Futebol!

Tuseday night I was invited to play soccer with Ana and several of her girlfriends. Ana informed me that these ladies were a group that liked to smoke and party, and that the game would be low-key. When we arrived at the soccer field, a faded green rectangle of netted turf located between the walls of opposing apartment buildings on the outskirts of Cuenca (you would not even know it was there), it was scattered with bubbly girls streching and laughing, excited for an evening pickup game. Holas were exchanged and I felt the old sensation of training days at the Armory fields in East Orange. The smell was the same, the sound of laughter and smiles, the energy of futebol about to be played; I was brought back to my days of soccer and the amazing team of individuals we had throughout the years.

Although I was quite out of breath sprinting around the field, most of the ¨skill rust¨ disintegrated instantly, and the game fit like a long lost, well-loved glove. Ana and I had a superb one-two going on, an almost instoppable combination of crisp passes and power shots. The girls we played with were great, all good-spirited and energetic. By the end of the night one of them would scream and charge everytime I received the ball, perhaps theorizing that scare-tactics would bring me to some demise. Afraid not. Regardless of the range in skill level and tactical thinking, the night was stellar, and it was enlivening to get on the ball again in such a relaxed setting. I think Tuesday nights are now soccer nights here in Cuenca... score.

Paute: for Rikki

Up and up at Paute.

Gringo Drew at Paute. We tried to translate Uscho´s name from Spanish to English, and Drew came up with ¨Seagull;¨ needless to say, it was awhile before I stopped laughing enough to climb.

Ana at Paute.

Ana, up and up at Paute.

XC or CX: Primera Valida

Lining up: la gringa y los Ecuadorianos

Monstro, racing to win.

Iban, Ana´s dad, in his first xc race.

Across the river and through the woods, the lone ranger battles altitude.

La gringa, me, and Alexandra, the Pan-American Champion. I was a giant next to her and the other girl racing.

Pre-race rar.

Ladies line-up.

Looking confused and hoping that the reporter does not ask me to comment.

Another pre-race pose. Trying to figure out whether I should eat the granola bar or not. Nutritional specs are different here.

Galo, Ana´s good friend, who also happens to be the Pan-American Champion.

Through the Eucalyptus, smells wonderful.

Los padres de Ana.

Post-race. First through third got cans of WD-40, sweet.

Ana giving her dad his medal.

I am not putting up my podium shot. A, because I look like a giant man next to the two other girls; and B, because there were only three of us so I automatically podiumed, which does not neccessarily warrant anything in my book.

This past Sunday I entered and completed my first international race, in Cuenca-Ecuador. Although my body felt horrible throughout the majority of the race (hopefully because of altitude and not because of anything else) afterwards I felt wonderful, as well as content at having experienced my first international race, in their elite-pro category nonetheless. The way time works here is interesting, or rather the way it does not work, which I am quite fond of, just not when it comes to race starts. Seven AM I had a filling breakfast of apple cinnamon oatmeal, half a banana, and one egg scrambled, washed down with a full bottle of water. Around ten minutes to eight, Iban (Ana´s padre) and I rolled out on our rigs to pick up Teodoro (Toyo) as he would be accompanying us to take photos of the race. No different than the states, the line for picking up race numbers was off the hook, so I opted for three easy laps on the course. Now, this is their first cross country race of the season, and granted it takes place in the city of Cuenca, but I think it was about 95% asphalt and fireroad, with smidges of windings among Eucalyptus trees and maneuverings over tall curbs. As Ana put it appropriately, when comparing this race with the mountainous one to follow next week, ¨this one is more cross and the next one is more country.¨ Ultimately, I consider this one a cross race, as finishing time was around one hour and three minutes.

Back to the subject of time, and its existence versus its nonexistence, after having warmed up for close to an hour, taken both of my gels and consumed most of my water I was more or less ¨ready.¨ The race, on the other hand, was not. Occasionally this happens, especially at opening races, so after getting my number and practicing my Spanish a bit with the locals, an hour rolled by as kids races went on and off. Ten, we were set to go off at ten and do 5 laps at 3km each (look up the conversion). Ok. Lining up, riders´ names are called and they are checked off at present or not present... I was present, but my name apparently was not. Perhaps there had been something lost in translation at some point along the way, fascinating how that happens, but the reality of the matter was that my category was set to start at eleven AM and do 7 laps. Time for a major mental switch and re-preparation; with one gu, no water, a granola bar whose nutritional specs I could not quite decipher, and the approach of a mid-day sun, I decided to simply take the day, and the race, for what it was and cheer on Iban and Monstro before warming up again. The idea of time, as I always liked to speculate and practice, for the most part is a self-imposed construct; it can be both useful and useless, adhered to or ignored. In Cuenca, it is what you want it to be, so long as you remember that most everyone else has their own idea of time, too.

A quick recap of the race: I raced against two other girls in the elite-pro category, one is the current Pan-American Champion (Alexandra) and the other, one of her competitors. Needless to say, I got lapped by Alexandra, as did the other girl, so our laps were cut to six. Kind of ok by me, as I felt as if I were moving backwards. If I translated the announcements correctly, second place and I were about three minutes apart. I´ll take that, for now. I like riding alone, so the fact that the entire group that went after us actually passed me, except for some kid on platforms who I traded back and forth with for a bit, was something I was able to come to terms with. I only hope this sub-par performance is reflective of my current non-acclimated state of existence, and not much else. We shall see as time moves on, or rather, appears to move on.

Although a little confusing at times, an experience to make one stronger. On a side note, I am super excited for Ana´s dad, who got third in his first xc race (he is a triathlete and roadie) and also for Monstro, who was beyond nervous (he does not race much at all, maybe a few times), who came in for a win in his category. Yolanda, also, was a lifesaver when she shoved a tiny piece of banana in my hand on the last lap. If I translated correctly, I think I heard her comment that I looked like death. For my first race at 10,000 feet, I think that´s appropriate.

Unas Cositas

Part of the endless and awesome climb towards Parque Nacional Cajas.

A miniature folding spoon found between the lid on my strawberry yogurt and the accompanying plastic container of corn flakes located on atop the lid. Needless to say, I kept this tiny treasure for future use.

Near the coast, we stayed in Montañitas, hundreds of sweaty Ecuadorians hang out of cars... everywhere. Dogs strapped down, children held in laps, a free-for-all of a freeway, the lack of rules and law is certainly interesting. It appears as though humans are given, say, the benefit of the doubt here, with more individual discretion and less direction. Perhaps such a system emphasizes Darwinian theory, with the opportunity to test the waters on your own and learn from the experience, rather than having lines to stay between and not much room for acting of your own accord. If you care to do something stupid, go ahead and do it, the results are your own responsibility and only your own, imagine that-I cannot find the question mark symbol on this keyboard, so just insert one here. Frankly, I like it.

This is Manuel, a sweet 12 year old who sold us everything from fruit bowls to beer during our wave-diving days at Montañitas.

At Somai, a hotel-retreat (for 20 bucks a night!) consisting of several bamboo huts and a beautiful deck overlooking the ocean from the jungle, we heard stories of massive monkeys, anacondas, and deathly spiders. The land and ¨hotel¨ are owned by an aunt and uncle of ana, who cull most of their food right from their backyard, including their coffee. I have one word for life at Somai, a word I am quite fond of these days... simple.

A younger brother of Manuel, one of six, also counts dollars and cents at their oceanside tienda.

Anti-American graffiti, y soy una gringa.

Ana y un gatito blanco a la playa de Montañitas por la mañana.

One of the best, and cheapest, breakfasts around, with all the fruit freshly picked from the backyard. Add yogurt and granola and you are set.

On the way to la playa de Las Friles, a beautiful beach (or so I have heard) that we actually ended up not going to, due to the 12$ per American entry fee. There were three of us from the states, so the beach at Rio Chico sounded just fine at one dollar a pop.

Climbing towards Parque Nacional Cajas. A-mazing.

On the other side of Cajas, en route to Cuenca from la costa.

My butt and beautiful rocks entering the ocean at Rio Chico. Yeah, even after three applications of sun-block, the skin still burned.

The Andes and a burro along the road to Cajas.

My first venture out on the bike, just getting lost and then found again in Cuenca.

En route to Cajas. Words do not explain. Nothing can. It is a feeling and a deep appreciation.

Me and Sula LOVING the mountains, their climbs, and their descents.

Ecuador.Uno

For anyone who cares to follow, I will make an attempt to chronicle my time here in Ecuador. Seeing as how I do not care to be on the computer, ever really, I will have to make an effort to set aside time for converting my daily handwritten notes to these typed blog posts. Photos will accompany, starting with the next entry. Through these posts, perhaps someone will be moved to embark on a foreign journey of their own; mostly, though, these are for me to collect patches of fleeting memory, suture their rough edges together, and thus fashion a quilt for the future, something in which to envelope myself, and remind me of what life can be if I ever find myself lost.

For the Love of Snow

After Jen and Johan perched a snowman, named bro-man, next to the front doormat, my friend Nick and I only found it appropriate to construct one of our own, giving him an unused barbecue for a domicile. As warmer weather moved in, each night I would return home from work and witness another chapter in their tale of regression. Although I cannot recall which little man lasted the longest, I can assure you it was a fight to the death.


People tend to stare when you lie down in a supermarket parking lot, in the snow, and take photos of their feet. I'm ok with that as it makes for neat some neat shots.


Snow is amazing.


Absolutely amazing.


Yesterday I took Howie and Marianne out at the super-small local mountain, Campgaw, for some sideways snow-sliding "lessons." Turns out I did not need to teach them much at all, as they were quite competent on their own. After seven years of teaching snowboarding, these two are the kind of lesson you hope to get. It brings me great satisfaction to transfer a passion of mine over to others, to be able to explain and break down something so others can connect and progress with it--especially to others I care about.


Marianne and Howie skating towards the lift as the snow keeps falling. We had about 3 inches of new from a day of precip, and flakes were still falling when we left! Side note: my first cyclocross race, in my first cyclocross season, was here, at Campgaw; pieces of the experience flashed intermittently inside my head. From spandex to a down jacket, from two wheels to two edges, the dichotomy provided an interesting mental juxtaposition of two very distinct occasions.


Remnants of an ice fisherman.

Frozen Nessie

About two weekends ago Kathy, Sam, the bikes and I headed out for a frozen day at Skyline. With numb fingers and ice-blocks for feet, slurred speech and slow-jaws, we made our way down the switchbacks, allowing squeaks of joy to erupt in reaction to our snow covered surroundings. Upon reaching the lake we decided to join the confidence of two ice fishermen and test the frozen waters. Riding to the middle of the lake, an area never before traveled on two wheels, provided a definite buzz of energy. As we made our way across the questionable tundra, Kathy's laughter resounded over the expanse of white before us, as my hands clamped onto grips in nervous excitement. Not until water began to bubble over my tires near the center of the lake did we rethink the possible consequence of our actions; two people never moved so quickly across so slippery a surface.

Young, old, in between--actual age is irrelevant in relation to one's ability to feel alive. The point is that you feel it, you venture to the center of that frozen lake, to the edge of that cliff, and you are alive; you go there and you proceed without second-guessing, without dipping a toe in or peering over the edge. You jump and you feel--the consequences, well, you think about them as they come.