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Out in Front

 

While I will admit that waking at 5:40 AM never became easy, when you wake up knowing that you simply have an hour of easy jogging, it’s not so bad.  First, before you protest let me explain how an hour run could be considered easy.

I began training as a distance runner as a 6th grader going out for track.  Since that time I had run a competitive season at least once a year (of cross country and sometimes track) on into college.  In the summer after my sophomore year at Macalester College I went to Kenya to train with and learn about the successful running culture of some of the worlds fastest runners.  Before this morning, about 5 weeks into my 9 week trip, I had just completed possibly the hardest four days of training I had ever experienced, running between 1:45 and 3 hours a day while completing hard workouts that had me sprinting much of the time.  So while this morning 5:40 felt as early as ever, the thought of an hour of light running felt like a much deserved break after the previous 4 days.

Ngong Hills near Nairobi, Kenya, Africa

 

I dressed and went outside the compounds gates where it was still dark.  In the early morning darkness it was always hard to tell which runners were who.  Was the person next to me someone I knew well or someone I had never spoken with?  Children bustled down the rocky dirt road on their way to school, and men and women either walked or drove to work.

As more runners began to gather and the time got closer to the magical hour of 6 am when the daily runs would begin, I looked for Elisha, my training partner, to see if we would run with the group or run on our own.  Finally, after spotting another young runner who lived in the same room as Elisha, I asked if he knew if Elisha was coming.  He assured me, yes he was running a bit late, but was coming.  The group started off as usual running very slowly down the rocky road to the tarmac.  I decided to follow suit but kept looking back for Elisha- not knowing if the group was going easy or hard today, and therefore if we would join them or not.  The pace was easy enough, not that that meant much for the first minutes of a run in Kenya.  You see, in Kenya, every run starts off extremely slowly.  Runners- many of them whom are world class athletes that have raced in the Olympics or have won some of the worlds most competitive marathons- would start every run jogging at 12 minutes per mile.  I was quite shocked when I first arrived to see runners who could average 5 minutes per mile for 26 miles running at a slower pace than most novice runners in the US would run.

But while the pace started slowly, it could quickly heat up to the point where I would be left after 20 minutes gasping for what little air was left at 6000 feet.  When Elisha arrived he briefly spoke to another runner in Kalinjin- their first language- and one which I did not understand.  I asked Elisha if we should stay with the group and he said yes.  Elisha knew that this was to be our easy day and so I trusted that he had just learned the run would be short and easy as I relaxed and tried not to trip in the dark.

The route though was scarily familiar- it was Monday’s run and on Monday the pace quickly went from laughably slow to impossibly fast.  As we turned off the main road onto another I felt the pace beginning to quicken slightly- nothing to write home about- but it had me wondering if this really was going to be an easy run.

As the sun begins to come up and the day moves sharply from dark to light I feel the pace accelerate again- ah it’s going to be like a Monday run I realize.  I start to drop off the back a bit, but Elisha motions for me to keep up.  He puts his arm down by his side gesturing for me to keep up.  The motion is out of encouragement; I can tell that he really wants me to try to stay with the group so I get back up there.

After maybe 30 minutes we make a sharp turn onto a narrow road that immediately begins to go up hill.  The effort increases on the hill and I really feel the hill repeats I did the day before.  But, at the same time that I’m feeling tired I get a bit of boost when I see other runners turn off or “stop to use the bush.” I recall what Robert- my other training partner told me- “You are strong, why do you think the other runners stop?  They don’t necessarily have to go to the bathroom but maybe the pace is too fast for them.”

I get dropped by the pack on the steep uphills- my legs are just too tired from the day before- but Elisha continues to motion for me to catch up and I realize that on the flat sections and down hill portions of the road I am able to accelerate and catch the group again.  At the beginning of the run I was frustrated, “this was supposed to be our easy day” I thought to myself, but as the run continues I realize that I have been running with the group while they are running hard longer than I ever have.

At this point I am working really hard to keep up, and look at my watch and see that we have already run out in a single direction for almost 50 minutes.  I see a familiar cut off point and ask Elisha if we can take it.  He responds “I think it’ll be better if we just catch up with the group again,” ahh OK I think, we hit a down hill and I am able to catch up again with the back of the group.  Then Elisha turns and says to me “Now go to the front!”  My brain immediately thinks “WHAT?!?, doesn’t he know that as soon as the runners see the new/foreign runner go to the front they will take off?”  After all describing these types of runs as competitive is an understatement.  But to Elisha, I just laugh and say “OK, but this is my last push” and he replies that we can jog after we reach the forest.

So I make my move, I know that no one is going to easily let me pass on the narrow road so I have to run on the side at times to pass the runners.  And while I can tell they notice and are definitely surprised that I am still with the group at this point, they let me pass.  I almost get up even with the leader passing Wilsion Boit Kipketer- former world record holder in the steeple chase who acted as my mentor on the trip.  We round a sharp turn and I get cut off on the inside forcing me back a few feet.  I kick it up another gear to get back up with the leader when- wow- I take in the view of the open road in front of me.  Rather than seeing the backs of other runners- for the first time while running hard with the group I am able to see the road ahead- I am leading the pack.  Then I realize- I’m not even going 100%, I’m not even sprinting! And I am leading some of the best runners in the world.  I almost became choked up: never did I imagine that this would happen when I dreamed of spending a summer running with world class athletes.  Other words from Robert went through my head: “remember, they are working hard too.”  I naturally pick up the pace as I see the forest coming closer and closer ahead, but I feel great and keep pushing the pace on into the forest.

-Martin

The open road ahead

The open road ahead

This article was first published on EntertainingYourself.com on June 8, 2010.  Following his summer in Kenya, Martin Mudry returned to this beautiful country to film a documentary about these amazing runners.  The movie is called “Where Dreams Don’t Fade” and after touring the world at numerous film festivals, it is now available on DVD.

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All Aboard A Scenic Railroad

I am an explorer; I love discovering what the world around me has to offer. I have done my best to travel the 22,000 acres of the “Emerald Necklace” of the Cleveland Metroparks, sampled the historical Cleveland tradition of ethnic diversity at the West Side Market, and gotten lost in the memories of a magical time period at Stan Hywet Hall and Gardens. Recently, I have boarded another timeless journey: the Cuyahoga Valley Scenic Railroad.

From serving as a transportation corridor for the Indians thousands of years ago to later providing settlers with an easy way to move bulk goods, the Cuyahoga River and Valley in northern Ohio has always been an asset to people of all ages. The Valley Railway was primarily built to transport coal from south of Canton, Ohio to the prosperous industries developing throughout Cleveland. Today it serves as transportation through beautiful meadowland, the homes of beaver, fox, deer, and owl, and shopping and lodging destinations. Children anxiously climb aboard the “Polar Express” during the Christmas season and experience a magical trip to the North Pole to visit Santa Claus. Families travel alongside the railway on miles of the Towpath Trail to bike, walk, and even canoe.

With twelve main points of interest and eight stations, the Cuyahoga Valley Scenic Railroad stretches across 33,000 acres of our National Park. I have visited and photographed two of the stations including Peninsula Depot and Brecksville Station. Each station offers various forms of entertainment ranging from recreational activities, dining, shopping, and art galleries.

 

Peninsula Depot
The Peninsula Depot sits in the small town of Peninsula that offers various tourist attractions for its visitors of all ages. A few dining options include the Winking Lizard and Fisher’s Cafe and Pub, stores range from Burda Books to Yellow Creek Trading Company, and art galleries include Diane Seskes Photography and Elements GallerySpecial events are held throughout the year and attract families from all over the Midwest. Not only is the town packed with excitement during the day, but it also has a great night life featuring various bars, karaoke events, and live musicians.

While visiting I traveled the Towpath Trails. Not only was I able to observe wildlife throughout the dense forest, recreational activities on the trails, and the beautiful scenery, but I also came across the Canal Feeder Dam, a historical landmark of the Cuyahoga Valley Scenic Railroad. While the dam was originally built in 1827 to provide water for the Ohio and Erie Canal, today it functions as more of a memory for the town. Peninsula once greatly depended on this dam and the Cuyahoga River, and many of the buildings throughout the town still stand as to portray the purpose it once served.

I also walked alongside the Cuyahoga River which has created a series of peninsulas over the course of its existence. While the river was once completely polluted and disregarded by society, it now serves a different purpose. I observed two children skipping rocks across the water, a family canoeing on the calm rapids, and a blue heron searching for its lunch.

 

Brecksville Station

The Brecksville Station also offers much excitement for its visitors.  Well known restaurants are just around the corner and offer a wide variety of dining options including Creekside Restaurant and BarSakura Japanese, and The Courtyard Cafe. Shopping centers are within walking distance from these restaurants and feature unique stores such as Riverview House Antiques Gifts and Florals and ABC Art and Coin Exchange. The area also serves as a great recreational destination as people come to hike, golf, play softball, and run cross country.

While visiting I photographed the beautiful fall scenery around the station. The Route 82 bridge spans the Cuyahoga Valley and runs directly over the railroad at the Brecksville Station. Built in 1931 the bridge stands at a height taller than the Statue of Liberty and its unique construction the evolution of bridge engineering.

From recreational opportunities to gourmet dining to experiencing historical landmarks, the Cuyahoga Valley Scenic Railroad is truly a beautiful asset to Northeast Ohio. While I have only visited two of the stations, I look forward to exploring and photographing more in the near future. Board the Cuyahoga Valley Scenic Railroad yourself and discover all that it has to offer!

 

~Kerry~

 

 

Check out my complete Cuyahoga Valley Scenic Railroad photography album
on EntertainingYourself.com’s Facebook page!

 

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How to Pass the Time While Stuck in L.A. Traffic

                              Photo from LA Traffic Cam

Los Angeles is known, no—fabled, no—downright notorious for its horrible, mind-numbing traffic. In fact, it’s estimated that Los Angeles County residents spend about 4 days a year (or, oof, 96 hours) in their cars.

So what’s an Angelino to do with all that time? Here are some ways I’ve come up to pass the hours you spend getting from here to there in L.A.:

 

1.  Rock out to KCRW. KCRW is Los Angeles’ public radio, indy rock station, with a heavy dose of NPR-sponsored news and programming. Turn that dial to 89.9 FM and enjoy new bands, the latest news, and helpful traffic updates. Plus, with frequent free giveaways for members in venues all around the city, it’s a great introduction to some interesting music hotspots around town. Bonus: For you smartphone users, they have a great app, too!

 

 

2.  Roll down your windows and let the sunshine in. Hey, you’re in California, remember? Chances are the weather is a balmy 82 degrees and sunny, so breathe in those exhaust fumes and enjoy that sunshine. Just don’t forget to sunscreen up or you’ll soon be sporting a super attractive, left-armed trucker’s tan.

Hitting some of that famous L.A. traffic

This image from PD Photo.org has been released into the public domain by its author and copyright holder, Jon Sullivan

 

3.  Count out-of-state license plates. One of the first things anyone will ask you at a party in L.A. is “So, where are you from?” It’s a widely known fact that no one is from Los Angeles, we all just move here trying to make it big (or cry trying). In particular, you’ll see a large number of out-of-state plates driven by young dreamers like myself. And just so you know, a thumbs-up of encouragement is always appreciated, even after we’ve accidentally cut you off in a left-turn-only lane—quit honking, we’re from outta town, after all!

 

 

4.  Eat. I’ve become a huge proponent of stocking my car with snacks, like cereal bars, trail mix, that sort of thing, since you never know if you’ll get stuck in a jam on the freeway. Bonus points if you’re wise enough to stop at In ‘N’ Out for a burger animal-style before you head out into the rush.

 

5.  Practice defensive driving. Check your blind spot, increase your following distance, signal excessively…and be prepared to get hit despite it all. You’re in traffic for an entire four days a year; chances are you’ll be involved in a fender-bender at some point down the line. On that note, you may want to consider dropping a bit more on insurance than you might in another city; it might be worth it.

 

6.  Learn a new language. Check out an audiobook at the library and practice your nouns while you stop and go (that’s “parada” and “ir” in Spanish, folks). Look for an audiobook that emphasizes conversational language skills, so there’s not too much book work that goes along with it.

7.  Be a trailblazer: Take public transit. Despite its reputation to the contrary, L.A. does have a growing public transportation system (with a subway! Who knew!). It’s particularly useful if you’re heading to Hollywood or downtown. And for those of you out late at night, all trains and the Orange Line are now running until 2 a.m. on Fridays and Saturdays!

Final note: Believe it or not – and despite what you may see to the contrary, one thing you shouldn’t be doing while driving is talking on your cell phone – unless it’s on speakerphone or you have a headset or Bluetooth. California has a strictly enforced cell phone law and cops will pull you over and slap you with a hefty fine (well – hefty for someone like me who’s on a budget!). Texting is also illegal, so when you desperately need to tweet about having just seen Justin Bieber coming out of a Starbucks in West Hollywood, just pull over okay?

 

Self-portraits: Only a good idea as a passenger

~Megan~

 

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Featured EY Contributor: Kerry Butler

Like any other student anticipating the end of August/beginning of September time of year, I am still wondering how June, July, and August passed by so quickly. I took five courses throughout my summer break, and now that they all have come to an end, I feel as though my summer has just begun.

During my last few weeks of relaxation, I have been traveling to various areas throughout Cleveland to engage in a personal favorite hobby: photography. To keep a three-year tradition of mine alive, I recently attended the Feast of the Assumption in Little Italy. The Feast is an annual event that begins with a religious procession through the streets, followed by carnival rides, vendors, live music, and fireworks. The Feast amazes me. From meeting new people, experiencing a different culture, and, of course, sampling delicious Italian food, the event is far beyond entertaining.

This year I decided to bring along my camera as I took a Photography course this summer and wanted to practice some of the skills that I learned throughout the five-week intensive class. Between endless pasta, pizza, and pastries, I took pictures of the colorful environment, live entertainment, and different vendors throughout the crowded streets of Little Italy. By taking pictures of different places throughout the Cleveland area, I hope to pass along not only the environment and scenery of the particular subject matter, but also give the viewer a sense of the smells throughout the area, textures, tastes, and other more descriptive characteristics not usually conveyed by the average photograph.

Which leads me to my central interest: I have always enjoyed being creative. Whether it was making a birthday card for a friend, helping my mom cook a new recipe, or designing collages for my bedroom, I have always demonstrated an artistic passion. I still practice all of these childhood interests today, making personalized birthday cards, cooking and baking any new recipe I can get my hands on, and designing collages, posters, and brochures for others and myself.

In a few days I will continue to practice these interests as I begin my first full semester with Kent State University. I attended John Carroll University for the past two years as a Marketing major, but after taking three Visual Communication Design (VCD) courses with Kent last summer, I decided to further pursue their program and learn more about the growing field of design. I will be working toward earning degrees in both VCD and Managerial Marketing as I hope to combine the two areas of interest and someday work as a Graphic Designer while applying business knowledge to my projects. While change terrifies me, I anticipate my transfer not as a change but more as an enriching opportunity that will allow me to finally discover all of my capabilities.

Over the course of this semester I have two expectations of myself: remain positive throughout this new experience and grow as an individual. I could not be more thrilled to begin my internship with EY and share some of my interests with a broader range of individuals. I look forward to the months to come, and I am thankful for having the courage to engage in such great opportunities.

~ Kerry ~

Want to see more of Kerry’s pictures from the Feast?  Check out her album posted on EY’s facebook page.

Megan Kayaking

The Key To Sea Kayaking – Part 1

 

By Megan Ritchie

About a month after I moved to Los Angeles, a friend and her girlfriend, Adrianna, invited me to go sea kayaking with them in Malibu. I’d been kayaking a handful of times, most recently on a family vacation to Lake Superior last summer, and was really excited to try it in the ocean.

On a Sunday afternoon, we drove the twenty or so miles from my house on the east side of Los Angeles, across the city and up the coast along the Pacific Coast Highway (or PCH, to us “locals”). Parking on the PCH, which runs right alongside the ocean, is impossible, but we eventually found a parking lot right next to the beach and dropped the ten bucks to park there. After locking all of our possessions in the trunk, I tucked my car key in a little pouch in my running shorts (pay attention to that detail – it comes in later), and set off. We scampered across the highway to the Malibu Surf Shack, which rents surf boards, paddleboards and, you got it, sea kayaks. After we ducked in to the little shop and our eyes adjusted to the dim light, the guy behind the counter asked if we’d been sea kayaking before. Sarah and Adrianna both nodded, yep, they’d been once before at the Surf Shack a handful of months earlier. I hesitated, and then said, “Sure, I’ve kayaked before.” Technically not on the ocean, but so be it.

“Well, good,” said the guy, who was every bit a surfer dude. “Wouldn’t want an inexperienced kayaker out on those waves today….they’re reaaaal rough, even for someone who knows what they’re doing.”

My heart began to pound as we signed off the waivers and put down the deposit.  Sarah, clearly the brains behind the operation—or at least the bravest of us all—led us out of the little shop. Adrianna and I both began talking about how we weren’t exactly “experienced kayakers.”

“Oh, we’ll be fine.” Sarah said, brushing us off.

Feeling that familiar rush of adrenaline and fear I always get from any rule-breaking or risk-taking because I am a coward and a square, I followed her around the side of the shop. We grabbed paddles and damp lifejackets and then waited for a lull in the traffic before running across the highway and back to the beach. The sea kayaks in bright citrus colors were stacked high in a trailer parked alongside the road. Another surfer dude from the Surf Shack helped us carry three down to the sand.

The waves were pounding along the beach. Adrianna and I gulped. Sarah, all confidence, tried to reassure us. I turned to the Surf Shack dude.

“Tell us, honestly,” I said. “Are we going to die?”

“What? No. You guys will be fine.”

“But we are not experienced sea kayakers, man.” I added the “man” there to let him know that even if we weren’t regular wave-paddlers, we were far from dorks. He seemed to pick up on how cool we were, because he said next in particularly soothing tones:

“Look, you’ll be fine. I promise.”

Sarah rolled her eyes, but Adrianna and I were willing to be reassured by anyone, dude or otherwise.

The guy continued, “All you have to do is wait for a lull in the waves and then run out as fast and as hard as you can and hop in the boat when you can’t run any farther. The waves here in Malibu come in bursts—they’ll be a couple minutes of hard waves and then they’ll die down.”

We all paused to look out on the waves. They did seem to be dying down. Sarah took the moment to leap into the water and run out with her boat. When she reached waist-height, she leapt into her boat and paddled out. She looked cool.

I’d missed my window at that point, and had to wait for another round of boat-crushing waves before I too took the plunge. Once the water calmed again, I pushed my boat into the water and high-stepped as far as I could. I leapt into my boat not as gracefully as Sarah but I got in all the same, and paddled quickly past the waves’ breaking point. Alright, maybe I wasn’t going to die. Maybe I was all drama, it was all in my head. There is no spoon. Adrianna and I exchanged a nervous laugh – we were just being silly, everything was fine.

I should note that this was only the second or third time I’d even seen the ocean, let alone been on the water. I’m from Minnesota originally and so “the beach” to me means a day near a lake where the biggest waves we get are from a passing speedboat pulling a couple kids on an inner tube behind it. So my cowardice, while a little pathetic, wasn’t entirely ungrounded.

We paddled our boats out past the wooden pier. There were fishermen with long poles standing at the end of  it, and a few of them waved at us as we passed. It was a gorgeous afternoon, with barely a breeze and a cloudless sky. I looked around at the gentle waves and the rocky coastline, and kept having to tell myself “I live here now. This is my home now.” Sometimes, I find it amazing how huge the United States really are. I marveled how the beautiful coastline I was kayaking along was part of the same country as the rolling hills of prairie grass and wildflowers I’d ridden past only a few months earlier on bike rides in Minnesota.

As we made our way up the shore, we saw surfers up ahead; there was some kind of surfing competition going on up the beach. We paddled out farther to avoid them, and because (understandably) the waves looked even bigger there. We paddled for an hour or so before deciding to come back in and have lunch along the shore.

For the approach back to the beach, we were to do the same strategy as our way out: wait for the waves to calm before paddling. Sarah turned to us. “All you have to remember,” she said, “is to keep your boat at a 90 degree angle to the beach. Just head straight in. See, watch me.”

Sarah paddled forward hard for thirty or forty feet before sliding her boat gracefully onto the sand. Easy. Adrianna and I hesitated. She looked at me nervously. “I’m sure we’ll be fine,” I said, thrusting my chin forward bravely. I looked behind me to try to gauge if the waves had died down. Things looked fairly calm so I paddled toward the shore, making sure to stay perpendicular to the shoreline, as Sarah had instructed.

Adrianna followed suit, looking anxious. After my hour on the water, I was all calm now, a real ocean woman. Sure, I come from the middle of an enormous continent, and have lived in landlocked cities my whole life, but here I was, at my true roots. Humans emerged from the ocean thousands of years ago, shook off their gills and claimed their spot on land. And now, here I was, returning to my ocean homeland, victorious. The forces bigger than me were to be conquered, to bow before me. Yeah, I was an ocean conqueror! A Californian!!

I paddled harder for shore. Suddenly the waves lurched in front of me, taking my boat with them. I glanced over at Adrianna, who was struggling to keep her boat’s bow heading straight for shore. Her kayak pushed toward mine, and I paddled even harder away from her, trying to avoid a collision.

The waves were now coming in even harder, rolling us closer and closer to shore. Suddenly, an enormous wave overtook us, and took my boat and spun it parallel to the shore, like a crazed giant with a toy top, before flipping me over into the waves. There was a flash of panic as I tumbled out, and the waves ripped away my sunglasses, ponytail binder, and the sassy bandana I’d tied into my hair that morning, and carried them to somewhere far away.  I kicked hard away from my boat, all the while thinking “Don’t let it hit my head. Please don’t let it hit my head…”

…to be continued  

 

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Beet Week Day 6 – Seeing Red

Working with beets, it doesn’t take long to realize the opportunity for color. We’ve already produced hot pink cupcakes, deep purple salads, orange hued stews, all the while seeing red – everywhere; hands, counter tops, sinks, pans…

Rebecca Under the Influence of the Beet

So why not try it as a makeup?  Red beets provide a green alternative to the usual chemical dies found in commercial products and  can be unbelievably simple to apply.  For a light pink to deeper red lip stain, simply rub a raw slice of beet across your lips.  The color is safe and healthy and will last for several hours.

Want to create a more traditional lip gloss?  Simply mix beet juice with a small amount of olive oil and a touch of powdered sugar to thicken the mixture.  Other “recipes” call for melted beeswax and a mixture of castor oil and sesame oil all whipped together before introducing the beet juice. This recipe can be put in a container and used over time.

Beautiful, practical, healthy, easy and affordable.  Oh – and of course – tasty!  Get ready to kiss your old lipstick good bye!

The Otherworldly Beet

 

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Road Trip West: The Wildfire (Part 4 of 4)

(Part 4 in a 4 part series)-

 

WILDFIRE!!!

By Megan Ritchie

…continuing on our journey out of  the Grand Canyon…we crossed the border into California just as the sun set.

The next day dawned bright and clear as I stepped out into the parking lot for my first view of California in the daylight.

There was desert. Everywhere. Palm trees, desert, and—there she was—the good old Ford Focus with the trusty U-haul trailer still attached. We packed up our bags and hit the road for our final day in the car.

At about 1 o’clock that afternoon, Chris and I pulled off for what was to be our final gas stop. He’d driven the whole morning, in preparation for our last few hours, when I would take the wheel in order to brave the big bad Los Angeles freeway system with a slow-moving trailer.

The saddest room in a gas station in CA

We fueled up, and then I swung into the driver’s seat and pulled out onto I-45.  About 45 minutes later we started to see smoke. As we got closer, we began making guesses at what it could be.  A house? Eh, who could say; it was too far away to tell. Bored, Chris went back to his book and I fiddled with the radio.

Then we hit traffic. Now, according to my handy-dandy smartphone (that I made Chris check, responsible driver that I am) we were about an hour, hour and a half outside of L.A., and part of me (the scared, “What if I hate this city? Can I actually do this?” part of me) was afraid that this was the edge of the fabled Los Angeles traffic. What if we were in this for the next couple hours? What if, for the rest of my existence, I find myself sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic? What if–Alright, alright, calm down, it’s stop-and-go, at least we’re moving.

And then we stopped moving entirely. The smoke was right near us now, billowing in big brown plumes.  Hauling that trailer, we were in the far right lane, the truck and trailer lane, and we weren’t moving at all. Suddenly, we heard sirens. Out my side mirror I saw them: fire truck upon fire truck upon fire truck, racing past us on the shoulder. There were your standard red engines, but also larger ones, with “Wildfire Control” printed on the side.

“Uh, Chris?” I said.

He looked up from his book.

“What?”

“I think this fire is sort of big.”

“Yeah, seems like it.”

Back down to the page.

Then, above: thwup-thwup-thwup-thwup….! I ducked down to see the sky through the windshield. Above us was a helicopter, dumping liquid on the fire.

We still weren’t moving. The smoke was getting thicker and thicker. While it had started on the right of the car, suddenly there was smoke billowing on both sides. I looked around. On the opposite side of the highway, four lanes across, cars were starting to turn around, using the shoulder to drive the wrong way down the freeway, away from the fire.

“Chris? It looks, um, really big.”

He finally looked up from his book. To our right was an entrance ramp. We looked to see cars driving the wrong way up the ramp, fleeing the flames ahead of us. There was a huge semi in front of us; our view was blocked from how close we were to the fire and then suddenly: to our left, it breached the hill.

We watched in horror as a shed not a half a mile away from us was consumed by flames in milliseconds. The fire enveloped a flagpole and burned through an American flag as fast as we registered what it was doing.

“Oh. My. God,” I breathed. “What do I do? What do I do??”

I struggled not to panic. The flames were close, much closer than anyone would like, but I couldn’t see any fire trucks nearby… I kept looking for a cop or a firefighter or some kind of authority figure to tell us what to do and where to go. But there was no one. Everyone was too busy fighting the fire, and no one was there thinking about the bystanders just trying to get out of the way. No one.

But there was Chris sitting in the passenger seat, his book long abandoned, telling me in the calmest tones possible, “Megan, we have to wait for the truck ahead of us to turn onto the entrance ramp before we can go. We just have to wait for the truck to move and then it’s our turn.” I looked over: there was still a big line of cars driving up the ramp, fleeing the flames.  We had to wait for the truck to move or we could get stuck. The only way around the truck was on the shoulder to our right.  But the truck wasn’t moving at all.

I inched forward, very aware that I had not been at all trained in the art of backing up a car with a trailer attached. I heard my dad’s voice ringing through my head: “You could jackknife that thing, easy. Just make sure you never get into a situation where you need to back it up. Just always pull through.” The truck in front of us wasn’t moving and there was at least a truck’s length in front of it. In fact, the truck in front of us wasn’t even running.

“Oh my god,” I said, as it dawned on me. “The trucker—he abandoned his truck! He just abandoned it. He’s not there anymore! He just left! He left it!”

I couldn’t stop talking. Chris was stunned. In my rising panic, I briefly toyed with the idea of doing the same thing as the trucker, leaving all of my prized and not-so-prized possessions in the car to be consumed by the flames. Everything would be lost: my passport, my books, my clothes and camera and computer; even old love letters, tax returns, photographs. But we’d be safe. We’d run through the tall grass on the side of the road until we weren’t breathing smoke anymore. Then some weatherworn trucker would pick us up and drop us in the parking lot of the nearest hotel or gas station with a “Just be happy you got alive, kids,” before he cruised away. It’d be like straight out of an action movie.

With the smoke getting thicker around us, it felt like straight out of an action movie.

“What do we do? What do we do??” I repeated, feeling my hands start to shake.

At about that moment, we started to see even more cars driving up the shoulder, on both sides of the road now. If we decided to zip out on the right-hand shoulder to get around the abandoned truck, we’d risk a head-on collision with someone coming from farther down the freeway.  In fact, these cars were definitely from the frontlines because they were covered in bright orange anti-flame retardant, the stuff the helicopter–no, now three helicopters–were dumping on the wildfire all around us.

I looked around, and made an executive decision.

“I’m going to try to turn around,” I said. “We can’t go around that truck and so we have to get on the shoulder on the other side of the road.”

“But you can’t back up the trailer.”

“I’m going to turn around,” I repeated. “We have to get out of here. We have to get out of here.”

The smoke was billowing even thicker now, blotting out the sun. It reminded me of a solar eclipse I once watched through a tiny hole in a piece of paper in 3rd grade. I wondered, briefly, if I should be looking at the smoke through a hole in a piece of paper too.

Gripping the wheel hard, I turned on my signal and put the car in drive. Thankfully, we’d waited so long that the traffic had cleared out more: so many people had already pulled their cars around on the shoulder and fled before us that the lanes were more open.

We must have looked panicked, two kids with very out-of-state plates hauling a little U-haul trailer behind us, flushed in terror, because someone let us in immediately. I craaaaaanked the wheel and we held on as I started the turn. And then, at last, I exhaled: we’d made it, a full U-turn across four lanes of freeway, and clunked out onto the shoulder of I-45, heading the wrong way down the freeway. With traffic, much of it splattered in orange, but going the decidedly wrong direction down the road.

“We’re okay! We’re okay!!” we shouted and pumped our fists, like so many action stars before us.

After we made it off the freeway at last, I’d like to say we found an easy route around the wildfire and made it to L.A. without any further incident. I’d like to say it was the breeziest part of the trip. I’d like to say we spent the rest of our hour to hour-thirty minute trip marveling at the wildfire and our superhero brush with death.

None of this happened, of course. Instead, after we made it off the freeway at last, we pulled out a road atlas and picked out a new route along a nice county road. It seemed like a pleasant enough journey at first, until the mountains starting rising up in front of us in a sheer wall.

“That’s…that’s not our road, right, Chris?” I said, very aware that the car groaned with effort at even the slightest change in incline.

He re-consulted the map.

“Nah…”

We kept driving, heading closer and closer to the mountains.

“Chris…”

“Wait, wait, wait, hold on. Let me look at this…wait. What are these green dots on the road?”

“Green dots? What green dots??”

“Oh. Uhhh…the green dots mean ‘scenic route.’”

“WHAT!” I almost lost it.  “We do not want a scenic route! We want a decidedly UNpretty, UNeventful, UNscenic route! Pick another way! Find us another way!”

Chris held the map closer, squinting at the tiny roads.

“Hold on. Hold on. Uh. Megan? We might be in trouble…”

“Why?”

“Well, we’re trying to get through a national forest and I-45 was kinda are only main way, but that way is obviously, um, burning. But there are other roads!”

“So pick another road!”

“But here’s the thing: They’re…they’re all scenic routes!”

 

Nearly three hours later, after the car began to bottom out at literally 10 miles per hour, and after an old lady gave us the finger as she passed us in sheer frustration going the wrong way on a blind curve up a mountain, and after I thoroughly sweat through all of my clothes, we made it through the very narrow, very steep and very scenic mountain pass.

And then, after about an hour of that good old L.A. rush hour traffic, we made it to Los Angeles and my new home,  after a full five days of driving and nearly 2200 miles. We were nearly five hours later than we’d anticipated. Exhausted, we piled out of the car. And as we opened up the Uhaul trailer and began unloading my possessions into my new room, I couldn’t help but think, “Well, no matter what happens, no matter if I make it as a screenwriter here in Hollywood or go home crying and defeated, there is 100% no way L.A. can be as intense as that afternoon.”

And you know what, dear reader? On that, at least, I’ve been right.

~Megan~

Part 1 – Road Trip West Introduction

Part 2 – Wigwam Motel

Part 3 – The Grand Canyon

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Filmmakers’ Dreams Come True

Filmmakers Martin Mudry and Alex Nichols’ Dream of Festival Screening  was realized this month.  On the heels of the documentary’s World Premier at the LUMS International Film Festival in Lahore, Pakistan held February 10 – 12, the filmmakers received more big news this week: Where Dreams Don’t Fade will be screening at the 36th Cleveland International Film Festival in March.

Martin Mudry in Hollywood

This is big news for EntertainingYourself.com because Martin is also one of our beloved contributors!

We would like to extend our Congratulations to both of these filmmakers, along with its stars, Robert Kigen, Alexander Mneria and Virginia Rono, on this major milestone!

Read on to see the announcement  in the Cleveland International Film Festival Program:

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Where Dreams Don’t Fade

Director:
Martin Mudry
Alex Nichols
Run Time: 76 minutes

Country: USA, KENYA

Year: 2012

Since 1968 Kenya has won 21 Olympic gold medals in long distance running compared to the U.S.’s three medals. While the rest of the world knows the African region gives birth to some of the best long distance runners on the planet, the true story of how each person gets to the big stage remains hidden. WHERE DREAMS DON’T FADE is an intimate portrait into the trials and tribulations of the men and women who dream of a better life through running. Following three runners, this documentary provides insight into a part of the world where everyone shares the same dream, but the only escape is through hard work, determination, and a little bit of luck. Virginia is relatively new to running and she trains as she searches for a job; Alex was recruited into the army that trained him; and Robert is battling back from injuries hoping to hang on to the last chance he may have. The amount of perseverance, dedication, and discipline is inspiring and one can’t help but root for these runners as they chase their dreams in a place where dreams are all they have. (In English, Swahili, and Kalenjin with subtitles) –T.W.

 

tickets and showtimes

Tuesday, March 27 separator 8:45 PM
Wednesday, March 28 separator 5:45 PM
Thursday, March 29 separator 12:05 PM
Sidebars Standing Up CompetitionPan-African ImagesLocal Heroes
Producer Alex Nichols, Martin Mudry
Screenplay Alex Nichols, Martin Mudry
Cinematography Alex Nichols, Martin Mudry
Editing Alex Nichols, Martin Mudry
Principal Cast Alexander Mneria, Robert Kigen, Virginia Rono
Director Bio Alex Nichols is a Minnesota native who studied English and film studies before graduating from Colorado College in Colorado Springs in 2007. While there he ran varsity cross country and track, wherein he met fellow filmmaker and runner Martin Mudry.A native of Cleveland Heights, Martin Mudry studied at University School in Shaker Heights and Colorado College in Colorado Springs before finishing his tenure at Macalester College in St. Paul, Minnesota, where he studied filmmaking and graduated with a degree in Psychology.
Select Filmography WHERE DREAMS DON’T FADE (2012)
Print Source Where Dreams Don’t Fade
Martin Mudry
m.j.mudry@gmail.com
www.facebook.com/wheredreamsdontfade
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Road Trip West: The Wigwam Motel (Part 2 of 4)

(Part 1 in a 4 part series)

The Wigwam Motel and other Southwest Adventures (Continued from Part 1 – Road Trip West: Introduction)

By Megan Ritchie 

 

After Americana bliss in Emporia, Kansas, Chris and I continued south for our second day on the road, skirting through Oklahoma along with David Sedaris (Me-Talk-Pretty-One-Day), and resting at last in scenic Amarillo, Texas. Amarillo was, as far as we could tell, simply a freeway lined with chain restaurants, a few strip clubs, and an impressive amount of abandoned fake hair.

Amarillo, TX

We tiredly checked into our hotel, the Super 8, and both quickly realized we’d hit the jackpot: It was, hands-down, the nicest Super 8 either of us had ever had the privilege of staying in. Truly. They gave us a suite for no reason. There was a mini-fridge. There were free cookies. Okay, our standards might be low, but it was still fantastic.

Next on the agenda was dinner. Now, Chris had lived in Texas for a year serving with Americorps and had one requirement for the night: Bar-b-que. We settled on a place a few storefronts down and wandered over. I’d never had real, authentic Texan BBQ before, and went for the pork sandwich. And it was de-licious. Maybe not delicious enough to move to Amarillo, Texas, but darn near close.

The next morning, we regretfully left Super 8 heaven and were up and at ‘em again.

The day passed fairly uneventfully as we made our way across New Mexico…

…and into Arizona.

I’d never been to the Southwest before, or not to that extent, anyway, and fell in love with the blues and reds of the place. Simply gorgeous. That night, we made it to lovely Holbrook, Arizona, where we checked into  what is quite possibly the coolest motel of all time.

Now, when mapping out our route the previous week, we’d booked hotels based on ease and reliability—chains, we decided, would work for our purposes, since they’re generally clean, inexpensive, and just off the freeway. There are, however, some spots where the chain hotels don’t roam—and one such spot is smack dab in the middle of Arizona. Not to be deterred, I poked around for a while online, and stumbled across the historical Wigwam Motel. One look at the pictures, plus the motel’s signature catchphrase (“Have YOU slept in a wigwam lately?”) and Chris and I were on board.

As we pulled in to the Wigwam Motel’s parking lot, we struggled with where to park the Focus and trailer combination.

Each wigwam also features its own vintage car, which, as far as we could tell, didn’t work, didn’t unlock and, generally, didn’t serve any purpose whatsoever. I generally love cars-as-decorations, so I was sold instantly.

We found a spot and, stretching our stiff legs from another eleven hours in the car, trudged into the motel’s office to check in.

The office turned out to be part gift shop (all the t-shirts were double-XL though, much to my sincere disappointment) and part museum. It featured displays on the motel itself (it’s listed in the National Register of Historic Places!), but also on the nearby Petrified Forest.  Since Chris and I hadn’t been able to stop at the national park earlier that day, we found it pretty thoughtful of them to have arranged a private viewing of some of the rocks from there for us. We got our key and made our way to our wigwam, which is perhaps the most fun word to say ever.

Suitcase in hand, I swung open the door to our ‘wam excitedly and saw: Two slightly stained beds, an old TV, a nightstand with a burned-out lamp, some tacky art hanging on one wall. Oh.

Okay, so it might not have been the nicest motel on the inside.  We might have discovered over the course of the night that the air conditioner sounded like it was going to take off,  and that the shower tiles were in need of a good scrub, and that the doorknob jiggled a bit more than we would’ve liked, but it was a wigwam, okay? A circular, cement, stand-alone motel room in the shape of a teepee, with a dead blue vintage car parked out front, and for that night only, it was ours. All ours. It doesn’t get any better than that, you guys.

 ~Megan~

  Ready for More?

  Part 3 – The Grand Canyon

  Part 4 – The Wildfire

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Road Trip West – Introduction (Part 1 of 4)

(Part 1 in a 4 part series)

By Megan Ritchie

I recently moved from my hometown of Minneapolis allll the way out to Los Angeles, some 2000-plus miles away. Here are a few tales of the drive across.

First, let’s lay out our cast of characters: We have me, Megan, age 23, and the one theoretically “in charge,” and Chris, my younger brother, newly 21.

 

We’re driving across the country in a red Ford Focus, character #3, and finally, our star to fill out the quartet, the whiney one, the high maintenance one, the one who weighs us all down: the 5’x8’ U-haul trailer packed full to the ceiling with all of my possessions, being pulled behind the car.

We left on a Monday morning at 6 am. My dad and I had been pouring over Google Maps stuff trying to decide the best route. We’d gotten in an argument, as young adult children are apt to do with their parents at times, especially when they’re being overly protective and you’re super strong and brave (and have lived in a foreign country…okay, Dad? I got this one.). I wanted to take the shortest—and therefore cheapest, as far as hotel stops and gas—route, right through Denver, where I could stay with a friend, and on through the Rockies, Vegas and finally to L.A. This idea nearly gave my dad a heart attack. “Driving through the Rockies? With a trailer behind a Ford Focus? Megan, are you insane?”

I relented, after looking at the elevation map and throwing a fairly unusual money temper tantrum (emotions were running high, okay?). So, our route was decided: Take Interstate 35 down to Oklahoma City, take a right, and take Interstate 40 to Los Angeles. That’s it. One turn. Thrilling, right? It was.

Now, Chris and I quickly discovered that driving a well-packed trailer behind a sedan was an interesting challenge. The U-haul folks in Minneapolis had warned me not to take the trailer above 55 miles per hour. I’d nodded along with them, but secretly scoffed at this at the time, thinking I’d be pushing at least sixty-five the whole way…I mean, I had 2100 miles to cover.But as we quickly discovered on the barely rolling hills of Iowa, the car couldn’t get to sixty-five with the trailer. The car couldn’t even get to sixty. And so we inched along at a (super pathetic) fifty-four miles an hour…for five days straight.  Any change in elevation and the car would scream in protest.

Wind Turbine Blows By Us on the Freeway

As it was, the car was going through gas at an impressive rate. Binge drinking, really. Instead of averaging about 300 miles per tank, we were checking in at around 180. Still, despite the gas and the speed, Chris and I were having a grand old time, mostly because of books on tape…which I guess we call audiobooks now because no one uses tapes anymore…or CDs, for that matter. Okay, fine, I just dated myself.

Time for another drink - Somewhere in Iowa

Anyway, on our first day, we listened to all of Tina Fey’s memoir, Bossypants.  If you haven’t had the privilege of hearing it, I’d highly recommend doing so. Fey herself reads the book and does all sorts of voices for her characters. Plus they use the actual Saturday Night Live clips that she discusses, which was extra fun.

That night, high on giggling along with Tina, we stopped in scenic Emporia, Kansas. We were, I admit, feeling quite proud of ourselves for having made it through three whole states (MN, IA and MO, for those keeping track) in one day.

Sunset in Emporia, Kansas

After checking into the hotel, I was quickly reintroduced to any Americana I may have missed in a dining experience in China by our nearby restaurant selections: Applebee’s, Pizza Hut, Burger King and Wal-Mart (does that count?). We were no fools; we chose Applebee’s and man, did we eat good in the neighborhood. Chris got a burger approximately the size of his head; I went a little less risqué and ordered the Southwest chicken salad because I’m trying to watch my figure. As it was, it was covered in tortilla strips, cheese, and creamy dressing. And was delicious. While we ate, someone across the restaurant had a birthday so the whole restaurant got to sing; I ordered about three Coke refills (for free!); and the waitress tried to get us to sign up for the Applebee’s reward program. Can you get any more American than that? No, no, you can’t. It was glorious.

Megan Richie

I couldn’t wait for the next day…

 

 

~Megan~

…And neither can we.  Coming Soon (we hope!)

The Next installments:

Part 2 – The Wigwam Motel

Part 3 – The Grand Canyon

Part 4 – The Wildfire

In the meantime, enjoy a few other stories by Megan Ritchie:

The World Really Is Flat

Running Five Polish Miles

Afterward