The Latest Challenge, Part 2

At various times in my life, I’ve been semi-serious about working out and living healthy.  The year or so leading up to this weight-gain bet was not one of those periods.  I hadn’t been to the gym in God-knows-how-long.  I had skimped on meals to save money (there were a couple of months of travel during that time period), to focus on work (writing for a newspaper often had me out and about at odd hours or working straight through lunch), and out of sheer laziness (sometimes I’m lazy).  As a result, I wasn’t in the best shape of my life.  I wasn’t in bad shape compared to the general population of obese Americans, mind you.  And I wasn’t emaciated either.  But looking at that scale made me realize I’d drifted down in size and strength from where I once was and wanted to be.

I admit, there was also an element of vanity and shallowness in the bet—I wanted to look better.  And I was also tired of my friends being able to pick me up—a rather demoralizing occurrence for anyone inclined to think of himself as a man.  So I committed to the bet and bought a gym membership, along with a sizable supply of food and nutritional supplements.

I started eating about 3,500 calories per day.  I was taking in a good amount of carbohydrates, fats, and especially protein.  My speedy little metabolism won’t let me gain much weight in the form of fat, so I was mainly focused on building muscle through working out and eating plenty of protein.  About a month into the bet, things were going very well.  I felt more committed to physical fitness than I’d been at almost any other time in my life.  So, naturally, I hurt myself.

As many amateur bodybuilders are bound to do from time to time, I pulled a muscle in my back.  Or maybe I pinched it.  Or tweaked it.  Or something. I don’t know; like I said, I’m an amateur.  As a result, I had to sit on the sidelines and let my back heal for a few weeks, losing much of the progress I’d previously made.  Working out regularly and putting on some healthy pounds had felt good.  I could see my progress, and I felt stronger and healthier than I had in a long time.  Maybe that’s what caused me to get a little too zealous during that shoulder exercise when I hurt myself.  And now I was down.  I felt that progress slipping away.  I didn’t feel as healthy as I had a few weeks earlier.  I didn’t feel as energetic.  My appetite was diminished.

The Fourth of July came and went.  I paid Chris, who easily reached his goal when his gains began to snowball (maybe a little more than necessary, if you ask me).  Taking my injury into account, we agreed to extend my part of the bet an extra five weeks, to my birthday.

Now I’m less than four days from the official weigh-in, and just a tad shy of 150.  I’ve been back in the gym for over a month, I’m eating well, and I’m feeling pretty healthy.  I’m feeling that motivation and commitment to physical fitness that I felt in the first few weeks of the bet.  So I’m knocking on wood that I won’t hurt myself again.  And I’m eating ravenously this week, hoping to report good news in my next update.

The Latest Challenge, Part 1

A little over three months ago, I stood in the upstairs bathroom in my brother’s house and weighed myself.  I was using the scale he had gotten used from our friend Chris, which Chris had informed me was off by a couple of pounds.  Even taking that information into account, I wasn’t pleased with what I saw.  The digital screen read 136.7.  For someone who stands 5 feet, 6 inches, that’s a little skinny.  For someone who’s 5-foot-10 like me, that’s motivation for a bet.

I texted Chris—also a naturally skinny guy who had been working out and packing on the calories for the past few months, and a bit of a habitual gambler—and rashly told him I thought I could reach the 150-pound mark in a little over two months.  He wanted me to reach that goal, but agreed to bet against me for the sport of it.  Fifty dollars for the winner.  It was the beginning of May, and we settled on July 4 as the official weigh-in date.  To sweeten the deal, Chris set his own target weight at 190 (he’s 6-foot-1), nine pounds above his weight at the time.  He’d been stuck, hovering around the 180 mark for several weeks, and wanted some motivation to break out of that rut.  That would be another 50 bucks.  I agreed and we shook on it soon after.  The challenge was on.

Escribiendo un blog

I wrote the following blog as a way of practicing my Spanish.  I’m not at the point where I can look at something I’ve written in Spanish and meticulously edit and critique it the way I do with English writing.  But I would like to get to that point, and I figure something like this can only help me get to that point.

Estoy seguro que hay errores aquí a continuación, sin embargo es un buen ejercicio en español.

Cada semana, hago una lista de cosas que quiero (o necesito) lograr.  Es algo que he hecho por varios años, desde estuve en universidad.  En los últimos 4 ó 5 años, algo que he puesto en la lista cada semana es practicar español.  También, algo que aparece en casi cada lista es escribir fuera de mi trabajo, para desarrollar y mejorar mi voz como escritor. 

Por eso, esta semana decidí combinar los dos artículos y escribir un blog en español.  Es duro, y ya veo que es buena práctica por español, pero no siento que me ayuda desarrollar mi voz, porque normalmente escribo en ingles. 

Antes de escribir este blog, me pregunté, ‘¿Hay una palabra en español que significa escribir un blog?’  En inglés, hemos adoptado el verbo ‘to blog.’  Decimos que estamos ‘blogging,’ cuando estamos escribiendo un blog.  Hacemos eso muchas veces en inglés – tomamos un sustantivo y lo convertimos en un verbo.  Eso es una cosa que amo de inglés.  Es un idioma muy maleable.  Parece que la gente que habla inglés siempre inventa nuevas palabras. 

Pero mi punto es, en español, parece que no se permite inventar tantas palabras.  Sin embargo, quisiera inventar una palabra que significa ‘to blog,’ o ‘escribir un blog.’  Y esa palabra es ‘bloguear.’  Creo que en este momento esta palabra no existe.  Entonces, ahora no estoy sólo escribiendo un blog.  Estoy blogueando. 

España, que bonita eres.

Monsieur Vuong's

My search for Monsieur Vuong’s is a great reminder of why it’s important to write at every chance I get while I’m traveling.  As I sit in front of my keyboard now, eight months after that night in Berlin, the details of my memory are faint sketches layered with dust.  The only help I get from the notebook I carried in my backpack is, *Write about the search for Monsieur Vuong’s in Berlin.  Just a line of text, surrounded by notes of “stuff to research” (which I haven’t) and a story about Amsterdam.  No other cues; not a single thing to jog my memory.  So I sit and think, trying to picture those darkened streets as they appeared in October. 

It was my tour guide who referred me to Monsieur Vuong’s.  I’d gotten into the habit of taking cheap walking tours to get better acquainted with the cities I visited in Europe.  It was more fun to learn that way than by searching through guidebooks or Wikipedia and then trotting out on my own.  Amsterdam became more fascinating when I learned the history of the Red Light District from the mouth of a guide as we passed coffee shops and lively windows.  Berlin captivated me when I explored the artist squats and walked through the subway tunnel that connected East and West while my guides elaborated on the ways the Cold War affected the people of that city. 

After seeing the Reichstag and the Holocaust memorial one afternoon, I asked my guide to recommend a restaurant.  “Do you like Vietnamese food?” he asked.  “Yeah, of course.”  And he proceeded to point out Monsieur Vuong’s on the cartoony little map I’d picked up at my hostel. 

Berlin's Holocaust memorial.

A few hours later, as night was settling in, I hopped on the train toward downtown.  Halfway there, my travel plan hit a snag.  There was construction on a portion of the subway line, so I had to get off the train sooner than expected and take a bus that would drop me off farther down the line where I could reconnect with the train.  Using my two-day knowledge of German and my 28-year-old knowledge of arrows, I figured out where to catch the bus once I got off the train.  The group waiting for the bus was small when I arrived.  Minutes later, it was a horde.  When the bus arrived, it was packed more tightly than the stones in the walls of Cusco.  You couldn’t slide a credit card between the bodies in there.  I let that first bus pass, then another one.  Finally I started walking.

I had a general idea of where I needed to go to get to Monsieur Vuong’s, or at least the next open subway tunnel, and I knew both were a long way away.  Just when my legs were ready to buckle beneath me, I spotted a functioning subway tunnel.  I boarded the train and rode the short distance that remained.  When I got off, I was lost. 

I walked down empty streets, then busy ones, then more empty ones, growing increasingly frustrated by the minute.  I had already spent more than an hour riding trains and buses, and walking, and was determined to find Monsieur Vuong’s even if it took me another hour.  My stomach was doing its impression of the MGM lion, and begged to be filled with Vietnamese food.  I’d come so far and endured so much to find this place that came so highly recommended by my esteemed 10-euro tour guide.  I couldn’t give up when I was this close to the prize, so I kept looking.  I would eat at Monsieur Vuong’s tonight, damn it! 

Finally I saw the sign, lit up above floor-to-ceiling windows looking into a crowded little dining room.  A bit too crowded, in fact.  The only open tables are outside, on the sidewalk.  I don’t want to sit out there in the cold.  And waiting for a table inside will probably take 30 minutes, judging by the line.  And what’s this?  The prices are higher than I expected.  I’m on a budget.  And quite possibly underdressed.  And now that I see all the happy people inside, talking and laughing with their friends, I’m suddenly very aware of how alone I am and how uncomfortable it would be to eat in there at a table for one. 

I turned back in the direction of the subway station and headed toward the hostel.  I told myself I’d at least accomplished my mission of finding Monsieur Vuong’s, so it was OK.  And that’s where my memories become faded again.  I don’t remember the ride home, and I don’t recall what I had for dinner that night.  But it wasn’t Vietnamese food.  

Street art in Berlin

The Reichstag

Cathedral with TV tower behind

Street art on a smaller scale

A Drive Down to The Bay

Waiting at a stoplight last Saturday on San Francisco’s Embarcadero, the road that runs in front of the piers along the bay, a man on roller skates caught my attention.  It wasn’t so much the skates themselves that were remarkable, but the fact that he was wearing nothing but them.  He pushed off from the curb, bobbing and flapping in the wind as he passed in front of my Honda, and I said, “Well, we must be in San Francisco.”  I couldn’t help but laugh.  I’d been on the road for far too long, and as repulsive as this sight in front of me was, I welcomed it as a bit of comic relief.  

Before our encounter with the nude skater, my friend Nathan and I had spent 11 hours driving from Portland to Berkeley the previous day.  We were in town for a concert – the first tour that Dispatch, one of my favorite bands, had made in nearly a decade.  It was late Friday night when we rolled into town, so we unwound at a quiet little bar in Berkeley, but only after first trying a rowdy college bar and passing scores of homeless people and two men who appeared to be gripped by serious drugs.  On our way back to our hostel, two young men asked if they could have one of Nathan’s cigarettes.  When he refused, they told us exactly what they thought of us, and continued to do so until we were a block away.

Even with the sight of scrotums on wheels, San Francisco was infinitely more appealing than Berkeley.  The concert wasn’t until late Saturday night, so we decided to make the short drive from Berkeley to San Francisco early in the afternoon.  Two hours later, after crawling through a traffic jam at the Oakland Bay Bridge toll booths and getting lost several times in downtown San Francisco, we were walking along Fisherman’s Wharf.  We stopped for lunch at a bakery/café and I ate clam chowder out of one of the tastiest sourdough bread bowls I’ve ever torn apart.  A furious wind dispersed our napkins across the wharf, but the food was almost good enough to keep this from frustrating me. 

We spent the afternoon wandering around Fisherman’s Wharf and then driving over to Haight Street to check out the legendary Amoeba Records.  On the way, I tested out my 5-speed driving skills on some of San Francisco’s famous hills.  I thought Seattle had some killer inclines, but one road near Fisherman’s Wharf was undoubtedly the steepest I’d ever climbed in my trusty Honda.  I felt like I needed chalk and a belay just to drive up this slope.  I managed to avoid drifting into the car behind me at stops, but still felt like I was ready to fall backward into the bay for the entire ride up. 

After a few photos at the Golden Gate Bridge, it was back to Berkeley for the concert.  The show was good enough to warrant the 14-hour drive home I would have the next day.  And seeing the campus –especially the stately Greek Theatre where the concert took place – improved my opinion of Berkeley slightly. 

On the drive home, a thought struck me that soured my opinion of long car trips and plane rides.  I don’t know why this thought hadn’t occurred to me before.  But somewhere between Medford and Portland, where I’d stop to drop Nathan off at his apartment, it hit me why I tend to get sweaty on long trips.  I wasn’t warm in the car, and I’m not usually hot in airplanes, but I typically get sweaty on these journeys.  As we drove through Oregon, I realized what I was feeling probably wasn’t sweat after all.  It was probably water vapor from my breath and the breath of those around me, settling on my skin.  In a closed space like a car or airplane, there aren’t many places for our breath to go.  When I got home and showered that night, I scrubbed deeply.  

St. Patrick’s Day gift ideas. A poem.

It's been a while since I've written any poetry, so I decided to whip up a little something in honor of my Irish ancestors and St. Patrick's Day. Poetry is not my forte, as you'll see below, but this little tongue-in-cheek verse was a fun exercise nonetheless. 

With the greatest of Irish holidays approachin',

I pray you won’t consider it encroachin'

For me to offer a selfish thought.

It’s about what March 17^th could be

And how we can stimulate the economy

By exchanging gifts that we’ve each bought.

For starters and in the first place,

Anyone with Irish heritage to trace

Should receive the greatest haul of gear.

Our ancestors put up with lots of shite,

But bribing us will put things right.

So we get two Christmases this year!

I’d start by requesting a plate of green food,

Either dyed or naturally hued.

Health insurance would also be nice.

I’d continue with a plea for some books to read,

But lest you think I be consumed by greed,

I suppose I’d settle for a Coke with some ice.  

Of course this is all just a silly notion,

And I’ve no intent to make a serious motion

Calling for the spoiling of myself and others.

Celebrate the day together, is all I ask.

And I don’t think it's a difficult task

To share some corned beef with your brothers. 

Celebrating St. Patrick's Day 2007 in Buenos Aires with my friend Stew and a porteño partygoer.

Did I ever tell you about the time I was the victim of a hit and run?

It happened three weeks ago, in Burien. My friend and I were on our way to a wine tasting party in nearby Normandy Park, and I’d just pulled off the highway and onto the town’s main road. I approached a stoplight turning red and quickly hit the brakes. My car came to a rest just beyond the stop line, and a second later I heard something screeching behind me. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw an old pickup truck skidding toward me. “Oh …” a cussword escaped my lips as the pickup bashed my bumper.

                I was in the left of two lanes, and put on my blinker to cross in front of the other stopped cars and into the QFC parking lot next to us. I expected the pickup to follow me so we could exchange insurance information, but as the light turned green the truck took off straight down the road. I looked over my shoulder in disbelief and let out a stream of words I don’t care to repeat. My friend’s eyes widened as she feared our evening had been ruined and my mood irretrievably altered for the worse. We hopped out to assess the damage. The truck hadn’t been going very fast when it hit us, but the sound of the crash had me worried that I’d find a crumpled bumper.

                To my relief, my trusty Honda proved to be resilient. The only damage was two barely noticeable indents where the bolts holding the truck’s license plate had contacted my plastic bumper. I began to cool down, to my friend’s relief. The night could go on without cursing or worries of damage and insurance premiums. And we now had an anecdote for our friends at the party.

Later the next day, my friend and I were talking to the party’s host and I said, “Did I ever tell you about the time I was the victim of a hit and run?”

“No,” she responded

I said, “It happened just a few miles from here, in fact. And pretty recently.”

Our host said that was terrible, and I started in on the story.

“So last night …” I said, and my friend and I laughed as a look of realization spread across our host’s face.