Category Archives: Humor
Applied Infant Psychology for the Endurance Athlete
A few years back we found ourselves regular babysitters for a toddler, Sloan. Her parents would drop her off with us and then head out for some non-parenting time.
I vividly remember one night when they brought her over, plopped her down on our bed, and said we could just let her lay there and squirm. They explained that it was time for her to, “process the day”. As one of her parents is a psychologist I accepted this as fact, and somehow it stayed with me. Today, it all came back as I headed out for my late morning run.
My own head was filled with fragmented thoughts; an issue of a stolen photo, marketing ideas, managing 2 businesses with much to do, learning Italian, travel plans, etc… I think there was even a random AC/DC song as background noise. Internal chaos. As I entered the forest on singletrack, the external noise dropped away, it was just me, my foot steps and I. My only company was the occasional chirping of a bird. My head was turning everything over, 4 seconds on this before 2 seconds on that, and so on and so on. Then it struck me. Sloan, on our bed, processing her day.
While I was not horizontal surrounded in pillows, I was churning along with both my legs and arms just as she did. It is likely my face held a semi-blank stare at the trail ahead, just as she stared blankly at the Ikea light fixture on our ceiling. I realized that this time we give ourselves as athletes is critical for our development as adults, more so for our sanity in a busy society. Why should it be any different as adults? The individual endurance athlete who seeks solitude in their training is certainly also seeking the comfort that comes from being in their own peaceful world. Personally, I never return from my training in anything but a relaxed state of mind. I can leave agitated, but I always return centered.
Also posted in Personal Story, Random Thoughts, Trail Running
Tagged Endurance Sport, Mountain Sports, Trail Running
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Under the Watchful Eye
I was a Catholic school boy, trained to feel guilty for nearly everything I did while growing up. At some point I began to wander away from the church, my drifting turned to speeding and soon Confession and Guilt were items I had left in my wake with the discovery of life and all its many wonders. One memory that still resides in my head are the eyes of the Christ figure. No matter where I sat in class, no matter what I did, those eyes were upon me. Christ on the cross is found most everywhere in Italy, trail sides, the random homes yard, in town, and even on summits. I still look at them, still wonder if I am doing right, but now with a lifetime of experiences, I smile and consider giving him a wink.
And so today as I rode my bike by a little scene outside a small chapel, not only were the eyes of Christ peering onto the vision before us.
My ride started just before noon, Saturday. As I so often do, I wander from town on a lazy road that winds it’s way through some farmland. Where the road crests there is a tiny chapel sitting entirely alone and receiving sun all day. Outside is a bench optimally facing south, it is a perfect place to sit, soak up warmth, and think of nothing. Today an older couple was just making themselves comfortable as I pedaled by.
A loaf of bread, some cheese, a tomato, an apple, and the obligatory, and influential, bottle of wine. Our eyes met, smiles were exchanged, and a pop of the cork sent me off down the small descent. This is a scene run across countless times each day in Italy.
Two hours later, returning to town, I was making my way back up the hill when I noticed that the couple was still in place, but in a decidedly different condition. He was laying on the bench, with his wife’s lap serving as a pillow, she was sprawled out, topless, and enjoying the rotational massage her husband was offering. The wine bottle, having served its purpose, was cast aside and ready for the recycle bin.
As I approached, I felt little shame in having a look. That is until I peered above them and regretfully made eye contact with Christ, hanging there outside the chapel. I held his eyes for a brief moment before his own gaze was redirected, comically, back down to the spectacle beneath him. The things he must see.
Garmin's Virtual Training Partner
So I got my new Garmin Forerunner 405 the other day. A watch, a GPS, a training tool, a little coach in a watch.
I used it for the first time today training ski rando. All worked perfectly until this little window kept rotating through telling me I was behind my virtual partner. It even had a little guy running along, in font of my little guy.
Huh? I was livid, I went faster but no matter what I did, the little icon man stayed off the front. Soon I had sweat dripping off my hair, as I went higher an icicle formed and dangled in front of my eyes, irritating me that much more. I was afraid to slow to deal with my icicle for fear of little icon man disappearing off the screen. Thankfully I was reaping the rewards of an all new playlist, Forza, and rather than bluegrass twanging in my earbuds I had Tool taking root in my pscyhe. I was ready to fight.
And fight I did, by the time I got to the top I had closed in on my little virtual buddy. I thought I would take him on the descent so as if in a race, I stopped, ripped off my skins, threw the downhill lever on my boots, stashed the skins inside my chest pockets and was off. Down I flew on the hard pack ice, no longer able to look at the screen, I hoped for the best in my efforts and stubbornness.
10 minutes later I was finished and like a downhiller made my last turn to stop outside the Kronplatz bar, ever thumping with techno. With my quads screaming in protest of my ridiculous descent, I pulled back my shirtsleeve and with gloved finger hit the pause button. But wait, where is he? No, I had not just paused the little battle, I had stopped it altogether, he was gone, off to the showers. Unless I really read the manual, will I ever know the outcome? Does it really matter? And just what does this say about my personality?
Swiss Fasnacht: Luzern
In the silence of the early morning darkness two gorillas followed us to town. Ahead could be heard the roar of party goers, firecrackers and traditional Carnival music, known to the Swiss as Guggenmusik. My legs, still sore from the previous day’s ski race, forced us to descend the steep stairs to the city of Luzern slowly allowing the gorillas to pass by, leaving in their wake a fog of alcohol.
At 5 a.m., the prospect of a raging party in the ice cold rain seems like something I would go back to sleep and avoid. But I was excited, it was my first Fasnacht, the ancient and traditional festival to force away the dark, winter spirits and prepare for spring and warmer temperatures. In modern times, it is a 6 day, round the clock party that allows the Swiss to cut loose. Mayhem, chaotic, jubilant, filthy, and loud are not words typically used to describe the Swiss, but for this week all pretenses are dropped. Hiding behind beautifully constructed masks, they let’er rip.
I was skeptical to wake in the dark, put on a dress and mask then dance through the early morning hours in a sleet storm. But, hours later, sitting in a cafe, my legs newly sore from dancing, I was anything but upset about the early wake up. Fasnacht is something everyone should experience. Like everything the Swiss do, it is perfect.
Janine in costume
A mask from a band member
For one brief moment, the sun appeared, and with it a family of sunflowers
Urban ski touring
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Precious Timing…
Sharing life via a Blog… We all have these precious moments, but how many really share with so little shame?
As I was standing in the living room of our home this morning trying to decide which thickness of Smartwool socks to wear in my race tomorrow, Janine burst our laughing from behind her computer monitor.
This is what she was reading:
Horoscope for Friday, February 20:
Dress for success.
The Moon squares Venus at 7:21AM and you can’t find two socks that match.
It’s a good night to find people who can help you scratch an itch, or solve a problem.
……………..Meanwhile, this was my attire:
Italian Class, as in school
Two nights a week I sit in a room full of intelligent adults and speak like an idiot. We all have our normal lives as professionals, parents and/or business people but still we are forced to gather in an attempt to practice something other than our mother tongue. It makes for comedy, primarily from watching the teacher’s frustration at the consistency in which we screw up in a class that is called “conversational” Italian. Ancient Neandertal conversed as well, although through grunts and stick figure drawings in the dirt, we are not so far off in our methods. In each class I feel like David Sedaris, although unlike Sedaris our teacher does not verbally abuse us, rather she is fascinated by the fact that every student, without exception, bought all of their furniture at Ikea.
Speaking for myself, thankfully in English, I have transitioned into a new level of “student”. I think it comes from not really caring, and knowing that if I fail, at worst, I will just look foolish when trying to get my skis tuned or make changes to my Italian cell phone service. I do take my study of the Italian language seriously, but working all day in English, being self employed and having the necessary communication skills to succeed, it is very, very difficult for me to slow down and find work arounds for my sentences. It is just not natural for me to not have a rapid fire response to, “How is it you are so tan but claim to work fulltime?” Ma va…
Also posted in Life in Italy, Random Thoughts
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Precious Moments
Yesterday, as most readers of this blog were sleeping, an American cyclist in Italy went flying through a tiny village on his road bike.
In an extraordinarily fine mood courtesy of high temperatures, clear skies and an optimal playlist going at high volume in his iPod – the cyclist had one of those moments in life that one can’t help but cherish.
Years ago my closest friend, Mark Leffler, was at a San Francisco symphony. Throughout one piece of music he sat mesmerized to the building intensity, louder and louder until his own energy could barely be contained. Finally, with Mark on the edge of his seat, the music came to an abrupt end and Mark exploded upward applauding and cheering in un-symphony like character. But the piece of music was only pausing and every eye, conductor’s included, turned to Mark, who found himself standing amongst hundreds of black ties cheering as if he were at a hockey game. He later admitted however that it is moments like this that we must live for, to give in to our emotions and just express how we feel.
In an extraordinarily fine mood courtesy of high temperatures, clear skies and an optimal playlist going at high volume in his iPod – the cyclist had one of those moments in life that one can’t help but cherish.
Years ago my closest friend, Mark Leffler, was at a San Francisco symphony. Throughout one piece of music he sat mesmerized to the building intensity, louder and louder until his own energy could barely be contained. Finally, with Mark on the edge of his seat, the music came to an abrupt end and Mark exploded upward applauding and cheering in un-symphony like character. But the piece of music was only pausing and every eye, conductor’s included, turned to Mark, who found himself standing amongst hundreds of black ties cheering as if he were at a hockey game. He later admitted however that it is moments like this that we must live for, to give in to our emotions and just express how we feel.
And so when this cyclist rolled through an Italian village, only to come to the realization from the people’s expressions, that he was loudly and unknowingly singing along at full volume to Brandi Carlile’s live version of Folsom Prison Blues – it too was one of life’s precious moments.
Also posted in Personal Story, Random Thoughts
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Europe's Missing Points
I feel at home, reasonably understand the system and feel like I can get just about anything done.
Yet each time we see Hollywood movies here, especially with Italian friends, I am reminded that I am quite different.
Marianna and I were watching Juno the other night and suddenly she gasped, “Oh my God, what is that?” I’d noticed nothing out of the ordinary but Marianna had zeroed in on something new to her, old to me. The massive Super Tanker filled with slurpy that little Juno was carrying in the film.
1. It was a 2 liter container of something to drink
2. It was a blue beverage
3. Slurpy?
“But why do you need something so large?” – I had no answers. In my head I was imagining all of the many people I see driving around in the US with super sized cokes between their legs, eating Big Macs while steering with their knees.
These daily reminders keep me honest, I never tire of studying the culture and comparing it to my own – it is one of the true joys of living in a foreign land. And to hear from Italians their impression of the US after they visit, is something precious. There is no shortage of laughter comparing cultures, and there is plenty to work with given the state of the US at the moment, and of course Italy is a never ending supply of comedy.
But for a year now something has been absent, something from my own roots that until today, I have not understood. This feeling, this visual component of American life that has been missing but I didn’t fully understand was missing, finally came clear as we watched another Hollywood movie.
The Big Lebowski is missing in Europe.
I don’t just mean the Big Lebowski himself, I mean the potential to have a Big Lebowski, to see them each day you go to town to buy milk. They don’t exist here. Ditto for Clint Eastwood, you just don’t see the Dirty Harry types. Lots of George Michaels, but sadly, no Eastwood.
These figures are products of the American culture. Anything goes, do what you want, do what it takes to get it done and screw you if you don’t like my style.
Janine and I’s own business, PatitucciPhoto, is a direct result of this lifestyle, this attitude and this freedom we have, not any freedom provided to us from the US government, but the freedom we Americans have in our thinking. If we want to go to the grocery store in our bathrobe, we can. In Europe, one can incorporate magenta and teal lycra into their wardrobe just fine, but wearing flip flops with jeans is something best left to savages. Finally, if we need to live in our VW Westfalia to make our business work, then so be it.
There have been a few instances where we have explained to our friends here that we did indeed live in a vehicle. From their reaction it was obvious they considered us barbarians, perhaps rightfully so. But to an American, “Hey, whatever, you did what it took to make it work.”
And just for the record, I would never go to the grocery store in my bathrobe.