Uncomfortably Excited

I quit my job.

After almost 11 years at Google and over 21 years of either working, or studying and working I am going to take a few months off to see what I'm going to do next. I'm not so much nervous than happy and a little relieved. And very excited about all the options and possibilities. And also very grateful for my time at Google and everything I learned and what I've become while working there. And, of course, for all the people I got to know there, many of them dear friends now.

At this point I don't have a clue what I am going to do next. Or where my next paycheck will come from. The only thing I know is that I made the right decision. That it was time to leave. That I contributed my share to the success of this company and that it made its contributions to my personal development. It gave me the skills, and more importantly, the guts to make this decision.

I must admit that I've never been very fond of technology. The new Android phone, the next MacBook or iPhone, virtual reality, self driving cars. Although, I can't wait for the latter.  There are way too many incompetent drivers on the roads in this country. While I am aware and impressed by the technological advancements made during my life so far, I'm longing to be away from this fast-paced environment where everyone seems to be running to be the one who discovers the next big thing or at least buy the next big thing discovered by someone else.

I am exhausted. I know I am good at what I do and I love my colleagues and most parts of my work. I love presenting and speaking in front of others. Love, when their faces light up when they understand what I'm saying and when they nod and agree. And when we really dig into a seemingly unsolvable complex issue. And we think so hard that my brain hurts like crazy and I can feel it burning calories. And then, after countless sessions, the break through, the solution. But then, what was it that we do? Code is written, some data tables are getting rearranged, some websites get updated, some changes to a user interface. And a few years later, someone else will do the exact same thing: sit in a room to figure out how they can rebuild and improve what we just did. Software development is like building things with Lego. It's really only fun while you're building something new. You don't usually play with what you build for very long.

And that's the thing, I don't feel like I'm creating something that will last for a long time. I might make peoples lives easier. Granted, in our case, A LOT of people's lives. But I don't feel it. I want to stand in front of a room of people, look into their eyes and see that I had an impact on them. On their lives.

So, what is next? I don't know. My immediate plan is to do another motorcycle trip. This time with less planning and more spontaneity. And this time longer. I always wanted to just go without knowing where I will end up next. And stay in places I like for as long as I want. This time, though, I will have to rely on other people more. Ask for help. Ask friends if they know someone I could couch surf with. House sit, baby sit, dog or cat sit. All in exchange for a bed and a roof. Instead of spending hundreds of dollars on fancy B&Bs or hotels. I'm so excited to be able to be scared again. Or maybe scared for the first time. Ever since I left home I never had to worry about anything. There always was a steady, relatively well paid job. I had what I needed and usually more. But for a year or more, I won't know what comes next. I know that I will find out. It's always worked out that way. I just need time to be able to listen to myself. Relieve my brain from the constant input and strain it's under at work and give it the opportunity to reset, synch with my heart and my body and tell me what to do. It will, eventually. If there is one thing I know for sure it's that I can always trust my gut to send me in the right direction.

I know I can do whatever I want to. I ran two marathons, for god's sake! I jumped out of an airplane. I've been working in an industry and a job that I do not officially qualify for. And I do rock it! Or have rocked it. And I will find something I can rock even more.

Hamburg, meine Perle

Today it rained, for a change. Although I wouldn't really call that rain. Barely more than fog. Nevertheless, it reminded me of Hamburg. Once again. I've been thinking a lot about Hamburg, my former home, recently. There was a point in my life when I thought I'd never leave it. When I thought I had found the place that was right for me. But then I did leave. And I miss it. So much. 

I still remember the first weeks and months after I moved to Hamburg. November 1996. One of the nastiest and coldest winters in history. As cold as -20 degrees (that's -4 in Fahrenheit). It was dark, wet, and cold. I almost froze to death in my first night in my new apartment. That's when I learned that electric heaters suck, big time. Especially the ones that recharge at night and need at least 36 hours notice to be able to warm up a place that had been dormant for years.

The winter remained as cold and I was relatively lonely as I didn't know too many people. I didn't have a TV but that turned out to be a good thing. A month later I got my bicycle and I rode to work every day. Through the snow and temperatures way below zero. And eventually, I made friends and I went out to the Reeperbahn for the first time, also by bicycle. And I was blown away. There was this huge party area where people were fun and crazy and didn't give a shit how you were dressed. The music was trashy old German Schlager (oldies) we sang along to at top of our lungs. And at the crack of dawn we went to the Fischmarkt (fish market), by the Elbe river to each crab rolls before we went home to sleep all Sunday. No last orders or 1.30am closing time. Bars closed after people had stopped having fun and gone home.

Originally, I had planned to stay only a few months and then leave my job and start another one in a different city. But then spring arrived. Spring in Hamburg is very special. First, it's still cold but you can already tell that it won't be cold for much longer. Then that first evening right after the sunset when the sky has this special kind of orange-pinkish blue and the air smells faintly like spring. Everything just bursts with anticipation. You can practically feel how every living organism around you sits in their starting block, waiting for the signal to 'spring'. To finally wake up and bloom and live again. And then the first blossoms. The first snowdrop, the first crocus. Finally small spots of color in the city that had been dark and grey for too long. And you know that now it's merely a matter of days or weeks until spring is there. Until the whole city smells like a flower shop and everything is pink and white and green and beautiful. I can still see the Japanese cherry tree behind my house, in full pink bloom. Hamburg is full of trees and parks and, consequently, an abundance of flowers and blooming trees in spring. I miss that so much.

So spring came and made me rethink my decision to leave. In fact, I never wanted to leave Hamburg again. Well, every now and then during a particularly nasty kind of horizontal rain shower I did. But only until the sun came back. And so I got a permanent job and managed to extend my lease and Hamburg became my home. I made friends at work and outside, became the mascot of my company's soccer team, drove through the city in a car without a working clutch. I rode hundreds and thousands of miles on my bicycle with only one major accident. I ran through the streets around the Alster lake at temperatures below zero. Had barbecues on the beach. Laughed and cried with my friends. Moved a few times. After a few years I quit my job and went to university. And had a whole lot of other crazy experiences with people I still love dearly. 

A few years later I started working for my current employer who eventually asked me to come to California. I can still remember seeing the email. I had been thinking about my professional future as I hadn't been happy in my job for a while. And there was it, the dream job. A job I wasn't even officially qualified for. A way out. But it was at the other end of the world. I would have to leave the city that I had become to love so much. Leave my friends and colleagues. Leave a life I thought had been settled and boringly comforting. I can still remember the night when I told my friends that I got offered a job in California. The looks on their faces that so perfectly reflected what I was feeling. You have to take this job! This is a once in a lifetime opportunity! Move to California, who wouldn't want that? And: Don't go! I spent several days and nights pondering and weighing pros and cons until I made the decision. I would leave. I would give up my life and start a new life. 

And here I am. In one of the most beautiful parts of this world. The Pacific Ocean at my doorstep, red woods, deserts, mountains, the best weather you can wish for. And I miss Hamburg. I miss getting rained on and having my umbrella getting torn apart by the storm. I miss going everywhere by bicycle. Miss hardwood floors and high ceilings. Miss power outlets that are level. Miss the smell and the colors of spring. Even the harsh winters. Even breaking into sweats after two steps in those humid summers. And most of all, I miss my friends, miss German humor and sarcasm. And Hamburg, Hamburg I miss you so much.

Girlhood

When I was little I often wanted to be a boy. Not in a transgender kind of way. Just because it seemed like so much easier and so much more fun. I never liked dresses or skirts, or played with the dolls that I kept getting as presents, and I never really understood why girls were nice one day and mean the next. I preferred hanging out with boys and, most of the times, the boys were okay with that. I never cried unless I got really hurt. I loved to get dirty, and was usually bolder than most of them. It was so much easier being with boys. Granted, they could get a little annoying at times, or play a little too rough but they were never really mean. They were less moody, more predictable, and they did more fun things, such as play sports, climb trees, play with model cars and trains, Lego, etc. But I did like to hang out with girls, too. There are some things that only girls understand and that are way more fun with girls, than with boys. Yeah, talking about boys was one of them. But it always puzzled me how girls could be the loveliest and nicest creatures one day and heartless mean bitches the next. I was just too naive to assume that I could trust everybody in this world. Not a good idea. I'm still like that, though. Just more careful and more experienced in trusting my gut feeling.

People mistook me for a boy quite often. Given my skinny physique, my preference for hanging out with boys, my boldness, my usually bruised elbows and knees, and the fact that I wore my brother's old clothes most of the time, vs. the pink outfits that my parents had bought me in a desperate attempt to "disguise me as a girl". Most of the times I didn't really care if that happened. Sometimes it was annoying, especially the one time when my hair was long but I had pulled it up into a ponytail. And sometimes it was kind of fun. Like that time when every girl had to leave the boys' tent in summer camp and I didn't. When, on vacation, two girls had a crush on me and my parents cracked up every time at lunch when they walked in to our cafe at the hotel, looked over to where I sat and blushed and looked away when I looked over and grinned. 

It was just one of the things that seemed unavoidable when I grew up. And I was okay with it. In fact, once my body started changing I was actually a little sad. I loved to go topless without everyone staring at you or looking away. Even more so now that I live in the US where it's not even legal. And something else happened, too. Suddenly, the boys became a little awkward with me. And it became a little awkward to hang with the boys. That was the saddest part. It seemed like I had lost most of my friends. Much later, however, I would realize that I had also gained access to a large pool of people I could have all other kinds of fun with.

Also, I think that restrooms should be unisex everywhere! That will spare a whole lot of boys and girls embarrassing moments and impossible decisions.

Run the Rockies

I'm at the airport in Denver, on my way back home after spending a few days in Colorado, were I participated in another Ragnar Relay. Before and after such a race, they always sound like such a good idea. Until you actually have to get out of the van and run your share. At 10,000 feet. In the middle of nowhere. At ass o'clock. When it's dark as fuck. Or unbearably hot. And yet, I think I'll do another one next year. Because, why not?

This time my colleague who organized the group I joined, had recruited folks from various parts of the country, with the result that a bunch of those didn't cooperate very well and we ended up with about half as much break time as usual and with one more person in our van. But well, sleep and legroom are overrated, anyway.

I had flown out a few days earlier, hoping that I could adjust a little to the elevation and maybe do a couple of training runs as I hadn't run since my marathon. Denver itself is quite nice but the main reason it's so amazing is its proximity to the Rocky Mountains with their breathtaking beauty. It does look a lot like the Alps, however, a thousand times bigger. Like almost everything here. Especially the food portions...

Eventually, I drove up to Copper Mountain, a ski resort at about 9,000 feet elevation where the race should begin at 6.30am on Friday. I met the team for the first time the night before, everyone but the first van, the four guys who were supposed to run the other 5/12 of the race, causing us to spend way more time driving than resting while they were able to rest longer and, consequently, run faster and decrease our resting time even more. But well, at least they showed up at all exchanges and removed the decorative dicks they had drawn on their van which had caused some complaints from other participants. I really don't understand why Americans get freaked out by naked body parts but are perfectly fine to see heads explode after being shot by a crazy guy who bought his gun at Walmart, no background check required.

Anyway, our first runner was on the road and the race had officially started for us. The first and second runner each gained about 1,000 feet elevation up to the pass where I'd begin my first leg. At 10,622 feet (3.200m). I thought that it couldn't be too bad. Given that my roughly 10 miles would be just downhill. So I took the baton and started running. Until, after 20 seconds, I had to run up a little hill to get out of the rest area where the exchange was located. It felt as if something really heavy had just sat down on my chest. Breathing was hard and I started seeing stars. But, fortunately, once it went downhill it became a little easier. And incredibly beautiful.
I sent a few happy "thank yous" to my fellow runners who, I don't know how they did it, had taken us up that mountain that I was allowed to run down now. Only about 2,000 feet down but still. Everything was lush and green and it was warmer than expected. The temperature difference between sun out and sun behind clouds and the effect on how hard/easy it made the running was surprisingly big. I got a few incredulous looks from people in cars and trucks who drove up the mountain. Seeing a bunch of folks running there didn't seem to be a usual sight. There were two more inclines that took the wind out of me. And I was glad that I hadn't been the one to run up to that elevation.

As I had followed the advise to drink as much as possible I noticed at mile 7 that my two liters were almost gone. But I thought I had only 2.7 miles left so I wasn't particularly concerned. When I got close to where I expected the van to be I started running faster and finished the last drop of water. But I didn't see the van anywhere. The exchange wasn't marked so the teams were able to pick a spot along a two mile stretch. And my team picked the farthest spot... I tried to keep running but eventually, I had to give up and call them to pick me up. No water and no more grains to give. But happy that I had been given this incredibly beautiful stretch to run.

Now I would be able to rest until after midnight when my next leg was scheduled to begin. Right when I got in the van, the rain started. Lucky me just finished in time to not get soaked. The next exchange was in Vail, the exclusive ski resort I had only known from the times when my mother watched winter sport competition on TV. Despite all the big resorts Vail has managed to remain a little quaintness until the next Porsche or the couple dressed in Armani appear around the corner. The sweaty bunch in the colorfully decorated vans didn't really fit in very well.

Once our last runner was done, we realized that we had less than three hours until it would our turn again. So we had to decide between sleep and food and, naturally, went to get dinner. After dinner I was particularly happy as I had gotten a double portion of a kids plate of simple pasta with tomato sauce instead of the adult plate drowned in heavy cream (YUCK!). And, my thermos was full with freshly brewed hot coffee. I didn't really sleep before I was up shortly after midnight.

Ever since the security briefing I had been a little concerned. The area we were going to run through during the night was bear territory. They told us, not to worry. We should just walk towards the bear and try to appear bigger and make loud noises and the bear would run away. Sounds easy. We should, however, avoid running away from the bear because that would make him chase us. What scared me was that they couldn't give us a good answer for what to do in case we didn't see the bear while running and he saw us running away from him... The handout wasn't very helpful either. It said that in case where a runner encountered aggressive wildlife the team should get him back in the van as soon as possible. Well, the trail was mostly obscured from view from the freeway and only accessible every other mile and cell service was spotty to nonexistent. You can imagine how I felt when I left the exchange to run about 5 miles through the dark right into "no cell service but lots of bears area".

Running in the dark

Despite my fear I stopped a few times, switched off my headlamp and looked up to the abundance of stars that was visible in the absence of any lights but some bobbing spots from my fellow runners' headlamps and the cars. Milky Way in all it's beauty. One of the vans was fully covered in lights and looked very much out of place, kind of like a space ship or an art car at Burning Man. I can only imagine what people in the other cars must have thought. I kept checking left and right for bears but the only things I found were fresh pieces of bear poop on the trail. I made sure to keep in sight of the next runner in front of me. So that I only had to outrun them, not the bear. But no bear showed up. The run, while only half as long as the previous, seemed harder as there was no downhill just flat or slight inclines. And the elevation was still sitting heavy on my chest. About a mile from the finish line, I scared myself to death. The trail led trough an area covered in trees and bushes and when I stepped on a few dry leaves I was sure a bear had just jumped out of the bushes and was about to attack me. I don't have to mention that, despite being tired and exhausted, my last mile was my fastest.

With impeccable timing, the county had decided to do some construction on the highway we were running along. This would have caused us to take at least an hour or two longer to get through our legs as every second exit was closed if it hadn't been for our daredevil driver who mad a few u-turns and got us to our resting point at least two hours early so we could finally get some well deserved sleep. Sleeping on the floor in a gym with hundreds of other runners isn't really something I thought I'd still be doing at my age...

We got about two hours of sleep when we had to get up again to meet the other team at their final exchange. And we got on our last part of the trip. Only a few more hours and we would arrive in Aspen, the finish line. My leg was short with a nasty hill and a long stretch of no shade that made me regret my decision not to bring water. Two other runners, however, were about to run their hardest legs. Altitude, elevation gain, and the heat mad sure that they had to give the last amount of energy available until, finally, around 2pm on Saturday, the last runner made it across the finish line, sweaty and burnt but happy triumphant, given that he'd passed the owner of the illuminated van who, as well as the van in the bright daylight ruined the magic we had built up during the night, imagining the occupants of the van while following him through the dark.

Done, roughly 200 miles. Between 5,000 and 10,600 feet. 11 runners, two vans and not enough sleep. And yet, I can't wait to do it again next year!

Another marathon

So, I'm going to run another marathon. This Sunday. And compared to last year I feel strangely calm despite the fact that I didn't train half as much and hard like I did last time. I guess, it's the same with pretty much everything you do for the second time, it's not as exciting or terrifying anymore because you know what to expect.

Childbirth, flying, public speaking, public speaking in another language, driving a car, driving a motorcycle, kissing, or sex. All of them are terrifying but less so after you've done them once. Well, I can't speak for the first but I am actually not sure it's true in this case. Given that you do know how incredibly painful it will be you might be even more terrified. But at least when you give birth you do go home with a much better reward than just a plastic medal and a shirt. Also, I've read and I will most likely be able to confirm it on Sunday, one tends to forget how painful a marathon (or birth, which I won't be able to confirm) actually was and is looking forward to the experience. Which will be as painful or even more painful than the first time. But then, once you have crossed the finish line and all those endorphins hit you like crazy, you just forget about how hard it was to finish all those miles and how you wanted to quit at mile 5, 6, 7, well, all of them but then you did it. And you're just happy and can't wait to run the next one.

When I say I didn't train that much I mean that I never ran more than two times a week and sometimes I didn't run at all. I completed, however, a few longer runs. 13, 17, and 20 miles (21, 27, and 32km). Latter didn't even feel as bad as my 20 mile run last year. When I just managed to run 19.5 miles and had to call my father to pick me up because my legs hurt too bad to walk.

The 17 miles were supposed to be only 10, half of it uphill somewhere in Napa. So I started running up that hill, briefly scared by a fake mountain lion that was sitting on top of a garage. Then, after 2.5 miles I felt something dripping from my face to the ground. I thought it was sweat and wiped it away with my hand. But it wasn't sweat. Blood was squirting out of my nose. At that point I had only reached an altitude of roughly 300 meters so it could not have been the altitude. Regardless, I turned around and decided to do a long run instead of a high run. Not before I had taken some pictures of the bloody mess and sent them to all my friends in time for Saturday breakfast.

The 20 mile run seemed really hard while I was running. I considered stopping plenty of times. I started with a bit of a hill, running up 17th Street in San Francisco all the way to Golden Gate Park. Once I was over that hill though, it got a little easier. Until I reached the next hill and the stairs at Lands End. As I had started a little later that morning a lot of people where already on the streets and hiking Lands End. Honestly, I'm kind of concerned that I might not even get to the marathon in time, given that I didn't do a single training run that early during the day. Anyway, when I climbed up the stairs at Lands End and a teenage boy started to race me, I was tempted to ask him how many miles he'd run so far and was going to run still. 7? 13? No? Then back off!

The climb up to the Golden Gate Bridge along Lincoln Boulevard was less strenuous than I had remembered it to be. At the bridge I refilled my Camelbak and started the remaining 8 miles. Mostly downhill or flat. At that time I started bargaining with myself for how much more to run. 17 miles would be fine. Maybe to Whole Foods on Potrero Hill instead of all the way home? 18 miles should be doable, too. Eventually, I decided to run to Whole Foods. And half a block away I reached 20 miles. It got me thinking that maybe, I can tell myself that I have to run 27 miles. And then, when I get to 26.2 I allow myself to end the run early :-).

I will certainly not break any records and maybe I'll even be slower than last year. Given that this year there will be 25,000 runners vs. 500 last year I will definitely have to start slower and water stops will certainly a lot busier. But the route will be more scenic and I do know it very well. There are no terrifying hills, there might actually be someone who runs the same pace as I do who I can talk to. Or silently suffer with. Or I could just watch the other runners. That's usually entertainment and distraction enough. As long as I don't get too competitive and end up running a minute faster than my usual pace and break down on the last few miles.

And this time I'll have a bunch of friends waiting for me (thank you Nihan, Barry, Danny, and Olivia). And we have a brunch reservation at 11.30am. So I do have a hard stop at 5 hours if I do want to take a shower before we eat. And I should. If only to wash away the blood :-).

Childhood Memories

When we drew houses and roads with chalk on the street. In hot and dry summers we'd eventually run out of street to draw on as we relied on the rain to tear them down so we could draw new ones.

We played tennis on the street in front of out house. On a chalk-drawn field and a rope for a net strapped to trash cans on either side of the street. The soles of our feet were black and we had to run after the ball so often, given that the street was slightly descending.

When I played horse and carriage with my rocking horse in a harness while sitting on my wardrobe with my bed as carriage behind me.

Horse race or circus with the rocking horse. Using my balancing skills from artistic cycling when standing on the horse arms held out on both sides, while rocking the horse like crazy.

When I cut open my stuffed animals in my pet hospital. And sew them back together.

We built cities with Lego and tore them down, then built new ones, and tore them down.... We spent whole weekends crouched in our PJs in our playroom without ever getting up.

We played soccer in the field behind our house. Before our neighbors built their house there. And I got hit so hard in the stomach by a ball one time that I was unable to breathe for a while.

We jumped off the swing into the sandbox. Or just tried swinging high enough for a 360 around the bar the swing was attached to.

Summers in the pool. Every day, I got home from school, finished homework, got on my bicycle and rode 3 miles to the public pool. I'd ride home reluctantly, but also happy, tanned, and exhausted. The trip home always seemed 10 times as long and hard.

Every time I greeted the life sized (ie. brown bear life sized) stuffed teddy bear that stood in front of the toy store in the city center by shaking his huge paw. Judging by how worn the fur on the paw was, I wasn't the only child that was not afraid of the huge teddy.

My favorite food, cooked by my mother. A huge pot of Letscho with rice. Lean spare ribs where the fat had dripped to the bottom of the baking dish so we could soak our bread slices in them. Cabbage and ground meat casserole. Or just plain boiled potatoes, left over from lunch. My mother always made more than necessary so skinny and always hungry me had something to snack on later. Hmm, potatoes!

My favorite food, not approved by my parents. Bread with anything on it but butter and cheese. Ketchup, Nutella, Maggi, and curry powder or salt. Anything chocolate, candy, or cracker.

Taking one "After Eight" chocolate after the other out of it's packaging and putting the package back into the box so my mother wouldn't notice. She always did.

Singing along to our favorite cassettes with my brother in the back of our Westfalia when we were on vacation. Not pretty and never in tune but awesome and loud!

Making up new rules for card games so I got all the trumps and my brother all the useless cards. Then singing while playing and making up card game relevant lyrics, while crying and almost peeing our pants from laughing so hard.

Detecting faces and figurines in the wood panels right above my bed in my large and beautiful attic room, my father built for me and my brother.

Helping my father built the attic room by handing him nails and brackets to attach the paneling.

The smell of the new carpet in the attic and the salesman we bought it from. And the carpet burn on my knees after a sliding incident...

I designed furniture for my Monchichi dolls that my father built. And my mother sew bed sheets, carpets, and table cloths.

We built houses for our Playmobil dolls with the wooden bricks our parents had made for us. Then we tore them down and built new ones.

Swimming in the ocean or in pools. And how my parents always tried to stop at every pool or beach when we were traveling all over Europe in our Westfalia so I could go for a swim. By the time I was 10 I knew the word for pool or beach in at least 4 different languages.

Diving under waves in the North Sea or the Atlantic Ocean. No wave was big enough. The feeling when I made it in the last minute or when I finally came back to the surface when one of those huge rollers had caught me and tumbled me around for what felt like 10 minutes.

Sleeping in the back of our Westfalia, curled up like a cat. Or waving to truck drivers on the Autobahn or any freeway, either using my hand or my stuffed dog, Debbel's paw.

Walking barefoot through deep and soft lawn. And the smell of freshly mown lawn.

When my grandpa came visiting and greeted me with a "Hello, my Heart (Hallo, mein Herz)!" before he picked me up and gave me a big hug.

My best friend's dog, Laika. Small, black, smart, and incredibly sweet and loyal. Who I spent so much time with that she still recognized me when I saw her almost 10 years later. The time when she ran full of enthusiasm through a rapeseed field in full bloom und we only saw her head when she jumped up to see where she was.

Our self made tents in the garden. With blankets and the timber trestles my father had made. I'd say makeshift but nothing he has ever made could be called "makeshift".  I can still smell the old, ragged blanket we always used because it's shape was so perfect. Until it was all torn, dirty, dusty, and smelled so bad that we didn't want to be near it, anymore.

My fake secret agent ID I made after watching some movie or TV show.

How I was able to spend hours by myself, making up games, imagining lives, worlds, things, without ever getting bored. No TV, no book, or expensive toys required.

Walking on stilts. I can still see them leaning against the wall in our little tool shed. Not too difficult if you could hold your balance and once you got the hang of it. It's always safer to keep walking fast. The same approach I had to riding a bicycle. That's why it's so hard to me to drive slowly.

We played ice hockey on the frozen lake in our village. And used to swim in the lake in the summer. There was a huge floating wooden cross anchored in the middle of it, where we could rest or play seesaw if there was more than one person. Unless the lake was closed for swimmers because someone had recently drowned in it.

Building igloos in meter high snow. And getting back inside after hours, all wet and cold. And the smell of the boiler room where we left our wet clothes to dry.

Racing down the little hill up the street behind our house with wooden skis, no ski poles. Who needs those? Sledding down that same or other hills. Until my brother drove straight into the barbed wire when he tried to avoid some woman who stood in his way.

Dressing up for carnival in self sewn costumes that my mother or grandma had made for me. A belly dancer with a veil for my face, looking like an 8 year old harem woman. A pierot. Zorro with my little red leather boots.

My stuffed dog, Debbel. Who I got for my birthday when I was two and barely as big as him and who's still with me and even survived a serious eye surgery.

All the people who thought I was a boy and wouldn't let me into women's rest rooms, almost punched me because I was so naughty or, in an extreme case, had a crush on me.

The forest that pretty much surrounded the village I grew up in. Just a few minutes walking distance and an incredible place to play and for adventures.

Self made popsicles, frozen cherry or orange juice. Or even frozen lemon soda. Watching Saturday night game shows while curling up on the couch in my PJs, and crushing the frozen juice with my spoon.

The mold on top of the bottle of home made cherry juice. We just poured the first glass using a sieve to get rid of the mold. That might have been one of the reasons we never got sick. And I liked the fact that my mother used empty rum bottles for the juice.

The sound of the black bird that used to sit on the roof top right outside my bedroom window in every summer night and kept me from sleeping. But no matter how often I tried to chase it away, it always came back the next night. 

When I read a book in one sitting. Getting absolutely lost in the story without a break to eat or go to the bathroom.

I spent almost all of my pocket money on candy and ate in minutes it without ever gaining any weight. 

We played Winter, Summer, and World Games on our Commodore 128 and, thanks to the joystick moves required, we ended up equally exhausted as the athletes.

The time when we were small and skinny enough to built a tower around each others with our wooden building bricks. And how surprised we were that, a year later, it didn't work so well, anymore.

When I learned that my brother would survive his accident and we slowly realized that he had as much luck as someone in his situation could have possibly had.

Being curious and fearless without thinking of consequences or wether or not I could get hurt.

All those memories. I'm so incredibly grateful that I can still remember all of these and, when I close my eyes, still see the images, smell the smells, hear the sounds, and feel the feeling. Keep your childhood memories alive. Never forget how you were, felt, what you did as a child. Children are honest, sometimes brutally so. Children are innocent but can be cruel at the same time. But, most important, children are curious and take nothing as given. They question everything and imagine the impossible. Wouldn't it be nice if we could retain this ability until the end of our lives?

Drive again

You're trying to get into a car the first time after that accident that almost killed you and maybe a friend or family member. That accident that left no bone in you body unbroken. That had you have to learn how to talk and walk again. That accident that almost took your will to live. Why would you want to stay alive given that your body was almost dead anyway and there wasn't really any reason left to live. Death was so much closer and easier to reach than life so why take the longer and harder road where there was a so much easier one. But you made it, you took the long road. You got up again. Mended your wounds. Learned how to talk again. Letter by letter, word by word. And how to walk. Step by step. You swore you would never get into or even near a car again. Ever. You would never let something like that happen to you again. Never let anything hurt you again. Protect yourself from that kind of pain and devastation. You hardly ever looked at cars again let alone got near or into one of them. 

But here you are. After years of healing, scarred and scared. The car door is open and you're standing there. Your heart is beating so loud it's deafening. You can hardly breathe. You want to run away as fast as you can. And yet, you're drawn to the open door. Somewhere, deeply hidden below all that fear and pain and covered by that protective layer you've built up, you can feel something else, a faint memory, the memory of being in a car. The memory of driving. Of feeling the wind in your hair, hearing music in your ear, seeing a beautiful road ahead. All those places to go. So many opportunities. And you know that there is more than just fear of being hurt. More than the memory of horrible pain and grief.

You take one step towards the door. And another. Breathing fast, hands sweating, unsure if you can get any closer. If you are ready, yet. But will you ever? You're wrestling with your memories and your fear. Curious to find more of these warmer, fonder memories. A feeling of home, of security and love. One more step and you could touch the door if you lifted your arm and stretched out you fingers. Only one more step and you could smell the car's interior. A flash of memory, the sound of glass shattering, of sirens, makes you hesitate, almost pull back. You're on the verge of turning around and running away. So close. Breathing faster. Sweat on your upper lip. You close your eyes, inhale deeply, summon all your strength and courage, the courage that took so much to rebuild, and you take that final step and slide into the driver's seat. Another deep breath to deal with the hurricane of memories that hits you there. You won't budge, let them come, you can do this. One more breath. You open your eyes. And you know that you can do this. It will take time. And you will never again be as reckless and fearless as you used to be before the accident. But you managed to overcome your fears. You're back in the car. You will drive again. After all those years. It feels a little strange and scary but you have been here before and you know that you loved it. And you will figure it out and not let you fear take over and keep you from living anymore.

Don't you want children?

I am fully aware that I don't really know what I'm talking about. I am not a mother and I will never be one. At least not for children with 50% of my DNA. All of what I'm writing here is based on several years of being a woman, things I heard, read, saw, concluded myself applying logic and some economics I learned, common sense, and a large amount of empathy. And at this point I'm grateful that my mother and other mothers made a different decision and so many women still do every day.

I am very glad that I haven't gotten the "Why aren't you married? And don't you want children?" question very often. By now, given my age, people probably think I'm gay or infertile or just too old for that. But I have heard it. And I really don't understand why people ask me that. They should ask every woman who, without being forced to do so, gets married and has children. Given all we know about how poorly mothers are being rewarded in most societies for being a mother which woman in her right mind, with access to all the information she needs to make such decisions would do it? 

Women are paid less in general. With the justification that they could get pregnant if they wanted. So the mere fact that our bodies were built to produce offspring results in a disadvantage for all working women. Now, first of all, by now women have successfully proven to be able to work the same hours, produce the same quality of work, and be equally reliable than non mothers (that includes men), which fact alone should result in higher salaries for mothers. Someone who has managed to carry and grow a living person for 9 months in their own body! Who has had a living being feast on his bones and who has pushed a small bowling ball out of their vagina and is still alive and well enough and willing to work? Hire them!

The smaller income becomes even smaller when a woman is married and the tax system allows the couple to file their taxes together. Usually, the bigger earner, the man, choses the better tax level and leaves the women with even less money for harder work. Societies that keep stressing how important gender equality is should have killed such tax rules long time ago (Germany). It practically forces women to stay home unless they like to work for almost nothing. And that would be stupid and who will hire a stupid person? Economically, tax rules should incentivize people to work more and, consequently, pay more taxes. But, what do I know...

And then, once the children are there and the after baby body doesn't look too appealing anymore. Or after the woman has supported the man and held his back so he could advance in his career and make even more money, he leaves her for a younger model. Ideally, he will use some of his bigger income to support the family he left behind. But that doesn't always happen. To be clear, not all men do this, many men end up struggling either having full custody and no support from their ex-spouse or no access to their children at all. But in the majority of cases it's the woman who is left behind and oftentimes (50% of times in Germany) the ex-husband does not pay one cent to support his former family. Of course, a younger and faster model requires usually more maintenance. That leaves no money to feed the children or allow the ex-wife to have only one job at a time to be able to feed them.

Being a single mother makes it even more difficult to find a job. Given that dealing with two children at a time without killing them or oneself is quite the unique skill and can be compared to running your own business she should have no problem finding a job but most employers see that differently. And then she does find a job and even manages to have a career. And, wham, she's considered a bad mother. Selfishly pursuing her career while abandoning her children. 

Now, even the best of parenting doesn't necessarily mean that your children will love you and care for you until the end of your life. They will move away, hardly ever call or visit, maybe have a fall out for whatever reasons and never come to see their parents again. So after all the trouble she went through, the mother ends up alone in her nursing home with no visitors and no one who cares. Not unlike the spinster who never managed to get a man to marry her or have children. However, chances are that the spinster ends up in the luxury nursing home or in a commune with her other spinster friends. She will most likely have more retirement money as she didn't have to spend hundreds of thousands of dollars on her children's education. What a high risk investment with such an unpredictable return. The poor mother will most likely have a very low retirement income as she earned less, was in and out of jobs or worked part time all to make sure her children had food on the table, a good education, and enough time with her mother. So, the most important job in our society does not seem to be important enough to be considered when social security is applied.

At this point, I haven't even mentioned the physical and psychological implications of being pregnant and giving birth. Or, worse losing a child. And I won't. They sound horrific but I bet they're the weakest argument for not having children.

I don't want to go on. It's unfair beyond imagination. Given the above facts one would think that no woman in her right mind would voluntarily agree to get married or become pregnant. Many societies address this by forcing women, most often when they're still children into marriage, don't allow them to go to school, And make it illegal or impossible to use birth control or safely abort a child if necessary.

Which woman in her right mind who knows all of this would want to get married and have children? The answer is simple: almost all of them. And here is why. Again, I can't speak from own experience other than having lived in a women's body for such a long time, empathy, and hearsay. 

Because we can :-). The mere fact that we can do it is probably enough for many women. We can fucking grow a person inside our bodies! I let that sit because that is a pretty amazing feature our bodies came with. 

The possibility of having a bond with another being that is like no other connection in the world and a love that is absolutely unconditional. Until the little sucker figures out how to manipulate his mother to get her to buy him what he wants, that is. Some mothers are certainly more motherly than others but when evolution gave us our bodies it made sure that we would do everything possible to keep our and sometimes even other mothers' children alive. Maternal instinct and hormones are a big help with that.

For many women, this force of nature hits them even before they get pregnant and plants a desire to have a baby in them that gets louder the older they get and is said to have an annoying ticking sound that can even be heard outside of our bodies.

But even if you never heard that clock before you got pregnant, once you are, every single cell of our body will focus on growing that tiny little accumulation of cells into a being that will eventually become strong enough to survive outside of our body. The decision to abort a baby must be the hardest thing a woman will ever have to make. She practically has to overrule ever single cell, organ, emotion and physical desire in her body. Her body is determined on protecting and growing this little embryo and giving birth to it. She doesn't need anyone outside of her own body to make this even harder. What she needs is someone who sees and addresses all the issues above to help her either not to have to make this decision at all or, if she choses to abort, make it as painless as possible in all aspects. People should really stop trying to control other people's genitalia or what they chose to do with them.

Every single women and mother is such an integral, such an incredibly important part of every society. Of the world as it is today. Many societies, in particular some of the non human ones have realized and accepted this. Male and female members equally share the hard work that comes with creating a family and keeping it alive and happy. I can only hope that the human societies will catch up. Women everywhere should feel safe, supported, and accepted whatever decision they make and no one else should make them for them. They should not be judged for their life decisions.

Instead, we should do our best to eliminate all the obstacles and unfairness that women and mothers do have to face. To make lives easier for all women who, despite all circumstances, still find becoming a mother more rewarding than not. Every single one of them has my deepest respect and admiration.

War and Children

For the last few days I've been listening to the songs of this slightly corny German band "Silbermond". I do love some of their lyrics, though. This song I hadn't heard before, "Weisse Fahnen" (White Flags). It's about a little boy who lives in a war zone. Even though he's never seen his home at peace he does dream of peace. Every night. He dreams of a sky full of stars instead of fire and smoke. He dreams of a night that is quiet and safe and not full of deafening sounds of exploding bombs, firearms, land mines or the dreadful sounds of humans running for their lives, dying, or mourning the death of their loved ones.

I cannot imagine how it must feel to be a child during a war. The constant fear of death, torture, abduction, or even worse, unknown horrors made up by a child's imagination. And as with any war, the weakest suffer the most. While the strongest, the ones that make all the decisions, and benefit from the horrors they inflict are usually safe and well fed in a secure location. Cowards so different from true leaders who would lead their armies into the battle. Riding in the front row. Children are the easiest target. They are abducted, abused in front of their families, recruited as soldiers, and forced to do horrific things to other children and innocent human beings.

Both of my parents were born during World War II in Germany (my mother in a part that is part of Poland today). The first five years of their lives, they did not know what peace was like. They heard sirens, ran into basements and bunkers to find shelter, they lived on the little food that was available. My father lost his father when he was four. His father was barely 25. Already a war veteran at that age, he died of Tuberculosis. My mother and her family had to escape from the Russian Army. I don't know all the details but I heard various stories from grandparents of friends about what happened to families who did not manage to leave their houses early enough and encountered the soldiers who heard about what "all" the Germans were doing to innocent people in concentration camps. And who took it out on every German they found. I don't think that a little girl of 5 had anything to do with Hitler's horrific cruelties. But she sure paid for it... And if she survived, she might still be paying. Every night. With every nightmare that brings back what happened on that day. When the door was kicked in by those young Russians. She and millions of others.

The older I get the more I understand how my parents' behavior was affected by what they had experienced. By loosing a childhood. My father gave me a long list of books to read on the topic and book after book I had a better idea what he must have been through. That's how my father and I communicate. I write a blog and he suggests another book to read that explains why he his like he is.

At this very same moment there are millions of children who go through the same or way worse. Every night when they go to sleep, try to sleep, they don't know if they will survive the next day, don't know what kind of horrors the next day will bring.

And yet, a country like Germany, where every single family could easily feed another mouth, foster at least one child, only harbors a few thousand refugees. A political party that calls itself "Christian" claims that the country will get "overrun" by millions of refugees if they "opened the gates".

"Christian" values are being used to justify all kinds of ridiculous things such as to ban abortion and gay marriage but no one seems to think of using it to cite Jesus saying "Let the children alone and do not hinder them from coming to Me". Let them come. All of them.

You Christian Democrats and Chrisitan Social Union: Why don't you, just once, do the right, the Christian thing, and let them come. Give them a future. Show them that life is so much more than war. Nurture and raise them and let them go back home to spread the news that there are humans in the world who care about others. Plant a seed of good and see it grow. You might be surprised by the result.

Tod im Stadtpark

Die Sonne hatte den Horizont noch nicht ganz erreicht. Es schien, als ob der Tag sich das mit dem Aufstehen noch einmal überlegen wollte. Erst ein Auge vorsichtig öffnen...schnell wieder schliessen, um noch ein paar Minuten herauszuschinden, bis man dann schließlich doch beide Augen öffnet und sich entscheidet, sich einem weiteren Tag und seinen Ereignissen zu stellen.

Der Stadtpark lag in völliger Stille. Tautropfen glitzerten auf den Grashalmen. Die Wiese von einem feuchten Schleier verhüllt. Nach und nach begannen die Vögel zu zwitschern. Erst zögerliches, heiseres Piepen, ein Orchester beim Einstimmen der Instrumente. Dann legte einer nach dem anderen richtig los. Schließlich sang die ganze Mannschaft, als wollten sie den Tag dazu bringen, nun endlich die Beine aus dem Bett zu schwingen und die Jalousie zu öffnen, um die Sonne hereinzulassen. 

Während dieselbe sich nun auch anschickte, den Horizont zu überwinden und den Tag in Augenschein zu nehmen, war die Stimmung im Kaninchenbau mies wie jeden Morgen. Vater Kaninchen bestand auf eine allmorgendliche Gymnastikrunde, mit anschließendem Thai Chi. Raus aus dem Bau, im Kreis aufstellen. Nun ja, aufsetzen. Und dann den linken Löffel heben, senken. Den rechten Löffel heben, senken. Die Läufe der Reihe nach anheben und drei Mal fest auf den Boden klopfen. Vater hatte im letzten Sommer "Bambi" im Stadtpark Open Air Kino gesehen und bestand seit dem darauf, daß sie ihn Klopfer nannten. 

Schließlich stützten sie sich auf die Vorderläufe, hielten den Po in die Luft und schüttelten diesen ausgiebig.

Von der Kaninchenfamilie unbemerkt, hatte sich ein Hund genähert. Mit schiefgelegtem Kopf betrachtete der Golden Retriever interessiert das seltsame Treiben der kleinen Tierchen. Fünf unterschiedlich große, braune Kaninchen hockten im Kreis auf der Wiese und vollführten lustige Bewegungen. Wäre es ein Tag wie jeder andere gewesen, hätte der Hund noch eine Weile zugesehen, den Kopf geschüttelt und wäre dann schließlich seinem Herrchen hinterhergetrottet.

Nicht so heute. Nachdem ihm gestern vom Schäferhund aus dem Nachbargarten vorgeworfen worden war, daß er ein verweichlichter, feiger Schoßhund wäre und eine Schande für seine Art, mußte er etwas tun, um diese Anschuldigungen zu widerlegen. Unerhört! Er, der so mutig seine Familie beschützte. Zumindest würde er es wahrscheinlich tun, wenn er müßte. Aber als er diese fünf pelzigen kleinen Gestalten sah, wußte er was zu tun war, um im Ansehen des nachbarlichen Hundekreises wieder zu steigen.

Er setze sich in Bewegung. Zum Glück für ihn aber zum höchsten Unglück der Kaninchenfamilie, waren diese gerade bei der progressiven Muskelentspannungsphase. Alle hatten die Augen geschlossen und lagen entspannt auf dem Rücken, als der große gelbe Hund plötzlich in ihrer Mitte stand und nach der ältesten Schwester schnappte. Erschrocken und voller Todesangst erstarrten zunächst alle. Dann nahmen die restlichen Familienmitglieder die Läufe in die Hand und machten, daß sie in ihren Bau zurückkamen. 

"Bruno! Aus!" rief sein Herrchen. Zu spät. Zwar ließ er das nun nicht mehr zappelnde Fellbündel fallen, aber die Blutstropfen an seinen Leftzen ließen keinen guten Ausgang erahnen...

I miss you

I am listening to this old song "Summer Rain" and begin to realize that I miss it. The rain. I miss the rain. All kinds of rain. The slight drizzle. The powerful downpour. Even the violent thunderstorms with lightning and flooding. Miss the sound of it. Quietly first, just a few drops, knocking lightly on your window, softly thumping on the roof. Then more, stronger, louder. Just for a short time during the day. The whole day, or at night, waking you up at first but then, like a lullaby with a consistent, beautiful rhythm, humming you back to sleep.

I miss the smell. How the air smells right before the rain starts. The smell of the trees, flowers, dusty streets, and dirty cars, empty river beds and lakes, impatiently waiting, longing for the first drops to fall, the downpour to nourish, clean, and refill them. Quench their thirst, end their suffering, satisfy their desperate need for water. The smell of the rain that is about to fall on all of them. The threat and promise of water. Of life. 

The smell when it is raining. The smell you soak in while your nose is tickling from the drops that fell on it, tiny bubbles of fresh water, caught in those tiny hairs on your skin. The freshness of the first drops, mixed with the dust and dirt in the air. 

The smell after the rain. The smell of freshly washed linen sheets. Clean, new, full of life. The smell of trees who inhale deeply and stretch themselves into the air, full of new energy. Full of life. Flowers, still covered in transparent pearls of water, like little diamonds, gently lifting their heads and stretching their limbs. Feeling reinvigorated. You can almost see them smile. Hear their happy laughter. Smell their relief.

I miss the feeling of rain on my skin. Drops falling gently on my face, stroking my cheeks, my lips. The feeling of slowly getting soaked. My hair, strand after strand. My clothes, reluctant at first, even resistant for a while, give in eventually and let the water through to touch my skin. The softness of rain water. Feeling like the flower and the tree. Even the feeling of it hitting me hard, when I didn't manage to find shelter fast enough to protect me from the heavy pour. Finally, rain. Water. Life. 

I miss you, rain. So much, like I never thought I would. Please come back soon, will you!

The Good

This beautiful planet is a home for several billion human beings. Every single one of them born unique, special, precious, and good. No one is born a murderer, terrorist, religious nut, dictator, greedy capitalist or politician. Everyone of us has so much potential to grow up to make this planet, our home, a good or even better place. 

And so many of us do. We take care of people who cannot take care of themselves. We share what we have with others who have less or nothing. We love others without expecting anything in return. We protect each other from harm. We gladly die for one another if necessary. We are there for one another, whenever needed. For friends, relatives, lovers, but also strangers, people we have never met before. 

That is our human, loving, compassionate nature. It develops and grows because it is nurtured through a loving and caring upbringing. Many times even in the absence of such circumstances. Because good is what we are born to be.

Let's not forget all of this while facing hateful, horrible acts done by humans, out of hatred and unreason, following leaders who find it easier to let their people die of hunger or fighting their wars instead of providing for them, grow and develop them into the humans they were born to be.

Let us focus on what is good in all of us and withstand those who turned against the good for whatever reasons. All good in this world, no matter what color, belief, or origin is so much more powerful than the bad can ever be. As long as we know that and maintain and grow the good in ourselves and others, the bad will never be able to prevail.

Bitte bleib

Geh nicht. Bleib hier, ganz nah bei mir, und hör nicht auf, mir von Dir zu erzählen. Ich will, muss alles wissen. Ich habe Angst, dass wir nicht mehr genug Zeit haben, damit Du mir alles das sagen kannst, was ich noch wissen muss. Mir einen lückenlosen Bericht deines Lebens geben kannst. Alles was, Du getan hast, was Dir angetan wurde, was Du erlebt hast und was Du lieber vergessen würdest. Alles, was Du liebst in dieser Welt und alles, was Du verachtest. Bleib bei mir und hör nicht auf zu sprechen.

Ich halte einfach weiter Deine Hand und spreche mit Dir. Solange wir reden, bleibst Du hier. Kannst Du nicht gehen. Unmöglich. Ich kann und will mir nicht vorstellen müssen, wie es ohne Dich sein würde. Es kann nicht einfach so weitergehen wie vorher. Die Welt kann sich nicht einfach weiterdrehen, als ob nichts geschehen sei. Unmöglich. Sie muss doch registrieren, dass sich etwas verändert hat. Das jemand so schön, so einzigartig, so wichtig für so viele, so talentiert und wunderbar, nicht mehr da ist. Diese Lücke, diese Kerbe, diese große, offene, stark blutende Wunde muss doch irgendeine Reaktion vorrufen. Unmöglich, es nicht zu registrieren. Unfassbar.

Ich bleibe einfach hier, rede weiter, wenn Dir die Worte ausgehen. Gebe Dir all meine Worte, damit Du noch länger hier bleiben kannst. Solange wir noch Geschichten zu erzählen, Worte zu wechseln, Erinnerungen auszutauschen haben. Solange uns immer noch etwas einfällt, was der andere noch nicht weiß oder wieder vergessen hat. Solange da immer noch etwas ungesagt ist, bis zum letzten Buchstaben, der sich noch irgendwo versteckt, solange musst Du bei mir bleiben. Du kannst nicht eher gehen. Nicht einfach mitten in der Geschichte, mitten im Satz verschwinden. Unmöglich. Bleib bis zum letzten Wort, hör mich aus. Versprich es. Du musst es mir versprechen!

Don't go

I want to spend every day for as long as I can lying next to you in your bed. Listening to you. Telling you things. I feel that there's just not enough time left for you to tell me everything that I still need to know. I want a complete, seamless, truthful account of your life. Everything you did, everything you went through, everything that happened to you, how it made you feel. All of your dreams, your secrets, everything you love, and everything you despise in this world.

I want to keep listening, want to hold on and pretend, that by not stopping to listen I can keep you from leaving. Keep you here forever. Not ever have to be without you. Because, I can't imagine how that would be like. I want to not to have to imagine, let alone experience how the world would be like without you. It can't just continue to be the same, can it? It will have to acknowledge that you're missing? How could it not? How could it not recognize that someone so important, so dear to so many, so beautiful and unbelievably strong, is about to leave its surface? How could it not feel that? How could it just keep going on as if everything was alright and nothing happened? It could not, could it?

Let me just stay here and hold your hand. Keep listening and hoping, you won't run out of words. And if you do, I will keep talking. Spend my words so that you won't have to leave. As long as there are still stories to tell, unsaid thoughts to say out loud, words and sentences to listen to, you can't go. Impossible. You have to hear them to the end. You can't just leave somewhere in the middle of the story. You have to stay until there's is nothing else to say. Until the last word has been spoken, until we run out of tales. Until there are no more anecdotes to tell, jokes to laugh about, fond memories to share, no more words. You cannot leave earlier than that. You'll have to promise! Promise me that.

Ragnar

I really need to stop signing up for running events right after I finish one. Last year, after my half marathon, I immediately signed up for the San Francisco Marathon. I had to cancel that one but changed my registration to the marathon in San Luis Obispo this year. And right after that I signed up for the same marathon next year, a half marathon in October, and a relay race from San Francisco to Napa. Not the straight route, 205 miles, 12 runners, each runner running three times. What was I thinking?!

So, a few weeks before the race date, I thought about canceling but then I saw that a few people had already bailed and we were at least one runner short. So I didn't. The week before I thought I would get sick. I felt tired and had a sore throat. But at that time we still hadn't found a runner to replace the missing one and so I really thought I shouldn't bail. And I didn't.

Friday morning, 7am, I showed up at the Caltrain Station in San Francisco, looking for people who looked crazy enough to participate in such an event. Easy to spot at that time and place. Two girls in running gear with backpacks and sleeping bags. No one really knew each other in our van, which turned out to be a 7 seater instead of the promised 12 seater. Which made the whole experience even cosier and turned out to be very convenient especially when it came to finding a parking spot between hundreds of 12 seater vans. And so we went. I called shotgun as I was the first one to run and also the one with the longest legs (physically), next to the driver. So I put on my equipment, drank some more water and prepared myself for the first 2.7 miles. Easy.

Naturally, we found a small parking spot, close to the starting area in Golden Gate Park. Sadly, it was overcast and a little muggy. But that didn't affect our mood at all. We were already half way to the starting area when we realized that we didn't bring the safety equipment we were supposed to present in order to get our race packages. Reflective vests (only useful if they're worn the right way around), butt lights, and headlamps. This was the first clue that our team was a little less organized than we should have been... Later that night we did realize why this equipment was pretty important, still, most of the time we forgot to wear those vests and bring the orange flag needed for crossing streets in the darker hours. We signed in, got a safety and race rules overview and our packages and I was ready to go. That overview, though, missed a number of important items. Such as: Don't let your car's engine run for hours while waiting for your fellow van to arrive at the, granted, pretty hot exchange area. California is a f***ing desert. Deserts are hot! Deal with it or move to Alaska! Anyway, the other useful tips would have been: Check that your at the right exchange and Do Not blind fellow runners with your headlamps or headlights at the sleeping areas. Or generally.

And then it was 8.30am, and I was on my way. Downhill to Ocean Beach, uphill along Cliff House. A short run and I was way faster than my estimated 10.25 minutes/mile. So, when I arrived at the finish line, I couldn't find the next runner. At least, I had the phone number of the driver but when I dialed in, I got one of the most frequent messages from t-mobile: NO SERVICE. Duuuuuh. Turned our, my team was already there, just not quite ready. 5 minutes later, the next runner was on his way and we were learned our first lessons: Get to the next exchange as quickly as possible and ignore the sandbagging of the runners (10.25 minutes/mile on 2.7 miles, seriously?). And that we did.

And there we waited a few minutes. The second leg was a little longer and included the nasty hill from Presidio all the way up to the Golden Gate Bridge. And once you get on the bridge, there's still 1.5 miles slightly uphill. This time the exchange worked better. I was ready to go on my next short leg. All the way, downhill, to Sausalito. After that, I had the day off until evening.

So we ran until we ran out of runners and met the other van at the exchange. Then we got lunch and talked to each other a little bit more. There was a physical therapist who refused to give us massages because, she was "not at work". Makes sense. An FBI agent that made us feel save and very confident in case we should run over a red light, rushing to meet our runner at the next exchange. The driver had originally agreed to do the driving because a bunch of his friends wanted to participate. But they all bailed so he only knew one person on the bus. Well, now he knew all of them.

The afternoon we spent in a large parking lot at the next van exchange. Surrounded by hundreds of other vans, most of them had their engine running so they could sit in their air conditioned cars. Which didn't help reducing the heat and gave half of us carbon monoxide poisoning. If you can't stand the heat, don't live in the desert!

At this point, I really want to call out the porta potties along the course. No one likes porta potties. Especially when they're almost full and the previous visitor let the lid open for you to admire the huge "chocolate cake" when you open the door. But the Honey Pots, despite their sticky name, were perfectly clean with a slight whiff of disinfectant greeting you when entering the immaculate facility. Many times you even got to break into a brand new roll of toilet paper. After the third run, all sweaty and stinky, I swear I could see the porta potty crinkle its nose when I opened the door to come inside.

Anyway, on to the next 6 legs we went. We had already realized that the other van had gotten the shitty end of the stick. They had to run all through the night and the heat of the day. While we got mornings and evenings. And then I was back on. My longest leg, 6.7 miles through the dusk and partly the dark in the early evening. I did have a look at the course map before and thought it was a relatively easy piece. Hardly any elevation climb. Just a run along the highway. But then the hill started and wouldn't end. Not a steep incline but steady and never ending, it seemed. Turned out, I had looked at the wrong leg map. Not the last time that should happen... Running along the highway in the darkness, some runners in front, some behind me was kind of a surreal experience. It reminded me of the Burning Man exodus. Tiny moving red lights ahead, all those butt lights swinging back and forth, moving white lights from the headlamps behind me.

Again, the fact that my team was waiting for me at the finish line made me run a lot faster than I had in a while. And I was done for the day until early in the morning. I changed into dry clothes, got my sleeping bag and curled up on the back seat of the car. But only for a few moments until we got to In N Out Burger for dinner.

From there to the next meeting point with the other van. And again we were the only ones outside in the dark, not wearing our vests and bringing our reflective flag. So unorganized and rebellious we were :-).

And finally, we reached our sleeping area. It's been a while, since I had slept on the bare ground without an air mattress or mat. Outside of a campground. I had picked a spot right next to our van, literally 3 meters away. Assuming, that my van mates would have no problem spotting me, I didn't bother to set my alarm clock and I even switched my phone on airplane mode. A quarter to 5am I notice some commotion at the van and eventually, I got up and walked over. As it turned out, our next runner was already on her way and we'd almost slept through the arrival of the other van. And no one knew where I was... Luckily, our runner made it to the exchange, a second before the other runner got there. Of course she was still sleepy. As was runner #2, who was on just shortly after her. Given that her leg was just three miles long and she was fast, we ran around the vans like headless chicken, trying to gather all of the next runner's equipment and make sure we get to the exchange in time. The last item that was missing was his breakfast, a granola bar. He wasn't able to find it. As I was next after him, I had just unpacked my last peanut butter jelly sandwich and was about to eat it. Given he had the longer leg to run, I took a long hard look at the sandwich in my hand, said goodbye and handed it over to him.

Now that we had a little more time until the next exchange, we stopped to get a coffee and then drove to the next stop to make sure we'd have enough time to prepare for the handover of the baton. And in fact, we reached the exchange about twenty minutes before we expected our runner to show up. And waited. And waited. After an hour of waiting our driver decided to drive back and search for our runner. And came back a few minutes later to tell us that we had been waiting at the wrong exchange. Our runner had finished his run 45 minutes before and as he didn't bring his phone, he had had no way to reach us. And we had no clue. Though, turned out, there had been plenty of them:

The clues:

1. We had no issues finding parking at the exchange although the Ragnar info material stressed that you should arrive as late as possible due to limited parking available.
2. The porta potties were untouched. The only thing missing was the "New" seal on the door to break in. Granted, that was not an easy clue, given that most of the "Honey Pots" were immaculate and made you want to move in or at least take a quick nap in there.
3. No volunteers at exchange. Though, who'd be able to distinguish them from runners at 6.30am in the foggy dawn anyway?
4. Mosquitos
5. Ultra runners at exchange. Our team would have been investigated for using illegal, performance enhancing substances, if we'd been that fast.
6. Mysterious phone calls on Paul's phone. On a Sunday morning. Before 7am. Twice...
7. Mosquitos. A lot of them.
8. Runners who sprinted across the finish line after an, that's what we thought, 8.3 mile run.
9. More mosquitos. Biting us everywhere. By now each of us had killed at least 10 of them.
10. No sign of our runner after an hour of waiting which would have translated into him running an 11-12 minute mile. And him being 75 years old...
11. When I took a closer look a couple of days laster and connected the dots, ie. the mosquito bites, they spelled: "Wrong exchange!". I swear...

Well, we drove back to the previous exchange as fast as possible, I jumped out of the van and ran to the exchange point and then as fast as I could with my heavy itching legs. And I actually ran my fastest average pace ever. Granted, it was only 3.3 miles but when I crossed the finish line with an average 8 minute/miles I almost vomited right there.

The last exchanges went uneventful. I was done and felt like I could have run a few more and longer legs. After we had picked up our last runner, we did what people usually do in Napa: drink wine and eat! While the other van ran their long last legs through the Napa heat.

I gotta say that, this was a really great experience and I really want to do this again next year. Like with everything, the second time is probably the best because you can prepare yourself so much better! Bring more or less items, be on time at exchange points and, first of all: READ the material. 

Verstopft

Schreiben. Schreiben hilft. Wer schreibt, der bleibt. Schreiben mit der Hand soll auch besser sein, als Tippen. Bei beiden habe ich das gleiche Problem. Da ist so viel in meinem Kopf, das rauswill und ich denke so viel schneller, als ich schreibe. So sitze ich da mit meinem Notizbuch und Kugelschreiber und schreibe und schreibe in dieser unglaublich schlechten Handschrift. Meine Finger verkrampfen sich während die Worte sich am Ausgang drängeln. Hunderte, tausende, wollen gleichzeitig hinaus, wo doch nur eines zur Zeit Platz hat. Herauskommt Unsinn, nahezu unlesbares Geplapper. Schneller und schneller bewegen sich meine Finger, um Wort um Wort auf dem Papier unterzubringen. Zu viele und zu schnell, um sie in einen sinnvollen Zusammenhang zu bringen. Oder gar, um sie in einer lesbaren Schrift aufzuschreiben. Doch langsam, nach mehreren Seiten voller unlesbarem Unsinn, verlangsamt sich der Strom. Die Panik vor dem Ausgang hat sich gelegt. Man hat festgestellt, dass jeder hinauskommt. Irgendwann. Und wenn Du einen guten Platz ergattern möchtest, neben Freunden, bekannten, oder der Schnitte da drüben, und nicht völlig zerknittert und schlecht angezogen enden möchtest, dann solltest Du geduldig warten, bist Du an der Reihe bist. Nur so kann ich jedes Wort an seinen richtigen Platz schreiben. Dort wo es hingehört. Wo es sich wohl fühlt und vom Leser verstanden und freudig aufgenommen wird. Langsam lichtet sich das Chaos. Wort für Wort wird an den für es vorgesehenen Ort geschrieben. Harmonie und Ruhe und sogar leichte Euphorie tritt ein. Nachbarn unterhalten sich freudig und angeregt miteinander. Scheue verliebte Blicke werden ausgetauscht. Alte Freunde sind nach langer Zeit endlich wieder vereint. Zärtlichkeiten werden ausgetauscht und manchen Paaren wird gar nahegelegt, sich doch ein Zimmer zu nehmen. Endlich ergibt alles einen Sinn. Buchstabe für Buchstabe, Wort für Wort, Satz für Satz und Seite um Seite entsteht eine Geschichte. Hin und wieder findet sich doch mal jemand an der falschen Stelle wieder, aber das schadet dem Gesamtbild keineswegs. Im Gegenteil, es sorgt für Spannung, Abwechslung und überraschenden Wendungen. Und mittlerweile ist es am Ausgang ruhig geworden. Einzelne Nachzügler erscheinen verspätet und werden vom Platzanweiser im Dunkeln zu ihrem Sitz gebracht. Und schließlich ist die Vorstellung geschlossen und kann endlich beginnen.

Die verkrampfte Hand kann sich endlich entspannend. Und der Kopf ist wieder frei und ruhig und in der Lage, sich auf das Leben zu konzentrieren.