The Amazing Race

The autumn sun was just beginning to make progress as we mounted our bikes and rode towards the starting line. Tents and booths had been erected and although morning had not yet broke, there was a buzz beneath the hills in the tiny beachside town. This would be my third year riding the MS ride, building awareness and raising money to battle this disease. With an ocean of blackness to our right, we rode like silhouettes through the brisk morning air.

To the others on my team, sixty-five was just a number, a distance, they did not have the knowledge of what lay in store. To me, sixty-five stood as a true test ahead, a day, a battle, between yourself and the road. In 2008 and 2009, Katherine and I had rode thirty and sixty mile courses respectively. This was to be our longest distance. I remembered the previous pain as I once again prepared with nervous excitement. What the hell I was doing? Phil Keoghan, host of one of our favorite shows The Amazing Race, is the master of ceremonies. Katherine and I have contemplated going after the million dollars, the prize of the show, ourselves and have actually filled out The Amazing Race application, but we have always worried about the pressure our relationship would feel in some of those situations. I am a pretty competitive guy and would probably end up looking like the worlds biggest a-hole on national television. For now though, my race lied in the hills that surrounded us and we began to get ready to ride.

Our Team before the ride

My mom was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis back in the early 80’s. Many doctors met us with the doom and gloom, as they themselves really didn’t know the full cause and effects of the disease. My dad, shortly after hearing of my mom’s diagnosis, left her with a five, a three and a ten-month old, along with her own mother who was dying of Alzheimer’s disease. That guy’s a real peach, let me tell you. I could only imagine the fear my mom felt as she sat alone in the kitchen at night, medical bills piling up, kids growing, hungry, angry. These are some of the thoughts that ran through my mind as we began our day, a biker gang of over 900 people, riding together for my mom, and other people with MS.

Me sis and me mom

The cool morning air was a welcome relief as we began to ascend the mountains. Our team started each leg together, traveled a distance, then met at the next rest stop. Allen and Eric were both having a lot of fun with it—the course being less competitive and even trending toward happiness, charity and completion. We found ourselves out on the course, whether on a long stretch passing farms or in the middle of a huge hill with knats swarming our faces, we were forced to be with ourselves, our thoughts, like castaways. It gets strange out there at times, the heat, the soft buzz of nature, the pulse of the race. We spent the whole day drenched in sweat, cursing the teammate that suggested this distance. In this case, this was me. Eric drank four gallons of water that day, literally. Hell, I barely weigh four gallons. We pushed on, up and over Casitas Pass, which is pretty much like Mt. Kilamanjaro in Ventura, men and women of all shapes and sizes cheering each other on, cursing the damn road, the damn hills, the damn disease.

By lunchtime, my team hated me. I could feel their eyes hitting my sweaty neck like daggers as they thought of strangling me. Trying to avoid mutiny on the high seas, or in this case, the high hills, I would calm them by telling them the hills were over. This would work each time to diffuse the anger but as we began to ride again and encountered more hills, their hate only increased at each rest stop we reached.

Alone, riding on a shaded hill with my thoughts, I picked up a conversation behind me. Two riders, a man and a woman had started a conversation and the lady asked the man why he was riding or for whom. With emotions swelling, he told her that his wife had recently been diagnosed with MS. My heart broke. I looked at this man who was no older than 45, twelve years older than me, and I felt for him. He went onto to say his wife of 15 years had been diagnosed last year and had quickly dissipated. The disease had a hold of his girl, and little tears welled up in my eyes for him, for my mom, for us, humanity as a whole and our short feeble existence. He was trying everything he could to help her, their oldest daughter transferred colleges to be closer to home and help out. I just kept thinking about Katherine and how I wanted to protect her from everything and my mom, who although has had to battle for many years, has really stood her ground against this disease. This man’s story reminded me how real this ride was.

I felt alive. From the beginning when some of those suffering with the disease sent us off, those affected personally, or throughout when someone riding stayed with us, pushing us, not giving in. For those few hours we fight back. We raise money, we raise spirits, we scream out for all of those who can’t anymore. On this ride, we saw the world from the ground level, the dust and dirt, sweat and steam of humanity. We begin to forget the hills and remember the race. I thought about my mom in the 80’s, young with a heavy burden. I thought about this man and his wife, their daughter and her college years. I thought about Katherine and our future, the highs and lows rolling along like the hills I now traversed. I thought about the Amazing Race and realized it was life. We keep riding, good or bad it won’t stop for us, and we must compete.

The team met up to ride across the finish line together. The sun now sat over the ocean to our right. Perched in its mid-afternoon position it gazed on us as a defeated opponent. We laughed with drained adrenaline as our aching bodies rode those final meters. Drunkenly trying to high-five, we looked exhausted. I was tired and grouchy and happy to see my beautiful wife. Her and her father did the thirty- mile route this year and had finished a while before us. Like Tonto I petted my bike as I parked her and headed towards the food. We all sat around and laughed, tired and proud. We had done it. We had shouted from the tops of the surrounding mountains for those that could not shout anymore. We had ridden for a cause, fighting against an opponent that has been known to me since I was two. A small battle won. I called my mom later that day to tell her we had finished and how much money the race had raised, over one million dollars. She said she had been wearing the MS shirt I sent her all day, and maybe next year she’ll come out and show me how to take those hills.

Ready for a shower

Early morning swim, the day after

My friends think you’re Spanish

Lions in the street

Lions in the street and roaming

Dogs in heat, rabid, foaming

A beast caged in the heart of the city

-JDM

It’s official. I have kissed a girl and drank a beer on six of the seven continents.  On a side note, Antartica is on the bucket list, but I am just having a little trouble talking my California girl into braving the cold with me.  Anything below 60 degrees Fahrenheit might as well be freezing.  I’ve read a lot about Ernest Shackleton so the trip, when it happens, is already planned out.  I am getting a little ahead of myself though. Let’s continue with Africa.

My first Tusker...of the morning

After three days in Amboseli, Julius, (our driver guide) drove us back into Nairobi for a night to prepare ourselves for the bulk of our safari.  The three days in Amboseli/Kilimanjaro was something extra we added on as a tribute to one of my writing heroes.

With three days in the bush under our belt, our confidence level had risen and my Kiswahili was getting better. For the most part, the Kenyans welcomed us, and the fact that I was putting a lot of effort into learning their culture made them excited to teach me more.  Julius had told us that Kenyans have an exceptional gift of knowing people’s character immediately after meeting them.  You two have warm faces, he said, smiling faces. Everyone can see your goodness through your eyes.  It was true: the people loved us.  Katherine will tell you, at some of our buffet-style meals, I would have one or two of the African girls following me from dish to dish, encouraging me to try this and try that.  We were also generous with our money.  Two dollars equal about two hundred Kenyan shillings, a good tip.  Most of the other tourists were Euros and Indians who don’t tip at all.  We, on the other hand, were tipping the shit out of people.  More than once, we had someone shake our hand with true gratitude in their eyes after we left them a few dollars tip.

When we travel, we are ambassadors for our country.  With this in mind, we really try to not only adapt to the culture, but to learn and engross ourselves in it.  We treat others as we want to be treated.

Heading back to Nairobi from Amboseli, we had stopped at another Curio shop to use the restroom.  At these stops and at the lodges, Julius would sit for small meals or coffee with the other driver guides, many of whom were his friends.  My friends think you’re Spanish, he told us this particular afternoon as we loaded back into the van. They say you are fit and not fat and loud like normal Americans.  This was sad for me to hear.  Although I was happy to be compared to the Spanish who are a real sexy culture, I was sad to know that our country was generalized as overweight and loud.  Unfortunately, I have been a witness to some of this obnoxious behavior while abroad and, as bad as it sounds, Katherine and I try to avoid other Americans when we are traveling.  We see a restaurant full of Americans — we keep moving.  When we are away, we want to be away. I think sometimes people travel to foreign countries and expect to have all the same luxuries we enjoy at home.  And, when disappointed, this same spoiled lot throws a supersized fit.  Do not fret, my fellow Americans, if the American pie is tart when we arrive to a place, we try to leave the people with a fresh piece to chew on.  Every culture has some bad points; we are not the only point of ridicule around the world. With all this in mind, we were told three Canadians would be joining us in the morning for the rest of our safari.  We can handle that, we thought.

We took a cab through the Nairobi night in a true summer thunderstorm to a popular restaurant called Carnivore.  I ate crocodile, ostrich and camel, which was nasty.  No, I did not eat the Ox balls.

They used to have lion, zebra and giraffe on the menu until the Kenya government banned it 3 years ago

The following morning we met the Johnson’s who were actually Americans from Utah, not Canadians.  They were nice people and Mormons, and I must admit I was a little sad that they didn’t bring any sister wives or hot girls like in Big Love.  We headed north towards Mount Kenya.  Our night was to be spent at a quiet mountain lodge deep in the rainforest.  The lodge was built above a large watering hole; since the animals came to us, there were no game drives or activities.  It was pretty slow.  On our balcony made of indigenous branches and woods, Katherine and I just read and wrote and enjoyed the sounds of the rainforest.

The watering hole

To be honest, the highlight of my day was when a bird flew directly into the window below where I was writing and a monkey came over and ate it.

Monkey lunch

With all the down time, I decided to Skype my little nephew.  After talking for a few minutes, I told him to be very quiet and I would take the laptop out on the balcony and show him the watering hole.  It couldn’t have been planned any better because as soon as we went out, a whole family of elephants strolled into the clearing.  These were the first we had seen all day and I was really stoked to be sharing this moment with my nephew. It’s nice to have a new little Crowley coming up, and although I think he is instructed not to listen to anything I say, I like to teach him things I wish I would have learned earlier.  He calls me Tio.

Again, we headed north, through the green and the brown, the grass and the groves, seeing Africa from the ground level, seeing the people as they really are, as they really live.  I have always felt that if some danger does not exist, it is not a true adventure, and although the lodges and their safety were wonderful, our time on the road was equally as inspiring.  In Kenya, everyone waves.  We waved to the women walking by, the men digging ditches. The best were the kids.  A group would see the van approaching and, with no reservation, would light up their faces with smiles and wave those little hands.  This made me feel connected to the country, to the people, to humanity.  Africa is the most beautiful place I have been. Also the most tragic.

The children

We crossed the Equator on foot.  By the end of our trip we had crisscrossed the Equator a total of four times, and it was pretty amazing to see the crude water demonstrations showing the different directions of the Earth’s rotation.  We were happy, our little group, and we continued together through the dream.

Walking to another hemisphere

The next few days were spent in the Samburu and Shaba areas.  The lodge was beautiful and right on the Ewaso Nyiro River. We got our first glimpse of crocodiles (Julius calls them dragons,) and which scare the shit out of me. I got a massage in a tent, side by side with Katherine. I just kept thinking, This is the first time I’ve ever been naked in a room with three girls at the same time.  I know, I know, hard to believe it was a first, but it was.

My three ladies, well my lady and two others that were just in the same room when I was naked

We had some epic game drives here, and I was really starting to get used to this.  I felt like old Papa himself, spending the mornings and dusk in the bush while reading and relaxing in the afternoons.  We got our first close view of duma, an animal that is just art. The afternoon sunsets seemed to sprinkle magic onto the landscapes.  Katherine and I held hands at night walking to dinner.  Our yearly savings, sacrifices, bought us this and I couldn’t help thinking what a fucking deal I got.

Some pictures from Samburu/ Shaba

Samburu woman

Vulturine Gunieafowls

Duma

Egret in flight

Magic

Back to the lab again

Guess who’s back
Back again
Crowley’s back
Tell a friend
Guess who’s back, guess who’s back, guess who’s back, guess who’s back
guess who’s back, guess who’s back.

Jambo, Bonjour, hola, hello, and cheers my dear dear friends.  I have been thinking of you and did not want you to think I’ve abandoned you to this crazy world.  Summer has been busy, and I am sure you can all relate.  We don’t even have kids and I feel like I haven’t had a free moment.  In fact, when we do have kids we are going to have a governess.  Not a Nanny, a straight up governess like Mary Poppins or the lady that gets the kids to sing Doe a deer.  I want her to be a German or a Russian, one of those tough nationalities that still have some beauty and beautiful people.

I have been thinking about writing a lot these past few weeks, jotting down my mental notes of love and disgust for humanity. In all honesty, when I last left off I was emotionally drained from Africa, the trip, the travel, the side effects from the Malaria pills.  Plus, we had my four favorite living Brits come right into town and stay with us for two weeks; and you know the English, all they want to do is eat fish and chips and watch the world famous Philadelphia Phillies.

 

The Vanderschuits and moi

I had fully intended in coming back last week but ended up getting really boozed all weekend and looking more like a Bukoski  character then the dashing young man you all know and love.  In fact, it wasn’t until this morning as I was coming home from boot camp that I finally caught it.  I was driving through one of the neighborhoods around my house and on the right hand side of the street stood a man.  He was an old man, wearing old man clothes of mismatched sweats and a grandkid’s college colors.  He stood in front of a row of houses and was looking across the street up into the sky.  I found this interesting because along with his clothing I had noticed dark black sunglasses and a long walking cane for the blind. I studied this blind man as he stood there and studied his eternal darkness.  As I watched him, he began to raise his arms.  As I followed what would have been his line of sight, I realized that he stood in the direct path of the new morning sun coming through the houses.  Comforting him, the sun sat on the old man’s body, it’s warmth sliding into the dark shadows of  his reality.  This all happened in a matter of twenty seconds as I drove by.  My heart really wanted to scream at the scene, at the beauty and tragedy of it.  It was the poetry that pushed me back to the page.

We have many things to catch up on.  I will finish up Africa, talk about the Brits and my birthday in San Fran.  We will look in to see how the world famous Philadelphia Phillies are coming along and continue to talk shit on our fellow man.  I am training for a 65 mile bike ride that’s coming up in about three weeks and that I’m not ready for, and I do really want to discuss the side effects from the Malaria pills.  That shit was no joke!  As I said, I was drained the last time I wrote, my cup was empty.  But summer has come again and bathed me in her golden womb. I am fresh and full again and am excited to be back.

PS  Katherine is mad at me so this post is not edited.  Sorry to both the readers and to Katherine 🙂

There’s a baboon in my bedroom

If you do not believe a God exists, come to Africa.  And know it through Julius Mwangoma, a big part of our story here.  Julius was our driver guide, although he has also become my good friend.  He is a proud Kenyan and one of the best men I have ever met.  In Kenya, a driver guide is not simply a “tour guide.”  Julius went to school to learn how to better assist someone visiting his country.  He speaks four languages, has spent weeks in the bush learning about different plants and animals, including hundreds of species of birds — he can spot simba lying on a rock, in a shadow, at about a mile out.  Seriously, this guy puts Crocodile Dundee to shame.  He also has a warm soul, loves his fellow-man, and has a laugh that will make you laugh even on your saddest day.  If you want to hear his laugh just rent a Eddie Murphy movie; Murphy copied that guffaw spot on.  He is from the Taita tribe and comes from the town of Tsavo (featured in The Ghost and the Darkness,) and has taught me much about the land, the language and the people of his country.  He is also funny as hell, and he and I shared many of laughs together.

A real picture of Julius at Lake Nakuru

Julius with us

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the first few days of a trip, the jet lag has you waking at strange hours and, throughout the day, your mind is not completely right.  It as if you are in a dream and the actions and hours are accented in a vague sense of unease and anticipation.  I always think about Interview with a Vampire when Brad Pitt sees his last sunrise.  Life shows its most raw beauty.  This is how Julius picked us up.

We headed south towards Amboseli and my little homage to Hemingway: Kilimanjaro.  In these first hours, Julius felt us out, negotiating how much of a tour guide he should be.  He took us out of Nairobi, pointing out hospitals, schools and slums.  Katherine and I sat and listened, tentatively asking questions, hesitant ourselves.  Cattle and car accidents cluttered the road, and bright eyes looked at us with interest and suspicion.  About two hours in, we decided to stop for our first bathroom break.  Curio shops scatter the countryside, and Julius knows all the ones with the cleanest wash rooms.  To get to these wash rooms you must pass through the store where all the African souveniers are being sold.  You are greeted by someone who wants to show you around the shop.  Now Katherine and I are smart travelers, and we know to not buy gifts at the beginning of our trip, but the knives and wooden masks were too much to pass up.  Tom, who said he was my brother, followed us around collecting all those objects for which we expressed the slightest interest.  He would not tell us the prices of anything, saying we would instead discuss at the cost at the end.  This is never a good sign.  We finished shopping, and he and I started to negotiate. Still in the jet lag haze, this was the last thing I wanted to be doing.  He started at 210.00 USD — I almost threw up.  Fuck, why am I stuck in this?  I offered 40.00.  We went back and forth and settled on 70.00, which was probably 20.00 too much. Julius finished a coffee in the side shop and we departed.  I asked him how I did and, even though he said okay, his eyes in the rearview mirror told me I had paid 20.00 too high.  Our friendship was beginning.

My first African deal

The roads in Kenya are interesting.  Some are very good and some are not.  As a driver you must always be aware as cows, goats, pedestrians and “diversions” frequently pop up without any notice.  We came to the road that heads into Amboseli and Julius told us to hold on for the next 5o kilometers.  This guy wasn’t kidding; the next thing I knew, Katherine and I were flipping and flopping all over the back of the van.  The dirt road was filled with rocks, holes and ditches and Julius was going about 100 km per hour.  All I was thinking was Shit, we are going to die before even seeing Kilimanjaro.  At one point, half the road was sunk in and, maybe I was still pretty jet lagged, but I swear, Julius pulled that van up on two wheels.  We finally reached the gate and were told, Please wait here, I will pay, you can do business if you like.  Before I could even comprehend his words, the van was surrounded by our first Masai.  Over the next few weeks I would meet many from this tribe. At less than 200,00, the Masai are very few compared to some other tribes, but they control the majority of the land in the southern part of the country.  There are 42 different tribes in Kenya, but the Masai are the most easily reconizible due to their red clothing, their customs and their cow-dung villages.

Katherine and I found ourselves smothered with beads, carvings and clothing.  Please buy, very cheap, please buy.  I was still stinging from the curio shop so I just started saying Asante si taki, Asante si taki, which means no thank you while Katherine looked at an item or two.  One woman asked, what about trade?   Now this was something I can get into.  To trade with the Masai tribe is definitely on my bucket list so I pulled a small LED flashlight from my bag.  She studied it with enthusiasim and told me it will help her see the scorpions at night when she walks back to her village.  I chose a necklace and two beaded rings.  Shit man, I was pretty damn excited to have made this deal, and Katherine hasn’t taken her ring off yet.

Masai woman we met

Upon entering Amboseli we were immediately greeted by wildlife.  Katherine and I had cameras blazing and even though he had just drove for four hours Julius was great at stopping to let us get the shots.  He was definitely thinking, Man, you guys are going to see so much in the next few days but he humored us as we were young in the bush.  Our lodge at Amboseli was beautiful.  I met and became friends with a few of the staff and we have exchanged emails already.  Our days consisted of early morning and late afternoon game drives, meals and relaxation.

Zebras with Kilimanjaro in the clouds.

Katherine at our lodge at Amboseli

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I studied hard.  Julius taught me all the animals, taught me the kiswahili words for them, and taught me the topography of the land.  My senses were on overload. I wanted to inhale it all: I was here, Holy fucking shit, I was here!

Me mate Jackson and a Masai man. The Masai are hired to come at meal times and keep the monkeys away. They do this with rocks and sling shots.

Taking it all in and down

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Malaria is a real threat and all our beds here have been surrounded with mosquito netting as well as other precautions.  I’ve joked before coming of what a great story it would be to get a mild case of malaria but once I was on the ground I was scared shitless.  Those first few nights I spent deep in African dreams, tossing and turning, itching, waiting for the malaria to come.  On our first night we quickly notified the lodge that there were two eight-inch lizards in our room.  Hakuna matata, he said, they eat the mosquitos.  That was enough for me.  We quickly learned not to notice the lizards sharing the shower with us.

Who knows who he is... but he is out there.

We realized that our environment would not adapt to us, we had to adapt to it.  Even though our lodges were surrounded most nights by an electric fence, the smaller more agile animals (especially the monkeys and baboons) had free reign.  Upon checking into Amboseli, we were told to always keep our doors locked as these primates will try to get in and look for food.  I didn’t know we had to lock the door when we were in the room too.  On our second day after our morning game drive, Katherine and I returned to our cabin for a nap.  We had laid down for about 20 minutes and I was in that warm place between dream and wake.  All of the sudden, as if the Grim Reaper himself had arrived, my cabin door flung open.  My first thought was Why would a staff member just barge in? But before I could even finish my thought, this massive male baboon walked in.  Now it is taking longer for me to write this than it took for this whole thing to go down, but luckily I was on the side of the bed closest to the door.  My first reaction was to stand up.  I put my hands high to make myself look big.  Right?  And I started screaming Get the hell out of here and other choice words that I know Katherine will edit out.  The beast looked at me with those ferocious eyes and then scanned the room.  I know, the audacity.  He then took flight and ran across our front windows.  Two seconds behind him was Eric, the person in charge of the care for our rooms, both running by at full speed.  Katherine and I could not believe it.

My buddy Eric, the baboon chaser

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As the days came to a close, we were sad to say goodbye to our new friends in Amboseli.  We exchanged emails and promises to meet again.  We had seen many animals and were only three days in to our trip.  That morning, Julius took us back to a lookout so I could get one last picture of Kilimanjaro.  Excitedly, I raced from the van and headed up a small mountain for the shot.  Michael, slow down — cats have been here.  I turned to look at Julius studying tracks.  He wasn’t talking about house cats, either, and by the tracks we could tell that simba had been there earlier.  We proceeded with caution.  Three days in and I still had a lot to learn.

Hold it there cowboy, Simba is close.

 

Some pictures of the animals at Amboseli.

Simba

Tembo

Nyumbu

Australians

Africa: Part I

***These Africa posts might be short and sweet due to lack of time and infrequency of Internet service.  Hope you understand. ***

-MC

We made it.  After 26 hours of travel, we finally arrived in Nairobi. We left LA a little after noon on Friday, which is 3 p.m. E.S.T. and 10 p.m. Kenyan time.  We arrived to our hotel at 2 a.m. Sunday morning (Saturday 7 p.m. E.S.T and 4 p.m. in Los Angeles)—overall, the trip was pretty brutal.

On our first leg, Katherine and I had chosen aisle seats opposite each other, both liking the freedom such positions afford. The plan backfired this time though, as the person sitting next to me was the most asinine person on the planet.  He was literally a destroyer of intellect, and I am now stupider for having to sit next to this fake hip-hop guy, wearing a hat still sporting the size sticker on the brim.  His poser fashion already had my blood boiling as  he then proceeded to talk to the window guy for the whole six hours over to D.C.  When I say talk, I mean scream, like we were at a fucking Formula One racetrack.  All of coach hated him and I hated him even more because I had front row tickets to the bullshit show he was selling.  To hear this guy brag, you would have thought he knew every famous person in the world and had worked in “studios” all over the globe.  That is, until he asked questions like, we have to fly over the ocean to get to D.C. right? or Do they give us water while we are flying?  Obviously, this dick bag had never left his mommy’s teet but, in his mind, he had been everywhere.  Death glares shot at him from the other passengers as he loudly discussed breeding dogs and other gangsta’ hobbies.  Despite the subtle and obvious signs that were sent his way, he just didn’t get it.  I, who believes it is only fair that the middle seat gets both arm rests, swayed from my chivalry and took control of the shared one.  It had to be explained how time zones worked to alleviate his shock that we would not be arriving into Washington until 9 p.m.  At one point, as we flew over the middle of the country in pure bright afternoon light, he asked me, Is it night time down there?  Um, dude, really, I mean, really?

Now I know some of you are thinking, well damn Crowley, give the guy a break, he may of had a hard time coming up and all that good, let’s stand in a circle and hold hands shit.  That is fine and I respect people bettering themselves and exploring this world.  What I do not respect is when people try to be something they’re not.  It grieves me to no end and for some reason I just can’t let it go and have to call them out.  Katherine calls it cruelty and I’m sure some doctors would say it bothers me because I’m not happy with myself and blah, blah, blah.  How about I just call it accountability, and maybe it might be good for our beautiful country to start teaching that shit again?  You are a hip-hop producer that knows all these artists but doesn’t know about time zones or if you have to travel over an ocean to get to the East Coast?  Sounds pretty fishy to me and I call bullshit.

One more thing, No wha Imm sayning is not a fucking proper statement no matter how many times you say it.  And no, no one knows what you’re saying nor do they care, you fucking waste of citizenship.

Our routing was this:  Six hours from LAX to D.C., eleven hours from D.C. to Istanbul, six hours from Istanbul to Nairobi.  As we moved farther east, the dynamics of the plane changed accordingly, from our domestic flight, which consisted of a majority of Americans, to our flight into Europe with a mix of nationalities and onto our flight into Africa with mostly Africans.

Almost there

Leaving Istanbul we were feeling pretty good about the last leg, figured we made it this far, what was another six hours.  We were wrong.  As the movies and meals ended and the new ones began, time seemed to stand still as we headed south over Egypt.  We tried to stay awake so we could sleep as soon as we arrived at our hotel. Katherine and I were delirious by this point and drunk on some good Turkish wine.  The lights were darkened and our minds were held suspended over Northern Africa in between the moving pictures of a film (our fourth) and our expectations for adventure.  Then, silently in the night, as if creeping from the jungles below, I felt something hit my right elbow which had been exposed to the passerbys.  I was nodding off and thought as if it might of been a dream or, better, a Turkish stewardess.  Surely, none of the jungle creatures have come this far to greet my beautiful bride and me?  I slowly slid back into the warm comforts of my dream-like state.  Again, the all-so-subtle scratching at my elbow awakened me.  I looked around, paralyzed in fear; everyone was sleeping.  A mamba?  Slowly, and with my heart beating in my chest, I lifted the blanket to see my aggressor.  To my shock and absolute horror, there, seated on MY arm rest, scratching ever so lightly at my elbow was a big, calloused African foot, bare as the day of birth.  My elbow had been violated.

We landed smoothly and, although dark outside, my eyes strained to pierce the night and get my first view of Africa.  The ground was lush and vast and the plane taxied for a while before we arrived at the lights of the airport.

With uncertainty, we exited the plane and headed towards customs.  The airport was busy, given that it was after 1 a.m., and we rushed to buy our visas and get into our trip.  This was the first time I was to use my new passport and I was extremely excited to have the stamp of Kenya be its first entry.  I laughed and smiled with the customs agent–he did not share my excitement.  It did not matter.  We were in.

We followed the sign to collect our bags as bright white eyes set in the dark faces watched us suspiciously.  Airports are always a little sketchy and Nairobi after midnight is no different.  My senses were on high alert, protection mode; like a soldier, I scanned our surroundings for any potential threats.  Katherine put on lip-gloss.

We collected our bags, thank God they both made it, and headed out into a sea of drivers and cabbies holding up signs and shouting in strange languages.  Shit, I was exhausted and now had to manage this.  Unexpectedly, and to much delight, I quickly found the sign that said Crowley party, Karibu and was greeted by a big wave and even bigger smile by a man name Tom.  Jambo, Jambo, he said, Please come, let me take your bags, Karibu, Karibu. We were whisked out of the airport and directed to a van; Tom smiling and stating his hopes that our trip was pleasant.  Another man, Julius, got out of the van and helped to load the bags.  I did not know this yet, but Julius was to be our driver guide for our whole safari and now, over the course of this last week, has taught me many things about Africa and its tribes. He has also become a good friend.

We were taken from the airport to Nairobi city center, Tom asking about us, telling us about Kenya and our trip ahead.  The ride was about twenty-five minutes and my tired mind was trying to collect it all while really only thinking of a shower.  Just when I was about to finally reach exhaustion, we pulled up to our hotel and a giant in African garb opened the door and said Jambo.

Maurice was a little less intimidating after some sleep

Maurice, the door giant, helped us out of the van as many porters scrambled for our bags and Tom took care of checking us in.  We were greeted by a local girl, given hot towels to clean our faces, and offered a fresh fruit drink.  It all seemed so surreal now due to the fact that we didn’t know what day or what time zone we were in mentally.

We were shown to our rooms after Tom quickly briefed us and said he would return in the morning.  La la salaama, sleep well, he said as he shook our hands one last time. We took hot showers and unpacked.  We were so tired now but our adrenaline of being on a new continent set in.  As we forced ourselves to wind down, I stood out on the balcony overlooking the Nairobian night.  The strange trees and sounds only added to my interest as I anticipated waking to the new day.  We had made the voyage, we had reached Africa.

Our first morning

Living on the run, right here in the California sun

Jambo!  Yes, I have just spoken Swahili to you my dear readers.

I would like to apologize to all my friends and acquaintances, though, because I feel like Africa is all I’ve talked about for the past two months.  There is nothing more annoying than someone about to go on vacation while you’re stuck at home or work. I just haven’t been this excited since I used to have multiple girls sleep over in college.

The other night, I was flipping through some of my books, laboring over what I will read while I am on safari.  Carefully browsing my collection for which writer will travel with me,  I came across an old memento, and how funny I had just mentioned this a few posts ago.  I keep a lot from my past, old letters, pictures, ticket stubs, and I cherish the nights when I can sit Indian-style surrounded by my books, finding these old treasures that I once used as bookmarks.  Tucked inside with Rimbaud’s poetry, a note from my then teenage sister waited, yellowed after more than a decade.  I hadn’t seen this piece of paper since sophomore year of college. As if fated, the note emerged just after the memory, although her handwriting and reference to Goldfish crackers made it all the more real.  (Alas, there was never a question of what writer would travel with me, Hemingway has been packed for two months).

Note from my little sis

As each day passes, our upcoming adventure to Africa creeps closer.  I have prepared by not only reading everything I can get my hands on about this new, strange continent and the countries we will be visiting, but also by slowly collecting, piece by piece, the needed gear for our trip into the wild.  Now, of course Africa is not like the days of old when the first Europeans explored or, even later, when Hemingway found such solace in the jungles and the plains of this great land.

"All I wanted to do now was get back to Africa. We had not left it yet, but when I would wake in the night, I would lie, listening, homesick for it already."

But this trip will still be our most exotic and dangerous yet.  As each new trip approaches I begin to experience a prolonged adrenaline rush that grows stronger as the months and weeks whittle down. I start to feel the pulse of the world beat loudly through my body, the need to go, to be new and anonymous, the need to reinvent myself.  I think this comes from my constant movement while growing up.  From my mom’s house, to a neighbor’s, to my grandparents’, and on to the lovely Abraxas for  most of my senior year of high school, my childhood was spent in transit.  Even years before I graduated Penn State, I was preparing for my move to California.  I had nothing out here, no family or job prospects; it just always seemed natural to move away.  Was I running from my past, from old painful memories?  Maybe.  But, I think the main reason was to prove to myself that I could take on the world, I was running towards more than away.  I had become accustomed to, and quite frankly enjoyed, the art of travel and the chance at reformation.  After ten years in the same Redondo Beach apartment (the longest I’ve ever lived in the same place), I anticipate my trips more than ever before.

“Those who race toward death, those who wait, those who worry,” Jim Morrison once said.  These words have stuck with me since I first read them at twelve.  What would I be?  What was I now?  I know being safer was not my way, and I know that sometimes the decisions I made were hard on friends and family, but I don’t want to wait.  And I don’t want to worry.  I decided that I wanted to race.  Not towards death, but towards life and living.  If you let your fear dictate your life, you will be trapped in a box.  I can tell you, it was pretty fucking scary moving out here to California with no money, no job and no way to get home.  The last night I was in Philly before I moved, my mom took my brother, sister and I out for dinner at The Olive Garden where we captured the moment on film.  She still has that picture on her refrigerator — I cringe every time I see  it.  There is fear in my smile, uncertainty, sadness in the back of my eyes, the knowing I was never coming back, leaving everything and heading towards nothing.  I wore a grey shirt and held my brother and sister close to my sides.

Ten years later and still I race.  Into the heart of darkness we run.  Africa.  My girl and I.  I don’t know what to expect, what I’ll find, I just know that the time of year has arrived again. The summer has come and with it, the restlessness within me.  When my soul begins to ache for experience, I know I must move.  Find new towns, new lands, new languages.  Feed my will, my want, to live.  It gets to the point where my soul seems to want to break out of my chest, climb mountains and scream as loud as it can just to feel alive, feel relevant.

Africa is a different trip though.  Filled with excitement and anticipation there is also some anxiety.  Many of the things that are the most beautiful are also the most dangerous.  Shit, the flight alone is 26 hours.  No camouflage, Malraia pills, soft sided luggage. We have been preparing for months and are finally on the precipice.  Colors in clothing are a concern though, and with my usual red, world-famous Philadelphia Phillies hat too bright, as it might distract the animals, I even had to search for a Africa hat.

Deflating soccer balls to take to the children in my new Africa hat

All bullshit aside, we are pretty pumped.  I haven’t been able to sleep all week and I am just dreaming of the road ahead.   I don’t know how I got here, how I’ve given myself the opportunities and led myself to this chance of a lifetime.  I don’t know if it was the old writers who inspired me, the tough times that pushed me or simply some Italian charm mixed with some Irish luck.  Whatever it is I am grateful and am ready to be set free on the shores of Africa.

Here I am on the Brenton shore.  Let the towns light up the evening.  My day is done; I’m quitting Europe.  Sea air will burn my lungs; strange climates will tan my skin.  To swim, to trample the grass, to hunt, and above all to smoke; to drink liquors strong as boiling metal,–like my dear ancestors around their fires.   

I will return with limbs of iron, dark skin and furious eye; people will think to look at me that I am of a strong race.  I will have gold:  I will be idle and brutal.  Women nurse those fierce invalids, home from the hot countries.  I’ll be mixed up in politics.  Saved!

–Rimbaud

It’s too bad Cat Stevens is a terrorist

Seriously, it kind of bums me out.  How can the man who sang Wild World and Morning Has Broken now be one of these Islamist assbags?  Unfortunately I like these songs and am forced to make a weird decision every time they come on the radio.  Do I listen to this beautiful song and support this freak or turn it off and sacrifice my own self-enjoyment?  All this killing in the name of religion shit is starting to get on my nerves.  Why can’t everyone just chill out?

Man though, this is some good shit, even if he does stone women to death now. Cause when it comes to being lucky she’s cursed/ when it comes to loving me she’s worse/ But, when it comes to being loved she’s first…that’s how I know.

So I have a few things to talk about today.  People have been killing me this week and I am on the verge of blowing up.  Instead of going out and beating a homeless person tonight, I’ve decided to release my frustration at humanity in this post.  I’m at a coffee shop right now and I went up to order a tea.  I don’t know, I don’t drink coffee and Katherine tells me I have to buy something to sit here.  The girl asks what kind of tea?  Lipton, I say, right, that’s a tea.  This doesn’t go over too well and she hands me a list with about 23 different teas on it.  As I search for a word I understand, I hear a huff from behind me.  I turn around and this little girl of about seven is impatiently looking at me.  Would you like to go? I say, as she is already passing me to the counter.  I’d like a raspberry frappuccino with mountain mist milk and sprinkles of leprechaun organs.  What the fuck did she just say?  Aren’t you like seven? I said to her with my eyes, how do you even know what that is?  Go play Barbies or something, Raspberry Frappuccino, how about a coloring book you little freak?  Anyway, I ordered a “Snow Leopard” tea, then sat to write.

I also have a problem lately with bumper stickers.  Sports teams or schools aside, what makes you think I give a shit about your opinion?  This guy on my block has a few that I really hate.  First, War Is Not The Answer.  Of course, the “answer” is not listed next to this. Next to this sticker, he has the classic, Question Authority.  This coming from a guy who drives a maroon minivan.  Hey bro, before you tell me what to do why don’t you question your wife for making you get that van? But I take these stickers for what they really are: desperate dying grasps at his youth when he once told a cop at a Dave Mathews concert that it was his right to stand whereever he wanted to.  Ah paper rebels, slogans with no heart.

Another thing that is making me moody is, is it just me but are people working at grocery and department stores not that helpful?  When did this all happen?  Is the world around us just a bunch of morons.  I mean Christ.  I’m buying some soccer balls to take to my future African friends and I asked the guy at Target the mind-bending question Where is your sports department?  Now I know I was being lazy as they have the signs hanging from the ceiling, but I was having a busy day and had about 12 minutes to spare.  Plus, this guy was just leaning on a cart talking to two other people in bright red shirts. Literally, it was like I asked him to recite the third Canto of Byron’s Child Harold’s Pilgrimage.  This guy became distraught, walkie-talkies were involved. I left him frothing at the mouth and on the verge of an epileptic seizure.  Now, I’m no business tycoon, but if I were him, I might spend my eight hours a day learning the layout and products of what I’m selling.  Why aren’t people taking a little pride it what they do?  Shit, when I was a busboy, I tried to do my job better everyday.  I would have been the best busboy at the place if it wasn’t for my friend Jose who could practically clear four tables at a time using one limb per table.  He was also my unofficial Mexican doctor and healed many an ailment with either Tequila, jalapeno or lime.  Seriously, that guy was like a medical MacGyver .  I just expect for people to put some effort into their job.  This is a free country, if you hate your job, leave it.  But don’t stay on and make my experience miserable.  I work hard for my money and value my experience when I’m spending it.

Speaking of spending money, what the fuck is up with razors?  Now, we can make a bomb that can kill whole cities at once but we can’t make a BIC that will last longer than a week?  The worst part is, these things are more expensive than diamonds.  What’s my portfolio look like?  It looks like shit due to the fact that I have to spend 60 bucks a month on Mach 13’s super sonics for me and my girl.

One last thing.  Gas stations.  If I run for office I will make it mandatory that if your gas station bathroom is out-of-order, so is your gas station until the bathroom is fixed.  I mean Christ, I’m bleeding out a first born for a tank of unleaded and your bathroom’s closed? It’s not like you have too much going on there.  I mean, your selling Mountain Dew, slinging gas, and having people take a leak.  These people act as if I’m asking them to round me up a few Thoroughbred colts for the weekend.  No, our bathroom is out of order.  Oh, so you mean to tell me that half of this 300 square foot place is non-operational.  I mean, it’s not like they’re in charge of the upkeep on grounds at the Palace of Versailles.

Rowing two very pretty girls on the lake, Versailles in the backround. That's how I roll...or row

Katherine and my favorite German Anja aka Z-German on the lake at Versailles

If I’m paying top dollar for some bullshit gas you’d better have a decent, functional bathroom.  Also, I love when they tell me they don’t have a restroom.  Really? I say, That’s crazy that you have to stand here all day and not use the bathroom.  They usually look uncomfortable, either from my comment or they really have been holding their wiz in for the last five hours.

On a lighter note my working out is going great.  We are doing another Triathlon on July 24th so I really should start training harder.  I’ve been hitting Trent’s hard every week and starting tomorrow I am going to be on an intense diet of protein and vegetables and cut out some of the nasty shit I eat.

(Going along with the nasty theme.  As I sit here and try to pump this out, I have some 65-year-old lady sitting at the table next me talking about how she loves watching porn and using toys with her lovers.  Not even my headphones can block out the nastiness dribbling out of her mouth.  Five more minutes of this and she is going to have a steady stream of Snow Leopard tea leaving my mouth into her face.  Come on lady, there are kids that drink frappuccinos in this place.)

Coming back to Trent, he is sponsoring an event for our wounded soldiers that have come back from the wastelands of the Middle East.  Basically, people are raising money and doing push ups for this great cause.  Now I’ve promised myself that I would never use this blog to try to sell shit, but I think you all know how deeply I feel for our heroes.  The biggest regret of my life thus far has been not signing up for the U.S. Army after college.  Out of fear or selfishness I cannot decide, but I headed to the beach as these boys and girls headed to hell.  It is embarrassing and has left a chink in my armor.  Anyway, Trent’s event is going to be amazing.  He has the local fire and police forces coming down to participate as well as a group from our workouts.  Of course it is the day after we leave for Africa so unless I can get on Skype in time, I will be left only to donate.  Please take a look at it and if you have a 10 spot lying around feel free to donate.  I’m sure those boys and girls, and their families, will appreciate it. Click here to check out and donate if possible to the Wounded Warriors pushups for charity.

 

Classic girl

In one of their more obscure tracks, Jane’s Addiction sang “ They may say, those were the days, but in a way, you know for us these are the days, yes for us these are the days and you know your my girl.”  I was always jealous of that song. I wanted to feel what he felt when he wrote it, to experience the rawness in the video. (If you have a minute, click on the lyrics and watch the video, sorry for the ad before it)  I wanted to feel that union with a girl.

Of course, I’ve been in love before.  At a young age, I fell in love with love.  I have very fond memories of many of the girls I invented dreams and shared laughter with, but although I remember these times and experiences with warmth, I never had what Perry Farrell had when writing his song.  That was until I met Katherine.

People ask us how we met. In those days, clarity was not common for me, but this night was.  I was working at HT Grill right here in good old Redondo Beach. I had been there for four years and was spending my life between the beach and booze.  We were opening up the new HT across the street and were going from a wait staff of about ten to one of about 35.  What did this mean? you ask, my dear friends.  More waitresses.

My two best mates and I at the time were living in The Garden of Eden.  We worked in a bar, on a beach in California, and were constantly surrounded by girls.  If that wasn’t enough, we had another bar next to ours that only hired girls, by policy, which was awesome.  It was like shooting fish in a barrel, but I digress.

This evening was a typical week night in late spring and I was the opener for dinner at 4:30pm.  I was already pissed because opening dinner sucked. Not only did I have to leave the beach an hour earlier, but I had to cut the bread, make sure all the ramekins were stacked and all that stupid bullshit.  By this time I had been one of the top sellers at the restaurant for a year or two, so I was a natural pre-Madonna when it came to my schedule.  I strolled in around 4:29 p.m. and my good buddy Blake was closing out from his lunch shift.  He sat at this little table we had in the back of the restaurant near the line.  His tie was loosened, and he was enjoying his after-shift cocktail.

“What’s up dude? Lunch shift? Ouch,” I said with a mischievous grin.

“Yeah, I’m going to the Dodgers game tonight so I switched my shift.”

His father was the team doctor for the Dodgers so he always had some sick seats.  Now that I think of it, he hasn’t taken me to a game since the world-famous Philadelphia Phillies knocked them out of the playoffs two years in a row.

“Your training tonight though,” he said, returning my sarcastic grin.  He and I had been training so much, it was getting tiresome.

“Fuck that,” I said.  “I’m not training shit.  I’ve trained like four nights in a row. That girl on Tuesday had the IQ of a golf ball and threw off my mojo all night.  Shit, man, seriously, they’re giving me an extra gift certificate or something tonight.  This is bullshit,” I said and trailed off as my words followed his finger to the corner of the room.

She stood facing away from me.  The room was dark but I could make out her chestnut hair and her slender body.

“What?” I said.

“That’s her,” Blake replied.

The next thing I knew, I had this little delicious thing walking towards me.  Mental note: Church immediately to thank old JC. She approached with a smile and introduced herself.

“Hi, I’m Katherine and I think you’re training me tonight.”

Blake almost spit out his drink seeing my attitude do about a 720.

“I am?” I said, spreading my wings for takeoff. “Now why would they have me train you when I do everything wrong?”

She giggled.

I proceeded that night to show her how to do things my way and then the right way.  She was beautiful and her eyes shone under the heat lamps — they sparkled with life.  We were new to each other.  Young and new.  We spent the whole night close together intentionally unintentionally rubbing arms or hands against each other.  She would take the plates of food and I would follow her closely whispering to her how I was staring at her butt.  I know, I know, I can’t believe my shit worked either.  Charm, though, has always been my strongest suit.  I proceeded to tell tables of strangers that she was my future wife, to which they would cheer and she would blush.

The hours were our introduction, the restaurant, our first meadow.  We served a lot of wine at this place and I invited her back to my place that night to “teach” her about the different wines.  She coyly declined the offer for the evening.  She had won the battle, but not the war.  I checked the schedule immediately.  Another girl was supposed to train her the next night.  I quickly called her the following day to switch shifts with her.

“Why Mike? You have the better shift, and I think I have to train?”

“I know, I know, but I’m helping paint my neighbor’s fence and I need the extra hour.”  Seriously, that’s what I told this girl.  For all my gifts of storytelling, I pulled out fucking Tom Sawyer?

The next evening, I arrived, late as usual, and was tying up my apron. Katherine approached me with her big beautiful smile.  “You again?” I said.  I looked over at my co-workers and they were glaring back with disgusted grimaces.

That summer we spent a lot of time together.  She had lived in California for most of her grade school and high school life and new all the secret spots.  We were like two butterflies that summer, laying in the fields, overlooking the ocean, hiking to the tops of the mountains, running down the beach at night.  I had been out here for six years and had not seen anything except bars, beaches and bedrooms.  She was opening my eyes again.  As summer closed, my mistress booze and her started to compete.  She was a teacher and my lifestyle could not co-exist with hers.  She told me it had been a lot of fun, but her life could not consist of that much alcohol.  She said goodbye.  Now this was new for me, a girl telling me to beat it?  If she didn’t have me before that, she had me now.

Been thinking about you, and there's no rest

Katherine and I have grown a lot over the past few years. I mean, let’s face it, she’s a saint.  Can you imagine living with me and my silly ass 24/7?  I am constantly on GO and somehow she deals with it.  One of our strongest bonds from the very beginning was traveling.  When her and I found out we both wanted to see everywhere, be everyone, taste everything, we were immediately hooked on each other.

The Italian Alps and her

She is an English teacher, which was perfect because I want to write yet I can’t spell or use punctuation properly.  She is soft and gentle, an idealist, while I am a little less smooth around the edges.  I said it when I met her, and I think most will agree, she has made me a better man.  Some of my favorite times with her, the times when I can really feel our love, is at night when we are lying down to sleep.  Something will come up, or I’ll say something and her and I will laugh uncontrollably for 15 minutes.  It’s like grade school when you can’t even look at the other person because you’ll just start dying again.  This is what I saw in that song, that video.  A true love of sharing your life with a girl.  I finally found it and the bear inside me sleeps.

I spent this past weekend with her at the Wine and Balloon Festival in Temecula California.  We had a brilliant time walking the festival, drinking wine. Candlebox and Third Eye Blind played.  I know, I know, Faster Pussycat and Candlebox in less than two months.  Can you say awesome?  I held her in front of me that night, her back snuggled against my chest, voices and music surrounding us, the summer pushing in. I held my arms around her tight and I felt alone with her and okay with being alone with just her.  Everything seemed as it should and I just kept thinking “They may say, those were the days, but in a way, you know for us these are the days, yes for us these are the days and you know you’re my girl, such a classic girl.”

My girl awaits for me in tender time

My girl is mine

She is the world

She is my girl

-JDM

For whom the wedding bell tolls

Spring has sprung with renewed energy.  We have tons of weddings, graduations, goodbye parties, and birthdays to attend, but I guess that all comes with the territory of having 653 friends on Facebook.  For me, the wedding last weekend takes the cake in importance.  If I were to think otherwise, I risk banishment by all the females in my family, including my wife, and probably be sent to dwell among the lowly members of my gender who have made similar mistakes.  On May 14th, my baby sister got married outside of Philadelphia, PA.  Cara, my sister, and I have always had a special bond.  Four years younger than me, and the only other female in residence besides my mom, she learned how to help with the household at a young age.  During my early college years, I would come home for the summer and work with my friend Steve Kuders on a landscaping crew.  We would literally start drinking booze immediately after getting off work  and would head right out to the bars in the nearby college town of West Chester.  Every morning, as I drunkenly awoke and prayed for rain, I would stumble downstairs and wait for the crew to pick me up.  On the kitchen table there would always be a bagged lunch for me, with a Ziplock full of goldfish crackers, which I can eat by the millions, and a note from my sister wishing for me to have a good day.  I always appreciated her, always felt like she was looking out.

My sis, looking out

My sister and I are close.  We always have been because we are very similar.  We both talk fast, although her years living in New York City have sped her up while my years living on the beach have slowed me down.  We both did well for ourselves in high school and college.  Both have surrounded ourselves with wonderful friends and have lived life on our terms.  I moved to Los Angeles, her to NYC.  Sometimes I really appreciate the trials and hardships of my youth, not only because it made me who I am, but because she watched me and made choices to never go down the same path.

Cara always got me.  Even at the height of my hoodlumness, when I was stealing the 20 dollars from her piggy bank to buy smokes and booze, she was always there to defend my name.  This past December, she was flying through LA and stopped over for a few hours.  I picked her up and took her for a ride through the cliffs near my house on my Vespa.  We parked and walked through the Christmas lights, talking about her upcoming wedding, the holidays, family gossip.  We have always been able to pickup where we left off and can always find a good laugh.

So here we were: Katherine and I in Philly for the most important wedding of the year, both American and British.  I want to write a post on my hometown but I will leave it for another day, as the romanticism of it is too much and will make this blog a book.  Katherine and I got into an argument before leaving for the airport, which I would like to point out is awkward when your ride to the airport is your ex-girlfriend. We realized in Chicago Katherine had left her driver’s license at the security checkpoint in LAX and after figuring out how it was my fault, we hugged and made up.

I can never sleep when I’m coming home. I’m too excited to see my family and friends, to breathe the East Coast air that had nutured my youth and, of course, to play Star Wars with my nephew.

Luke, I am your father's.........brother

Katherine has related my family to The Family Stone.  I take that as a compliment because I love that movie and I love Rachel McAdams in pajamas. (Yes, I had to have a tatas link right there.)  We are one big dysfunctional group of huge personalities. We arrived in the East and after hugs, hellos, and a cheesesteak, of course , we were put to work by my sister.  The house was abuzz with pre-wedding energy and I say energy because it wasn’t completely all blissful.  I had a long talk with myself on the flight home that my main goal this trip was to do everything my sister needed.  She is a perfectionist, more so than me, and I knew she would be on stress level high.

I was given the afternoon off and Katherine, my nephew Andrew and I headed east across the Commodore Barry Bridge and into New Jersey to visit one of my best mates in the whole world, his beautiful wife, and their three kids.  The love story behind these two should be a movie.  The short, short version is: They started dating in sixth grade, he lost her when they left for college, he was lost for the four years without her and would show up at her college house with guitars and love poems, making an ass of himself sometimes due to booze. All looked lost as she got serious with someone else. He didn’t give up hope and believed in Truth, Beauty, Freedom and Love.  She broke up with the other guy, they started talking, he proved the young drunk ass boy was gone, she knew she always loved him and only him, they kissed and love conquered.   I am sorry I don’t have a picture of her and him together.  The one I took of her is with Katherine too and Katherine is making a weird face.

Crowley and Wiggins, like Batman and Robin without the tights

We tried to catch up on the last year in three hours.  I wanted to stay and booze with my old mate but I knew my sister needed me.  Plus, my brother was blowing up my cell phone to the point that Chris asked if there was an Amber alert out on my nephew.  We said our goodbyes and headed back to PA.

The next two days were spent in frenzied preparation for the wedding.  Speaking from experience, the goal is to tread softly around the females involved, especially the bride.  One wrong comment or move can bring the wrath of “wedding bliss” upon your head.  We were working hard.  Pretty much felt like I was in the Philippines, in a sweat shop, but we were making progress.

The gift bags

The programs

The thumbs up

One of the things I truly miss the most about the East is the history.  I am proud of our country and despite what our friends in New England will tell you, Philly was the birthplace of our nation.  My sister and John, her fiance now husband, picked The Dilworthtown Inn for the rehearsal dinner.  This place is awesome and has been around since 1780.  British troops occupied the inn during the revolutionary war and still have an outstanding bill of a few thousand pounds which is displayed on the wall downstairs.  Fireplaces and candles were lit and gave a certain East Coast ambiance to the night.  My family, known for blowing up at each other in anger, all come together quickly and tightly when needed.  The night was wonderful and even though my family was in the same room as me, I missed them more.

Obviously "make a muscle"means "dance an Irish jig" to my nephew

Ma Familia

My two very important girls

The next morning was the wedding day.  I awoke early and was volunteered as a taxi for some of the girls to the salon.  I was mildly hung over and had some free time so I drove out to the Brandywine battlefield and took a walk in the cool, grey morning. The hills and trees were so green and little yellow flowers speckled the fields.  I walked down  to Washington’s headquarters and once again thought about how much he sacrificed for our nation.  Shit, what a crazy time to live in.

Washington's headquarters at Brandywine

The wedding was perfect, my sister a beautiful bride.  My brother Eric and I had the honor of walking her down the aisle and the pride I took with every step seemed to give a glimpse into what it must be like to be a parent.  We walked slowly, the three of us, past the familiar faces of friends and family.  Old babysitters and distant cousins, the smiles all beamed towards us, towards her, as we traversed slowly through the forest of our past.  It was like the end of Big Fish when the father sees all the faces from his past, and with tears in my eyes I handed my little sister over to her new protector.  A new chapter had begun and our childhood was closed.

A fine looking trio

Into the sunset

The reception was held in an old English manor called Greystone Hall.  It was pretty much the house from CLUE.  I wouldn’t tell my sister but the grey skies and light drizzles amplified the gothic feel of the place and I loved it. I couldn’t even catch my breath as I spun from table to table kissing, hugging, trying to catch up.  Dusk turned into darkness but the spirits being consumed lit lanterns in my eyes.  I danced, poorly, and even ran into my dad.  Like most weddings the hours slipped through like minutes and before I knew it we were all headed back to the hotel.  It had been a long day and I was emotionally exhausted. My sister, the pride and joy of my family, was no longer a Crowley.  My last semi-clear memory of the night was of me sitting in the lobby surrounded by my cousins.  I was stuffed into a lounge chair with a piece of pizza in one hand and a half of hoagie in the other.

Bravado, a beer, and a bullet to bin laden’s face

For fear of VH1 invading my house with there “where are they now” cameras, I dedicated half the day to completing this post.  I’d like to apologize for the week-long absence — many of you have expressed your displeasure at being left in the dark about the race.  The race itself, and the end of my booze hiatus, was an exhausting finish to a long sought personal goal. Last Sunday, after finishing, I was too overcome to recount my experience. Then, the work week busied and I could not find the time to do this post justice.  Finally today, as I awoke to an empty house and overcast day, I lit my fireplace and wrote.

The weekend of the race was hectic.  With stress levels at maximum capacity, we drove down the coast in near silence; I was worried about physical readiness.  My ankles were and still are very sore and I was unsure of how I would do.  I had eight other guys doing it with me and, by Saturday night, they and their families had arrived.  Armando, who has been my training partner all along, shared a room with Katherine and I.  It would work perfectly as he and I could drive over together at the ungodly check-in hour the next morning and K could follow a half hour or so later.  Katherine fell soundly asleep before we had even finished watching Sports Center. Four minutes after lights out, a heavy Jabba the Hut breathing came from Armando’s side of the room.  Great, I thought, as I tried to will myself to sleep.  The small queen-sized bed (we have an East Coast king at home,) Armando’s obnoxious breathing and the fact that we had fucking Rosemary’s baby crying all night through the other side of the paper-thin wall did not make for a good night’s sleep.  I woke up every hour. At one point, I even hopped out of bed and shook Armando to turn over.

We were up really early the next morning.  My wife, because she is wonderful, made us makeshift bowls of oatmeal to fill our nervous stomachs.  My friends have always been a major support system for me and this morning was no different.  Any anxiety or uncertainty was cut in half as I shared it with Armando.  We joked as we drove down the dark highway to our trial.  I was nervous but knew Mando and the other guys were too.  This made it easier.  We arrived and were met by some of the other guys.  We were now an entourage and that made me feel good.

Setting up was a blur.  Holy shit, what the hell was I about to do?  Wetsuits were zipping up, numbers being drawn on our arms and our legs, gear checked and re-checked.  It all felt very militaristic. Waves of age groups were starting to line up, Armando gave me a last fist pound, and I went to join my group.  My brother-in-law was with me which was nice as we would be the first of our friends to go, and would get to go together.

No turning back

Now by this point I was on emotional egg shells.  Your adrenaline is out of fucking control, I couldn’t even smile correctly.  The National Anthem was sung by a beautiful brunette and then the waves of participants started.  Wave one, enter the water…start.  Wave two, enter the water…start.  At five-minute intervals groups of 75-100 were being sent into the water.  With the Anthem still dripping in my mind and the groups ahead of me being sent into the water, I felt a small connection to the feelings of our boys on D-day, minus those dirty Nazi’s and the bullets of course.  As wave five, we were up right away.  Michael and I shook hands and said we’d see each other on the other side.  We moved into position and were off.

this shit was brutal

taking position

The swim was horrible, 75 other guys grabbing, pushing, holding, swimming on top of me.  It was hard to get any kind of stroke going and the sun was rising right behind our first marker so I couldn’t see anything.  My form was nothing to be proud of, but out of fear for my life and my will to accomplish this I just swam.  I was the Forest Gump of swimming.  Unfortunately, I was mid-pack the whole time so I was getting the shit pulled and held out of me for the full ten minutes. When my feet felt that earth, there was pure relief.  I stumbled out of the water and up the ramp.  My head span — I was already exhausted.  I didn’t know where I was.  I was walking, trying to make sense of it all.  What the fuck was going on?  A few racers ran by me, already halfway out of their wet suits.  Just then I saw some of my teammates, standing a the top of the ramp, cheering me on.  Their wave was to start in another 20 minutes so there they stood: Allen, Dave, Eric and Armando.  Come on Crowley, keep going dude, hardest part is over.  They’ve all told me how my face lit up when I saw them, woke me from my watery coma.  I smiled at them and ran to the transition zone.

The bike ride was uneventful and actually quite lovely despite the heaviness of my hybrid. I took a wrong turn at one point and had to double back costing me about two minutes — nothing big.  By this time, the waves had intermixed so everyone was just out there competing against themselves.  I finished the bike and began my run.

Feet fail me not

Here I was, the last leg and all I needed to complete it was me.  I started off with some speed but was immediately told by my ankles that no records would be broken this day.  They were really sore. As I was lacing up, I noticed a little swelling.  Okay, just get through these three miles and we will relax, I promised them.  Those last three miles were like a dream. I don’t remember what I exactly thought about but I know my emotions were high.  I was doing this.  About 15 people from work and my team members’ families had made the trip, so there were sporadic cheers throughout: Crowley, MC, Michael, all my different identities that make up who I am.  On the final stretch my ankles were the only ones who wanted it to end. Although tired, I was nervous for the finish line.  This has all been such a wonderful experience.I had finished and as I passed over the finish line my pride exploded.  I thought of how far I have come, from the uncertain days in Valleybrook to California, from day one of not drinking to this finish line.  I spent a few minutes by myself until Katherine found me and smothered me with kisses.  Although I was done, my day was not.  I still had men out on that field.  Katherine and I raced back to where she had set up a cheering section, towards the end of the run.  We waited there, waited for my brothers, so we could cheer them on as they completed their goals, beat back their fears.

Allen

Armando

Ken Dunn

Eric

Mike, Mando and me

some of the boys

When we finished I timidly headed over to the beer garden.  I was poured a cold one of some rich hippie beer in a red cup.  I had a swig or two but this is not how I wanted to enjoy my first beer in 120 days.  We said our goodbyes and headed home.

The rest of the day was spent with ice on my ankles and wrestling with my adrenaline.  My family in the East called and many love letters and well wishes were sent to my phone and Facebook page.  I treated myself to a massage before we packed up to head to Katherine’s parents for dinner and the world famous Philadelphia Phillies 5 p.m. ESPN game.  Before leaving I grabbed those Negro Modelo’s from my refrigerator.  They had been icing for four months and now were ready for my lips.  We arrived at her parents house and shit, it was like I had balanced the budget.  Can I get you this?  Are you feeling okay for that?  I was being treated like I had just fought in a war, maybe I had.  Maybe I have always been fighting a war within myself, one of a sentimentalist verses cynic, of anger verses tenderness, past verses present, poet verses madman.

My father-in-law, who is an engineer and not really a huge baseball fan was excited to watch the game with me.  We sat there, two American men, a long day, a long life.  He was a Leuitenant Commander in the United States Navy for many years and has all kind of cool amphibious mission stories from Vietnam.  Not tonight though, tonight was about relaxing with some steaks, cold beer and baseball.  Americana.  I cracked my first beer a gulped it down with the first inning.  We yelled and cringed as the tight game went on.  Mrs. D, Katherine’s mom, had put the game on in two rooms so anywhere I went I would not miss a pitch.  We ate our feast and returned to our lounge chairs to see if the fightins could break this 1-1 tie.  There would be nothing better to end this day than a Phillies win, or so I thought.  All of the sudden, my hometown started to chant.  The birthplace of Freedom, Philadelphia, began to sing in the spring night; USA,USA,USA!!  It was announced that the dirt bag fucker Bin Laden had been killed by us, by the U.S. Navy.  My emotional intake was overwhelmed and tears formed in the corners of my eyes.  My father-in-law and I grasped hands. We got you, you piece of shit.  I thought of all the men and women, all the sacrafices made for this douche bag.  I thought about our country and how much I love her.  I thought about home, both east and west, and how proud I was to be a Phialdelphian, a Pennsylvanian, as they all stood and chanted in support of our country.  Triathlon or not, I would sleep soundly tonight.

Many of you have asked if this post will stop now that I have finished my 120 days.  There has been a public outcry if you will, to continue this blog and letters from across the globe have been pouring in to keep it alive.  In fact, it is rumored that on Kate and William’s wedding night, the English Prince was little perturbed when his new bride would not come to bed until after she finished catching up on the life of MC.  In response to this, and for the sake of my own vanity, “A Season in Hell” will continue as long as you continue to read.  I have to say, the responses and views I recieved over four months is more than I ever imagined and I want to thank you all for your support.  I have begun some new endeavors, such as my piano lessons with my cute little blond ultra-Christian neighbor, and have signed up for another triathlon on July 24th.  Africa is on the horizon and I am planning on writing a novel this summer.  What about?  About me of course.  As my cousin Sean Furber will tell you, “Crowley loves himself some Crowley.”

So you can see we will have some stuff to talk about.