Monthly Archives: January 2012

How I Run Barefoot in the Snow

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How I safely and comfortably run barefoot in the snow.

My Safety Tips

  1. I bring a hefty pair of wool socks when I run in the snow. I put them on my if and when my feet or toes go numb. I massage my feet/toes to get the circulation going before I put on the socks. The socks are emergency protocol: GMAH  “Get My Ass Home.” (As long as the wool isn’t worn through AND your feet are NOT NUMB, the wool socks will allow for LONGER running in cold weather. Wool is great because it stays warm even when it’s wet. Cotton socks are a BIG FAT FAIL for snow running. They will make your feet colder because they sponge water, they’ll freeze onto your toes,  causing foot rot in chilly climates. Kill Cotton for Cold Climates.)
  2. I stay close to home. I use my 1 mile route and just do laps. So, I’m always less than a mile from home–my place is close to the center of my loop; as a result, I can quickly cut down the streets to get to my place ASAP.
  3. I STOP RUNNING & MASSAGE my FEET if my TOES go NUMB. Numbness is BAD. It makes it easy for sharp metal, glass, etc. to slice my foot. I ALWAYS, STOP, GET WARM. I never try to Run through Numbness.
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How to Wear Shoes & Not Be a Dumb-Fuck Hick

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The fight happened early in the morning New Years Day, 2012. It was, clear, cold, and windy. Patches of frost powdered the shaded parts of the road. A few strips of shine painted the rough black asphalt. My Achilles were aching a bit; so, I decided to cut my run a little short. I went down a street on my shorter route, the route I haven’t taken since summer.

Like most other barefoot runners, I ran in the middle of the empty street.

When I heard a car drive beside me, I edged over to opposite side of the road to let the vehicle pass. The driver slowed his rig, unrolled his window and shouted, “You alright!?”

I said, “Yeah, I’m great!”

He said, “Because you’re running barefoot in the middle of the street.”

“I know,” I said, “it feels fantastic.”

He said, “I mean you’re running barefoot in the middle of the road!”

I said, “I know. You said that. I’m not blocking your way. Drive on!”

He pulled over into a driveway a few houses ahead of me. He got out of his car and stood by the door, waiting for me to pass. When I was half way down the block, I heard him shout, “Yeah, you better keep running barefooter!”

I freaking lost it, my adrenaline was already pumping from pounding the icy concrete and my endorphin level was cranked up because it was the last leg of my run. I sprinted over to his car, shoved him, and said “What the Fuck! Keep running!? I run where the Fuck I want! How the Fuck I want! And when the Fuck I want! I wasn’t blocking your Fucken way. And if I was, you can drive the Fuck around!”

That scared the shit out of him. His tone changed.

“I was just concerned,” he said, “It’s cold and you’re running barefoot in the middle of the road. I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Then, even though I didn’t need to, I decided to state the obvious: the road is warmer in the middle of the street, there are fewer shards of glass, nails, metal scraps, pebbles, etc. in the middle of the street, and the pavement is generally smoother in the middle of the street. That dose of sensible logic relaxed him a bit. It’s NOT freaking rocket science, anyone with a brain bigger than a walnut could have figured it out.

Then I offered my hand in friendship, which, to his credit, he shook. He apologized for yelling at me. The handshake must have been water on a dry sponge. His brain, it seemed, saturated enough to fit his skull.

I decided to stop saying Fuck and be nice for a change; so I said, “It’s fine. We’re men. Sometimes shouting at each other is how we talk.”

I completely understand his point of view; he sees some guy running barefoot in the middle of street New Years morning. Maybe he thought I was high or something. That’s really stupid conclusion because I don’t know of any drug that would cause a person to suit up in running attire to go for a morning barefoot run. I mean a barefoot running pill would kick the asses of other pharmaceuticals.

Jump from Sandy, OR to San Jose, California.  When I ran barefoot in Willow Glen, I did get a few quizzical stares, but no one said anything negative. The expressions conveyed puzzlement rather than objection. It wasn’t as if my being barefoot was like spitting chewed up walnuts in their faces. The few Californians who did speak to me while I ran barefoot said things like, “Right on Brother!” or “You’re hardcore!” or “That’s cool!”

This verbal fight wasn’t the first time I’ve had to deal with idiots saying stupid shit in Sandy.

In fact, I wasn’t going to post this because most of my neighbors are cool–they affectionately call me “the barefoot guy”.

Dear MINORITY of Dumb Fuck Hicks who live in Sandy,

When you see me running without shoes, grow a brain, pretend you’re from California, and just say, “Right on Brother!” or keep your Fucking mouth shut!

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My Secret 19

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When I was 19 nothing could divide me except 1 and myself; I was a prime number: invincible, impractical, and energetic.

I “attended” DeAnza college in Cupertino, CA where I majored in skipping out on class to drive a few hours to Woodland to skate with my friend Troy, drinking coffee with girls who put scars on their faces from drunk driving, and eating poppy seed muffins full of chemicals that would make me fail a drug test.

Some nights, I drove myself to a chain-link fence. I used my tattered coat to cover the bared wire; behind the fence was a prime loading dock called “Memorex“. It featured a smooth asphalt embankment with a curb on top. I would grind the curb and catch air quarter pipe style on the bank. The huge bright, lamp above the bank made Memorex and excellent night spot.

Nietzsche, 1864

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Most of the time, the security guard on duty chased me away; unless the security guard was Johnny. Johnny didn’t care. And I always knew Johnny was on duty when I saw the orange glow of his cigarette at the end of the loading dock. He wasn’t supposed to smoke and I wasn’t supposed to skate. When I got tired of skating, we’d talk about our lives and occasionally about philosophy. Johnny was surprising well read, but miserable. He had a wife and a child to support. He felt locked into his job, but found a ways to bear it, like sneaking a smoke and letting some crazy 19 year old catch air on the bank.

One time, instead of skating Memorex, I made the three hour drive to Troy’s house in Woodland, CA. I didn’t care that my brake lights were broken and that I didn’t even bother to call Troy to let him know I was stopping by. We skated an empty pool in a slum apartment complex for a few hours, then I headed home. As soft magenta hues dwindled from the vibrant evening sky, my eyes drooped. A loud blasting horn and shriek of skidding tires jolted me awake. The person behind me narrowly missed my car. Luckily, both of us were OK and there was no damage to either car. I popped on my headlights and used my parking lights as substitute brake lights until I got safely home.

The next time I went to Memorex, Johnny wasn’t on duty, he wasn’t on duty the time after that, or time after that.  It was annoying because the other guards were total a-holes. One of them even brought a German Shepard with him. I told my friend, Mike, how f-up it was that Johnny wasn’t on duty.

Mike lit up and said, “You don’t know!?” Then he told me that Johnny  was smack addict and that he ODed. Johnny didn’t seem like the junkie type and Mike was the BS type.

It was difficult to picture Johnny sticking needles in his veins. But when I think back, Johnny did seem depressed the last few times I saw him and he did mention how it would be nice to just “fall asleep and never wake up.”

I’ve never fully trusted Mike; he was after all a drunk and liar. To this day, I hope he was lying about Johnny’s OD. Even though I never did see Johnny again, I still hope that it was because Johnny got promoted or found another job. But laced inside my hopes and in this memory is a deep residing sadness.

Yet a part of me, still imagines Johnny is out there somewhere in the crisp evening air letting some punk kid skate a well lit bank, smoking his cigarette and quoting Nietzsche: “The true man wants two things: danger and play.” I hope danger didn’t overtake Johnny–that somewhere he’s still out there, playing the way he did when he was 19.

 

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Surviving the Deadly Rip

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rip currents

Image by TooFarNorth via Flickr

I dug up this piece of my life from an old banana paper journal entry.

I was snorkeling Cano Island on the Osa Pennisula of Costa Rica.

While admiring the colorful and bizarre shapes of the tropical fish swishing in the clear warm waters below, I periodically kept an eye on Chrissy, one of the other guests on our voyage,  who was swimming dangerously close  to a powerful rip current.

As soon as I saw her approach it, I told her to come ashore, but when she tried to swim, the rip carried her out.

Luckily, the cove was littered with boulder like rocks that peeped up just above the waters. The current took her out to the last rock. I cautiously swam from rock to rock toward her. It was weird because the current managed to weave around the rocks; so even though the rocks offered respite; they did not adequately block the pull of the rip. It was unpleasant to touch the rocks because they  were bustling with tiny sea creatures and were slathered with an icky smelly slime.

By the time I got close to Chrissy; she was in a full panic. The rip gained power the closer it got to open sea.  It was like swimming through whitewater rapids, except the surface was calm. Never felt a rip with such force.

Chrissy was falling apart; she only had one hand on the rock, her eyes were flitting from rock to sea, and she was crying. As I swam toward her, something in me snapped: I yelled at her “Shut Up! Grab the rock with your other hand.” I don’t know why I felt the need to yell at her–I barely knew her. Just met her that day. Logically, it seemed the WRONG thing to do, but it just burst out. It was a good move because it momentarily snapped her out of her frenzy of fear.

She did as I told her. When I got to her rock, I suddenly understood why she had become so unhinged. The rip was ragingly strong; the island was far away, and when we looked out to sea all we saw was a huge void of unforgiving, deadly ocean waters. The hunger of that ominous expanse frightened both of us.

My presence calmed her down a bit, but I could tell that she was still scared. I was too, but I was also confident that we could get out of the rip as long as we used our heads.

“OK,” I said, ”Look, I’m a surfer. This is nothing. We’re gonna be fine.”

I pointed to a rock close to shore and said, “I’m gonna swim to rock, you swim right behind me and ‘draft’”. She nodded ascent.

Before I launched from the rock, I said, “DO NOT TO GRAB ME WHILE I SWIM.” That turned out to be a mistake.

About five or so breast strokes diagonally through the current, what I did feel on my shoulder? Her freaking fingernails tearing into my skin.
I yelled, “God Damn It! Don’t grab me! Just swim!”

This time, the yelling made her sob. When we got to the target rock, I could see that was she was ready to fall into another panic. She said, “I just feel like we’re getting pulled out to sea.”

It pissed me off. First of all we closer to shore; second of all, the woman almost pulled me under when I was struggling just to stay above water.

I apologized for yelling at her. Then, I told her to put on her snorkel and breath through that. I don’t know why I told her that. It just sort of came out of my mouth–the same way the yelling did. I figured that the snorkel would at least keep her quiet. But it turned out to be a genius move because the snorkel, with its tiny air-hole, forced her concentrate on her breathing.  It calmed her down quite a bit. We swam from rock to rock, luckily the rip faded the closer we got to shore.

When we got to shore, she gave me quick hug, which I thought was weird, and then she said, “You’re bleeding. Did you scratch yourself on one of the rocks?”

“Yeah,” I said rubbing my shoulder, “a rock scratched me.” (A rock named Chrissy!)

But that wasn’t the worst part, when we made it to shore, our guide stomped over to us and said, “You guys shouldn’t have been out on those rocks!”

“I know,” I said, “the rip was crazy.”

“The rip?!” our guide said, “That’s the least of your worries. Those rocks a hunting ground for salt water crocks!”

Chrissy and I burst into hysterical laughter. I don’t know why. What our guide said wasn’t funny at all, but it felt great to laugh. Somehow pissing off our guide and realizing that were in so more danger than we could have ever imagined made feel fantastic and it made Chrissy’s scratch hurt just a little less.

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How to Tell Demons from Deities!

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It’s a cold and cruel day, February 1855 in the Exe Estuary in South Devon, England. Villagers awaken to terrifying sight. Instead of a fine smooth coat of fresh snow, they discover evidence that something ungoldy passed, defiling the the road with its malevolent hoof-like marks. The sinister steps were scattered for almost a 100 miles–an impossible distance for any known human or animal. Many believed the unholy tracks to be those of Satan himself.

This spooky piece of history got me to thinking about the symbolism of footprints. There is no doubt that footprints indicate existence; they serve as reminder of a being’s presence. Of course, the being who makes them doesn’t always have to be malignant. In Hinduism and Buddhism, footprints signify the divine presence, usually Vishnu. Not only do they indicate omnipresence, but they also represent the path the deity has taken; so, spiritual trackers can discern the path to enlightenment.

In Buddhism, the story goes that just before his death, the Buddha left an imprint of his foot on a stone near Kusinara, as a reminder of his presence on earth.

Buddhist revere the footprint symbolism, decorating the prints with other signs for the Seven Appearances:

  1. Fish
    Within Buddhism the fish symbolize living beings who practice the dharma. Such beings do NOT fear drowning in the ocean of suffering; they can freely swim through any waters.
  2. Swastika
    In Sanskrit, swastika means “conducive to well-being”. In the Buddhist tradition, the swastika symbolizes the feet or footprints of the Buddha and is often used to mark the beginning of texts.
  3. The Lotus
    The Lotus (padma) is a very important symbol in India and of Buddhism. In brief, it refers to the complete purification of body, speech and mind, and the blossoming of wholesome deeds in liberation.
  4. Conch Shell
    The shell serves as a horn; it symbolizes the deep, far reaching and melodious sound of the teachings, which is suitable for all disciples at it awakens them from the slumber of ignorance to accomplish all beings’ welfare.
  5. Treasure Vase
    The vase signifies the inexhaustible riches available in the Buddhist teachings, but also symbolises long life, wealth, prosperity and all the benefits of this world.
  6. The Eight Spoke Wheel 
    The wheel conjures the story of Brahma descending from heaven and asking the Buddha to teach the Eight Fold Way. The Buddha is known as the Wheel-Turner: he who sets a new cycle of teachings in motion and in consequence changes the course of destiny.
  7. Triple Gem
    The core of Buddhism is made up of the three pillars: the Buddha, the Dharma (his teachings) and the Sangha (those who practice). Without someone who sought the way, without the teachings to show the way, without a spiritual community to explore the way, it would be as if the Buddha never existed and ignorance and suffering would reign.
With all this deep symbolism surrounding a mere footprint and as one who often walks the earth without shoes, I am forced to ask myself, “What Kind of Prints am I Making?” I am pleased that my foot steps aren’t the generic marks of Nike, Adidas, or any of the other faceless shoe companies. The traces I leave behind when I walk, run or hike, for good or evil, come from my own skin.
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Do You Recognize 5 Warning Signs of the Female Mind?

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This post was originally entitled, “5 Things I Hate about Women“, but that title wasn’t as grabby as the new one.

Woman in satin dress holding mirror

Image by George Eastman House via Flickr

  1. Women are irrational & emotional. The brain of the female beast is her heart. A man‘s brain is his brain. It’s annoying.
  2. Women have way too many erogenous zones. There are something like eleven or more highly complicated physical points of interest on a woman. A man has pretty much only one.  The worst part is that to activate the eleven or so sex switches on a woman you first have to activate the “on” button which is in her brain and which is totally driven by mysterious and delicate emotions. Only then can the man progress to the intricate physiological process of “making love”.
  3. Women can enjoy too many more orgasms than men. It is UNFAIR that women get way too much more sexual pleasure than do men. For most men, it’s one shot then wait five or seven minutes or so and maybe a few others, unless the man is an eater of penis pills, in which case it boner-ville for hours on end. Women don’t need special pills to enjoy multiple orgasms.
  4. Women can divide into other humans about every 9 months. Women get all of the glory for the super-power of releasing brand new people into the world, while men have sit around watch and get yelled at for it.
  5. Women are never satisfied. Double annoying.
I passionately love the fascinating breeds of delightful the feminine incarnations who stride the earth. Without women the world would be dead. I don’t even want to think of an earth-ful of men. Oh my God, that would drain the planet of joy for sure. It would be a world of fighting, sex, building shit, tearing shit down; more fighting and more sex mixed in with more fighting and more sex and probably some cannibalism.
So, I flip the 5 warning signs:
  1. Women are emotional which makes men develop emotional intelligence and social skills.
  2. The many erogenous zones on the female body forces a man to explore her new exciting ways.
  3. Because women can have so many orgasms, it grants the male several opportunities to please himself and his lady; thereby, improving his chances of getting more sex in the future: win win.
  4. Women can replicate; OK pushing out an entire baby from an small region that is specifically wired for sensation would hurt like hell. I’ll skip the painful replication act and just enjoy the sex.
  5. Women are never satisfied, which means that men are neither. Isn’t that what makes life so damn interesting?

The differences between the female and male minds make women worth the all the effort and the act of living worthwhile, exciting and fun. Plus, women can cook; so, man is well nourished in his chase–Oh my God, that was so barefootedly sexist!

I can feel my readership dropping. Oh well, better readers will come! ;)

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Unfamiliar Voices & Curious Ravens

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English: A photo of a cup of coffee. Esperanto...

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Who or What was making the strange voices upstairs? I heard them while poured cold water into the coffee maker New Years Day 2012. It sounded like a gang of teenagers chatting. This was, of course, absurd because the only person upstairs was my wife and she was fast asleep. Nevertheless, the sound of the adolescent disembodied voices brought me half way up the staircase. They faded the closer I got to the top of the stairs.

I returned to the kitchen. Our electric coffee maker burbled as it streamed and drizzled my morning cups into the once empty glass pot. After the ‘maker spit out a few more tssssst! phooopht! tssssst!  phoooopht! and soft puffs of steam, I heard the voices again. Again I headed toward the stairs, but the baffling banter departed.

Soon, the lyrics to “Proud Mary” cranked through my brain. Over and over again: “Proud Mary Keep On…” Suddenly, the music in mind was silenced by a loud and clear inner voice:

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

The lines from Poe’s The Raven instantly triggered a memory I had when I strolling barefoot on the beach with my girlfriend, Christina,  many years ago.

Raven

Image by Sergey Yeliseev via Flickr

It was at Manersa around mid day, nothing but slop and chop–unsurfable. Christina pointed to an abnormal black celestial shape flying towards us. It swam graciously through scattered wispy clouds in the blustery sky. I watched it closely as it approached, I soon discovered that it was…

A giant beetle? No, a raven? Yes, a large raven; in fact, I could hear it cawing. As it flew closer, I wondered why its beak and legs were colored bright green and also why it was flying so erratically. By the time it was close enough to see it clearly, I realized something bewildering about the bizarre bird: It was a plastic bag!

Christina and I both laughed. It tricked us both. Unfortunately, not all fantasies reveal their reality with such clarity. Sometimes the voices tell enticing stories and sometimes the ravens cast their wicked shadows on the floor.

It’s not always easy to distinguish the raven from the plastic. Zazen helps. I am much stronger and lucid when I breathe and it carries through to the rest of my life. In a very short time, the practice of Zazen has transformed me. The changes have NOT come as mystical flashes of insight or clouds parting as God beams of enlightenment blast open my spirit. That would be too easy.

Instead, Zen appears as the cold hard facts of my life. In the moments when I discover that the voices upstairs are the neighbor’s TV that the mysterious raven is just a plastic bag (or sack if you’re from the Northwest).

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