Author Archives: lwacht

When In Rome?

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When in Rome. That was going to be my travelling motto. No spoiled American stereotype for me.

My second great adventure took me scuba diving to Fiji. While there, my boyfriend at the time wanted to participate in a kava ceremony–an event that is suspiciously similar to boys night out in the U.S., in that it involves mind altering drinks and no girls allowed.

No girls allowed.

And so it was that I failed my first “When in Rome” test.

I failed the second test as well. In Fiji, women are not allowed to sit in the front of vehicles. I was already seated when I found this out. I sat stubbornly in my seat, glaring at no one in particular, and at everyone in general.

These incidents, small but significant, have stayed with me on all my travels. I love learning about and experiencing other cultures, but they’re not always as romantic as the travel guides make out. And I’m often torn on how to react.

Even within the U.S., there are some odd cultures. In Seattle, everyone drinks coffee. I now have a Starbucks addiction that I’m pretty sure I’d be better off without. In Helena, MT, Wednesday evenings are spent in the local brewery. I now know more about Montana politics than I will ever admit. And the beer isn’t even that good.

And Albany, NY. I have spent the last six months traveling every week to Albany. I’m a Georgia girl, raised on please, thank you, and Mother-may-I. They were not raised that way in Albany. In Colorado, my now home state, Mondays are for reliving the weekends. Not so in Albany. People stare at me when I ask how they are–well, when they acknowledged me at all.

I’m not really an extrovert but I do like talking with people; plus, I just believe in certain civilities. And I do care how you’re doing. Once again, I found myself torn. With six months of this travel, what should I do? I couldn’t see myself embracing it, but it was their culture. When in Rome, after all.

The holidays came during these travels and once again Facebook was awash in the “I’ll say Merry Christmas if I darn well please” assertations. And that’s when it hit me. It wasn’t so much about adaptation as it was about acceptance. I’m quite okay with receiving a Happy Hanukkah, but i do love my Merry Christmas. I can participate without letting go of what I love about my own culture.

And so it went for six months. I’d ask about the weekend. They’d ask me about the software. I’d smile and nod at fellow runners. They’d give me wide berth. I got to where I almost didn’t even notice when my good mornings were greeted with frustrated rants about something entirely unrelated.

Then one morning, the frustrated rant stopped. My client-slash-coworker broke off mid sentence and turned his chair so he fully faced me.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Good morning, Lynda. How are you?” I just grinned.

When in Rome, sometimes it’s okay to make the tourist feel at home.

Living My Life

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My cousin is living my life. The life I dream of. That dream I have during long, painful meetings where I’ve slipped the surly, golden bonds of corporate America and am living one crazy grand adventure after another.

Last I saw him was Key West, FL. I had just completed a triathlon, a sport I love but in which I infrequently participate, because the sport seems to attract the most obsessive of gear heads. Not many seem to do tris for the pure, unadulterated joy of movement. He had arrived there one month prior via a sailboat ride from Anaheim. The boat’s captain is a bush pilot my cousin met in McCarthy, Alaska, home to both. I am pretty sure he is living my life as well. To him, it is all routine, shuttling the adventurous off to their dream kayaking/mountaineering/skiing expedition. I have learned, though, that one man’s routine is another man’s lifetime experience. I hope one day to have the chance to buy him a beer or two, and hear the stories.

If you’ve never been to (or even heard of) McCarthy, it is truly the last of the last frontiers. It is nestled in the Wrangell-St Elias National Park–at 13.2 million acres, the largest national park in the U.S., and larger than Switzerland. I visited him there after my bitter disappointment on Denali. His home is a beautiful, modest log home that he built himself, on a piece of land with a small lake, plentiful trees, and no sign of neighbors. Completely off the grid, energy comes from a generator, the sun, or a cozy wood stove. The outhouse is the only downside of this arrangement.

Well, not the only. The town is at the end of a sixty mile dirt road (when I first looked up McCarthy, I thought the road name was “Closed In Winter”). The nearest grocery store is six hours away. That’s a long haul to get Ben and Jerry’s after a sucky day, but then, how many sucky days could there be in McCarthy, Alaska? And keeping it warm at night requires a couple of wake up calls.

When I ran into my cousin. in Key West, he had just become best buddies with some Alaska transplants and was beach and bar hopping around the Keys. I’m the epitome of introvert and rarely meet anyone new, much less connect with this group as deeply as I did. I spent three days with them, alternating drinking and having the most honest discussion of fears and dreams and growing up and old since the long ago college late night runs to Taco Cabana.

Mark left in the middle of this break from reality to hop a plane to Arizona. His next adventure was on the Grand Canyon. For most, this is a once in a lifetime adventure–for Mark, well, let’s just say it wasn’t his first time, and probably not the last. He promised to send the next invitation my way. Now all I have to do is convince work that one month vacations are totally normal. They’re still reeling from the last one. I guess I should be relieved they don’t like me being gone that long.

When he’s not out living my life, Mark is at home, spending the long summer Alaskan days working for the National Park Service, restoring an abandoned copper mine. He took me for a tour last summer, and it is quite the glorious wreck. Breathtaking in its disarray, I’m not sure how OSHA would view it. He had spent the prior winter on a balmy island somewhere south, where he had spent a couple months recuperating and rehabilitating from shoulder surgery. Working to restore copper mines is tough work, and his rotator cuff was the unfortunate casualty.

When I dream of chucking it all, I seldom think about it with a realistic bent. Truth is, lifestyles of any type require some kind of sacrifice and compromise. My job allows me only three weeks of adventure a year, but also gives me a decent budget for those three weeks. It demands a lot from me, yet allows the flexibility to explore while “working from home”: five days in Key West cost me almost no adventure time. And I like coming home to a hot shower. I’m spoiled having a grocery store and take out Vietnamese within walking distance.

If I can just figure out how to get internet connectivity in a raft and a waterproof laptop, I think I’d have it made.

Chasing the Bear

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Not many feelings compare to the one you get when, with thirty-five miles of running to go, you reach behind you for a drink of water. And realize your water bottle isn’t there.

Running the Bear Chase 50 miler was somewhat of an impulse decision. Located in Bear Creek State Park in Lakewood, CO(www.bearchaserace.com), it was a mere fifteen minutes from home. With a price tag of $65, it is cheaper than most marathons I’ve run. Besides, I was still smarting from missing the last fifty miles of Leadville.

Nicely organized, the 50 mile runners began right at 6:30, with the 50k, half marathon, and 10k starting at intervals after. While the trail never felt crowded, there is something demoralizing about watching runners fly by, even knowing their race is half or less the distance.

The second loop was a bit more solitary, making it easier to settle into a pace, but also meant there was no one around to let me know my water bottle had slipped the bonds of my waist pack. The morning cloud cover had kept the temperature a pleasant 60ish degrees, but it was threatening to warm quickly.

I didn’t mean to sound quite as panicked as I did when Randall, the photographer from Running Guru, asked how my race was going. He dug in his pack and pulled out his spare bottle. A Nalgene never looked so beautiful.

At the end of the second lap, I handed back the bottle, grateful and hopeful mine was still on the path. I was saved by a thoughtful spectator in case it wasn’t. As luck would have it, it was still there.

Most GPS devices have a battery life of ten hours or less. My beloved Garmin 310XT has twenty. Three runners had given up finishing in time after their devices died and their morale waned as they had no idea the time. One told me I had already inspired her to keep running just by running myself. She, I and Ben, on his first ultra, came around the last stretch together. I had “pulled” Ben up the last hill, and he repaid the favor by encouraging me to run across the finish, he last and me next to.

But never mind that. A race that long isn’t about winning or losing. It is about what it takes to even show. Finishing is a bonus. Helping someone else is icing on the cake. The amazing thing about small races is that your victory is everyone’s, especially the under-applauded volunteers, who were still at the finish line, junk food and beer in hand. Thank you.ImageImage