Chasing One Dream to Make Some Others Come True

First triathlon race report: 
August 27, 2017, Oakland Triathlon Festival

धीरे-धीरे रे मना  (Slowly, slowly, my dear)

धीरे सब कुछ होय। (Everything happens in its own time)

माली सींचे सौ घड़ा (Even if the gardener tends to his plants with a 100 pots of water)

ऋतु आये फ़ल होय || (They only fruit when the season is ripe)

-- संत कबीर दास (Kabir Das, 1440-1518 A.D.)

I'm beginning my log with this couplet from Kabir Das because patience is a virtue I sorely lack.

My triathlon training, especially the swim portion, taught me that no amount of land endurance or feet climbed above sea level can prepare one for the unique nature of water. And thankfully, through the example of my coaches and teammates, I learned this important lesson early on in the season to be able to finish my first triathlon.

Sisters ... they know you better than you ... AND they know how to mess with your mind too!

I had never thought that any of my medals would contain the word "Triathlon." However, when my sister went to the orientation for the Team ASHA running program, she came back more excited about the fact that I could possibly do a triathlon, than that she would be running a marathon this year. 

I'm a sucker for such dreams.

I emailed Ranjit asking if there was any hope for "non-swimmers" like me. 

Ranjit emailed me back asking to call him. 

I dont remember much except that he sounded serious and gruff. "So ... how much have you biked before? Can you swim 25 yards? ... You can sign up with Coach John ... ." 

Knowing Ranjit now ... 

Training ...

Fast forward to May 2017. I started training ... spottily, in between other commitments (like training my 2 left feet for Bollywood dancing) and so forth. 

May to August were the fastest months this year (I wish my feet flew that fast on runs!).

I missed a whole month of training in July when I was in India (except for a week in Bangalore where I was the sole swimmer in a public pool ... they don't have ANY concept of heated pools there!). 

Since swimming was my weakest and most important link in the triathlon, I put most of my effort in getting more comfortable in the water. To that end, the following exercises were the most enjoyable and confidence building:

-- pool sessions (at Fremont High School and Saratoga)

-- OWS (what a tremendous confidence builder!!)

-- Coach John ... that wonderful tall man in a tall beanie, and eagle eyes that can spot your swim technique flaws from across two pools

Most helpful tips that constantly rang in my head were:

-- "Take it easy. Nice and slow. No hurry." (Ranjit)

-- "If you are tired, you can always take a break. Or go on your back. Remember, your wetsuit is a flotation device." (Rajeev)

--  Chakri and Surya taught me how to quickly dip my goggles and clean/defog them while treading. 

Other training tools ...

-- I used to refer to Sakshi's weekly training calendar. It helped me to plan my weekly mileage/yardage.

--Santa Cruz and Oakland clinics were immensely helpful. The Oakland clinic helped me get all my tri gear organized and arranged in the same way that I would for the actual event. It also helped me remember all the little details for the actual tri.

Pre-race Day ...

The day before the tri was a mess. I tried throughout the day to pack my gear, but ended up doing nothing more than drinking water and visiting the loo. Finally after other gals had posted that they were "all set" and ready with gear, I scrambled to arrange things into my "transition basket."

Mild panic upon discovering that I was missing my wristband. I emailed the race organizers and Janice Coelho promptly replied that I could pick one up at the event.

I finally pulled the packing together, checked the air in my bike and packed my pump + gauge. 

I spent the rest of the evening watching (repeat) videos on fixing flats, piston-pumping with CO2 cartridges; and mentally reviewing my transition "moves."

11:30 p.m. and my daughter was still watching some beep-bopping Bollywood program and by the time I drove her to bed it was midnight. I got about 3 hours of sleep ... . 

THE DAY ...

-- Up at 4 a.m.

-- Made myself my favorite pre-race breakfast of coffee with bagel + cream cheese.

-- Made breakfast for my sleepy cheerleaders who would drive me to the event

-- Relaxed by reading PJs on WhatsApp (I have many sources of the choicest PJs and Photoshopped news)

-- Ready by 4:45. Packed things into car. Loaded bike. Loaded gear. 

-- Arrived at the event a little after 6.

-- Set up in transition by 6:25 a.m.

-- Warmed up near the swim start for about 10-15 mins. (Practiced my goggle defogging skills infinite times.)

In retrospect, I would have liked to get there earlier. In spite of arriving almost an hour early, I think I still cut it close. It's always good to have extra breathe time. Oakland is excellently organized. However, if that were not the case, I think I would have been in a mad frenzy to set up my stuff.

It begins ...

The horn sounded and swimmers pushed off. I took it slow. Easy. No rush. Rested. Paddled. And then ... started enjoying my swim so much that I forgot to sight (I know, I know ... the pitfalls of left-dominant, one-sided breathing .. ). I veered away from the shore before realigning and then stayed on track for the rest of the swim while pretending to be an alligator like Rajeev had taught us.

After approx. 27 mins of "horrible swimming" (as my daughter-the-swimmer put it) I made eye contact with some friendly volunteer who pulled me on deck like she was hauling an elephant seal. The barefoot run to transition was comfortable and quick. The wetsuit came off in record time ... for a change! (Get it? ha ha ).

Changed into my biking tights, put on my helmet and shoes, and headed out.

The biking portion was smooth. The course was well staffed by volunteers and the route was clear. The route had seemed dreary during the preview clinic, but not so much with all the bikers on race day. I don't think I would have done anything differently during this portion of my tri. 

Biking done in about 45 mins. Dismount. Walk bike to transition. Change out of biking tights and into running shorts. A bite of an energy bar,  a few sips of water and coconut water. I started out slow, built my rhythm ... finished my 5K in under 30 mins. 

The end result? A 1:54:45 finish time and this long race report  

The best part of the whole experience:

I'm awed and moved by the great team spirit that I've experienced as part of this training. A special thanks to all those who came out to cheer us on (Chakri's presence at transition was very calming). 

I couldn't have done it without all of you (coaches, mentors, teammates, alumni, volunteers) in the Team ASHA Triathlon program. 

How I got my Not-a-Dog

I'm a kind person. I can say that with honesty. I've always felt pangs of sadness when I've seen another living being inflicted upon. I've wanted to go up and bandage the stray dog that has had its paw run over by a careless bicycle wheel. I've wanted to do many such things. However the courage had always evaded me. That's why, when I walked down to the local shelter and adopted a little dog, my impulsive behavior surprised me. Of course, I didn't have a choice, since I'd promised my daughter a puppy. Yet, this was an occasion where I could have invoked my parental "control," but didn't. 

Close-up of the button

Right now, she's lying next to me, her flat nose snuggled in the space between my body, hip, and elbow. Her snores bellow like those of a retired army captain who has had a few drinks. Every now and then, she adjusts her nose, moving it so that she can breathe, but still maintaining enough contact to enable the constant snore that so belies her form. I've always thought her nose looked like a large wooden button, the kind that fits on the front of a brown peacoat.

She's very funny, this dog. That's how she might be classified in Kingdom Animalia. To my eyes, looking past her nylon-fiber-like facial hair, all I see is a little girl, all of 3 years old.

Seven Years in Tibet

Note: I read Seven Years in Tibet many years ago, when I read enthusiastically but blogged sporadically. Author Heinrich Harrer's account of the rugged terrain and simple, enduring folk who dominated his travel landscape triggered many memories of my own. To imply that I'm likening my experiences to that of Harrer's would be childish folly. Yet, the similarities between the spirit and warmth of these people during my own such travels are permanent in my mind.

---

I just finished reading Seven Years in Tibet. Author Heinrich Harrer's long, arduous journey to Tibet triggered by a freak circumstance, and details of his interaction with the Tibetan people along the way, are like none I have ever read before. They bring back many pleasant memories of fleeting encounters during my days trekking in India.

That said, I dare not call myself an adventurer or explorer. Yet my treks in the various mountain ranges of India have left many indelible impressions on my mind. On our way to the Saar Pass from Manali in Himachal Pradesh, we passed humble hutments with poor dwellers. Unused to the altitude, and tired from our treks, we sometimes stopped to chat as a friendly herdsman would greet us. On one such occasion we spoke wistfully of the long distance to our next camp, and a much-needed cup of tea. Before we could protest, the herdsman's wife went in and prepared hot tea for us. When we offered money she refused emphatically ... she almost sounded offended.

As I sit and type these memories at home in California, I am foolishly nostalgic. Here, in the world's great West, I have been inundated with the chant of "Nothing Comes for Free."

A cup of tea drunk in the shade of a hut; one apple sampled from a basket of 15; a warm bed, fire and a hot meal on a rainy night in the Sahyadris. These are the things my world was made of. And they were all given to me free, by some of the poorest people in the world.

Thanks Jer :)

It's been a while.  A long time ... since I posted anything on this blog. I've been traveling. In fact, I've traveled a lot. And I should have had many stories to tell. However, once I'm back and the magical mood of the trip ends, I almost immediately sink into daily life. And slowly, as I unpack and put away my personal effects from the trip, the memories slink into oblivion. The sand on my slippers gets washed off. The wrapper that held a local treat finds its way into the trash can. The stack of brochures, maps, and directions scribbled on hotel notepaper get filed away. A stray reminder in the form of a magnet or charm is all that remains on the refrigerator.

It was in such a state of hard-baked lethargy that I rediscovered writings by my very first writing mentor and travel journalist, Jeroo. (I wonder if she knows that I considered her my writing mentor.) Jeroo is always on the move, traveling, experiencing, writing, ... and sharing those incredible places. She's the kind of hardcore travel journalist who would probably forget her toothbrush (well, maybe not) but never the diary in which she captures her journeys. As the managing editor of the magazine where I had jumped on as the editorial lackey, she once inspired me to write, describe, recreate ... . Two decades later, she's done it again.

Most recently I made a trip to the Mayan ruins at Tulum and Chichén Itzá, a UNESCO World Heritage Site that is a fabulous reminder of the mathematically gifted people who once called it their home. The photos and accounts of that trip deserve a separate post, which I'll try to push online soon.

Thanks Jer for refilling my parched inkwell :)

Mango Memories

What's a mango? Besides being the most delectable of fruits, to me it is one of the Top 10 things to try in India if the season is right. What I wouldn't give to dig into a firm, juicy, Alphonso mango. Countless summers have gone by when I stood leaning over from my balcony, savoring the sweet flavor, and the cool juice trickling down my elbow ... onto the neighbor's linens hanging out to dry in the balcony downstairs.

Memories apart, the mango created headlines recently when the U.S. lifted a longstanding ban on the import of mangoes from India. Excitement ran high for natives of India in the U.S., as there was a scramble for a nibble of the Alphonso variety that hit the market with prices soaring to as much as $5 a piece.

If you are in India between March and May, don't miss a taste of this wonderful fruit. Take a trip and head out to Malihabad situated 30 km from Lucknow in the North Indian state of Uttar Pradesh. It's where traditional varieties of mangoes have been cultivated for nearly 300 years. It may be your best chance to indulge in royal tastes ... by savoring these varieties that were favored and enjoyed by the Nawabs of Lucknow.

Everybody's Bombay

I grew up in Bombay. Yet I am always at a loss of words when people ask me about the touristy spots in the city.

They: Where can we go clubbing?
I: (Scratching my head) Shrug.
They: (Visibly shocked) You mean you have never visited a pub?
I: (I open my mouth to answer, but they interject.)
They: And you claim to be a Bombayite!!!
I: Of course, I am.
They: What can we see here?
I: Well ... I have been on school picnics to the Hanging Gardens, Gateway of India, Borivili National Park, the Juhu Beach, The Jehangir Art Gallery, the museum ...
They: (Getting impatient) OK we'll get to those later. How about shopping?
I: Ummm ... Fashion Street? (I am almost afraid to mention the stretch of road in South Bombay that is crammed with export-quality rejects and imitations of those rejects. Nevertheless, people come from afar to get a good deal.)
They: We mean designer labels.
I: Not sure. But I can find out if you like. (I am eager to help.)
They: Sure. (Sniggering).

Truth is, I don't know any of the happening places that tourists are looking for in Bombay. I grew up in suburban Bombay where small family-run stores were, and still are, common. Once in a while we took the local train to Dadar where the most heavenly batata vadas (and a variety of other snacks) can be savored.

During my college years I went shopping on D.N. Road in South Bombay, frequently at Khadi Bhandar which is the government-run store that sells handloom fabric. During lunch breaks at work I would stroll over to Flora Fountain and sort through the mounds of used books--fiction, non fiction, technical, textbooks--for sale at dirt cheap prices. Sometimes, before heading home, a few friends and I would get together and walk along Marine Drive. It would rain hard during the monsoons. Umbrellas were a mere customary accessory and never kept the rain out. I can still taste the hot peanuts that vendors would sell along the way.

That was Bombay. It's called Mumbai now, but the city is still the same. It bear the scars of recent bomb blasts. Residents recall the strains of concerts against communalism. And it's pace of life is ever more than before. But it's up to you to find what fascinates you. And hold on to it for the rest of your life.

Home Based

I am a writer by profession and have worked in such capacity for most of my career. Until it hit me a couple of years ago that it would be a great idea to join the travel industry. Of course I love travel! So I went to travel school. I learnt the workings of the industry, mastered the essential tools and came out with great grades. Now I am a home-based travel agent. No, I don’t make tons of money. I don’t get travel freebies. I usually begin my day bright and early (well, ok, not so early). Then I wait for the phone to ring. It’s funny how the phone never rings when you are sitting next to it. Yes, yes, I know you have heard that one before. Anyway I’ve been sitting there a couple of hours in my PJs (it’s against the norm of telecommuters to work in anything else. What’s the point of working from home, anyway if you have to dress up?) and I figure I could spare 10 mins for quick chores. Ever wondered why the phone always rings when you are in the shower?

I rush out. Mad.

The blinking “2” on my answering machine cheers me up, nevertheless.

Message 1: We would like your participation in a brief survey. We will try and reach you at a later time.

Message 2: I am looking for discounted tickets to big-city-in-India. Could you call me back with a quote?

Aaaaaaah. A lead.That’s a challenge I enjoy--trying to find low fares. I quickly get down to the task at hand. I call my suppliers. I run a quick GDS search. I check availability. And I call the prospective client back.

“Hello … this is Friendly, the travel agent you just called about an airfare quote.”

“Ummm … oh, yes yes. I remember now. You have a quote?”

“Yes.” (I quote the price and hastily add, with a spring in my voice, that seats are available for the desired travel dates.)

“OK! The fare looks good to me. So you said the seats are available?”

“Yes they are.”

“Ummmm.” (Silence, I can hear a finger scratching a temple, pen tapping out carry-overs on paper, … )

“What about the taxes?”

I quote a valid 3-digit number.

I hear a gulp.

“Isn’t that too much?”

“But that’s what the airline sets.”

“Can’t the taxes be lower?”

Some days it is better to stay in the shower and let the answering machine blink.

Degrees of Preservation

In the United States, property and artefacts that are 100 years old, are viewed with great curiosity. They are preserved with utmost care and labelled and displayed so that future generations can get an insight into what once was. Entire departments are set up to promote these sights: picture postcards are printed, and magnets, keychains, and other memorablia sold.

If only India would catch on.

I recently took a trip to India's western state of Gujarat. This beautiful state is known for its lively people, delicious food and vibrant fabrics. It is also home to ancient temples and historical sites.

I picked up a DK guide on Gujarat, hired a car and driver, and charted my own route. I had limited time at hand, and with Ahmedabad as my base, I set out to see the surrounding area. Roads in Ahmedabad are wonderful, smooth, and wide. Potholes have yet not invaded their surface and distances can be comfortably covered in a well-oiled and tuned vehicle.

We stepped out at Lothal. Our driver turned us around and pointed across the road to a dry patch of land. That was Lothal, where an intelligent people had once lived and flourished. The site had no fence around it, no sentinel standing guard, and nobody collecting an entry fee. We wandered about the site for a while, trying to make sense of the remains when a young man sauntered towards us. He was the local guide.

Our guide took charge immediately, and meticulously recreated through descriptions and explanation, the social structure and daily life of the inhabitants of Lothal. We forgave him his impunctuality in lieu of the information he imparted. Without it Lothal would seem mere dust and ruins to us.

To the right, a few hundred feet away stood a small building. This is the official government museum that houses artefacts and objects recovered from the site. They include remains of utensils, jewelry, and other items of daily use. The museum merits a visit. We were relieved to see that the museum had an entrance fee and security. There were also guards stationed at different points inside the museum, ensuring that nobody touched the display. We exited, secure in the knowledge that India's historical treasures were safe.

As we headed to our car, we saw a group of schoolchildren standing huddled to one side of the entrance to the museum. We later learned from our driver that they were awaiting punishment. They had vandalized some of the ruins at Lothal.

I rest my case with a heavy heart.