Trampling out the Vintage Where the Grapes of Wrath are Stored, or, Running a Half Marathon in Sub-Carpathian Wine Country

Dear family, friends, readers and confidants:

At long last we meet again.  I hope you'll oblige me while I spin a little yarn your way.

Maybe based on my penultimate post, I shouldn’t go around quoting The Battle Hymn of the Republic, but when running through wine country it just seems appropriate.  Now some of you may know, because I’m a glory hog, and enjoy tooting the horn of my own accomplishment and self-promotion, that I recently ran a half marathon.  Then again, if you didn’t previously know, the astute reader could have probably ascertained the fact from today’s title, but I digress.

           

I recently posted about my disdain for, even hatred of running.  When I say this I mean, of course, that I hate performing the actual act of running.[1]  But, as I mentioned earlier, full of hubris, self-importance and barley juice I said (after not running for a year and a half) that I would run a half marathon.  As such, I did not want to be shown a liar.  So, in order to prepare myself, for a good three weeks, I ran five times per week.  Full of confidence I would be prepared I elected to take ten days off from running to entertain my brother on his visit (more on that at a later date).

            

Now, getting to Berehove, the site of the half marathon, was not the easiest thing in the world.  If you’ve read the last post, you’ll know what I mean.  By the way, whoever said it’s not the destination, it’s the journey has never dealt with Ukrainian trains and train stations.  Regardless, we made it to Berehove hardly all that much worse for the wear.  Arriving in Berehove we got off a bus in the middle of town.  From there the goal was to find our guest house.  This seemingly easy task was made more time consuming by streets with Hungarian as well as Ukrainian names, and the fact that we had no idea where the street was.  After a half hour or so we found the place and put our bags down.

            

If you’re up for a geography lesson, Beregove is in the far west of Ukraine.  It is a Hungarian town.  As such, the street signs are in both Hungarian and Ukrainian.  The menus I saw were in both languages, and both flags were flown around the town.  The town became part of Ukraine following World War II, as did the entire oblast (regional administrative district) it is a part of.  It is also a part of the sub-Carpathian wine country, so it is a fertile place with a lot of beautiful vineyards.  There were also a lot of hills, they were nice to look at, but they made Saturday a bit difficult.

            

We arrived on a Friday.  Exploring the town was as fun as exploring any new town is (I’m not being facetious, I mean that).  There was a nice downtown area with a park, a number of outdoor cafes, and a variety of other shops and general places of commerce.  There were also a lot of people out and about which is always nice to see.  Friday was the day to check in, pick up the race number and the official race t-shirt, as well.  After checking in and a bit of exploring, I sat down for a combination of lunch and wine.  The lunch was terrific:  shashlyk, fried potatoes, salad, and a delicious Hungarian soup (I’m not sure if it was goulash, it might have been).  The wine was tasty.  I elected for the white wine.  I didn’t want anything too heavy.

            

Lunch led to more wandering, and catching up with other volunteers.  Following this lunch we were given a small tour of the town.  The tour went up the main street we were in and gave us a bit of context for the town; the religious history, the political history, the ethnic history, all that good stuff.  I could recount this all for you, but I don’t remember, so I hope you’ll forgive my ignorance.  After the tour we had our opening ceremonies.  There were a number of speeches.  There was dancing by a number of girls wearing skimpy costumes.  There were boys break dancing.  It was a party!  

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[1] I am Pete Meegan and I still stand behind this statement!  (and its redundancy)  

I think this will be next year's official event poster 

My fresh new t-shirt was pretty popular on Friday.  I’ve posted some pictures, but it says:  “Running Sucks.”  This combination of the t-shirt, my build, and the fact that I was freely imbibing on the local fruits of the local viniculture proved misleading.  The festival attendees were, for the most part surprised to learn I planned to run the half marathon.  Why not, right?  Not only was I planning on running, I was planning on finishing without stopping.

Luckily, I called an early night on Friday.  Staying in a guest house with a lot of people helps keep me on my best behavior.  This Friday night was no different.  So, after performing an adequate degustation, I made my way back to get a full night’s sleep.  Up early, and after a power breakfast of beef jerky (thanks Matt!) I was ready to party.  And by party, I mean run a half marathon . . . slowly.

The official starting chute 

Starting the run was a bit exciting.  I had never run that far before.  I had no doubt I would finish, but I didn’t know how much of the race I would be crawling for.  Fortunately, a Peace Corps Medical Officer had warned me about the course.  The first quarter or so of the course was uphill.  Not very steep, but substantial enough.  The hills didn’t end there, but it was nice to have an idea of what was coming my way.  There were a good amount of runners all starting together.  Combined with the half marathon there was a 10K, a 5K and a 4 person team challenge for the half marathon.  As soon as we heard the starting signal I started my half marathon strategy:  running.

An example of the course's scenery 

 Sub-Carpathian wine country

We ran through town, and through some agricultural areas.  We ran past some villages as well.  It was, as I’ve written earlier, a nice area.  Another great thing we had on the course were a few hydration stations they were at kilometers 5, 10 (the turnaround point) and 15 (the place as 5).  While some of the PCVs (Peace Corps Volunteers) ran in the events, some volunteered on the course.  They did a great job.  They held up signs.  They gave us water.  They cheered us on.  One even threw some cold water at my back as I cruised on through kilometer 15 (the ¾ mark).  I’m glad she didn’t ask first, I would have said no, but it was refreshing.  The only complaint I have about these volunteers is that they thought I was joking when I asked them to call me a cab.  It would have been a much more expedient way to get to the finish.  Though, I imagine that would take any sense of accomplishment out of the mix.

If you're not going to finish first, finish memorably:  The start of an attempted cartwheel 

Attempted cartwheel continued 

This is as close as I came to completing the carwheel.  No picture of me on my back exists, but if there was one it would follow. 

I have a long held belief.  It is as follows:  if you can’t be first, be memorable.  To help fulfill this belief I thought long and hard about how I would cross the finish line.  There was, in spite of everything, no question that I would cross the finish line.  I’m a Meegan, and as such, I don’t do things halfway.[1]  The finish came down to four options:  a somersault, a barrel roll, a mid-air freeze frame (this would require a photographer to catch the moment, otherwise it would just look like a jump) or a cartwheel.  I decided on the cartwheel.  It seemed the only viable option.  I didn’t know if I could cleanly perform a somersault after the 13 miles.  I didn’t want to end up with a concussion and a million stitches in my head.  The barrel roll would take to long, and I wouldn’t want to get up afterwards.  I didn’t know if we’d have a photographer at the finish, so that was the demise of any mid-air shenanigans.  The cartwheel seemed a good choice, anyway.  Unfortunately, I forgot how tired I would be by the end of the race.  I didn’t quite land the cartwheel.  I wound up on my back.  After laughing for a second, I was given a few glasses of water, instructed to stretch, and given directions to the bathroom.  I didn’t hear my time, because I was on my back, but I don’t think it was too much more than two hours.  Who knows? 

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[1] Unless halfway is the only option, like a half marathon.  Hell, half is in the title of the event, don’t call me out on this.

I finished and I had a certificate, wine glass and have a medal to prove it. 

We spent the rest of the day under the green tents next to this building.  This time was full of good food, good wine, cold beer and music.  Sounds like a good day in any part of the globe.

The rest of the day was low key.  I was given a medal, and a wine glass.  I quickly put the wine glass to use.  Sampling the local viniculture for a second day was in no ways disappointing.  I had a bit more shashlyk, and some salad as well.  We spent what feels like hours under a group of tents.  Almost everyone there was American.  Some of our friends even serenaded us with some live music; a combination of guitar, banjo and violin.  I was even interviewed at some point herein.  From a combination of my dehydration, rehydration and general tiredness I cannot remember how the interview went, or even what language it was in.  I imagine it had to have been English, but I should try to find it.  

A large group went out to a disco this night.  Again I elected to close shop a little early.  I have no problems with a group of Americans dominating a disco, bar or club in Lviv, or Kyiv, or any of the big cities, but I had my doubts that such a small town could handle that many Americans.  Thankfully, it could.  There were no problems or run-ins with locals, or the law, and that’s always a positive.

            

Sunday was a bit sore.  Luckily there wasn’t much to do.  There was a lot of waiting around and reading the park.  I had coffee at a number of cafes in town, and even had a smoothie.  It was tasty.  On flat ground I was alright, but anytime stairs were involved I thought my legs were going to fall off.  But, all in all, it was rather doable.  I didn’t die.  I have parlayed that success into an attempt to run the Kyiv Marathon in September.  We’ll see how that goes.  I’m two weeks into training now.  I’m actually going to train this time, too!  Also, in case you’re interested I found a YouTube video that was made for this year’s marathon.  Here is the link:  http://wn.com/Beregsz%C3%A1sz_Maraton_2011

That’s all I know for now.

Be good,

Pete 

Ukrained at the Train Station

Following the whirlwind of gluttony and indulgence which was my brother’s visit, I immediately boarded a train for Vinnytsia (the closest city to me).  I met up with my tried and true travel companion, picked up supplies (I’ve learned my lesson about not being prepared with food), and prepared for another eleven.  Being a planner, and wanting seats together I had bought tickets for this train at the very beginning of the month.  The date of departure was April 28^th.  It seemed as if everything was good to go.

When we got the train station, with substantial time to spare, we were Ukrained in a serious way.[1]  Our first cause for concern was the fact that our train was not showing up on the timetable.  Generally trains are listed on these timetables about an hour before they are scheduled to depart.  Slightly apprehensive, we went to the Information desk and were told that the train would be on the 3^rd Platform.  We went to the platform and found a train going our way.  It was even going through our destination.  Slightly hopeful, we were immediately disappointed when they looked at our tickets and told us to keep moving on.  I felt like Forrest Gump getting on that bus:  “seat’s taaaeken.”  Again we went inside to regroup.  Upon reading some notices near the ticket windows we were informed (recall, from a flyer, not the INFORMATION! desk) that our train no longer existed.  Back at the information desk we told the woman our train did not exist.  We passed her one ticket, and then the other.  Following a brief search she handed one ticket back with a new seat.  The other ticket, apparently, had disappeared.

Now those that know me may be aware that at certain times, and during certain situations my cheeks flush as red as China, with rage and I have difficulty keeping my mouth shut.  This was one of those times . . . after biting my bottom lip to keep quiet, and with a furious mien I started yelling, telling the woman that she needed to fix this and give me my ticket.  I also gently reminded her that this was not our mistake.  The attendant at the desk did not look for the ticket at all.  In fact, she simply started crossing herself and saying: “I didn’t steal the ticket.”  Of course I was not in any way accusing our denizen of customer service of theft, that would be rude.  I simply wanted my ticket back.

Luckily, I do not know the proper grammatical constructions to swear at people in Ukrainian, so I didn’t say anything too bad.  Picture a three year-old yelling, and that’s probably what it sounded like.  (I should probably be thankful, nobody patted my head and said “awww, the wittle guy is angwy.”)  Also, it is fortunate that my tried and true travel companion is much more even headed than her friend.  She was able to talk some sense into me.  We got out of line, and she walked over to the entrance to the booth, the door marked “forbidden” and tried to speak reasonably.  I poked my head in, and right next to where our opponent was sitting, on the floor there stood a ticket.  I pointed it out and, sure enough, if was my ticket!  Now, to give credit where credit is due, though the lady at the information did not so much as turn around in her seat to look, she did apologize, and with that I’ll call us even.

With both tickets, and an existing train situated we went to a train station café and had a beer.  Slowly, and steadily I decompressed and got ready for some successful half-marathoning.  Another hour and a half or so, and we got on a train and reached our destination.  My blood pressure was no worse for the wear.

That’s all I know for now.  Hope all is well.

Be good,

Pete

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[1] Ukraine can be used as a verb.  Conscientious readers may remember this from a post from last year.  Those that prefer not to delve into the past will have to try to learn from context clues the meaning of the verb.  If you’re unsuccessful, or I am not clear enough with my narrative, feel free to ask for the dictionary definition.

Where Were You When You Heard bin Laden Had Been Killed?

             Certain news has quite understandably dominated the past couple of days.  Perhaps, as with September 11, 2001, I will always remember where I was when I heard the news.  Maybe this is like the Kennedy (either, but mostly John) or King assassinations were to my parents’ generation.  The similarities, of course, end with the remarkableness of the event, and its importance to the current state of affairs.

            Being that I have a facebook account, and I have a blog, I’m probably part of the problem, not the solution.  It wouldn’t be the first time that was true.  I generally make passing references to politics here, or sometimes tongue in cheek references.  But, I have a forum, and if you’re here and wish to read, I plan on using it.

            I’ve been reading comments, and articles, listening to news stories, and seeing videos of reactions to the news.  I wish to weigh in myself.  For the record, when I heard I was on a train back to Zhmerynka.  I checked my email on my Kindle.  My dear friend Paula, with an uncharacteristic show of brevity sent the following: “The US killed Bin Laden. 9 years, 7 months, & 20 days after we set out to find him. Wow.”  I read this while the train was pulling up to my town, so I put the Kindle away and made my way back home.  It didn’t seem all that real.  But, as soon as I got home I turned on my computer and facebook was bombarded with comments, as was ESPN.com and my trusted news source NPR.org.

            About as soon as I saw the news corroborated by all the different sites I started seeing different updates on facebook, and articles either celebrating the death, or denouncing the celebrations of bin Laden’s death.  I understand the discomfort celebrating the death of another human being.  I had a history professor at Providence College who used to preface each death statistic saying “now remember, every human life is sacred” (he could do that, it’s a Catholic school).  I’m not sure I agree with him.  Mark Twain’s "I've never wished a man dead, but I have read some obituaries with great pleasure," has also been bandied about with abandon these past not quite forty-eight hours.  I’d say I’m a bit closer to his statement.

            Are the celebrations out of line?  Do these celebrations make us “no better than them?”  I don’t know if that’s true.  These celebrations are emotional reactions.  Some of our co-nationals are truly celebrating the death of person.  Others are celebrating the blind hand of justice finally reaching this person.  Some are celebrating a milestone, an important aspect in a mission in our war in Afghanistan.  I’m celebrating the elimination of a threat to American security, and the world at large.  I’m celebrating the elimination of a source of evil; the architect of the single most significant event that has happened in my life, at least on American soil.  I’m celebrating the fact that someone responsible for so much evil, so much death, and so much destruction, and so much desecration is no longer around.  The person that was killed early Monday morning (my time) did not deserve our tears, and does not deserve our sympathy.  Does celebration of his death mean that we have been desensitized to violence and death?  I don’t think that’s true.  It means that we are celebrating justice.  We are celebrating a world that may soon be safer than before.  If I were at home right now, you could bet your ass I’d be leading a “USA” chant.  Good riddance, God Bless America and the brave men and women who serve her.  And that’s all I have to say about that.