Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | June 14, 2010

A Stanger in a Strange Land

In the realm of Challenging Destinations to Visit – Destinations Outside the Comfort Zone, you might say – Paris probably isn’t in the top 100 Challenging places. Yes, understanding the norms of French culture can be confusing at times, but Paris is safe, it is relatively easy to navigate, and it is not completely unfamiliar. However, as I stood alone at CDG waiting for my bag, I realized that I was indeed out of my comfort zone. My French is passable but not great. What struck me most, however, was not that I was going to have to get by on my high-school level foriegn language skills, but that I was going to have to mange on my own.

It seemed to take forever for my bag to come out, and I began to get nervous. Normally I would spend this nervous energy peppering my husband with questions: do you think they lost it? The baggage help desk isn’t open yet, what should I do? How long should I wait? But my husband wasn’t there, so these questions were left rattling about in my head. I had to provide my own answers: I don’t know, I don’t know and I don’t know. Suddenly it ocurred to me that I was truly alone. No husband, no kids, no responsibility, but also no one by my side, no one to help me should I need something. Not even someone to talk things over with should things go awry. I started to wonder if this trip was such a good idea.

My bag came along soon enough, but the slightly lonely feeling clung to me. As I left the arrivals hall, I saw a big EF sign with the familiar (and rather unattractive) circle logo. I had worked at EF, a large global travel company, for several years. Caught up in the euphoria of familiarity, I nearly ran over to the guide to introduce myself. Why, we were almost colleagues! Maybe we knew the same people! Then I realized that it had been over a decade since I worked there, and turnover is such that EF-years are like dog years: one year there equals seven years at any other company. Everyone I worked with was long gone, and the people who replaced them were probably long gone too. Encountering a young guide working for EF for the summer was not going to change the fact that I was alone. So I simply picked up my bags and headed to my hotel.

I settled into my room, my home for the next few days, and resisted the urge to go to sleep. A quick run would be a much better way to combat jet-lag. As I knew it would be from previous visits, running around the Champs de Mars was a nice diversion. In addition to being an easy short loop, it was also populated with runners of all types, some wearing the latest compression shorts, some wearing baggy gray sweatpants. My favorite ones were the women running with purses slung across their bodies (no lie: there were two of them). I saw that there was to be a festival in the Champ de Mars, including a concert later that night. I wasn’t entirely sure what it would be, something about Russia, but I made a note to come back and check it out.

After succumbing to the urge to nap, I roused myself and spent some time walking about the city. I wandered over to the 16th, an area familiar to me after visiting friends who lived there several years ago. I grabbed something to eat and returned to the Champ de Mars to take in an outdoor concert performed by what turned out to be the Russian National Orchestra. I sat on the grass, listening to the music and watching the throngs of people around me.  As dusk fell on the city, I realized I hadn’t spoken more than a few words to anyone all day. But instead of feeling lonely, I simply felt quiet and relaxed. I think I could get used to this, not forever, but for a few days. Not a bad gig if you can get it.

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Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | June 13, 2010

Groped by a Frenchman in the Middle of the Night

Don’t fret for my well-being. The title suggests a much more titillating story than what actually occurred. Still, my trip to France got off to an interesting start rather quickly.

Due to an unusual confluence of events (which I won’t bore you with here), I ended going to France for several days on my own. Unfortunately, because I was traveling on a group booking, I did not have much control over my itinerary from Chicago to Paris. I had to fly Air France and I had to fly coach. No upgradable ticket, no using miles, no helpful travel agent tricks to make my flight more palatable. I didn’t even get to select my own seats. For someone who has seatguru.com bookmarked on her toolbar, that was especially painful. I would log on to the Air France website and look longingly at seats. 20D was open, but I couldn’t have it. Most of row 29 was open, but its not a great row – right in front of the galley, so its loud and the seats don’t recline all the way. 32B wouldn’t be bad. Or 34D. But, alas, I could have none of them. “Assigned at airport,” my record stubbornly said. I had visions of being stuck in 45E, which would certainly make for a long 8-hours.  Generally speaking, I feel that one’s seat number should be smaller than one’s bra size. A good guideline, don’t you think? Perhaps I could use that argument with Air France if they tried to stick me in the last row of the plane.

When I finally arrived at the airport and got my boarding pass, I was pleasantly surprised. 35B: not great, but it could be worse. Other than the three or four school groups sitting around me, I figured it would be a palatable flight. Then the guy in 34B showed up. Although he was a slightly older gentleman, he was dressed like a five-year-old: sneakers, baggy pants, untucked shirt, baseball hat. I assumed he was American (because we, as a nation, generally dress like a bunch of five-year-olds). Then I heard him speak; he was quite clearly French. How does a man from France, a country genetically programmed to dress well, manage to dress himself like a toddler? He was with what I assume was his wife, and she seemed reasonably well presented. I should have known then that something was off.

Mr. 34B sat down and proceeded to put his seat all the way back so his head was essentially in my lap. And we hadn’t even pushed back from the gate yet. It was going to be a long flight.

Fortunately, the Flight Attendant came by and asked him and his equally charming wife to put their seats back up for takeoff. The flight proceeded along fine for a while, until dinner service was over and Monsieur 34B decided to put his head in my lap again. Our seats were so close together that my knees were always in contact with the back of his seat. That is when I realized that he was moving constantly. Fidgeting, tapping, banging, shifting in his seat one direction, then flopping to the other direction. Good lord, I’ve got a 60-year-old, fullly grown man with ADHD sitting practically in my lap. But at least now I understood – the constant movement, the bad fashion sense, the need to talk to the flight attendant EVERY time she passed by. Please oh please, I thought silently, don’t let him drink too much. Needless to say, he didn’t fall asleep all night long. He spoke to his wife loudly, obviously forgetting that he was wearing headphones. He repeatedly stood up and sat back down again. He kept dropping things. In the middle of the flight, when the cabin was pitch black, he dropped his pillow and reached down to grope for it. What he found was my foot. Twice.

What does one do when a strange man grabs one’s foot in the middle of the night? I’m not sure what the protocol is, but I believe I simply shrieked “Hey!” He seemed only slightly fazed.  I fell back asleep only to be awakened what seemed like moments later for the second groping. Was the second one an accident?  If it were a normal Frenchman, I would say no, but for Monsieur 34B, anything was possible. Fortunately, he found his pillow and did not grope under the seat again for the rest of the flight. I also pulled my feet in a little tighter, just as a precaution.

We had another close encounter when he somehow managed to drop his video controller behind his seat, so that it dangled by the cord off the back of his armrest. He yanked the cord to pull it up, and of course it got stuck. In true childlike 5-year-old fashion, he yanked and tugged and banged. I finally grabbed the remote and handed it to him through the gap in the seats. He settled down to watch is video, again reclining his seat so his head could just about rest in my lap.  We were bonding, clearly.

Before I knew it, breakfast service was over and we were arriving in Paris. When we landed, however, Monsieur 34B didn’t even ask for my number. The bonding, the groping, the head-in-the-lap, obviously it meant nothing to him. I was a little hurt. Of course, he is probably still wandering CDG airport trying to find baggage claim, so it’s just as well.

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Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | June 13, 2010

Soldier Field 10-Miler (I had to get up early, but I got Molly Conway’s Autograph)

Psychologists, sociologists, child development experts and others are currently engaged in vigorous debate regarding the benefits and drawbacks of social media and its impact on our society.  It seems as if every week there is another study documenting the adverse impact social media has on children’s development. Are we raising a generation of social incompetents who can’t read nonverbal cues and facial expressions? Will this new generation be unable to read books because their attention span stops at the 141st character? Will they be so involved in their “online” lives that they no longer have face-to-face, old-fashioned interaction with “real life” people?  On a more personal level, is social media a benefit or a time sucker; a useful tool or a way to avoid cleaning the house?  I will admit that since I’ve gotten on Twitter, my house is pretty much a mess. (Some would argue that it was a mess long before Twitter was invented, but I just ignore comments like that.)

While I am willing to concede that Twitter might be a bit of a time sucker, I also credit it with  making me a better runner. What’s more, thanks to Twitter, I have now become part of a running community – not just online but in real life. I chat regularly with other runners in Chicago and meet up with them at local races.  As as result, I am now signing up for substantially more races than I used to.  Of course, that might be a good or bad thing, depending on what day you catch me, and what time the race starts.

For any given running event in Chicago, you can be sure that at least one of the Chicago Twitter Runners will be there. And for some Chicago events, it seems to be de rigueur.  The latest example was the Soldier Field 10-miler. A large number of the Chicago Twitter Runners were doing it. What’s more, it is a unique event: the race finishes on the 50 yard line of Soldier Field itself. I had to do it.  But like all events that start before 10AM, I quickly wondered why in the world I had signed up.

I was over at a friend’s house the night before the race but I had to leave early to go home and get a decent night’s sleep. I was looking at a 5:30AM departure to get to the race on time. My friend asked, quite simply, “Why the hell do you do these things?”  And it was an excellent question, the question that inspired this blog, in fact. Because who wants to get up at 5AM on the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend?  Most of my “real life” friends would never, in a million years, get up at 5AM on a holiday weekend to do a race.  What is it about me that propels me to do these things, when instead I could simply sleep late and then go for a run or ride on my own time, or better yet, stay out late over-imbibing and then just hit a spin class to sweat it all out the next day? Why don’t I just stick with the easy, tried-and-true routine? Why do I do these things?  My feeble answer: “Because it’s fun?”

At 10PM on a Friday night, as I am waving off more food and beverages, it certainly didn’t seem “fun.” And at 4:45 Saturday morning, when my alarm went off, I guarantee “fun” was not the f-word that came to mind.  In that moment, precisely 4:45, I was at my lowest.  That was when the race seems like a SUPREMELY stupid idea.

Reluctantly, I hauled myself out of bed. I donned my race outfit, carefully laid out the night before. I went downstairs, grabbed my protein shake, let the dogs out, and then drove my sorry, sleepy self to Chicago. Fortunately, I had arranged to give Heather (@flourgrrrl on Twitter) a ride, so I had an incentive to get going. Heather and I have run a couple of races together, and I think we make a good team. Sometimes she is faster, sometimes I am faster, but usually we pace each other along for the first part of the race and then split up at the end. I met Heather through Twitter, and being able to run with her has made these races much more enjoyable. Knowing her and some other Twitter Runners has transformed these races from solitary experiences to social events. Of course, I generally don’t feel very social at 5:30 in the morning.

Fortunately, by the time I got Heather I was a little more awake and alert. We arrived at Soldier Field without a hitch and had plenty of time to check our gear and get ready for the race. The race was put on by Fleet Feet (@FleetFeetChgo) and was supremely well-organized.  The weather was perfect, the lake was shining, the city looked beautiful, and soon enough we were off.  Heather and I stayed together until about mile 6, then we got separated. I have to admit, even though I am not much of a Bears fan, finishing in Soldier Field was fantastic.  We ran straight onto the field through the players entrance. What’s more, the JumboTron had a live feed of the runners entering the stadium, so you could actually look up and see yourself.  Without a doubt, it was the most unusual race finish I have ever experienced.  I took a moment to pause and look around.  The stadium appeared even larger from down on the field. The seats, of course, were mostly empty, just a few spectators and earlier finishers cheering on the runners. But for a moment you could get a sense of what it must be like to be in the center of the action when it is filled with thousands of cheering fans. I gazed at the gleaming stadium stretching up around me, humbled by it enormity, wondering if this is what Bono felt like during last summer’s U2 concert at Soldier Field. Of course, Bono  didn’t have a security guard telling him to move along. My moment of imaginary stardom was over.

After finding Heather at the finish, we proceeded to meet up with the rest of the ChiTwitRunners at our predetermined location. Everyone was there: my pal @chanthana, @krzimmer, @MailorderAndie, @Jor_Dash, and several others, including @daRevoluCHIN who came just to cheer us on. We stood around recapping the race and enjoying the weather. I was able to meet some new Chicago runners I hadn’t encountered before, including @edschober and @elizabethtowle. We were just about to move along when we saw @MollyConway.

Molly is one of the ChiTwitRunners I had met before; we had run together a few months ago for one of the Saturday morning brunch-runs.  However, that was before Molly became famous.  She had previously run the Soldier Field 10-Miler, and the race photographer had taken a great photo of her crossing the finish line. It was such a wonderful photo that it was blown up and put on display at Fleet Feet. What’s more, it was selected to be the cover photo on this year’s race brochure.  Want to double-check the race route or start time? Just look for Molly Conway’s photo on the cover and you will find all the details inside. Curious about what parking is available on race day? Look for the picture of Molly and you will find the answer. When it comes to the Soldier Field 10 miler, Molly Conway is a celebrity. So, when she showed up post race, we cried “Look, its Molly Conway!” and asked her for her autograph.  People around us seemed quite confused.  I guess not everyone recognizes celebrity when they see it.

Before we knew it, it was time to move on to the brunch that Chanthana had graciously organized. Heather and I were both planning to go, but then we started to feel the weight of the day’s to-do lists bearing down on us. Pressed for time, we decided to head home. We bid goodbye to our runner friends, saying we would see them at the next event. I dropped Heather off and made it home by lunch, ready to dive into the rest of my day. While it would have been nice to skip it and sleep until 10, it was certainly worth getting up early for the race. As usual, life is more fun when you do stuff (even if it doesn’t seem that fun when the alarm goes off).

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Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | June 2, 2010

The Tri-ing Game, Part II

Well, it has taken me a while to get around to writing about my first triathlon experience. As a result, there has been some speculation that perhaps I drowned during the swim. I can assure you, any such rumors about my demise are completely false.  Yes, at one point in the swim I wondered if I might drown, but fortunately I did not.  I lived to tell the tale. I even liked it.

I am not sure why it has taken me so long to sit down and write about the experience, however.  Perhaps after coming off the rich mine of stories from our trip to Laos and Vietnam, the triathlon seems a bit bland in comparison. It is hard to top babies bouncing off the back of crashing motorbikes, after all.  But the triathlon was a singular experience for me. As my fabulous coach Nina said, you never forget your first time. I am quite sure it is true. Yet it is hard for me to capture the feeling of the event.

Although there were moments when I was thoroughly enjoying myself, to say that the event as a whole was “fun” wouldn’t be true. Parts of it were most assuredly not fun. In fact, when we arrived in Galena the night before the triathlon and I felt the water, I knew “fun” would not be a word I could ever use to describe the swim portion. The water was, as expected, painfully cold. In addition, it didn’t smell very appealing.  I looked around and saw a film of algae off to the side. The algae was not covering the starting point of the triathlon, but it was not far away either. I also saw several geese swimming in the lake.  And you know what that means: goose poop.  On the bright side, I had just gotten over an intestinal parasite, so if I picked up another one from swimming in the poop-infested waters, at least I would recognize the symptoms pretty quickly.  And I have discovered that an intestinal parasite is a very effective weight loss tool.  Disclaimer: I would not recommend intentionally getting a parasite. However, if I picked up another one, I knew there would be the drop-five-pounds-fast silver lining, a nice side bonus, even if it is rather disgusting to contemplate.

Fortunately, I ended up being so busy setting up my transition area and making sure I was organized for the race that I did not have time to dwell on how awful the swim might be. Remarkably, I slept well that night and felt reasonably relaxed at the start the next morning. Until I went for my pre-race swim, that is.  The water was as cold as I remembered from the night before, and due to the large numbers of people getting in and out of the water, it was very churned up and murky.  Fortunately, my swim coach AJ had the prescience to make me practice swimming with my eyes closed leading up to the tri. It came in handy, because as soon as I put my head in the water I felt like I was swimming blind. I could not see my hand six inches in front of my face. All I could see was dark murky water (which I knew was just silt that had been stirred up, but the word “poop” kept popping into my head.)

Luckily, after I managed to immerse myself for my pre-race swim, the water did not seem to be Oh-My-God-I-Think-I-Am-Having-A-Heart-Attack cold.  It was just Damn Cold. Which is good, because otherwise I might have burst into tears.  I wrapped up my pre-race swim (to call it a “warm up” would be ridiculous, since I was shivering), and then I stood on the beach waiting for my wave to start. I reviewed my race plan in my head.  The swim plan had three major components 1) don’t drown, 2) try very hard to get to the finish, and 3) don’t just cling to the buoy for dear life and scream for help. Before I knew it, the horn sounded and we were off!  I ran down the beach and into the water, letting the vast majority of my start group go ahead of me.  Somewhat reluctantly, with a longing glance back towards the warm safety of the sandy beach, I dove in. It was like someone had turned out the lights. I popped my head back above water: daylight! I put my head back in the water: night. Daylight! Night. Daylight! Night.  I realized the swimming-with-the-eyes-closed technique was going to come in handy. I took a deep breathe (ignoring the funky smell) and put my head in the water.

I paddled along and made it to the first buoy pretty quickly. I reviewed point number 3 of the race plan and avoided the temptation to grab the buoy and yell for help. I made the turn towards buoy number two.  As I did so, I paused for a moment to get my bearings and had one thought: “that buoy is pretty damn far away.” I started to wonder if I could make it. The water was freezing and murky, I was tense and not making much forward progress.  Fortunately, the water started to clear a little and I could vaguely see the feet of the woman swimming in front of me.  Just follow her, I thought, and pray that she knows where the heck she is going. Finally, we rounded the second buoy, and for the first time in the swim, I began to relax a little. The likelihood of my drowning seemed to be decreasing, and I had finally adjusted fully to the water temperature.  With a surge of optimism, I paddled along, getting to the beach well behind most of the other people from my start group. But who cared? I was alive!  I stopped for a moment to kiss the sand (kidding, although it would have been a fitting thing to do), and I proceeded towards the transition zone to get my bike.

I was plagued  by indecision in the transition zone. Gloves or no gloves? Socks or no socks? Jacket or no jacket? I was so happy to be done with the swim that I couldn’t even think straight. Finally, I realized I was burning time, so I just grabbed my bike and went (no socks, no jacket, no gloves).  I gave my kids and husband a high five as I passed by them and started to ride up the first hill. I rode like a 12 year old who just got a new bike – with unabashed joy.  After a few miles of my I’m-so-thankful-I-didn’t -drown giddiness, it finally occurred to me that I was going rather slowly. I could probably pick it up a little, but it seemed rude to pass all those other riders.  Then I remembered it was a race, passing was what you were supposed to do. So, I started to move ahead and proceeded to pass every rider I could see. With the possible exception of riding on Cat Ba island in Vietnam, it was the best bike ride I’ve ever had. It was clearly marked, the roads were closed to cars, there were great hills, the weather was perfect, and above all, I did not have to get back in that damn lake again. I was happy as a clam.  I coasted into the second transition zone realizing that no one had passed me during the entire 17 mile ride.

Of course, I gave back a ton of time on the run, but I never claimed to be a fast runner. I was just enjoying the scenery and the camaraderie on the course. I ran the last part of the run with a guy named Mark. We were running roughly the same pace, but he kept walking up all the hills, where I would pass him. Then he would pick up speed on the downhills and pass me. It was like we were playing a cat and mouse game, so it got to be a bit of a joke. Once the course flattened out, he was kind enough to stay with me for a while. It turns out he has completed 22 marathons.  I lost him in the last half mile, but Mark, whoever you are, thank you for helping me get from mile 2 to mile 4.

Next thing I knew, there was the finish line, and my first triathlon was done. I felt great. In fact, it wasn’t even that hard. Of course, that means I probably could have gone a little faster, but who cares? It was a beautiful day, and I didn’t win but I didn’t drown, either. So all in all, it was a wonderful experience. Good thing, because I have another one coming up next month. Apparently it is an addiction. (And no signs of a parasite…yet.)

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Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | May 21, 2010

The Tri-ing Game

I have really done it this time.  Granted, I have suffered post-sign-up regret in the past. The running relay across Florida, the Chicago Marathon, every race that started before 9 AM, the Tyranena Beer Run (which required us to drive to the middle of nowhere Wisconsin, just for a half marathon).  These are all things that I signed up for and then thought “Why the hell am I doing this to myself? Why don’t I just stay home, sleep in and go for a little bike ride when I wake up?”  But in the end, they all worked out fine, and they were, for the most part, very fun.  (Although some of those early race starts are truly awful.)  But this, well this is different.  This is a triathlon. An early-season triathlon.  Which means the weather could be absolutely horrendous.  It is Chicago. Heck, it could even snow. Stranger things have happened.

It could be pouring rain. It could be as low as the 40s for air temps, pretty darn cold for a bike ride.  And then there is the swim.  The lovely swim. If I am lucky, the water temp will be 60.  Yes, I can wear a wetsuit, but feet, hands, and face are still exposed. What’s more, that chilly water will find every available entry point and slowly run its frigid bony hand down my back.

I feel a little bit like Stephen Rea’s character regarding his relationship with Jaye Davidson’s character in The Crying Game: I thought I knew what I was getting into, but it turns out I was wrong.  Very wrong. I pictured a warm summer afternoon, taking a little swim, then a quick bike ride and a short run. Easy.  Sort of like a relaxing vacation day at a nice resort.  Maybe a guy would even bring me a drink with an umbrella when I was done.  Perhaps a massage afterwards.

As it turns out, it is cloudy, rainy, foggy, and the lake has been hovering at 58 degrees (current reading says 60, but I am skeptical).  What’s more, this whole triathlon thing is very complicated. The equipment alone is almost too much to think about.  Wetsuit, cap, goggles, bike, helmet, jacket, biking shoes, socks, running shoes, race belt, hat, timing chip, race number, Gatorade, Cliff Shots, Nuun.  And that is just the basic stuff, not the back up stuff.  I spent much of yesterday transforming the living room into a pile of athletic equipment, which I then divided and packed. I am exhausted already.  It would be so much easier to throw in the towel, stay home, make a pot of coffee and read the paper.

But just like Rea’s character stayed with Davidson’s character, I am going to stick it out. Let’s hope it is worth it. (NB: Rea’s character ended up in jail. Just sayin’.)

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