Near Buga: running

This morning as the ghost of Moraline hovered over Denver, Western culture, and mingled with the lost souls of caleñas, I considered Sekota's maxim that we get what we want. When we are miserable and lost, we are getting what we want, because we are out of balance, not on any one path, because out of fear and a lack of force in action, we fail to choose, and so the time comes for the train, working at high speed, to choose among the tracks at the crossing, the train tears through the rails, deep into the dirt, careening into the granite face of the mountainside, exploding, all passengers horribly burned and dismembered. Each day begins and ends such.

When, due to a man's force of action, he can right his direction, his energies coalesce into a thing of great beauty and power. After my run this morning, as part of my program of 70 miles per week, as part of my program to break 1:17 on October 9th, I realized my energies should be focused on running the half marathon. Writing will only serve as a journal of my understanding of my passage from a slow runner to a faster runner. Writing will only serve running. Today I will run 6 1-mile repeats, with a 2 mile warm up and a 2 mile cool down. This morning I ran 3.6 miles at a 6:50 pace.

Days 1-2

On the flight from Houston to Bogota, I met Andreas, a 25-year-old Colombian-born Canadian living in Edmonton, on his way to Cartegena, then to the North, where he is to visit his 22-year old Colombian girlfriend, Andrea. He was a tall rugby player who currently was sufering from three broken ribs, along with a deep affection for his Colombian girlfriend. As a profession, Andreas is a mechanical engineer, and his girlfriend is in the medical sciences, still a student. Andreas came to Canada at age 12 and learned perfect English, repleat with a Canadian accent and the commensurate 'ehs.' He was extraordinarily forthcoming and helpful in advice about travel in Colombia, mostly pointing out that I needed to learn how to dance if I wanted any chance with Colombian women. He was deeply in love with his girlfriend; this was his forth visit in a year. He spoke of various Colombian cultural events, such as the quinienta, the 15th birthday of a girl, where she must dance with 15 boys. He warned me of the prepago. He told me of Colombian simm cards, that any city in Colombia is a one hour flight from Bogota, and that a 200k bus journey could well take 6 hours. When we arrived in Bogota, he helped me through customs and baggage re-check. He told me a story of freezing in relatively cool weather while waiting for an Avancia flight in an open-air waiting center in Bogota; I quickly understod his point as in my shorts and t-shirt as I waited for 20 minutes.We exchanged emails and I gave Andreas the website of this blog. Much thanks, amigo, for your kindness and advice.

Of course, I refused to follow instructions and went to the wrong gate, where a series of hilarious walkie-talkie instructions eventually led me to the bus that eventually took me to my plane where I was seated in an emergency aisle, which, of course, required I speak perfect Spanish, which I insisted was in my capabilities. I fell asleep quickly, picked up my begs without problems, determined there was no bus to Buga from the airport, caught a cab to downtown with no name of my destination except a hastily jotted intersection. The cab driver drove one of his family's three cabs--they rotate them 24 hours. This must be good income for Colombians; they are not cheap--48,000 pesos is the fixed rate, $24. The cheap hostel was only 2 blocks away for 10 dollars--my cab driver coul only find a $60 hotel. It was fine, not a bad result for such poor preparation.

After 3 hours of sleep, I ran up the mountain to Los Tres Cruces, a steep hike and trail run which is comparative to the Manitou Cog in difficulty. Verily, I hiked the latter portions, and, indeed, I considered giving up as the trail transformed into rocky, narrow, eroded river beds. But God's three crosses, for each of his Jesuses, The Father, The Son, The Holy Spirit, led me in strength, and when I arrived, I lifted weights with three local men--concrete and steel and wood contraptions--biceps, abdominal incline crunches, pectorals, triceps, pullups. They local men did not say much, but there was respect for my run and my weight lifting. As I was about to depart, a Caucasian man approached me asking me is I spoke English. Rasmus #1 and Rasmus #2, Danes, had taken a cab to the top of the the mountain. I showed them the very top, the weight area, instructed them to buy frozen fruit popsicles and water, and then led them down the trail in their flipflops. We spoke of our prior travels, women, cycling, Bjarne Riis, et al.. I gave my email to Rasmus #1, then went off to a supermarket for tuna, yoghurt, papaya, apples, and peanuts, the majority which I consumed while walking.

After a thorough assembly of the bike, Facebook contact with Claudia, Miguel, and Alejandro (whom I also telephoned, and will see at the end of the trip back in Cali), I hit the streets at 12:30 for beer, chorizo, some fried meat, friend potatoes, and the Colombian version of pao com quejo. Disco buses, filled with dancing locals--basically, moving discos, roamed the streets next to salsa clubs packed to the gills with young men and women. I do not feel the negative energy of a big city here, despite its 3.5 million residents. Women wear the sexuality and femininity in a direct manner, and the mix of food, aguardiente, beer, sex, music, mountains, and dance puts Cali as a place that the world follows as an example of natural and unaffected sensuality and enjoyment. There is no fronting, there is no fraud.

Near Buga

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Flux

a project

Sunday, June 26, 2011