The Kyiv Marathon

Towards the end of the Kyiv Marathon and trying to keep the legs moving.

The following is an account of my first marathon.  It should be noted that, though I have submitted this narrative fully centered on me, I had incredible support over the course of the marathon, specifically near the start/finish.  A loud contingent of Peace Corps Volunteeers assisted us by cheering with spirit and enthusiasm whenever we passed.  I also had a wonderful pit crew, namely my friend Sara who served me Gatorade and GU upon request.  Their support was humbling, and greatly appreciated. 

For my first marathon, I ran the 2^nd Kyiv Marathon in Kyiv, Ukraine on September 18, 2011.  The following is my report of the events of the day:

As with most things in this part of the world, the event, the 2^nd Kyiv Marathon in Kyiv, Ukraine, was “organized.”  Over the duration of the four months since I registered and race day the course changed at least four times, and always for the worse.  I was excited for the first course which, though difficult, was absolutely gorgeous – going around the most beautiful cathedrals, statues and parks in Kyiv, including a quick jaunt over the Dnipro River and back.  Ultimately the course became a loop of five miles run five times following a little pig tail loop in the beginning to round out the necessary distance.  The start was Maidan Nezalezhnosti, Kyiv’s Independence Square, the main city square.  Those of you familiar with coverage of Ukraine’s Orange Revolution seven years ago would have seen this square on the nightly news.

After the start we continued down Khreschatyk, the main street of Kyiv.  Like every weekend it was closed to vehicular traffic.  It was a nice area to run down (at least for the first three laps), passing political protests and counter-protests, happy people and other varied city sights.

On Khreschatyk towards the beginning of the race

Still feeling good and smiling.  Probably towards the beginning.

The course continued on down a main street but quickly deteriorated.  The long downhill (and cruelly, later, uphill) was all cobblestone.  Through streets were not closed to traffic, and on more than one occasion I had to stop while the traffic control officer tried to bring motorists to a halt.  I even saw a car hit a runner!  (Granted it was not hard, but it’s an indication of what I mean.)  This part of the course was hardly scenic, but we soldiered on.

The next step was a bit of a challenge.  Because running a marathon is easy, and anyone can do it, we were sent to run through a roadwork zone.  Not only was it a roadwork zone, but they were busy working on the road while we were running, where we were running.  This part of the course had exposed/elevated manholes (luckily they were covered), a torn off road, and enough hot sticky tar to make me never want to see the stuff again.  At the other end of the zone our fortitude was rewarded with an aid station.  The menu had apples, bananas and water . . . until the cups at this station ran out around hour number three.  They rectified the situation, but it took about 30 minutes, a tough 30 minutes to go without water.  (Addendum:  I later found out they ran out of still water after I had passed this station for the final time.  They started giving runners carbonated water.  They had already run out of fruit at this time, as well.)

Gunning for TGI Friday's

The most important part of the race for me was a bet.  After a couple of beers a month ago a buddy said a mutual friend of ours would beat me in the marathon.  Not wanting to sound weak I took him up on the bet, and the stakes were high.  The winner of our wager would receive a dinner at TGI Friday’s; this includes an appetizer, an entre, and two beverages.  To put some context around the bet, or at least the prize, I’ll mention two things:  1.  TGI Friday’s tastes so good when you miss America and American food.  2.  A meal of this magnitude would cost about 15 – 20% (per person) of the monthly stipend your humble Peace Corps Volunteers receive.The most important part of the race for me was a bet.  After a couple of beers a month ago a buddy said a mutual friend of ours would beat me in the marathon.  Not wanting to sound weak I took him up on the bet, and the stakes were high.  The winner of our wager would receive a dinner at TGI Friday’s; this includes an appetizer, an entre, and two beverages.  To put some context around the bet, or at least the prize, I’ll mention two things:  1.  TGI Friday’s tastes so good when you miss America and American food.  2.  A meal of this magnitude would cost about 15 – 20% (per person) of the monthly stipend your humble Peace Corps Volunteers receive.

I started out pretty conservatively.  Mile one was a little slower than a crawl.  I tried to keep to a very gradual build-up strategy, which is harder in practice than in theory, especially when the course map/location of hills starts as a mystery.  I was relatively successful with my conservative pacing.  By the end of mile 6 I was about a minute faster than I had planned, which I felt fine with, because I was still going a bit slower than goal pace.  My rival[1] gained some serious distance on me from the beginning.  She jumped out to a three or four minute lead.  This was easy to tell because of the two turn-around points when we would pass each other.  Self-control has never been my strong suit, but I was resolute, and kept the reigns on the horses.  I also had a few spies on the course for reconnaissance.  I hit the half way point at about 1:54 or so.  It was slightly faster than I wanted, but I had done an okay job of keeping under control.  I stayed pretty well hydrated along the course, and took advantage of a couple GU packets, but I was better served by the bananas on offer at the second aid station.  I probably should have eaten a bit more on the course, but I was trying to avoid any unnecessary trips to the port-a-johns (which, they do have in Ukraine, I just found out).  Around mile 15 another friend running (substantially faster, he finished in 3:42) told me my rival was looking strong and asked when I would make my move.  I stayed on track at a relatively stable speed, though.  Finally, at mile 17.5 I overtook my rival.  I was starting to get tired, but still feeling pretty good.  Soon I made my fourth ascent up the long hill.  It was tougher, but still not too bad.  Going back through the main section of the race where the fans, including a number of fellow Peace Corps Volunteers were, was uplifting. 

Gatorade from Sara, and PCV's cheering in the background.

This led me past mile 20, past 21 and into the final lap.  My legs were lead, and I was exhausted, but still running decently.  With no energy to recall Ukrainian I started sharing my pleasantries with other runners in English.  The general consensus was that we all could have used a beer.  Following the final turn-around and a couple of fuzzy miles I don’t remember well, I came back upon the hill.  A former minnow, this hill became a Leviathan.  Staring at me.  Mocking me.  It ultimately defeated me; try as I might, I didn’t have it to run up the hill, and I ended up walking for a good stretch, until I reached the top.  A well-paced guy I had paced a few minutes earlier put a hand on my shoulder, and gave me a “devai, bratan, blizko” (C’mon, brother, it’s close).  And it was close.  We had about a mile and a half remaining.  I had abandoned my idea of a 3:55 finish, which at the beginning of the final lap seemed to be almost assured.  Considering 4:00:01 to be utter failure, I bumbled on with about 13 minutes between me and total (self-imposed) ignominy.  I walked a few more paces getting myself ready for a final assault on the finish.  I’m vain, as well, so I wanted my friends to see me running hard.  Through the “Start” side of the Start/Finish I was cruising.  Not pain free, and certainly not fast, but I was going.  I made the final turn-around, and had about two-tenths of a mile remaining.  Hearing my name, and English encouragements I started picking up speed like a runaway train.  Running the fastest my body was capable of and with a look of absolute fury I barreled across the Finish with a fist pump, and a few seconds to spare.  I don’t know what the time was officially yet.  I imagine something like 3:59:15 – 3:59:30, but I avoided the shame of utter failure, even after the hill defeated me.

Angry at the world, and tired as hell, about 30 seconds away from a good mood.

My favorite shirt felt appropriate.  This is probably ten minutes or so after the race.  I can barely move here.

So, I finished.  That was never in doubt, and I don't think finishing is good enough.  I also brok the four hour mark, which still seems a bit average.  I knew someone that would describe this effort as "pedestrian, at best."  The goal now is shifted.  It is resting on the Providence Marathon in May of 2012.  I'm hoping that with an extra bit of training, and some exerience and a flat course I'll be able to break 3:50.  3:45 would be a time I'd be very proud of, but I'll take 3:50.  I'm doing a recovery program as we speak, so training will start in earnest in a few weeks.

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[1] My rival is, in fact, a friend not a rival.  She will only be referred to as a rival because she stood between me and a Jack Daniel’s burger.

Reflections on September 11, 2001

             I hope you’ll forgive a bit of reflection in place of a true update, an update which is long overdue, and on its way.  I’m sure everyone remembers where they were when the heard of the attack.  I was a sophomore at Hendricken.  I had first period theology class with Ms. Magill.  Someone came in late, and asked if anything had happened.  Nobody in class knew anything; this was, of course, in the days before smart phones.  We heard an announcement over the loudspeaker that a plane had hit the World Trade Center, it seemed a terrible, but isolated incident.  Soon after, changing classes, we sloughed our assigned equations or fractions or radicals, or whatever we were doing in algebra, and watched the coverage.  I’m not sure if we were watching when the second plane hit, I know we weren’t when the first did, but the memory of the day is still crystal clear.

            I’m currently listening to NPR coverage.  I don’t know if I have the stomach to watch television coverage of the attacks.  The sympathetic tones of the NPR anchors are helpful for me, as well.  Even still, it’s emotional.  Listening to some of the stories, reading some of the information at times I’m almost physically ill.  Even as I type my face is burning, I don’t know why.  Burning as if I were embarrassed.  Perhaps I am.  This was the first time I realized that America doesn’t have every answer.  The first time I realized that there are people and ideologies that hate America, or at least their understanding of it.

            The day was most definitely the most significant day of my life.  It was undeniably the most earth-shattering and life changing.  I’m humbled listening to the stories of heroism.  I’m saddened listening to the stories of tragedy.  I’m uplifted hearing the story of the indomitability of the human spirit.

            The day is more significant, though, I think.  It’s a day for serious reflection.  Not only on what it is to be American, but what it was on September 12.  We’ve fallen away from the sense of unity that carries us few the scary days after the tragedy.  We answered the call as Americans answer every call:  heroically.  But quickly we moved away from it.  We alienated the world and our allies, polarized our politics, and have wrapped ourselves in the flag in a form of nationalistic chest thumping.

            The patriotism and optimism innate in being American are wonderful things.  We are sons and daughters of an incredible country, and I’m damn proud of it.  But, wrapping ourselves in the flag and saying “these colors don’t run” isn’t enough.  It’s not enough to be proud of being an American.  It’s not enough to fly the flag.  Go out and do something.  We should witness our patriotism by our actions, in our thoughts, and in our public discourse.  We should witness our patriotism by living up to our American ideals.  Let’s unify ourselves as a nation, as a people.  Saying once a year “never forgotten,” isn’t good enough either.  To be honest, I don’t know how to end this.  But it’s the life we live day after day.  A life we’ve been blessed by grace of God (or (accident of science) to live.  Let’s make the most of our opportunity.  Let’s not take our world for granted.  Remember today: not the destruction, and not the death, and not the fear.  Remember the sense of unity that brought us together; E Pluribus Unum made manifest.  This tragedy changed our lives, but like the phoenix we have risen, now we must overcome.  We must live lives that were worth saving.

I'll get off my soapbox now.

Be good,

Pete

Call Me On Your Way Back Home

Dear Friends, Family, Anonymous Readers:

After three weeks on the road I returned home on Saturday.  This is quite a significant statement.  I think this is the first time in the twenty-some months I’ve lived in Ukraine that I considered Zhmerynka home.  Furthermore, I, personally, am shocked that this place that drives me CRAZY, and steals my heart as soon as I’ve had absolutely enough, has come to feel like home.  Vacation is a hell of a thing, and I love to consider myself a rambling man; but, there is nothing like being on the road to remind me how much I enjoy the familiar, the routine.

            I can unequivocally say that this trip was one of the best.  I’ll give details about the places later.  I started in Kyiv.  I met a friend, and we travelled together to Krakow.  The next day I picked my parents up from the airport.  From Krakow we made our way to Warsaw for a night, and on to Barcelona.  Barcelona was terrific.  I said goodbye to my parents there, and made my way to Pamplona.  After a few sleepless nights, and bus station naps I made my way back to Barcelona.  Flying into Katowice, Poland, I got a bus to Krakow.  My train back to Ukraine was cancelled.  I took another bus into Lviv.  The bus to Lviv brought me to another bus to Lutsk, a city in northwestern Ukraine.  Another transfer brought me to a sanitarium called Prolisok, where I spent four days studying Ukrainian.

            Finally, after the language refresher I got back to Zhmerynka.  I arrived about 5:15 AM.  The best part of my arrival was learning that over the course of the previous three weeks I had left my key somewhere.  Ever the courteous tenant, I slept for a couple hours on my bags, waiting until 8:30 to call my landlord.  Another half hour later, key in hand, I opened the door and collapsed into my practiced home life.  Exhausted and contented I slept the entirety of the day away, at least (don’t tell my dad) until 3:00 PM.

            After waking up, I realized it wasn’t just a familiar bed, and a high pressure shower I was missing.  I missed the tree I sit and read under.  I missed my train station café.  I missed the taste of stale, flat and/or warm beer.  I missed my ChelentanoI missed the town I live in.  I missed my friends here.  Hell, I even missed the marshrutka ride to Vinnytsia (even if the price has gone up 1 hryvnia each way).  Maybe it was just my vanity.  It’s very possible I missed people whispering and children shouting “khello!” whenever I walk by.  Who knows?  All I can say is that I am back home, and I’m not misspeaking/mistyping by stating that.

That's all I've got for you.

Be good,

Pete

            

Saturday Nights and Sunday Mornings

Friends, Americans, Countrymen:

The end of the school year has come and gone since last we met.  Things are going well.  It’s been hot, but the heat is a welcome change from the frigid winter.  I think a friend of mine said it best when she said, and I’m paraphrasing here:  “After Ukraine, I never want to be cold again.”  Hopefully that isn’t something I’ll have to worry about for the remainder of my days here.  We are certainly in the homestretch.

As some of you may know, I’ve started training for the Kyiv Marathon which will take place on September 18^th.  In fact, I just finished my fifth week of training.  As I’m not much of a runner, I still absolutely hate running, and probably always will, I’ve made some dietary changes to help make this transition, and training as innocuous as possible.  One element of this has been the elimination of unnecessary beers, as much as that hurts to admit.  My already greatly reduced consumption[1] has been further decreased in the past few weeks.  Saturday night is the time now I allow myself to indulge my taste for liquid carbohydrates.

Being a sucker for tradition and various other pomps and circumstances I’ve started a new routine.  I should say first, that Saturday is the long run for this marathon training program.  Yesterday, for example, allowed me a nice little run of ten miles.  After such an onerous task in the morning, I feel the evening owes me a good time.  I’ve started haunting Café Relax at the train station in town.  The café allows me an outdoor perch on their balcony where I can rehydrate, read and generally stand sentry over the train station.

Saturday night supplies

I usually roll into the café around 8:30 PM.  It’s a little late, I know, but I still get an hour of good light, and then about an hour of twilight.  It takes limited supplies to have an enjoyable night here.  I need my glasses, my watch, a book and a couple of grizzles (as the Ukrainian unit of currency, hryvnia, is so affectionately known).  For the equivalent of $1.50, I can sit with my book, and enjoy a couple of draught beers.  If I want to add another $.50, I can add in a little bag of peanuts or croutons, and if I’m feeling really baller, I can get a portion of fried potatoes for $1.00.

When I’ve had enough of my book, I can sit back and watch the hustle and bustle of the train station itself.  This provides enjoyable people watching, interesting bird watching, and even anonymity – a difficult thing to find in my town.  The sights and sounds of these two hours vary every weekend, but they don’t stray too far from a general script.  There are people hawking various foods, beverages, adult beverages and salted fishes near the arriving trains.  There are usually Roma parents, looking for glass and plastic bottles while their children seek alms from philanthropic passers-through, and often to their consternation.

From my table the platforms at the train station.

If all this isn’t enough, just imagine, I get to see the militsiya in action; stopping people for documents, sending ne’er-do-wells on their way, and generally maintaining order.  Among all this activity there is a near constant cry from taxi drivers offering their services to a tired traveler.  This is done amid the continuous ring of announcements over the loudspeakers telling us which trains are arriving, and which are departing.  Surprisingly, while the station is constantly busy while I’m holding court, I very rarely have much company on my perch.

Train platforms and kiosks and taxis in the parking lot

Watching the day reach its logical conclusion at the train station is a relaxing enterprise.  I enjoy seeing people getting on and off trains.  While train travel itself has lost its romance for me, I still like seeing people getting out there into the world.  And, while I envy whatever adventure they just had, I’m usually glad they were able to have it.  I also take a bit of pleasure watching people sprint to trains that are starting to steam, grunt and hiss.  I don’t want them to miss their trains, but the endeavor is fun to watch.  It is even more satisfying knowing that I have nothing to do and nowhere to be . . . which is depressing for a Saturday night in its own right.

Now, don’t get me wrong, watching sunset descend on Zhmerynka, Ukraine is in no way comparable to sitting at Castle Hill, or one of the harbor-side bars or cafes in Newport, but it will do.  Sometimes appreciating where we are is all about the art of lowered expectations.  I’ll take this seat, and these evenings over sitting in my apartment looking at pictures, on facebook, of what all my friends are doing.  Hell, I’ll even admit that I enjoy these evenings.  Of course I’d prefer a bit more adventure and being a lot more rambunctious.  But, there is a time and a place for everything.  Soon enough I’ll get a little time off for bad behavior.[2]  All this said, I generally make my way home around the time the sky grows completely dark.

The day comes to its logical conclusion at the train station.

Sunday morning brings a day full of promise and choices.  When I wake up, I can choose whether or not I want to go back to bed, and there is usually a strong possibility that I would like to.  I carve an hour out of the day for a walk.  It is beneficial for my legs after the long run, and as an added bonus, I’m seeing parts of my town I had never seen before.  It’s surprising how much I didn’t know about, and how many places I had never seen.  The rest of Sunday can vary.  A Skype conversation or phone call may be on the agenda, sometimes I’ll be lucky and the Red Sox will have a day game that I can stream online.  Tonight was enjoyable; I was able to watch the USA – Jamaica soccer game.

This, of course, is a special Sunday.  I’d be remiss not to wish a sincere Happy Father’s Day, to all the fathers, and father-figures out there.  Some of us, especially those in my extended family, have been blessed in this regard, and we certainly don’t acknowledge it enough.  I can unequivocally say that I would not be where I am, both literally and figuratively, without the influence of the man lovingly referred to as Big Dave.  I was lucky to be able to speak with my parents, brother and sister today.  Even better than that, in just a short time I’ll be meeting my parents in the Krakow airport ready to show them my favorite non-Newport city.

But, it’s late, and that’s all I’ve got for you.  So, I hope things are going well, and summer weather is making its way into your lives.  Things are good here.  I’d love to hear from everyone.  Feel free to send me an email, or poke me on facebook, or send me letter, I’ll even get a fax machine if that would be more conducive.

Be good,

Pete

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[1] Greatly reduced, but it was coming from a pretty high standard which would have been difficult to maintain.

[2] Pamplona should consider itself warned.

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.

The Day I Almost Summited the Highest Mountain in Ukraine

Dear friends, family and fearless readers:

When I was given the offer of a trip to Mt. Hoverla, the highest mountain in Ukraine, I responded with an emphatic “eh, sure, why not?”  I’ve always been such an ardent adventurer!  The trip was planned for the Saturday and Sunday following our spring break.  A large group was going; over a hundred American Peace Corps Volunteers, some 400 or so Ukrainians, and a number of Germans (there are a number of young Germans working in Ukraine in a similar manner to Peace Corps Volunteers).

            

To get to Mt. Hoverla our group needed to meet in Lviv.  Around 10:00 PM a train reserved entirely for our group would push off for a town called Vorokhta – about a seven or eight hour journey on the train (the train was rolling along quite slowly).  From the train station we squeezed into some buses and made rolled along to the mountain, about twenty minutes away.  This was where we would begin our glorious ascent.

            

Being that our trip took us through Lviv, it was only natural to spend a little time in the “City of Lions”.  I’ve said before, and it bears repeating, that Lemberg, Lwow, Lvov, or Lviv[1], I don’t care how you say it; it’s my favorite city in Ukraine.  Our contingent consisted of me, my sitemate[2], and three of our friends from town.  We did a lot of the usual tourisy thing on Friday.  We climbed the town in the middle of Market Square.  We went to little back-alley cafes.  We walked around near the opera house, and through the craft bazaar, and along Shevchenko Prospect.  The general idea was to wander around and enjoy the city.  It was a nice way to spend a Friday waiting for a train.  As much as I enjoyed the city, its cafes and its delicious restaurants, it was a difficult place to spend a Friday in the middle of Lent.  I don’t need to eat meat everyday, but it’s tough to not be able to with good restaurants all around.  The effects of this failure to satisfy my carnivorous desires were dire.  The effects were not felt until the next morning though, when I failed to live up to my Boy Scout past.  This is to say that I failed to be prepared for the journey up the mountain.  I had a bag of gummy bears for a snack, but no food or water.

On top of the tower in Market Square, Lviv

A back-alley cafe in Lviv

Rocking out on Market Square in Lviv

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[1] Different names given to Lviv over the years (German, Polish, Russian and Ukrainian); the names are indicative of what country/empire was governing the city.

[2] Sitemate is Peace Corps jargon for another Peace Corps Volunteer living in the same town/village/city.

When we loaded onto the train I made my bed and was out ready for sleep within the hour.  I am embarrassed to say it, but I couldn’t even finish my beer before I was called into my slumber.  By the time I woke up I thought I had entered that inferno Dante wrote about.  It took a minute to realize it was just a Ukrainian train car with the heat turned way up.  I caught my breath, put on my big-boy jeans, a windbreaker and a fleece, put a hat in my pocket and was ready to go.

            

We squeezed onto buses, and after a twenty minute drive were at the gate to the national park in which Mt. Hoverla stands.  After getting to the gate of the park the buses stopped.  We got off the buses, and wandered a bit.  There was a small market by the gate, which naturally attracted us.  Me, and a new friend Phillip went up to the shop only to be disappointed.  It was closed.  Adventurers that we are, we walked around the shop, saw a little valley, and we could hear a river flowing.  We decided the only logical next step was to go down and check out the river.  After poking around, jumping across ice, and letting our inner frontiersmen out we headed back up to the gate of the park.  The buses were all gone when we got back, but that did not seem strange.  There was good news:  the store had opened up during our little side trip.  In the shop we purchased some victuals; we got a loaf of bread, a hunk of sausage and some cheese.  We also got a bottle of water, and some celebratory Ukrainian champagne for the summit.  If you’re going to climb, you should climb in style.

Packed up with our nourishing supplies we walked past the gate ready to start our journey in earnest.  As soon as we passed the gate a park ranger came out of the guard booth.  “Who are you?  What are you doing here?  Why aren’t you on the buses?  Your cell phones won’t work in there!  You cannot go in.  You must wait for the next group!”  Shamefaced we went back to the shop, sat around and waited.  The shop did have some tasty coffee, so that was a plus.

My new friend Phillip and I at the beginning of the hike up Hoverla

Now it should be said, as an aside, that I am no stranger to getting lost.  In fact, those of you that were at my “good riddance, get lost” party before I left may remember.  My father asked people at the party to say something about me; a pleasant memory or anything of the kind.  Other than my roommate Pat’s reply, “I have a lot of memories, but I don’t think any are appropriate to share right now,” the best answer came from my grandmother.  “He was . . . ,” and then there was a short pause, “always getting lost.”  This was by no means an inaccurate statement.  Getting lost has been one of my fortes since the early days.  When I was six and my family went to Disney World my parents had to keep me on a leash.  When I explore new cities I frequently start walking with no idea where I’m going.  Hell, it even happened in Egypt causing quite a commotion among the resort staff.

            

About an hour after we had gotten off the original buses the next group of buses came.  One of the drivers was kind enough to stop and let us in, and we were given a number of confused looks by the driver and passengers alike.  Quickly the road turned around a corner and we saw a sign that said Hoverla – 12 km.  We were immediately thankful the park ranger had caught us.  That would have been a long hike just to get to the beginning of the trail.

            

A benefit of making this trip far after the group was that we got to go completely at our own pace.  We could stop when we wanted, and go when we wanted.  We could also talk about anything with much greater candor than a huge group would allow for.  In fact, other than a few times when we weren’t exactly sure if we were on the right trail, I’d probably say I am happy we took the lonely road after the group.  Another benefit of going after the group was that only one person was witness to the ridiculous contortions I made at different points along to the trail in an effort not to fall.  I only ended up falling once along the trail.  Big trees fall hard, remember that.

            

Going up the mountain was interesting.  We had different weather conditions along the way, as well.  At the beginning there was a light rain.  After about a half hour we reached a milestone and the light rain turned into hail.  A bit further up, in the middle of a forested section of the trail there was no precipitation.  And finally, on the last part of the climb there was some of the hardest snow I’ve been in for quite a while.  The snow and ice made the trail and the climb a lot more difficult than I expected.  For most of the days prior to the trip I had been making jokes about the mountain.  It’s Ukraine’s highest peak, but it’s only about 6,200 feet high.  When I was actually on it, it had its revenge.

            

One of the issues of going behind the group is that we were not able to hit the summit.  People labeled “alpinists” were allowed to summit.  This involved having special boots, and special poles to help along in the climb.  We did not have either.  I didn’t even have a heavy jacket.  There is only one volunteer I know of that was able to get to the summit.  He did this by going way in front of the leader.  Missing the buses we did not have that option.  Even if we hadn’t missed the buses I’m not sure I’m in good enough shape to have had that option.

Channeling my inner mountaineer 

Germans and Americans on top of the mountain

This is the highest point I got to.  I look like I could be doing an album cover for Creed.

By the time we caught up to the group the stragglers were making their ascent up the final stretch we were allowed to climb to, and the non-stragglers were on their way back down.  This final stretch was particularly harried.  We were fish against the stream.  And this stream was practically an avalanche.  People were sliding down the snow on their asses, and there were more than a few injuries, and out of control people.  People tumbling past, and in pain is not the most reassuring sight.  But, after a number of slips, a few falls, getting my leg stuck in snow drifts we finally made it to the false summit.  We celebrated for a bit up there.  We shared champagne among friends.  Classy as we are, it was straight from the bottle.  We had some sandwiches with our sausage and cheese, and made a communal meal of the gummy bears.  The view from the top was gorgeous, snow capped mountains and pine forests.  It was cold and snowy at the top, as well.

A long, rainy walk to the bottom 

There were two portions of the walk down.  The first was the beginning of the descent.  This was above the tree line, and the snow was deep.  While walking and trying valiantly to keep my balance I decided the most expedient way to get through this portion was a controlled slide.  Using my hard parts (elbows and knees) for speed control I did some serious sliding.  It was terrific fun, other than the snow getting down my pants.  The slide was a bit dangerous.  A drunk man made the slide.  He had no interest in speed control and almost took off my head.  I screamed a string of profanities at him in English and Ukrainian before gaining my composure.  I was half hoping he went spread eagle into a tree.  No such luck.  Following this slide was the remainder of the walk.  The walk down was not nearly as long as the walk up.  This isn’t saying much, though, because it seemed to take forever.  There was a hotel about halfway down.  This hotel had some advertisements around it.  These were fresh ads for Pringles and for Red Bull.  Tired and hungry I was excited to see if they had either.  Unfortunately there was a snowboarding competition on some other part of the mountain and these were just sponsor ads.  There were no Pringles or Red Bull to be found.  This wouldn’t be disappointing if the ads were not all over the place.  I have theorized that this is partially to blame for the walk back down being so miserable.  Other aspects are the fall I took straight onto my tailbone, and the fact that I was absolutely soaked by a combination of various forms of precipitations and perspiration.  This combination caused the walk down to seemingly last and eternity.  It was miserable, and cold, and we all wanted hot food (or Pringles and Red Bull).

I'm not sure my face adequately expresses my discomfort.  The guy in the back right corner was really drunk, and almost knocked my head of sliding down completely out of control.  I called him some bad names I'd prefer not to repeat in public.

A group of volunteers refueling and rehydration after an arduous journey

When we got down to the base we had to wait for a bus to come back and pick us up.  The bus that finally got us was not very warm, and absolutely stunk of exhaust.  Then again, what is a little bit of carbon monoxide between friends, right?  The bus did its job and got us back to the train.  After quickly changing into some warm dry clothes we hit a restaurant close by the train station.  After a bowl of borscht, chicken and some potatoes I got to work rehydrating (read draining my wallet).  I think I must have done a pretty good job, because my wallet was much lighter by the end of the night.  Back on the train we spent some more time unwinding and the like before getting to bed.  I woke up in Lviv ready to sleep another million hours.  I caught a train home, and slept the entire time.  Back in Zhmerynka I can’t recall what I did, but I imagine it was a bit of horizontal meditation.

So, the moral of the story:  buy food beforehand.  Don’t leave the group.  And, dress in warm dry clothes if you’re going up a mountain.

That’s all I know for now.

Be good,

Pete