart, just shy of touching the yellow line. Six minutes and thirty-seven seconds have passed since the last train disappeared into oblivion. Another should be approaching soon. It's surprisingly cold this far under the earth's surface; my skin shrinks at the slightest draft. Three young girls giggle on my left. Life continues, unconcerned with my presence. I enjoy watching.  

'Royale w/ Cheese'

Listening to the Pulp Fiction soundtrack right now. John Travolta and Sam L. are discussing the metric system and how it relates to hamburgers. I'll have to make it a point to check out a McDonald's and see if they really do call it a 'Royale w/ Cheese.' 

Unique to university life Sweden, and Uppsala specifically, are the student unions, otherwise known as 'nations.' Started as long ago as the 1400's (which is simply mind-boggling to me, considering the US as a nation is only half that old), these 'nations' represent 13 different regions in Sweden, kind of like our 'states.' There's Kalmar Nation (south of Sweden), Upplands Nation (where we are now), Stockholm Nation, Goteburg Nation, etc. In their original form, wherever you hailed from was the nation you belonged to. Nowadays, students can belong to any nation they choose, but they still maintain the regional names.

The genius of these nations are the benefits to the students. They all include a pub, restaurant, library, computer lab, etc. All the things student's inevitably can't live without. And they occupy the most unique, oldest buildings in town; after all, Uppsala was originally founded as a university town, the rest of the city springing up around it. 

Nightly, each nation offers different promotions at the pubs. And these are real pubs, not some makeshift bar in the basement of an old building. Upplands Nation, where we went last night, has like 50 beers on hand, including several microbrews from the US like Victory, Brooklyn Brewery and Anchor Steam. Regardless of when you attend, prices are ridiculously cheap - 37 Swedish Crowns for a pint of draft Guiness, which is about $3. The nations give the students 13 additional, cheaper options for nightlife, and only let in students. I had to get a temp. student ID, and luckily my PSU ID never expired. Last weekend we saw a major Swedish band in another nation for like $10 per person, in a unique, intimate venue. It seems like such a no-brainer...how come all university's don't have these.

And they're decidedly anti-fraternity. Trust me, I wouldn't be caught dead in one if they were anything remotely like a frat house, and that is simply not the case. But it's a cool alternative to the expensive 'real' bars in town. 

The Evolution of a Dream

In my mind, a goal is not a goal unless you tell someone else. An athlete or movie star or someone like Arnold said something along these lines, I just can't remember who. 

Too many goals go unspoken in our minds and never reach the light of day. Sometimes the enormity of a goal and the difficulty it takes to achieve it, force us to never really make the effort in the first place, and it's easy to relegate a dream to the recesses of your own mind. But by announcing your dreams and goals to the world, one becomes accountable to others, not just oneself. In a way, broadcasting your imagined future inherently helps turn dreams into reality.

In the past, I've created simple lists of things I wanted to achieve in my life. These lists were just words on a piece of paper, with no plan of action, just a record of what I happened to be dreaming about on any particular day. Often I'd forget entirely about these lists I'd make, only recalling that I'd written them when I peruse through old notebooks and journals. Strangely, most of the dreams I'd assumed I'd forgotten had actually become reality. So somewhere in the subconscious of my brain, that list remained, and slowly I checked off the goals, one by one.

Some of these included traveling. Some were athletic goals, like completing my first triathlon. Some were just general, like continuing a healthy lifestyle. For the most part, they were attainable, and attain them I did. 

This time I'm going to try an new experiment. This will be the first public forum in which I announce my latest dream, and it will be in two parts, sort of. The first part is the goal, and the second part is a secondary goal, which I hope will help me achieve the first one.

Before I'm 30, I will begin sailing around the world. Ambitious? Maybe. Unrealistic? Absolutely not. Luckily, Mia is gung-ho about this idea, so I got that covered. But the second part of this idea, and a way in which I hope to facilitate it, is to write about the adventure. For the time being, I will write in my blog, continuing to update my progress towards achieving my dreams, among other topics. But my big idea is to convince someone to publish a series of articles chronicling the progress of my dreams. 

Countless books and how-to articles have been written after-the-fact, with the advantage of hindsight. Most of the time, setbacks as well as achievements are unrealistically dramatized. I often get the feeling that even though I'm reading about the fruition of someone else's dreams, they still seem very far out of reach. The writing is too removed from the state of mind the person must have been in during the actual process of creating and seeing through a dream. The stories are too abstract, too out-of-touch with the writer's feelings in-the-moment. Inevitably upon completion of a such a lofty aspiration like climbing Mt. Everest, sailing around the world, or running 350 miles in one stretch, people change, and these stories are written from the perspective of that changed person. Of course they are usually very inspiring, but they are not very practical. The hardships are often glazed over as a minor bump in the road, as they may well be looking back, and so are the incredible milestones. 

My idea is to write from the perspective of someone in the process of creating a future for themselves, to chronicle the actual events leading up to and beyond the completing of a dream, starting from the actual hatching of the idea (which would be now). Of course this could never be a daily, weekly or even monthly column. This must be long-term, maybe 4-5 insightful articles in a year. Interspersed could be stories of the past, events that planted the seed for my dreams long ago before I ever had any conscious notion of these ideas whatsoever. Because ultimately out past shapes our future, and we ride it all out right here in the present.

So now that it's been officially announced, I am not only accountable to my own conscience, but to anyone who comes across this story and reads and understands it. I not only owe it to myself to see this through, but I owe it now to friends and family and the occasional stranger that comes along to check out my musings. And hopefully, I'll owe it to the readers of whatever publication I can convince to run this idea, and in turn, inspire others to think like I do. Follow along...it'll be an enlightening experience for us all.

 

'Freewill'

'You can choose a ready guide 

in some celestial voice.

If you choose not to decide, 

you still have made a choice.

You can choose from phantom fears 

and kindness that can kill. 

I will choose a purpose clear

I will choose free will.'

Ah, the timeless words of Geddy Lee. Those north of the border know him as one of Canada's greatest exports, next hockey and Labatt Blue. The rest of us know him as that guy in that band that sounds like a chick. 

For some reason, Rush's 'Free Will' song came to mind as a clever way to introduce this post. Lately I've been struggling with what has been the most difficult decision of my entire life. It shouldn't have been, in retrospect, but over the past few weeks my mind has endlessly mulled over every possible scenario, trying to find the best result. 

I guess from an outside perspective, I should envy myself for having to make this decision in the first place...go to the Caribbean and work as skipper of a sailboat for 3 months, or go to Annapolis and work as a crewmember and live on a sailboat for the summer. Tough choice right? In a vacuum I would choose the Caribbean in a heartbeat. Alas, life is not lived in a vacuum (all of our eyes would pop out of our heads!) and people and circumstances inevitably make simple choices so much more complicated.

Back in Prague, I decided to decline an offer I'd received to skipper a boat in the Caribbean for the summer, with a teen summer camp called Broadreach. I had pumped myself up about actually going there, and then, seemingly out of nowhere, I abruptly changed my mind. I actually declined on the phone, during the same conversation that was supposed to sort out my hiring details. 

At the time I was happy with the decision. I became excited to return to Annapolis, live on the 'Sojourner' and enjoy the life I'd created for myself over the past two years there. But something changed, and my mind grew restless and confused. I was second-guessing myself, worried that'd I'd taken the easy way out. Like in Seinfeld when Jerry lectures Banya on eating soup at Mendy's: 'We can eat at Mendy's and you can get the soup you know you like...or we can eat somewhere else, and it might be good, and it might be bad, but YOU DON'T KNOW!' 

Well, I didn't know what the soup would taste like in St. Martin, and I still don't know. But 5 minutes ago, I ordered a bowl of it. I took a leap of faith, followed my intuition, and signed on to be a skipper for Broadreach. I'm lucky to even have the opportunity after initially declining the offer. It turns out I was the company's first choice to hire as a skipper, and they enthusiastically welcomed my return, despite my initial indecision.

I wrote the commitment email this morning around 10am Sweden time. I didn't send it until 5:30pm this evening. My mind has been doing backflips for the past two weeks trying to wrap itself around this decision. Again, in a vacuum I'd take the Broadreach offer without a second thought. But I couldn't help considering the other people involved in this decision. It means another 3 months away from my family. Another 3 months away from hanging out with my sister, inviting her and her friends to come sailing on the Bay while they're off from school. 3 months of not being able to visit my grandparents, who's presence, strangely, I feel I've missed more than anyone else. It means 3 months away from Deb, Shorty, Ed and the guys at Sarles Marina, my seasonal home. It means 3 months away from the 'Woodwind' family, from enjoying crewing on the Bay, serving beers, match racing, training new crew, the possibility of maybe captaining a few trips here and there. And it also means two months of having Mia live on 'Sojourner' sacrificed. 

That was the toughest part. I robbed her of her only opportunity to experience living aboard in Annapolis, my favorite of all towns. She is trapped by having to go to school from September to June every year, and that small time in the summer was her only chance to experience, for the second time, my life at home. I wrestled with this thought the most, and simply could not come to grips with letting her miss out on this, but also couldn't accept letting myself miss out on the opportunity in the Caribbean. So I talked to her about it.

Last night, we stayed up until 2am, and had perhaps the most cleansing, mind-clearing conversation I've ever had with anyone. I nearly feel asleep,  no better off than I'd be yesterday afternoon, bitter with being in Sweden and sacrificing my life to be with Mia, and frustrated over not being able to follow my dreams in the summer. And then Mia asked me if I felt like I was myself since I arrived in Sweden. I haven't been, in the slightest bit, and this prompted the resulting conversation.

We talked about life, and the sacrifices we each had to make in order to maintain this unusual relationship and lifestyle. Neither of us like to compromise. Inevitably we'd have to if this was going to work. And finally I was able to tell her what I really wanted to tell her. I don't know what's in store for me in Sweden, but I know that to pursue my dreams as a sailor, this is not exactly the ideal place to do that. And I miss my family, and I miss my friends. I made an enormous sacrifice coming here in the first place, which Mia acknowledged. I told her, finally, that all I really wanted was to be able to go home in April, guilt free, and return in November, enjoying the full summer in Annapolis, and maximizing my time with my friends and pursuing my career. I don't know why it was so difficult to tell her this in the first place, but once I did, and she agreed with me, an enormous weight was lifted off of my shoulders. It was that easy. My bitterness and negativity evaporated almost immediately, and I had trouble falling asleep, not because of doubt, but because of excitement about the possibilities that existed knowing I had the support of the most beautiful woman on the planet behind me, even if that meant not seeing her for a longer time this summer. I realized that a happy Andy for 7-8 months out of the year is a much better alternative than an unhappy Andy for 9-12 months a year, and Mia understood this 100%.

Every major decision I've ever had to make in my life has come from within, and has never relied on circumstances or logic. The best example I can think of was my decision to switch from Spanish class to German class in 9th grade. I had zero logical reasons to switch classes 4 weeks into my high school career. I simply felt that it was the right thing to do. Dane Miller could not stop telling me how amazing Herr K was as a teacher. I didn't dislike the Spanish teacher, and I even had an 'A' in the class, but something was telling me to change. So I went to the guidance counselor, who made our schedules, and told him my problem. The administration at school was somewhat perplexed, wondering why I wanted to change, and I didn't really have a reason, other than that it felt 'right.' Miraculously, they let me. Herr K did not make the change easy on me. I was goaded as the 'Spanish student', and forced to sit in the front of the class next to Helmut (Dane) and was constantly harassed. Three years later, I became the second person to exempt Herr K's hellacious German 3 final. The other person was Brandon Miller, the wunderkind who got a 1600 on his SAT's. I made sure to show up in class the day of the final anyway, just to remind everyone that I didn't have to take the test. A year later I was awarded the SV Foreign Language Award, for being the best foreign language student in my graduating class, in any language. 

But the real benefit from switching classes was the life lessons I learned in Herr K's class. As the students dwindled in numbers, us devotees simply smiled. We 'got' Herr K, and we cherished his lessons. I can say with confidence that he is only slightly less responsible for my current life situation and my dreams than myself. His class had so much of an impact on me that I can recall minute details to this day.

Similar forces were at work when I ultimately decided to return to Broadreach today. I wrote a post a while back, after the 2007 Schooner Race, about how I felt like I needed to go to Morocco because in the span of 3 days I encountered like 5 different references to the place in eery fashion. A  similar thing happened in the last two days regarding the Broadreach  decision, and I refuse to believe that they were merely coincidences.

I was seriously considering contacting Broadreach about reneging on my refusal, and had even sent an email to the hiring director to see if they still needed skippers and if they still wanted me. That was almost immediately answered with a resounding 'yes' on both accounts, which began the though process in earnest. I began an open dialog with the hiring director, and was 100% honest about my thought process and my concerns. During this time frame, which lasted about an hour, and included 3-4 emails sent back and forth to Broadreach, I was listening to The Killers 'Sawdust'' album, their latest. It's 17 songs of remixes, covers and B-sides, and in my opinion is one of their best. Well, this cd has a hidden track on it that I was unaware of. The final song on the album is a mesmerizing remix of 'Mr. Brightside' that goes on for over 8 minutes. This song played as I contemplated the latest email from Lauren, the Broadreach hiring director. Then it ended, and there was silence. Literally the instant I hit the 'reply' button on my email to ask some more questions, the hidden track came on. It was no more than 1 minute long, and was simply a catchy little jingle, not even a song really. When I listened, I was stunned. The lyrics went like this:

'His beard is long and read

his hat stays on his head.

He asks us all the questions,

and we know all the answers.

Hi heart lies in the ocean,

his devotions to the city of fun.

(He's the captain!)

He's the captain,

He's the captain,

The captain.'

Recall that this song came on only after 5+ minutes of silence, when I was lost in the deepest thought I had about this entire scenario. It was literally terrifying and immensely motivating at the same time. But this wasn't the end of the weird happenings.

Today when I got back from my run there was a note from the mailman that I had a package waiting for me at the post office. So I went and picked it up. I was a few Valentine's Day cards from my mom and sister, plus a Spinsheet magazine. And, curiously, a photocopy of the origin of my name, that my mom's chiropractor of all people had give her. It's worth noting that this package was sent over a week ago, at which time I had zero inclination of returning to Broadreach. It was just some interesting stuff my mom thought I'd like, including an article about winter liveaboards in Annapolis in which Micah's photo appeared. But the interesting bit was the name thing from the chiropractor. It floored me. This is what it said:

'The Runic Interpretation'

'It's difficult for Andy to make decisions that stick because he's so changeable. One day he's certain he's going off in one direction, and the next day he cancels the appointments he just made. He can be a jack-of-all-trades, but he won't find success until he finds one thing to do very well. Andy uses his energy to come to terms with his relationship with money - and over time, he even manages to sew up that hole in his pocket! The Nauthiz represents constraint (or hardship), and many of Andy's hard-won lessons do cause him to have enormous insights. People who know him remark that he seems directed and motivated, and seems to be following a good course in his life. They are right to compliment him; he is spiritual, and his faith shines light on his path. Andy knows that we are keenly observed from the other side, and this faith helps him find satisfaction in today. He doesn't feel he needs to impress anyone. He's good to his family, and in his old age they pamper and spoil him.'

Okay, so maybe that last sentence can be changed to 'in his young age...', but nonetheless, you can see the eeriness that I felt when I first read that this afternoon. Why on earth would my mom's chiropractor even think to bring her this excerpt from an obviously weird book, and what are the chances that it arrived in Sweden on the very day when my decision-making process would reach it's apex? And there is more...

I was wandering around the interweb today, searching for answers, and just killing time because I had nothing better to do. I found myself on Lats and Atts website, and discovered for the first time that they have an online magazine now, free to anyone who cares to look at it. It's a clever .pdf replication of their print magazine, and even lets you virtually turn the pages, reproducing everything from the print magazines photos to the advertisements, and everything is clickable. Quite clever indeed. When I virtually 'turned' to the first pages inside the front cover, big Bob offered an editorial, as he usually does. It was about adventure, as it probably usually is, but I paid more attention now than ever, looking for signs to help me make a decision. Here are a few eerie excerpts:

"The security of a good harbor is truly a wonderful thing. But as Tennesee Williams once said, 'Security is a kind of death!' Once you are satisfied with the safe surroundings and decide to wander into harms way no more, than you will find your life starting to ebb away; the joy and thrill of victory no longer possible.

...

It's true that the vast majority of people will choose security long before they will choose adventure. After all, it's more secure right? And it's a lot more comfortable.'

The combination of my intuition, that intro to one of my favorite magazines, the hidden song that emerged last night at the perfect moment, and the package that arrived on the other side of the Atlantic at the precise moment it needed to made me realize that I really had no decision to make at all. It was already made for me, and something was desperately trying to get me to realize this. So, after my commitment email sat unsent on the desktop of my computer all day, I finally hit the 'send' button this evening and sealed my future. Strangely, I feel decidedly anticlimactic about the whole thing, but completely secure with my decision. I've finally taken my own advice, and the unknown beckons. 

The Super Bowl and Tiger Woods

It seems that I cannot simply give an observation without offering a personal opinion. This entry is eventually going to be about the Super Bowl, but I must first give my reasons why I think professional athletes and the people who pay money to watch them are stupid.

I wish I could be an avid football fan like I was when the Eagles had their spectacular run of 4 consecutive NFC Championship games and one Super Bowl - that they lost to the cheating Patriots. This will undoubtedly come back to haunt me, because any time from now on when I root for them come playoff time I will be called a hypocrite for criticizing the sport right now.

But the tipping point for me as an NFL fan came during that season when the Eagles made the Super Bowl. I was just as pumped up as everyone else, but I missed all the hype. I was in New Zealand, on the first leg of my Down Under adventure which lasted 6 months. I regretted being away, and missing that ridiculous two weeks when all ESPN ever talks about is football. And come game time, when I watched from a sports pub, at 10AM, in which the place was evenly split between Pats and Eagles fans, I 'lost the edge', as Cougar famously said in Top Gun. 'I turned in my wings.'

When the Eagles lost that game, I remember removing my Hugh Douglas jersey and stuffing it in my pocket. I walked out onto the balcony of the pub, beer in hand, and suddenly realized I was in New Zealand. That loss stayed with me for about 4 minutes. I had an adventure to look forward to! Football didn't matter then, and it hasn't been the same since. I find that I actually get irritated with myself for not rooting harder, but I just don't have it in me.

However, I'm addicted to reading about sports, and have since become a diversified sports fan. Since I've been on the move more often than not and haven't had a TV to watch anything on anyway, I've become more interested in how other people perceive sports and about savoring the transcendent sporting moments, whether they occur in golf, boxing, hockey or horse racing.

Which is why I found myself rooting for the Patriots this season. I became enthralled with the idea of an NFL team in the modern era going undefeated, and wanted to say that I watched it happen. But, interestingly, I only saw one game. When the Eagles almost beat them back in October, I watched as a faithful Eagles fan, and truly wanted us to win. But that was the only Pats game I saw all season, yet I wan mesmerized any time I read about the team online. This is the cool thing about sports...that people can become so passionate about a topic, so enticed by a team that the ensuing writing becomes very interesting to read, especially when it's about a team about to make history.

So I'm not so much a sports fan as I am a sports writing fan. I like when interesting things happen in sports because I enjoy reading about them from the perspective of sports writers. And when a sports team like the Pats is knocking on the door of history, the writers bring out their best as well, and the entire escapade becomes enormously entertaining to follow.

...

Back to the Super Bowl. Already the sports world is forgetting about it. The front page of ESPN.com is currently devoted to the Shaq trade and Roger Clemens. It's old news by now, and i think it would have been even if the Pats had won and gone 19-0. But historically, that game will probably be viewed as the biggest loss in history, when the 12 point favorite Pats, with their historical offense managed to score only 14 points and was defeated by a Wild Card team. 

I think it's the biggest win in history for the Giants. They may eventually be more mythical than the 18-1 Pats. Think about this...every year the 1972 Miami Dolphins pop a bottle of champagne when the last undefeated team goes down, as they inevitably do every year. How good must that champagne have tasted this year? I think it may have been Jack Nicklaus who said that anyone who says they are truly happy to see their records broken is either lying, or was never a real competitor in the first place. So those 72 Dolphins must still be celebrating. But, I think the 2007 Giants may go down in history much like the 72 Dolphins did...they will forever be remembered as the team that dethroned the mighty Pats. Yes, the Pats will be the only team with 18 wins, but that pesky '-1' will be their downfall...the Giants have no such negative. If I were a 72 Dolphin, Michael Strahan, Eli Manning and Plaxico Burress would be at the top of my guestlist for every champagne party from now on.

Coincidentally, Tiger Woods is currently undefeated in his 2008 campaign. The man has publicly stated that the Grand Slam is "easily within reason" in 2008. Hmmm...the Pats never made mention of their undefeated season as it was happening, yet Tiger is brazen enough, with only one event (at the time) completed in 2008, to say it's his goal. The Pats must have been thinking 19-0 in the locker room...they would just never say it publicly. Normally reserved Tiger has laid down the gauntlet this year, saying he's playing better even than in 2000 when he went on his remarkable run.

Golf is an individual sport. If Tiger wants to win the Grand Slam this year, all he has to do is beat the world's best golfers. He's not relying on Phil Mickelson to sink his putts, or Ian Poulter to hit his wedge shots. If he stays in the moment, and stays on top of his game, he will win the Grand Slam this year. Tiger has to thanking his lucky stars he's not on a team sport. He probably hated doing group work as much as I did in college. With his attitude, if he were on a team sport, he's probably want to play every position, and would (maybe rightfully so), honestly believe he was better than everyone else, ever, at that position. That's his attitude. He has to believe that he is a better putter, better driver, better wedge player, better sand player, etc, than everyone else in the world if he's going to admit that the Grand Slam is "easily within reason." 

Team sports is all about relying on each other, which is why I think Tiger would make a miserable teammate to play with, and why T.O., the 'old' Randy Moss, and every other 'me-first' athlete should have been a golfer or a tennis player. Then there is nobody else to rely on, and nobody else to hide behind. 

I think this is why Tiger has more than double the points in the World Rankings than #2 Mickelson, who choked (again) in a playoff, at the same time Tiger came from 4 shots down with 7 to play in Dubai and emerged victorious (without even needing a playoff). Tiger is so supremely confident in himself, and himself alone, that he literally doesn't even notice the rest of the field. It's the same reason he can get pissed at himself for hitting a few poor shots, despite winning by 8 strokes, as he did last week at Torrey Pines. 

Which leads me back to my original comment...I enjoy reading about sports more than actually rooting for anyone. I'm thrilled to be experiencing history as it happens. I am going to enjoy telling my kids that I grew up in the Tiger Woods era, and watched the undefeated Pats lose to the lowly Giants. It's fun watching history unfold as it happens, and it will be fun to see where history ends up putting these events when they're long completed. 

New Photos

Check out the photo links on the right side of the page...I've just uploaded the mountain-climbing photos, and will have lots more to come, including photos of Prague, Austria, and Germany. Keep the comments coming, and spread the word to friends and family, the more people reading and comments, the more fun this will be for everyone! Enjoy.

Getting High with Leprecauns

Today I had, without a doubt, the worst shower of my life. You know
how you feel after a long day of skiing; you're soaking wet and
freezing cold, a cold that will not go away without a hot shower. Well
that was me today, and after my long-anticipated shower, I'm still
freezing cold. This despite wearing two long underwear shirts
underneath a wool sweater, and long underwear under my jeans.

Barring a cataclysmic seismic event on the island of Ireland, nobody
will ever stand on a spot higher than Michael and I have. That spot
was Mt. Carrauntoohill, which menacingly juts skyward, rising 2500
vertical feet (to a summit at 3500 feet) from it's base, and looks
more like a peak you'd see in Switzerland than Ireland. The snow began
about halfway up the mountain, and the surrounding slopes, green as
green can be, were engulfed in snow at their peaks. And we stood on
the highest one.

Since coming to Ireland, Michael and I have been craving some
adventure. We'd stopped at each castle we'd seen along the road and
traveled to the brink of the Atlantic to see Europe's oldest
lighthouse. At Hook Light, we braved the wind and rain, and watched an
offshore gale send 15-foot breakers smashing into the rocky shoreline,
their spray lifting skyward nearly as high as the lighthouse itself.
We drove onward from Wexford, where we'd spent the first night on the
Emerald Isle, with no destination in mind, just enjoying the scenery.
We stopped again along towering cliffs guarding Ireland's southern
coast, and couldn't stop telling each other we were actually in
Ireland. It was everything we'd expected and then some.

Around 7pm last night we rolled into Killarney, which looked like a
nice spot in Lonely Planet. There is an enormous national park on the
town's doorstep, and we wanted to explore. After wandering through
town and stumbling into Neptune's Hostel, we headed for a pub. Three
Irishmen with fiddles and a concertina played sea chanties and Bob
Dylan while we enjoyed the best-tasting Guiness in the world. It was
during then that we decided to attempt climbing Ireland's highest
mountain, and by the second beer we reckoned it'd be easy.

Upon returning to the hostel and telling the receptionist of our
plans, our expectations were immediately brought back to earth. She
warned us of the snow in the mountains, the relentless wind that
scours the summit, the plummeting temperatures and the fickle weather…
and this was in the summer. She suggested we instead rent some bikes
and go explore the more accessible parts of the park, which included a
large lake where stood a 15th century castle. It sounded nice, but we
had already decided we had to at least attempt the mountain, and turn
back if it got ugly.

The alarm went off this morning at 7am, and we'd purposefully parked
the car in a lot where it needed to be removed by 8am, to motivate us
into action. I ate two enormous bowls of Irish Muesli to top up my
energy stores, and we geared up as if to go skiing, and set off for
the base of the mountain. After driving maybe 15 minutes, we caught
our first glimpse of the dazzling peak, and exchanged nervous laughs
and asked ourselves what the hell we were getting into. I cannot
emphasize how large and intimidating the mountains look here. The
highest peak rises to only 3500 feet, but the fact that they rise from
sea level, and are strewn with sheer cliffs, jagged peaks and
unfathomably steep slopes makes them appear downright terrifying to
anyone with the idea of climbing one.

We arrived at a small farm at the end of a stunning one-lane road. The
road followed a series of switchbacks as it descended into a large
valley filled with grazing sheep. At the tiny car park, there was a
donation mailbox to leave your 2 Euro for use of the lot. In the
summertime there is a small hut with fireplace and hot showers, but it
is inexplicably closed in the winter, when, ostensibly, one might need
it the most.

Climbing the mountain involved far more than just scampering up it's
steep slopes. We first had to navigate a 4 mile valley, slowly rising
from the car park, vaguely following a cascading river that brought
snow runoff down from the hills. Aside from my inadequate footwear (I
was only wearing running shoes), we were dressed for the occasion, I
in my ski pants and puffy coat, Michael in a similar getup of
waterproof fabric. We decided to hike up into the valley to the base
of the mountain, assess the weather and the conditions and make a
decision from there as to whether we'd actually go higher.

The walking was arduous, steadily increasing in elevation. We followed
the riverbed, which cut a deep swath through the surrounding green
fields. We had to stay up on the steep slopes of the bank, as far
above in the fields, the grass was more like a swamp, and the only dry
footing was hopping along the rocks along the river. Two or three
times we had to ford the river, skipping from one side to the other
while trying to keep our feet dry. This was no small task, as the
river was 15 feet wide at it's narrowest, and moving at a decent clip,
with rapids and several small waterfalls. We pushed on however, the
mountain looming ever closer, drifting in and out of the low clouds.
Only once were we able to catch a brief glimpse of the impossibly high
summit.

The hike through the valley continued ascending until we were in the
mountain's shadow; here we were greeted with the most stunning scenery
yet. Not a sole was in sight, the only sounds the rushing water and
the howling wind, as it tumbled down the steep slopes of the
surrounding peaks, seemingly trying to halt our progress. The valley
was surrounded on three sides by towering peaks, and we had the
feeling an ant might have if walking between the fingers of some ones
outstretched hand. At the terminus of the valley were two lakes formed
by the runoff of the neighboring peaks, which spilled into the river
below. This was an unexpected surprise, and we stopped here to take a
rest and some photos before pushing up the most difficult portion of
the hike. We'd been walking for 2 hours.

Two peaks, one to our right and one to our left dominated our
immediate frame of view. Between them ran what's called a 'saddle',
connecting the peaks in a concave arch of exposed rock and snow. To
reach the low point of the saddle, we were faced with the difficult
task of ascending the 'Devil's Ladder' a chute right up the middle,
1000-foot cliffs boxing us in on either side. This would have been
difficult in dry conditions, but because of the snow up at higher
elevations, there was quite a bit of runoff, which cascaded down the
Ladder, making the climb slippery and cold.

Most of the climbing on the Ladder was zig-zagging between the cliffs,
looking for rocks to hop onto to increase our elevation. The ground
was unstable, with loose boulders at every turn, and we took extra
care not to knock one of them on the person following. Several times
we had to boost each other up to a higher rock, but we continued on,
rather swiftly, and the going was tiring, but not extremely difficult.
But every time we turned around we were granted a fantastic view of
the valley we'd just traversed, and also reminded of how steep this
slope was – and that we'd have to walk down eventually.

At this point we were in uncharted territory. We half expected that
we'd turn around at the base of the Ladder, but the weather was
holding, we'd only gotten a few drops of rain on us, and by now we
were pumped to at least get to 'Christ's Saddle', and re-evaluate
there. After all, it was enormous fun, and serious adventure, and we
were in our element.

With about 50 feet to go on the Ladder, we hit the snow line. It was
already mostly melted, but made the going a bit slower – the rocks
we'd been using as footsteps were now hidden under a melting layer of
snow, and it was getting steeper. The final pitch was almost straight
up, and we reverted to climbing up on our hands and knees, digging
into the snow for traction. I reached the Saddle first, and was
greeted by a phenomenal view of the opposite valley, lakes and rivers
bisecting the green fields below. To my right was the summit of Mt.
Carrauntoohill, our mountain. The neighboring peaks made up the
MacGillycuddy's Reeks, the highest range in Ireland. They were much
closer and much scarier at our new vantage point. We now stood at 2400
feet; we knew this thanks to Michael's GPS…we'd been setting waypoints
every half hour in case the weather turned and we lost visibility on
the way down.

I was dead-set on making the summit by now. I never imagined even
getting to the Saddle, and was now inspired to keep going. We rested
for about 15 minutes, but soon my feet began to get chilly – they were
soaked by now, and the temperature had dropped to below freezing –
there was about a foot or two of snow drifting in the 30+ knot winds.
We needed to keep moving.

I led the way, and the going was much easier on the ridge that led to
the summit. I was suddenly living every adventure story I've ever read
about climbing a mountain, and could hardly contain my enthusiasm.
Michael was dragging a bit, so I carried the backpack for the final
push. The snow got firmer the higher we climbed, and the slope
gradually became steeper and rockier – and it got progressively
windier. The strongest gusts were in the range of 30-40 knots, which
was disconcerting, but for the time being the peak was in the sun.
Clouds were building to the south however, and I urged Michael to pick
up the pace if we were going to make the summit in sunlight. I did not
want to get up there and be stuck in a cloud…we had already had more
than enough adventure to worry about finding our way down.

I was 50 feet higher than Michael when the summit came into view.
There is a large steel cross marking the summit, and seeing it for the
first time energized me. I nearly ran on my hands and knees for the
final 100 feet or so. Then I crested the last ridge and stood up.
Words cannot describe the feeling I had at that moment. I experienced
a surge of adrenaline, was overwhelmed by the 360 degree view, was
scared by the sheer drop of the cliffs on the north face of the
mountain, and was overcome with an enormous sense of accomplishment.
I'd just done something I'd always dreamed of, and felt an enormous
sense of pride. But at that moment I also confirmed to myself that I
can do absolutely anything. Suddenly I decided I'd climb more
mountains, I'd sail around the world, I'd complete that full Ironman.
I discovered again that I have it within myself to do anything that I
set my mind on doing.

When Michael crested the final ridge we high-fived each other,
embraced, and soaked it all in. We took photos of each other and of
the surroundings. You could actually see the ocean from our vantage
point, and we couldn't believe we'd made it all the way to the top,
two wanna-be adventurers probably in way over our heads. But we made
it, and we savored every second on that peak. Strangely the wind
actually died down, and we experienced a serene peace, standing on our
spot, the highest in all of Ireland, 3500 feet straight down into the
ocean.

…

The entire way up, we kept saying to ourselves that the hard part was
going to be coming down. We stayed in the snow drifts on the descent
from the summit along Christ's Saddle. Here the footing was much more
secure, and we traversed from one side of the ridge to the other,
following the snow. We made remarkable time, and arrived back at the
top of Devil's Ladder by 1pm, the original time we said we'd turn
around, no matter what. We were a bit concerned about descending the
Ladder, especially the snow-covered steep section near the top.
Michael went first, sliding on his ass most of the way, and I followed
close behind, scurrying crab-like on hands and knees. The volume of
runoff had increased dramatically, and the climb down was much
slippery and wetter than the climb up. It didn't much matter, because
it had also started raining, and we were completely soaked.

Our legs were quite thankful when we emerged back onto relatively flat
ground. Now all that lay between us and the warm car was 4 miles of
hiking through the river valley. This time we headed for the left side
of the river, and followed its banks, again hopping from rock to rock.
Getting our feet wet was less of a concern however, which made the
route-finding a bit easier. Fording the river was now only a matter of
walking through a shallow bit. The sheep looked at us funny, and we
steered clear of the horned ones. This is after all their territory,
and we thanked them for letting us use their mountain as we passed by.

After 6 hours of near constant walking and climbing, we finally
crossed back into the car park, in the pouring rain, soaked and
delirious with satisfaction. As it turns out, we timed the weather
absolutely perfectly. When we were on the summit you could see dark
clouds rolling in from the south, so we didn't dawdle and headed down
with haste. It paid off, because soon after leaving the Ladder behind
us, it began raining in earnest, and continued the length of the
valley. The mountain was now cloaked in rain and fog, and when we
turned around for one last glimpse, it was gone.

Which leads me to my horrifying shower. We finally returned to the
hostel and proudly announced our success to the same receptionist who
tried to steer us towards the bike-rental. She happily rented us
another room, and even offered to do our laundry for a discounted
rate. When I finally stepped into the shower, the only hot water was
literally a trickle, barely enough to get the soap out of my hair. I
stood there, freezing, trying to get warm, unsuccessfully. Now I sit
in the café of the hostel, having drunk my second cup of tea in an
effort to bring my core temperature back up, to no avail.

The sense of accomplishment I'm feeling right now I have never
experienced. I think it's a combination of doing something totally on
a whim, with little preparation, something we probably had no business
getting ourselves into, and the ecstasy that nature provided our
senses at the summit. The photos I got are amazing, but they of course
do little justice to the serenity and the peace we felt standing on
that mountain. I'm physically drained, but mentally bursting with
energy and enthusiasm. Suddenly all bets are off. I've opened up an
entire new part of myself and the boundaries within have become
limitless. I have stoked a long-smoldering fire within myself, and it
won't easily be extinguished.

Ireland

I just got back from the pub, drank two Guiness, and got to listen to three Irish dudes playing violins and an accordion. It's exactly like I expected, and much better in a lot of ways. We're in Killarney, in the mid-western part of the country, south of Galway and directly west of Cork. Tomorrow we'll try and climb the highest peak in Ireland at a measely 1040 metres, but it looks rugged and should be a fun adventure. I'll have much more to update, including a description of St. James Gate, the Guiness Brewery, when I have more time. I'll be back in Sweden Wednesday, and until then I'll enjoy the greenery of Ireland. Thanks for the posts about my political pieces, more on that when I get back to Sweden. 

Anonymity

In my original reaction to the comments made regarding my political ideas about America, I initially stated that those persons leaving anonymous comments should come forth and announce their names...however, after further thought about this, I've decided that anonymity in fact encourages debate. There is no need to include your name in a comment, as I believe now that this only invites criticism of the person, and not debate about the idea.

Since that post, several people have commented, and in fact have criticized the anonymous, not for their ideas, but instead for their perceived lack of intelligence. This is unfortunate, and I apologize to anyone who may have been offended. I may in fact have offended people myself. 

Debate of any kind, especially political, is only worthwhile if all parties remain focused on the issues and not on the speaker. When the speaker is removed from the debate, the issue is the only thing left standing. The speaker becomes immune to criticism and is allowed to voice their opinion without fear of being ostracized by a not-so-friendly opposition. 

I enjoy debate, sometimes solely for the purpose of argument. I find it entertaining and challenging to take an opposing viewpoint and create arguments in it's support, regardless of the political or social side I may be on. Obviously I remain on the liberal side of the political debate, yet I still find myself arguing in favor of conservatism when liberals become too far-fetched and too idealistic. I like to think of myself as a 'realistic liberal', one who strives for the ideal, yet acknowledges the realistic.

So please continue leaving comments and feedback and creating ideas from a different perspective, and remain anonymous. Too often both sides of any debate find solace in speaking amongst themselves, and never allow their ideas to be put under scrutiny by the opposing side. It's quite comfortable to talk about your own ideals with people who share them...but you only truly learn when you put your ideas at the mercy of the opposition. This is risky for many people, because if the idea fails under the scrutiny of opposition, the speaker often takes it as a failure of their being, and no longer participates in debate, for fear of losing a piece of themselves. 

I do not want this to happen in a forum that I've created. Unintentionally, this blog has become political in the past week or so, when it was supposed to be about travel. However, I've enjoyed talking politics and putting my ideas on the line, and I have enjoyed hearing the comments that people have to say about them. So keep them coming, and remain anonymous, in the name of debate. I look forward to arguing against them! Until later.