I've figured out why the meat over here bothers me. It's because it doesn't take much imagination to figure out what part of the animal your meal is coming from. Whether its a funny bone, or some well-placed fat, or some feathers, or a beak, or horns, there are always some clues to help you grasp the fact that you're eating another flesh-and-blood animal.
Today was our first day of work. We caught a shuttle bus to the office outside of our hotel at 7:10 this morning which took us to the headquarters, which is located about 25 km away. We met our advisor and he explained a little about the company and its position in the Chinese market. He also asked us what we were interested in doing. There is a huge factory, 400,000 square feet, where they produce the water heaters all the way from basic sheet metal. We finished our tour by peeking into all the offices. At the call center, employees receive 4000 calls and make 5000 calls daily. He also showed us the engineering division where Diego and I will be helping out.
We still didn't have cell phones, and when one of our hosts asked us if we needed help with anything, we brought this up. She left for ten minutes and returned with two cell phones for us to use during our stay here. We were also given company laptops on which to do all our important work. The company is treating us very well. We get free lunch there every day also, which means we will have two meals provided every weekday here in Nanjing.
During the afternoon, Diego and I joined our respective engineering divisions. Neither of us had much to do this afternoon though. I think we'll need to be very proactive in finding work if we want to be useful to the company.
This blog's not very funny, I can tell. I'm sorry. I'm tired. Of China. No, not really. But China's tough. Got me on the ropes. I'm excited about the possibility of travel though. Our boss asked if we might want to take a little time off to travel. If it's possible, I would love to go to Tibet. I love big mountains, and I've read a lot about the area. It could be a little expensive, but I might not have another chance. So maybe I'll take a couple/few/eight weeks off and go to Tibet. More on this later.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Presidential Palace
Salvation, thy name is breakfast. Diego and I were immensely relieved this morning on discovering that the hotel breakfast which USC has arranged for us every morning is quite to our liking. It is huge, and offers everything two foreigners could ask for. I mean, they even had banana bread. And considering that hardly any breakfast places in America will even serve you banana bread, you should have some idea what this place is like. It is buffet-style. We were curious how much we would have to pay for lunch and dinner at this restaurant: 120 and 180 yuan, respectively, or roughly 18 and 26 dollars. That's a lot of money, especially over here. But we get breakfast for free, so we'll just load our pockets with pork fried rice and go on our merry way.
I'm pretty tired. But I want to share some pictures from the Presidential Palace, which we toured today with our guides, Cheryl and Vicky. (Those aren't their real names. We can't pronounce their real names.) Nanjing is famous for two things, as I've ascertained: most notably, as the site of the worst aggression
during the Japanese occupation of the Second World War, and secondly, as the birthplace of capitalism in China. Born in 1912, capitalism grew happily into its mid-thirties before being put to bed by Mao Tse-tung in 1949. Nanjing was the capital of China until that point, when Mao moved the capital to Beijing. Anyway, the Presidential Palace was the main government place when Nanjing was the cat's pajamas in China. No dogs allowed. Even cute cartoon dogs.
The palace was nice. Still very few foreigners though. It seems strange to see a Chinese tourist location filled with Chinese people, though I can't figure out why. It's their country. And it's huge, with tons of people. At any rate, the Presidential Palace contained one Westerner, other than Diego and myself, today.
There were ladies in rubber gloves rubbing insecticide on individual clovers in the grass. I found it a bit strange, and so did the Chinese tourists.
We got some more Chinese food after going to the Presidential Palace. All four of us shared some soup, dumplings, chicken, pork, vegetables and rice, and most of it was very delicious. I suppose I can survive here after all. We paid under 20 dollars for everything, and had plenty of food left over.
On our way back to the hotel, I talked to Cheryl and tried to learn some more Chinese. She taught me yes (shida, pronounced like a bad word, but with da at the end), no (boo) and how much is it (duosho qian. qian sounds kinda like tsien. Cheryl kept telling me to use my nose to say it, which confused me until we figured out she meant teeth.) Coupled with some basic things USC taught us before we left, I...still have absolutely no idea how to speak Chinese.
Bedtime. Work tomorrow.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
The Beginning
Dude, China's all up in my face.
I've been here for one day and I'm hopelessly overwhelmed. I was doing pretty good for the whole plane journey, even though one of our flights was delayed and we were given some weird Chinese food as a compensation/punishment. (It was very weird. They gave us a goopy brown egg wrapped in plastic, and these super-enriched fake bread things which probably provided my body with enough preservatives to stick around until the sun explodes.) The sights and sounds of this city are not overwhelming. True, the smog makes it difficult to see the tops of buildings, and the drivers must navigate with only one hand, as the other is reserved always for honking. But what has amazed me and my friend Diego are the smells. It seems impossible to escape the lurking smell of feces on the streets of Nanjing. It's worst in the underground tunnels which lead pedestrians between subways and sidewalks, where the smell seems to have no source, but seeps from the walls where it has made its home for decades and into the nostrils of every passerby. It's a hard smell to describe, and I fear it may be even harder to accept.
Worse still is the addition of cooking smells to the mix. There are many fast food restaurants in the underground tunnels, and when the odor of barbecued duck meets the stench of stale human decay, it takes a strong stomach indeed to bear it. It was evidence enough that the two extremes of the digestive system should remain extremely far apart. I had a meal in the underground, and neither I nor Diego enjoyed it much. The tastes were just so foreign, as if they had discovered a spice which had never made it over to America. I suspect the real cause of the pervading sense of foreign taste may have been due to the water used to prepare the meal, because even the rice didn't taste like rice I'd eaten before.
Naturally, the difficulties of today have only strengthened my resolve to understand and embrace this place. During the first flight, I sat next to another Westerner whom I quickly learned had lived and worked in Beijing for the past several months. She seemed determined to tell me something about myself, so I settled down and listened as she told me the four stages my trip would assume. First would be the honeymoon, which occurs during the first day or two after arriving, during which I would fall in love with all things Chinese. Check. Second, disaster would strike! I would grow homesick and sad, and angry at the Chinese for not embracing my Western way of life. And thirdly would come something else, I don't know, the Rapture or something, where I learn that to live in China, I had to live as the Chinese lived and respect their ways, not trying to impose my way of life on their culture....Did I say there were four steps? Damn, if only there were a way to go back and fix my mistake, but alas...don't want to.
Anyway, the point is that I don't like to be told who I am by strange women with gaudy jewelry, so I've decided I'm just going to skip to the last step (which would be the third...or fourth?...) I realize the foolishness of trying to embrace a culture while living in a five-star hotel which provides every accommodation to its patrons, but I'm going to try nonetheless.
It was comforting, in a horrifying kind of way, to find Wal-Mart over here. We went inside and stocked up on cheap merchandise, probably made in China. We were afforded a special opportunity, as one of the workers made a point to try to sell us specific products, one after another, with breathtaking testimonials and demonstrations. We ended up buying something other than her recommendation every time, but I appreciated her effort. It takes a strong person to remain cheerful while wearing a Wal-Mart uniform.
Our hosts have been really amazing, picking us up from the airport and helping us find our way around this huge city. We would both be lost and dead and penniless and dead without them. This evening we went on a long walk and ended up in Nanjing University, where both our hosts attend school. It was really nice to be on a college campus again, no matter how far away from home. Diego and I asked a lot of questions about how they did things, and received a lot of interesting answers. We popped our heads in on a concert of Chinese folk music, which really interested me. I want to buy a Chinese instrument here and learn how to play it.
There's much more I could write, but my minutes of consciousness as I write right now are as limited as yours while you try to read this nonsense, so I better hang it up for the night. This city is special, and offers us a special opportunity. Walking around today, I must have seen at least five thousand faces, and no more than five of them were of Western origin. We're foreigners in a foreign land, and I'm eager to learn how to be a local.
I've been here for one day and I'm hopelessly overwhelmed. I was doing pretty good for the whole plane journey, even though one of our flights was delayed and we were given some weird Chinese food as a compensation/punishment. (It was very weird. They gave us a goopy brown egg wrapped in plastic, and these super-enriched fake bread things which probably provided my body with enough preservatives to stick around until the sun explodes.) The sights and sounds of this city are not overwhelming. True, the smog makes it difficult to see the tops of buildings, and the drivers must navigate with only one hand, as the other is reserved always for honking. But what has amazed me and my friend Diego are the smells. It seems impossible to escape the lurking smell of feces on the streets of Nanjing. It's worst in the underground tunnels which lead pedestrians between subways and sidewalks, where the smell seems to have no source, but seeps from the walls where it has made its home for decades and into the nostrils of every passerby. It's a hard smell to describe, and I fear it may be even harder to accept.
Worse still is the addition of cooking smells to the mix. There are many fast food restaurants in the underground tunnels, and when the odor of barbecued duck meets the stench of stale human decay, it takes a strong stomach indeed to bear it. It was evidence enough that the two extremes of the digestive system should remain extremely far apart. I had a meal in the underground, and neither I nor Diego enjoyed it much. The tastes were just so foreign, as if they had discovered a spice which had never made it over to America. I suspect the real cause of the pervading sense of foreign taste may have been due to the water used to prepare the meal, because even the rice didn't taste like rice I'd eaten before.
Naturally, the difficulties of today have only strengthened my resolve to understand and embrace this place. During the first flight, I sat next to another Westerner whom I quickly learned had lived and worked in Beijing for the past several months. She seemed determined to tell me something about myself, so I settled down and listened as she told me the four stages my trip would assume. First would be the honeymoon, which occurs during the first day or two after arriving, during which I would fall in love with all things Chinese. Check. Second, disaster would strike! I would grow homesick and sad, and angry at the Chinese for not embracing my Western way of life. And thirdly would come something else, I don't know, the Rapture or something, where I learn that to live in China, I had to live as the Chinese lived and respect their ways, not trying to impose my way of life on their culture....Did I say there were four steps? Damn, if only there were a way to go back and fix my mistake, but alas...don't want to.
Anyway, the point is that I don't like to be told who I am by strange women with gaudy jewelry, so I've decided I'm just going to skip to the last step (which would be the third...or fourth?...) I realize the foolishness of trying to embrace a culture while living in a five-star hotel which provides every accommodation to its patrons, but I'm going to try nonetheless.
It was comforting, in a horrifying kind of way, to find Wal-Mart over here. We went inside and stocked up on cheap merchandise, probably made in China. We were afforded a special opportunity, as one of the workers made a point to try to sell us specific products, one after another, with breathtaking testimonials and demonstrations. We ended up buying something other than her recommendation every time, but I appreciated her effort. It takes a strong person to remain cheerful while wearing a Wal-Mart uniform.
Our hosts have been really amazing, picking us up from the airport and helping us find our way around this huge city. We would both be lost and dead and penniless and dead without them. This evening we went on a long walk and ended up in Nanjing University, where both our hosts attend school. It was really nice to be on a college campus again, no matter how far away from home. Diego and I asked a lot of questions about how they did things, and received a lot of interesting answers. We popped our heads in on a concert of Chinese folk music, which really interested me. I want to buy a Chinese instrument here and learn how to play it.
There's much more I could write, but my minutes of consciousness as I write right now are as limited as yours while you try to read this nonsense, so I better hang it up for the night. This city is special, and offers us a special opportunity. Walking around today, I must have seen at least five thousand faces, and no more than five of them were of Western origin. We're foreigners in a foreign land, and I'm eager to learn how to be a local.
Interim
Between March 21 and the end of school, I did some stuff. I joined the football team for awhile, but I quit because they weren't my style, you know, always winning and whatnot. I got accepted to the Global Fellows program which sends USC kids to China (for free!) to work in internships for Chinese companies, and I'll be working with a water heater company during the summer (aka now). Then I took some finals and drove home in my rusty old car and it didn't explode, which is always a notable achievement.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
LA Marathon
I ran the Honda LA Marathon presented by K-Swiss today. It was, beyond a sliver of doubt, the most difficult thing I have ever done, mentally and physically. Several runners collapsed during the race and had to be tended by ambulances. There is rumor of one death. For me, for everyone, marathons are serious.
After the marathon team banquet last night, I came home to get some shuteye before my 2:40 am alarm. By nine o'clock I was in bed; by eleven, I was finally asleep after four trips to the bathroom to relieve my bladder, overfilled by all the liquids I drank during the day, hoping to flush my system of a slight cold I picked up on the Oregon road trip. (Mine was a slight cold; Emma's was a full-fledged terminal illness. She had no voice yesterday, and we were really worried about the marathon and all. But more on that later.)
I woke up several times throughout the night. Consciously, I wasn't particularly nervous about the marathon, but I couldn't sleep. My pre-marathon impression of the race was...optimistic. I've been training with the USC Marathon team since October, and with them I completed a 22-mile run three weeks ago. It was hard. Very hard. But in my naivety, I assumed this was because we had limited resources. You can only carry so much food and drink on a run like that, and you need a lot in order to replenish your body. At the marathon, however, people are handing you drinks left and right, passing out oranges and snacks and all kinds of goodness. Accordingly, I assumed the marathon would be easier than the 22-miler. Have I ever made a bigger mistake? The marathon was orders of magnitude harder. Anyway, my body must have known otherwise because I hardly slept at all, climbing groggily out of bed at 2:40 to silence my alarm and make my way down to the carpool, which met at Denny's at 3:30 to take those of us USC runners on the 4:30 shuttle from Santa Monica, to Santa Monica, in time. (Since this marathon was a point-to-point race (I think that's what it's called) rather than a loop race, you need to park your car at the end and find a ride to the beginning. So we met at Denny's and drove to Santa Monica, parking and taking marathon shuttles back to the starting line. Mine left at 4:30. Hence the 2:40 wakeup.)
The car ride was fun. We were in high spirits, eager to run, feeding on the excitement of the event. In the shuttle, we mused on the fact that it required a 35-minute drive on the freeway to transport us to our starting location. It was ominous. We arrived at Dodger Stadium around 5 and got out to have a look around. They were letting runners onto the outfield, so my carful of runners went out there for awhile, talking and watching the promotional videos for the marathon broadcast on the big screen above us. They had all kinds of people promoting the event: Pete Carroll, Kobe Bryant, Pau Gasol, Lamar Odom, Elaine from Seinfeld, and Chef Gordon Ramsey, to name a few. They all named their favorite mile in the marathon and explained why. We were slightly skeptical, doubting that Chef Ramsey had ever really run a marathon. They then showed a sped-up view of the route we would be running, and it was terrifyingly long. So we decided to find a bathroom instead of watching the depressing video any more.
This is where the story gets interesting. And this is going to be a long story. Therefore, the ratio of interesting material to the dull pontification already expelled will be quite favorable. The first bathroom we found was crowded with people. There was a line, and it didn't look like a nice bathroom anyway, so we decided to wander through the stadium and see if we could find a better one. The further we walked away from the marathon corral, the less people were in line for the bathroom. Eventually we found one with no line at all. But at this point we were getting a little greedy, and from outside I had seen a bathroom sign on the second level which I insisted nobody would be using, so we found an escalator and decided to try our luck on the upper deck.
As soon as we got upstairs, it was apparent we were in a more private area. But I figured they could throw us out if they wanted, we were going to have a look around, and if possible, find a bathroom. We first decided to steer clear of the stadium suites on this level, preferring instead to search in the concrete hallway, but there were no bathrooms in the concrete hallway. We got to the end of the concrete hallway and were disappointed. No bathrooms. So we asked an official-looking person if there was a bathroom we could use, and he directed us into the stadium suites to a one-person bathroom, complete with toilet and urinal. I think it is fair to say that this adventure was a success. But wait, there's more. After we all used the bathroom, we were compelled to give the stadium suites a more thorough examination. We didn't make it very far down the hall before being confronted by a tall, athletic man in a white sweatshirt. He asked us if we knew where we were going. We stammered and stuttered and made the answer to that simple question empirically obvious. My spirits fell and I waited for him to direct us towards the exit with a kind word and a swift kick from his 200-dollar running shoes. But the most amazing thing happened! He told us we could hang out on the couches! And he was the president of the LA Marathon, Russ Pillar! The guy who's been sending me emails for the last three months telling me to get ready for the marathon! So, needless to say, we sat and basked in the glow of his reflected glory as he walked around preparing things for the marathon and ignoring us. Before too long, a familiar face was walking down the hall. It was Chef Ramsey! And he was in running clothes, causing us to immediately retract our skepticism at his marathon track record, so to speak. He and the president of the marathon took some pictures together, then Chef Ramsey said good morning to us. I know! It was awesome! We were sitting in some chairs in the hallway outside of the suites of these important people, it was still glaringly obvious that we didn't belong there, and yet we were allowed to stay, and it was awesome. I told Emma she should come up there, and apparently she led a group of about twenty USC runners to the escalator, where security guards had been installed. So they couldn't come hang out with us important people. I also met a guy up there who raced in a wheelchair. He was probably in his mid-forties. I told him it was my first marathon and he said I would either love it or hate it. I asked him how many marathons he had...done. He replied, "This will be my forty-fifth." My jaw literally dropped. It was similar to the time Emma found out an undergrad-looking girl on the marathon team was thirty years old. I was blown away.
We finally had to leave our isolated palace above Dodger Stadium and descend into the ranks of the lesser people. We found the rest of our team and spent the minutes up to the start of the marathon putting our belongings in bag check and waiting in a horrendous line for the porter-potties. (You have to pee a lot when you're a runner.) As we waited, we watched with disdain as runners, exasperated with the wait at the porter-potties, instead climbed the bushy hill behind the toilets to do their business. At first it was only a few people who partook, but by the time we were near the front of the line, there were tons of people climbing up there, both men and women, number one and number two. They had fashioned a real society up there, holding up blankets for each other while they did the deed, though some runners chose to bare all in front of the hundreds of people waiting patiently below. Eventually, the lines in front of the porter-potties had to be condensed, since the wheelchair people were about to start the race and the lines extended into the track. And this condensation proved to be our downfall. As people moved forward, they spread out and filled the gaps between the lines, so instead of orderly lines there was a mob of people yammering to use the bathroom. It was about this time that I saw the true genius behind the society on the hill, and I joined them with much haste.
And then it was time for the race to start. Emma, Laura and I weaved our way through the starting corral, but we still didn't get very close to the starting line, so when the marathon began, it took us a good seven minutes to cross the starting line. Luckily, with the technologically-advanced tag in our bib, our times did not actually start until we crossed the starting line, so we didn't suffer any loss of time. And we were off....We circled around Dodger Stadium, descended into downtown LA, ran past Chinatown, past the Disney Concert Hall, then pointed our shoes westward toward Santa Monica...and kept running.
As I ran, I realized the marathon would be difficult. Because it was continuous. It sounds silly, but I had conceived of the race in brief snippets. There's the first part, then, you know, a middle part, and then there's the end part. What I didn't realize is that there are tons of parts in between all these parts. Mile 5 is EXACTLY as long as mile 23, and you have to run every step of both of them, and every step of every other mile in the whole damn race. Even so, I felt pretty good at the beginning of the race. I was making good time; even now, I am amazed at how well my body has adapted to running. I will be the first to admit that I do not have a runner's body, but this doesn't mean I can't be a good runner. While training for the marathon, I ran 575 miles and lost about ten pounds (from 205 to 195). I was, I am, a good runner. The first thirteen miles of the race proved this. I would never have been able to start this race, much less finish it, if I had not joined the marathon team and trained with the other members of the team. I reaped the rewards of this training in the first half of the race.
The race was crowded, the whole way. There was never a time when I was running with nobody nearby. I suppose this makes sense: there were 26,000 runners, and even more spectators. It was very helpful to hear strangers cheer for me, expounding USC and its greatness, telling me to Fight On. There were a looooooot of people out and about today. I even saw some people I knew in the crowd! Professor Habinek, Eddie, Stephen Gordon. I'm glad I was a part of the event.
Which brings us to the second half of the race. It's a funny thing, mental strength, mental toughness. As I reached the 14-mile mark or so, I began my old tricks to keep myself running. I tried to think of other things than the pain growing in my legs, singing songs to myself, looking around at the other runners. Around mile 16 I decided to hold onto a paper cup and take a bite out of it whenever things got a little too tough, forcing myself to transplant the pain, giving it a physical release. The cup got about ten bites before it was tossed aside. And I just kept running.
I stopped for the first time around Mile 19. I had told myself back at mile 10 I would take a bathroom break, which was really just a subversive ploy to rest my legs a bit. I realized this, and so I didn't stop at mile 10, or at mile 15. I became hellbent on finishing the race without stopping. At mile 19, I broke this resolve. I ran into the bathroom and relieved myself quickly, so as to maintain the illusion that the stop was a necessary nuisance, that I would have rather kept running nonstop. But that's not the truth. I stopped because I was tired. I could have held my stomach together until the end of the race. I stopped because I couldn't do it anymore. And so I emerged from the bathroom with a false resolve not to stop again.
I began to walk on the route around mile 20. My legs....I don't have to explain the pain. Everyone knows about pain. The truth is that the battle was not physical, but mental, and around mile 20 I faltered, mentally, and so I walked. Emma caught up with me after a little bit. I tried to run with her, but ended up walking again after less than a quarter mile. She looked strong. She ran extremely well today, despite her cold. She ended up beating me by a few minutes.
Miles 21-23 were a hellish combination of running and walking. I had hit the wall. And not the wall that you think is the wall but actually is a barrier of pillows and marshmallows. No, this was the wall. Of brick. And mortar. And children's tears. People told me to Fight On, and I just looked at them. What else could I do? During this section I had goals for myself, nonetheless. I would tell myself that if I ran to the top of the next hill, I could walk for a little while. Or once I passed the mile marker, I could walk again, as much as I needed. My breathing came in shallow gasps. I consumed oranges and water and Gatorade, none of it made a difference. I was in pain, and worse, I was mentally broken. At each milepost, I would see the precious time ticking away. The worst part was that I had run a very good race until this point. My goal of four hours was still attainable. But brutally so. I would never make it. I tried to convince myself that I didn't care about the time.
In the middle of mile 23, a fellow Trojan caught up with me and encouraged me. I had never really spoken to her before. Our team trains together, but we don't really know each other. She told me to lengthen my stride, that it would lessen the pain and allow me to run better. I followed her advice, and it worked. It may have been adrenaline, or placebo effect, but my legs felt better, and I ran fast. I wanted to finish under four hours.
This is where I suffered a revelation about mental strength. You cannot distract yourself from the pain forever. Eventually you must accept it. You must realize that it hurts, hurts terribly, and run anyway. In this respect, I don't think my marathon experience was unique. I believe everyone arrives at this juncture. Marathons are hard. And that's exactly why people do it.
I ran fast for the last two and a half miles. It was exhilarating, and terrifying. My mind was on the verge of panic. I could easily have cried. But as I ran, I counted. I started at 60, and counted down, slowly. If I lost count, I would start again at 60. When I got closer to the finish, I started counting from 20. The finish was still far away when I reached zero, so I started over. These are the moments of which I am proud, because despite the weakness in my body, my mind was strong, and I ran, I compelled myself to run towards the orange banner in the distance. When this banner turned out to be the 26-mile marker instead of the finish line, meaning I still had two tenths of a mile to go, I could have collapsed with disappointment (and nearly did). But I regained my composure and finished strong.
HERE'S MY STATS!
10K 00:53:13 Pace 8:33 Predicted Finish: 3:44:32
20K 01:45:01 Pace 8:27 Predicted Finish: 3:41:33
30K 02:42:14 Pace 8:42 Predicted Finish: 3:48:11
40K 03:45:32 Pace 9:04 Predicted Finish: 3:57:54
Finish 03:55:27 Pace 8:58
(A marathon is over 40K. Isn't that crazy?)
I crossed the finish line and immediately had to sit down. My friend Scott was there, and he helped me walk over to the side of the finishing area and sit down. I was extremely dizzy. I tried to stand up multiple times, but found myself leaning on my knees for support, overwhelmed by dizziness. Walking was out of the question. Eventually I was brought to the attention of the medical staff at the end of the route and they came over to have a look. I suspect I was suffering the effects of runner's high, and to an extreme degree, because I was as cheerful as a bluebird. Maybe I was delirious, but I'm not sure I've ever been as socially adept as I was after the marathon today. I told them I wasn't dying, I was just dizzy because I had just run a marathon. I insisted they bring with us the snacks I had procured at the finish line. I was hoisted to my feet, and my arms were each slung over a beautiful volunteer lady. They took me over to get my medal, and I chatted with them about why anyone would ever run a marathon when it was so much easier to just jump off a building. They took me inside and deposited me into someone else's capable arms, which aided my descent onto a cot. I lay there and bantered with the workers for awhile. One of them asked if these mango things I was eating were any good. I told him I had just run a marathon and they didn't taste like heaven, so that should tell him something. They asked me to sit up. I was tickled pink because my sweat had seeped into the cot and imprinted the "Fight On" on the back of my t-shirt onto the cot. I pointed this out to anyone who would listen. They asked if I could stand and I replied, "We won't know until we try," and promptly failed to stand up.
I was in a very pitiful physical state. I am confident I have never felt as weak, as vulnerable, as close to death, as I did after I finished the marathon. It was very, very scary. I didn't realize how badly I hurt until I finished. My breath came in gasps, so when I talked it was with stomach clenched, the words forced and rigid. But that didn't stop me from back-talking. When I finally stood, they wanted me to walk. Naturally. After I had just stood so well, couldn't we be happy with that? They led me to an adjoining room where people in similar death-defying states of physical existence were slowly walking a circle around the room. I loudly complained that doing laps was about the last thing which would help me feel better after running 26.2 miles. But walk laps I did, my arm wrapped firmly around the shoulders of my chauffeur. Eventually I declared I could walk on my own, so she left me and I promptly sat down and wallowed in my pain. The others in there were friendly. I think we had a bond forged of mutual suffering. I also realized that if any one of them were to attack me at that moment, I had utterly no defense, so it was to my best advantage to get on their good sides. And so we talked and shuffled around the room, and when we couldn't shuffle anymore we sat until the medical people told us to shuffle some more. In this way I passed a good half hour in that room. I was incredibly dizzy. One of the medical people poked his head in and said, "You? You're still here?" with a mischievous smile on his face. I told him to go away, I was about to set a lap record on our makeshift racetrack.
Sadly, I had to leave that happy place eventually. It took me awhile, but I finally felt confident enough to venture out into the real world. I think everyone was sad to see me go. Fortunately, on account of my impaired condition, it took me so long to go that they were all, in turns, able to express their well wishes before I had even shuffled off their doorstep.
After leaving, life became a bit more grim. Now that I was rid of my staff of fun medical folk, nobody cared about my pain except for me. I couldn't even walk. I could not walk. I teetered back and forth on stiff legs because I could not bear to bend them. I would shuffle a few steps, then stop, resting my hands on my knees to catch my breath and allow the pain in my legs to subside before continuing another few steps. Now, eight hours after finishing, I walk like House. Another runner was laughing at me and asked me how I was doing. "So bad," I replied, with conviction. He agreed.
By the time I had found the rest of the USC Marathon team, I was entrenched firmly in the depths of self-pity. I found Emma and hugged her and told her what a great job she did. She asked me how it was. "Bad," I said, and tears threatened to fall. It was bad.
I got my bag from the bag check and sat down with the rest of the team. My friend David came down to see us after the race, but I was so pitiful, so overwhelmed that I could hardly talk to him. I had begun to break again, mentally, after realizing how difficult was the simple task of walking. I knew if I spoke it would be to point out to all of them the degree of pain I had suffered, the pain I still felt, because this consumed my thoughts. And so I was silent.
Finally, we made our way home. There was a terrible traffic jam, so it took us an hour and a half to cover a half-hour's distance. I slept a little bit. I was quiet. I was thinking about what I would write in my blog, how I would recover from the marathon, mentally more than physically.
I do not, as I have already stated, think that my experience of the difficulty of the marathon was unique. I don't think my pain was any worse than anyone else's pain, or that my accomplishment is any greater. On the contrary, I feel beaten. The marathon beat me, as soundly as I have ever been beaten. I failed mentally, several times, before I failed physically. I feel as though today was a series of crushing defeats followed by a small victory. I have not gained a greater respect for my own strength as a person, but rather a more accurate appraisal of the depths of my weakness. It was the hardest thing I have ever done, and I worked harder than I have ever worked. I did it, and for that I am happy. But the marathon beat me.
After the marathon team banquet last night, I came home to get some shuteye before my 2:40 am alarm. By nine o'clock I was in bed; by eleven, I was finally asleep after four trips to the bathroom to relieve my bladder, overfilled by all the liquids I drank during the day, hoping to flush my system of a slight cold I picked up on the Oregon road trip. (Mine was a slight cold; Emma's was a full-fledged terminal illness. She had no voice yesterday, and we were really worried about the marathon and all. But more on that later.)
I woke up several times throughout the night. Consciously, I wasn't particularly nervous about the marathon, but I couldn't sleep. My pre-marathon impression of the race was...optimistic. I've been training with the USC Marathon team since October, and with them I completed a 22-mile run three weeks ago. It was hard. Very hard. But in my naivety, I assumed this was because we had limited resources. You can only carry so much food and drink on a run like that, and you need a lot in order to replenish your body. At the marathon, however, people are handing you drinks left and right, passing out oranges and snacks and all kinds of goodness. Accordingly, I assumed the marathon would be easier than the 22-miler. Have I ever made a bigger mistake? The marathon was orders of magnitude harder. Anyway, my body must have known otherwise because I hardly slept at all, climbing groggily out of bed at 2:40 to silence my alarm and make my way down to the carpool, which met at Denny's at 3:30 to take those of us USC runners on the 4:30 shuttle from Santa Monica, to Santa Monica, in time. (Since this marathon was a point-to-point race (I think that's what it's called) rather than a loop race, you need to park your car at the end and find a ride to the beginning. So we met at Denny's and drove to Santa Monica, parking and taking marathon shuttles back to the starting line. Mine left at 4:30. Hence the 2:40 wakeup.)
The car ride was fun. We were in high spirits, eager to run, feeding on the excitement of the event. In the shuttle, we mused on the fact that it required a 35-minute drive on the freeway to transport us to our starting location. It was ominous. We arrived at Dodger Stadium around 5 and got out to have a look around. They were letting runners onto the outfield, so my carful of runners went out there for awhile, talking and watching the promotional videos for the marathon broadcast on the big screen above us. They had all kinds of people promoting the event: Pete Carroll, Kobe Bryant, Pau Gasol, Lamar Odom, Elaine from Seinfeld, and Chef Gordon Ramsey, to name a few. They all named their favorite mile in the marathon and explained why. We were slightly skeptical, doubting that Chef Ramsey had ever really run a marathon. They then showed a sped-up view of the route we would be running, and it was terrifyingly long. So we decided to find a bathroom instead of watching the depressing video any more.
This is where the story gets interesting. And this is going to be a long story. Therefore, the ratio of interesting material to the dull pontification already expelled will be quite favorable. The first bathroom we found was crowded with people. There was a line, and it didn't look like a nice bathroom anyway, so we decided to wander through the stadium and see if we could find a better one. The further we walked away from the marathon corral, the less people were in line for the bathroom. Eventually we found one with no line at all. But at this point we were getting a little greedy, and from outside I had seen a bathroom sign on the second level which I insisted nobody would be using, so we found an escalator and decided to try our luck on the upper deck.
As soon as we got upstairs, it was apparent we were in a more private area. But I figured they could throw us out if they wanted, we were going to have a look around, and if possible, find a bathroom. We first decided to steer clear of the stadium suites on this level, preferring instead to search in the concrete hallway, but there were no bathrooms in the concrete hallway. We got to the end of the concrete hallway and were disappointed. No bathrooms. So we asked an official-looking person if there was a bathroom we could use, and he directed us into the stadium suites to a one-person bathroom, complete with toilet and urinal. I think it is fair to say that this adventure was a success. But wait, there's more. After we all used the bathroom, we were compelled to give the stadium suites a more thorough examination. We didn't make it very far down the hall before being confronted by a tall, athletic man in a white sweatshirt. He asked us if we knew where we were going. We stammered and stuttered and made the answer to that simple question empirically obvious. My spirits fell and I waited for him to direct us towards the exit with a kind word and a swift kick from his 200-dollar running shoes. But the most amazing thing happened! He told us we could hang out on the couches! And he was the president of the LA Marathon, Russ Pillar! The guy who's been sending me emails for the last three months telling me to get ready for the marathon! So, needless to say, we sat and basked in the glow of his reflected glory as he walked around preparing things for the marathon and ignoring us. Before too long, a familiar face was walking down the hall. It was Chef Ramsey! And he was in running clothes, causing us to immediately retract our skepticism at his marathon track record, so to speak. He and the president of the marathon took some pictures together, then Chef Ramsey said good morning to us. I know! It was awesome! We were sitting in some chairs in the hallway outside of the suites of these important people, it was still glaringly obvious that we didn't belong there, and yet we were allowed to stay, and it was awesome. I told Emma she should come up there, and apparently she led a group of about twenty USC runners to the escalator, where security guards had been installed. So they couldn't come hang out with us important people. I also met a guy up there who raced in a wheelchair. He was probably in his mid-forties. I told him it was my first marathon and he said I would either love it or hate it. I asked him how many marathons he had...done. He replied, "This will be my forty-fifth." My jaw literally dropped. It was similar to the time Emma found out an undergrad-looking girl on the marathon team was thirty years old. I was blown away.
We finally had to leave our isolated palace above Dodger Stadium and descend into the ranks of the lesser people. We found the rest of our team and spent the minutes up to the start of the marathon putting our belongings in bag check and waiting in a horrendous line for the porter-potties. (You have to pee a lot when you're a runner.) As we waited, we watched with disdain as runners, exasperated with the wait at the porter-potties, instead climbed the bushy hill behind the toilets to do their business. At first it was only a few people who partook, but by the time we were near the front of the line, there were tons of people climbing up there, both men and women, number one and number two. They had fashioned a real society up there, holding up blankets for each other while they did the deed, though some runners chose to bare all in front of the hundreds of people waiting patiently below. Eventually, the lines in front of the porter-potties had to be condensed, since the wheelchair people were about to start the race and the lines extended into the track. And this condensation proved to be our downfall. As people moved forward, they spread out and filled the gaps between the lines, so instead of orderly lines there was a mob of people yammering to use the bathroom. It was about this time that I saw the true genius behind the society on the hill, and I joined them with much haste.
And then it was time for the race to start. Emma, Laura and I weaved our way through the starting corral, but we still didn't get very close to the starting line, so when the marathon began, it took us a good seven minutes to cross the starting line. Luckily, with the technologically-advanced tag in our bib, our times did not actually start until we crossed the starting line, so we didn't suffer any loss of time. And we were off....We circled around Dodger Stadium, descended into downtown LA, ran past Chinatown, past the Disney Concert Hall, then pointed our shoes westward toward Santa Monica...and kept running.
As I ran, I realized the marathon would be difficult. Because it was continuous. It sounds silly, but I had conceived of the race in brief snippets. There's the first part, then, you know, a middle part, and then there's the end part. What I didn't realize is that there are tons of parts in between all these parts. Mile 5 is EXACTLY as long as mile 23, and you have to run every step of both of them, and every step of every other mile in the whole damn race. Even so, I felt pretty good at the beginning of the race. I was making good time; even now, I am amazed at how well my body has adapted to running. I will be the first to admit that I do not have a runner's body, but this doesn't mean I can't be a good runner. While training for the marathon, I ran 575 miles and lost about ten pounds (from 205 to 195). I was, I am, a good runner. The first thirteen miles of the race proved this. I would never have been able to start this race, much less finish it, if I had not joined the marathon team and trained with the other members of the team. I reaped the rewards of this training in the first half of the race.
The race was crowded, the whole way. There was never a time when I was running with nobody nearby. I suppose this makes sense: there were 26,000 runners, and even more spectators. It was very helpful to hear strangers cheer for me, expounding USC and its greatness, telling me to Fight On. There were a looooooot of people out and about today. I even saw some people I knew in the crowd! Professor Habinek, Eddie, Stephen Gordon. I'm glad I was a part of the event.
Which brings us to the second half of the race. It's a funny thing, mental strength, mental toughness. As I reached the 14-mile mark or so, I began my old tricks to keep myself running. I tried to think of other things than the pain growing in my legs, singing songs to myself, looking around at the other runners. Around mile 16 I decided to hold onto a paper cup and take a bite out of it whenever things got a little too tough, forcing myself to transplant the pain, giving it a physical release. The cup got about ten bites before it was tossed aside. And I just kept running.
I stopped for the first time around Mile 19. I had told myself back at mile 10 I would take a bathroom break, which was really just a subversive ploy to rest my legs a bit. I realized this, and so I didn't stop at mile 10, or at mile 15. I became hellbent on finishing the race without stopping. At mile 19, I broke this resolve. I ran into the bathroom and relieved myself quickly, so as to maintain the illusion that the stop was a necessary nuisance, that I would have rather kept running nonstop. But that's not the truth. I stopped because I was tired. I could have held my stomach together until the end of the race. I stopped because I couldn't do it anymore. And so I emerged from the bathroom with a false resolve not to stop again.
I began to walk on the route around mile 20. My legs....I don't have to explain the pain. Everyone knows about pain. The truth is that the battle was not physical, but mental, and around mile 20 I faltered, mentally, and so I walked. Emma caught up with me after a little bit. I tried to run with her, but ended up walking again after less than a quarter mile. She looked strong. She ran extremely well today, despite her cold. She ended up beating me by a few minutes.
Miles 21-23 were a hellish combination of running and walking. I had hit the wall. And not the wall that you think is the wall but actually is a barrier of pillows and marshmallows. No, this was the wall. Of brick. And mortar. And children's tears. People told me to Fight On, and I just looked at them. What else could I do? During this section I had goals for myself, nonetheless. I would tell myself that if I ran to the top of the next hill, I could walk for a little while. Or once I passed the mile marker, I could walk again, as much as I needed. My breathing came in shallow gasps. I consumed oranges and water and Gatorade, none of it made a difference. I was in pain, and worse, I was mentally broken. At each milepost, I would see the precious time ticking away. The worst part was that I had run a very good race until this point. My goal of four hours was still attainable. But brutally so. I would never make it. I tried to convince myself that I didn't care about the time.
In the middle of mile 23, a fellow Trojan caught up with me and encouraged me. I had never really spoken to her before. Our team trains together, but we don't really know each other. She told me to lengthen my stride, that it would lessen the pain and allow me to run better. I followed her advice, and it worked. It may have been adrenaline, or placebo effect, but my legs felt better, and I ran fast. I wanted to finish under four hours.
This is where I suffered a revelation about mental strength. You cannot distract yourself from the pain forever. Eventually you must accept it. You must realize that it hurts, hurts terribly, and run anyway. In this respect, I don't think my marathon experience was unique. I believe everyone arrives at this juncture. Marathons are hard. And that's exactly why people do it.
I ran fast for the last two and a half miles. It was exhilarating, and terrifying. My mind was on the verge of panic. I could easily have cried. But as I ran, I counted. I started at 60, and counted down, slowly. If I lost count, I would start again at 60. When I got closer to the finish, I started counting from 20. The finish was still far away when I reached zero, so I started over. These are the moments of which I am proud, because despite the weakness in my body, my mind was strong, and I ran, I compelled myself to run towards the orange banner in the distance. When this banner turned out to be the 26-mile marker instead of the finish line, meaning I still had two tenths of a mile to go, I could have collapsed with disappointment (and nearly did). But I regained my composure and finished strong.
HERE'S MY STATS!
10K 00:53:13 Pace 8:33 Predicted Finish: 3:44:32
20K 01:45:01 Pace 8:27 Predicted Finish: 3:41:33
30K 02:42:14 Pace 8:42 Predicted Finish: 3:48:11
40K 03:45:32 Pace 9:04 Predicted Finish: 3:57:54
Finish 03:55:27 Pace 8:58
(A marathon is over 40K. Isn't that crazy?)
I crossed the finish line and immediately had to sit down. My friend Scott was there, and he helped me walk over to the side of the finishing area and sit down. I was extremely dizzy. I tried to stand up multiple times, but found myself leaning on my knees for support, overwhelmed by dizziness. Walking was out of the question. Eventually I was brought to the attention of the medical staff at the end of the route and they came over to have a look. I suspect I was suffering the effects of runner's high, and to an extreme degree, because I was as cheerful as a bluebird. Maybe I was delirious, but I'm not sure I've ever been as socially adept as I was after the marathon today. I told them I wasn't dying, I was just dizzy because I had just run a marathon. I insisted they bring with us the snacks I had procured at the finish line. I was hoisted to my feet, and my arms were each slung over a beautiful volunteer lady. They took me over to get my medal, and I chatted with them about why anyone would ever run a marathon when it was so much easier to just jump off a building. They took me inside and deposited me into someone else's capable arms, which aided my descent onto a cot. I lay there and bantered with the workers for awhile. One of them asked if these mango things I was eating were any good. I told him I had just run a marathon and they didn't taste like heaven, so that should tell him something. They asked me to sit up. I was tickled pink because my sweat had seeped into the cot and imprinted the "Fight On" on the back of my t-shirt onto the cot. I pointed this out to anyone who would listen. They asked if I could stand and I replied, "We won't know until we try," and promptly failed to stand up.
I was in a very pitiful physical state. I am confident I have never felt as weak, as vulnerable, as close to death, as I did after I finished the marathon. It was very, very scary. I didn't realize how badly I hurt until I finished. My breath came in gasps, so when I talked it was with stomach clenched, the words forced and rigid. But that didn't stop me from back-talking. When I finally stood, they wanted me to walk. Naturally. After I had just stood so well, couldn't we be happy with that? They led me to an adjoining room where people in similar death-defying states of physical existence were slowly walking a circle around the room. I loudly complained that doing laps was about the last thing which would help me feel better after running 26.2 miles. But walk laps I did, my arm wrapped firmly around the shoulders of my chauffeur. Eventually I declared I could walk on my own, so she left me and I promptly sat down and wallowed in my pain. The others in there were friendly. I think we had a bond forged of mutual suffering. I also realized that if any one of them were to attack me at that moment, I had utterly no defense, so it was to my best advantage to get on their good sides. And so we talked and shuffled around the room, and when we couldn't shuffle anymore we sat until the medical people told us to shuffle some more. In this way I passed a good half hour in that room. I was incredibly dizzy. One of the medical people poked his head in and said, "You? You're still here?" with a mischievous smile on his face. I told him to go away, I was about to set a lap record on our makeshift racetrack.
Sadly, I had to leave that happy place eventually. It took me awhile, but I finally felt confident enough to venture out into the real world. I think everyone was sad to see me go. Fortunately, on account of my impaired condition, it took me so long to go that they were all, in turns, able to express their well wishes before I had even shuffled off their doorstep.
After leaving, life became a bit more grim. Now that I was rid of my staff of fun medical folk, nobody cared about my pain except for me. I couldn't even walk. I could not walk. I teetered back and forth on stiff legs because I could not bear to bend them. I would shuffle a few steps, then stop, resting my hands on my knees to catch my breath and allow the pain in my legs to subside before continuing another few steps. Now, eight hours after finishing, I walk like House. Another runner was laughing at me and asked me how I was doing. "So bad," I replied, with conviction. He agreed.
By the time I had found the rest of the USC Marathon team, I was entrenched firmly in the depths of self-pity. I found Emma and hugged her and told her what a great job she did. She asked me how it was. "Bad," I said, and tears threatened to fall. It was bad.
I got my bag from the bag check and sat down with the rest of the team. My friend David came down to see us after the race, but I was so pitiful, so overwhelmed that I could hardly talk to him. I had begun to break again, mentally, after realizing how difficult was the simple task of walking. I knew if I spoke it would be to point out to all of them the degree of pain I had suffered, the pain I still felt, because this consumed my thoughts. And so I was silent.
Finally, we made our way home. There was a terrible traffic jam, so it took us an hour and a half to cover a half-hour's distance. I slept a little bit. I was quiet. I was thinking about what I would write in my blog, how I would recover from the marathon, mentally more than physically.
I do not, as I have already stated, think that my experience of the difficulty of the marathon was unique. I don't think my pain was any worse than anyone else's pain, or that my accomplishment is any greater. On the contrary, I feel beaten. The marathon beat me, as soundly as I have ever been beaten. I failed mentally, several times, before I failed physically. I feel as though today was a series of crushing defeats followed by a small victory. I have not gained a greater respect for my own strength as a person, but rather a more accurate appraisal of the depths of my weakness. It was the hardest thing I have ever done, and I worked harder than I have ever worked. I did it, and for that I am happy. But the marathon beat me.
Friday, December 11, 2009
The Saga of the Human Billboard and the Friendly Construction Workers
I'm in the midst of final exams. It's a time of the year I actually enjoy for its freedom of time management. For the most part, I can plan my day however I like. As long as my plan includes twelve hours of studying, that is. But it's nice anyway.
But I didn't start this blog to reminisce about the pleasantries of final exams, time to get down to business. There are two stories I would like to share with you today. The first consists of events which occurred two days ago while I walked back to my apartment from campus. I was approached by one of those advertisey people who hand you things you don't want. Mitch Hedberg says these people are implicitly saying to you, "Here, you throw this away." Sure enough, the guy who walked towards me, his face painted a menagerie of green and darker green, held out some coupons for a new kind of gum he was pushing. I was ready to keep walking, but he caught my attention by asking me if I wanted my face painted. I thought. Not particularly, I think is what I thought. But then he told me he would give me twenty dollars if he were allowed the pleasure of painting my face. I don't remember what happened after that, but I walked away with a face painted pink and a crisp twenty dollar bill in my hand. They also stuck a sticker on my forehead to complete my status as a human billboard. I went home and washed off the paint and put the sticker on my wall. I feel like I should have told them, I would have done a lot more for twenty dollars.
And now, on to the thrilling case of the friendly construction workers. So last night, I went to a running store and purchased a fancy new pair of running shoes so I can continue this battle between self-torture and rational thought I optimistically call determination. They had a foam roll in the corner. I was originally introduced to this training mechanism in London when I was part of the rugby team. You put the roll on the ground, then put a body part on it and roll back and forth. The theory is that you roll the knots out of your muscles or something like that, but I just know it feels really amazing. But the foam roll cost 25 dollars! Can you believe it? I decided not to buy one and instead search for a makeshift foam roller, like a piece of PVC pipe or something.
I went running this morning to test out my shoes and guess what I found? A big box of PVC pipes just laying on the sidewalk! They were with some other construction equipment, but I figured they were scraps. They were all slightly bent, but I thought I could at least find one which would roll well enough to work. I continued on my run, but stopped by the PVC cache on my way back to my apartment. There were some construction workers there this time, so I asked them if they were using the bent pieces of PVC pipe. They were, but they offered to cut me a straight piece of pipe from some longer sections nearby! It was a Christmas miracle! The guy who cut the piece for me asked me whether it was for a class project, and I told him it was for exercising. He said his doctor prescribed him the same thing to get rid of his "Planter fa-see-see." He also helpfully suggested they make good bongs. Just goes to show you, construction workers have a lot to offer the world.
But I didn't start this blog to reminisce about the pleasantries of final exams, time to get down to business. There are two stories I would like to share with you today. The first consists of events which occurred two days ago while I walked back to my apartment from campus. I was approached by one of those advertisey people who hand you things you don't want. Mitch Hedberg says these people are implicitly saying to you, "Here, you throw this away." Sure enough, the guy who walked towards me, his face painted a menagerie of green and darker green, held out some coupons for a new kind of gum he was pushing. I was ready to keep walking, but he caught my attention by asking me if I wanted my face painted. I thought. Not particularly, I think is what I thought. But then he told me he would give me twenty dollars if he were allowed the pleasure of painting my face. I don't remember what happened after that, but I walked away with a face painted pink and a crisp twenty dollar bill in my hand. They also stuck a sticker on my forehead to complete my status as a human billboard. I went home and washed off the paint and put the sticker on my wall. I feel like I should have told them, I would have done a lot more for twenty dollars.
And now, on to the thrilling case of the friendly construction workers. So last night, I went to a running store and purchased a fancy new pair of running shoes so I can continue this battle between self-torture and rational thought I optimistically call determination. They had a foam roll in the corner. I was originally introduced to this training mechanism in London when I was part of the rugby team. You put the roll on the ground, then put a body part on it and roll back and forth. The theory is that you roll the knots out of your muscles or something like that, but I just know it feels really amazing. But the foam roll cost 25 dollars! Can you believe it? I decided not to buy one and instead search for a makeshift foam roller, like a piece of PVC pipe or something.
I went running this morning to test out my shoes and guess what I found? A big box of PVC pipes just laying on the sidewalk! They were with some other construction equipment, but I figured they were scraps. They were all slightly bent, but I thought I could at least find one which would roll well enough to work. I continued on my run, but stopped by the PVC cache on my way back to my apartment. There were some construction workers there this time, so I asked them if they were using the bent pieces of PVC pipe. They were, but they offered to cut me a straight piece of pipe from some longer sections nearby! It was a Christmas miracle! The guy who cut the piece for me asked me whether it was for a class project, and I told him it was for exercising. He said his doctor prescribed him the same thing to get rid of his "Planter fa-see-see." He also helpfully suggested they make good bongs. Just goes to show you, construction workers have a lot to offer the world.
Monday, November 16, 2009
No-Shave November
"Is that kid wearing a fur coat on his face?"
"Can he see out from behind that thing?"
"...Is there a bird living in there?" (Yes, there was.)
"He must have to blend all his food and suck it through a straw to get it into his mouth...."
"That man must be from OREGON."
These are just a few of the varied whispers which have followed me and my new beard around campus during the month of November. It has proven a noteworthy, if heavy, addition to my face and to the university as a whole.
The occasion for my brazen disregard towards facial tidiness is, of course, No-Shave November. In case you are unfamiliar with No-Shave November, it is a bi-annual celebration of all things beardly during which participants forgo shaving their facial hair for one month. And what a glorious, monumental, life-changing month it is. Believe me, I speak from a position of considerable expertise at the moment; a thick, healthy beard has the power to bring you up a few notches in the world. My first day with a beard, a local restaurant paid me to sit inside and eat their food all day (they posted record sales). On my fourth day with a beard, a woman stopped her car in the middle of a crowded intersection just to shake my hand.
On my tenth day with a beard, the USC sorority houses had a bidding war over which group of ladies were to be permitted the honor of cleaning the lustrous locks on my countenance (it took fourteen bottles of shampoo). Nowadays, my face is so warm that I have to bring several water bottles to school in the morning just to replenish all the sweat emanating from my golden beard. But it's all worth it. My vivacious beard is the gift which keeps on giving. It saved a cat stuck in a tree last week, and I think the cat is still in there somewhere. Yesterday, I found twenty British pounds buried in it. Needless to say, I was a little confused: doesn't my beard know we're in America? But I think it's best not to ask questions. At this point, it accounts for about 40 percent of my total body mass, so I'd like to avoid any type of serious confrontation because, let's face it, it could get pretty hairy.
I think I've made it glaringly obvious by now that I don't have anything important to do tonight. I haven't written as often I would like to, but believe it or not, this nonsense takes time.
But life is good. Despite my pathetic attempt at facial hair, my days have been happy. School is going well. I'm looking forward to my big Thanksgiving trip, and can't wait for Christmas. Mom and Dad, I'll see you before you know it.
"Can he see out from behind that thing?"
"...Is there a bird living in there?" (Yes, there was.)
"He must have to blend all his food and suck it through a straw to get it into his mouth...."
"That man must be from OREGON."
These are just a few of the varied whispers which have followed me and my new beard around campus during the month of November. It has proven a noteworthy, if heavy, addition to my face and to the university as a whole.
The occasion for my brazen disregard towards facial tidiness is, of course, No-Shave November. In case you are unfamiliar with No-Shave November, it is a bi-annual celebration of all things beardly during which participants forgo shaving their facial hair for one month. And what a glorious, monumental, life-changing month it is. Believe me, I speak from a position of considerable expertise at the moment; a thick, healthy beard has the power to bring you up a few notches in the world. My first day with a beard, a local restaurant paid me to sit inside and eat their food all day (they posted record sales). On my fourth day with a beard, a woman stopped her car in the middle of a crowded intersection just to shake my hand.
On my tenth day with a beard, the USC sorority houses had a bidding war over which group of ladies were to be permitted the honor of cleaning the lustrous locks on my countenance (it took fourteen bottles of shampoo). Nowadays, my face is so warm that I have to bring several water bottles to school in the morning just to replenish all the sweat emanating from my golden beard. But it's all worth it. My vivacious beard is the gift which keeps on giving. It saved a cat stuck in a tree last week, and I think the cat is still in there somewhere. Yesterday, I found twenty British pounds buried in it. Needless to say, I was a little confused: doesn't my beard know we're in America? But I think it's best not to ask questions. At this point, it accounts for about 40 percent of my total body mass, so I'd like to avoid any type of serious confrontation because, let's face it, it could get pretty hairy.I think I've made it glaringly obvious by now that I don't have anything important to do tonight. I haven't written as often I would like to, but believe it or not, this nonsense takes time.
But life is good. Despite my pathetic attempt at facial hair, my days have been happy. School is going well. I'm looking forward to my big Thanksgiving trip, and can't wait for Christmas. Mom and Dad, I'll see you before you know it.
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