A WALK IN THE PARK

I've been told by the at the lobby bar that Madrid is too hot. It was all of 32 degrees Celsius here yesterday, a very nice day by the standards of my desert home in Tucson. After flight delays, luggage retrieval, the inevitable confusion about sorting out local ground transportation in a country in which you do not know the language, I didn't get to my hotel until a little after noon.

My plan was to nap just a wee bit, having slept fitfully on the flight over, then visit the Parque El Buen Retiro (literally Park of the Pleasant Retreat), which must be about 2 square miles, to walk off my jet lag. I remember setting the alarm for 1 hour but woke up at 3:30, past the hottest part of the day. Thank goodness Madrid is a city that stays up late. Everything I wanted to visit stays open until 9 or 10 p.m. so my over-sleeping was perfect.

From the air, Madrid seems to be on somewhat of a plain, you know, the one the rain stays on. But as I began walking, I realised that the park was UP from my hotel. As I approached the city's largest park, soulful R&B, mostly B, came blasting my way. At first I thought it might be coming from the various cars on the road but the music, loud and consistent in decibels appeared to come from the Park. Following the music I walked all the way up to the Monument of Alfonso XII, a rather large lake with a many-columned amphitheater on one side. Strong, good-looking young Spanish boys, splashing and laughing, rowed small blue boats all over the lake. A larger excursion boat deftly lumbered its way among them like a graceful dowager with a much younger court.

The music, coming from large speakers on the steps in front of the columns, suddenly ceased abruptly. I will probably never know exactly why the music called me there but I snapped my way around the lake, taking many pictures of the green oasis and its local ducks and swans. Several small cafes around the lake tempted but this was my first night in Madrid and I was determined to see as much of the Park as possible on this night. How a city treats its outside spaces tells me a lot about the people of the place and this Park was telling me that Madrelenos are comfortable with the outdoors. Madrelenos are careful with their Park, proud of its deep and inviting shade and ancient trees. I saw very little litter or graffiti for so many people about.

I enjoy a city that commandeers so much valuable land for its main city park. Madrelenos were everywhere on the spacious grass lawns, visiting the exhibits in the Palacio de Velaquez and its sister building the Palacio de Cristal. Lovers, young and old alike, were entwined with the familiarity of love, embracing each other with their eyes, their legs, their arms. A young father kept a tender eye on his toddler as he attempted to perform crunches on the lawn. Small packs of young students wandered with their elbows entwined or sat on the grass talking and laughing as happy young people do.

Alfonso's monument is only one of the several public buildings in this Park and has I rounded the lake, I saw the beautiful brick Palacio de Valequez, with very clean marble steps and very old tiled frescos painted at the entry and along the base of the building. The Palacio currently hosts a retrospective art exhibit for Carlos Andre, a minimalist artist who sought to explore the essence of an object 'by employing industrial materials and processes that allow serial reproduction, eliminating the subjective trace that most artwork would refer exclusively to itself' (brochure). His stark, almost industrial, pieces were precise and engaging at the same time. I took many more pictures.

Conscious of the time, I sought out the Crystal Palace, a glass structure reminiscent of an enormous and beautiful greenhouse. As I approached, I was awarded with quite a surprise as a giant Berber tent had been set up inside the pavilion, brightly dyed cotton sheets moving in the light breeze. Inside the tent were Madrelenos, old and young, lounging on the comfortable cubes and rugs set up inside the enormous tent. Some were listening to an explanation of the exhibit on a TV screen; others were lounging, or talking animatedly with their little ones playing in this delightful space. The exhibit, called 'Tuiza', refers to an act of gathering, participating and constructing something with everyone's collaboration. In a very real sense, all visitors to Tuiza are 'performing', becoming part of the exhibit on how space can be designed to encourage hospitality and conversation among cultures. I stayed briefly, becoming part of the performance myself. As I left, I saw a young man performing handstands to impress his laughing lady love.

I continued around the small pond in front of the Palace. Without boats to discourage the wildlife, the pond teamed with ducks and swans, one Mallard so fat he wobbled along the edge of the pond. A large sunny rock protruding into the pond provided a comfortable roost for quite a few turtles. The Park, with its deep shade and ancient trees, truly does emit a wonderful peace and tranquility and is a well used space by a people who love their outdoor spaces.

As I walked down the hill toward the Btanical Gardens past attractive apartment blocks, I thought about what it must be like to live in such a city as Madrid. As densely populated as it is, its people have determined that outdoor spaces are important. Many of the apartments had lovingly tended balconies with potted greenery and flowers. I see the lure of the city such as Madrid. I'm sure Madrid has its ghettos and barrios but in this part of Madrid the attention to beauty is obvious. And lucky are the apartment dwellers whose tidy balconies overlook the Botanical Gardens!

The Garden is in transition right now-the roses have already flowered, the peonies on the wane. But the blossoms that remain are full of colour and beauty. This Garden not only displays florals also herbs and vegetables that might be found in the surrounding countryside. I didn't really expect this and was so pleased to be assaulted with the scent of not only roses but mint and dill and garlic. A sensuous feast for sure.

I wandered around the Garden, open in the summer in till 9 p.m., until a fit of coughing reminded me that the pollen count had to be very high in that verdant place. The wind had picked up and I could see a vague fog of dust and pollen in the remaining beams of the sun. Time for me to get back to my hotel for a bit of dinner and bed. As I left the Garden and approached the venerable Prado, my heart beat more quickly with the promise of tomorrow-an entire city block devoted to art. Beauty stirs my soul and my soul, having had a taste of beauty all afternoon, was yearning for more.

INTO THE LOOKING GLASS

“Carcasses of animals, their tails and feet and privates intact hang from hooks above the wooden tables where we sit, and from these unrecognizable animals, meat is carelessly hacked and placed on a brazier fanned with cardboard.” That’s an attention grabber right there. I’d been reading Barbara Grizzuti Harrison’s account of her 1991 visit through Morocco by car and was beginning to understand quite clearly that I had less than 48 hours before I, like Alice, would be jumping into the Looking Glass-at least a culinary one. Not that it was a new sensation; I often backpack into strange places – remote, secret, unfriendly to all but the most dedicated desert rat. But I’d never had my food hacked off an animal carcass to be thrown on a brazier right before my eyes – and nose.

Yeah, I watched Food, Inc. I pride myself on being careful where I acquire my food. I don’t like to think of eating meat that has been butchered from a cow that is so stuffed with high caloric ‘fatteners’ that it can no longer stand on its own four legs. But in just a few days really I will be fed from what we Westerners might think of as an inhumanely slaughtered animal. We Westerners are often far removed from the source of our food. Oh well. At least it will be local – very.

I have that feeling one gets when one knows the world will suddenly be very, very different. Fortunately, my transition to Morocco begins in cosmopolitan Madrid. I will visit the Prado, one of the most extensive and best art museums in Europe. I intend to find a few jazz clubs to introduce me to jazz with Spanish influences. I want to visit Madrid’s Chrystal Palace in Parque del Retiro and see what beautiful flowers grow there. I hope to visit the Mercado San Miguel, where the food is said to be ‘unlimited and top-notch.’ I will spend three lovely days in a luxury hotel in the right across from the Prado. It will be much like other cosmopolitan centers, expensive and rich in culture. The trick for enjoying these very civilized cities is to discover the unique richness that it offers. This takes quite a bit of listening and observing but I have no doubt I will find it.

Then, too few short hours after that visual, gastronomic and musical feast, I climb on a smallish airplane on the airline most popular with European college students, RyanAir, that only has room in the luggage racks for 20” suitcases, a privilege for which you have to pay. In just a couple of hours, my plane will land in Marrakesh Morocco, one of the four Imperial cities of the long line of Sultans, who have ruled Morocco for centuries. It is predicted to be blisteringly hot, hotter than even this desert rat is used to. And my hosts have no air conditioning.

Boumalne du Dades by Jerzy Strzeleck

Marrakesh is on the southern edge of the ‘civilized’ part of Morocco. Its famous souk (an impossible maze of shops with ‘streets’ that are often so narrow as to accommodate only two people abreast) will be full of mysterious offerings – snake charmers with their cobras, potion sellers, rug merchants, jewelers and thieves. After a few short days there, I will continue my journey up into the Atlas Mountains, a range that slashes Morocco in half from the north to south, to Boumalne, a small town in the verdant Dades Valley. I am hopeful from there I will get to visit Ouarzazate, the oasis gateway to the Sahara, and then maybe the fabled Saraha desert itself with its tall and turbaned Berbers and striking scenery.

I think a looking glass is a wonderful metaphor for the kind of travel I may be undertaking. Having visited Mexico and Southern China, I know that it is possible for everything to look at least similar but feel very, very different. That is exactly what travel is about – turning your notion of reality on its ear.

After all my reading, I am certain I will love beautiful Madrid with its gorgeous buildings, its international flare and its verdant parks. But Morocco? I admit I am apprehensive about the heat, the smells and other-worldliness I might find. I am perhaps even more apprehensive I will fall in love with the Sahara desert, Morocco’s colorful souks and mysterious medinas, its stalwart and faithful people, its exotic sensuousness. I may find myself feeling like a calorie-counter at a delectable smorgasbord – delighted by its succulent sweets but so very disappointed at having to sample so little and leave so much untouched. I am afraid mysterious Morocco will have me firmly in its grip and will lure me back to finish my sampling.

A HOT SPOT IN THE MOJAVE

If you like the kind of inky blackness found in a cave, the night was perfect. My friend Melissa and I hurtled down the lonely desolate road through the Mojave Desert joking of alien abductions and constantly checking the navigation app on my tablet. The beams from our bright headlights barely cut into the darkness and only confirmed what we already knew – we were way the hell out in the middle of Nowhere.

The rare Black Supermoon, just a tiny sliver in the sky of bazillions of tiny diamonds, was only an accessory – a promise of light rather than light itself. As the miles spun below us, we began wondering if we took the right road to Tecopa Hot Springs Resort, our destination for the night before driving north to Death Valley.

We passed a sign next to the road announcing a “Mission” but could see nothing but the sign itself surrounded by giant clumps of desert grasses. Another less tidy and hand-lettered sign announced the Desert Resort for Naturalism which we figured meant ‘nudist colony’. Makes sense. This patch of empty desert is the perfect place for the au natural set. Nobody would care if they saw a naked person; they’d just be glad to see another human being at all.

Finally we came to Tecopa, California, an intersection among a few older houses and slightly newer corrugated buildings – perhaps temporary at one time but now fixtures in this Desert road junction. We spied what appeared to be an active fire department and the remains of boarded up businesses. At least there were signs of settlement. Absolutely no one was about and no door had the welcome mat out.

Our nav system directed us to turn north and in just a few minutes our high beams illuminated a sign announcing “Tecopa Hot Springs Resort.” We were at our destination, a thermal area with bubbling hot springs in the middle of the inhospitable Mojave. I had emailed the proprietors and Amy had emailed back letting me know to just come on in and find a spot – we could settle up in the morning. We found the small building which serves as the Office with a hand-drawn map of the place showing the general layout of the RV and tent sites posted next to its door. But the hand-drawn map couldn’t convey that this rather casual grid went increasingly UP.

I’m really not the judgey kind so I guess ‘resort’ could describe the property before us.  The collection of modest RVs and truck trailers surrounding a few ancient ‘cabins’ and slightly more modern buildings certainly had that casualness that defines resorts.
We happily spied a few heads through the windows of the transient structures laid out in a grid. Some of the resort guests clearly had made the Resort their home, decorating their ‘pads’ with Casper the Ghost and other unworldly statuettes. Giant flower pots lined the boundaries of the pads, providing some sense of tidiness but mostly acting as warnings of imminent danger of the drop-offs behind them.

We drove up and then up again, passing what we determined was the shower and hot tub block for the campground, all the way to the end of the graded, graveled road. The whole place was basically gravel and rock, bladed out of a rocky hill. I’m sure it crossed both our minds that most of our friends and certainly our families would have turned around by now. Instead, the general shabbiness of the place seemed perfect for our adventure into the Mojave Desert, a place of myth and mystery, a good start for our excursion into Death Valley in the morning.

Although seemingly impossible, the dark thickened, the tiny sliver of a moon having sauntered beyond the horizon. Having readied our tent shelters for the long, cold night, we dragged our weary bodies down to the clean and welcoming tubs where we soaked until our bodies felt warm in the chill night. Returning to our camp, we unfolded our camp chairs to eat supper and wait in the darkness, a small ‘campfire’ of electric votive candles for company. We wrapped ourselves in our warmest clothes and blankets and waited, trying to keep warm as the temperatures dropped even more.  Deserts like cold, crisp nights.

We had left a badly penciled map on the door of the Office for our friends Deanna and John and hoped they would be able to find us on our lonely aerie above the other inhabitants of the Resort. Once the silence was punctuated by a lone vehicle lumbering down the vacant road but the sound continued down the empty road below. The blackness seemed impenetrable.

Finally, late in the night, we heard the sounds of a pickup hesitantly making its way up to our rocky perch. Although it was too dark to see even the outline of a truck, I jumped up and waved at the occupants of the vehicle, assuming it just HAD to be our friends. Deanna and John were equally happy to see us as we exchanged our delight that we had all actually found each other in the vastness of the Mojave. Melissa and I then quickly disappeared into our tents to sleep the sleep of cold and weary travelers.

I always awake with the dawn. I like to greet the morning and watch Brother Sun frugally lend his light to the day. I crawled out of my warm sleeping bag wondering what else I would see of this tiny settlement - a small gathering of RVs, mobile homes and older structures of every type seemingly thrown on the desert floor as if tossed like jacks. Clearly, no zoning laws impede the progress of development in this place.

Tecopa Hot Springs would make a great set for Twilight Zone. Old cars, RVs, broken down buildings – a place the ‘future’ has left behind. I’m guessing its few permanent residents like it this way. Perfect for the desert; a reminder that there are still wild places people can get lost on purpose in the American West. The tableau that seemed haphazardly laid out before me down the hill along the road was nothing I had really ever seen before except in my imagination when reading John Steinbeck or Hunter Thompson or in pictures of the days of the Dust Bowl. The hillbilly in my blood helped me fit right in.

I wandered down to the hot springs, the main attraction of this scrubby salt pan of a valley. A ‘regular’, a semi-retired gent who weekends at Tecopa, explained all the sites and must sees – well THE must see – of Tecopa, a large mud pond just outside of town which purportedly has healing powers. He chatted about the more modern resort of the four that offered hot springs in this tiny berg – it was called Delights. Apparently an enterprising proprietor had somehow managed to strike up a bustling trade with Korean tour companies which added a little worldliness to the place. Globalization in the Mojave. He told us ‘our’ resort was the ‘coolest’, attracting more artists and hippy types. I like being part of the cool crowd, especially if cool means weird and unusual to the max.
 

He told us of the great anomaly of the place. One of the owners, the guy, is a highly renowned chef who brings people from all over the valley to his gourmet dinners every Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights. Artists and prospectors and hippies and survivalists as well as guests at the four hot springs resorts converge at the Tecopa Hot Springs Resort’s extremely small and mostly closed restaurant in order to eat like kings and queens in the middle of the Mojave. I like that. Gourmet food in the desert without having to get dressed up. Heck, without having to even wash up.

Honestly, if your gold standard is no less than a Holiday Inn Express, you might just want to skip the drive down the long, lonely road to Tecopa. But if you crave something REALLY different and you are a big fan of hot springs, give it a try. Just make sure to stop by on the weekend when you can get a hot gourmet meal for $20 served by a chef who chooses to run an unlovely but funky ‘resort’ in the middle of the most inhospitable desert in America.

 

MOTHER'S WINTER CLOAK

I love sunsets. I love mountains. I love snow. Sometimes, if I am really lucky, I can have more than one of these at the same time. 

Last week it rained a lot down in the Tucson Valley. Right around the start of the storm, I realized this just might be my best chance to have a little snow fun in my own state. Although Arizona ALWAYS is blessed with at last SOME snow, the past few years have been particularly barren. For a cross-country skier like me, that makes me seek trails in other states. But where there is rain in the valleys, there’s a fair bet there will be snow in the mountains.

I quickly talked a friend into carpooling (he’s a downhiller but likes Sunrise Ski Resort and is willing to split the ride) and off we rolled to the White Mountains. Sunrise has been around for ages and has three mountains for apparently all levels of skiing. The mountains are lovely, rolling things but it’s the area under the base on the way up the ‘ski road’ that invites me – a charming, sun-dappled forest where the trees grow tall and straight.

During the summer this area is a campground for Apache Sunrise. During the winter, the relatively maintained campground roads and high elevation provide a wide, open often snowy lane for Nordic skiing and snowshoeing. Or your best winter boots. Probably enough snow, too, if the skis were mine. Outfitters can be peculiar about their gear.

Being in a snowy forest is a treat too few people get to experience. Particularly alone. But cross-country skiers and winter hikers often crave solitude (that’s why we like to hang out in the forest and desert). An open forest, where the sun has the opportunity to cause the crystals of snow to sparkle, is particularly agreeable. Even though there IS a marked trail, if you don’t have to worry too much about running into something under the snow, taking a sans-trail walkabout in the deep, crusted stuff is very relaxing. It is hard to get lost since you have left your own breadcrumbs (ski or snowshoe track or postholes) to follow back to the car.

If you are lucky, the snow lies unbroken in sparkling mini-meadows. You walk through a beautiful, glistening carpet of white stuff. Birds whisper about you; tell-tale prints through the pines remind that other animals are watching. An open, snow-covered forest is toward the top of my list of places to enjoy in which one can safely get lost alone. You can always follow those breadcrumbs back from where you came.

When I am clearly the only person left on a particular patch of the planet, I like to find a place to sit on a sunny stump or convenient rock and breathe. In. Out. When I breathe in, in my head I send the oxygen directly to whichever body part sends signals it need a lot of help. Usually my neck. When I breathe out, my body feels like it can release into just a bit more space, giving my bones and joints just a little more room.

Ouija breathing gets me started on merging my full breath with the rhythm of the universe – local or otherwise. I hear the air whistle past my tongue with a sound like an ocean wave. Ebb. Flow. Out. In. Pretty soon my ears tune in to the din of the forest. Every forest has a din - peculiar sounds made up of noises like water trickling, birds chirping, wind blowing, leaves and needles quaking, bugs crawling and twigs snapping.

Breathing deeply, my hearing becomes acute. I might breathe silently or I might find the rhythm of the forest and breathe with that. Today, I found the perfect perch and deposited my daypack on the stump next to mine. The snow had generously accumulated on the long dark pine branches the day before sufficiently melting to freeze into small hanging icicles at their tips. Plenty of snow still hung all along the pine branches and cones but the crystals were becoming water, providing a slide for larger clumps of snow. In my meditating, I heard a large snow clump loudly plop on the fabric of my daypack.

I listened to the forest changing around me, the snow becoming part of the life-sustaining watershed feeding the rivers that feed the rivers that feed the rivers flowing to the Sea of Cortez and on to the Pacific Ocean. It sounded like rain taking its time in the falling. I heard the sound of the trickle of water under the snow’s crust. I swear I heard the pines drinking in the moisture. I may have heard the fish flip their fins in joy at the replenishment of their rivers.

This is what brings me to the Whites – or San Francisco Peaks – or the Bitterroots – or the Ozarks – or the….. Although I’d rather visit snow than live in it (as I have on occasion), I love Mother Nature’s Winter, to feel its icy kiss on my cheeks. Especially when there is snow to ski or hike or snowshoe, laying before me Mother Nature’s most beautiful cloak.

RIDING THE RAILS

Agatha Christie wrote about a murder on a famous one of these. They have fanciful names which evoke romance and history. They have been the subject of songs and poetry. They carry goods to market and family and friends to their loved ones. They delivered thousands of soldiers to the front. They’ve been the venue of many movies. Some think they are dying relics of a time gone by in a world searching Mapquest for ‘the fastest route’. We’re talking trains here. And I’m on one this moment.

I am traveling to Kansas City from Tucson to visit family. I could have flown from Tucson-perhaps not directly but certainly within five hours or so. That's how long it took me just to drive to Flagstaff to get on Amtrak's Southwest Chief at the ungodly hour of 6am. So why choose a slow-moving train instead of fast-moving jet?

Once, on another visit to Kansas City, I was blessed to see a herd of antelope prancing alongside the train. Can’t see that from the air. On that same trip, somewhere in Kansas in the middle of the night, I awoke at a small town depot sparkling in the light of streetlamps from recent snow fall. Very picturesque. Can’t see that by air. When I arrived at Union Station in Kansas City, a beautifully decorated and massive hall greeted me with elegant Holiday decorations and music from a grand piano. Don’t see that much in airports.

In train dining cars, it is custom for the host or hostess to seat complete strangers with each other at the same table with instructions to 'get to know one another'. Yesterday I had a delightful breakfast with two other women, mother and daughter, traveling from LA to Albuquerque to visit a son and brother.  They had nice egg, potato and muffin breakfasts and I had the tasty French toast with real butter and syrup. All served with real silverware, plates (albeit plastic) and lots of coffee refills. We chatted about our kids and jobs and retirement.

I don’t think I have EVER had such a nice breakfast on an airplane, even before they switched to the cold, tasteless, boxed meals you have the privilege of buying now. The closest thing to this kind of indulgence was on a on the late night maiden flight for British Airways from Osaka Japan to Hong Kong. The attendants treated my ex-husband and me, along with all the other passengers, to an open bar – all night. Good thing we sobered up a bit before we reached Kai Tak Airport in Hong Kong.

You could say I am a fan of trains. Yes, they have their limitations. In addition to the 5-hour drive to Flagstaff and the several hours I napped wrapped in my sub-zero sleeping bag in order to snag one of the rare and free parking spots for Flagstaff’s Amtrak station, I had to commit an entire 24 hours to riding the rails to my destination. Maybe I’m odd. I see that as a plus.

I find I sleep better on trains than on jets. First, the seats on Amtrak are generous and comfortable. The liberal leg room allows nearly all 5’4” of me to spread out a little, even when slumped into the cushy seat in sleep. Most of the time when I travel Amtrak alone I have two seats all to myself. Each seat is equipped with a hideaway footrest which, when pulled up parallel to the floor, provides sufficient space for a sound, sound sleep. And then there is that lovely rumble that encourages slumber, the constant drone of metal on metal as the giant wheels roll down the track. The vibration reminds me why parents place their fussy babies on the dryer to be lulled to sleep.  A vibration in a plane just makes me worry.

Every once in a while, another train will pass – quite close - and you can hear the ‘conversation’ of the engines as they signal their presence to each other. This rail route, which starts in LA and goes all the way to Chicago, carries a lot of consumer goods, fuel, food and other freight. A lot of trains pass by.

Right now, as we pull into Albuquerque, I can hear that very unique and lonely hoot of the train whistle, letting the tiny towns and villages on our way know that Amtrak is passing. I am watching high chaparral fly by on the north side of the train. To the south, a wide golden plain in its winter dress is bordered by mesas and mountain ranges.

Soon, we will pull into the historic but modernized Albuquerque train station which includes its version of fast train and is part of a greater transportation hub of the metropolitan area. Navajo and Pueblo craftsmen and women will undoubtedly have spread out blankets on which all kinds of jewelry and other items are laid out in tidy displays. Can’t EVER remember anything like that in an airport.

Let’s face it. The history of train travel in the United States is just plain sexy. Our country would not have been so easily developed if the railroad barons (and barons they were – refer to my blog post Of Pasties, Prostitutes and Politicians) hadn’t invested millions of dollars to build the rail system that would eventually carry miners to Montana, wheat from Kansas to the coasts, and legions of soldiers to the European and Pacific theaters.
Pullman cars, the first really comfortable ‘sleeping cars’, became popular after Pullman loaned one of his uber luxurious cars to the government in order to carry the body of Abraham Lincoln across a grieving nation to his final resting place.

In 1869, Union Pacific and the Central Pacific railroads met at Promontory Summit Utah, forming the very first intercontinental rail route. It could be argued that this one historic event is one of the best analogies of the development of the US West. The story of this joining includes blood, sweat and tears of the workers working by hand to build it; lives and fortunes won and lost; the necessity of collaboration between two corporate and distrustful railroad giants; and literally several acts of Congress. In a very real way, the railroad was a cooperative effort that included every socio-economic segment of society. Its completion opened up markets and provided workers and material for the development of the West. The route I am riding was established by the Sante Fe Railroad and named the Super Chief, bringing stars and the possibilities of adventure in the Wild West to the city folk as far east as Chicago.

Back East, railroads built beautiful stations with grand architecture, including New York’s and my own hometown’s Union Stations. In the West, railroads got involved in the development of the National Parks as they built quality hotels to lure Easterners to visit the Grand Canyon and Yellowstone on their rail lines. Those beautiful hotels, like the El Tovar in the Grand Canyon, remain some of our most visited and popular historic hotels.

Railroad history intersects with the history of the labor movement as the railroad workers struck for not only better wages but higher safety standards in the early 20^th Century. My father’s father, a switchman, was struck down in the huge Kansas City Kansas railway yards. The railroad called it a ‘stroke’ and my mother’s father, a co-worker, claimed it was an industrial accident. The railroad refused to accept any responsibility or pay out any survival benefits forcing my grandmother, since welfare programs were still far in the future, had to provide for her seven children through church and charity.

My father worked briefly for the railroad as did many of my uncles. And some of my fondest childhood memories include laying in the steamy hot and tiny guest bedroom at my grandparents’ house up from the rail yards where Grandpa worked, counting not sheep but the number of cars being bumped together to form a long snakey line that would wend its through the country bringing needed goods to both coasts. I could legitimately claim that my family history has been deeply shaped by the railroads.

As I watch the pueblos of Northern New Mexico fly by, I can’t help but feel nostalgic about the grand days of the railroads.  Honestly, I’m really more of a journey than a destination person. Planes are ALL about the destination. Trains are about the journey – enjoying the changing scenery, chatting with your neighbor. So when I have time and I’m not taking my trusty truck YiHa along, I choose to ride the rails. Then from beginning to end I can honestly say my trip has been an adventure.

I DID IT!!!

I did it. I got off the bench and entered the game. I’d been sidelined by injury but even though the event was slightly premature to have healed completely, I just had to do it. But right up to the start, maybe especially as I was standing with over a thousand other riders at the 40-mile start line, I found myself reconsidering my decision.

A few months ago, somehow I managed to reinjure a ligament and develop tendonitis in my left knee. I’ve been resting, icing, using compressions sleeves and elevating as much as I could given my busy life.  I’d downed anti-inflammatories and gave up dancing. For me, these things are a big inconvenience. I’m an active adult who needs to stay active or it’s whine time.

Often when I am recovering from an injury, I have a focus for my healing – a backpack or in this case, a bike race. It was the ninth year I was scheduled to ride in El Tour de Tucson and the race was not an event I was prepared to give up – even just this once.

The El Tour is special. Cyclist of all levels, including semi-professionals and complete novices ride together along one route with four different starting points. Although each route’s riders start separately, at some point each new group of starters merge with other riders who have already been riding for hours to the colorful, noisy finish line in downtown Tucson.

And there I was, at the 40-mile start. I had signed up for the 55-mile route but in a rare moment of sanity, I decided to downgrade my expectations for a knee that still twisted at odd times bringing ringing pain. The 40 might still be a stretch. Wearing my bike shorts and jersey, a black copper compression sleeve over my knee, I slung my leg over my bike and tucked my foot into the pedal cage.

BANG! And we were off. The 40 attracts a lot of first-time riders and it often shows in the number of accidents, both major and minor, that occur in the first two miles. The ride starts up in Oro Valley, a comfortably posh townlet in the northern suburbs of Tucson. Haven ridden the route before, I knew the first several miles is the hardest part of the race, proceeding up a long hill before dipping back down into a wash and then repeating the effort another mile or so for another wash.

The first 10 miles or so of the race basically traverses the end of a bajada created by the Tortolita Mountains, a lushly rolling and washy desert with many water courses, significant (Honeybee Wash) and insignificant. This means the route, after leaving the excessively well-groomed Rancho Vistoso master-planned community, tends to gently rolling terrain over Moore Road, made bumpy by heavy vehicles, horse trailers and lack of maintenance.  I like this part of the race. Mountains are all around and few houses can be seen. But I especially like what comes next, the long 7-mile glide down Tangerine to the Interstate.

My bike, a pretty ivory-colored racing bike I creatively named Ivory Pearl, loves hitting speeds in excess of 25 miles per hour down this stretch. I have been known to let out a few yeehaws here. Sometimes, Ivory is going so fast I no longer can peddle, having no gear wheel big enough for that size revolution. Gotta fix that. I’m sure Ivory can hit 30 mph with bigger gear wheels.

Seventeen miles into the race, a line of portapotties and an entire platoon of colorful riders and their bikes announce the first really big ‘rest stop’. Here you can fuel up on bananas, oranges and maybe some cookies or other sugary treat. You can also drink orange juice or fill up your water bottles. And you can take advantage of the portapotties. I stopped to check out the portapotties and my knee.

Portapotties were as I expected them to be; the floor was suspiciously sticky.  Portapotties need bull’s eyes in the urinals on the walls. At least it didn’t smell too bad. I was reminded why I often prefer finding the nearest bush. My knee? Doing good I thought. But just to make sure, I downed some more anti-inflammatories and rubbed my ear in the spot my acupuncturist assured me was the pressure point for that pesky knee.

Then off again, this time going under the Interstate and onto the frontage road from Marana, the northernmost suburb of Tucson, all the way to Downtown. Eight miles from the finish line, for as many years as I can remember, the last rest stop has offered richly chocolate brownies with enough carbs and sugar to get the weariest rider those last few miles to the finish. My knee, really hurting by then, needed tending and, after grabbing a handful of brownie (I have my priorities), I limped over to a folding chair with a footrest. I spent several valuable minutes massaging my knee, rubbing my ear, and pressing the pressure points for my knee in rapid staccato before getting up to finish the race, hoping for the best.

Virtually a few blocks from the finish, the route turned west, away from the Downtown area, leading us riders down through Rio Nuevo (Tucson’s somewhat deservedly maligned redevelopment project), circumnavigating the eastern base of ‘A’ Mountain (named so for the University of Arizona) and then on to 22^nd Street for the short incline up to 6^th Avenue. My knee, more than a little sore by then, was signaling me it was time to quit. My brain was having a pointed discussion with my knee – something about it being a wussy - all while my reason was trying out various combinations of gears – low/low, high/high, low/mid, etc. trying to find the combination that would cause the least pain with each revolution of the bike gears.

Finally! That blessed gold spire of Santa Cruz Catholic Church, a landmark that screams just a few BLOCKS to go! I was peddling slowly, trying to figure out whether peddling slowly just prolongs pain or eases it overall. But when I turned onto 6^th Avenue and adrenaline took over, somewhat blunting the pain, I adjusted to high/high gear to get more road per revolution and rode to the finish line like a champ.

I’m not the least bit competitive. I don’t golf or play competitive sports. I don’t ride, or hike, or climb mountains in order to best someone else. I do it strictly for myself – to remind myself of the physical limits of my body and my will. Sometimes, as in this ride, it is my will that takes over and my body must do its bidding. I suspect that’s true of most athletes, whether in competitive sports or sports like mine in which the journey is often the prize.

I am left wondering which is best – mind over matter or matter over mind? I suspect that mind is what really defines champions and heroes. But does it really matter as long as that precious journey has been worth it?

LET'S MOVE ON

My neighbor is a kind and compassionate senior. He used to travel regularly to Agua Prieta, just south of the border, to help build small block houses with concrete floors and roughed-in plumbing for impoverished families who needed warm shelter. He rescued a Chihuahua from a puppy mill. Just the other day, I asked him his opinion of a ballot measure which would allow terminally ill persons access to unproven meds and appliances. I counted on him to give me a considered answer.

One of my brother-in-laws is probably the best father I have ever known. He is generous with his time, has coached basketball and volleyball teams for his kids and has done his fair share of staying at home with his sick kids so my sister could go to work.

Another brother-in-law is a thoughtful and generous partner to my sister who suffers from arthritis. He makes sure things are done so my sister doesn’t have to. He married her many years ago, becoming more of a father to her two boys than their ‘real’ father. The boys, men now, look to him for the model of who they want to be. He was unbelievably loving to my mother as she suffered her last years with a horrible form of dementia that finally claimed her life. That last year, when Mother was barely able to move by herself, he nightly lifted her wasting body out of her wheelchair and tucked her in for the night. It was ‘their’ ritual.

I used to work with an organization dedicated to relieving the suffering from malnutrition, TB and malaria in Africa. I knew I could count on one of my US Representatives here in Arizona to introduce and follow through on appropriations to fund health and food measures for Africa. I knew he was aware of his privilege and deeply cared about those who had less than he had. I voted for him term after term.

One of my best friends grew up in the military. She was born abroad and spent most of her young life in or around military bases. She’s the type that shares food with the homeless, sitting right down beside them to hear their stories while they eat together. She stresses about the removal of music from schools. She compassionately assists her real estate clients as they make the very difficult decisions to leave their homes and move into assisted living. Once, we had a serious disagreement about a US military action and nearly ‘broke up’ before we realized our friendship was way more important than our disparate personal views on what patriotism is.

When I grew up, my parents always voted for Howard, our neighbor, as our state house representative. They knew him to be caring, and thoughtful, and true to his sense of morality. Howard simply couldn’t be bought by special interests. When I was in college, Howard invited me to intern with his office, giving me some juicy assignments that really opened up my eyes to the world. Once he sent me to the local prison to research and write up my thoughts about the prison system.

All these people are Republicans. I am a Democrat – born and bred. But I have never believed, nor has there been evidence in my life that would cause me to believe, that Republicans are ‘the enemy’. I have admired the grit and the honesty of my Republican friends and family members. I have relied on them for their take on the economy, health care, education. Obviously, we often disagreed but I felt better talking to them just to get the alternative point of view. I hope they felt the same.

There is a lot of news out there this morning that might prompt my friends on the left to think of the Republicans as ‘the other’. I’m even guilty of hoping they fail in order to prove the Democrats right that they are the party of ‘no’. But that ‘little voice’ in my head reminded that my Republican friends and family, who I absolutely trust in my heart are good, kind and generous people, simply have a different perspective on what’s best for America.

On this new day, instead of hoping they fail, I choose to hope they can use their considerable intelligence and insight to come up with alternatives to Democratic policies that have provided results, but not results that have come quickly enough. A friend called me early this morning to ask me why I thought so many people voted Republican in this election. My words were “People are tired, very tired, of being poor. They are tired of not having enough money to buy their children decent clothes; they are tired of worrying about paying the mortgage or the rent. They are looking for change.”

I, too, want change. I want better education, health care for all, higher paying jobs, an economy that does more than struggle along. I want my gay friends to have the right to marry and I want to make my own decisions about what to do with my body. I have always felt these things are best handled by the Democrats but I’m willing to give Republicans the field and not obstruct their good ideas. Ultimately this is a democracy, thank God (or Allah or Yahweh or Great Spirit or…..), and that means we are all in this together. All of us. The rich and the poor, the well and the unwell, the 1% and the 99%, for better or worse. Let’s get on with this.