Now for a quite literal recounting of a "there and back again scenario": THE 18th ANNUAL DEAD SEA ULTRA MARATHON.
This past Friday I ran a half marathon to the lowest place on earth. I had my own burden to bare--my golden ring consisted of the temptation to avoid the challenge and accept the verbal limitations that Dr. Hinton prescribed me nearly 1 year ago. In fact, my ring was emblazoned with his words translated into the language of Mordor: "You will never be able to do knee-load-bearing activity for any significant length of time again. No running, and soccer no more than thrice a week." Okay, I don't remember the exact death sentence, but the word "never" stuck with me. Someone smart commented that "never" should be grouped in as one of the infamous four letter words--I have to agree. To whom it may concern, I would make a good case study subject for reverse psychology (after the benefits of the action in question are estimated to outweigh the costs). For example, boarded up ruins and gated off stairwells generally imply prohibition to any efforts of entry, but lines are drawn for a few reasons, and are usually silently asking to be crossed.
Reason 1: Lines drawn by man to prove to others and to reassure himself of his own power to draw lines (The entire continent of Africa, Zoro, your signature)
Reason 2: Lines drawn by man to supposedly maintain order (DMZ, DMV, Berlin Wall)
Reason 3: Lines drawn for the express purpose of entertainment (the doodles in my arabic notes aka Salvador Dali)
Reason 4: Lines drawn to actually maintain order (Jaws, Jurassic Park, Pampalona Bulls, the Israeli border)
Reason 5: Lines drawn to measure (football field, Stephen Hawking)
Reason 6: Lines drawn to communicate (everyone but Helen Keller)
...so most lines are worth crossing except for the ones implied in Reason 4. When Dr. Hinton drew the proverbial line, I yearned to cross it, and so I found myself unassuming at the 21 km starting line of the 18th Annual Dead Sea Ultra Marathon.
I had awoken at 4:30am, grabbed some fruit, let myself out of the house and walked 15 minutes in the pre-dawn mist to meet SMiller. We prayed for a cab silently as we approached 7th circle and sure enough caught one in front of Safeway. We arrived at king Hussein Park at dawn (5:15am). They separated the crowds into sporting enclosures (more lines) according to the length of the race. I saw a man with jeans in the 21 km soccer cage with us and I was comforted....then he put on short shorts. Never a comforting site.
SIT Tribe (the 9 of us participating) huddled together. We watched the massive amount of 10km grow larger. The Marathon staff screeched into the loudspeakers at them to stop climbing the fences--half in English and half in Arabic. The entire European contingent in Amman had come out to run the marathon--more gangly white people I have seen in all my time here. The loud speakers announced that the marathoners get on the first two buses. We bid Paul goodbye and awaited our verdict. Not 10 minutes later we boarded buses. We were soon driving through road blocks into a light orange sky. The clueless bus driver first tried to drop us off at the untramarathon start line (51km). One woman in the front scoffed "do we look like ultramarathoners?". We didn't; the ultramarathoners looked like they had starved and then been recently fed, and were hungry for more (aka would eat a unsuspecting 10k'er). Twenty minutes later, we arrived at our start line. I had constructed a "marathon" playlist consisting of Enrique Iglesias, Old Crow Medicine Show, and everything in between. It also included "American Pie" (this will be the day that I die) and "I will survive" for comic relief pre-marathon. Ultimately, I was ready to not be ready.
At this point in time, I was actively trying not to experience thoughts because I knew doubt would comprise a good percentage of them: "what did I get myself into?" "do I really think I can run this whole way?" "what if I screw up my knee again?". Instead, I watched the rest of the half-marathoners warm up. Several men were smoking cigarettes, Welcome to Jordan. Some Asians were doing butt kicks along a stretch of road. One man appeared to be following one of those TV cassette warm ups with the air punching and dynamic squatting. Yet another European man was practicing his golf swing of all things (later my friend reported that he walked the whole thing, GO FIGURE). Most people were standing around half-stretching and wondering if they should try to go to the portapottys one more time before the race. I was one of the latter. I was entirely surprised when the gun went off. We had no warning--not even a yelling Arab man. But I suppose it was better this way. And so I started with a light jog and no idea what was about to transpire.
The logistics of the event were intriguing. I never thought about how they would get your stuff to you at the end of the race--the answer was painted Arab cattle cars and bag tags. Nor did I really understand the time-keeping mechanism that I had zip tied to my left shoe (still don't). At some point a man came around wielding a laptop and a long device on a cord which supposedly activated the chip when he waved it over my foot. Every 3 kilometers, there was some sort of station on both sides of the road--first a hand-sized bottle of water station. Sam and I took it, performed the uncoordinated dance of trying to drink it while running and then looked at each other in what can only be described as "utter confusion". We had the same thought: "in a country where they throw their trash out their windows or drop it on the ground...is someone going to collect the bottle?" We ran another minute contemplating our existential crisis before I decidedly placed it neatly on the side of the road. Others lobbed theirs. Oh Jordan. By the end of the race, I must admit that I was taking a few drinks and pouring the rest on my head before participating the lobbing--which is quite fun. 1/3 into the race, they handed out half a banana. I took it out of curiosity. To my left, I saw a man who had been running our speed (and who had the most obnoxious British flag-emblazoned shorts), wolf down the entire banana and gracefully drop the peel to his left. With visions of mario kart in my mind, I chose a different method... I split it into fours and took my time chewing before lobbing the peel at a tree. The logistics were utterly amusing to me... "every turn a surprise" Mulan would say. Various herds of sheep and goats were herded across the track by disgruntled Jordanians in traditional garb at different points in the race, and I passed a man on a camel. I ran over a middle schooler at km 11 and nearly dropped my ipod. It was a mine field (hhaha Middle East joke). Due to the difficulties, I became completely discouraged around km 15 and hit somewhat of a wall. I ran the speed of a power-walker for the next two km. Then Paul passed me. He must have been around the 7th marathoner who had passed me...the first one was accompanied by a motercar. (I am so impressed by Paul; he worked so hard and did so well--first westerner and top ten in the marathon). He said a full sentence "you're nearly done, keep it up" and all I could do was grunt and give a half-hearted thumbs up in response before he was gone on the fast track to glory. 6km to go. I had the chills, but so far that was my only legitimate complaint. I was so tired and oddly concentrated. This is what "the zone" feels like...you are so physically unable to focus that you are utterly focused. There was some doubt from 6km to 4km but I was quite aware that if I stopped running, I was unlikely to be mentally able to start again. After 4km I knew I was going to finish and it was just a matter of one foot in front of the other and occasionally imagining the finish line and my smiling friends. I sped up for the last 100 yards. The chute was lined by military men. I was momentarily surprised they weren't at the protests; but later I learned that the protesters are coming out in full force this coming Friday and last Friday was a rest weekend for most of them. Ke$ha blasted from speaker and the 4 members of the SIT Tribe who finished before me were cheering. I didn't hear it. I had my music full blast out of a belief in the theory that one can distract oneself from pain by overstimulation of another sensation. It worked.
Someone handed me an apple and some water, a man snipped off the electronic chip on my shoe (my legs were shaking), and a woman placed a medal over my head. Then I "walked it out" until I regained enough energy to think straight, self-reflect, smile a little bit, and find the rest of the group. Life is Good. IN THE TIME SPAN OF ONE YEAR SINCE MY SURGERY (APRIL 24th, 2010) I CLIMBED A MOUNTAIN TO THE TALLEST POINT I WILL EVER BE IN MY LIFE (19,000 ft summit of Cayambe in Ecaudor) AND RAN A HALF MARATHON TO THE LOWEST POINT I WILL EVER BE IN MY LIFE (Dead Sea -1,388 ft). TAKE THAT MORTALITY. now..."gracefulness" in these endeavors is another matter. It got ugly on both journeys but there are no lasting physical or even emotional consequences save for a permanent dose of "self-satisfaction" and hella bragging rights.
At some point I pondered how apropos it would be if I had put "life is a highway" on my music-athon mix because the entire course was along the dead sea highway.
In climbing Mount Doom to rid myself of the human conception that I am "not good enough", I had many trusted friends (exactly 9, FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING) but ultimately the task was my own to complete. The Middle Schoolers were the Orcs, the occasional male spectators who stared to long at our bare legs were the Nazgul, and the Amman buses were the Eagles that bore me forth from Mount Doom, where I left all my strength and energy.....that means that Amman is Rivendell then. Hmmmm...there is no resemblance here:
My LOTR Sam was literally named Sam. Sam and I ran the first 13 km together before we settled on different paces, her's faster than mine. Then I was alone with my own thoughts.......AND with the entire population of Amman's middle schools. They pushed each other, they threw water, they walked abreast in columns of eight. They personified everything frustrating in the world. I am extremely surprised that there was no divider between them and any of the other marathoners (even the ultra had to run through these screaming 12 year old gangs). Apparently other marathons have an age limit, I see why.
My program director brought up the analogy of a horse chasing a carrot on a stick in front of his face in the context of the current demonstrations in Jordan:
"The Government showed us the stick (the new cabinet) but WHERE IS THE CARROT (the goals and results??) That's what the people demand to know."
The carrot represents a simple goal or a motivation...For many young male Jordanians, the carrot is "power to the people". For many young Americans, the carrot is "a house in the suburbs, two kids and three cars". For me in this race, the carrot was a carrot....dipped in ranch-flavored "self respect" "self improvement" and "general life satisfaction". I did it for the carrot and the merit. I am proud to say that I ran for myself. I made the commitment two months ago and I stuck to it, and I couldn't have been more at peace with myself after the fact. I walked the streets of Amman patiently, calmly, at peace with the way I am. Even the line of 10k-ers at McDonalds in Abdoun couldn't disturb my new-found contentment. Though one human desire did disturb my composure: HUNGER. I have never been so hungry in my life. I had consumed half a banana, two peaches and a kiwi before crossing the finish line. I could have eaten a live moose.
Instead my quest for food took the following path:
1) At the "LG sponsored Post-Marathon Party" at the Dead Sea Public Beach, I stood in line for 35 minutes to get a hot dog with everything on it for Sam and I. I say stood in "line" but I really mean to say stood in "mob". There was no line. Arabs don't stand in lines. Especially MIDDLE SCHOOLERS. Eventually my American complexion, patient puppy eyes and sheer refusal to budge warrented notice and we got our food. A hot dog has never tasted so good. I recommend running a marathon if only to experience the new joy found in food shortly thereafter.
2) We caught a bus back to Amman and took a taxi to Matrix Gym to take a victory shower where the following incriminating photo was taken:
Then I purchased Mcdonald's soft serve ice cream in Abdoun circle. Then SMiller dragged me up some stairs [I am back to hating the man who invented stairs, surely they are only meant to cause pain and suffering and not to get you anywhere important] to a Salon called "Pretty Nails" and made me be a girl and get a manicure. So I rebelled by getting a NEON ORANGE manicure only to have my host sister tell me later that "everyone gets the neon". If only it glowed in the dark. If only everything glowed in the dark.
3) Marathon of food: We went to Noodasia, which is intended to imply "Noodle Asia" and has a selection of Chinese, Thai and Japanese dishes, but actually implies "come see naked Asians" in my mind= I was disappointed. Either way, I wore my shorts an my medal the whole rest of the day. [Haram.com] My live moose came in 3 parts: 1) strawberry smoothie 2) California Rolls 3) Tofu Pad Thai. I did not make it to the finish line of the food marathon. I half-passed out on the table in complete ecstasy.
I iced my knee with a bag of peas and carrots today because this country does not have ice. And here is a poem about how I feel about this fact:
No ice
How the hell can I do R.I.C.E.?
Paying the price
At least I don't have Lice.
I also realized in a fit of cold reality that the marathon is a giant metaphor for life: sometimes it hands you bananas, sometimes it hands you lemons....sometimes you are frustrated, sometimes you are distracted by sheep or children. But the finish line puts everything else into perspective.
I crossed so many things off of the ol' bucket list this past week (riding camels, captaining boats, and running the half marathon) I was prompted to add another:
make a 10 cheese pizza from scratch. 10 cheeses.
The End
This past Friday I ran a half marathon to the lowest place on earth. I had my own burden to bare--my golden ring consisted of the temptation to avoid the challenge and accept the verbal limitations that Dr. Hinton prescribed me nearly 1 year ago. In fact, my ring was emblazoned with his words translated into the language of Mordor: "You will never be able to do knee-load-bearing activity for any significant length of time again. No running, and soccer no more than thrice a week." Okay, I don't remember the exact death sentence, but the word "never" stuck with me. Someone smart commented that "never" should be grouped in as one of the infamous four letter words--I have to agree. To whom it may concern, I would make a good case study subject for reverse psychology (after the benefits of the action in question are estimated to outweigh the costs). For example, boarded up ruins and gated off stairwells generally imply prohibition to any efforts of entry, but lines are drawn for a few reasons, and are usually silently asking to be crossed.
Reason 1: Lines drawn by man to prove to others and to reassure himself of his own power to draw lines (The entire continent of Africa, Zoro, your signature)
Reason 2: Lines drawn by man to supposedly maintain order (DMZ, DMV, Berlin Wall)
Reason 3: Lines drawn for the express purpose of entertainment (the doodles in my arabic notes aka Salvador Dali)
Reason 4: Lines drawn to actually maintain order (Jaws, Jurassic Park, Pampalona Bulls, the Israeli border)
Reason 5: Lines drawn to measure (football field, Stephen Hawking)
Reason 6: Lines drawn to communicate (everyone but Helen Keller)
...so most lines are worth crossing except for the ones implied in Reason 4. When Dr. Hinton drew the proverbial line, I yearned to cross it, and so I found myself unassuming at the 21 km starting line of the 18th Annual Dead Sea Ultra Marathon.
 |
| Half Marathon Starting line 5 minutes before the race |
SIT Tribe (the 9 of us participating) huddled together. We watched the massive amount of 10km grow larger. The Marathon staff screeched into the loudspeakers at them to stop climbing the fences--half in English and half in Arabic. The entire European contingent in Amman had come out to run the marathon--more gangly white people I have seen in all my time here. The loud speakers announced that the marathoners get on the first two buses. We bid Paul goodbye and awaited our verdict. Not 10 minutes later we boarded buses. We were soon driving through road blocks into a light orange sky. The clueless bus driver first tried to drop us off at the untramarathon start line (51km). One woman in the front scoffed "do we look like ultramarathoners?". We didn't; the ultramarathoners looked like they had starved and then been recently fed, and were hungry for more (aka would eat a unsuspecting 10k'er). Twenty minutes later, we arrived at our start line. I had constructed a "marathon" playlist consisting of Enrique Iglesias, Old Crow Medicine Show, and everything in between. It also included "American Pie" (this will be the day that I die) and "I will survive" for comic relief pre-marathon. Ultimately, I was ready to not be ready.
At this point in time, I was actively trying not to experience thoughts because I knew doubt would comprise a good percentage of them: "what did I get myself into?" "do I really think I can run this whole way?" "what if I screw up my knee again?". Instead, I watched the rest of the half-marathoners warm up. Several men were smoking cigarettes, Welcome to Jordan. Some Asians were doing butt kicks along a stretch of road. One man appeared to be following one of those TV cassette warm ups with the air punching and dynamic squatting. Yet another European man was practicing his golf swing of all things (later my friend reported that he walked the whole thing, GO FIGURE). Most people were standing around half-stretching and wondering if they should try to go to the portapottys one more time before the race. I was one of the latter. I was entirely surprised when the gun went off. We had no warning--not even a yelling Arab man. But I suppose it was better this way. And so I started with a light jog and no idea what was about to transpire.
The logistics of the event were intriguing. I never thought about how they would get your stuff to you at the end of the race--the answer was painted Arab cattle cars and bag tags. Nor did I really understand the time-keeping mechanism that I had zip tied to my left shoe (still don't). At some point a man came around wielding a laptop and a long device on a cord which supposedly activated the chip when he waved it over my foot. Every 3 kilometers, there was some sort of station on both sides of the road--first a hand-sized bottle of water station. Sam and I took it, performed the uncoordinated dance of trying to drink it while running and then looked at each other in what can only be described as "utter confusion". We had the same thought: "in a country where they throw their trash out their windows or drop it on the ground...is someone going to collect the bottle?" We ran another minute contemplating our existential crisis before I decidedly placed it neatly on the side of the road. Others lobbed theirs. Oh Jordan. By the end of the race, I must admit that I was taking a few drinks and pouring the rest on my head before participating the lobbing--which is quite fun. 1/3 into the race, they handed out half a banana. I took it out of curiosity. To my left, I saw a man who had been running our speed (and who had the most obnoxious British flag-emblazoned shorts), wolf down the entire banana and gracefully drop the peel to his left. With visions of mario kart in my mind, I chose a different method... I split it into fours and took my time chewing before lobbing the peel at a tree. The logistics were utterly amusing to me... "every turn a surprise" Mulan would say. Various herds of sheep and goats were herded across the track by disgruntled Jordanians in traditional garb at different points in the race, and I passed a man on a camel. I ran over a middle schooler at km 11 and nearly dropped my ipod. It was a mine field (hhaha Middle East joke). Due to the difficulties, I became completely discouraged around km 15 and hit somewhat of a wall. I ran the speed of a power-walker for the next two km. Then Paul passed me. He must have been around the 7th marathoner who had passed me...the first one was accompanied by a motercar. (I am so impressed by Paul; he worked so hard and did so well--first westerner and top ten in the marathon). He said a full sentence "you're nearly done, keep it up" and all I could do was grunt and give a half-hearted thumbs up in response before he was gone on the fast track to glory. 6km to go. I had the chills, but so far that was my only legitimate complaint. I was so tired and oddly concentrated. This is what "the zone" feels like...you are so physically unable to focus that you are utterly focused. There was some doubt from 6km to 4km but I was quite aware that if I stopped running, I was unlikely to be mentally able to start again. After 4km I knew I was going to finish and it was just a matter of one foot in front of the other and occasionally imagining the finish line and my smiling friends. I sped up for the last 100 yards. The chute was lined by military men. I was momentarily surprised they weren't at the protests; but later I learned that the protesters are coming out in full force this coming Friday and last Friday was a rest weekend for most of them. Ke$ha blasted from speaker and the 4 members of the SIT Tribe who finished before me were cheering. I didn't hear it. I had my music full blast out of a belief in the theory that one can distract oneself from pain by overstimulation of another sensation. It worked.
 |
| Megan and Dropek crossing the finish line. |
At some point I pondered how apropos it would be if I had put "life is a highway" on my music-athon mix because the entire course was along the dead sea highway.
 |
| Highway sign we passed |
 |
| Rivendell |
 |
| Not Rivendell=Natural Resource Fail...and no elves |
 |
| "That's King Abdullah" is the explanation given by the Jordanians to every helicopter we see in Amman. |
"The Government showed us the stick (the new cabinet) but WHERE IS THE CARROT (the goals and results??) That's what the people demand to know."
The carrot represents a simple goal or a motivation...For many young male Jordanians, the carrot is "power to the people". For many young Americans, the carrot is "a house in the suburbs, two kids and three cars". For me in this race, the carrot was a carrot....dipped in ranch-flavored "self respect" "self improvement" and "general life satisfaction". I did it for the carrot and the merit. I am proud to say that I ran for myself. I made the commitment two months ago and I stuck to it, and I couldn't have been more at peace with myself after the fact. I walked the streets of Amman patiently, calmly, at peace with the way I am. Even the line of 10k-ers at McDonalds in Abdoun couldn't disturb my new-found contentment. Though one human desire did disturb my composure: HUNGER. I have never been so hungry in my life. I had consumed half a banana, two peaches and a kiwi before crossing the finish line. I could have eaten a live moose.
Instead my quest for food took the following path:
1) At the "LG sponsored Post-Marathon Party" at the Dead Sea Public Beach, I stood in line for 35 minutes to get a hot dog with everything on it for Sam and I. I say stood in "line" but I really mean to say stood in "mob". There was no line. Arabs don't stand in lines. Especially MIDDLE SCHOOLERS. Eventually my American complexion, patient puppy eyes and sheer refusal to budge warrented notice and we got our food. A hot dog has never tasted so good. I recommend running a marathon if only to experience the new joy found in food shortly thereafter.
2) We caught a bus back to Amman and took a taxi to Matrix Gym to take a victory shower where the following incriminating photo was taken:
 |
| NBD, just ran a half marathon, WHAT YOU LOOKIN AT?? |
3) Marathon of food: We went to Noodasia, which is intended to imply "Noodle Asia" and has a selection of Chinese, Thai and Japanese dishes, but actually implies "come see naked Asians" in my mind= I was disappointed. Either way, I wore my shorts an my medal the whole rest of the day. [Haram.com] My live moose came in 3 parts: 1) strawberry smoothie 2) California Rolls 3) Tofu Pad Thai. I did not make it to the finish line of the food marathon. I half-passed out on the table in complete ecstasy.
I iced my knee with a bag of peas and carrots today because this country does not have ice. And here is a poem about how I feel about this fact:
No ice
How the hell can I do R.I.C.E.?
Paying the price
At least I don't have Lice.
I also realized in a fit of cold reality that the marathon is a giant metaphor for life: sometimes it hands you bananas, sometimes it hands you lemons....sometimes you are frustrated, sometimes you are distracted by sheep or children. But the finish line puts everything else into perspective.
I crossed so many things off of the ol' bucket list this past week (riding camels, captaining boats, and running the half marathon) I was prompted to add another:
make a 10 cheese pizza from scratch. 10 cheeses.
The End
14 oz. fresh mozzarella (to cover the pie with thin slices)
ReplyDelete14 oz. white cheddar cheese, shredded
Shredded mozzarella (to cover the dough)
10 oz. Gorgonzola cheese
14 oz. Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, fi nely sliced
10 oz. caciocavallo cheese, fi nely sliced
12 oz. Gruyère cheese, shredded
Mild imported provolone cheese, sliced to cover pizza (7-8 slices)
10 oz. Romano cheese, shredded
10 slices white American cheese