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The symbol for triathlon in the Olympics

You Don’t Have To Be Crazy But…

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Trying a Triathlon: Part 1: Preparation and Training

The symbol for triathlon in the Olympics

I decided to start training for a triathlon in my rather dusty office cubicle in February of 2010. My office was in St. Paul, MN, at a public university, where I worked as an Americorps VISTA volunteer, helping expand the nursing programs to increase healthcare access to low-income patients, including setting up a community clinic. That last venture had completely stalled in contract negotiations with the local community center, and, since it was to be the vast majority of my job, I was bored. Underutilized, and bored. Left to my own devices, I spent a lot of time trolling the Internet, looking for random healthcare funding (that my school inevitably didn’t qualify for) and reading articles about healthcare on the New York Times webpage (that’s work, right?).

I needed direction, in or outside of the office, it didn’t matter. Having graduated from college the previous spring, 2010 was the first time in my life that I didn’t have any direction, didn’t have a clear syllabus with assignments carefully outlined. I found I missed it.

Since my cardiovascular-heavy semester in Eastern Europe (See Running 5 Polish Miles), I’d maintained an okay workout regimen of five days a week running, biking or swimming. Yet I just didn’t feel any spark in any of my workouts. I’d slog off a handful of miles on a treadmill or sweat away on a stationary bike while watching re-runs of Top Chef at the gym after work, then shower up and go eat dinner. Who cared.

And then it struck me: Since I was already running, biking and swimming, why not combine all three? Swim + bike + run = A triathlon! Hey! That was something!

I began cruising the Internet with a purpose. The length of these races was incredibly daunting at first, even the so-called “sprint tris,” which quickly became the only ones I was looking at. Sure, I could run 5 km or bike 15 miles or swim however many laps but combined? Um…

The second thing that concerned me was the price. Triathlons are no picnic to organize, I’m sure. They have to block off roads and beaches and parking lots. They have to hire lifeguards, police officers, and medical teams, and all the myriad of other things that goes into planning not one, but three races. And all that costs money, honey. As was quickly obvious by the registration fee for most of the tris I was finding: between $75 and $125. For one (three-in-one) race. Oi.

Let’s pause here for a moment to review a few facts. 1) I’m a recent college grad (two words: student. loans.) 2) In 2010, our country was—and still is today—recovering from the greatest economic recession we’ve had in years. 3) At the time, I was an Americorps volunteer. This last point is the most important, because Americorps volunteers get paid a very measly living stipend…a figure that puts them at the poverty line of wherever they’re serving…a figure so small I qualified for (and used) food stamps (A fact I always thought my alma mater probably wouldn’t be too eager to include in their latest admissions brochure: “Come to our college! When you graduate, you can get on food stamps only a few months later!”). Basically, it boiled down to $100 for a registration fee being a bit nuts for my monthly budget.

I sat on the idea.

Work stalled. Working out stalled.

Spring rolled around. I couldn’t take it anymore. Encouraged by my boss, a recent fitness convert (Don’t you love when someone can so utterly transform their lives, right in front of your eyes over the course of one short year? That was my boss during my year of Americorps service.), I looked up triathlon races again. The price had gone up.

I looked at my bank account balance, bit my lip, and went for it. A few minutes later, the confirmation email swept into my inbox. I was officially signed up for the YWCA Minneapolis Women’s Triathlon  on August 15, 2010.

The spring and early summer went by in a blur. Suddenly bent with purpose, I increased my workouts to six days a week. I ran around a track in blistering heat, swam between buoys at the lake nearby, and biked for miles on my old purple mountain bike, which dated all the way back to my junior high years.  I felt awesome! I was training for something! I was an athlete!  And yet…

That bike was going to be a problem. In all of my visions of triathlon glory, of me flying through the water like Michael Phelps and peddling the course at, like, 500 miles an hour, and leading the pack—no, breaking ahead of the pack!—during the road race, the bike was not in them. Its clunky gears, its thick and gawky wheels, its upright handlebars, its too-small frame…none of them were synonymous with my sure victory.

It had to go. Now bikes, as many of you may already know (and as I did not at the time), are really expensive. What’re a few gears and some rubber tires doing costing hundreds upon hundreds of dollars? I ask you. New bike, out. Used bike, in! I found one, a women’s Schwinn road bike that’s probably older than I am, at a used bike store in south St. Paul. I broke up with my purple mountain bike on the spot, and biked the blue one home.

Next stop, race day!

~Megan~

800px-Strasbourg_Nasa

Never Say Never!

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Running In Strasbourg

NASA Satellite View of Strasbourg

December 31, my senior year of high school, I made two resolutions. One: Take a year to travel. 2) Never run again. Weeks earlier, at the Northern California Sectional Cross Country Championship, I’d shaved my head, laced my flats, sprinted across pavement and grass, and finished sixth. The top five went to the state meet, and I’d been passed in the last twelve meters. One second ruined my four-year career.

Fast forward eight months. I’d spent the day along the banks of the River Ill in Strasbourg, enjoying Alsace’s overlap of French and German culture and eating bacon for the first time. It had been pleasant to wander around ornately shingled beerhouses, Parisian-style cafés and apartments, but I hadn’t seen much of the city I’d soon have to leave. I decided to break my resolution, just for a day.

The sun had disappeared, but my host family said I could run to Strasbourg Cathedral. It wasn’t far: just follow the tram tracks from the house to the church. September was approaching; I felt cold and ridiculous in my zip-off cargo shorts and t-shirt, but my legs felt free. My watch showed it was later than I thought, already nine o’clock. Everything looked different under the moon.

After ten-minutes steady progress the tracks split unexpectedly. There was no one on the streets to ask for directions (not that I would), but I had a fifty-fifty chance and could always retrace my steps. I headed left.

Fifteen minutes later I looked up, winded, and saw the Cathedral’s dark spire well away to my right. I didn’t backtrack, but decided to cut across through a tall row of offices, one bridge and then another and then a broad deserted street. My sweat turned cold and my knees ached. The buildings stopped looking postcard-worthy and there was no site of the Cathedral—the city’s assorted church bells struck ten o’clock.

Sounds of a highway traffic emerged and I found myself standing before an overpass. Strasbourg is a city of almost 900,000 people. I hadn’t realized that. I turned 180 degrees and tried to run back the way I came. Nothing looked familiar. At eleven o’clock I rediscovered the tram tracks, but didn’t know which way to follow them. I stopped running, rested my hands on my knees and debated the relative merits of looking for a way home versus sleeping under a bridge. My breathing came fast and shallow; my brain labored to the point where it didn’t notice a small Peugeot rolling along the tracks.

A horn honked—my host family’s car. I got in the back sheepishly. “I am so, so sorry” I said in bad French and tired English. They laughed. “It’s ok. We thought we’d never find you.”

We rode in silence for a while. My shirt and shorts stuck to the seat, as I looked out at more recognizable sights. Before he parked the father asked, “So, how was your run?”

I took a deep breath. My chest hurt like after a race.

“You know what?” I said. “It was great. I think I’ll go again tomorrow.”

~Will~

IMG_3514.compressed

TRAVEL RULES – 101

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Running in China

This story was a submission to EntertainingYourself.com’s first ever “Best Running Story in a Foreign Country Writing Contest” – April 2011. Our story’s author, EY Contributor, Martin Mudry, an avid traveler and runner, is currently filming a documentary in Kenya called “Where Dreams Don’t Fade.” You can follow his latest project on a special facebook page devoted to the movie.  Or check back here for more stories to come!

Carl had just arrived in China. Wade, Megan and I picked him up at the airport in Kunming, the city he’d be spending the next 4 months in for his study abroad. While Wade, Megan and I had been traveling around China together for a few weeks, Carl should have been tired, jet lagged, and ready for bed. So what did we do? Immediately upon returning to the hostel we made him take a shot of one of the strongest and foulest drinks known to man called Baijiu. At $.50 for the equivalent of 5 shots, it also must be one of the cheapest drinks available anywhere.

The rest of the first night was pretty tame. We walked around a bit past some empty stores, through the big square where our hostel was located and then went to bed. The next morning we all went out to breakfast together before bidding Wade and Megan goodbye, as they flew back up north to the city where they are both teaching.

Once they left, Carl had quite a bit on his plate. He had just arrived at altitude, (Kunming’s altitude is 1,800 meters ~6,500ft); he was with someone who has a dairy allergy but doesn’t speak any Chinese; he was adjusting to a 13 hour time difference from where he had just come; oh yeah, and this was his first time traveling outside of the United States, EVER!

So as a good friend, what did I do to ease the transition? Take it easy for a few days? No! Carl and I immediately headed out to the city outskirts and hiked into the nearby mountains where I had previously seen a few hotels. We hiked up to an even higher elevation at which point the real fun began- watching Carl barter for a room with people in Chinese. The problem was, aside from Carl not having practiced Chinese for a few months, he also had to speak to people who barely knew Mandarin- the only dialect he had been taught.

We checked out one place, which seemed nice, but the price was a bit high, so we decided to check out another knowing we could always come back and try to drive the price down more.

At the second place, the guy showed us rooms but opened each door by sliding open the room window first and then unlocking the door from the inside with his hand. But the price seemed right after a little negotiation, so we made the decision to stay and asked for the room key.

What? The guy didn’t seem to understand. “The key to the room” Carl said again in Chinese. He seemed very confused and reluctant, but took a key off a key chain that appeared to hold only the master keys. We went back to the room, where I took a closer look at the window- thinking: “Great, no lock, so the key is useless per his little trick to get in.”

As I debated whether we should leave our stuff in the room while we went for a run, I realized that there was a key to the bathroom and if we locked our stuff in there, chances were he wouldn’t be able to get past that second door.

So with our passports and cash secured behind one door with virtually no lock and behind another door as flimsy as balsa wood, we went out for a quick walk and then a run.

As we were leaving with our backpacks to explore the area, we ran into the guy who had given us the room and key. He asked us for the keys. Carl tried to tell him that we had it, but he kept asking for it. I, of course, didn’t know what he was saying, although it was pretty clear that he was motioning for the keys. Finally Carl told him for the 4th time that we were just going for a walk; that we would be coming back; and that we were taking the key but would give it back before we checked out.

On the run we went through small villages, down single track trails and came upon some kids. They appeared utterly terrified and I’m sure the youngest thought the foreigners were going to kill her and leave her dead in the forest. We tried to tell them it was OK and the older ones actually start to laugh, but one of the youngest continued to run in terror.

We ducked by some houses and got back out onto a main road. A few more times we took trails that came to dead ends. One looked nice but quickly ended at a small temple in the hillside. Another led us down a path toward a village but soon we were surrounded by huge German shepherds, which while chained, were barking furiously, giving us the clear message about which way to go (back the way we came). We wandered through more fields, before finally coming to a trail that led down a steep path and crossed a beautiful hill of tall grass.

It reminded me a lot of the hills on the coasts of Northern California, with little halftrack trails. Carl was out running in front when all of a sudden he slipped. The image flashed before me of Carl tripping and tumbling a hundred feet down the steep slope. Luckily he caught himself.

Feeling like my mother, I warned him: “Be careful Carl.” “I know” he said. A few minutes later, he tripped again, and then again. I felt at a loss, and could picture having to call his parents to tell them how he slid down a hill in rural china. Again, with a little luck, we found a way up and over and finally were on the path heading back to the hotel.

We planned to go out to eat, but after a shower Carl was exhausted and just wanted to call it an early night. I didn’t blame him. When Wade Megan and I first arrived at altitude, we took it really easy. With Carl, I’d had him hiking, running, and translating from day one and maybe the jet lag was finally catching up with him. I read for a bit then lay down as well and we both dozed off until 9:30 pm or so.

We were both awake and talking when we heard a car pull in and the doors slam. Then, all of a sudden, loud piano music. It sounded so real – could there be a piano somewhere??

Carl and I were like what the ??, until the background music started and people started singing karaoke in Chinese for the next few hours. The music randomly went from loud to unbearable at no discernable intervals.

The absurdity of the situation – high up above Kunming, on the border of mountains and farmland – people were blasting music and singing as if their sole goal was to break glass.

Hours later the music stopped. Then we heard footsteps coming downstairs to where our room was. Then there was someone at the door trying to get in. We tried to say hello, but then the window slid open. I quickly got up to turn on the light as Carl yelled “What do you want?? We’re in here” in Chinese. As I turned on the light, whoever was there left quickly and that was the last we heard of them.

The next morning, we got up early and caught the sunrise on the hill. It was completely quiet and we were the only people. It was a complete 180 from the day I had discovered the place with Wade and Megan.  That day it was New Years and there were hundreds of Chinese people in high heels, suits, and dress shoes, miraculously scrambling over the rocks and shouting to each other across the valleys. This time we were alone and the light was perfect.

We hiked around a little more before returning to our room to gather our stuff to leave. Our friend who was so worried about our keys and maybe was the one trying to come into our room the night prior was no where to be found.  We left the keys with his wife and headed out.

We had 20 miles to hike and many more memories to be had before the day was up.  It may have only been Carl’s first few days in China, but it was important that he learn the rules to successful travel- do it while you can, push yourself, and don’t forget to go for a run.

~Martin~

800px-Obama-3d-view

The World Really Is Flat

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Based on a Ritchie Family Legend…

Bob wasn’t looking forward to his doctor’s appointment. People in his family rarely went to the doctor. His mother had died of colon cancer because, by the time she’d gone to a physician, the tumors had already spread far beyond her digestive system. No, doctors were not to be trusted. They made him too uncomfortable.

Still, he trudged toward the optometrist’s office, armed with a book and his over-the-counter reading glasses, should there be a wait. He’d gone for one reason: his wife, Linda. Trained as a lawyer, she was skilled at convincing him to do things he didn’t want to do.

“It’ll be good for you,” she said, patting his knee. “Just a check-up.”

He opened the office door. Bob looked as if someone had put a thumb on top of his now-balding head, and pushed down. Two-thirds of his body was torso. Still, he wasn’t an unattractive man. His eyes had the unusual tendency to change between blue and green, depending on what he wore. This had always charmed Linda, who expressed her preference by buying him forest green sweaters for Christmas or birthdays. “I have an appointment with Dr. Graham,” Bob told the receptionist, a petite woman with lots of hair. “Okay, you just sit over there”–she motioned to two armchairs–” and Dr. Graham will call you in a moment.”

Bob steered himself into a chair and opened his book, a secondhand mystery novel. The detective, a sassy brunette, had just stumbled over a major clue, when–

“Bob?” called Dr. Graham, a younger man with slick hair. Bob followed him into the examining room.

“And how are we today?” Dr. Graham said, opening Bob’s file.

*Snellen Eye Chart

The doctor smoothed his hair and began to administer tests, pausing to record his results.

“And finally, are things clearer with lens A or B?” Dr. Graham fiddled a knob on a piece of equipment near Bob’s temple.

“Uh, B,” said Bob. “Okay. Now C or D?” “D.”

“Well, that’s interesting,” said Dr. Graham, his hand drifting toward his hair again. He paused for a moment to read over his notes.

“Interesting?” Bob asked, leaning forward in the examining chair. If they found something wrong with him, he swore right then, Linda would never get him into a doctor’s office again. Never.

“Strictly speaking, your eyes are fine. No glaucoma, no signs of cornea wear.”

Bob shifted.

“But, according to my calculations…well, Bob, you can’t see 3D.”

“What?”

“Let’s put it this way:” The doctor paused for a moment, for emphasis: “If you could see what we see, you would be amazed.”

Dr. Graham leaned back, letting his prognosis sink in. Yes, this was medicine at its finest.

“Now,” the doctor continued, “I don’t think there should be any long term effects with all of this. There haven’t been any yet, right? He chuckled.

“Problems playing tennis, perhaps? Or…?”

Bob stood up, glancing around the room. Yes, there was the doctor’s framed medical degree, hanging on the wall. But still, it was clearly time to leave.

“Well. Thank you for your time,” said Bob, gathering his coat and book.

Dr. Graham beamed.

“Not at all, Bob, not at all. You just be careful out there, alright? With your condition and all, you never can be too safe.”

Driving home, Bob called his wife. “Say, Linda,” he said. “Is that 3D movie the kids wanted to see still out?”

“I think so. Why? How did the eye appointment go?”

“Fine. It went fine.  I think I just need a second opinion.”

*Image Source                                        ~Megan~
Location of the Sniatyn Raion (District) in Ukraine

Chance Encounters of a Good Kind

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Location of the Sniatyn Raion (District) in Ukraine

This story was a submission to EntertainingYourself.com’s first ever “Best Running Story in a Foreign Country Writing Contest” – April 2011. Our story’s author, Tammela Platt, is currently serving as a Peace Corps Volunteer in a town in southwest Ukraine. She writes “I have been in Ukraine since last September and at my permanent site since December.” She heard about the contest from a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer, Runner, Oberlin Graduate and EY Writer: Samantha Kyrkostas.

This is a story about an incomplete run. An incomplete run thanks to the incredible openness and hospitality of the Ukrainian people.

Sniatyn’s stadium in winter. There is a cement track around the soccer field.

While doing a speed workout at my town’s stadium – 100-meter repeats, sprinting down the straightaway and jogging back – on the first day of February, I kept running by a woman taking a toddler for a walk – rather, he was walking her. On one of my recovery jogs, the woman called me over and asked me something – in Ukrainian, of course – about my running that I didn’t quite understand (upon reflection I think she asked how fast I run 100 meters; that day was not an especially fast day). When I told her I didn’t understand (Я не розумію/“Ya ne rozoomiyoo” – probably the first three words I mastered in Ukrainian), she said, “Oh, are you Polish?” It’s the blond hair and blue eyes. Or the assumption many Ukrainians make that anyone here who doesn’t speak fluent Ukrainian must be from Poland. When I told her I’m American and talked a little about the Peace Corps and why I’m here, she asked me to wait until her daughter (mother of the toddler) came back and then invited me directly to their apartments in the building across from the stadium. “Right now?” I asked. She answered in the affirmative. What could I say but yes? Sure, I would have liked to finish my workout, but it would have been stupid to refuse this offer from such a genuine woman.

Zhenia & Tanya's Apartment -To the right, behind the fence, is the stadium. Far center-right is the apartment building complex where Zhenia and Tanya live.

So off we went, Zhenia (Женя, short for Yevhenia (Євгенія)), the not-so-old grandmother, and Tanya (Таня, short for Tetiana), her daughter, guiding me across the street and up the stairs of their building, chattering the whole time about how glad they were to meet me and how I would be welcome anytime and must come see them. They showed me around their apartments and then, in typical Ukrainian fashion, sat me down with tea – despite the fact that I was sweaty from my run and surely did not smell sweet – and offered me some delicious cheese pancakes (called сирники/“syrnyky”) as we talked for a while about Ukraine and America. When it started to get dark I pleaded work to do and, full of snacks and happy feelings, jogged slowly home. Meeting Zhenia and Tanya was a great cap-off to what had already been a great day: I had talked with my 11th Form about Romanticism in art, had sung “My Favorite Things” to my 3rd Form, and had gotten three boxes in the mail. Days like that make spending two years in Ukraine a little less daunting.

And it all started with a run.

~ Tammela Platt~

Scottish Lady

Highlands, Low Budget – Scotland Part II

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Part II

Inverness to Loch Ness

(This story is a continuation of Part I: London to Inverness )

Inverness to Loch Ness

Adventures shouldn’t start without breakfast, but Bijani decided nothing would suit us better than traditional Scottish Breakfast. She chose the Castle Café, which had all Scotch delicacies on order: mutton, blood pudding and of course, haggis—that’s sheep heart, liver and lungs and oats, boiled for hours in the animal’s mid-section. I ordered pancakes.

The waitress treated us very pleasantly, especially after I shook a container of brown liquid onto my pancakes, took a bite and gagged. “That’s not syrup, dear,” she said over her shoulder, “that’s vinegar.” Taking pity on me, she brought over a fresh stack of pancakes.

My genetic inheritance didn’t include an iron stomach, but after some arm twisting I discovered haggis and blood pudding taste more hearty than terrible: the former tastes like meaty Quaker oats, and the latter like dry, slightly metallic burger.  We ate almost everything before leaving. Next stop: neighboring Loch Ness  and Uruqhart Castle, but first an hour of sightseeing.

It seemed a quiet and even solemn Friday. Inverness’ McDonald’s proved a hub of activity, but screeching tires, a horn and a crash from the pedestrian mall thinned the crowd as people ran to investigate. Sounds of backfire and breaking glass gave way to loud music, as though a driver’s hand suddenly switched the car radio to full volume.

Bijani and I joined a now-large assembly, expecting an accident, but saw only an old lady with a bonnet and umbrella, riding a tall two-wheeled shopping cart, her legs dangling from the side. Then there was another. And another. The trio raced around the brick street on their carts, revving unseen engines, honking unseen horns and grooving to a bagpipe-heavy rendition of “Everybody Dance Now.”

A closer inspection revealed these petticoated grannies to be men in drag, riding converted Segways, with fake appendages on the outside, but that only raised more questions. I laughed, until I finally asked Bijani, what was going on?

..Check out the Scottish Ladies on our facebook page..

She had no idea. The guidebook hadn’t mentioned Scottish humor. After a few minutes, we ducked into a dollar store and questioned the cashier about the “ladies.”

“No one knows,” she said. “They just arrived yesterday. Scotland’s a wee bit crazy like that. Some days things just happen.”

(It stayed a mystery until that evening, when a grizzled pub owner responded to my very earnest query: “They’re not serious, ya know… They’re clowns.” He was still laughing when we finished our fish and chips and left.)

***

Amber birch and reddening ferns lined the road from Inverness to Uruqhart Castle, which skirts the edges of Loch Ness. Long, narrow and pristine, the lake widens briefly before its shore peaks at a tiny cape, dotted by the ruins.

The MacDonald clan, the castle’s last keepers, blew it up because the site proved indefensible and therefore, I imagine, too expensive to maintain. One sympathizes, but the decision must have been difficult because the lake glimmers magnificently, even under the faintest light.

Shapes of the Purported Sightings of the Loch Ness Monster as shown on Wikipedia

Bijani and I walked down the steps toward the stone towers overlooking the water. Rain alternated between sheets and drizzle, but for a moment the sun broke through the bank of clouds to make a golden pathway on Loch Ness. We clambered through various passageways and chambers, taking occasional shelter, and searching for Nessie. We didn’t spot the monster, however, until we stopped in the small town of Drumnadrochit on the road back to Inverness.

Large enough for a single convenience store, the town found room for rival monster museums: the Loch Ness 2000 Exhibition Center (formerly the Official Loch Ness Exhibition Center) and the adjacent Original Loch Ness Exhibition Center. Both were closed, but one had erected a goofy-faced fiberglass Nessie, and we hopped on for a quick free ride.

Adventures shouldn’t end without dinner, so Bijani and I returned to Inverness for some affordable and surprisingly good fish and chips, then headed back to the hostel to prepare for our upcoming trip across the Highlands.

…To Be Continued in Part III: Kyle of Lochalsh to Fort William

~Will~

Krakow Old Town

TIED FOR SECOND PLACE – RUNNING IN KRAKOW

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Running Five Polish Miles

When I first arrived in Krakow, Poland, for my semester abroad in February 2008, I was just getting back into running after a three-year hiatus. I’d spent that January staying with a friend in her London flat and traveling some around Britain and Europe before my program in Poland started. As my bank account had dwindled over the month, I forced myself to put aside my passport and suitcase for the last week I was in London and decided to try to find cheaper ways to entertain myself (Hey! That’s the name of the site!). Running along the Thames was cheap (free!) and I got to see more of London than if I were walking, so I decided to lace up my shoes again.

At that point, running for me, after having taken so much time off, was a ridiculous effort: I’d lope along at a 10-minute mile pace for five to seven minutes, before giving myself a few minutes’ walking break to try to get my heart rate down below 150 again.

“I’ll ease into it,” I told myself, as I’d drag my body back into my friend’s flat, my cheeks siren red from my efforts.

And so I was still, a week later, during my program’s orientation to Krakow.

A brief history lesson: Krakow is one of the few Polish cities that wasn’t badly damaged during World War II. While Hitler’s army annihilated 98% of Warsaw’s buildings, the Fuhrer decided Krakow, as a city, was not of Slavic origin, and could therefore be spared. His reasoning was that the city had been under the Austrian Empire after the Partitions of Poland in 1795 (until 1918, when Poland was briefly put back on the map as a republic, before being taken over by the Germans during WWII). Even though the city has roots leading back to 966 C.E., it was really a Germanic city, through and through, Hitler decided.

Satisfied with this version of history, Hitler quickly named Krakow the capital of his Nazi Polish government.

He went on to install his new Nazi governor in Wawel Castle, a gorgeous fortress atop a hill in the center of Krakow that’s believed to be the birthplace of Poland, and a huge point of pride for Poles.

Wawel Castle (from below)

What all this history meant, for this 21st century American foreign student, was that Krakow’s Old Town, despite—and also because of—the city’s troubled history, still retains its feel from centuries ago. Each cobble-stoned street is lined with pastel-colored Baroque buildings. They all lead up to the Rynek Glowny, the largest market square in Europe, where the 15th century sunshine yellow Cloth Hall sits at its center and is home to a flower and handicrafts market that operates year-round.

RynekGlowny

My study abroad program’s guide, Anna (pronounced AHN-ya) spent the morning of my first full day in Krakow showing us around Rynek Glowny and Krakow’s Old Town. She pointed out St. Mary’s Cathedral, with its mismatched towers (so designed, or so the story goes, by two rival brother architects, one of whom killed himself in shame when his tower was shorter and less beautiful than his brother’s), and directed our attention to the Clock Tower, the only remnant of Krakow’s 14th century Town Hall.

Then, she ushered us out of the square. A few blocks’ walk and we’d reached the Barbican, a circular brick fortress with an imposing portcullis.

“This,” said Anna, “Is the only remnant of Krakow’s city wall. The wall used to surround the whole city, but the Austrians tore all of it down in the 1800s.”

She shifted on her feet.

The Planty

“They replaced it with what we call ‘The Planty.’” She motioned around her, to what I’d thought was a small, narrow park.

“The Planty,” Anna continued, “Goes around all of Krakow’s Old Town, forming a green ring around the city with a path running through it.”

I looked around more. The Planty (pronounced PLAHN-tee) was lovely, even in the early February chill. It was made up of one large pathway, and several smaller ones, all of which were lined with trees and benches. A few bundled up Poles sat along the path, reading newspapers or talking in their phones. Others were walking along it, but I didn’t see anyone running. Still…

“How long is the whole thing?” I asked Anna, very aware of the fact that I’d had to stop and walk barely 3/4s of a mile into my run the previous evening.

“Oh, it’s very big,” said Anna, avoiding answering the question, a habit I’d soon learn is common practice among her countrymen.

“Do you have a guess?” I persisted.

She considered. “I’d say five miles. Yes, at least five miles. It’s very, very big around.”

***

So now I had a goal for myself: I’d run from my dorm a mile or so out of the city center, run the whole Planty and then run—…or maybe walk, to, erm, cool down—back.

With that goal in mind, I spent the next handful of weeks working toward it, running around a huge park near my dormitory. I dodged Rottweilers and Dobermans (the Poles seemed obsessed with muscle dogs). I trotted past bronze statues of Pope John Paul II and Marie Curie, both cherished nationals. I wove through bummed soccer fans after a tough loss at a nearby arena. And on nearly every run I got heckled by the usual suspects—teenagers and construction workers—and gawked at by just about everybody. It turns out no sane person runs in Poland, least of all the way I was doing it: red-faced and puffing ten minutes in.

Spring arrived. I’d worked my way up in mileage and decided one sunny Saturday morning that today was my day to tackle the Planty. I stretched out in my dorm room and bid my roommate farewell (She, too, thought I was a bit nuts, but later admitted that she respected me for my fearlessness to wear skintight, not-hiding-anything running tights, especially in the most Catholic—and therefore fairly conservative—country in the world).

I made it to the Planty without issue and turned onto the trail. With the warmer weather, the trees lining the path had leafed out. The whole trail was green and blooming. It was lovely. And crowded. Krakowians were out en masse enjoying the weather, and I found myself dodging more than the occasional Doberman in order to make my way.

Still, the run was going smoothly, all in all. In fact, I was making really good time. To my left was the Catholic church I’d peeked into the week before, and oh—rounding the next turn—there was the English bookstore where I’d swap paperbacks, and there was that restaurant that serves great peroigi and…

I glanced at my stopwatch. Wait a second. I was making really, really good time. I’d been running on the path for maybe twelve minutes and was, as far as I could tell, already one-third of the way around the city center.

“That can’t be right,” I thought. “I must be forgetting something.”

But before I could ponder it more, I rounded another curve, this time right near the base of the Wawel Castle, and nearly took out a five-year old girl with her father. Coming up short, I realized I’d run right into what looked to be a spring carnival, being held along the banks of the Vistula River.

I was forced to slow to a walk for a moment, trying to get my bearings. There were children and their parents everywhere, all up and down the sidewalk. Popcorn and cotton candy vendors were out hocking their wares. Teenagers were lobbing softballs at milk bottles to win their sweethearts giant stuffed animals.

The popcorn smelled delicious. And—oh! Were those mini-donuts?

I had to get outta there, and quickly, before my resolve to run the Planty faded away. But I was stuck. The street fair looked like it went on for a ways. I couldn’t turn off on a side street without giving up on my goal. Plus, there weren’t any around anyway. I was pinned between the riverbanks to my left and the hill with the Wawel Castle atop it rising up beside me on my right.

I didn’t have a choice: In order to make it around the Planty, I was going to have to run through the whole carnival, Spandex pants and all.

There might have been some pointing. Perhaps some laughter. I know for certain there were mouths that fell open, many gaping at my pants, my face—which was flushed its usual deep red, as it always is when I run—and most of all, my stride.

“What is that girl doing?” they asked each other in Polish.

Eventually, after I nearly ran into a cotton candy salesman and had to duck around three or four enormous dragon stuffed animals, I made it to the other side.

There, I realized I was now halfway around the city center—so two and a half miles around, in theory—and it had only taken me fifteen minutes. I was getting in better shape, sure, but I wasn’t that good. I started to think that maybe Anna was a bit misinformed. And that maybe when I’d told one of my Polish teachers about my goal and her eyes had gotten huge, that maybe she, too, had bought into the whole “The Planty is very big” mantra.

And then I really started to think that maybe I would need to do my long run the next day.

Ten minutes later, and I’d made it. I’d run around the entire Planty, the whole thing, all “five miles” of it, in less than thirty minutes. And I have to say: Those five miles were the quickest, most popcorn- and cotton candy-filled miles I have ever run. Goal accomplished.

~Megan~

Prague

TIED FOR SECOND PLACE – RUNNING IN PRAGUE

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Run for the Czech Republic. Run for Yourself. Run for Free Beer.

As I stepped off the plane in Prague, Czech Republic my buddy Max tapped my shoulder and pointed to a big billboard in the airport terminal. “RUN FOR THE CZECH REPUBLIC. RUN FOR YOURSELF. RUN FOR FREE BEER” it read in all capital letters. “We have to do that!” Max said with a smile on his face.

The advertisement was for a half marathon only three days away and it conveniently overlapped with our schedule in Prague. Why not? I thought to myself. If Max, a tubby baseball player from New York City feels confident about this, I can definitely run a half marathon. “What do you think that means when it says ‘run for free beer’?” Max asked. I shrugged in equal confusion. Having never run any more than 5-6 miles, I excitedly agreed, unaware of what we were getting ourselves into.

The following morning after leaving our hostel we ventured into downtown Prague and walked into the blow-up tent to register for the race. With the translation help of a kind Czech teenager we were able to sign up for the race smoothly. We left the tent with a t-shirt, a timer to strap around our ankles, and a number to pin onto our shirts. “Nice we’re actually going to do this!” I said to Max enthusiastically. The next two days we continued with our plans as scheduled, which included touring the magnificent cathedrals, walking down old cobbled streets, and eating kurtos kalacs (a wonderfully delicious Czech pastry).  The night before the race, I ate a big plate of pasta fettuccine as instructed by a friend who advised feasting on carbohydrates.

It was a cold morning in Prague when we woke up, so I wore a long-sleeved shirt and shorts for the run. We meandered over to the start of the race after a light breakfast and congregated by the changing room (which was in fact just a large outdoor tent with some drapes over the side). It was before the race had even begun; yet the stench of body odor could have suffocated a small child. I could not believe the smells of so many men could produce something so pungent. The “bathroom” was a line of urinals in broad daylight offering no privacy. We walked across the street passing one of Prague’s most famous landmarks, the Charles Bridge, and waited for the race to begin. A group of five men (based on our stereotypes, we could only assume were Kenyan) jogged in the middle of the street and the dense crowd parted for them just how I imagined Moses’ parting of the Red Sea.

There was an announcement that the race was starting momentarily and that everyone should get ready behind the start line. Max and I nervously looked at each other secretly hoping the other would flake out to give us an excuse not to actually follow through with this crazy idea. Neither of us wanted to bail so we did our stretches out and took off in a jog once the whistle was blown. Max pushed ahead of me within 5 minutes, and it was the last time I saw him for the whole race. Giant balloons were pinned to the jerseys of trained professionals each running at different time intervals for the benefit of the runners.

After the first few miles I started to get thirsty and saw an upcoming table with a plethora of cups, and I decided it was a good time to hydrate myself. As I approached the table, I scanned all of the cups and noticed they were each filled with a dark brown liquid that was foaming at the top. There is no way this is beer. I thought to myself. I took a sip to quench my thirst and sure enough, it was beer. Is this what it meant when the billboard said “RUN FOR FREE BEER?” Do Czechs actually like beer so much that they drink it during a half marathon? I gulped down the cup, laughing to myself as I kept running. Maybe a particular beer company is sponsoring this table? I didn’t have time to reflect for too long so I kept moving, eager for the next table to give a liquid that could actually hydrate me. Another few miles went by and a new table appeared off in the distance. As I got closer I noticed that once again all the cups were filled with the same brown liquid! Eager to drink something, I gulped down another beer. This happened three more times during the race, as each table continued to hand out beer to the runners, despite my constant hopes for a cool cup of H20.

As the race came to a close, amazed by my ability to have kept up with the red balloon runner indicating the 2-hour half marathon, I counted the number of beers I drank. It was five. In two hours, I drank five beers, all in an effort to guzzle any liquid, and truthfully to optimize on the free beer that was advertised so widely (despite that it likely slowed down my race).  When I eventually met up with Max at the end, we avoided the changing room for fear of what monstrous odor would be coming out of it after the race. We made sure to get our free 30-second massages from two chubby middle-aged Czech women who slapped our legs around (one on each leg) and we laughed at the hilarity of the day. I mocked Max for finishing thirty minutes after me, but in truth we felt accomplished for our victories. When we woke up the next morning, unable to bend our legs, go up stairs, or walk long distances, we were no longer laughing at the hilarity of the previous day.  The joke was on us. The real laughter came three days later when we could freely move again, without keeling over in leg pain.

~Eli~

This story was submitted by Eli Zach Terris.  Eli is currently a graduating senior at Brandeis University in Boston.   He tells EY: “Since I love writing stories, running (and coincidentally am in need of new running shoes!)  I decided to give it a go.  It was fun to relive these stories while writing them.”  This Czech Republic Running Story is one of two stories that Eli submitted.  Czech back – oops – we mean check back to see where else Eli has been.

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BEST RUNNING STORY CONTEST WINNER ANNOUNCED!

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Joe Schubert in China

Kunming locals love to wryly say that the “mountains are high and the emperor is far away”, explaining the often devious and alternative history of their city.  Sure, some say our world is now flat, and that China is flat and better connected, meaning Kunming now submits (usually) to Beijing’s watch.  But, regardless of how flat Thomas Friedman thinks China is, the mountains and elevation have done a great job of keeping China’s pollution away from this six million person city in China’s Southwest.

Not facing the pollution that inhibits most running in Chinese cities, I spent 5 months running outside (and a mile high!) in Kunming.  The traffic, however, posed a problem that even the mountains couldn’t keep away.  I started my afternoon run how I did many in Kunming- slipping into the Moped lane.  True to congestion in China, the sidewalks are impossible to run on (and nearly so just to walk on).  Weaving around and with the slew of mopeds, I received the usual funny stares and laughs.

Then the run picked up.  A flashy black and neon green moped sped up next to me, and a young driver, cigarette dangling out of his mouth, gave me a wink.  I assumed my usual weaving.  He began weaving.  I picked up the pace, he picked it up more.  I dipped off onto a side street.  He slipped onto the side street. For twenty minutes we “raced” through Kunming’s busiest streets and quietest back alleys.  As our race ended, he asked me a few questions in Chinese/English (where are you from, etc.), gave me a cigarette, and continued on his drive.

And there I stood.  Realizing I was lost in Kunming and wearing only a pair of short shorts, and a singlet, I gazed down at my cigarette- my race medal? I stashed it behind my ear and decided to keep the run alive and slowly tried to find my way… and then I saw it.  A track.  … and a fence.  Deciding a fence shouldn’t keep me from such a unique treasure in China, I hopped onto the other side.  Ahhhh.  The relief and meditative peace of mind treasured by track runners soon took me over.  Twilight approached and I completed my first four, five, six laps.

And then, indiscernible Chinese yelling filled the air and I saw flashlights and a car on the other side of the fence.  No cherries and berries but I made out what seemed to be the figure of a Chinese police officer.  And so I ran.  Down the track.  Faster.  Over the fence.  And just kept running.  “Woah woah woah, I just ran from the police, the CHINESE police, the CHINESE AUTHORITARIAN  police, what if they catch me? I have no identification. They don’t still have re-education camps?  Right?” So I ran faster, and faster, dodging through alleys and side streets as much as possible.

Eventually my pace settled down.  I began to take note of my situation and pondered whether it was actually the police (or was it a security guard, or some old man who wanted to say hi?).  Regardless, I was really lost.  And it was dark.  And I just had short shorts, a singlet and that cigarette, somehow still tucked away behind my ear and hair.  And then it clicked.  “TAXI!!”  In nervous Chinese, I explained I had only one cigarette as fare and I was a lost foreigner and hey, my shorts don’t even reach my middle thighs.  For whatever reason, maybe out of amusement, the taxi driver agreed. Soon I was back in my old, decrepit Chinese dorm room, showering, eating fried veggie-noodles, and soaking in the best tempo workout of my life.

~ Joe~

Joe enjoys a hard earned meal after an incredible workout

SHOES WORN DURING THIS KUNMING RUN:  ASIC GEL 1160’s.    Runner\’s World on Asic Gel 1160\’s

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Good Maurice, The Badd Llama

Who’s Guarding The Roost?

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Good Maurice, The Badd Llama

 “How many teeth does it have?” 

That’s the first thing my mother asked me after learning Jane had a surprise for her. As a messy blond kid my younger sister’s surprises included a humming bird, some snakes and several families of pill bugs, which she relocated to my bed. Steadily, these unexpected gifts grew in size. 

Thanks to Jane, now a farm-oriented business lady, we own goats, sheep and hundreds of chickens. 

“Do you really want to know?” I asked. 

“No, don’t tell me.” 

My mother likes a good shock, which must be why our home looks like Old McDonald’s petting zoo. Still, she had some initial reservations. 

“I have a feeling it will require a lot of care and will harm me,” she said. 

I wanted to ease my mom’s fears, but couldn’t since I knew nothing about llamas. Jane had mentioned getting one, but it seemed she’d considered taking in creatures ranging from Shetland ponies to hippos, so I didn’t take her seriously—until she wrote me the following. 

“… also don’t tell mom, but I am buying them a llama, b/c the coyotes have eaten too many of our chickens and I am afraid for the goats.” 

When Jane puts something in writing it’s a done deal. 

On one level it made sense. Our home is in a rural-ish suburb, just north of the Golden Gate Bridge, but close enough to open space for wild animals to roam comfortably. Coyotes had recently moved in, and we’d spotted them lurking around the goat pen and once my mother saw one bounding through high grass to pounce on an unlucky bird. 

A hole  in our fence was plugged with a tree branch, but that was a temporary solution. Jane wanted a more permanent fix for our wily problem, and she argued, what better than a lama?  

A dog, I guess, but my sister isn’t one for convention. Besides, she said, these South American camelids are badder and bigger than any dog. 

That’s what my mom was afraid of: a six-foot wooly beast that needs its “fighting teeth” removed to prevent ear ripping and genital biting (mostly of other llamas) according to the care manual. 

If there’s danger, Jane said, “The goats and chickens know to get behind them.” As for the coyote, she said, “it gets trampled.” 

A few days after the email, a truck pulling a large trailer drove up to the house and a woman from a dusty llama and schnauzer farm (the owners raised the llamas for pleasure, the dogs for profit) led the latest member of our menagerie to his new home. 

From a distance Maurice, or Banjo as we sometimes call him, looks terrifying and ridiculous. His ears arch like devil horns, his eyes look slanted and red.  

 He’s been shaved around his mid section, so that only his neck and legs are covered in dark brown, ocher-highlighted curls of wool—like a French poodle demon.  

On closer inspection, however, he appears much less imposing. Maurice is about my height—with maybe 100 pounds on me—but while he’s big enough to ride he’s shy. His face looks like a cute wooly camel and his deceptive eyes are actually large and black orbs. He spent the first few days in his new home whimpering.  

With lama pellets, we’ve slowly begun to gain this big softy’s trust, and he’s kept up his end of the bargain—there hasn’t been a single coyote sighting since he showed up. 

Yesterday, after my mom had finished corralling the animals and feeding them, I asked what she thought of Jane’s latest present. 

“It’s a good one,” she said. “But I’m all animaled out.  No more for a while” 

Now I’m wondering if I should tell her about the Indian runner ducks my uncle ordered her this summer, as a surprise of course. 

-Will