A Marathon is 26.2 Miles

Nancy at Christchurch

My daughter, Tina, ran her first marathon last month in a blazing time of 3:55. As I watched her finish, I remembered my best marathon -- the Nike, City of Christchurch Marathon in New Zealand -- in 1982.

From Voluntary Nomads, Part Four: New Zealand Yarns, Chapter 15:

A Marathon is 26.2 Miles

The City of Christchurch course was as beautiful as any could be. Starting and ending at the Queen Elizabeth II Stadium (site of the 1974 Commonwealth Games), it followed the River Avon, cut through Hagley Park on a cycle path, went out to the airport, and returned by reverse route.

For Fred and me, this was the last chance to run a marathon before leaving New Zealand; in fact, since we would be spending the next two years in Somalia, this could be the last marathon opportunity for quite a long time.

My training for this one went well. I put in six runs of twenty miles or more and another seven runs of two hours or more. Also, I ran a fast half-marathon (2:00:45) on a hilly course just before starting the training program, and I finished a 10K race in 48:38 halfway through my training.

The weather turned out to be fairly decent: 4 – 8 degrees C (about 40 F), mostly cloudy with intermittent rain, and a light southerly wind (behind us coming home). I wore maximum clothes for running: tights, shorts, long sleeved turtleneck, singlet, rain jacket, hat and gloves – and I was comfortable while others who dressed lightly suffered from the cold.

I found my groove and ran the first half at a pace I felt I could maintain forever. I caught up with two fellows and settled in to enjoy their company. As we three ran along, talking about running and training, I heard a cheer aimed at me for "the rose between two thorns." We passed the halfway point in 2:08.

When my younger companion surged ahead and the older guy dropped back, I concentrated on maintaining my rhythm. I started to overtake some of the runners.

After the 40K mark (almost 25 miles), I went on passing people; no one seemed to be in real distress, just plodding along. Before entering the stadium I shrugged off my jacket so my race number would be visible. I waved at three silhouettes standing at the top of the stadium, absolutely sure they were Fred, Sue and Geoff. I realized two days later that not one of those three would have felt like climbing all those steps after running 26.2 miles.

Once on the track inside the stadium I picked up the pace and strode out against a chilling wind. Fred and Sue stood there on the sidelines cheering me on (Geoff huddled in a blanket indoors near a heater). I crossed the finish line triumphnt.

After collecting our gear we four athletes shuffled as fast as we could to the car and then to the spa pool at Sue and Geoff's motel for a nice hot soak.

I puffed up with pride when I thought about my 4:17:15 finish. I beat my 4:20 goal and felt like Queen Kong.

After lunch and a short rest, Fred and I went to the awards party for supper and disco – and we had enough leg power to dance the night away. It might have been due to the dancing that my legs weren't stiff at all the next day. Left knee, left foot, and all toes were tender and two right toes burned with small but painful blisters – the only battle scars.

Finally the long-sought-after perfect marathon experience was mine. Even though it took three tries to get it right, it was worth it. These New Zealand marathons, three within eight months, polished my character and reinforced my self-confidence in ways that have run deep and true for the rest of my life. ###

Voluntary Nomads is available in paperback at Amazon and Barnes & Noble or in all popular eBook formats at Smashwords as well as in PDF at Outskirts Press (also find the Nook Book version at B & N



Fiji

Dakota, always charming

Chapter 14 in Part Four: New Zealand Yarns follows us to Fiji on vacation during school holidays in 1981.

Nananu-i-Ra

On the way to Rakiraki we stopped at the Pacific Harbour Resort, one of the most popular tourist attractions in Fiji. We toured the mock native village and watched demonstrations of typical tribal dances. We walked through the animal collection and discovered a show in progress.

Two animal handlers fed mangoes and other fruits to several giant fruit bats. These bats were as big as Chihuahua dogs, their sharp teeth quite intimidating up close. A reticulated python starred in the animal show. The animal handler selected Dakota from the potential volunteers and brought him center front, then draped the python around Dakota's shoulders like a stole. The handler turned to the audience and went on talking about pythons, their habitat, diet, and hunting style. Dakota stood still as a statue while the snake's head rose slowly, tongue flickering, moving across Dakota's chest toward the opposite shoulder. The handler answered questions from the audience and didn't notice the snake's progress.

When the snake's eyes were even with his collarbone, Dakota called out in a desperate whisper, "Hey, Mom, can you tell them to take it off me now?"

Leaving the Pacific Harbour Resort behind, we drove on to Rakiraki where we shopped for groceries before catching the launch for Nananu-i-Ra. We knew that our cottage had a refrigerator, so we bought the usual breakfast cereal and milk, bread, a selection of canned goods, some fresh tomatoes, a plentiful supply of beer, and four pineapples. I can't say why we bought so many pineapples for a three-day weekend, maybe they were cheap, but I do know that we ate them all and relished every juicy bite.

The launch, barely big enough to carry us and our baggage and groceries, dropped us off at our landlord's dock after a 30-minute trip across calm water. The landlord showed us around the simple cement block cottage and explained that the fridge operated on kerosene and a generator would provide electricity for lamps in the evening from six to nine o'clock.

While I put the groceries away, Fred and the kids went out to check the seashore. Dakota scavenged a length of fishing line and a hook from the rocks near the dock. He cracked open a few small clams for bait, put on his mask and fins, and snorkeled around in the shallows. By dangling his baited hook in front of tasty-looking fish, he managed to catch enough for our supper. I hope I praised him for his remarkable ingenuity. I kept returning to the same thought, this boy of ours is not quite eight years old and he can put food on the table. ###

Voluntary Nomads is available in paperback at Amazon and Barnes and Noble and in all Ebook formats at Smashwords as well as in PDF at Outskirts Press

Glow, Little Glowworms

During our three-year stay in New Zealand, we traveled as much as work and school schedules allowed. One trip took us to the famed Waitomo Caves to see the resident glowworms.

The action of water on limestone formed the Waitomo Caves and, just like our own Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico, they have stalactites and stalagmites hanging from the ceiling and growing from the floor. The glowworms are the larval stage of a species of gnat. The gnats lay their eggs on the cave ceiling and the eggs hatch into larvae that grow to about two inches in length. The larvae develop long, sticky threads that drape down to catch insects to feed their hearty appetites. The glow of the glowworm attracts prey to its sticky lure. Scientists suggest that the glowworm can turn its light on and off at will.

Glow, Little Glowworms

We purchased our tickets at the kiosk and joined the queue at the entrance to the grotto. We stepped into one of a single-file row of flat-bottomed wooden boats, old and worn, bearing flakes of blue paint from long ago. As soon as all the passengers had taken their seats, the boats moved forward, the drifting pace determined by the river's current. Fred whispered that the Beatles visited here and sang one of their songs in the cave to enjoy the unique acoustics.

In silence, we floated into the dark mouth of the cave. The total darkness felt heavy and thick as if it had substance. As long as no one spoke, we could hear small watery sounds, the occasional dull thud as the boats bumped gently, and a suppressed nervous giggle from time to time. The air had a clean mineral smell, with a faint undertone of sulfur. Floating in black, who knew how much time passed? Too much, I thought. Have we hit the glowworms on a bad day? Are they on a hunger strike?

When our boats entered the grotto, my silly thoughts evaporated. Our heads tipped back, our mouths flew open in a unanimous, "Oooooo." The cave ceiling luminesced with a golden, pulsating radiance. A lacy drapery of light festooned in luxurious swags, forming a canopy that fluttered like feather boas in the breeze – Nature's astounding magic. ###

Voluntary Nomads is available in paperback at Amazon and Barnes and Noble and in all Ebook formats at Smashwords as well as in PDF at Outskirts Press



Wellington's Secret Center

I like to think about cities from different angles, not just what they're famous for. Shortly after we moved to Wellington, New Zealand I got to see a part of the city unknown to most residents and visitors. You'll find the story in Part Four: New Zealand Yarns, Chapter 12, and here in today's excerpt.

Beautiful Wellington Harbor

Wellington's Secret Center

New Zealand's supermarkets in 1979, not super by US standards but more like the neighborhood grocery stores of 1950s America, had a narrow selection of brands I had to get to know. The meat market displayed the usual cuts plus some I did not want to know (blood sausage, for example). The greengrocer's shop became my regular hangout.

Tony Ng, the proprietor, and his wife, Christine, became my mentors. New Zealand born, both Tony and Christine came from Chinese heritage. Hearing the distinctive kiwi accent from their distinctly Asian faces surprised and fascinated me. Christine showed me the Chinese technique for roasting a whole chicken (plunge it into boiling water first for a few seconds to tighten the skin) and she taught me how to prepare dim sum.

Tony and Christine's shop, smaller than most produce sections in American supermarkets, displayed a bounty of fruits and vegetables. I learned that they stored more in the back room. Tony liked to keep a stash of favorites for each of his best customers. He had an uncanny ability to remember what his patrons liked and to predict their shopping patterns. He told me to ring (telephone) him if I had any special requests and he would try to find what I wanted at the wholesale market.

"How does that work, Tony? The wholesale market, I mean…"

"Have you seen my lorry – I go to the Wellington market once a week and fill it with fresh vegs. Speak up if you'd like to go with me."

 Tony's wink showed me he was joking, but I was serious. I had a couple of fleeting second thoughts when Tony told me to meet him at the shop at four o'clock in the morning on Thursday, but the early hour didn't make me change my mind.

In the pre-dawn darkness, Tony handed me a thermos of tea Christine had brewed for us. "Pour us a cuppa, there's a good girl."

As we roared along in the old truck, sipping strong, sweet, milky tea, I tuned in to Tony's love for his work. His enthusiasm opened my eyes to the magic of a city caught in the lull between nightlife and workaday, a mysterious combination of suspended animation and pent up energy pressing for release.

Tony parked his truck with several others in a shadowy car park at the rear of an enormous building. He held the warehouse door for me and I passed through into sensory overload. My poor eyes squinted shut against the brilliant overhead lights. My hands covered my ears against the shrill whistles, shouts and bangs. My nostrils tingled from the riot of pungent odors of fish, seafood, tealeaves, and spices. The vendors whistled and banged to attract attention to their wares, and the buyers shouted their bids above the racket. Tony pantomimed that I should roam around while he made his purchases. He hurried off to bid on the best and freshest of the day.

Even though I paid close attention, the bidding process remained a mystery. Like a foreign language, a flurry of gestures and jargon communicated clearly between vendor and buyer and left me bewildered. I wound my way among the stalls and absorbed the symphony of sounds and smells without trying to analyze what was going on.

I regained normal consciousness when Tony tapped my shoulder. "Sorry to tear you away from all this, but the party's over, by Jingoes."

In little more than an hour, Tony had completed his bargaining, made his purchases, and loaded the truck. As we stepped out of the glare into the twilight of early morning, I wondered why the crazy market appealed to me so much. I couldn't put it into words. As the kiwis might say, it was "simply brilliant" to peek inside a hidden part of city life and find its colorful and vibrant secret heart. ###

Find Voluntary Nomads  in paperback at Amazon and Barnes and Noble and in all eBook formats at Smashwords as well as in PDF at Outskirts Press

Next time -- an excerpt from Chapter 13

Paperback Online

The print version of Voluntary Nomads is available on Amazon. Digital version to be released soon.

As you can see, I'm doing a happy dance to see Voluntary Nomads published! The e-book should be ready within ten days.

In case you're waiting for the digital version, here's an excerpt from Chapter 6 to keep you entertained:

Tabriz

   In an effort to pry me out of my end-of-Tehran-honeymoon funk, Fred suggested that we volunteer to make the non-pro courier run to Tabriz. The city of Tabriz, the fourth largest city in Iran and a commercial, industrial, and transportation center, had an American consular office that was a one-person outpost. For such a small operation, the embassy recruited volunteers to carry the diplomatic pouch, and designated them "non-pro couriers." Fred hadn't taken a turn because he didn't want to leave the rest of us home alone. After we made friends with the Goffs, though, a couple of months before the Caravanserai trip, we hatched a plan to trade off caring for each other's children occasionally. That gave us the option of evenings out, and, if all went well, an overnight trip. I called Norma for her approval and Fred requested the courier run to Tabriz.

   The trip involved flying to Tabriz, delivering the pouch, spending the night at a hotel, and returning to Tehran the next afternoon. I had a few moments of terror when I thought about the distance between my babies and me, but Norma Goff's unfaltering calm quieted my fears. Fred and I took off as excited as a bride and groom embarking on a real honeymoon.

   Couriers, even the non-pro, flew first class so they could get off the plane quickly and secure the pouches. First class status also enhanced our honeymoon atmosphere. Once we arrived in Tabriz, an official car met us at the air terminal and took us to the consular office where we delivered the pouch. Mr. Ex, the consular officer, suggested sightseeing possibilities and several restaurants that we might enjoy for our evening meal. He invited us to lunch at his home the following day.

   After checking into our hotel, we set out to see the city. We intended to take in all the sights recommended by Mr. Ex, but we spent most of the day wandering in the extensive covered bazaar, admiring the amazing variety of beautiful and precious things for sale. When we stopped at a tea stall for refreshments, a group of older men invited Fred to share their hookah (galyan in Farsi). As the smoke from flavored tobacco leaves burbled through the water pipe, I watched my husband blend into the exotic surroundings and become a romantic figure of mystery and intrigue. It's possible I enjoyed the experience more than he did, struggling as he was to stifle a coughing fit from the harshness of the tobacco.

   I don't remember what we ate that night, but I do remember our conversation at dinner. Try as we might to find another subject, we kept coming back to what was foremost on both our minds – yep, our kiddos. We spent the whole evening talking about them, how wonderful and clever they were, and how much we missed them.

   The next day we arrived at Ex's home unfashionably early, revealing our eagerness to get home. Ex waxed eloquent through the appetizer, soup, main course, salad, dessert and coffee. He showed off his broad knowledge of all things Iranian and demonstrated his fluency in Farsi. I sneaked peeks at my watch as time plodded on. Shortly after the last bite of dessert, time sped up as I realized we needed to leave for the airport soon. I mentioned the time to Ex, and he said, "Don't worry, my driver is ready and waiting, you won't miss your flight, if that's what you're thinking." He changed the subject to his favorite, carpets, and off he went on a never-ending monologue.

   As Ex droned on, I stopped sneaking peeks and began to make exaggerated time-checks. Finally, I stood up and made a direct request to leave for the airport. Fred looked surprised but didn't object. Ex's face showed his exasperation, but he did let us go. When we arrived at the airport, boarding had already completed and we had to scurry across the tarmac in order to make our flight with zero time to spare.

   Thirty-some years later, I'm still annoyed with Mr. Ex. When I heard that he had been taken hostage at the embassy during the long siege, I pondered the mysterious workings of karma. One of the popular inside stories of that time described Ex as a constant irritant to his captors. He allegedly harassed them with scathing insults and angered them with frequent escape attempts. We heard that the hostage takers hated him so much they stopped the prisoners' bus on the way to the release point, simply to give Ex one last beating.

   Back home in Tehran we reunited with our kids and learned that they had had their own excitement during our absence. After dinner the night before our return, Dakota went to the bathroom by himself. When Norma checked on him a few minutes later, she discovered he had locked the door and couldn't get out. He started to cry. Norma used her best powers of persuasion to get him to calm down. The old-fashioned locks used a large key, the type we used to call a skeleton key, and Norma convinced him to pull the key out of the lock and slide it under the door toward her. She could then unlock the door from her side and free the prisoner. The experience taught Dakota something about locks and keys and foreshadowed an adventure to come years later in another country. ###

   Find Voluntary Nomads on Amazon.



Coming Soon!

This week I'm immersed in a sea of pre-publication details for my book. As I bodysurf toward shore, I'm dreaming about the future of this vessel. There will be a paperback for sure and an ebook of course. And I think it would be cool to post sample chapters or even a complete serialization, chapter by chapter, right here on the book's blog. What do you think?