A Year Later

Good lord. It's been so long since I've logged in, I had to request a new password. Is that like the digi equivalent of dusting?
My last post to my blog was about my Olympic-distance triathlon travails. I should go back and read those so I can adequately acknowledge how much has transpired in a year. Case in point: yesterday I was putting patient Steve through my favorite exercise:
"Do I look like a cyclist when I'm on the bike?" "When I run, do I look like a runner?" He obligingly tells me yes, and then offers some constructive advice, which I almost always take as a momentary barb. The moment passes and I'm on to a new question. I noted to Steve yesterday that I never cried once all season long this year, in very stark contrast to my sob-fest of my inaugural season. He pointed out, "Well, you did cry that one day that you didn't ride with the group. Remember? When you sat in the car for an hour and a half and cried?" "Oh yeah. But I didn't cry DURING any practices, which is a big change!" Always finding an angle.
So, not only have I not cried this year, but I can officially (finally) say that triathlon has been the biggest life change I've experienced since I uprooted my very LA life and moved to Seattle ten years ago (10 years on August 7!). That move set my adult life into motion, though of course I didn't realize it then. Everything I do and love and live today can be traced back to that moment ten years ago. Sure, I've been a pinko liberal all my life, I've been me all my life, but my home, my livelihood, my love, it's all 206, baby.
Then last year I got roped into training for a tri with the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society's Team in Training program, and my life changed again, in a quantum, tear-filled leap. Until that moment of roped-in-edness I'd never intentionally raised my heart rate above a stutter, I'd never sweat for any purpose other than weight-management, I'd never become gleeful about wicking fabrics. I'd also never clipped my feet into a bicycle's pedals, I'd never ridden more than a handful of miles, I'd never run (period), I'd never swum (swam?) in a lake, I'd never been in any manner of race, and I'd never had teammates.
I can now say: last summer after my terrifying first Oly-distance race I did 5 more tris of varying sizes. (I cried and contemplated quitting during most.) I ended the season totally freaked out by how much I hated running, so I signed up to train for a half marathon, which I completed on an unusually snowy morning in November in Seattle. (And I smiled through much of the race.) I did Team in Training again this year and helped contribute to a whopping $270,000 in funds raised for the Leukemia Lymphoma Society. I did an Oly-distance tri in Maui with my team in June, and smiled through the WHOLE THING. Serious, heartfelt smiling, which was a notable enough departure from my experience(s) last year that my coach was incredulous (and happy) when he saw me on the run course (95 degrees in the lava fields, no less). A few weeks ago I rode my bike 78.5 miles, and beamed at the accomplishment. I have three dresser drawers in our house, one of which is totally dedicated to fitness apparel. I've grown to love any manner of fitness clothing, from the banal (my Smartwool socks) to the glamorous (love love love my Nike running watch). Oh, and today I commented about how perfect my weekend was. We rode a super-hilly 40 miles yesterday and then today Steve goaded me into running a spontaneous 13 miles, which I followed with a pedicure. A new perfection, I guess. Good lord, indeed.
So, on my run today I felt myself go into that odd, mind-wandering state I wish I could bottle, and my thoughts led me here.
Well-meaning loved ones of all persuasions have been befuddled by my seismic life change - it's as if, some have said, I've joined a cult or found god. It has also been noted (correctly) that I have chosen this life over other things - friend hang outs, family time, etc. I wish I could adequately express what I've found since I got on this path. The confidence. The joy. The challenges. The "intestinal fortitude," as Steve says. It's addicting, really. Every week I push myself a little bit harder, or I find myself not pushing hard enough, and I learn from each state. I swam under an eagle last week, and rode through the countryside yesterday. Life really couldn't be any better.
So, do I expect this to go on forever? I actually have these little moments of fear that this, like so many other things I've loved, will eventually erode to some other passtime. When I have that fear I remember that as long as I keep learning and getting and giving from these experiences I will continue to get up early every Saturday, will bitch and moan about how I'm not a morning person and I have no balance in my life, and then in an hour I'll be on the bike trying to figure out how to go faster, how not to chafe, or how to eat a Gu with one hand, and I'll be as happy as I've ever been.

Olympic Distance What? Part One.

At mile three I started to whimper. Had I had any fluids in me the whimper would’ve been a full-blown cry, but since I was totally depleted of all healthy levels of salty matter, it was just a dry whimper. I was muttering something about, “It’s supposed to be swim, bike, run, not swim, bike, WALK,” and then groaning and shuffling to rest in the next available shady spot.

Back in January my girlfriends and I got together for an annual rite of wine-fueled predictions about what the year would hold. When we got to Megan’s house with wine and tape recorder in tow, Kristen made a big hoo-ha about something we all had to promise to do together. She made us promise before the big reveal, which was an ill-advised move. “We’re going to train to do a triathlon for the Leukemia/Lymphoma Society!”

That crazy moment led to the one a few weeks later when, wine-fueled again, we settled into an auditorium in Seattle and listened to the many compelling reasons why we should enlist in an ambitious program with a bunch of other gluttons in the name of fundraising. Six workouts a week for five months. Three thousand dollars. An Olympic-distance triathlon at the end of it all. I don’t know that I even really knew what a triathlon was at that point. Just something impossible and oddly enticing. We looked at each other, collectively gulped, and signed up.

A week or so later I convinced patient Steve to join me as I kicked off this new, exhausting commitment. He wasn’t thrilled to have yet another project occupying all of my time, but as he always is in these frequent moments, he stood by me with encouragement. I roped him in. He was totally not into the pep rally vibe at the kickoff party, and grumbled a bunch about how much he would hate the whole group scene, yadda yadda, but somehow he signed up. I remember thinking that he would either hate the whole thing and quit or end up as a leader of the program – he’s like that. Like me in so many ways.

Now the triathlon is history and I can’t believe what we’ve done. It’s pretty incredible. On Sunday Kristen, Megan, Steve and I joined our teammates and hundreds of other people for a few grueling hours of excessive activity. We swam .9 miles in open water, then peeled off our wetsuits to reveal a soggy biking outfit, which got us through a 28-mile mountain ride, and then changed into running shoes for a 6.2-mile run. Hell-fucking-o! Pardon my francais, but I’m sure you can understand…

So, the scoop: triathlons are scary. Even under the guidance of a professional coach (who I LOVE) and in the company of 50 teammates of various skill levels, my nerves were a sick jumble for the week leading up to the tri. Imagine the anticipation of 100 Christmases coupled with election night nerves in the Bush era, and a dash of what people jumping out of planes for fun might experience, and you will begin to understand what my innards were feeling. We all felt that way, to some extent, as was evidenced by the frequent flushing of toilets in our shared triathlon-weekend condo. Oh, and that leads to the other scoop: when training for a physical endurance event, normally embarrassing or unpalatable bodily functions become the stuff of totally necessary conversations with near strangers – it’s all science and shared experience, right? Say, for instance, that I need to know whether it is normal to feel the need to void all fluids through all orifices during a race. I’m not saying I went through that, of course, but say, for the sake of argument, that I did. If I went through that I would ask my fellow teammates about it and learn that it’s something that a lot of people experience when doing endurance events, and then I would hear ways to deal with such a (fictional) problem.

But I digress.

They (you know, the ever-present They) say that the training is the bulk of the experience. “It’s the training, not the event.” I’m starting to come around to that notion now. I also now fully believe that the triathlon experience is as much about mental stamina and strength as anything physical. My biggest challenge in the last six months was motivating for my training, and then coping with the nagging negative thinking that would vex me during my workouts. My brain wanted to believe I wasn’t capable of doing what I needed to do, and my brain has always been my most, uh, formidable muscle. This was, for me, the greatest tie to the fundraising cause: the people I was raising money for were in races for their lives, and I was dealing with confidence demons. Pathetic and real.

Sunday morning came after many months of thinking it never would. I naturally awakened at 6, which is wholly unnatural for me. After many night-before hours of fretting over our triathlon gear, Kristen, Megan, Steve and I piled into the car and headed to the drop-off location. Let me go off on a tangent for a moment: Triathletes require a lot of stuff. Our checklist of stuff occupies two columns of a sheet of 8 ½” x 11” paper, and one oversight can mean serious discomfort, inconvenience, or worse, inability to compete. Let’s review: swim. Swimming in open water in the lovely Northwest requires a wetsuit (check), a swim cap (check), goggles for sun or low light conditions with no-fog drops (check), and Body Glide, a deodorant-like stick of Crisco-like crap which allegedly makes things easier to get on, off, and not to chafe. Bike. This requires: biking shorts to be worn under the wetsuit (check), a top (check), socks (check), clipless shoes (check), sunscreen (check), a helmet (check), sunglasses (check), padded gloves (check), and food and drink (check and check). Oh! And a bike! (CHECK.) Run. For the run you need shoes (check) and a hat (check). The way the tri works is thus: swim and then go to your already-established area (Transition One) to transform from a swimmer to a rider. Ride, and then revisit the area for your transformation to a runner (Transition Two). Finish, and then put your crap away. The area each triathlete gets for transition is the size of a bath towel folded into fourths. So, not so much space.

Where was I? Oh yeah – we packed all of the above, and were shuffled off to the bus pickup area. This, apparently, is unique in the world of triathlons. The Pacific Crest tri in Bend starts at a reservoir and then leads into a town. The athletes are bused to the swim location and then ride back. We all boarded our bus with nerves on red alert. Some people goofed off (us) and others completely went silent (also us) as the :30 ride went on. Kristen and Megan and I spent the ride dissolving into junior high-like giggles, as they sang a rousing medley of Bobby McFerrin-meets-Sound-of-Music numbers. Totally painful and perfect. The bus belched us all out into the transition one area and we went about prepping for the start. When we delivered our bikes the day before there were only a few scattered around the area. When we arrived the morning of the race I was struck by how many people and bikes there were, and how amazingly cool the whole thing was. There was an energy in the air which can’t really adequately be described – just visceral. I pulled on my wetsuit and decided to hop in the water to warm up. When you get into open water in a wetsuit you immediately sense that the water isn’t nearly as cold as you predicted. You wade in further, faster, and then the water seeps into the suit along the sides of the zipper on the back and the freezing trickle makes every cell retreat. Nothing feels quite like it, at once terrible and oddly fun. I did a few strokes and felt strong. All of my muscles wanted to be there, and my form felt solid, good. I climbed out of the water, into the sea of other wetsuit-clad triathletes, and waited. Steve found me and pointed out his dad and stepmom over on the sidelines holding “Go Steve! Go Kerry” signs. I squealed with delight, inside and out. Kristen’s husband and Megan’s boyfriend were there, too, with camera in hand. When I saw the pics later I laughed – those of us awaiting the signal looked like brightly-capped seals, in our swimcaps and black wetsuits. I’m embarrassed to write the following sentence, but will someday regret not being totally honest if I don’t. I felt cool. For the first time in ages. I was proud to be there, among the others, in my weird uniform getting ready to do something extreme. Oh man, I wish I could bottle that feeling. I really do.

They counted down from five over the loudspeaker, and the hundred other orange-capped and I got in the water and started to swim. Maybe I should back up: triathlons are started in age-specific waves – if you’re between 30 and 34, for instance, you’ll be given a bright orange swim cap, and you’ll start the race in the first wave, at 9 am. The next wave goes 5 minutes later, and is identified by another color of cap. And so on. Oh, and the course is marked by large buoys – these looked very far – everyone was chattering about whether a mile really looked that far. I was orange, and in wave one. The horn sounded and I started to swim, and then the panic set in.

STAY TUNED FOR THE NEXT INSTALLMENT!

Milfoil Follies (Olympic Distance Triathlon, Part Two)

A few weeks before the Pacific Crest race in Bend my teammates and I did a sprint triathlon in a neighboring suburb. The sprint tri consisted of a ¼-mile swim, a 14-mile ride, and a 5k run. We preening Team in Training folks talked about the sprint tri with confidence, and prattled on about how fun it would be. “We’ve been training for an Olympic distance race for months! A sprint will be easy!” We all suited up that morning, plopped into the water, and were instantly humbled. I almost immediately started to panic, a deep, sincere and serious panic, which blindsided me. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t put my face in the water, and the more I focused on my inability to do either, each became exponentially harder. About 2/3 of the way through that swim, my brain was awash in expletives and the thought-equivalent of tears, as I determined that I would have to pull out of the Pac Crest race in a few weeks and return all of the money I raised for the Leukemia/Lymphoma Society and face shame and disappointment, and this isn’t fun and why am I doing this, and shit, this fucking sucks. Then I got out of the water, on the bike, on the path, and across the finish line, and was committed to triathloning for years! No, decades to come!

Fast-forward to the water at Pac Crest. Now pause. Shall I review a few details? Event: The Olympic distance triathlon in Bend, Oregon. Date: June 25, 2006. To finish: swim .9 miles, ride 28, and run 6.2 (a 10k). X-factors: 92-degree heat (ugh), and 4,500 feet elevation (hic). Me, in the water, just having felt confident, strong, and cool (please read earlier post for details about coolness), quickly realizing that all feelings are fleeting. This moment is otherwise known as the, “Oh shit” moment. I’m not sure why I panicked – after the ill-started Issaquah experience I did a lot of time in my wetsuit, swimming sans anxiety. I even managed to accomplish some decent distances in open water, all in preparation for the Big Day. Still, being surrounded by a sea of bobbing, grunting, churning arms, heads, and other extremities, while knowing that sign-bearing relatives were hooting and picture-taking a few yards away on the shore made my already nervous stomach drop to my knees. I imagined that the proud, hooting relatives were becoming nervous on my behalf. “Oh dear, she’s falling to the back. Do you think she can make it?” I imagined the people on the shore, my people, saying, “Ohh, she’s going to be last. She's a good writer, though...” At that moment the whole event was about me, the spotlight was on me, and I was evolving from my earlier self-prescribed persona of sinewy cool to become flopping minnow in a sea of salmon.

During the many prior months of training I quickly learned that my brain was a greater hindrance to my efforts than any muscular effort or development. My training seemed to work my body, sure, but more notably it revealed a voice of self-doubt deep within me which will likely require many thousands of dollars of therapy to silence. It was almost scientific – by the time I hit a decent pace my inner doubter would start to note my various pains, the uncomfortable breathing, and then my position in the pack (read: very near last, always), and upon that final notation, I would emotionally crumble. I cried on more than one occasion throughout the training, threw an entirely ungracious fit one night in particular, and was generally snappy to quite-patient partner-in-crime-cum-fiance Steve myriad times.

So, to finally get into the water to begin the event I had worked toward for so long and to feel that familiar panic seep into my core like cold water was totally deflating and frightening. Then I heard a voice. “How you doin’, Kerry?” Kathy Minnis. Kathy pulled up alongside me one night months prior at a pout-inspiring run. She talked me through my wallow, listened to my warbling complaints, and then somehow got me talking about documentary filmmaking and book clubs. She saved me that night, and then that morning her voice cut through my raspy haze in the first stretch of the anticipated swim. “I’m fine, I think.” She knew. Was she going through the same thing?

Allow me to properly set the stage here – it’s not like Kathy and I were bobbing along by ourselves in a calm body of water. Rather, we were surrounded by adept swimmers finding their paces, positions, and sight-lines. Then I noticed a fellow TNT teammate Jenny, close behind Kathy. She looked nervous, too. We all started verbally dragging each other along. The buoys looked so far. I couldn’t get my pace. The swimmers around me were distracting, and then my ego further deflated when after I rounded buoy one a purple-capped swimmer buzzed past. Purple caps were in the next age group after ours, and started five minutes after our wave. I was bobbing, catching my breath when the purple churned by. “Jerk!” I laughed, and then Jenny and Kathy joined in, making my horrible sportsmanship somehow worthwhile. We hit the next buoy, and the next. I was trying every frigging pacing mechanism imaginable. I should sing a chorus to a song. No songs came to mind. I should count. Counting made me too aware of distance. I should chant the names of the people I’m doing this in memory of. Grand. Ma. Grand. Pa. Jed. Griffin. Chris. Takino. Grand. Ma. Grand. Pa. Jed. Griffin. Chris. Takino. Churn churn churn. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Oh bla. Di oh bla. Da life goes on. Bra! La la. How the. Life goes. On. We all. Live in. A yellow. Submarine. Yellow. Submarine. Yellow. Submarine. Breathe. “You okay? Next buoy. We’ve got it.” Go. Go. Go.

Then, the finish line was in sight. Small, and far away, but in sight. The inflated Red Bull logo which marked the finish was beautiful and grotesque, and just out of arm’s reach. Kathy suddenly broke away, and I immediately missed her. Jenny was close behind. I just churned on.

We were taught in training to swim until your hands hit the ground twice. There’s something quite unintuitive about that. Swimming in lake water is odd – it is totally dark, and as if each molecule is camoflague-colored; there is green matter all around, but all microbial, and almost immaterial. There is nothing to see, except your hands coming into the water in front of your face, and the stream of bubbles generated when the extremities break the water’s surface. You spend 30 minutes staring at the green void and a trail of bubbles, and then suddenly milfoil appears. Milfoil is the freshwater equivalent of weeds, and possesses none of the charms offered by any of its saltwater relatives. The field of vision goes from void to swampy, plasticene weeds almost instantly, and then as you swim toward the shore the weeds climb toward you, and then your hand is hitting the lake or reservoir floor. We were trained to avoid popping up at that instant, and to swim a bit further – becoming vertical when the water comes to your knees is easier. As you rise from the water you grab the rip cord attached to your zipper, start pulling, and the goal is to be half-de-suited by the time you reach your bike. This is a lofty goal.

For fun, please try this. Float in water in a long-sleeved t-shirt for 40 minutes, and try to make yourself hyperventilate a bit. While you’re doing this, try to work up a sweat – this surely seems impossible in the refreshing water, but for the sake of fun, please indulge. Next, pop upright and run toward the shore, while peeling your clothes off. Dizzy? Oh, and try to pull your swim cap off, too. And don’t drop your goggles. Finally, suck in your stomach and smile for the race photographer! You’ll be able to buy the photo online later!

I got to my bike, and pulled off the rest of my gear. I was a soggy mess, but totally exhilarated that I had just completed the first third. Of. An. Olympic. Distance. Triathlon. WHEE! I was chatty, giggly, jokey, just an all-around pleasure, I’m sure. “Ha ha, only two-thirds to go! Hell, that was EASY! Whoa ho ho!” I shoved all of my soggy crap into my tri bag, left it at the station as directed, pulled on my sunscreen, my helmet and gloves, shoes and socks, grabbed my bike, and started the 100-yard trot out of the transition area. I noticed that Steve’s bike was already gone, as was Kristen’s. There were a lot of other bikes around, though, so I supposed I wasn’t too far behind.

As I walked my bike to the top of the hill to the mounting area, I started feeling faint. Very faint. Shit, maybe I should just sit down. Go. Go. Go. I stumbled onto my bike seat, distantly heard my feet clip into my pedals, and started going. I thought I was listing to the right, and felt my bowels churn in protest.

Emancipation of Me-Me

Conversation at the office this morning.

Me: "How fucked up is it that Mariah Carey had the biggest-selling album of the year?"

Mark: "Its the same reason Bush is president."

I laughed for a solid minute.

2005: The year of Blame Bush!

The Terminal

Remember that forgettable Tom Hanks vechile, "The Terminal?" We're experiencing a sliver of that airportian middle earth, as a customs snafu during our layover in Taipei has had us relegated to the airport for 24 hours. Something about how we accidentally went through Taiwan customs and then went back through, thus getting our Passports stamped to and fro. Apparently the Chinese gov ain't a fan of such movements, and we were told we can't leave the grounds of the airport. We stayed at the airport hotel last night - it was more like a hospital room than hotel room, with a lovely view of outbound planes and inbound highway traffic. Today it's a long wander of the facilities here. I can't believe I'm in Taipei, and only seeing the airport. I suppose this is a small price to pay for an otherwise fabulous vacation...

I now know how to say "thank you" in five languages, which is very papal of me.

I've been in a happy, heavenly haze all vacation long, and feel it peeling away slowly. I want to stay in said haze - how to keep that while making lists of work 'to-do's, and otherwise? How to stay warm and fuzzy with Steve while he's watching football, and I'm avoiding cleaning the cat box? This, my blog-reading friend, is the eternal question, and this is something I will work very hard to handle.

There is a closeness forged on our vacations that I wouldn't give up for anything. I feel wistful about it at the moment - don't want to think in past tense. Perhaps its purgatory talking.

Time to go survey the food and bev options!

More soon, including the riveting (I'm sure) account of our tour of emergency care facilities on Bali. Never a dull moment with us!

I Said 'The WISHbone,' Honey...

Happy day of turkey to all, from turkey-free Bali. We are in Kuta, which is the site of the "big bomb #1," as the locals call it. Kuta is like Waikiki or Vegas or some hybrid of the two. But much cheaper. We're staying in a "trendy" (that's the Balinese descriptor, not mine) hotel which might as well be in LA or Miami.

We left the mellow Ubud for the more mellow and quite remote Bingin Beach, a small beachside village perched on a cliff above a swatch of the many-hued Indian Ocean. I marvel at the number of colors of blues and greens I see here - it is as if the color wheel below the equator is infinite - the mingling fingers of turquoise, indigo and blue greens we could see just from our ocaenview bungalow a testament to that. We were told of Mick's Place by our Ubudian newlywed friends - they have stayed there, and loved its sleepy beach vibe. It was like a wonderland, like much of what we've seen here. A little cluster of white-washed bungalows with palm-frond roofs twirling up to a Seussical, whimsical point. Everything in the bathrooms was wood, from the bamboo faucets to the drain cover, a little teak disc with holes drilled through. Minimalist beauty, and perfectly appointed. Mick is an Aussie who has lived here for 9 years, his deep tan proof of his Balihood.

We were thrilled to quickly fall into conversation with Louise, a guest at Mick's travelling from San Diego. Louise is a classic California girl, but with a list of travels more deep than anyone I've met. She chose Bali for the surf - to my untrained eye she looks like she could even be a pro. Her golden tan and bleached arm hairs are perfect surfer girl accessories. We had dinner with her the first night after a long walk to a neighboring pool, and we immediately bonded. She was so open and sweet - a nice familiarity we'd been missing a bit here.

Expert surfer Louise gamely agreed to share her last, pre-departure surfing morning with Steve, who wanted to learn on Mick's longboard. We slathered him in sunscreen before he left, and I barked orders to him about keeping his dark t-shirt on to stave off the rays. The sun here feels prickly in its intensity, and I knew he'd be bobbing in a big mirror for a while. I perched myself in Mick's open-air bale, the Balinese living room - raised, palm-roofed, and in this case, with a perfect view of the water.

I was amazed that I could see Steve and Louise paddling out, him in his t-shirt atop his longboard, and Louise with her surfergirl bikini and board. They bobbed for a minute and then a wave came. Louise caught it, and Steve whooshed along for a minute and then was toppled by the crest, his board flying up like a piece of paper.
He was under for a minute, which made me "Hmm." Then he popped up, and got beside his now-upsidedown board. Louise drifted over to him, and a minute later he climbed on top of his board. I was thinking the whole process was a little more, uh, tentative-looking than usual, but what do I know? A few other guys paddled over to them, and they were all consulting Steve. I thought he probably banged his bad toe (broken a few days before we left - luck!) on the coral or something.

Soon, he and Louise were paddling to shore.

A minute later, I saw an old Balinese woman climbing our cliffside trail with two boards atop her grey head. I ran to the gate, she came in, and was followed by Louise and Steve. Louise was saying, "We need first aid," in a high-pitched voice as I was running to Steve, his now-crooked nose spurting blood and mucuous and sea water. "I broke by nobe." Holy shit.

I ran around for a minute, seeking things which would help - Advil, a sarong for dabbing, iPod? My synapses were running ragged, trying to think of what to do. How to handle a geyser of blood coming from my honey's now-profile nose? "Get all the money." "Pack our bags." "No, hurry." I grabbed money, a clean shirt for Steve, passports, and a backpack, and helped him to the waiting car. As we got in he said, "The Aussie surfer told me not to fall asleep..." He was trailing off, moaning, "I'm going to pass out..." Stay with me, stay with me, stay with me. Blood and mucuous everywhere, my sweet man moaning and forbidden to fall asleep, and our minivan lurching over the once-quaint, now-treacherous dirt road. Why not fall asleep? Is this more serious than I think? Oh god oh god oh god.

Moaning and lurching and lurching and moaning, and about 10 minutes later we were on a paved road, racing through the streets. Our driver pressed a button and triggered a remarkably official-sounding siren, which totally caught me by surprise. Meanwhile, I was trying to keep poor Steve awake with questions like, "On a scale of one to ten, how is your pain?" ("6".) "Look me in the eyes. I love you and I am here. You will be fine." Poor thing. Meanwhile, all my strong-woman, everything-is-okay posturing was wearing thin, and I was worrying that manybe everything wouldn't be okay - what are the doctors like here? What if something really bad happens? I was bathed in sheets of sweat. Really, no exaggeration - every pore on my body expelled saline, and I was a slick beast.

We pulled into the driveway of the low-slung, plain clinic. I hopped out of the car and ran over to Steve's door, and slung his arm over my shoulder and shuffled him in through the spottily-mirrored doors. It felt like walking into a dingy 7-11. There were three gurneys in the room, the middle occupied by an apparent motorbike leg injury - stitches on a Balinese legs, and puddles of Balinese blood on the floor. We put Steve on the furthest gurney in the room, under some crooked, framed diagrams of the human anatomy tacked on the soiled medical blue walls. The doctor put a clear apron on over his clothes - not a brand new garb, mind you, and came over. We explained the obvious - I mean, what could be wrong with someone whose nose is almost an S shape, and who has blood caked with sand and phlegm in his beard?

The heavy sweating I was experiencing in the car was turning impossibly more profuse. In my current, fine state of mind, I ask: Where does all of that come from? I was drenched. And suddenly cold. And tingly. Very tingly. My fingers were going stiff, then numb, then more stiff. "Are you okay?" Steve was checking in on ME - the opposite of what should have been transpiring. I shuffled over to the sole empty gurney and crawled onto it, and asked for water. Not good. Panic. Full-bore panic, and my dear, my beloved, my heart, is two gurneys away, needing me. I tried to ask the doctor for Xanax, Valium - anything. When Steve called to me to say he was sorry - he didn't want to be causing me trouble, I slurped my water and went over to him. Mind over mind, though it was dicey. Poor Steve.

Finally the doctor said we needed to go to the hospital, something we had asked our original driver to do in the first place. "I'm late - go here." We called a taxi to come get us to take us to the "International Hospital," which made me feel a tad guilty (albeit only fleetingly). At this point, Steve was calm, I was calming, and he was in pain, but accepting that the shock was likely greater than the seriousness of the injury. The taxi driver took us about 1 mile to the BIMC - Bali International Medical Center - where our car was inspected, and we were ushered inside the clean, gleaming facility. The women at reception spoke remarkable English - Steve was immediately ushered into an immaculate room where an English-speaking, UCLA-trained female Balinese doctor confidently assessed the injury. "You have one week to have it straightened by a plastic surgeon - today it is not necessary."

Stay tuned for parts 17 - 20!

Dear Mom

We are sitting in an internet cafe awaiting the end of the monsoon that moved in after today's wedding ceremony (part II of III). The rain here is intense - as a great Aussie named Kerry told me, "Sometimes it comes down so hard you can't believe there is oxygen." Sheets of rain, and every few minutes I say to Steve, "Wow, it's really coming down now," and a minute later it rains harder. It's kind of like the waves of an earthquake. Why does so much on Earth come in waves?

The wedding ceremony today was incredible. Tara and Odeck were covered in symbolic Balinese wedding garb - cloths and string and coins and gold and makeup and flowers. I can't wait to show you the pictures. I am so lucky to have been given this experience. I keep meaning to thank Steve and then forget as I dart off to take another picture.

The ceremony was in Odeck's family's compound, and was set up to host 800. There were video screens all over which showed the ceremony, just like a concert. "Check out the JumboTron - they're getting married!" The food was great, and there was a long Balinese dance. We chatted for a good bit with a number of ex-pats, and I have to confess that I'm becoming a bit fixated with the idea. Don't daub your brow just yet - nothing is imminent, but I am feeling an excited twitch in my stomach about the idea.

Note: Steve just pointed out that the rain is coming down harder, still. Amazing. The street is a river. Motorbiking home should be fun...

I'm going to post much of this to my blog 'cause I don't think I can write it all again.

Oh, one other vignette: We went to the Gunun Kawi temple yesterday - you have to walk down 250 steps to get there. It was high noon, and I was kinda bitching about UV rays and melanoma and the like, and when we got to the bottom we realized we just so happened to be there for a ceremony. It was like battle of the bands, Bali village-style: two gamelan bands facing each other (from different villages, maybe?) and dancers enacting something akin to a war dance. I'm not sure, exactly, but it was just amazing, and beautiful and surreal. The setting was immaculate - huge, several-stories-tall shrines carved into the mountainside, a gorgeous river full of bathing (naked) men, brightly-clothed kids and women, and dance, music, ceremony. Really incredible. Steve has rightly said a few times that one of the wonderful things about the Balinese is that they aren't doing their arts and ceremonies for the benefit of tourists - it's truly a part of their lives, and we just happen to witness it.

Okay, the rain is indeed harder now. Coffee, please...

I love you and wish you could experience this, too!

- K