tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52173390754991568542024-03-05T01:53:33.253+05:30Captain CripIn Lieu of Actual Worktomhaighttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08002925789032011330noreply@blogger.comBlogger145125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217339075499156854.post-9460632375482263412022-12-03T10:15:00.009+05:302022-12-04T23:01:31.122+05:3030th Anniversary of UN International Day of Persons with Disability<p> Today is 30<sup>th</sup> Anniversary of the United Nations International
Day of Persons with Disability. Oddly enough, it goes without notice in the
countries where the most work on disability has been done. In the US, the ADA
has been so effectively enforced, that most persons with disability can now
live and work nearly as regularly as our able-bodied citizens. For the most
part, we don’t rely on disability enclaves or specialty schools to integrate
our disability population into regular society.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: #073763; color: white;">Not to say the work is done, but due to the incredible drive
and perseverance of our predecessors, we are standing/sitting on the shoulders
of giants. Those giants include ADA lobbyists <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Justin_Whitlock_Dart_Jr." title="Justin Whitlock Dart Jr."><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Justin Whitlock Dart Jr.</span></a><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"> and </span></span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Patrisha_Wright" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" title="Patrisha Wright"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Patrisha
Wright</span></a></span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="background-color: #073763; color: white;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">. Portland’s </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Pimentel" title="Richard Pimentel"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Richard
Pimentel</span></a> wrote the first guidelines on training for disability in
the work force. Athletic greats <a href="https://skihall.com/hall-of-famers/jim-martinson/">Jim Martinson</a> and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Candace_Cable">Candace Cable</a> broke down
doors that most able-bodied persons didn’t know existed. <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scott_Rains">Scott Rains</a> was a quadriplegic
who traveled the world in the days before any airlines had a clue as to how to
transport him. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #202122;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background-color: #073763;">There is a Catch-22 to this success. I am so independent now
that I have very few friends with disabilitie</span>s. I have acquaintances and
colleagues, but in the States, nobody in my immediate social group has a
disability. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But when I’ve traveled abroad to low-resource countries
(Albania, Bangladesh, Ghana, Nepal, Senegal among others), nearly ALL of my
friends are persons with disabilities and their families. If they are lucky,
they live in a disability enclave where necessary services are right outside
their door (schools, hospitals, grocery). But most tend to live at home with
family members caring for their every need. In many instances they haven’t left
their homes in years if not decades. They are given the necessary things to
stay alive, but transportation systems and architecture ensure they will not be
able to thrive like their able-bodied counterparts. Reliable disability
unemployment statistics are hard to come by, but it’s no stretch to say that in
poor countries, it’s 75 percent and higher. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">By any definition, they are 2<sup>nd</sup> class citizens.
There are of course exceptions, and some have risen far above their station. My
friend <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Javed_Abidi">Javed Abidi</a>, who
had spina bifida was the president of Disabled Persons International, went from
relative poverty in India to speak in front of the Indian Parliament and get the
Indians with Disability Act passed. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But Javed was by far the exception, not the rule. So what
can we do? First of all, just reading this missive is a big step forward.
Voting for politicians who support and promote your country’s participation in
UN Disability programs is another big step. If you would like to get more
involved, you can <a href="https://rehabforum.wpengine.com/donate/">donate to
the International Rehabilitation Forum</a> that not only promotes disability
awareness in poor countries, but also operates rehabilitation medicine fellowships
throughout Africa and Asia. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Thanks for listening!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ooFQMsE0ZXA">IRF
Films</a><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL_j3SlnU127A3I1C5rMI1ImqypxKwwoXC">IRF
Disability Awareness Videos</a><o:p></o:p></p>tomhaighttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08002925789032011330noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217339075499156854.post-3733568362788880422022-10-24T07:40:00.004+05:302022-10-24T07:43:06.463+05:30Top 5(6) Live Sports Events<p>1) 1999 Women's World Cup Final - plenty claim to have been there, I was. Brandi Chastain whipping off her jersey with the club and the country enveloping her in victory love. Changed women's sports forever. Next to the Mircale on Ice, the most iconic US sports moment of all time.</p>2) Easter Sunday, Milwaukee County Stadium, April 19, 1987. The Brewers hadn't really recovered from the 1982 World Series loss, but at the beginning of the 87season, the went on a tear winning 11-straight out of the box to tie the American League record for wins starting the season. The streak was puncutated by the only No-hitter in club history by Juan Nueves. But we needed one more win to break the AL record, and more importantly make local hamburger chain George Webb cough up free burgers as they had promised for decades if the Brewers (or Braves) could win a dozen straight. But as it turns out, 12 straight wins was too much. The Brew Crew was down three runs going into the 9th and the crowd gave them a standing ovation before their at-bat just to acknowledge how great the thrill ride had been. It was over, but damn that was fun!<div><br /></div><div>Then we get a walk... then a base hit... and then Rob Deer blasts a monster over our heads in the left-field bleachers and ties the game up!!!! This can't be real!! Another base hit follows, but now we're at the bottom of the order with weak-hitting shortstop Dale Sveum. No worries - we've got good closers and we're good for extras. But Dale Sveum is NOT. He blasts a 2-run jack into the right-center bullpen and Milwaukee explodes as if they've won the World Series! The city goes NUTS- people are high-fiving each other out of cars on Wisconsin Avenue! George Webb is checking his meet stock to see if he can feed the city! (unfortunately we haven't had a Brewer's moment remotely similar since) </div><div><br /></div><div>3) Oct. 23, 2022. Portland Thorns vs. San Diego Wave. NWSL semi-final. It's been a brutal battle the entire day and Providence Park is still reeling from the Timbers penalty-kick loss in the 2021 Final. Can we take another home playoff loss?? It would be BRUTAL for soccer city! Then miraculously, and probably way after any normal referee would have stopped the clock, Crystal Dunn, takes a strike and finishes off the Wave with her FIRST goal of the year. The capacity crowd expands to three-times it's volume and screethes in glorioius redemption! Rose City sends a shock wave you could hear all the way to Seattle!<br /><br /><br />4) Oct. 29. 1993 - Illinois vs. Michigan. It was Halloween in Champaign and all the requisite chemicals were flowing. We were tied with Michigan for the Big Ten lead, but not given a real chance. But our D held Michigan out of the endzone and when the gun blew off we stormed the field! Never been part of anything like it in my life. At one point I was so compressed by the throng, that I lifted up my feet and was carried around the field via my stomach muscles! Don't know if Memorial Stadium has seen anything quite like it since. </div><div><br /></div><div><br />5) 1982 World Series Game 5 at County Stadium. Gorman had been in a slump and the baseses were loaded late in the game. We needed a dinger, but he delivers a bases-loaded clearing double. He slid into second barely beating the throw and the greatest hit in Brew Crew history was celebrated with a stand-up slide and a city-shattering explosion.<br /><br />6) 1980 Nicolet vs. WFB - WFB natitorium. This was the grudge match of all grudge matches. Bay was loaded, but we had some depth and we were up for the challenge. The meet goes back and forth all night long. Bay's ahead, then we're ahead - never more than by a few points. It comes down to the 400 Free Relay and we have to beat both their A and B relays to win. Our big guys held service, but the B relay was getting worked. And then <span class="xt0e3qv xv78j7m" spellcheck="false">Hans Landwehr</span> gets in the pool and pulls the most amazing 100 free of his life. He's down 5 yds at the 50. He cuts it to 2 yards at the last 25... but he's running out of gas. Then he erupts in the greatest explosion of energy that the animal lane (the lane where all the distance swimmers train) has ever seen. He bolts ahead and smashes his thumb into the WFB touchpad that stops the clock. It looks like he got in there, but we're not sure. The scoreboard shows the same time for both relays. Then, the swimming official hands his decison to the score table. Nicolet First and Third! The place goes f'n NUTS! <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>tomhaighttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08002925789032011330noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217339075499156854.post-56593727345034240352022-10-22T21:27:00.005+05:302022-10-23T00:46:11.530+05:30<p>The sole reason the Casa, a group of ex-Nicolet swimmers and musicians, exists is because we’re
all WHO freaks. I
hadn’t seen the WHO since October of 1996 when I left the Rehabilitaton Institute of Chicago (RIC) in the wheelchair I would have to live in for the rest of my life. That show was 26 years ago, almost to the day, and 14 years, almost to the day when twelve of us invaded the St. Paul Civic Center to sit in
the 21<sup>st</sup> row for what was the most significant event of our lives. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For that ’96 WHO show, Shawn Levy picked me up from the RIC where not only did I pull a month in rehab, but my brother
Andy did his residency studying the same condition I found myself in. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did my first car transfer into Shawn’s
rig. We went to her apartment in Wrigleyville and the Scotty boys came over and
smoked us out, which was interesting because I was still heavily on opioids. We
then drove over to the United Center (The House That Jordan Built!) where I
used my first handicap parking spot as well as my first public handicap bathroom (that
really freaked me out). It was the Quadrophenia tour which was a mindfuck of a
show, seeing as Entwistle was still alive. Billy Idol played the part of
Sting, and pedo, Gary Glitter played wicked Uncle Ernie (ewwwww….) <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I saw Daltry warm up for Clapton about 15 years ago at
Summerfest. It was Roger, Simon, Pino Palidino, Rabbit Bundrick and Zak. It was
a short 45-minute set, that brought me to tears when they played a vicious
Young Man Blues. My brother-in-law, Mark, nudged my sister Nari when he saw me
tear up and said something like, “Hey, I think Tom’s having a rough time.” She
looked over at me and asked if I was OK. “Yeah,” I said, “I’m fine… it’s just…
it’s just that this… THIS is what it’s all about! All the shit… the Casa, the
traveling… it’s all about THIS!!” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And then last week I found myself in Brighton itself. I
watched Quadrophenia a week earlier because I knew I was going there and I
wanted to refresh myself on what the place looked like. I’d never been there
before, but my hostess, Lesley (with whom I spent a night in jail Abu Dhabi in
1988… long story) made sure to take me to all the relevant Quad sites. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So one would think I would be ecstatic about the WHO coming
to town, but I was less than luke-warm. My college teammate, Tom Scotty, had
seen a couple post-Entwistle shows and found them disappointing at one point
calling one “Who-Karioke.” And that’s coming from as dedicated a WHO fan as I
know. The two of us met on the springboards at U of I when he
double-bounced super high, then jumped off doing a triple
Townshend windmill in the air. I was like, “Are you a WHO freak?” He replied
with the first quintessential Scotty “intellectual dumb-guy” response I’d ever heard – and would quickly
become part of my personality – “Why yes… yes I am!” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My enthusiasm was also demured by the horrible showings of
the post-Garcia renditions of the Grateful Dead. Aside from one Phil-showing in
San Francisco, the half-dozen post-Garcia shows I’ve seen have been god-awful and a stain
on my memory of the band that not only changed my life, or saved my life, but
actually BECAME my life. I never would have even flipped the vinyl to hear the
second side of the current DEAD’s repertoire and I certainly didn’t want my
image of the glorious WHO tarnished in anyway. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Alas, I had no intention of paying the $200+ ticket to see The
WHO. But just a month earlier, on a whim, I looked at tickets for a Roger
Waters show. They were equally expensive, but on the day of the show, the
secondary market had them for $25! I swallowed up a pair and had the time of my
life watching an extravagant Floyd show with a friend I hadn’t seen in more
than a decade. We also got the handicap-bump to some good seats when I
exchanged the nose-bleed tickets for handicap seats. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I went online the morning of the WHO show and, sure enough,
there were $25 seats available. I scored a pair then looked for an accomplice. My
first choice was Lance Halvorson who sat next to me in the 21<sup>st</sup> row
in St. Paul almost 40 years ago. Lance couldn’t swing it, but my major Portland
partner-in-crime, Jeff Ovington, also a massive WHO fan, scooped up the ticket.
I was excited, but skeptical. I even blew off pre-funking for the show and
opted for a workout at my pool. Not exactly the raging sentiment I had going
into the St. Paul show where I would have taken a life to get the 12 tickets we
needed to make sure we were all there. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Jeff met me outside the Moda Center at the same spot where
Greeble, another attendee of the St. Paul show, met me a few years earlier to
wait in line for Springsteen floor seats. On that occasion, Greeble told me to
get a “Lotto” ticket and wait to see what number they call. For Springsteen
shows, if you have a floor seat, you pick up a lotto ticket then lineup outside
the venue in the order of your number and wait to see if your group’s number is
called. They randomly select a number and start the floor entry procedure from
that number. Before they made the announcement, Greeble leans to me and says, “Just
watch - <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>they’re going to announce a number
and twenty people are gonna scream and jump up and down.” Seconds later they made
the announcement and everyone around us screamed and <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>jumped up and down. We won the freaking
lottery and got to see the E-Street band front row leaning on the stage. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Jeff and I weren’t as lucky, but we still got a massive handicap
upgrade from the nosebleed seats I’d purchased. We were on the side of the
stage, just in line with the front-line of the band, albeit 20 rows up. But we were
the only ones sitting in our section. We had a platform to ourselves, which
proved extremely useful when we would eventually need to jump out of our chairs
and scream. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I didn’t think there was a warm-up band, but four scraggily
musicians walked right underneath our viewing platform and took the stage. I
didn’t catch their name but gave them the benefit of the doubt and listened to
their set. At one point, I looked over at Jeff and said, “Hey, that guy kinda
looks like Mike Campbell.” They rocked the place for a few tunes then the singer says, “Hey..
I’m gonna play some shit from a band I used to be in.” The crowd went nuts and
they started playing the Tom Petty classic, “Refugee.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn’t just look like Mike Campbell… he
WAS Mike Campbell! Ends up it was Tom Petty’s birthday, so he played a full
Petty set and we went nuts. We paid to see two Hall-of-Famers, and we got a
third for free! <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Now it was time to put eyes on Pete Townshend. I hadn’t seen
him in more than two decades. I’m not gonna lie. Pete Townshend is the most
influential figure in my life. All I am, all I do is because he told me to “Go
to the Mirror Boy!” I dropped my faith (happily) because of him and I became a
relentless traveler because I needed to find answers and truths he said we
should seek. All my life-long friends are my friends because of our dedication
to the messages we learned from listening to the WHO. It's not a religion, but
it is a philosophy. There’s a Townshend song, called “The Seeker”<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>where he…. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m getting ahead of myself…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The 30-piece orchestra took the stage, warmed up and then it
slowly unfolded. Simon Townshend and Zak Starkey (Pete’s brother and Ringo
Starr’s son) took the stage and addressed their instruments. The crowd went nuts.
Then… holy shit – Pete fucking Townshend comes out and picks up his axe. It’s
all business-like as he straps it on and prepares to blow our fucking minds.
Roger strolls up on stage for just another tricky day. They are 77 and 78
years-old respectively. As rock stars, if you didn’t kill yourself in your 20s
and 30s, it ends up you lead a pretty healthy life. They both looked more
energetic and alive than any septuagenarian one would ever cross. I
mean Keith Richards still dances around a Stones stage. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whose grandparents can do that? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The crowd went insane while the 30+ musicians on stage prepared. Seeing as this was an orchestra show (another reason, I
wasn’t overly excited – these rock band-orchestra shows are usually buzzkills),
there’s a bit of tuning up as the musicians pick up their gear and get ready to
play. Then the lights went down, the horns and string bows raise…<o:p></o:p></p>
____________________________________________<br />
<p class="MsoNormal">They kicked off with an operatic version of the Tommy overture.
It was just the classical musicians at this point, but the outfit had a bit of
dig to it. It wasn't soft, fluffy ethereal music. The horns and high strings were really biting into this material. Zak Starkey kicked in early and stayed amazing
all night. If this was a 3-ring circus, Zak certainly is no third fiddle. From
our angle above the stage, it was easy to witness him relentlessly pounding that kit
– which he did all night long. He’s the third WHO drummer after Moon and Kenny
Jones. But he’s held that chair longer than any of them. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then the big boys chimed in. Daltry takes his first breaths
into the mic and immediately one realizes this is no washed-up, old-guy, crackly
rock-star voice. He is clear, vibrant, powerful and energetic. He graces the
Tommy material with a voice that can’t be described as “Aged” but purely
dominant. Freddy Mercury in his prime was not as dynamic as Daltry is on this
stage. I’ve heard Pete doesn’t like touring, but he does it because Roger needs
to. If you had an instrument like Daltry, you would need to exercise it too. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Tommy material is uplifting and pulls the audience in. Then – BAM!! Pinball Wizard!!!!! Get the fuck out! They knock the crap out
of this tune with all the requisite windmills and mic twirls. The orchestra
does nothing but accentuate the most vibrant parts of the song with trombone
blasts and piercing high-end violin. It’s out-of-this world music. WHAT THE
FUCK AM I AM WITNESSING!!!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s at this point that I realize, I’m not only at a WHO
show, I’m at one of the best shows I’ve ever seen in my life. From there they
go through a selection of what I’ll call post-“Great”-WHO songs, which they
absolutely dominate -> Who Are You, Eminence Front (Pete KILLING the
vocals), You Better, You Better, You BET. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And then we got a personal gift from Pete to the Casa. We
get the tune that describes our entire existence – our sole (soul?) quest in life. I
never cried at church, but I cried here – “They call me the Seeker!! I’ve been
running low and HIGH!!! Won’t get to get what I’m after – till the day I DIE!!!
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I have tears running down my cheeks and I realize I’m not at
a rock concert, I’m at a freaking deliverance! I’m transformed into the 20-year-old
kid in St. Paul. 40 years later and all those feelings, all that inspiration,
all that energy has now been VALIDATED!!! After all these years we stayed TRUE!
Hell, most of us became musicians! We were the seekers then and continue to be
them now. Until the end of our lives, we will remain the SEEKERS!!! <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Before my tears dry, they kick into Naked Eye and the
emotions build up again. They are not the greatest rock and roll band of all
time. They’re something more than that… they’re the fucking WHO. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But they are, in fact, the greatest rock band of all time,
so they had to do their due diligence and power though the greatest songs ever
written. Before they’re done they blow the crap out of Another Tricky Day,
Behind Blue Eyes, Won’t Get Fooled Again… The Orchestra has been off stage for
a half-dozen songs, but return for the Quadrophenia material – which was
actually the only reason I thought the WHO would need them in the first place.
And of course, it crushes -> The Real Me, I’m the One, 5:15, Love Reign O’er
Me… If there is only one thing that’s missing, it’s John. The arrangements and
musicianship is over-the-top, but they can’t launch like they could
with Entwistle. He was just too big a force and no player on Earth can replace
him. Zak does an amazing job playing the Moon parts, but a bass player trying
to replicate Entwistle?? Ain’t gonna happen. I was wondering if they would
attack “Drowned” but seriously, what’s the point without Entwistle? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And then it had to end. They’d already played Won’t Get
Fooled Again with Daltry wrecking the building with his primordial scream. The familiar clanking of Baba O’Reilly emerged and the crowd jumped to
their feet, not dancing, but blasting out of their seats with fists in the air.
We’ve been treated to a revival, and we don’t want it to end! <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But of course, they had more tricks up their sleeves. The
first chair violinist pops out of her seat and starts into the violin music we
all know at the end of Baba O’Reilly. It starts up slow, but in a few seconds,
it builds into a manic Celtic spiritual romp. It’s insane! The crowd can’t
contain itself! We’re screaming as if these are our last seconds on Earth – we could
only be so lucky!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And then BAM! She hits the final note and the Moda Center
explodes in tones and volumes I’ve never heard before. The building is fucking
WRECKED! There’s no more to say – no encore. Just the stage bows. We’re too devastated
to go on. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Jeff and I, who have been singing our throats out all night
long, look at each other and are actually happy there’s no encore. We can’t
take anymore!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But as we’re walking out, you can hear the house manager
giving us one last treat. Above the noise of the crowd you can faintly make out
the first pre-Tommy tune of the night – BATMAN!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
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<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>tomhaighttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08002925789032011330noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217339075499156854.post-51466735142010134052021-05-28T12:14:00.004+05:302021-06-06T23:37:16.139+05:30Telluride<p class="MsoNormal">I'd just gotten home from a disgusting day of making and
hauling crates for the Great Gift Company of Milwaukee. I was looking forward
to one of the Milwaukee's Best's sitting in the fridge of the Eastside
apartment I was temporarily sharing with my brother, Dan.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I took off
my shoes and put on the Soft Machine album that we'd picked out of a 50-cent
record bin. Neither one of us planned to be in <st1:place w:st="on">Milwaukee</st1:place> very long so the only pieces of
furniture we owned were two $12 patio loungers. Ever since the trip across the
Bridge to <st1:place w:st="on">Venice</st1:place>,
Dan and I had gotten used to a rigged form of comfort - nothing in our lives
was permanent. We picked up a flat on
the east side after both of us had spent most of the previous 18 months abroad.
Compared to the train stations and multi-bunk hostels we'd stayed in, the tiny
apartment was pretty damn nice. Things may not have been exceptionally
glamorous at the $250/month <st1:address w:st="on">Pulaski
St.</st1:address> pad, but they were definitely functional. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Just after
I'd put down my first gulp the telephone rang. I usually got home from work an
hour before Dan did, and sometimes he'd call for a ride. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Dude,
can you come and pick me up?" he asked.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Sure,
5 o'clock cool?"<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Now,"
he said. "Listen - Paul Wolfert skied off a cliff in Telluride. Derf's
dead." <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> The words
hit me like an anvil. "Our Paul Wolfert?" I asked, "Derf? You
sure?"<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Yeah,
man," he said, "You gotta come get me outta here. I can't take this
here." <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I tried to
collect myself, but the emotional surge was overwhelming. "Alright,
man," I said, "I'm on my way." <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I hung up
the phone, took a couple swigs of my beer and jumped back into my rusted out
Horizon to navigate the snowy streets of downtown <st1:place w:st="on">Milwaukee</st1:place>. Rush hour was just starting, and I
was out of control behind the wheel. I may as well have been drunk on a bottle
of tequila. My mind was floating as I missed two stop signs and twice had to
jam on the brakes. It was simply inconceivable that Derf, one of the most
vibrant and active members of the Casa, was no longer with us. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> The Casa
was out to conquer the Earth, but the Earth had decided to take one back. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I finally made it to the front doors of Discovery World, the
children's museum where Dan gave tours and made sure kids didn't destroy
exhibits. Dan was leaning up against a pillar with barely enough energy in his
legs to support his body. He wobbled over to the Horizon and flopped himself in
the seat as if he'd been shot in the arm. I'd been holding back tears, but with
the two of us looking at each other with weeping faces, we both let go. A van
behind us honked at us to get a move on and we simultaneously screamed at the
guy to fuck off. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I put the
car in gear and pulled away but I had absolutely no business being behind the
wheel of a car. I took a back route out of downtown and as soon as we got out
of heavy traffic Dan started in. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Barb
(our sister, a TV news producer in Milwaukee) got the news over the Associated
Press wire -- 'A 23 year-old Milwaukee
man, Paul Wolfert, died yesterday in a skiing accident in Telluride, New
Mexico.' Barb called Mom and asked her what Paul Wolfert was doing. Mom told
her he was skiing in <st1:place w:st="on">Colorado</st1:place>. Then she called me and asked if I knew the
name of the town. I told her Derf was in Telluride. Next thing I know she's
reading off the AP wire and asking me if it was him. I'd love to tell her that
there's a town in <st1:place w:st="on">New Mexico</st1:place>
called Telluride and it ain't Derf - that the AP got it screwed up. But it's
him. He's dead. Townshend's alive, Keith Richard's alive, Jerry's alive -
fucking Syd Barrett's even alive. Derf is dead." <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Derf
arrived on scene during our youngest brother Bagus's junior year in high
school. His father had been transferred from <st1:state w:st="on">New Jersey</st1:state>
to <st1:place w:st="on">Milwaukee</st1:place>,
and Derf roamed the halls of Nicolet looking for Deadheads. We'd been to Dead
shows before, but we didn't really know the intricacies of the scene. Derf had been to dozens of shows on the East Coast
and could recite set lists from tour after tour. He was the first one we ever
knew who had a massive bootleg collection, and he could whip off the lyric to
any song on any tape. He taught us all how to be Deadheads. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> We knew he
was smarter than he let on, but he was the quintessential high school stoner.
He enrolled at Tulane after high school and proceeded to flunk out of his first
semester because he kept going out on tour. This didn't sit too well with his
parents who strapped him down for a summer and made him study. When he went
back to school he still took the occasional 2,000-mile solo drive to go on
tour, but he started studying. He graduated from Tulane in four years and got a
4.0 his last two semesters. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Telluride
was just a transition before he would start working for his father. The
Wolferts had high hopes for their son, but those hopes had been swept away by
an avalanche in the <st1:place w:st="on">Rockies</st1:place>. We assumed they
would call us for a memorial service when they were ready, but it never
happened. There were dozens of questions to be asked and answered, but we were
left in the dark with just a press clipping. We needed to know more.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> After
returning from <st1:place w:st="on">France</st1:place>
I resumed a correspondence with Chloe, a girl I'd been seeing during the
summer with the Lake of the Ozarks Water Show. She was going to grad school at <st1:placetype w:st="on">Fort</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Lewis</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">College</st1:placename> in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Durango</st1:city>,
<st1:state w:st="on">Colorado</st1:state></st1:place>. After a couple of
letters, we decided we wanted to see each other again. My diving show bank
account was getting thin, and I wasn't sure I would be able to make the trip.
When Derf died I looked at the map and found that Telluride was just on the
other side of the San Juan Mountains from <st1:place w:st="on">Durango</st1:place>. I was running short on cash but
only a few weeks away from returning to Les Avenières and a paycheck. I was
coaching a local diving team, and as soon as the high school swimming season
was over I booked a train to <st1:place w:st="on">Colorado</st1:place>.
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> The
California Zephyr pulled out of <st1:city w:st="on">Chicago</st1:city>'s Union
Station just before sunset, and I floated across the <st1:place w:st="on">Great
Plains</st1:place> with someone else at the wheel. Amtrak was like a luxury
liner compared to the cramped second-class trains I'd taken in <st1:place w:st="on">Europe</st1:place>. I had plenty of room, and they even offered movies
for the long two-day trip. But as nice as the coach was, this was still an
American train which meant I would be dropped off miles from my final
destination. I read myself to sleep and woke up with the first peaks of the
Rockies dominating the <st1:place w:st="on">Denver</st1:place>
skyline. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I
transferred trains in <st1:city w:st="on">Denver</st1:city> and moved into a
bubble car for a nice, slow, eye-jarring afternoon over the Rockies and along
the <st1:place w:st="on">Colorado River</st1:place>. As the terrain switched
from high mountains to wide-open plateaus, the Zephyr pulled into <st1:city w:st="on">Grand Junction</st1:city> just short of the <st1:place w:st="on">Utah</st1:place> border. There were no trains to <st1:place w:st="on">Durango</st1:place>, but I figured
it had to be a fairly easy hitch. It's a three-hour drive with just a few towns
in between. Most people would be driving straight through. I walked out of town
to US Highway 50 and made a "<st1:place w:st="on">Durango</st1:place>"
sign out of a Dominos Pizza box I found on the side of the road. I started
hitching at 4:30, but by 6:00 was losing daylight. Nobody was heading to <st1:place w:st="on">Durango</st1:place>.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> When the
sun finally set, my appearance changed from an honest-faced hitchhiker to a
shadowy figure on the side of the road. I was hungry and anticipated crashing
somewhere in the desert. There was an IGA just off the exit from where I was
hitching, so I tucked my sign away and went in to buy some groceries. As I
stood at the checkout line a thirty-something mustachioed cowboy asked me if I
was the guy trying to hitch a ride to <st1:place w:st="on">Durango</st1:place>.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Yup,"
I said, "That's me." I pulled out the sign tucked into my bag and
smiled hoping he was on his way there. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "I'm
not on my way there," he said, "but I do know there's a Trailways
headed that way, and we might just be able to make it." <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Hey,
that sounds great," I said. "How far's the station?" <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Don't
worry," he said. "I'll give you a lift. Paul Preston's, the
name."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Tom
Haig," I said. "Thanks for the offer. It was getting cold out
there."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> We walked
out to the parking lot, and I tossed my bag and guitar in his pickup.
"Hey, you wouldn't be watching the basketball games would you?" I
asked. It was the weekend of the NCAA semifinals and after years of getting
bonked out in early rounds, the Illini were playing <st1:place w:st="on">Michigan</st1:place> in the Final Four.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "My
boys are crazy about that stuff," he said, "Seton Hall just beat
Purdue. <st1:state w:st="on">Illinois</st1:state> and <st1:place w:st="on">Michigan</st1:place> just started."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "I'm
an <st1:place w:st="on">Illinois</st1:place>
grad," I said. "We've been so close so many times. I think this is
our year." <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "<st1:place w:st="on">Michigan</st1:place>'s tough,"
Paul said. "But I gotta agree, I think it's your year."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> We pulled
into the bus station, I thanked him for the ride and pulled my gear out of the
back. The station was closed, but he assured me that buses came and went all
the time whether or not the doors were open. I walked up to the schedule on the
door and discovered I'd just missed the last bus. The next one wasn't until
2:00 the next afternoon. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Damn,"
I said. "Well I'm going to find a bar and try to catch the end of the <st1:place w:st="on">Illinois</st1:place> game. Might as
well get something out of this."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Hold
on," he said. "I got three boys at home who've got their eyes glued
to the TV. Why don't you just come watch it with us?"<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "If
it's no bother," I said. "I'm dying to catch the second half."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Paul didn't
think twice. He threw my gear back in his truck and drove me to his house on
the outskirts of <st1:place w:st="on">Grand Junction</st1:place>.
We pulled into a fenced-in yard enclosing a one-storey bungalow and a garage
with a well-worn nine-foot basket dangling at a slightly forward angle. Paul
led me through the front door where his three sons were glued to the TV and his
wife was making dinner. "One more for the table tonight," he said.
"Tom here is on his way to <st1:place w:st="on">Durango</st1:place>.
He missed his bus, but he's an Illini. I just couldn't let him sit out on the
road with his team playing in the Final Four."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "You're
from <st1:place w:st="on">Illinois</st1:place>?"
his ten-year old crew cut son asked pulling the collar of a Denver Bronco shirt
out of his mouth.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Yup,"
I said, "I spent five long years there - all for this. How we doin'?"<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "What's
<st1:place w:st="on">Illinois</st1:place>
like?" he asked,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Flat!"
I said. "How we doin'?"<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "It's
real close," he said. "Ain't very flat around here is it?"<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Thank
God no," I said. "I can't stand flat."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Paul had
walked into the kitchen to explain the situation to his wife who didn't seem
too thrilled with unexpected wild card company. I sat down on the couch between
the boys and focused on the game. Paul's wife came out with cheese and crackers
and the boys jumped all over it. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Now
mind your manners boys," she said, "Tom's likely to think we're a
bunch of trailer trash. Jimmy, ask Tom if he wants some first."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Jimmy
offered me the tray, I took some and thanked Paul's wife.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Lynette
Preston," she said offering me a coke. "Sorry to hear about your
misfortune. We're just having hamburgers tonight. Is that all right?"<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Hamburgers
sound great," I said. "Can I help out in there?"<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "If
you can just baby-sit the boys here that'd be all the help I could ask
for."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Sure
thing." I said. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> As it
turned out the boys were baby-sitting me. <st1:state w:st="on">Illinois</st1:state>
and <st1:place w:st="on">Michigan</st1:place>
took the game down to the final minute. I got off the couch and moved up to the
front of the TV. As it got down to the final seconds the boys (who were now
loyal <st1:place w:st="on">Illinois</st1:place>
fans) and I started screaming at the set. Just at the buzzer <st1:place w:st="on">Michigan</st1:place>'s Glen Rice tipped in a loose
rebound and once again, the Illini were toast.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "God
Dammit!" I screamed. Then I looked at the room and the boys were all
silent with Lynette standing in the doorway to the kitchen. I could tell that
kind of language wasn't allowed in this house. "I'm very sorry, I just
lost my cool - it's just such a hard way to go down - to <st1:place w:st="on">Michigan</st1:place> and all."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Jimmy's
face was smiling ear to ear as I tried to explain myself. He was about to crack
up when Lynette said, "Now those things happen. Let's just get to the
table." <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Jimmy knew
if it had come out of his mouth he wouldn't be waltzing over to the table for
hamburgers.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> We sat down
to dinner and Paul had us all hold hands for grace. The grace was a long solemn
speech taking in the events of the day and the lessons we had all learned about
hospitality and emotion. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "God
has lessons for us every day if we are wise enough to accept things with an
open mind and a contrite heart. So bless this food, Jesus, and shed your divine
light towards us so that we may accept your coming. Amen." <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Amen."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> After
Paul's sermon my verbal splurge didn't just seem unwelcome, it was downright
blasphemous. I ate my hamburger on best behavior and was quick to pick up the
plates and do the dishes. Naturally Lynette wanted to intervene, but I
insisted.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "So
are you on vacation, Tom?" she asked.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Kind
of," I said, "I'm really just between jobs. I've got a job in <st1:place w:st="on">France</st1:place>
that starts in two weeks."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "<st1:place w:st="on">France</st1:place>,"
she said. "That's sounds exciting." She didn't pry more and I figured
she didn't need to know she was housing a circus clown.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Now
why are you on your way to <st1:place w:st="on">Durango</st1:place>?"
she asked.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "I've
got a friend living there and I haven't seen her in a long time."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "An
old friend who's a girl or an old girlfriend?" she asked.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Yeah,
she's an old girlfriend," I said, "but it's been a couple of years.
Nothing serious." <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Sounds
romantic to me," she said, "You're coming all the way from <st1:place w:st="on">Illinois</st1:place> on the train
just to see her - she must be someone special." <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Oh,
she's special," I said, "but I'm not going there with any
expectations. I just want to see her."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Did
you call her from the train station?" she asked. "I bet she's worried
sick."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "No,
I…"<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Well
what's her number?" she said, "You men are always leaving us women in
the dark. I bet she's sitting at home looking out the front window for you
right now."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I gave
Chloe a call and explained the situation. She said she thought I might not make
it down and wasn't really expecting me. She'd be waiting tables by the time I
got in so I should just go to the bar where she worked instead of her house. By
the time I'd hung up the phone Lynette had fixed me a bed on the couch. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "You're
staying with us tonight," she said. "No reason for you to find a
motel. They're all disgusting around here."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Wow,"
I said, "That's incredibly hospitable of you. I really hope I'm not
putting you out."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Not
at all," Paul said. "Now suppose you play us some guitar."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Yeah,"
the boys screamed. "Do you know some country tunes?"<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I had to
think about that one for a while, but I came up with a couple Grateful Dead
cowboy standards that did the trick. The only problem with the Dead's cowboy
tunes is that they're not about God-fearing Christian people, and I was
definitely in the midst of God-fearing Christian people. The boys got a kick
out of me singing about whisky drinking, card-playing gun-toting cowboys but I
could tell Paul and Lynette weren't exactly comfortable with my set list. I
finished off with "Ripple" and they seemed to be much happier. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "We'll
be up early," Paul said. "We go to church on Sundays. You're welcome
to join us."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Sure
thing," I said, "Good night." I hadn't been to church in years,
but my bus didn't leave until 2:00 and I didn't want to put them in the
position of trusting me in their house with them gone. Church it was. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I woke up
with the sun and showered the train ride off my body. Paul's family already had
breakfast on the table by the time I got dressed. I apologized for not having
any church clothes with me but Lynette assured me that this wasn't a very
dressy church group. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> We drove to
the church and everyone greeted Paul and Lynette like celebrities. This wasn't
any simple Paul. I had been staying at the home of Pastor Paul of the <st1:city w:st="on">Grand Junction</st1:city> chapter of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Western</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">States</st1:placetype>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Church</st1:placetype></st1:place> of our Lord Jesus
Christ. Paul introduced me to his gathering as a young man traveling the
country in search of his future. I took that as a sure sign that he thought I
needed saving. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Before
services started we split into groups for Sunday school. I went with Paul's
group which was talking about <st1:city w:st="on">St. Paul</st1:city>'s travels
into <st1:country-region w:st="on">Greece</st1:country-region> and what is now <st1:place w:st="on">Yugoslavia</st1:place>.
When Paul pulled out the map, I told our small class that I had traveled much
the same route as the Apostle Paul had. I started to describe the mountains and
the coastline, but when I got to the part about sleeping in the car in a
communist country I could tell that was a little too much. I let Paul finish.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Paul
concluded his lecture, then we gathered with all the other Sunday school
classes for services. Paul led the congregation in song and scriptures while
they still wondered who the hippie was sitting with his family. Paul finished
the service, but I still had three hours before my bus left. I told them that
they could just drop me off at the bus station, but they wouldn't have anything
to do with that. Lynette had made some sandwiches for lunch, and Paul insisted
I see the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Grand Junction</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">National Monument</st1:placetype></st1:place> before
I left. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> We packed a
cooler into the pickup and they drove me deep into the plateaus and canyons of
the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Grand Junction</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">National Monument</st1:placetype></st1:place>. I'd
never been in high desert before, and I imagined Road Runner and Coyote zooming
out in front of us at any moment. Paul asked me what I was doing in <st1:place w:st="on">Europe</st1:place> so I pulled out some diving show pictures and
described the show. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Well
I'll be damned," he said. Lynette slapped his hand on the wheel and told
him to be polite. We pulled over to picnic high above the <st1:place w:st="on">Colorado
desert</st1:place>, and Paul insisted he take my picture in front of an old
Indian monument. Soon enough it was time to catch my bus. We dropped back into <st1:place w:st="on">Grand Junction</st1:place> and stopped
off at the house so Lynette could pack me a dinner for the ride. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "God
be with you on your travels, Tom," Paul said. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Thanks,"
I said, "You've been incredible hosts - I don't know how I can repay
you?"<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "One
day you'll be rich and the lord will send you a hitchhiker," Paul said.
"Take him in." <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I shook
their hands and stepped up to the bus. They waited at the curb until the bus
pulled out. I waved out the window as if I was saying goodbye to old friends.
Ever since dropping Catholicism I've had a real tough time with proselytizing
Christians, but the entire time I was with this pastor he never tried to push
anything on me at all. He simply laid out his life for me to examine. I could
take from it what I wanted. I assumed I was going to get a speech somewhere
along the line but he never went for it. Paul was everything that was right
about religion. A preacher who didn't preach. The Prestons were a rare
spiritual gift but only the first of the long week to come. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> The bus
ride to <st1:state w:st="on">Durango</st1:state> from <st1:city w:st="on">Grand
Junction</st1:city> is probably the best bus ride in <st1:place w:st="on">North
America</st1:place>. I felt like I was in a John Wayne movie as I passed
through Montrose and Ouray, summited the 11,000 ft. Red Mountain Pass, then
slid into the gold-mining town of <st1:city w:st="on">Silverton</st1:city>
before the sun went down just outside of <st1:place w:st="on">Durango</st1:place>.
With the sun gone, the temperature dropped to near freezing so I hustled my way
to Chloe's bar before my fingers got too cold to hold my guitar case. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Chloe said
she'd be working, but it was a casual bar and she'd have plenty of time to
visit. I walked in the door and saw her standing at the bar. She dropped her
tickets on a tray and ran over to give me a great big hug and a kiss.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Listen,"
she said, "It's getting really busy. We're having an open mic night and it
gets pretty packed. Throw your stuff over there and I'll put you on the list.
You're going third."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> She pointed
over to a pile of instruments lined up on a small stage. Without even asking me
she ran up to the chalkboard on the stage and wrote my name down. The only
reason I brought my guitar was to play at a campfire. I wasn't really sure I
wanted to go on stage with a bunch of kick-ass mountain guitar pickers. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "How
good are they?" I asked.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Oh,
they all suck," she said. "You'll do just fine."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Dan and I
had been playing quite a bit in our cramped apartment, and I actually had 15 or
20 tunes worked up. The last time she'd heard me play was three summers ago in
the Ozarks. I'd done a lot of busking in <st1:city w:st="on">Holland</st1:city>
and <st1:place w:st="on">Germany</st1:place>
since then so I figured I was ready. I'd never sung into a microphone before
though. I was more nervous than I was jumping off an 80-foot ladder into the <st1:place w:st="on">Persian Gulf</st1:place>. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Chloe ran
around taking orders from the bar as it began to fill up. I was tuning my
guitar when she slid a beer onto the table next to me. A couple of minutes
later she dropped a burger and fries on the table and said, "Eat this but
don't burp when you sing."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Almost
every guitar case on stage had a Dead sticker on it, so I knew I was in the
right crowd. I was just hoping nobody would steal my set before I got up. The
first guy got up and proved to be an obnoxious crooner who tried to pull off a
Roy Rodgers set. He was a faux-cowboy, and it showed with every note he sang.
The second act was a duet, a guitar player and a woman singer. Had they
rehearsed they would have been really nice, but she kept choking on the lyrics
and was even more nervous than me. Chloe was right - they did suck. I wasn't
going to be much better but at least I wasn't out of my league. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I borrowed
an acoustic pick up from the first guitar player and did a sound check into the
mic. "Check, Check 1, aaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh, Check." I didn't know
what I was doing with a mic, so I just did whatever I'd seen other people do. I
strummed the guitar a couple of times and the guy at the soundboard gave me a
thumbs up. "How's everyone doing tonight?" I said. "I'm Tom. I'm
a friend of Chloe's from <st1:place w:st="on">Wisconsin</st1:place>."
I pointed to her and she waved with a pitcher of beer in her hand. She looked a
whole lot better with a pitcher of beer in her hand than the rotund servers I'd
seen at Oktoberfest in <st1:place w:st="on">Munich</st1:place>.
"I just got in from <st1:place w:st="on">Milwaukee</st1:place>
and she put me up to this so if it sucks, it's her fault."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Blame
it on me!" she yelled across the bar. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Dan and I
had worked out a great version of "Jack Straw," and I had it down
cold. It didn't sound nearly as good without his leads, but I played right through
it and didn't crack once on the lyrics. Chloe walked by the stage and told me
to sing louder. The music teacher nun I had in third grade told me my voice was
so bad that it might be better if I pick up a horn instead of singing. Pushing
that voice over a house system almost paralyzed me with fear, but I had no
choice. Next up was "Scarlet Begonias” into “Fire on the Mountain." I
turned up the guitar and tried to project myself through the mic. A tiny stage
monitor below me let me hear myself sing. As long as I kept my voice within the
volume of the guitar I was okay; if I tried to belt it out it was gonna really
suck. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Three songs
down the tube and time for my finale. I could have stayed conservative, but it
had been going well enough so far. I gritted my teeth and went for the long
version of "Terrapin Station." It's a long complicated tune with a
pile of lyrics and three, big, completely different sections. I figured if I
made it through the guitar parts correctly at least they could forgive my
singing. I rarely played it through at home without choking on one part or
another, but the crowd scared me straight and I made it through without missing
a note. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I looked up
at the bar clock towards the end and saw that I'd been up there for a half an
hour. That was plenty. I closed the tune on a soft note then leaned into the
mic and in my best Elvis voice said, "Thank you very much." I didn't
get any standing ovation, but the full crowd applauded and a couple of Chloe's
friends looked over at her and winked their approval. I got off that seat as
fast as I could. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Chloe came
over to my table, gave me a beer and big hug and said I was the best act so
far. "How'd the singing sound?" I asked. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Oh
that whispering you did under the guitar parts?" she said. "It was
fine."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I turned
red and slammed my beer. I was happy to have gone when I did. The next two acts
were polished performers singing original tunes. They were the reason for the
full house. At least I didn't chicken out. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Chloe poured me a couple more beers and waited for the dining crowd to finish eating.
Her boss let her take off early, so we piled my gear into her pickup and headed
to a one-room cabin she was sharing with a ski instructor from Purgatory. We
cranked up the space heaters, smoked out and got to know each other again. If I
was going to make any moves on Chloe this wasn't the place. I'd been up and
traveling since 6:00 and I was ready to crash anyway. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> In the
morning the ski instructor took off, and we had the cabin to ourselves. I
climbed in bed with Chloe and we started fooling around, but she put a hold on
it before it went too far. "Can we just go slow," she said. "I'm
just a little screwed up right now and now that you're here I just need to take
things slowly."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> It wasn't
the best news I'd heard, but who was I to push anything. She'd just ended a
long-term relationship and needed to be independent for a while. We chilled out
and made breakfast then she took me on a tour of <st1:place w:st="on">Durango</st1:place>. I always picture a city before I
get there, and I'm generally incredibly wrong. <st1:place w:st="on">Durango</st1:place>, however, was exactly how I'd
imagined it - lush forests and high mountains with wide western streets. The
John Wayne movie I started on the bus from <st1:place w:st="on">Grand Junction</st1:place> was still working for me. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Chloe had
to go to work, so she left me with a key and a mountain bike. I'd never been on
a mountain bike before and was kind of pissed off at how slow it went. I went
for a big climb high outside the city and wondered why in the world anyone
would want such a slow toddling bike. I dropped from a mountain pass back into
town but couldn't get any speed at all. Mountain biking was new in 1989, and I
didn't get the idea that you were supposed to ride on trails. I was riding in
one of the top mountain biking areas in the world but taking the thing out on
highways as if it were a road bike. I'd love to have that ride back right now. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> When she
came back that night it was clear that she wasn't in the mood to do anything
but talk. I was hoping to kick-start something and invite her to come stay in <st1:place w:st="on">France</st1:place>
for a while, but it just wasn't working out. And I had other things to
concentrate on too. I had to find out what happened to Derf. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> The next
morning I dropped her off at work and took off in her pick-up past <st1:place w:st="on">Mesa</st1:place> Verde National Park
to Telluride. I turned north from Cortez and drove along the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Delores</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">River</st1:placename></st1:place>
with 14,000 ft. peaks on either side of me. Although the train ride through <st1:place w:st="on">Northern Colorado</st1:place> was pretty, it wasn't anywhere as
dramatic as the mountain routes I was used to in Isère. But as Colorado State
Highway 145 climbed its way up the sides of the San Juans the roads got
narrower, the switchbacks tighter and cliffs sharper. Before long the valley
dropped far below me, the trees gave way to sheer rises, and I was feeling the
drama of the <st1:place w:st="on">Alps</st1:place>. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> A few miles
past the 10,000 ft. Lizard Head Pass I took a right and turned towards
Telluride village. I came across a young athletic woman walking on the side of
the road, and thinking what Paul Preston told me, pulled over to offer her a
ride. She wasn't hitchhiking, but the road dead-ended into Telluride. There was
nowhere else she could be going. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Need
a ride into town?" I said.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Sure,"
she said. She took a second to size me up then figured I looked safe enough. I
opened the door and she climbed in. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Hi,'
she said, "I'm Janice."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "I'm
Tom," I said. "This place is incredible. I've never been here
before."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Yup,"
she said, "Telluride's the best. Ski season's over, and I gotta leave
tomorrow. I'm really gonna miss it."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Hey,
you don't know where I could find Cassidy's Bar?" I asked. "I've got
a friend who used to work there, and I want to see if anybody knows him."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Cassidy's?"
she said. "That is so freaking weird. That's where I'm going. I work
there. I've got to pick up my last paycheck before I head out."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "No
shit," I said. "How long have worked there?"<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "All
season long," she said. "And it's been a long season."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "So
you knew Paul?" <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Paul
who?" she slowly said.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Paul
Wolfert - from Tulane - he died in an avalanche last month."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Who
are you?" she said.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "I'm a
friend of Paul's from <st1:place w:st="on">Wisconsin</st1:place>."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "I was
Paul's roommate." She said.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> We stared
at each other with dropped jaws. I almost ran the truck off the road. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "You
were Paul's roommate?"<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Yeah,"
she said, "I was going out with his friend - he was going out with my
friend. We all worked at Cassidy's. The four of us shared a condo."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "We
never found out what happened!" I said. "His parents never called us.
Nobody in <st1:place w:st="on">Wisconsin</st1:place>
ever knew the story. What the fuck happened?"<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Holy
shit," she said. "This is really weird Can we pull over?" I
pulled the pickup over just before entering the city. "You're really
Paul's friend right - you're not a cop or anything." <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "A
cop? Do I look like a cop?" and then in my best <st1:place w:st="on">Milwaukee</st1:place> accent, "Do I talk like a
cop?"<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "No,
but Paul's friend is on trial for manslaughter, and we don't want any more shit
to come from this. Here's what happened. It was the day after Valentines Day
and we were all super hung over."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "And
I'm sure Derf went for a little wake and bake," I said.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Wake
and bake?" she said. "I did, but he didn't. Paul never smoked. And
what's this 'Derf' name."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "'Derf'
is Paul," I said. "I don't think I ever called him Paul in his life -
and what's this you're telling me? Derf wasn't getting high?"<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Nope,"
she said, "He drank with us, but he never got high - not while I was with
him, and I was with him all the time." <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Apparently
Derf's academic turn around came at the heels of quitting dope. He was a
perpetual stoner, and apparently he'd had enough. The last time I saw him was
at the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Hampton</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">Virginia</st1:state></st1:place> Dead shows two years earlier. He
was definitely smoking then. Apparently he'd changed quite a bit.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "So
anyway," she continued, "We were all hung over, but the weather was
starting to warm up, and he knew the big out-of-bounds bowls were going to get
dangerous in a couple of weeks. Paul, a Kiwi he used to ski with, and our
friend Billy had made a pact to ski Temptation Ridge before the season was out.
The three of them took that lift over there (she pointed to a lift at the far
end of the cavernous Telluride horseshoe valley) and hiked up to temptation
ridge - over there. You can't see it from here. It's on the backside of the
mountain."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "So
they got to the top of the ridge, ate lunch then got ready to go. The three of
them jumped off at once, and it knocked a big chunk of snow off the cornice.
Billy skied to the side of the trail, but Paul and the Kiwi were stuck in the
path of the avalanche. They tried to get out, but it caught up to them. They
tumbled and screamed all the way to the bottom. Billy went for help, and the
ski patrol found them frozen stiff. I was still in the condo when the news came
on the radio. I couldn't believe what I was hearing."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Tears were
welling up in her eyes then we both started to cry. I reached over and gave her
a hug. "Sorry, I had to make you do that," I said. "In <st1:place w:st="on">Wisconsin</st1:place> we didn't know
anything. He was a really good friend, and we didn't have any closure. I think
we'll all be much better now. Thanks, from all of us."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "God,
that sucked," she sniveled. "I haven't thought about it for a couple
of days. I thought I was over it. I've never lost a friend. You know what I
mean - it's not like you can pick up a rule book and deal with it."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "I
think that's the only rule," I said. "You have to deal with it. You
can't just pretend it didn't happen. It won't go away until you give it some
peace. Now we've got some peace."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "You
want to go for a hike?" she asked. "I've got some stuff to do in
town, but I was going to go up the mountain one last time before I took
off."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Sure,"
I said.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I hadn't
even entered the city of <st1:place w:st="on">Telluride</st1:place>
and already had gotten what I'd come for. I drove Janice to Cassidy's, and she
gave me a breakdown on what the place was like in high season. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Everyone's
gone now," she said, "but when this place is hopping, it's a mob
scene. Everyone here is rich and they'll throw money around like it's confetti
- Sting's house is right next door." <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "So
this was Derf's hangout," I said.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "And
this is where they had the memorial service too," she said. "It was
really upbeat. His parents and his brother flew in, and they had what I guess
you'd call a funeral right here at the base of the mountain. We were all
crying, but then at the end it was really sweet and hopeful. Paul's gone but
we're not going to forget him."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Janice
picked up her check then asked me if we could do one more errand before hitting
the mountain. She had to pick up the mail for a friend who was house-sitting
for some locals during the off-season. The friend was out for the weekend, and
she said she'd watch the place until she got back. We went to the house, but
the door was wide open. She was a little freaked until she saw a young guy
installing a ceiling fan in the living room.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Hi,"
she said, "I'm Janice. I'm supposed to pick up the mail for Carolyn."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Go
ahead," he said, "I work for the owners, I want to get this thing up
today. I'm outta here tomorrow - Hey, you work at Cassidy's don't you?"<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Yeah,"
she said, "I thought I recognized you. This is my friend, Tom. He was a
good friend of the guy who died in the Valentine's Day Avalanche."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "The
Kiwi or the guy from <st1:place w:st="on">Wisconsin</st1:place>?"
he asked.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "I
knew Paul Wolfert from <st1:place w:st="on">Wisconsin</st1:place>,"
I said.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "That's
weird, man," he said. "I work ski patrol. I pulled him out."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "What?"
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "Yeah,"
he said, "I was working ski patrol that day. My dog and I went up in the
helicopter. The dog found him and I dug him out. It wasn't pretty. I don't need
to…"<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "No,"
I said, "go ahead. What did he look like?"<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "He
was a frozen bag of broken bones," he said. "Completely pulverized.
The hill didn't spare one bone in his body. I don't think he suffered though.
Avalanches do quick work. He probably rode it for a while then got hit in the
head by a rock." <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I'd been in
Telluride for less than an hour and I'd only met two people. One was Derf's best friend and the other was
the person who pulled his body out. If I'd shown up a day later I never would
have met either of them. Derf had to be hovering above the ceiling fan. I could
just hear him say, "Psyche!" - then giggle with his stoned red eyes
barely open.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Janice and
I said goodbye to the ski-patrol worker and walked out of town high above the
valley. She was as freaked out as I was. We smoked out in a deep canyon where
the four of them used to bring beers and build huge bonfires. The fire scar and
log benches were still there. From on top of the canyon we could see Temptation
Ridge and the gigantic bowl that took Derf's life. I'd solved my case before
I'd barely even opened it. In two short hours I'd seen it all. It was time to
head out; I had a story to report back at the Casa. Paul died pushing the
envelope - just like the rest of us always tried to do.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Janice and
I hiked back to town, and I drove her to the condo unit that she'd shared with Paul.
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "I
won't be renting this unit next season," she said. "I don't even know
if I can come back here. Maybe I should just to exorcise the demons."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "It's
not Telluride's fault," I said. "I can't think of a more beautiful
place to die either."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> "We'll
see," she said. "It's a long summer. Life changes." <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I gave her
one more hug, and we exchanged meaningless addresses. I waved to her as I
pulled out of the driveway and headed back to <st1:place w:st="on">Durango</st1:place>. As the sun started to drop off in
the desert it threw a radiant glow onto the peaks turning them into crimson
thrones for the gods. I reached over into Chloe's tape box and fumbled for a
tape. Chloe always listens to great music so I plucked out a loose unmarked
tape and tossed it in the deck. Derf and I were the only ones there to verify
this fact but I swear to you these are the first words that came out of that
tape deck: <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Now he's gone...<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Now he's gone... Lord he's gone<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He's gone. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Like a steam locomotive rolling down the track, <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He's gone, he's gone and nothing's gonna bring him back. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He's gone. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Nine mile skid on a ten mile ride. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Hot as a pistol but cool inside. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Cat on a tin roof, dogs in a pile<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Nuthin Left To Do But Smile Smile Smile. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Now he's gone...<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Now he's gone... Lord he's gone<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He's gone. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Like a steam locomotive rolling down the track, <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He's gone, he's gone and nothing's gonna bring him back. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He's gone.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Goin where the wind don't blow so strange. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Maybe off in some high cold mountain chain. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Lost one round but the prize wasn't anything <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A knife in the back, and more of the same.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He's gone...<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">(He's Gone 1972 Hunter-Garcia)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p> </p>tomhaighttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08002925789032011330noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217339075499156854.post-14707755266926403482018-05-25T09:50:00.003+05:302018-05-25T09:50:44.905+05:30Diary of a Mad Bootlegger<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
With all apologies to Matt Scotty and Ken Magee, who invited me into the 10 albums meme, I have broken the rules and posted albums with quite a bit of editorial comment. I just couldn't help myself. These records meant the world to me. They are the main reason I've been a musician for 35 years and spent thousands and thousands of hours trying in vain to match their brilliance. <br />
<br />
But there's one more rule I have to break and that is by listing my <b>No. 10 Album - </b> <b>the SONY Walkman Pro 6 bootlegging deck</b>. After just my first few Grateful Dead shows, I found my way into the tapers pit and discovered the wonders of recording live concerts. All you had to do to join the club was buy one of these tiny recorders and any of the guys with the huge rigs and 17" mics would let you plug right into their box - provided you hung around to flip the tape when needed. You didn't necessarily have to be straight to do this, but if you were too zodded out, or if you uttered a single sound, you would be dismissed from the pit. It wasn't as fun as running wildly around the venue and screaming all the lyrics, but if you did your homework, you left the show with a nearly pristine recording that would be the envy of all your friends once you landed back at your home base.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1T56SJ-54jJZcvx5Dd-lXloI4CNBNvpVNOi2mPe4fv8R8UUtDlZwULWRpnqmdxYY4FlXFFWb8cfVDim06c-KQ5X4py4hITRasSynA25I2L-QnQiaUGkMw5lTuT25NMhORNrfPfWK6s3XV/s1600/SONY_WM-D6C.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="972" data-original-width="1600" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1T56SJ-54jJZcvx5Dd-lXloI4CNBNvpVNOi2mPe4fv8R8UUtDlZwULWRpnqmdxYY4FlXFFWb8cfVDim06c-KQ5X4py4hITRasSynA25I2L-QnQiaUGkMw5lTuT25NMhORNrfPfWK6s3XV/s320/SONY_WM-D6C.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
Our group of Dead Heads had aquired one of these high-quality recording units and everytime we went out on tour, it was assumed you would take one night to keep your shit together and watch the deck. It also proved to be home base for everyone we were traveling with as it was the only consistent location at each venue - directly behind the sound board.<br />
<br />
Quite quickly, the Dead shows became routine to bootleg and not much of a challenge. But I put my bootlegging feet to the flames in 1985 when I decided to record the entire 16 hours of the first Farm Aid Concert, which took place just a few blocks from the Chateau Relaxeau, my college home in Champaign, Illinois. I borrowed the deck and a mic, stuffed it into my trousers and limped into Memorial Stadium using a crutch which would become my mic stand for the day. I dished off 12 blank 90-minute Maxell UDXLII tapes to all my friends who easily walked them in one at a time. (Actually the security guards had no chance against us. The Diving Illini used Memorial Stadium as our training center. We knew every inch of that place, and the night before we stashed a cooler with beers and dry ice to make sure we were well hydrated throughout the day.) By 8 a.m., I was rolling as When Willie Nelson and Neil Young took to the stage and opened up the marathon festival with "There Are No More Real Cowboys in This Land." We all took turns holding the crutch in the air and flipping the tapes. The end result was an incredible audio document of 50 of the greatest rock and country acts in history.*<br />
<br />
I was desperately poor in college and had no resources to purchase a Pro-6. But just three years after my first stint in the tapers pit, I found myself in the bowels of the Kowloon electronics market, with a fresh wad of cash from my first job and a garden full of brand-new 1/2 priced, tax-free electronics. I threw down the equivelant of $150 and grabbed a taxi back to my flat holding the first big purchase of my new adult life - a bootlegging deck.<br />
<br />
I was also talked into buying a SONY MC3 condenser mic which was the perfect mic for the Pro 6. I spent the next day walking around Hong Kong recording sounds and asking people to talk into the mic. When I got back to my room, I listened to the tape and discovered the mic to be crystal clear. The tape, which I eventually foolishly recorded over, was as clean as any tape I'd ever pulled out of the tapers pit. It was magic and I was hooked.<br />
<br />
For the next five years I traveled around the world recording every band I saw. I bought the deck to record Dead shows, but as it turns out, my job kept me out of the States for years at a time and I didn't get to see many Dead shows. In their stead was a golden four-year stand at the Jazz a Vienne festival, 30-minutes south of Lyon, which was tantamount to receivng a degree in contemporary jazz. The Pro-6 and EMC-3 recorded all the greatest active jazz players on the globe. Chick Corea, Stanley Clarke, Stanley Jordan, John McLaughlin, Al Dimeola, Bireli Lagrene, McCoy Tyner, Bob Berg, Herbie Hitchcock, Stan Getz, Lee Ritenour, Carlos Santana with Wayne Shorter (1:45 - no vocals), Joe Zawinul, Ron Carter, Lena Horne, Betty Carter... and finally on my very last night in 1991, Miles Davis. (10 weeks and 5 shows after I recorded him, he was gone.)<br />
<br />
And aside from Jazz a Vienne, some memorable recordings were Pink Floyd and Joe Jackson (both in Grenoble), Paco Di Lucia (Lyon - he signed my bootleg tape!), Leo Sayer (Surprisingly amazing - Abu Dhabi), Leo Kotke (Amsterdam), Hot Tuna (Milwaukee), Hunter S. Thompson (Smoked out with him - Marquette University) and of course 20+ Grateful Dead/Jerry Garcia Band shows.<br />
<br />
And then finally, the day I was leaving France after the best four years of my life, one of my closest friends STOLE my bootlegging kit. While I was at work finalizing the end of my contract, he doubled back to my house and stole the black leather satchell that I bought at the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul that held the Pro-6, the ECM-3, all the patch cords and batteries and the last 2 recordings I'd made - Lena Horne and Miles Davis.<br />
<br />
I've since encountered the theif on many occassions and he explained to me that he had a drug problem (he did) and he was young... I forgave him. But when I asked him what he did with it he said, "I threw the tapes out and sold the Walkman..." I unforgave him. For a few years. Now we're friends again. Kinda.<br />
<br />
I ended up buying another Pro-6 a year later, and made some great recordings (Pearl Jam w/Neal, Phish [x3], 10,000 Maniacs, Allman's, Blues Traveler - My last Dead shows at Portland Meadows), but it wasn't quite the same. And then concerts got too expensive... and I got divorced and I moved 20 times... and now I have no idea where that deck is.<br />
<br />
But without doubt the No. 1 Album on my list is my Walkman Pro-6. <br />
<br />
*<b style="background-color: #f9f9f9; color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13.3px; text-align: -webkit-center;"><a class="mw-redirect" href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alabama_(band)" style="background: none; color: #0b0080;" title="">Alabama</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hoyt_Axton" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Hoyt Axton">Hoyt Axton</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Beach_Boys" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="The Beach Boys">The Beach Boys</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Blasters" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="The Blasters">The Blasters</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bon_Jovi" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Bon Jovi">Bon Jovi</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glen_Campbell" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Glen Campbell">Glen Campbell</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Johnny_Cash" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Johnny Cash">Johnny Cash</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Allan_Coe" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="David Allan Coe">David Allan Coe</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Conlee" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="John Conlee">John Conlee</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charlie_Daniels" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Charlie Daniels">Charlie Daniels Band</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Denver" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="John Denver">John Denver</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bob_Dylan" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Bob Dylan">Bob Dylan</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Fogerty" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="John Fogerty">John Fogerty</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Foreigner_(band)" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Foreigner (band)">Foreigner</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vince_Gill" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Vince Gill">Vince Gill</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vern_Gosdin" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Vern Gosdin">Vern Gosdin</a>. <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arlo_Guthrie" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Arlo Guthrie">Arlo Guthrie</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sammy_Hagar" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Sammy Hagar">Sammy Hagar</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Merle_Haggard" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Merle Haggard">Merle Haggard</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daryl_Hall" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Daryl Hall">Daryl Hall</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emmylou_Harris" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Emmylou Harris">Emmylou Harris</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Don_Henley" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Don Henley">Don Henley</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Waylon_Jennings" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Waylon Jennings">Waylon Jennings</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Billy_Joel" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Billy Joel">Billy Joel</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Randy_Newman" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Randy Newman">Randy Newman</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Jones" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="George Jones">George Jones</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rickie_Lee_Jones" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Rickie Lee Jones">Rickie Lee Jones</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/B.B._King" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="B.B. King">B.B. King</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carole_King" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Carole King">Carole King</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kris_Kristofferson" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Kris Kristofferson">Kris Kristofferson</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Huey_Lewis" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Huey Lewis">Huey Lewis</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Loretta_Lynn" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Loretta Lynn">Loretta Lynn</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roger_McGuinn" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Roger McGuinn">Roger McGuinn</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Mellencamp" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="John Mellencamp">John Mellencamp</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roger_Miller" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Roger Miller">Roger Miller</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joni_Mitchell" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Joni Mitchell">Joni Mitchell</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nitty_Gritty_Dirt_Band" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Nitty Gritty Dirt Band">Nitty Gritty Dirt Band</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Willie_Nelson" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Willie Nelson">Willie Nelson</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roy_Orbison" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Roy Orbison">Roy Orbison</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tom_Petty_and_the_Heartbreakers" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers">Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charley_Pride" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Charley Pride">Charley Pride</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bonnie_Raitt" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Bonnie Raitt">Bonnie Raitt</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lou_Reed" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Lou Reed">Lou Reed</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kenny_Rogers" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Kenny Rogers">Kenny Rogers</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brian_Setzer" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Brian Setzer">Brian Setzer</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sissy_Spacek" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Sissy Spacek">Sissy Spacek</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tanya_Tucker" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Tanya Tucker">Tanya Tucker</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Debra_Winger" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Debra Winger">Debra Winger</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neil_Young" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Neil Young">Neil Young</a>, <a class="new" href="https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Dave_Milsap&action=edit&redlink=1" style="background: none; color: #a55858; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Dave Milsap (page does not exist)">Dave Milsap</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joe_Ely" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Joe Ely">Joe Ely</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Judy_Rodman" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Judy Rodman">Judy Rodman</a>, <a class="mw-redirect" href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/X_(U.S._band)" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration-line: none;" title="X (U.S. band)">X</a></b><br />
<br />
<br /></div>
tomhaighttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08002925789032011330noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217339075499156854.post-14190230428868766792017-05-23T03:06:00.002+05:302017-05-23T03:16:05.833+05:3020 Pools - A Swimming Odyssey: Pool #22: Lincoln City Community Center, Lincoln City, OR<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I've developed a serious problem with this swimming pool fetish. It's starting to affect everywhere I go. When I was a biker, I had no problem leaving home for a week then picking up my training where I'd left it. Although I did haul my hand cycle with me on some pretty long roadies, if I didn't need it, it was better to leave it at home. If I was traveling for a race or heading out to Eastern Oregon to ride for a few days, I made the effort. But for the most part, I left the hand cycle and the training at home.<br />
<br />
But I've got no such excuse with swimming. There are public pools in nearly every city in the country. You just have to find them and call to see if they offer lap-swim as opposed to open-rec swim - which is just a splashy free-for-all.<br />
<br />
Last fall I got an email from the Portland Sports Authority announcing a big-wave surf competition in Lincoln City, a small Pacific Coast town of 8000, a little over an hour from Corvallis. Surfing is one of my all time favorite sports and anytime I see it on TV, I just stare at it like eye candy. Had I grown up in a coastal town, I never would have become a diver. I would have been on the board for hours on end, dropping out of school and spending my adult life happily homeless on a beach in Costa Rica or Fiji.<br />
<br />
Although I've seen plenty of surfers in California, Oregon, Australia and Hawaii, I've never seen an actual surfing contest. And this one was a legendary "Big Wave" contest where sponsors fly participants in from all over the world on the drop of a hat due to idyllic competitions.The Oregon Coast was churning up some massive surf and I was going to drive out and check out the best in the world take on the best conditions in the world!<br />
<br />
Just one problem... I had some nasty stomach pain the day before and I skipped my workout in the pool. Skipping two days in the middle of the week would wreck my schedule and I just couldn't justify it. So it was off to the Interwebs to see if Lincoln City had a pool.<br />
<br />
In today's America, even the smallest towns not only have swimming pools, but ACCESSIBLE pools. I found the Lincoln City Community Pool and they a lap swim every night from 6-7 p.m. I hopped into my van and took off for the coast.<br />
<br />
When I used to pack my hand cycle it was a two-person job requiring all sorts of lifting and bungies. But all I had to do for this trip was throw in a change of clothes. My suit was already drying on a line I've set up in the back of my van. I busted down to the coast, grabbed a cod sandwich and fries, then found the LCCC just off of Hwy 101. The changing rooms were 100% accessible and the life guard on duty had lots of experience with the handicap lift. Lincoln City is a retirement town so they've got plenty of geriatric swim classes that use the lift daily.<br />
<br />
The LCCC swim center has a super-clean six-lane 25-meter pool with water slides and both a 1m and 3m board. I plopped into one of three open lanes and pulled my workout while a water aerobics class took up the rest of the pool. I splotched through my workout using the lane lines to count laps. Six lanes; 60 laps. Each time I knocked off ten laps, I moved my eyes to the next lane line and counted off ten more. It's little games like this that allow you to space out and avoid the monotony of lap swimming.<br />
<br />
When I was done, the guard brought the lift over and scooped me out of the pool without hesitation. It was just that easy. I had to marvel at how far disability awareness has come over the past 50 years. In 1970, they may have not even let me into the pool because of my "disease."<br />
<br />
I went out to a few pubs in search of anyone connected with the Big Wave surf contest, but I couldn't find anyone who even knew it was taking place. In the morning, I went back online and found a location for the contest in an obscure coastal neighborhood a mile south of the city. There in a tiny 10-car parking lot along the beach were two pop-up tents, one announcing the contest and another a sponsor tent pushing the kind of sugary sports drinks I abhor.<br />
<br />
I parked the van and peered out into the Ocean but couldn't see a thing except the waves, which unfortunately had died down a bit from the day before. A few other spectators drove by asking me if I knew what was going on, but I just shrugged my shoulders. The event tent was empty and the sponsor tent was manned by a woman who knew absolutely nothing about the event.<br />
<br />
After 20 minutes of frustratingly staring into the ocean, a forest ranger drove by and told me all the spectators were up on a bluff about a quarter mile away. I rolled up the hill to discover 40 or 50 people looking over a hedge that was too tall for me to see anything. I asked people if they could see the action and their answer was a resounding "meh?" The surfers had gone so far out into the ocean that even with binoculars, they still looked like ants in syrup. I moved further up the bluff where I could finally see some surfers, but they weren't doing much surfing. In an hour I'd only seen four runs - and from that distance I couldn't even tell if they were people or sea lions.<br />
<br />
I was pissed off that I'd driven all the way out to the coast with great anticipation of seeing something I'd wanted to see my whole life. So I had to make a quick attitude correction. I was on the Oregon Coast with huge waves on a beautiful sunny day. All was forgiven.<br />
<br />
And then I went back to the pool and caught the noon lap swim. </div>
tomhaighttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08002925789032011330noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217339075499156854.post-53124817199720707292017-05-17T03:58:00.000+05:302017-05-17T04:35:43.360+05:3020 Pools - A Swimming Odyssey: Pool #21: ACAC Fitness Center, Charlottesville, VA<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The last post was a bit of a tear-jerker and although this post also stems from a cancer incident, it's a story of a community coming together to basically tell cancer to fuck off - in much the same spirit that the subject of the post, Victor Benshoff, often told deserving idiots to fuck off.<br />
<br />
Over the past decade I've had the great luck and privilege to get to know the town of Charlottesville, Virginia. My brother Dan and his family were whisked there in the aughts of the 21st Century to help make sense of the University of Virginia's Tibetan Digital Library Project. That topic could easily be the genesis for a more interesting read, but I'll let Dan do that at his leisure.<br />
<br />
This is about the fickle, famous and fabulous music scene in Charlottesville. Dan is as fine a rock and roll bass player as you're going to find so it wasn't long before he ventured into this scene landing a gig in a surf unit with one of the best band names ever: Surfzilla. Surfzilla was put together by Will Rourk, an IT guru with the UVA Tibetan project and a staunch Dick Dale disciple. He also had a hankerin' for Irish music and played a weekly Irish jam session at an Italian bar just off the Charlottesville mall.<br />
<br />
In 2010, I was hanging out in Charlottesville waiting for marching orders to head to Dharamsala, India to work at a Tibetan radio station, when I was invited to join in Will's newest project, Tied to the Mast - a combination of surf AND Irish music. It was my first introduction to the Charlottesville music scene and its rotating cast of loons. Tied to the Mast never played a gig, but the idea of such a concoction, and the fact that there were some damn fine musicians involved in it, gave me a taste of the eclectic nature of the beast.<br />
<br />
A few years later, I was summoned to Charlottesville as His Holiness, the Dalai Lama would be speaking to a massive throng at the Charlottesville Mall. Dan and his new band, Jam Thicket, were hosting a concert on the eve of the talk. Headlining the event was Jhola Techung and Rinzing Wangyal, two of the finest practitioners of Tibetan folk music in the world.<br />
<br />
The rehearsal was staged at the home of Victor and Susan Benshoff, not far from my brother Dan's house out in Charlottesville's horse country. Victor was the keyboard player for Jam Thicket. Along with Dan on bass, guitarist Dave Hersman and drummer Warren Jobe, they formed a kick-ass, super-tight rock and roll unit that easily could have broken out of Charlottesville if they'd struck it up in their 20s as opposed to their 40s.<br />
<br />
Victor had worked sound for big acts all around the Charlottesville and Richmond area and had the ear of a seasoned studio producer. Whenever I was allowed to sit in with Jam Thicket, I made sure not to wail around on the guitar like a jack ass. Victor had no patience for unwarranted noise and it made their unit sound like they were on a record even when they were just dicking around in his basement.<br />
<br />
Mixing the Tibetan sound with the rock music didn't work all that well, so we decided to split into two acts (actually three as my friend Michael Bathke and his amazing daughter Mia opened the show) and pulled off the show actually sounding quite good.<br />
<br />
The next day there were 4000 spectators at the Charlottesville Pavilion, where Techung and Rinzing played before the Dalai Lama spoke. Oddly enough, this was the spot of my favorite Victor Benshoff moment. Victor came up to me before the talk and told me he'd worked with the sound company and they didn't know what the hell they were doing. As I settled into my seat on the grass towards the back, I could see Victor about 50 yards away with his arms folded looking furious because, as he had predicted, the sound for Techung and Rinzing was awful - nearly inaudible.<br />
<br />
After their performance, the Dalai Lama began his talk and Victor was incensed. Victor was far from a southern red neck, but he was by all means, a salty southerner who did not bother to hold back his opinions. I caught his attention and Victor, reacting to the horrendous sound, looked at me from under his derby and angrily flipped off the giant speakers in front of him.<br />
<br />
I knew exactly what he meant, but to the couple hundred people surrounding him, they saw a redneck flipping off the Dalai Lama. I motioned for him to put his finger down; he immediately removed the offensive gesture, and the two of us shared the kind of uncontrollable laughter that gets one in trouble in the middle of church sermons. And that's how I remember Victor<br />
<br />
In 2015 Victor Benshoff succumbed to cancer. Even though I'd only played with him a handful of times and we only shared a few conversations, I felt a tight kinship with him. There's something that happens when you fall into a group of tight, competent musicians. You don't have to say much to each other. If you're grooving, you've spent the time with your instrument to get to the same level as the cats your playing with. Sometimes it all disappears when you put the instruments down, but for that time when it's all working, the relationship is thicker than blood.<br />
<br />
And that's what brought me out to Charlottesville on a 100 degree September day. It was the second annual Victorfest. The first was Victor's wake a year earlier. The entire band of Charlottesville musician lunatics were out in force - 6 bands and 10 hours worth of some of the best Virginia had to offer. I was able to hop on stage with the members of Jam Thicket at the end of the night where we played a pretty nasty set that Victor would have scoffed at.<br />
<br />
But that was the thing - we were all still thinking of what Victor thought. And I'm sure that outfit always will.<br />
<br />
Oh yeah - two days later I swam at the Atlantic Coast Athletic Club Fitness Center in Charlottesville. It was the most expensive ($14!) and by far, the shittiest pool on the list. </div>
tomhaighttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08002925789032011330noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217339075499156854.post-62315105500474422602017-05-10T03:58:00.003+05:302017-05-10T03:58:48.230+05:3020 Pools - A Swimming Odyssey: Pool #20:Wilson High School Outdoor Pool, Portland, OR<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I don't often get to Portland's west side unless I'm on my way out to the Pacific Ocean. And then it's usually a sprint past the neighborhoods on US 26, which is as wide as an interstate. And I'd never been to the campus of Portland's Wilson High School, although oddly enough, I was once their diving coach. When I first moved to Portland I coached all the teams in the Portland Interscholastic League, but we trained all the schools out of the Portland Community College pool five miles away.<br />
<br />
But I'd visited this neighborhood just a few days before leaving for Nepal. And as I hopped in the crowded lunchtime lanes to knock out my mile, all I could think of was the reason I had ventured into this section of town. I was there to interview Jay Edwards, my boss from my days as a corporate writer for the sportswear giant, Adidas.<br />
<br />
I've told this story many times before, but on the day I broke my back, Jay Edwards leveraged the entire Adidas America health insurance contract against the provider Great West Insurance, who was refusing to pay the claim on a technicality. He told them if they wouldn't pay this claim, he was going to hang up and immediately call Blue Cross and tell them they had a new giant client. Great West caved, and I was saved a lifetime of debt.<br />
<br />
I didn't know of this story until years later when a coworker told me what had transpired. Once healthy again, Jay hired me to start writing for the fledgling Adidas Internal Communications department where I stayed for the next three years.<br />
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As I was wrestling for space in the center lane of the pool, my mind began drifting back to those days, most of which were spent bent over laughing as we had to cross off story ideas that would be absolutely fantastic, but would get us all fired. I could feel an energy surge into my stroke and I had to keep myself from laughing because it was messing up my breathing.<br />
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Eventually I left Adidas to go live in the Himalayas, but when I came back, one of the first people I visited was Jay. Throughout the years he shoveled me some nice contracts that kept my struggling web & print business afloat. We met once every four months where he would buy me lunch and float me a job. So not only did he save me from my accident, he kept me afloat for years afterwards.<br />
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Every year on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving a group of former Adidas workers would get together for lunch which often times resulted in what Jay called "pulling a shift." When you pulled a shift that meant that you stayed at the pub longer than the waitress who served you.<br />
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After 34 laps, I pulled up at my halfway point and looked at the tall trees surrounding the school. I caught my breath and thought of about a dozen things I'd like to tell Jay the next time I saw him. I'd been doing that as a force of habit for years. If anything really sardonic or acerbic crossed my path, I'd mentally put in the "Jay" file for the next time I'd see him. I still do it to this day.<br />
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But now I have to keep them to myself. The week after I got back from Nepal, I emailed Jay and asked him if we could get together because I'd picked up some goofy statue from Kathmandu for him. His email was short, "Can't make it this week. I've got a doctor's excuse: new experimental drugs . Let's try again in a few weeks." <br />
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Before I'd left for Nepal, Jay told me he'd been diagnosed with liver cancer, but said his doctor's gave him a strong prognosis. I kept my chin up, but when I did some research, I discovered liver cancer is one of the most deadly forms of the disease and he most likely did not have much time left.<br />
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I responded to him with the same kind of humor we always used, "Hey - make sure you tip those doctors - you don't want them slipping you the placebo!"<br />
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"I'll take that under advisement," he responded. <br />
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And that's the last I heard from Jay. The reason I was swimming in the West Hills was that I had a meeting to plan for his memorial service. I flopped back in the pool and gutted out the last half mile rotating between laughing and crying. I've never actually cried underwater before, but there was no holding back.<br />
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When it was time to hop out I was a wreck,, but there's no way any lifeguard could tell.The red in my eyes just looked like chlorine burn. They brought up my chair and helped me out of the pool (no lift in a Portland Public Pool?). Normally I'll chat up the lifeguards, but not on this day. I just thanked them and dried off. And then kept on thinking of the things I will tell Jay next time I see him.<br />
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tomhaighttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08002925789032011330noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217339075499156854.post-6678699326317740022017-05-04T05:36:00.004+05:302017-05-04T05:43:13.659+05:3020 Pools - A Swimming Odyssey: Pool #19: Amazon Pool, Eugene, OR<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Eventually I returned to catch the last few weeks of the always glorious Oregon summer. I hopped back into Pool #2, The Osborne Aquatic Center's outdoor pool, and resumed my mile-a-day habit which I'd been able to keep going even though I'd just traveled half way around the world and back. Seeing as I had no job and just a lot of video to edit from the Nepal trip, I began to think of the OAC as my pseudo workplace and the lifeguards and pool managers as my co-workers. I had a fairly consistent schedule for someone who didn't work. I woke up, emptied out my emails, swam a mile, played piano for an hour in one of the classrooms, then came home and carved up video nuggets.<br />
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But one snafu from Nepal ended up being quite serendipitous and led me to Pool #19: The Amazon Pool on the south side of Eugene, OR. Just two days before leaving Asia, I'd lost my debit card while hopping cabs in Kathmandu. My friend, Sita, loaned me the equivalent of $400 in Japanese Yen so I wouldn't get stuck on my way home. Oddly enough, another debit card that was stolen from me the first week I was in Kathmandu FINALLY showed up the day before I left for Holland.<br />
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At this time, I was still the swim coach for the Nepalese Paralympic team and Sita was being considered to go to Rio as a team chaperone. Instead of leaving the money for her in Kathmandu, she told me to hold on to it and give it to her when we met in Rio. It was more a wish than a plan, but just for fun, I agreed and held on to the Yen.<br />
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But with Rio only a week away, and the Paralympic Committee still not coming up with my plane ticket or accommodations, I told Sita (who DID eventually go to Rio!) that it would be best to just wire her the money. But Sita had a better plan - one of her best friends from Pokhara, Anjana, KC was flying to Eugene for a disability leadership camp! If I could meet her before she left, I could just pass the cash over to her!<br />
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I contacted Anjana and she invited me to a BBQ celebrating the end of the leadership camp. It was just down the road an hour in Eugene, so I pulled out the old Google, found another pool, and made a day of it. By now it seems like I should be an old hand at swimming pools, but each new pool has its' own system and I have no idea if they have any accessibility options or if the life guards on duty know how to use the systems they have.<br />
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I got to the Amazon Pool on the south side of Eugene on a sweltering hot, windless day in early September. When I paid at the entrance the cashier asked me if I needed the lift to get into the pool. This was a great sign, because there are pools that have them and almost never use them. But the Amazon pool was a busy public pool and they had several disability groups using the facility throughout the week.<br />
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I changed in the locker room then rolled out to the second-most beautiful pool of the 20 Pools. Besides a 25-yard square play pool with a monster slide, there is a 50-meter by 10-lane outdoor spa that is the envy of any competitive club in the country. There are two one-meter and two three-meter springboards along with a 5-meter platform. The water was crystal clear and instead of setting the lane lines in lengthwise, they used the 25 meter widths for lanes - more than 20 of them!<br />
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Each lane was so wide, that even with multiple swimmers using one lane, you never got close to smashing wrists or crashing hands on the lane markers. One of the duty guards held my chair and I flopped into a glassy lane that seemed to suck me in, more than reject me. After I stretched, I started pulling laps and was so caught up in the new environment that I lost count three times before I had to refocus and pay attention.<br />
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After I pulled my mile, I had to swim to a specific spot in the diving well where they had to mount their handicap lift into the same hole where the back stroke flags normally sit (5 meters from the finish). The guards weren't too sure how it worked and had to call over one of the swim teachers from the morning shift who used it much more often. Eventually I was extracted from the pool, but instead of hurrying off, I let the sun dry me and coached a couple of kids who were bouncing on the boards.<br />
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I made it over to the BBQ where I found Anjana and listened to her stories of her first trip outside of Nepal. Her eyes were glowing as she recounted how clean America was and how friendly and accepting people are. I had to warn her that she was in Eugene and not New Jersey, but I wasn't going to squash her buzz. We ate dinner and swapped stories about the common friends we had back in Kathmandu before I jumped back in my van and headed back to Corvallis.<br />
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Unfortunately it wasn't the only new Oregon pool I would visit on the week. That was <b>Pool # 20: The Wilson High School outdoor pool.</b> The circumstances that brought me to Wilson were not quite so pleasant. </div>
tomhaighttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08002925789032011330noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217339075499156854.post-21898893377293361692017-04-27T02:31:00.001+05:302017-04-27T02:39:18.440+05:3020 Pools - A Swimming Odyssey: Pool #18: Kangaroo Lake, Door Co., Wisconsin<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So while a lake isn't a pool, I did manage to get two really great swims from my sister Nari's cottage on Kangaroo Lake in Door County, Wisconsin. And the reason I'm adding it to the list is that I have recently signed up to do a series of three open-water swims on Oregon lakes this summer. While I've been knocking back my daily pool mile and hardly ever missing a day (including weekends!) swimming on Kangaroo Lake has put a bit of fear in my plan.<br />
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Which is pretty odd, because that wasn't the first time I've swam in Kangaroo Lake. My parents have owned a time share condominium on the opposite shores of the lake since I was in high school and I'd swam across that lake a number of times. As a matter of fact, swimming across open water was a thing among my friends in high school and college.<br />
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My first big lake swim was on Hardwood Lake, the main recreational facility for Camp Lefeber Boy Scout camp, twenty miles east of Rhinelander, Wisconsin. In the summer of 1973, I spent two weeks at Lefeber with my Boy Scout troop which included my Dad and my brother, Andy. The goal of the trip was to get as many merit badges as you could so you didn't have a naked badge sash all winter. In what seemed like a four-year stint at that point, I knocked off my rowing, swimming, canoeing, camping, orienteering, fishing, sailing and rifle-shooting merit badges. (Have not even touched a gun since.)<br />
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But for me, the big goal of the trip was to get the mile-swim badge. One night just before dinner, I told Andy and my Dad I wanted to do it. They commandeered a rowboat and followed me for an hour as I crawled and dog-paddled my way around the mile-swim course on Hardwood Lake. I got my badge and felt like a real swimmer - until I found diving boards and gave up the sport for life (or so I thought).<br />
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Although I never trained as a swimmer, I did live in a swimming pool and discovered throughout the years that I was a fairly effective swimmer. This came in quite handy on any number of occasions because nearly everyone I hung out with was a swimmer. It was fairly common for us to head down to Lake Michigan late at night and swim a mile in the dark out to Love Rock, an old water filtration intake daring us off the shores of Bradford Beach.<br />
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Also any time my family was invited out to a Wisconsin lake cottage, my Dad and my brothers swam across the lake before dinner. Some families fished; our family swam across lakes.<br />
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The last time I remember doing a lake crossing was after college when I was doing my first diving show and living on the shores of Lake Ozark in Missouri. My teammates from Illinois were training in St. Louis and drove down three hours on a Friday night to catch my show and drink an enormous quantity of beer. When we were about half-way through the enormous quantity of beer, one of us (cannot assess blame at this point) decided we should swim across the Lake. Idiotically we ran off the pier and miraculously made the half-mile crossing and the return swim. The next morning, my teammate Matt Scotty and I decided to do it again just because we were young and inexperienced in the ways of the hangover. What seemed to take us five minutes the night before, now took three-quarters of an hour. Lesson being: always swim distances under the cover of inebriation.<br />
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But now thirty years later, I found myself back in a lake, albeit with a much poorer kick. My sister, Nari, my bruther-from-anuther-muther Toys and I had embarked on a booze cruise around Kangaroo Lake on Nari's pontoon boat. It was a beautiful sunny day with enough wind blowing across the water to cool us off and keep us from knocking back more beers than we should.<br />
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We circled the lake for an hour then found ourselves not far from my parents' time share about a half a mile from Nari's dock. I popped on my goggles, opened up the swing gate and asked Toys to grab my handles so the chair wouldn't dump to the bottom of the lake. I splashed in, got my bearings and tried to swim a straight line towards the dock. The day before, I flopped in the lake from the dock and tried to swim a bit, but my straight line was a gigantic rainbow. I thought I was going straight, but after a few hundred yards, I had actually turned 90 degrees. It seems the lane lines and the black stripe on the bottom of the pools were doing much more than I thought.<br />
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Toys said when the swim team trained in open water they would take 15 to 20 strokes then pop their head up and adjust course. I tried that unsuccessfully the day before, but now with the boat less than 100 yards ahead of me, I was doing much better. Nonetheless, that half-mile open water swim seemed to take even more out of me than my daily mile in the pool - something that is scaring me today as I prepare for three 1500 meter open-water swims.<br />
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Aside from the fact that it was REALLY difficult to extract me from the lake, it was fantastic swimming out in nature with no boundaries - something that was nearly replicated in <b>Pool # 19: The Amazon Pool, Eugene, OR. </b><br />
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tomhaighttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08002925789032011330noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217339075499156854.post-38254556467858194122017-04-21T03:50:00.000+05:302017-04-21T04:09:57.084+05:3020 Pools - A Swimming Odyssey: Pool #17: Lincoln Park Pool, Milwaukee, Wisconsin, USA<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Having spent several years in France, it pains me to leave after such a short stint. But with the bank account drained and my prospects of finding legal work null, it was time to return to Oregon. Normally I fly out of Geneva directly to an airport in the States, but I discovered a super-cheap flight on Polish air through Warsaw. I'd never flown out of Poland before, but this odd change of itinerary, proved to be serendipitous glory. In flying east out of Geneva, I had a front row seat to the Swiss and Austrian Alps. The flight out of Warsaw took me north past the Baltic and over the Norwegian fiords. Since it was the middle of July, the sun never set which gave me stunning views of Iceland, Greenland and Eastern Canada before we traced the shores of Lake Michigan into Chicago. Combined with the audacious parade of Himalayas I'd flown over just two weeks earlier, it was the most grandiose view of the globe I'd ever been privy to.<br />
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While I do not care to spend another winter day in my birth home of Milwaukee, I'll take as many summer days as I can muster. Brewtown is ripe with festivals in summer and even if you don't go to one, there is a constant supply of back yard BBQs and beer gardens to keep you fat and happy until Packer season sets in.<br />
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This ends up being problematic if you don't mix in a bit of exercise along the way. Sausage, cheese and beer are more addictive than heroin, and if you multiply the effect by hanging out with musicians, you're in for some coronary problems. In the past, I've wrecked months of exercise with just a week or two catching up with my relatives and oldest friends.<br />
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But this time I was equipped with my new swimming habit. It's odd to call it "new" seeing as I first picked up the habit in the same city more than 50 years earlier. The first time I actually swam a stroke was at a campground beach in Tomahawk, Wisconsin, 230 miles northwest of Milwaukee. I was swimming with a life jacket on and after a few strokes, I noticed it had slipped off me and I was actually swimming. I jumped for joy and swam over to my Dad who was also quite psyched by it all.<br />
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When we came back to Milwaukee, they enrolled me in swimming lessons at the Nicolet High School pool where I would eventually spend more time than my bedroom. Now while I gave up competitive swimming nearly as quickly as I learned how to swim (No, divers do not swim to keep in shape), I was, unlike Martin Short, a "strong swimmer." Like my brothers and all my friends, I spent my summers life guarding at the local pools.<br />
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But there was a big difference: I worked in a country club pool, but my brothers and a few friends were members of the militaristic Milwaukee County Lifeguard Corps. While I spent most of my time babysitting rich kids, the County guards conducted life saving drills and surveilled their pools from guard chairs as if a battalion might attack their rear flank. Which, as it turns out was warranted because kids from the city pools actually took pot shots at the helmeted guards with BB guns. In two summers at the country club I had one rescue, while my brother Andy tried to keep his pool down to one rescue a day.<br />
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The more serene County jobs were at the fabulous Milwaukee beaches, but my brother Andy was a pool guard. If there were a Hall of Fame for the Milwaukee Country Guard Corps ,my brother Andy would be a first ballot inductee. The Guard Corps had two big competitions and Andy won them both. He tossed in a buzzer-beater goal in the city water-polo championships and also won the brutal Lake Michigan mile swim. Andy was a Lincoln Park Pool guard. He later made fame as head guard of the now-defunct Gordon Park, but he cut his teeth at Lincoln.<br />
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I, on the other hand, had never swam there before. When I got to Milwaukee I searched for outdoor pools that had open lap swim and Lincoln Park was the only one within miles of my parents' house. While Milwaukee is known for its festivals and the lakefront, it is also known as the most segregated city in America. Aside from the few black kids that went to my high school, I never had any interaction with a black person unless I went to a Bucks game. And that's not because my parents tolerated racism in any form. Both my mother and father, staunch Republicans, would have spanked us silly and grounded us if the "N" word ever came out of our mouth. But culture and geography kept us apart.<br />
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And that's why it was so cool to head over to Lincoln Pool in 2016 and swim in an integrated environment. The racial mix of the guards, the patrons and even the snack bar workers was 50-50. What it lacked in disability features (no lift, no shower chairs) it made up with black and white kids playing tag and standing in line together at the diving boards. I'm not for a minute going to make this a Pepsi commercial, but it was really cool sign of pragmatic hope in a city ripe with racial problems.<br />
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I got four great workouts in at Lincoln Park pool and thought I was in great shape until I got to <b>Pool No. 18: Kangaroo Lake. </b><br />
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tomhaighttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08002925789032011330noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217339075499156854.post-50922998192474625132017-04-18T04:39:00.002+05:302017-04-18T07:32:16.950+05:3020 Pools - A Swimming Odyssey: Pool #16: Centre Atlantis - Ugine, Savoie, France<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
People have often told me they are jealous of the adventures I've been able to experience outside of the U.S. While I do have more than a handful of super-crazy episodes in my story-satchel, they are not the memories I cherish the most. When my life flashes before my eyes as I die, it may gloss over some of those pinnacle events, but the slide show will consist mostly of the incredible friendships I've made along the way.<br />
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And none of those slides will be more life-affirming than that of the Fabbri family who live under the peaks surrounding Ugine (pronounced like the Oregon town) deep in the French Alps. I first came across the Fabbri clan in 1988 in the tiny French hamlet of Buvin, equidistant from Lyon and Grenoble. The amusement park I worked for thought it was best they lodge my team of six foreigners in a farm house away from the city. But that made us even more conspicuous. </div>
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The Fabbri family lived just a few hundred yards up a hill from us, and it wasn't long after our first late night party that they began frequenting our bashes. But in contrast to the farm families that surrounded us, the Fabbris were an intellectual clan who were well versed in music, French literature and world cultures. They had lived in Africa for a spell and Rosette, the matriarch of the family, was a French teacher in the local grade school (or "college" as they are called in France). The two children, Vincent and Cecile were university age and loved hanging out with our exotic troop of foreign acrobats. </div>
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As the years flew by, all too quickly, we became closer and closer (I actually dated Cecile for a spell) until we could walk in and out of each other's houses as if they were shared living spaces. But after four glorious years our show got cancelled and it was time to fold up the circus tent and move along, or in my case, retire. I moved to Oregon and began my life, but always pined for the care-free summers in the foot hills of the French Alps. </div>
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Fast forward six years and I found myself back in the same town, not as an acrobat, but an invalid in an aluminum wheelchair. The Fabbris had moved away, but after some due diligence (pre-internet!), I was able to find Vincent living near his father's house in Ugine, as story-book mountain village of French chalets lining sharp switchbacks leading to a bustling town center around a tiny Gothic church. </div>
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Vincent was recently married and living a double life as a college teacher and the lead singer in Subaudia Sound System, a "Ragamuffin" band which is a combination of rap, ska and traditional French rhythms. His wife, Kathy, was a French rock climbing champion and also a singer in Subaudia. For their dates, they would routinely climb the highest peaks in the region then parachute off the tops, landing in farm fields next to their house. This all sounds really bizarre if you don't know me, but if you do, it's easy to see how we had no choice but to remain brothers. We didn't know that many people who were like us!</div>
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As the years passed, I've been able to check in once every few years. Vincent and Kathy have two kids who are as curious, energetic and athletic as their parents. This year, as it turns out, my visit to France coincided with the Tour de France passing just a few hundred meters from not only their house, but<b> Pool #16, Centre Atlantis</b>. I arrived five days before the passing of the Tour which gave me plenty of time to workout. The road to the pool was a challenging mile, but that made hopping in every day much more welcome. Normally I'm tentative about jumping in the pool, but not after I'd already worked up a good sweat. </div>
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Unfortunately, they had put a roof on the 25-meter pool which meant I was swimming indoors during the peak of summer. They also kept the pool much warmer than I would have liked as I was soaking wet with sweat before I got in. Nonetheless, I swam my mile every day including the day of the arrival of the Tour. </div>
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Although the race started in the Olympic town of Albertville, just 10 k down the road, Ugine was the city at the start of the deciding climbs of the day - and as it turned out, the Tour. After I swam, I met the Fabbris on the streets leading up to the town center which had been closed all day. There was a Tour de France festival going on and Ugine was in its floral finest as we waited for the world to come screaming by. The organizers had a standing roulette wheel offering up all sorts of Tour swag as well as one great prize - a polka dot jersey. Nobody had come away with the jersey all day, but Kathy eyed the cadence of the wheel and stopped it right on the money! </div>
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We made our way up the climb so the riders would be slowing down and not flying by us like cars. Loudspeakers announced the progress of the race and we could watch it on a giant diamond vision screen in the middle of the festival. Soon enough the roar of the publicity caravan blasted through the streets and six TV helicopters hovered overhead. An army of team cars carrying the most expensive bicycles in the world buzzed through and all that was left were the riders themselves.</div>
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A short breakaway of three riders entered the city to a deafening roar. Not 30 seconds behind them, the massive peloton, with the best bike riders in the world, made its way up the hill towards us. Before we knew it, Christopher Froome, the leader and eventual winner of the race, slithered by us in the distinctive yellow jersey. The crowd was screaming and it occurred to me the riders must hear this noise nearly all day long for 23 days. I'm surprised they don't go deaf, on top of having their hearts, lungs and legs pushed beyond capacity. </div>
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We waited for the trailing riders to pass, then raced home to see the final two climbs of the day on television. When we got back home, we got an added bonus as one of the helicopters had to land just next to Vincent's yard for some reason that wasn't clear. We not only watched the final of the race, we waited for the TV replay (usually 2-3 replays for each stage!) to see if we could make ourselves out along the course. It took us some tricky DVR navigating, but we finally found a helicopter view of us just as the Yellow Jersey passed. Three seconds of our 15 minutes well spent!</div>
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As was the entire week, and just another episode of a magical friendship that has lasted nearly 30 years. In one week's time, I would be back in the US swimming in <b>Pool # 17: Lincoln Park Pool, Milwaukee, Wisconsin</b> - the city where I first learned to swim. </div>
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tomhaighttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08002925789032011330noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217339075499156854.post-5078487685003248012017-04-14T04:03:00.000+05:302017-04-14T04:03:10.673+05:30The New Awesome 72-game NBA Season<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So, truth be told, I'm one of these idiots who listens to sports talk radio. I catch about 20 minutes in the afternoon while I'm in my car and go to bed listening to the PTI podcast. I usually catch the first 10 minutes of Sports Center as well as the plays-of-the-day if I can remember to flip back over. If I'm suffering from insomnia, I'll pop on Dan Patrick or Mike and Mike until I flounder back to sleep. You would think I would put on music, but music is just too damn interesting and it actually keeps me awake.<br />
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The big topic this week has been how stupidly long and insignificant the NBA regular season is. You will get no disagreement from these quarters, but I actually have the solution to ALL their problems.<br />
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It's the weekend-only, 72-game schedule. And here's the catch - you play the same team all weekend long. The season is a collection of 24 three-game series. Throughout the year you play a home and away series against your division rivals, and the rest of the series are spread out over the rest of the league - much like the NFL schedule. You don't play every team every year, but neither do NFL teams and that certainly hasn't stopped it's popularity.<br />
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To insure that each game counts (big problem now as teams routinely throw games) the league is decided on a points basis. If you win one game, you get one point. If you win two games you get three points. If you sweep the series, you get five points. At no point can you just throw in the towel and not send your full team (unless you are really trying to tank the season).<br />
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Back to back to back games are normally tough, but not in this scenario. The problem with back to back to back games now is that there is usually a nasty day (or 2!) of traveling late at night or getting off the plane and going right to the court. But in this scenario the number of travel days throughout the season drops from 82 to 24 (travel both to and from away games)! Players don't get tired playing, they get tired traveling. So even though there are 24 travel days, NONE of them are as stressful as any of the travel days they now face. In this scenario they can get into town the day before the series, then leave after the last game and have PLENTY of rest. When they have home series they sleep in their own bed for at least 12 straight days. With consecutive home series they don't have to travel for 20 days!<br />
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Right now the NBA plays every night and that goes against the well-proven theory of intermittent reward. Since there is very little scarcity of product, there is very little reward for its consumption. That is why football works - you only get one game a week. Ratings will soar to NFL-sized numbers so the TV $$ will more than make up for the 10 fewer games (or just add 3 more weekends).<br />
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This is the solution to all the NBA's problems, but I'm guessing they're a little too short-sighted to see it that way. </div>
tomhaighttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08002925789032011330noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217339075499156854.post-19824458850947688002017-04-11T00:48:00.001+05:302017-04-11T04:28:02.424+05:3020 Pools - A Swimming Odyssey: Pool # 15: Aqualac, Aix Les Bains, France<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Those of you who have been reading these regularly have figured out that I've been using the pools as an excuse to talk about other things, but in this case, it's all about the pool. I have traveled all around the world and been in hundreds of swimming pools, but Aqualac in Aix les Bains, France is the greatest of them all!<br />
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This has quite a bit to do with the fact that this is also my favorite place in the world (OK - just a little bit of back story...). In 1988 I moved to a tiny town called Les Avenieres, about 20 miles west of Aix les Bains. I was exhausted having just come off a Middle East circus tour which only started after I'd already logged six months visiting nearly every country in Western Europe. My first day in town I bought a Peugeot road cycle and took a ride around a place I still call home. It was a crystal clear day in Alpine foothills with the big peaks soaring off in the distance. I hadn't even unpacked my bags, but I knew I would not be leaving this place for a very long time. Most days, in my mind, I'm still there.<br />
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I ended up living in Les Avenieres for four glorious years and, after breaking my back in 1996, returned for another five-month rehab stint. I arrived as a show diver, but I left as a road biker. By the time I left on my own two feet, I knew every single twisted little path within 50 miles of my house - and many much further away. When I returned in the wheelchair, I brought a hand cycle with me and spent every day retracing all but the steepest of those roads.<br />
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In the years since, I've returned a half dozen times for short stays and leave in tears each time. Of course there's the stunning natural beauty, but there are also the people I've now known for more than 30 years. They cheered me in my youth; they saved my life when I was at my worst and now we've just happily grown old together.<br />
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Four years ago I returned again, this time for a six-month stay in Aix Les Bains, which is one of the most beautiful towns in Europe. I rekindled an old romance which has since fizzled, but I was blessed to once again be part of this incredible community. Aix Les Baines is on the Lac du Bourget, the largest inland body of water in France. It's a four-mile long by half mile wide gloriously clean basin sunk between the 4500 ft. Chat ridge on the west and the 5000 ft. Revard on the east. Tucked beneath The Revard is the cosmopolitan village of Aix. It's known around France for its thermal spas, but also has a checkered past as a seedy brothel town. The brothels are all gone (as far as I know?), but the spas and health-tourism still generate most of the city's wealth.<br />
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While locals complain the town is full of "curists" (geriatric patients) the environs are perfect not just for getting healthy, but for getting in world-class conditioning. Aix is the home of the French national crew team, dozens of Tour de France cyclists and Christophe LeMaitre, the world's fastest white man (Olympic Bronze in 200m in Rio). It also has the greatest swimming pool on earth.<br />
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(Check out this Aix Les Bains travelogue - it's my most famous video with 15,000 hits!)<br />
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Aqualac is a massive complex hugging the lake with an indoor 25-meter 8-lane pool and, the piece de resistance, an outdoor 10-lane 50-meter wonder bath. By the time I'd left Nepal all the pools I'd been to had been open for a few months and had gotten disgusting. I don't know what they use for filtration, but it doesn't work. The last time I swam in the Club Bagmati pool, I couldn't even see the bottom.<br />
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But Aqualac was a crystal jewel nestled in between two of my favorite mountain peaks. It was so clean, I couldn't even tell how deep it was. Once I navigated the complicated locker room situation (co-ed except for changing rooms) I pulled up to the edge and flopped into the widest swimming lane I've ever been in. Normally I hate sharing lanes because I either smash wrists with other swimmers, or crash my hand on the lane line. But here we could have swum three swimmers wide and never gotten close to each other. Before I started to swim, I held my breath and sunk to the bottom. It's not like I wasn't showering in Nepal, but I hadn't been soaking in sterile unsoiled water since I left the U.S. It was like cocaine for my skin.<br />
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I started in on my mile but, seeing as I'd never worked out in a 50-meter pool before, I spaced out and lost my lap count. If you forget where you're at in 25-yard pool, it's just a small error. But in a 50-meter pool you might make a 200 yard mistake! After forgetting where I was three times, I began to concentrate and pulled 1600 meters with the sun caressing my back the entire session. Eventually I came to a stop and the life guards got me out using the first lift I'd seen in months.<br />
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Once out, I ventured out onto a picnic area packed with kids playing soccer and pulling tricks in an 8-trampoline bounce park. I was in a state of euphoria but two minor things made me reflect on how France is changing. First of all, the kids were fat - just like American kids. I've had French friends come to the States and one of the first things they notice is how fat Americans are. But now, there really is no difference. The whole Western World is getting chubby!<br />
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The other thing is that women weren't sunbathing topless. I worked in a water park for four years and women never wore their tops when they were lying on their towels. But over the years, that must have just gone out of vogue. I blame it all to globalization!<br />
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I was able to visit Aqualac one more time before I moved deeper into the Alpes to see my friend Vincent - and the Tour de France which passed just in front of <b>Pool #16: Centre Atlantis, Ugine, Savoie, France</b><br />
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tomhaighttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08002925789032011330noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217339075499156854.post-57111654116307861842017-04-06T05:05:00.004+05:302017-04-11T01:02:01.826+05:3020 Pools - A Swimming Odyssey: Pool # 14: Escamphof Indoor Swimming Pool, Den Haag Holland<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Possibly the greatest thing about taking long plane trips is the complete contrast of environments from departure to arrival. It never ceases to amaze me even when I know what's coming ahead of time. The transition on this trip was a stunner.<br />
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Although my time in Kathmandu was as revelatory and inspiring as any four-month stretch I've ever experienced, it was also extremely difficult. When I lived in Dharamsala, I was in a small village nestled in the Himalayas, but everything was close by and semi-accessible. Most stores were on the ground floor and if I was keen for working out, I could get almost anything. There were some daunting obstacles (23 steps to my job!), but the roads were smooth and I didn't want for much. If I needed to go down to the extensive Kotwali market for electronics or medical supplies, there was a fleet of taxis, any of which would ferry me down and back for a pittance. </div>
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But Kathmandu is a big city and I had a more complex job. While my neighborhood was easy enough to navigate, getting into town was expensive and cumbersome. Able-bodied people could easily hop a city bus into town for a quarter, but none of those buses would pick up somebody in a wheelchair. I had to reserve a cab and pay up to 40 times the price. I don't mind haggling for a guitar or a car, but haggling over a ride into town is obnoxious - and then after this confrontational episode, you have to sit for an hour in a car with the guy you just argued with. </div>
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Electricity in Dharamsala was intermittent, but it was there most days. In Kathmandu, electricity is a luxury, and it was off for several hours every day. Seeing as my job required charging cameras, computers and phones, I spent all my waking hours making sure my devices had power. As soon as I saw the lights come on, I dove for my bag and plugged in everything I had (up to six devices charging at once). As soon as a device was charged, I pulled it off because I have lost two expensive laptops due to power surges on the subcontinent. Basically my entire existence consisted of monitoring my equipment. By the end, the stress was wearing me thin. </div>
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On top of that, the absolute filth of Kathmandu put me in a foul mood on a daily basis. I was breathing in black clouds and rolling by gutters filled with every species of garbage imaginable. The people I met and worked with were incredible, but I was at my limits. Dharamsala was challenging, but I spent most days in a state of spiritual marvel. Kathmandu was a heavy drain and I spent most days wanting to leave. </div>
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When I finally took off for Holland it felt like a bag of oppression had been lifted off me. In spite of all the technical obstacles, I'd completed more than 30 short films and had made friends in the Nepali disability that I will keep the rest of my life. As we soared above the pollution haze, I could finally see the Himalayas in their soaring, sharp, pristine-white glory. The negatives of Nepal were quickly fading and being replaced by a heavy feeling of accomplishment - much like having completed college finals. It wasn't fun doing the work, but man was I glad I did it. </div>
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Nearly a full day later, having crossed some of the most dangerous regions on Earth (went right over ISIS!), I landed in Amsterdam. All three airports (Kathmandu, Istanbul, Amsterdam) lost my chair along the way so I wasn't completely rid of my Nepal angst. Eventually I was able to collect my bags and hop two accessible trains to Den Haag to stay with my sister-from-another-mister, Maaike Leeuenburgh. </div>
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When I woke the next morning the first thing I wanted to do was find a grocery store and buy food. I hadn't been in a grocery store since leaving America (there was one in Suryabinayak, but it was four floors up with no elevator) nor had I cooked anything (the kitchen in my home was on the second floor). I ended up buying two bags of food just because I could. I cooked up a rice and chicken dinner and fed Maaike, her mom and her son. It wasn't my best dish ever, but just the fact I could do it made me ecstatic. </div>
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The next morning I wanted to find a pool and go swimming. Stunned by the constant stream of electricity and Internet access, I went on line and discovered a public pool just two blocks away. I checked the schedule, found my suit and goggles and headed over to the Escamphof Indoor Swimming pool. </div>
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Seeing as the pools I'd been swimming in Nepal were getting filthier and filthier as the weeks went on, I was looking forward to hopping in a warm, clean pool. I rolled up to the entrance only to discover there were 10 steps to the entrance and it appeared to be closed. There was a tennis ball sitting at the bottom of the steps, so I began tossing it gently against the door until a janitor popped his head out. I asked him if there was an elevator somewhere and he, struggling to find the words in English, just said, "Sorry, sir, de pool ist closte." </div>
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I'd pushed my ecstasy on returning to the West one step too far and was stymied by a budget cut in the City of Den Haag's recreational department. Unfortunately, Pool #13 will have to go down as a complete failure. Except for one thing - it forced me to adventure further into Maaike's neighborhood until I came upon the freaking Atlantic Ocean. </div>
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It was 80 degrees out; the winds were howling and kite surfers were rode waves in and out of the distant horizons. I rolled off the beachhead and settled into a surfing pub that was showing videos of surfing and football (it was the day of the EuroCup Final!). I ordered a Jortag Gan (my favorite Dutch beer!) and sat on an outdoor patio blocking the howling winds. Just 48 hours earlier I was choking on the hideous traffic of Kathmandu and now I took in delicious gulps of the cleanest air I'd breathed in months. I also noticed that my shoulder put up with rolling several miles - something it refused to do when I first jumped in Pool #1 in Denver. </div>
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Pool #13 may have been a bust, but the fact that the number of pools continued to rise lead to incredible results. And <b>Pool #14, Aqualac, Aix les Baines, France</b> ended up being the greatest pool of them all. </div>
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tomhaighttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08002925789032011330noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217339075499156854.post-59487044983557347772017-04-01T05:59:00.004+05:302017-04-02T00:22:50.838+05:3020 Pools - A Swimming Odyssey: Pool # 13: The Penguin Pool, Pokhara<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Over the years, Pokhara has developed around the eye candy that is Phewa Lake. It's a three by one mile tarn with steep Himalayan foothills on either side. The east side has shops and restaurants while the west shores house some audacious Buddhist temples. On a clear, still day the peaks of the Annapurna Range reflect off its surface making it one of the most inviting water sport spots on Earth.<br />
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Unfortunately while Pokhara has done an amazing job keeping city streets clean, the victim has been Phewa Lake. You can rent boats and paddle boards for play, but it's best not to go swimming as the bacteria levels from business sewage are far above healthy standards. They are working to clean it up, but it wasn't going to happen before I left town. </div>
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Instead Sita, here two companions and I opted for the Penguin Pool located a half hour north of town on the banks of the Seti Gandaki River. As far as sheer beauty, the Penguin Pool is No. 2 on the list, beaten only by <b>Pool # 14: Aqualac, Aix les Baines, France</b>. The river banks rise up to lush tropically forested cliffs and, in the not too-far distance, the white-glaciered Annapurnas paint the blue sky. On this day, even Machipuchare himself made an audacious appearance. </div>
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The pool is a six-lane, 25-meter outdoor resort pool with a shallow side pool for beginners. The view from the center is as dramatic as any pool I've ever been in. But there are two problems that dropped it down in my rankings. First of all, it is horribly inaccessible. There was a series of steps at the entrance and another series of steps to get to the pool. The locker room and bathroom doors were too small for me to enter and there was also a difficult gutter system that made getting into the pool not just difficult, but hazardous. </div>
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Then there was the second problem. It was kind of a rape-y pool. </div>
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That's right, a rape-y pool. There were no women in the pool when we arrived and, at first survey, Sita and her friends decided they didn't want to swim. I asked Sita why and she told me it wouldn't be safe for women. Men would surely swim up to them and grab them. "In an outdoor pool with life guards all around?" I asked. "Yes," she said, "Nepalese men don't care. They just grab." </div>
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I asked the women if we should go somewhere else, but it was super hot and they really did want to jump in that pool. Instead I told them to wait until I get in and swim for a bit, then they could join me if they wanted. I got carried down the cumbersome steps to the pool and had a lifeguard dump me in over the extended drain that almost cut my foot. It created a scene and nearly everyone in the pool was watching. Although there were no lane lines, I carved out a bit of space along the west edge of the pool and began swimming laps. </div>
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Just like every time I swam in Nepal, people stopped and stared. It created enough of an event, that when Sita arrived, it appeared we were part of a disability program. The men gave us a wide berth. As long as Sita and her two friends stayed together and made it look like they were helping her, they were left alone. I ended up cranking out my mile and eventually the three women were left to themselves and they could just goof around like everyone else.</div>
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That doesn't stop the fact that if they were just three women arriving by themselves, they would have turned around and gone home. Young women in Nepal are absolutely petrified of men they don't know. The week before, my production assistant said she couldn't come out with us on a celebration dinner, because there was no way she could safely get home. I told her I would buy her a cab and she refused saying she didn't trust any of the cab drivers. Women in wheelchairs often must use cabs to get to work, but they use a driver the family knows. Other single women would never take a night bus alone for fear of rape. It's impossible to get accurate statistics of rape in Nepal, but you would never catch a woman out by herself after seven o'clock. </div>
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That's not to say they won't get beaten and raped at home. I knew of two women at my workplace who were routinely beaten, and I'm assuming, raped by their husbands. Because of the misogynistic culture, these women have no place to go. Divorcees (and even widows) are considered untouchable by Nepali men so leaving a husband could easily put you out on the street. Through my work with the disabled community, I was able to meet many more Nepali women than your average white man. I discovered a great deal of depression, loneliness and abuse - much more than I'd seen anywhere else. ( In Arab countries I lived in I wasn't allowed to talk to women at all.) On the surface Nepal can be as beautiful as any place on Earth. But unfortunately, for many women, it is a sad and dangerous place. </div>
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One of the most callous things I've seen since coming home was during the March for Women after the Trump election. Conservative women made fun of the marchers saying, "They don't know how good they have it in America!" </div>
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What they were ignoring is that women from misogynistic cultures depend on the leadership of Western women for hope and change . I GUARANTEE the Nepali women would march in lockstep with their Western counterparts - if they weren't petrified. </div>
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tomhaighttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08002925789032011330noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217339075499156854.post-75755930150732989652017-03-30T05:17:00.001+05:302017-03-30T08:40:59.481+05:3020 Pools - A Swimming Odyssey: Pool # 12: Himalayan Villa, Pokhara, Nepal<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Unlike Atlantis, Shangri-la actually exists. It's called Pokhara and I discovered it in 1991 while traveling through the Himalayas. Pokhara is a vibrant city hugging a mountain lake in the Kaski district of central Nepal. The town is dominated by the 28,000 foot Annapurna Range and is lorded over by the 22,000-foot mountain god, Machipuchare (Mat-sa-poo-ser-ee).<br />
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Known by locals as the "Fish Tail" mountain, it is the most stunning site my eyes have ever processed. On my trip in 1991 I went on a thigh-busting three-hour hike, most of it up ancient stairs, to the top of Sarangkot, the highest point inside the city limits. It was cloudy when I started the hike so I didn't have any idea what awaited me on the top. As I reached the summit, huffing and puffing, I was greeted by the gigantic fish tail floating in the distance, yet covering most of the horizon - as if it were part of a separate planet. I'd lived in the Alps for four years and thought nothing could be more stunning than the peaks of Central Swizterland or the Dolomites north of Venice. But this mountain pulverized me to the core. Locals revere it as a god and nobody is allowed to climb it. I sat down on a bench and immediately joined their church. I really didn't have a choice in the matter. </div>
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Fast forward to 2016 and I was befriended at a disability festival by a group of wheelers from Pokhara. There were wheelers from all over Asia, but once I saw the image of Machipuchare on their T-shirts, I knew I had found my tribe. After eating and dancing with my new friends, I returned to my hotel to find one of them Sita KC, staying at my hotel. We became fast friends and she invited me to stay at her accessible house in Pokhara . I told her I would come as soon as I could figure out my work schedule at the SIRC. </div>
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Unfortunately, it took me much longer than anticipated to get my filming project going at the SIRC. I had messaged a few times with Sita but I just couldn't squeeze out any time to head over. Finally with just two weeks left in my trip and most of my video project in the can, I had time to make my pilgrimage. Sita was returning from a trip to Thailand so the two of us, along with one of her friends, rented a car from Kathmandu and drove west to Pokhara. </div>
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The main reason anyone goes to Nepal is to cast their eyes on the biggest mountains in the world. Unfortunately I had only seen the mountains around the Kathmandu Valley a handful of times. Most days pollution blocked their view and the monsoon came a month early meaning it rained constantly towards the end of my trip. </div>
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As we got further away from Kathmandu, the clouds showed signs of giving way to the giant peaks to the North. Then just an hour outside of Pokhara, the tips of the Annapurna Range stuck their heads over the veil and there was hope that I might again gain an audience with Machipuchare. </div>
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As we arrived in the outskirts of Pokhara, another unfathomable feature of Shangri-la appeared: The city was spotless. This was my fifth trip to the Sub-Continent and one thing that has greeted me everywhere I've been has been mountains of trash. Trash on the roadways; trash in the rivers; trash in the air. It is the single most striking feature of travel in the region and the main reason people vow never to return. It is a civic embarrassment that only recently is being addressed. </div>
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But in Pokhara, not only do they have routine garbage pickup, they have a different mentality: It's nothing fancy - they just don't litter. And that's all it takes.</div>
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We weaved through the cleanest town in Southeast Asia until we pulled into Sita's home stay. She showed me my room but, before I unpacked my bag, she yelled at me to come back outside. I hurried out the door and there lurking above the mountain mist stood my god. I had been gone for 25 years but the mountain most likely hadn't even recorded the time passing. For me it was a reaffirmation of everything I'd stored in my memory banks during that time. The mountain god was still the most stunning sight I've ever seen. </div>
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The next day it was cloudy so we went in search of a swimming pool to pass the time. The Himalayan Villa Resort, one of the most expensive hotels in the country was just a few hundred meters from Sita's house. They had a pool, but it turned out to be the most expensive pool of my trip. It cost $7.00 to get in, but seeing as even educated Nepalis make about $6 a day, it was like paying $80 or $90 in the States. </div>
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But to its' credit, it was the most accessible pool of my trip. There were ramps to get to the deck and only one step to get into locker rooms. The pool was empty when we got there (seven of us) so we hopped in and loudly splashed around. I showed Sita how to breathe and swim at the same time and she took to it perfectly. She'd tried swimming before, but this time she really got how it worked. </div>
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Eventually I carved out an hour to knock back 80 laps (it was a 20-yard pool) and work off enough calories to deserve the huge served back at the guest house. We had so much fun at the pool that Sita decided we needed to do it again. She looked online and found an even bigger and better pool: <b>Pool # 13: The Penguin Pool, Pokhara</b></div>
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tomhaighttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08002925789032011330noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217339075499156854.post-41581748158958937552017-03-27T00:08:00.003+05:302017-03-27T00:08:41.336+05:3020 Pools - A Swimming Odyssey: Pool # 11: Club Bagmati, Suryabinayak, Nepal <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Before leaving the states I'd searched for swimming pools in Kathmandu and discovered a 50-meter 8-lane pool seven miles from my house. I naively assumed I could leave work, hop on a bus, take in a swim and be home before dinner. My plan was thwarted because 1) Kathmandu buses aren't accessible and 2) the traffic in Kathmandu is so bad it would have taken 90 minutes to travel those seven miles. Even if I had been able to get on the bus, I never would have been able to get to the pool before closing time. And I never would have made it home in time for dinner.<br />
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Oddly enough, on my way to work (the hospital DID have an accessible bus) we went past a sign for a resort pool in my neighborhood. My sister, Nikita, told me the pool was way too high up the side of the mountain for me to get to - that I would need a taxi in order to go there. But like nearly every bit of information I got in Nepal, there where bits and pieces of facts surrounded by tons of speculation.<br />
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The truth of the matter is that Nikita didn't know how to swim and had never been to the pool before. Just three weeks before I was to leave Nepal, Nikita told me she went to the pool and she thought I could probably get there. She said she and three of our co-workers from the hospital were taking swimming lessons after work.<br />
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At first I was angry because I could have actually been working out every day after work. The pool was less than two miles from our house. But seeing as it was winter, it had only recently opened up. Winter in Nepal is a relative term. I arrived the second week of February and was never even once tempted to wear anything more than a t-shirt. For me, swimming in an outdoor pool in "The middle of winter" would have not been a challenge. At the Osborne Aquatic Center back in Corvallis, they keep the outdoor pool open all winter and use it as the warm-up pool for high school meets - even in freezing weather.<br />
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But no matter how much I would have protested, people weren't going to show up at that pool until May. Nonetheless, the neighborhood pool was open and I was going! Nikita and the group of women from the hospital escorted me up a steep, but short road up to the Club Bagmati pool. It was a nice workout, but nowhere near as difficult an assent as the Sherpa pool or even climbing to the temple at the end of the street we lived on.<br />
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Getting up to the pool wasn't a problem, but everything else was. My new neighborhood pool was the worst, least-accessible full-sized pool I'd ever been to. The locker rooms and toilets were up five steps and their doors were too tight for my chair. I rolled up against a row of bushes and nonchalantly changed into my suit. I wasn't really blocked by anything, I just became an elephant in the room. And it's not like public nudity is accepted in Nepal - it's super shocking. But being in the chair, I just assumed people would get my situation and not make a big deal of it - which they did.. kinda. It still freaked 'em out, but they just had no idea what they could do about it.<br />
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I was ready to hop in the pool, but the pool wasn't ready for me. The pool was on a raised deck that had to be accessed by a smaller rinsing pool. It was three steps down into the rinsing pool, followed by five steps back up to the deck. Nikita and her friends (who are all very good-looking I might add) had no problem convincing a band of men to come over and help me through the obstacle. For some reason, lifting people in chairs in Nepal is ten times more complicated than it is in the States or Europe. When I ask for assistance in America I'll get two guys, tell them how to do it, and they go. But in Nepal and India it is a huge committee decision and one I don't have a vote in. They discuss it on the side, then start grabbing wheels and body parts until I have to yell to make them stop. Eventually they will listen and I'll show them what needs to be done - but it never happens on the first try. And given the same situation the next day, the same group of men will go right back into their committee and start all over again. It never fails.<br />
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Eventually, I made it to the pool deck only to discover the Club Bagmati pool, my new home pool, was a complete piece of shit. It was a 35-yard arcing pool with no lanes and a two-foot deep shallow end. It was full of thrashing teen-agers none of whom could actually swim. I flopped into the deep end and tried to swim a few laps, but it was impossible. I got cannonballed twice and even had one drowning woman grab on to me as she had ventured too far from the side of the pool.<br />
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Instead of trying to workout, I joined Nikita and our friends to give them swimming lessons. One of the women took to the water fairly well, but the other four were panic-stricken and thrashing. Nobody knew how to breathe and they didn't really feel like listening to me when I tried to show them. To them swimming was akin to witchcraft and anyone who did it was defying the laws of physics. No matter how I pleaded for them to watch and copy my stroking, they just kept up their panicky thrashing. Getting Nepal to learn the crawl would not come easily.<br />
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Although the first attempt at the Club Bagmati was less than positive, I didn't give up. My video project at the hospital was finishing up and there was no reason for me to go to work if I didn't have a film shoot scheduled. During the last three weeks I ended up going up to the pool in the middle of the day when it was nearly empty. I wore my suit to the pool so I didn't have to dress in public. I found a group of workers at the club and trained them how to carry me up and down the steps to the pool. With the pool almost entirely to myself, I could bisect the arc into a 30-meter straight line. I got back to cranking out my mile workout. Even though I was breathing in some caustic Kathmandu air, I was getting back into shape.<br />
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One thing I discovered when swimming in Malaysia is, unlike the bike, swimming is a sport you can bring with you anywhere you go. Even on vacation.<br />
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<td height="20" style="height: 15.0pt; width: 289pt;" width="385">Which brings us to vacation and <b>Pool # 12: Himalayan Villa,
Pokhara, Nepal</b></td></tr>
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tomhaighttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08002925789032011330noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217339075499156854.post-79904661369430317132017-03-23T00:43:00.003+05:302017-03-23T00:56:49.705+05:3020 Pools - A Swimming Odyssey: Pool #10: Novotel, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Although the Novotel pool is in the heart of Kuala Lumpur, the capitol of Malaysia, the story begins in the busy Kathmandu suburb of Suryabinayak. While I tell everyone I was living in Kathmandu, I actually only went into town on the weekends. I lived 10 miles east of town in a new neighborhood that shared one important quality with Lower Clovernook, the neighborhood where I grew up in Wisconsin. When both my family and my Nepalese family moved into the neighborhood there was nothing but farm fields around us. But slowly those fields have been eaten up by housing projects.<br />
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Suryabinayak looks nothing like an American suburb, but there was one striking similarity to Lower Clovernook: bands of kids played in new housing constructions. When I came home from work I was mobbed by kids who wanted to play soccer, sing songs and make forts out of the new housing projects. Unlike Clovernook, however, these houses were four to five story brick castles that might house multiple generations of the same family. In Wisconsin we pined the loss of the big fields as housing projects grew, but we still had massive yards. But Suryabinayak is on the side of mountain and houses took up all the flat land that made up cricket and soccer fields. One day a house started going up on the lot next to my family's house and it was devastating to the neighborhood kids. That happened in Clovernook as well. We had a massive field where we would ride our bikes and play football and baseball. One by one it got eaten up by new houses until one year it was just gone. I knew the pain on these kids' faces.<br />
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But what they'd developed while playing in those empty lots couldn't be stopped. These kids and these families had developed into a strong neighborhood community where anyone was welcome in any neighbor's house - just like Clovernook. The big kids (12-13 year olds) looked after the little kids - some of them still in diapers. It's something I miss about America and something I was incredibly familiar with. I could have just gone home to my room every night, but being part of this community was a privilege. I fell into a more natural state - not as an adult, but, for the first time in my life, as one of the big kids.<br />
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Belonging to that community was never so ingrained as the day I took my first trip away. My brother Andy and I have spent years working with the International Society of Physical and Rehabilitation Medicine (ISPRM). I spent a decade as their web master and Andy was at one point the cheif North American board member. This year we would be attending their annual convention only a stone's throw away in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.<br />
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Seeing as nobody in the neighborhood had ever even been on a plane, the fact that I was going was major news. I thought I would just get a cab and bustle off to the airport, but I wasn't getting away that easy. On the morning of the trip, Sangeeta Kayastha, my Nepalese mother (I'm actually five years older than Sangeeta, but she was MOM nonetheless) greeted me with a massive breakfast and grilled me on contents of my bag. Underwear? Check. Socks? Check. Catheters? Check. Then she prepared a small altar and lit a tiny flame to warm a mixture of red powder and water. Once it was soupy, she put her thumb in it and, while saying a prayer, applied the Nepalese Tilaka blessing to my forehead. I am the furthest thing from a religious person, but this offering brought us both to tears. I've lived in a dozen countries in my lifetime but, aside from France where they're basically stuck with me, I've never felt more connected to people in my life.<br />
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When I left for the taxi, the whole neighborhood came out to escort me. The kids carried my bag and sent me off with tears in their eyes - as if I was going off to college. AND I WAS ONLY GOING FOR A WEEK!<br />
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Eventually, I made it to Malaysia and my part of the conference was cancelled. I had lots of time to do nothing which I spent roaming the city and swimming at the worst pool on the list. It was a crappy, shallow hotel pool shaped like a fat shamrock. It was only 15 yards long, but I if I swam around the edges I could actually crank out 35 yard "Laps." It was however a sunny outdoor pool and there was a tiki bar next to it, so I wasn't really suffering. I managed to get in three great swims which started me on a long streak that I've kept up until today.<br />
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And that's because I discovered <b>Pool # 11: Club Bagmati, Suryabinayak, Nepal </b><br />
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tomhaighttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08002925789032011330noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217339075499156854.post-83906284407279389962017-03-21T00:42:00.002+05:302017-03-21T00:51:37.305+05:3020 Pools - A Swimming Odyssey: Pool #9: SIRC Hydrotherapy Pool<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The hydrotherapy pool at the Spinal Injury Rehabilitation Center just outside of the Kathmandu Valley is both the smallest and most hilarious pool in the 20 Pool Odyssey. And while I didn't really get a workout in, it yielded the craziest scene of this entire series.<br />
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When I got to the SIRC in March of last year, I was taken on a tour of the 50-bed (now 80+ bed!) facility and marveled at how modern everything was. Just ten months earlier the campus resembled a war zone as emergency tents were set up to house the nearly 100 new spinal cord injures suffered during two major earthquakes occurring only two weeks apart. I'd seen pictures and videos of the facility and assumed I was going to an African refugee camp.<br />
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But in the space of ten months they had streeted all but the most severely affected patients -and hired three of them as peer counselors. What I saw was a fully equipped rehab hospital with modern, and in many cases, brand new physical and occupational therapy tools. There was also a busy job training center, a super-tough wheelchair obstacle course and, to my great surprise, a swimming pool.<br />
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The hydrotherapy pool was tucked away in the basement next to the PT gym and was so unused the woman giving me the tour couldn't find the lights. It was only ten meters by four meters and sunk to a maximum depth of four feet. So while I was hoping to find a local workout pool for daily training, this wasn't going to be it.<br />
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As the weeks went on, I pretty much forgot the pool was there, as did, it appeared the entire staff. It seemed the only time it was ever used was as a showpiece for foreign visitors on their tours. But eventually my film schedule got around to shooting physical therapy videos and the head of the department put hydrotherapy on her list of subjects she wanted covered.<br />
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Just like all the other shoots, we scheduled a therapist and a patient then began plotting out camera and microphone positions. The difficult part about this shoot was that I couldn't strap a microphone onto the therapist or the patient because they would be popping in and out of water. But because of the unique location, it was one of our most successful shoots. The therapist, Ramesh Khadka, put on a suit and expertly took his patient, Dilip Sapkota through a series of exercises using water as the perfect resistance it is. The microphones on the cameras were super echo-y, so Ramesh came up to our editing suite a few days later and did voice over work. All in all, it was a great shoot (Vid: <a href="http://bit.ly/2nsWHFx">http://bit.ly/2nsWHFx</a>).<br />
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But that was the last I saw of the hydrotherapy pool for the next few weeks. And then I discovered why: nobody knew how to swim! Then one day, my assistant Rownika ran up to me and, while trying to hold back her laughter (which she never could), told me we had to get the cameras and run down to shoot at the hydrotherapy pool! "All the men are trying to swim," she said, "And they can't!"<br />
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I grabbed my camera and rushed down to the tiny pool that now contained five wheelers and seven therapists. They were in a combined state of elation and panic as one by one, they would maniacally close their eyes and splash their arms in an attempt to get to the other side of the pool. I started filming, but then the coach inside of me just couldn't take it anymore. I dropped down to my boxers, slipped out of my chair onto the floor and made my way to the pool.<br />
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There was a metal fence around the pool, and it was way too shallow to just flop in, so I had to push myself along the floor to an access ramp. Once my legs were free and floating, I got the attention of two wheelers and told them to watch while I breathe and swim at the same time. There was only enough room for four strokes, but I could show them how the front crawl works.<br />
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After just a few times up and down the pool, the therapists started watching and finally I had everyone's attention. At this point, Rownika is laughing so hard she could barely hold on to the camera. Although they desperately wanted to learn how to swim, none of them were actually listening to what I was saying. They nodded their heads in agreement, then go back to their out-of-control arm slashing and panic breathing.<br />
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After 30 minutes of this, I made my way out of the pool and back into my chair. I told them we needed to take this exercise over to the Club Moses pool where I could teach them how to swim. They enthusiastically agreed and plans were made for a field trip that would never eventually take place. That happens a lot in Nepal.<br />
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But about a month later, I rolled by the pool and one of the therapists was back in there by himself - still splashing without breathing. I slowed him down, repeated my lesson on breathing and he finally got it! One down, 28 million to go. </div>
tomhaighttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08002925789032011330noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217339075499156854.post-78266755527562228582017-03-15T05:15:00.001+05:302017-03-15T05:15:38.099+05:3020 Pools - A Swimming Odyssey: Pool # 8: Sherpa Party Palace and Pool, Kathmandu<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Apparently my little swim at the Club Moses made quite an impression and a false reputation of being a champion distance swimmer spread throughout the Kathmandu disability community. One of my co-workers, Rishi Dhakal, is the president of the Nepal Spinal Cord Sports Association and he told me the Nepalese Paralympic Swim Team would start their practice sessions just one week after I'd hopped in the pool at the Club Moses. They would be doing an all-comers event to encourage participation at another pool, just a mile from Club Moses.<br />
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Whereas the Club Moses pool in Jorpati was pretty easy on the disability access front, it was the rare exception in Nepal. While it was nice to discover clean pools on the subcontinent, getting into them would be a major hassle. Rishi gave me directions to the Sherpa Party Palace and Pool but told me I'd have to take a cab because it was on top of a very steep hill. Most wheelers in Nepal are quick to accept a push up even the slightest incline and I'd never once needed any help to get up any of these rises - even to the SIRC perched high above the valley floor.<br />
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I told him I'd get there without a taxi and rolled along the heavily congested and nearly completely destroyed major artery until I found the archway leading to the Sherpa Pool. The road to the pool was just as rutted and cracked as the main thoroughfare, but the only traffic attacking it were some motorcycles and the occasional taxi. The street was lined with a dozen hole-in-the-wall brick bodegas all selling the same goods. I pushed along the gradual rise, popping wheelies to jump over foot-wide cracks and ill-conceived speed bumps. The road would have been condemned in the States or Europe, so there really wasn't any need to construct any further obstacles.<br />
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Finally I came to an opening where right in front of me stood an insanely steep switch leading to the pool about 100 meters up the road. As I'd been fighting through the street, I'd refused any number of offers to push, but now I was stuck dead in my tracks. It's not a question of having enough strength to push on. The road was so steep I would literally fall backwards if I tried to tackle it. One of the store keepers popped out from behind his cash register and grabbed the handles on my chair. People did this all the time in Nepal and it drove me nuts. But here, I was helpless to go further without assistance. I leaned forward and the two of us painstakingly made our way to the top of the hill.<br />
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Perched high above Kathmandu, with a bucket-list view of the city, lay the Sherpa Party Palace and Pool. On one side of an open square was a wedding hall big enough for a party of 200. On the other was a clean six-lane 25-meter pool. I rolled over to the pool to discover the doors to the locker rooms and the bathroom were too narrow for my chair. There were three giant 10" high steps to get down to pool level as well.<br />
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There were also a handful of empty wheelchairs and a number of swimmers clinging to the shallow edge of the pool. Swimming widths in the middle of the pool was Laxmi Kunwar, the newly "appointed" queen of the Nepalese Paralympic team. I'd known Laxmi for a few weeks and was happy to discover she had won (I just assumed she'd won a spot - I didn't know you could be appointed.) a spot on the Olympic team and would be traveling to Rio for the games. What I didn't know was that Laxmi could barely swim.<br />
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Although she was powering through ugly choppy strokes, she didn't know how to breathe. She would crank out ten strokes then stop, pull her head up and breathe as if she'd just been released from water-boarding. As I looked around at the other able-bodied swimmers, I noticed they too did not know how to swim and breathe at the same time. They just powered along as fast as possible, then came up for air.<br />
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I tried to hide my astonishment, but Laxmi clearly saw I was freaked out. She stopped swimming, looked up at me and said, "Tom - can you teach me how to swim?"<br />
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I rolled to the back of the pool garden, changed into my suit and returned to the pool where two life guards helped me down the steps to the pool level. They grabbed my arms and attempted to help me down to the deck where they assumed I would slide in. I brushed them away and asked one of them to hold the back of my chair. When I plunged in making a big splash everyone in the pool area stared and, just like at Club Moses, I was on stage.<br />
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I told Laxmi I needed to warm up and she should watch how I breathe. I slowly started stroking, making sure I made exaggerated breaths on each pull. Laxmi watched, but when it was her turn, she went back to powering through the water and dying after ten pulls. I stopped her and showed her how I blew air out underwater, then lifted my head, looked back at my elbow and inhaled. Blow out air underwater; take in air above water. It was the same lesson I'd been given at my home pool when I was in second grade.<br />
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Now while it seems ludicrous that Laxmi was on the Olympic team, the reasons for her being there were quite sound. Laxmi is a very good athlete, she has an updated passport and, above all, Laxmi is really smart. After my quick breathing lesson, Laxmi threw away her old model, adopted the new technique and after a few laps, was swimming comfortably, without stopping. She'd proven to be an incredibly coach-able athlete which, as any coach will tell you, is much more fun to work with than a talented diva.<br />
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Over the next several weeks, Laxmi and I met at the Sherpa Pool every Saturday morning and her stroke became elegant - and fast. Eventually I was introduced to the chairman of the Nepal Paralympic Team and he named me the official Paralympic Swimming Coach. I had dreams of going to Rio with Laxmi and marching in the opening ceremonies, but that never happened. The Nepal delegation to Rio consisted of two athletes and EIGHT representatives. Instead of sending eight athletes (the Nepal Army wheelchair basketball team has finished as high as second in South Asia competitions), politics took hold and they decided to hold a party in Rio instead of rewarding athletes.<br />
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Welcome to Nepali politics.<br />
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Which will bring me to one of the more disappointing pools in the series: <b>Pool #9: SIRC Aqua Therapy Pool. </b><br />
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tomhaighttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08002925789032011330noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217339075499156854.post-10163302263583487202017-03-09T01:34:00.001+05:302017-03-09T01:44:15.460+05:3020 Pools - A Swimming Odyssey: Pool # 7: Club Moses Swimming Pool and Party Palace, Jorpati, Nepal<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Upon first report, anyone who lands on the Subcontinent will loudly and graphically detail the absolute and total filth of the environment. The streets are lined with trash; riverbanks are coated with rotting waste and the air quality is below that of the grandstands of the old Winston Cup stock car races where cigarettes were distributed freely to all spectators.<br />
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When I first arrived in India in 1991, I was so shocked at the chaotic waves of grunge, I feared leaving my guest house as I might catch whatever disease it was that made people behave this way in the first place. At that point I had traveled to more than 40 countries, but Delhi wretched me like no other place on Earth. I was afraid to drink bottled water so the mere mention of a swimming pool would send me to convulsions. </div>
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The one place I found solace was Kathmandu. In 1991 Kathmandu was the glorious Shangri La of legend. It was a city of half-million people rolling though exotic market places on single-gear bicycles and rickshaws. As the morning fog lifted, the biggest mountains in the world peeked out over the valley walls and sat like gods watching the drones in their ant-farm. There weren't any swimming pools at that time, but I did manage a plunge into the Trishuli River during a rafting trip. I was careful not to take any of the water into my system and I dried off completely before touching any food or water. It wasn't the most pleasant of experiences, but after three subsequent trips to the region, it was the only time I'd ever swam in the Subcontinent. </div>
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These were my thoughts as I swam my final laps last spring at the Osborne Aquatic Center before leaving on a four-month return journey to Kathmandu. By this time, swimming had so transformed my body and my life that I feared what would happen once it was gone. I Googled "Kathmandu Swimming Pools" and found an Olympic swimming complex on the south side of the city. Unfortunately, it was included in an article about the lasting effects of damage from the 2015 earthquake. When I left Oregon, I packed my suit and goggles, but I didn't think I'd be using them. </div>
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When I deplaned in Kathmandu, I had to deal with the usual delays and unpreparedness that goes along with disability travel in poor countries. They don't know how to deal with it, and as I discovered throughout my stay, they simply don't care. There aren't enough paras and quads traveling for them to purchase the necessary equipment or even make an honest effort. You are greeted as a pain-in-the-ass and treated as such until they can pour you into a cab and get you out of their space. </div>
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To my great shock and horror, over the past 25 years, the glorious mystical-mountain capitol of Kathmandu had turned into the wretched hell-hole of 1990s Delhi. The air was a caustic mixture of factory soot and unfiltered auto emissions. The sides of the roads were a mosaic of water bottles, plastic wrappers and rotting foodstuffs. In short, the city, now seven times larger than it was when I left, had been destroyed. And this had nothing to do with the earthquake. They had done a marvelous job in rebuilding and I was hard-pressed to find any evidence of it. This had to do with pure human greed and neglect. I put aside any wishes of finding a swimming pool. I found my new home, went to my new job and tried to rebuild my image of Kathmandu. </div>
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Although Kathmandu was shrouded in a veil of pollution, the old spirit of those cyclists and rickshaw drivers was still there. My co-workers were the most friendly people I've ever met and, even though I was working in a spinal cord hospital with grim situations all around me, the mood could not have been more positive. People worked hard and got stuff done, but we spent most of the day going from one laughing room to the next. </div>
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One day, one of my favorite co-workers, a 30-something para named Sonika Dhakal asked me if I was a swimmer. I told her I would love to go swimming, but I heard the Olympic Pool was broken. She told me there were plenty of other pools and she was on the Nepal Paralympic Swim team! Naturally I was stunned at this revelation and she showed me some YouTube videos of her winning the national championships. </div>
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"Where is that pool!" I asked. </div>
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"It's in Jorpati!" she said. "We'll go this weekend!" </div>
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Jorpati is a neighborhood in northeast Kathmandu that houses hundreds of handicapped people. I'd been spending most of my weekends there playing wheelchair basketball or working on video projects. When I packed my bag for the weekend, for the first time, I tossed in my suit and goggles - both of which had been dry for two months. </div>
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I met Sonkia in Jorpati and followed her just a kilometer down the road to the outdoor, surprisingly pristine, Club Moses Swimming Pool and Party Palace. Aside from one step up to the ticket window and another to the pool it was basically accessible. The locker rooms and toilets were on different floors and had tiny entrances, but I'd assumed that from the get go. There were about 50 people milling about the 6-lane 25-meter pool, but nobody was going in. I asked Sonika why nobody was swimming and she said it was too cold. It was 75 degrees out. That was fine for me. </div>
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I stripped down to my suit, pulled on my goggles and asked a lifeguard to hold my chair. The gutters in the pool were deep and wide making it really hard to get my chair close. But with a little bit of coaxing, the guard positioned my chair and I flopped in. I hadn't been submerged for so long I forgot how good it felt. I did some underwater stretching and came up to discover everyone on the pool deck staring at me. Some looked like they were ready to jump in after me, while others were asking me if I needed help getting out. I politely shrugged them away, then started in on my first mile in months. </div>
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As I was swimming I felt a bit like Esther Williams. Everybody on the pool deck had their eyes glued to me. Some of them even cheered. They assumed I'd do a few laps and get out, but as I kept swimming lap after lap they eventually got bored and jumped in. There were no lane markers in the pool and there was also no recognition I was actually trying to work out. I kept swimming laps among cannonballs, pool stunts and new swimmers who were basically drowning. I thought it would be polite to take the far lane and just plod along, but very few of these people knew how to swim, so they needed the edge of the pool. I ended up creating a path right though the center of the pool and knocked out my mile as if I'd never been away. </div>
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Getting out was extremely difficult as there was no lift. I hoisted myself up on the edge, but had to slid my hips over the wide drain on the side of the pool. It wasn't just wide, it was also sharp. I cut my foot trying to get to some pool furniture. I hoisted myself up on the lounge chair, then was able to prop my butt onto my wheelchair and push myself aboard. </div>
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Again, everyone at the pool was watching my every mood. Sonika, who had swum a brief workout, came over and said, "Tom - why you swim so long?" This question was coming from their reigning national Paralympic Champion. It was a really confusing response which brings us to </div>
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<b>Pool # 8: Sherpa Party Palace and Pool, Kathmandu</b></div>
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tomhaighttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08002925789032011330noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217339075499156854.post-56619522060514628452017-03-07T00:50:00.000+05:302017-03-07T01:44:59.758+05:3020 Pools - A Swimming Odyssey: Pool # 6: Willamalane Park Swim Center, Eugene, Ore. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Most people don't equate the Grateful Dead with swimming pools, but in my personal journey, the two are 100 percent intertwined. For the non-Americans reading this post I have to back up a little. The Grateful Dead, although never really popular until much later in their career, are one of the founding pillars of American rock and roll. They sprung out of the San Francisco folk scene of the early 1960s and created the free form style of rock which is now referred to as "Jam Band." They toured constantly; played a different set list every night; promoted bootlegging and free distribution of their music and cultivated (using the word "'cult'ivated" carefully here) the most loyal fan base in the history of music.<br />
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In 1981 I was introduced to the band and quickly became one of their passionate followers known as "Deadheads." I was also a member of the University of Illinois diving team and nearly everyone I knew was either a swimmer or a diver. Swimmers always have music going through their heads so the long, twisting musical pieces were a perfect counter to the endless boredom of the black stripe on the bottom of the pool. Divers are naturally creative, adventurous animals so the deep musical exploration made perfect sense to us as we tried more difficult dives from higher and higher takeoff points. The Grateful Dead and diving were so braided in my head that I had dreams where band members were at my diving workouts. Garcia, the lead guitar player was particularly good with back and reverse spinners; whereas Weir, the rhythm player had a clean set of required dives.<br />
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It was during this time that I also bought my first guitar and started playing music. My first music book was "Happy Traum's Guitar for Beginners" and my second was "The Black Book." The Black Book was not the official title of the book, but any Deadhead who has ever tried to learn the band's songs knows this as the Bible of Grateful Dead music. Nearly all their original material was in the book and I went about trying to learn every song they played.<br />
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Had there been an Internet at this point, I'm sure my early musical journey would have been more comprehensive, but being a college student with no money, I played what was in front of me. I also had access to Beatles, Pink Floyd, Neil Young and Led Zeppelin books, but for the most part, I was learning those tunes in the Black Book. At the same time, my brothers and many of my old high school swim team mates had their copies of the Black Book and were shedding wood on their own instruments. Over the years the swimming pools disappeared and were replaced by microphones and amplifiers; Speedos were replaced by guitars and pianos.<br />
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Fast forward 30 years and my friend David Burroughs invited me to a Grateful Dead open jam at Luckey's Club in downtown Eugene, Oregon. Eugene has long been a hot bed of Grateful Dead culture so I jumped at the opportunity to sit in with the local talent. I've done hundreds of these open mics and jams so I know if you don't get there early and sign in, you either won't get a slot, or you will be the last to play and the bar will be empty.<br />
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I got to the pub at 6:30 and was one of the first ones to set up my gear. I was ready at 7:00, but the show didn't start until 9:00. That gave me two hours to kill. When hanging out in a bar that usually means watching sports and throwing down pints. But I play like crap when I'm drinking and I'd already eaten. Only one thing to do... Find a swimming pool!<br />
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I got on my phone and discovered there was an indoor pool just a few miles away at the Willamalane Recreational Center. I asked David to watch my gear, then hopped in my van and GPS'd my way over to the pool. They had open lap swim until 8:30, so I paid five bucks; found the locker room; slapped on my suit (now permanently hanging on a bungee cord hung across the back of my van), pulled on my goggles and headed out to the six-lane 25-yard sweat-box of a pool.<br />
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It's the kind of sweat-box I grew up with in high school, so even though I'd never been there before, it felt familiar. I had to convince the lifeguard I wasn't going to drown, but eventually he came around to holding down my chair so I could flop in. Something I miss from cycling is that it gave me time to memorize song lyrics. I would learn new tunes on guitar, then spend hours on my bike going over the lyrics. In the pool, that doesn't work as well because you have to count laps. I've tried to work on lyrics, but if I do, I can't remember how many laps I've done.<br />
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But here, I didn't really have enough time to pull my full mile. I just swam and went through all the lyrics I planned to sing at the bar. I have no idea how far I swam that night, but It was easily 1200 yards. When the lifeguard pulled on his whistle to end the session, I looked around to see if they had a handicap lift. They had the lift, but the battery was dead. This meant I had to pull myself up on the side of the pool; climb on to a deck chair; dry myself off then finally transfer into my wheelchair.<br />
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I was pissed their rig wasn't working, but it was good practice - because pool #7 would be a doozey: <b>Club Moses Swimming Pool and Party Palace, Jorpati, Nepal</b><br />
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tomhaighttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08002925789032011330noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217339075499156854.post-29222375592752994462017-03-04T01:34:00.004+05:302017-03-04T23:55:32.055+05:3020 Pools - A Swimming Odyssey: Pool # 5: Dixon Aquatic Center, Oregon State University.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
About once a year my neighbor Mike and I grab lunch at one of the multitude of new restaurants that keep popping up in Corvallis. My sister moved to Corvallis in 1993 so I've been visiting and eventually living here ever since. When I first arrived it was a sleepy, boring college town that more resembled a Division III New England Liberal Arts college than a major Pac-12 institution.<br />
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As Corvallis and Oregon State University have developed over the past 25 years, they seem to have kept their charm, as opposed to their neighbors to the South who have let things get completely out of hand. While Oregon has exploded onto the national spotlight, it has brought along a huge chunk of fans who neither went to school nor care about anything but the win-loss record of Duck football. In fact, the only Eugene fan base that resembles anything from the past century are the loyal track and field fans. The nouveau-riche football fans are rude, inconsiderate and, as we saw in 2016, will vacate their team at the first sign of a loss. </div>
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Corvallis however has a much more loyal fan base consisting of alumns and professors who are avid sports fans - not sports pop culture fans. They will fill up an arena for anything from gymnastics to softball to a very poor Division I men's basketball team. They keep coming win or lose. The reputation Eugene had for being a super-cool hipster school has been replaced by a jockocracy, while the old culture has migrated north to Corvallis. </div>
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The development of that culture has been manifest, not only on campus, but also in downtown Corvallis where there are now dozens of restaurants and bars. In 1992 there were just two landmarks, The Peacock and Squirrels. Now there are a handful of microbreweries, sports pubs, ethnic restaurants and a dozen music venues. </div>
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Mike and I decided to try out The Bellhop just a stone's throw from the Willamette River. Mike is a decorated history of science professor who's specialty is French medicine. He travels to France often so whenever we find ourselves in town at the same time we get together and trade war stories. We've lived in and visited many of the same places with the difference being that he did it as an academic and I did it as a circus clown. What seems an unlikely match is actually perfect since he likes sports and, because of my injury, I've been working on medical issues. We also both speak French and are horrible snobs if you happen to be sitting at a table next to us. </div>
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After having downed some big sandwiches and a pint of Ale Mike had to go back to work and I had to go to the pool. I checked my phone to see if there might be a scheduling conflict and oddly enough there was. Corvallis High School had a dual meet and the pool was closed. I rolled my eyes and Mike asked what the problem was. He told me to relax because he could get me into the Dixon Aquatic Center on the OSU campus. </div>
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It was a cold, rainy day, I had a beer in me and the perfect excuse to go home and just take a nap. But that nagging voice in my head kept persisting, "You know you'll feel much better if you swim..." </div>
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So we paid our tab and Mike took me over to Dixon. I'd been inside Dixon once before with my nephew, Tim, to watch "Vert Fest," the Northwest collegiate rock climbing championship. It's a fantastic student recreation facility with all the bells and whistles - weight room, climbing gym, indoor courts, even a great equipment rental facility with canoes and kayaks. But strangely enough, I'd never seen the pool before. (btw: Oregon doesn't have a swimming team!)</div>
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I changed in the locker room (which was as nice as any health club), then rolled onto the deck of the pool. Osborne Aquatic Center is an old, dingy facility that, although utilitarian, isn't really inviting. Dixon, on the other hand, has a warm, clean eight-lane 25 yard pool, a separate diving well, hot tubs.. the works. A student life guard approached me, asked the right questions and in seconds I was slithering through the water, in a completely new environment. You would think that water is just water, but it's not. This water felt faster, the lane lines on the bottom of the pool were tiled differently and the gutters had a flatter design, singing a completely different song than the OAC. </div>
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Before I could even think of being bored, my workout was over. This is when I discovered the way to make swimming, the most boring sport on the planet, interesting. I needed to change my environment. And thus the quest for pool variety - and the genesis of this series, had begun!</div>
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Which brings us to Pool # 6: Willamalane Park Swim Center, Eugene, Ore. </div>
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tomhaighttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08002925789032011330noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217339075499156854.post-55773015280075902642017-03-03T00:35:00.001+05:302017-03-03T00:35:06.667+05:3020 Pools - A Swimming Odyssey: Pool #4: Albany Community Pool - Albany, Ore.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The difference between swimming in an outdoor pool in the summer and forcing yourself into a cold indoor pool in the winter is similar to cheering for a championship team vs. a horrible team. When I'm watching a Packer's game, I have a feeling that I'm doing something exciting, beneficial and I can't wait for it to start. When I'm watching a Milwaukee Brewer's game I do it out of some sense of obligation I've developed from them making me happy for a few years in college. I have a feeling that at sometime in the future it will payoff, but for the time being, it's just painful. <div>
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And that is pretty much how my workouts at the Osborne Aquatic Center progressed as the temperature dropped and the Oregon rains set in. The pool is close enough to my house that the heater in my car doesn't kick in until I reach the parking lot. I have made some great friends at the pool, and although they are really nice people, their friendship comes from a selfish desire for me to procrastinate until my body is warm enough to think about jumping in the pool. </div>
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As the weeks turned into months, some really amazing changes were happening. Elementary back stroke had dropped completely out of my regime and I became a full-time freestyler. My workouts went from 1000 yards all the way up to 1650 yards; a full mile. In the same way I infused a few laps of crawl into my back stoke routine, I now began infusing a few laps of breathing every other stroke instead of breathing every left arm pull. </div>
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My conversion from a hand cyclist to a swimmer was well under way. I wasn't just surviving these workouts, I was actually improving. For the first time in nearly two years I felt like a training athlete again. On the bike it meant pushing faster and going on longer workouts. Unfortunately with this sport, I couldn't do that. I tried a few days of grinding the last 10 laps at full volume, but after those workouts, I could barely lift my arm up. Instead, I had to just be happy with the benefits of consistent training. </div>
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Then one Saturday morning I drove to the pool and my old compulsive training attitude bizarrely returned. There was a swimming meet at the pool and it was closed to the public. It was a late fall Saturday with plenty of great football on TV. I'd already worked out five times that week. I should have just gone home, cracked a cold one and watched 25 college football games. </div>
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But no - I was scheduled to swim that day! I had to find a pool and get in a workout! I pulled out my phone and Googled my zip code with "open free swim." I discovered a number of options, but the closest was the Albany Community Pool at South Albany High School, just ten miles away. I navigated the site to find the schedule and discovered they had an hour adult lap-swim window just 30 minutes away. </div>
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I fired up my van, pulled into the street and sped out of town towards Albany (mind you, in Oregon "Sped" means 2-3 mph over the posted speed limit). I found the pool; approached the counter and slapped down my five dollars (used to be 25 cents when I was in grade school!). I looked around for a stack of towels, but this was a bring-your-own pool. I only had a few minutes to change if I was going to get my full workout in. I tossed my clothes in a locker slapped on my swimming shorts and rolled out onto the pool deck. </div>
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The Albany Community Pool does cater to the disability community, but it's always in a group setting with several instructors and aides. They never see some guy wheel up to the pool and try to hop in. I asked the life guard if he could hold my chair while I flopped in. I've tried to do this without anyone holding, but my chair rolls backwards and I hit my arse on the side of the pool. It took some prodding before I could convince the high school kid he didn't need to call his supervisor - he could just hold onto the handles of my chair. I flopped into the pool with my customary whale splash then looked back to see the lifeguard ready to jump in after me. I waved him off, adjusted my goggles, then started counting laps. </div>
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Compared to the OAC, the ACP is a dark dingy shallow basement. I actually scraped the skin off my toes making turns in the shallow end. The lights were low and they only had two lanes set up for lap swim. At first there were only two other swimmers, so I just picked a lane down the center of the pool and swam. About a half-hour in, the pool opened up for free swim and kids rushed in, splashing wildly and throwing toys around. I'm all for kids doing that, but it makes swimming laps difficult. Now there were six lap swimmers of varying abilities squished into three lanes which made consistent stroking next to impossible. To a competitive swimmer that means nothing. But even though I'd made great strides, I still sucked, so this environment was awful. </div>
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I knocked out my 70 laps just in time for the lifeguards to yank out the lane lines. Luckily there was a disability lift, and although nobody knew how to use it, I was able to teach them how to get me out of the water. I dried off using the hand drier, then plopped back in my van and drove back to Corvallis. </div>
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On the way home I realized my life had really changed. The paranoid reaction over missing my workout - my SWIMMING workout - meant that I had crossed a bridge. I was now officially a swimmer. </div>
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And that compulsion brings us to Pool # 5: Dixon Aquatic Center, Oregon State University. </div>
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tomhaighttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08002925789032011330noreply@blogger.com3