My favorite sport is running. It can be done anywhere, doesn't depend on expensive equipment (other than shoes) and is a return to the primal - putting a cerebral writer in daily touch with his animal self. It is therapy, it's "moving meditation;" it's a spiritual practice in physical form. I could write a book about how running changed my life - and did (Angeles Crest: A Memoir in the Books section). Running marathons (26.2 miles) and ultramarathons (50-100 miles) appeals to me, for the more I push the limits, the more I lift my spirits. I try to finish each standard marathon under 4 hours. A sub-4 hour marathon is an indicator of high fitness levels. As my Polish grandfather said: "I have two doctors - my right leg and my left!" It's not about racing each marathon flat-out (that way you inevitably get injured). What's important is not how quickly you get to the destination -- but what you learn during the journey, about yourself and the world, each step of the way. Here's a rundown of races and places. My ultimate goal is to try to run 100 marathons! -M.M.
32,685 runners packed together under and in front of the historic Arc de Triomphe. "Designated Pacers" at the start wearing different colored balloons that rise above the sea of runners. Pick a buoyant color/finishing time and then relax - simply stay within sight of your balloons. Knowing you're on pace, you're free to sightsee and let the mind wander -- past all the architectural marvels and historic sights of Paree. Tres Bon!!
"You go to Heaven if you want," wrote Mark Twain. "I'll stay in Bermuda." The mid-Atlantic island chain (bunched together), 600 miles east of North Carolina is shaped like a fishhook and crowns an extinct underwater volcano. The sea is turquoise, the beaches pink (colored from the eroded skeletons of the red foraminifer, a tiny protozoan) and there's a mix of manicured English gardens, rhythmic Gombey dancers, primary-colored houses, sailboats in the harbors, and tourists on mopeds. The shipwreck capital of the Atlantic, there are more than 400 wrecks among 200 square miles of coral reefs ringing the islands. The marathon is two laps around. Hilly and scenic and high-fives from smiling, soulful natives. Finished 84th out of 379 entrants -- top 25%. Afterwards, enjoyed a fresh seafood dinner and slow-sipped a shot of Dark & Stormy rum while watching the sun sink into the sea. Real men may not eat
quiche, but for the Bermuda Marathon they proudly wear a little pink number!
(58) BIG ISLAND HAWAII
(59) MOUNT RUSHMORE
 "What you would destroy, you first portray as savage." Bertolt Brecht |  "They made us many promises, more than I can remember --- They never kept but one; they promised to take our land, and they took it!" Red Cloud, Lakota, 1891  |  "Memory says, 'I did that.' Pride replies, 'I could not have done that.' Eventually, memory yields." Friedrich Nietzsche |
Amazing how within the same framework of 26.2 miles, each race is totally different. No matter how many marathons run, each time starting all over. Instead of cursing the ice or my leg -- relaxed (not easy when tides of runners came flowing past). Listened to the pain; didn't force the (t)issue and managed to carry on through to the finish. Not a fast time (4:04:31), but from "its-the-journey-not-the-destination" perspective -- an effort I'm very proud of.
After the race, visited with the great author Pat Conroy in his hometown of Beaufort, South Carolina. Met Pat when we both were Guest Speakers aboard a Crystal cruise ship off Africa. Beaufort, so picturesque with the centuries-old oak trees dripping with Spanish moss and the southern mansions haunted with Pat's personal history and incredible cast of characters from his novels. He pointed out where Barbara Streisand stayed while filming "The Prince of Tides"; Robert Duval during "The Great Santini." Wonderful evening with Pat and his wife, Cassandra King, great novelist in her own right, in their cozy home on an island in the salt-marsh, low country. We sipped wine and talked about books, creativity, travels in front of a crackling fire. "My soul grazes like a lamb on the beauty of indrawn tides." --Pat Conroy.
Most laid-back and enjoyable of the marathons so far. 200 runners gathered early in the pre-dawn darkness in Negril, the remote and nature-dominated west side of the island. Natives raised flaming bamboo torches and Rastafarian drummers called down the spirits of fair competition and mutual respect. A horn sounded and off we went on an out and back course with spectacular views of the tri-colored, tropical ocean and we ran through an Eden jungle edging the road that emitted a lush vital vibe, with 3,000 varieties of flowering plants on the island, including 800 species found nowhere else in the world. The Jamaican birds are flying jewels. (In fact, when Ian Fleming was writing a series of spy novels on the island -- needing a name for his main character, he happened to glance at a nearby book: The Birds of Jamaica by. . . James Bond. Tweedy ornithologist immortalized as studly 007. We passed through sleepy villages full of smiling faces. With the tropical sun blazing during the latter miles, the heat and humidity were eased by gentle breezes off the ocean and the Aid stations were well-stocked with water and Gatorade in plastic pint squeeze pouches, enabling you to sip without spilling, maintaining full hydration. However, the real fuel for going the distance was the ever-present Reggae music from live bands and boom boxes. Of all the styles of music, the reggae rhythm is said to most resemble the human heartbeat. Perfect for running. I'd catch a smooth groove and ride it like sonic surf. At the finish line we were rewarded with coconuts and Red Stripe beer, and I topped off the morning with a dive into the ocean from 7 Mile Beach, one of the most beautiful stretches of sand in the world. Ja' Mon. Every little 'ting was covered in a relaxed and friendly manner. "One Love," all the way.
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 Q: "What is worn under a kilt?" |
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 A: "Nothing is worn lass. It's all in perfect working order!" |
The catalyst for visiting the Catalonian city of Barcelona was to see Antoni Gaudi's architecture. Gaudi and Barcelona surpassed expectations. Barcelona, in the northeast corner of Spain, is the largest city on the Mediterranean Sea. Called "The Spanish Paris," "The Capital of the Future," and "The Territory of Illusions" it takes ancient history, urban energy, and bold style to new heights. Wondering if Gaudi was gaudy (responsible for introducing a new word to the English language) -- took in his soaring church, organic-style apartment buildings, and colorful park -- now convinced of his genius, especially his revolutionary use of trencadis tiling, a decorative art form which consists of smashing up ceramics and piecing them back together in mosaic patterns that sing to the soul. Gaudi's works have hallucinatory power, stemming from natural-based forms. One of the greatest strolling streets in the world is La Rambla in old town Barcelona. What used to be an ancient river bed is now a tree-lined promenade nearly a mile long filled with an endless parade of people streaming past newspaper kiosks, flower and bird stalls, human statues, mirthful mimes, elegant cafes, a grand opera house, a splendid farmer's and confectionary market, attractive prostitutes, invisible pickpockets, and people looking to charge more for a shoeshine than what you paid for the shoes. In short, a mish-mash moving pageant of life, itself. Spanish poet Federico Garcia Lorca once said that La Rambla was "the only street in the world which I wish would never end." After three days and nights of taking in all of Barcelona's endless fascinations, my legs were somewhat spent heading into the marathon, but immediately rebooted after the strongest triple espresso ever in the hotel bar, pre-race. Midway through the marathon, on pace to finish under 4 hours, I came up on a runner who was stiffening and grabbing the backs of his legs. Struck up a conversation with an editor from the French newspaper, Le Monde (The World). Exchanging names, he said: "We printed a story from a Modzelewski about how he nearly died after getting malaria in Africa." "That be me." Small Monde! The editor's first marathon, and I diagnosed his leg cramps as most likely triggered by a lack of electrolytes. Advised that he gulp down the sports drink (or a Spanish espresso!), not water at the aid stations, and then he was fine as the race progressed. Helped him to the finish -- talking travels, French cuisine, and the writing biz as we ran past historical and artful monuments and over cobblestone lanes in the Gothic Quarter, coming in at 4:15. Afterwards, a wonderful celebratory meal of fresh seafood Tapas, washed down with a crisp Albarino white wine. Viva La Espana. Now and forever-more, I'm a rambling La Rambla man!
My husband was running his 74th marathon in Honolulu, Hawaii, and I was anxiously jostling for space with the other spectators, waiting for him to cross the finish line at Waikiki Beach. I kept glancing at my watch, at first not letting it bother me that he seemed to be later than his usual finishing time of under 4 hours. The minutes ticked by endlessly. . . Michael was middle-aged, but in great shape, with a history of two 100 milers in the mountains of California under his belt, as well as winning a race on The Great Wall of China. He is an adventure travel writer of documentaries and author of several books, including Angeles Crest, about ultramarathon running and the rewards of maintaining peak physical fitness. He'd climbed several major mountains, including Kilimanjaro, up the most challenging route. The hairs stood up on my arms now as he was more than an hour past his normal finishing time. Something was definitely wrong!
As a coincidence, I'd just had my husband's hero, Jack LaLanne, on my plane the week before (I am a flight attendant). Jack LaLanne was with his lovely wife, Elaine, going from New York to Los Angeles after filming a commercial to advertise his new book, Live Young Forever. He said he was 96, and his beautiful wife admitted to being 85. They were a dynamic, vibrant couple, a shining example of physical and mental fitness, that would put people to shame decades younger. Jack wanted to get down on the floor of First Class to do pushups! I excitedly told them he was my husband's absolute hero for being the first person to start the physical fitness movement and how he changed the world for it. I joked that my Michael repeated a couple of Jack's famous "LaLanne-isms" right after finishing every marathon -- pointing to his legs and crowing: "You bastards work for me!" and "Jack, you did it again!" (What Jack LaLanne said after his daily workouts). On the airplane, Jack beamed when I told him how Michael emulated his daily workout discipline and worshipped his tenacity. They let me have my photo taken with them, and Elaine had Jack sign a publicity picture and promised to send their new book to Michael as a surprise.
I had always laughed at Michael repeating those two hilarious, hokey LaLanne-isms -- but now waiting and waiting at the Honolulu finish line, how I wished I could hear them again. WHERE WAS HE?
Michael's father, his other hero, played professional football for the Cleveland Browns in the late 1950's and 60's, and his uncle played for the New York Giants during all their championship years. The Modzelewski brothers used football as their way out of the coal mines of western Pennsylvania to the NFL. Michael played football as a wide received for the University of Maryland until accidentally breaking an opponent's knee, which resulted in him feeling so bad that he lost his thirst for the game. He dropped out of the sport, replacing football with long-distance running. He was so proud to be his father's son, but always feared that he had let him down. He was determined to excel in his new physical passion and make his Dad proud.
My cell phone rang, startling me. Michael never ran with his phone. I saw a strange number and answered. It was Michael on the other end. He sighed deeply, so chagrined to tell me that they started the 22,000 Honolulu marathon runners at 5 a.m., in the darkness, to stay ahead of the tropical heat, and that two miles into the race, with the field all bunched together -- crossing a median -- he didn't see the step-down curb, and severely sprained his left ankle. He stopped at the next Aid Station and in the medical tent had his throbbing ankle wrapped in an elastic bandage, and then pressed on -- walking all the way now to Mile 20 where he borrowed a spectator's cell phone to call me. He sheepishly asked: "Will you run towards the runners, find me, and walk the last couple miles with me for mental support?" In all the years we had been together, he had never been sick once or the slightest bit injured, and always took care of me when I had a couple bouts with cancer. The least I could do was help him now. He said there was no way he would "DNF" (Did-Not-Finish) -- as quitting was not in his nature.
I ran towards him on the sidelines past the flowing tide of runners until I breathlessly spotted him doggedly hobbling towards the finish line. Walking alongside him, I kept up a babble, my usual talkative self, to divert his pain. He probably wasn't even listening to the chatter, but appreciated the comfort of my presence.
Michael crossed the finish line in 8 hours and 30 minutes, more than twice as long as it normally took him to run. After he received his beautiful medal, he continued his usual post-race traditions -- placing the medal around MY neck, giving me a long kiss, then spouting: "JACK, YOU DID IT AGAIN!" We both burst into tears from the extreme effort and courage Michael demonstrated to once again be able to earn and spout that 'routine' LaLanne-ism .
Now that his adrenalin and steel-resolve was wearing-off, he began to limp with severe pain. We waved down a taxi and went to Queen Mary Hospital where his ankle was X-rayed. The good news was that nothing was broken; the bad news was that his ankle and foot were hideously swollen and discolored. The Honolulu ER doctor and nurses, used to dealing with many exotic injuries such as shark bites, errant missile-like surf board concussions, nasty coral cuts, said they had never seen a foot and ankle like that! They probably thought him a bit foolish, but in their eyes I could see their admiration towards Michael for walking 24 miles on such a severe sprain to finish their hometown marathon.
A month later, with the best care from great doctors and physical therapists back home, and learning "Whoa" for awhile after constant "Go," Michael was miraculously, almost completely healed. He was once again reminded of his hero. We lay in bed with our morning coffee and opened the newspaper to see the headline: "JACK LALANNE, DEAD AT 96, A LEGEND LOST." Michael tossed the paper aside, dropped to the floor and pumped off 50 pushups, then jumped up and took his first run around the room -- pointing to the sky and saying quietly: "Jack, you did it again."
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| Adventures Unlimited
by Michael Modzelewski, E-mail: AdventureM@aol.com | ||
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