Port Hadlock

Originally - a Cabin in Indexxx at Lorne's Landing at the wet foot of the Skykomish. Imagining hot tub & river dip. She ordered - Maine Lobster Now: Lobster Roll Kit - 6 pack. Overnighted to the cabin. Then - the shipping partner for perishables in Tennessee couldn't move product bc of freezing rain & ice. Then - Snow & ice storms in Washington. Vehicles unable to reach the cabin. The cabin cancels. Diverted - to the 3-story Brighton Beach House in Port Hadlock, on a cliff over Port Townsend Bay, peeking Indian Island.

Ferry cafeteria: hot cheese, tater tots, stale pretzels, chowder, fountain sodas. To - Chimacum Corner Farmstand; Henrik in short sprints and scary maybes near the wine bottles. We play the word in our mouths Chim-a-cum. Buddha's Hands are $13.99/lb, smell delicious. 

Play: Linda Perhacs' 1970 album, Parallelograms; the song "Chimacum Rain," a work inspired by Chimacum's natural environment. 

Port Hadlock-Irondale is "a bedroom community for the surrounding towns." Brighton Beach House - off the main floor is a deck with a built-in bar on the railing, overlooks bay. On the deck below, a hot tub with the same, lower, view. A maze of steep stairs winds down to the water. We are between the kitchen, pecking cheeses, and the dining room table working a puzzle that fatigues the brain and eye, calling for respites in intervals. Eat: Hempler's styrofoam-packed meat sticks, queso, guacamole. Watch - American Nightmare, then Love on the Spectrum. The five of us hot tub till pruned. 

Saturday morning we drive to Port Townsend for breakfast at the Blue Moose Cafe. It is quirky but includes bristles of hair in the Ode to Ina scrapple. I want to forget, so I delete the photographs, which is sad because scrapple is full of texture. 

To Fort Worden - The 1898 Endicott Period US Army Coast Artillery Corps meant to protect Puget Sound from invasion turned Nat'l Historic Landmark. Signs dotted, "No Pool Tax." Past: Commanding Officer's Quarters on Officer's Row and the Batteries to Point Wilson Lighthouse. "The forts never fired a hostile shot, and many of the guns were removed during World War I for use in Europe." Here we braid in traverse, re-joining in view of large-headed sea lions, skipping rocks, eyes swallow white ridgeline, playing at brief concrete soccer. 

After - a 20 mile run in unincorporated Chimacum. Off highways, through sad wet parks that smell like damp dog waste. Stop to observe horses & shaggy miniatures & the Egg & I Rd (Betty MacDonald's book, The Egg and I, upon which the Ma and Pa Kettle films were based, described the author's experiences on a chicken farm on the road that became Egg & I Rd). That night she makes homemade focaccia; it is rightfully oily. Listen to Funkadelic - Maggot Brain. The chef has talked up chili burritos to a nay-unrealistic level of hierarchy. The chili is bubbling. Each burrito is made singularly, adorned first in a cheese melt, then red riced, then chili'd, then folded, then browned. 

Sunday morning we pack up and drive to Fort Flagler on Marrowstone Island - Est. 1897, activated 1899, a coast artillery fort, that along with Fort Worden & Fort Casey, once guarded Admirality Inlet, the nautical entrance to Puget Sound as part of a "Triangle of Fire" defensive plan. Closed June 1953. Bursts of deer. A wooden beaver behind bars. Mini churches in neat rows. The cavernous inside, with cemented toilets and disjointed graffiti. 

Our group of women & Henrik drive home in a fit of naps & snacks. 

IAU 50K World Championships - Hyderabad, India

Leading up to the 50k there were some good signs (BBM as a workout in 2:45; Burke-Gilman FKT; probably the best K repeat workout of my life & effort-appropriate at that). With the novelty of the rare-feel-good, the rarity of effortlessness, I’d think about the opposite, its likely imminence. Then I’d reframe, think about coasting, about being in it, as opposed to growing it, needing more. I had this growing anxiety, not about the race, but about the travel to and being in India. I imagine it was in large part due to the changing chemical topography in my brain (having recently come off meds). Anxiety, that fall, claimed leader. A debilitating affliction. It is quite hard to not believe in the bad thoughts, and if you’re spiritual or intuitive in any sense, harder yet to believe you’re not promoting premonitions.

So, I was having all these bad thoughts about India, but training was good. Then, the IAU changed the course (the original was set around Necklace Road & I’d been visualizing it for months), and then I got Covid a few weeks out from departure. See: promoting premonitions. I compartmentalized. As beforementioned, the last time I had it held 2 years of poor health & running thereafter. Through compartmentalization, a generally uninhabited faith for a positive outcome & sheer luck, this covid was tame. I tapered. I sat with the anxiety. I went to the annual Beer Crawl dressed as Lady Godiva, though people wondered if I myself was the horse. And on Sunday, October 29^th I got on the plane.

Sun 10/29 – Flight from SEA to Dubai (14h35m)

Splurged for extra legroom. The Emirates flight crew were pleasant. They didn’t seem stressed or above it. They handed out goods early and often. Gave stuffed toys to the children; took pictures of them on old polaroids. The ceiling pane lit up like stars at night. A meal of chicken, rice, pesto, couscous salad, roll, chocolate mousse, red wine, which sounds nice in words, but had that semi-plastic Easy Bake Oven to it. It’s tiresome that even when you try to help yourself towards comfort, you spend money on tangibly taxed comfort, that really what you’ve done is paid an extra $200 for legroom where people on a long flight like to stand and rock babies and stack their meal trays, all of this stretching of the human experience at the feet of your splurge, meaning, that even when you think you have control of your situation and that money spent on a thing earns ownership of it, is not or never was individually possessed. In the last few hours of flight, a hot breakfast of scrambled eggs, baked beans, potatoes, roll with cream cheese & jam, fruit, OJ, coffee, black tea with cream. The 2hr layover in Dubai was quiet, pristine. Used my first squat-latrine.

Mon 10/30 – Dubai to Hyderabad (3h25m)

The compartments above had more room than the long International. A man took a banana from the attendant’s space (I think it was her personal banana), and she tried to get it back. It was a weird argument, of which the man won. All clutch the tops of the seats as they walk past, creating a couple hour cadence of sudden alert. Each took 5-10 minutes in the bathroom, which was unnerving. Had butter rice, paneer, orzo salad, roll, vermicelli noodle dessert.

Tue 10/31 – 2:40 am arrival in Hyderabad

Customs was rough. They don’t seem to give you claims forms on Int’l flights anymore, nor direct you to where they’re kept at Customs. You just have to know where a stand might be with the documents, hidden between swarths of people. At 2:40 in their morning I stood in line for 1.5 hrs & when it was my turn they turned me away because I didn’t have it ready. I hot-flushed, sweat dripping from my elbows. I had to find the claims form, get back in line, and wait another 2 hours; started to cry. It was my own lack of savvy, but I could have used a kindness. After that sweaty, emotional, inefficient first customs check we were directed to another line so someone could verify that we’d gone through the previous one. And then another line for the scans. Except I guess I put myself in the men’s line, and it took me way too long to figure out that it was their custom that I had to be scanned by a female, in a curtained room. All the while, I’ve got someone from outside calling me every 2 minutes (but I don’t speak Telagu or Hindi & they don’t speak English) and I just say, Idon’tunderstandI’msorryIwassupposedtobeoutofherehoursagoifyou’rewaitingonmejustleaveit’sok.

I had booked that first night at the Marriott Hyderabad on Hussain Sagar Lake, where the 50K course was originally to be held, so I could tour it before moving to the host hotel. And I booked a car from the hotel to pick me up from the airport to take me there. I’d heard (as should be the case for all situations anywhere), that you shouldn’t get into a car with two men you don’t know (as a woman). I figured the person calling me incessantly was my driver from the Marriott. After many hours in the airport I popped out at baggage to a sign that read my name. The person had been waiting there for me since 2:40 am. I was too tired to be too embarrassed. He wasn’t speaking to me and started jogging to the parking lot. Dripping sweat, myself jogging, I tried to keep him 10ft in view as we weaved. He calls someone, and a car pulls up, and then suddenly I’m in an unassuming/non-hotel-affiliated personal car with two men, in the dark early hours of Halloween morning, and we don’t understand each other. They pay to exit, and I have no idea if I’m supposed to pay them back. It’s my first taste of Indian driving, and it’s enthralling. Too weary to be afraid; it’s a hallmark that there’s someone slowly walking across the highway amidst brightly colored cargo trucks (See: the Psychedelic World of Indian Truck Art & “Second Wives”) and all of us maneuver around in a fit of near miss. A first taste in the culture of driving, in the language of honk.

I’m thinking these men are taking me to the Marriott, but they deposit me at Greenpark (the host hotel, of which I’d stay the majority of the trip, but not that night). It takes me a while to deduce that they were hired by the IAU to pick up athletes (some kind of signage would have been helpful). Since I’m there, I want to verify that I’m good to check in the following day and grow wearier when they don’t have a reservation for me. They’ve not heard of this IAU 50K World Championships of which they’re the host hotel. I tell them I’ll just check back tomorrow, but they’re curious, and though they have no idea what’s going on, and though I’m there a day early, and though there’s no rooms currently available, they convince me to stick around. I’m nervous to cancel my res at the Marriott when everything seems awry, but also relish the idea of staying in one place, there, then.

I’m following the thread of the universe’s push & pull. They’re kind – store my bags, get me access to the gym. I was rudely assigned a workout for that day. Did 3E, 20m T, 5m E, 5x 45s/1m, 2E. Cricket played on the tv. Others milled in. I was drenched. After, in the adjoining courtyard, I sat down under the trees to cool. A nice man came to sit beside and asked about what I’d done on the treadmill. He introduces himself as the chef of Once Upon a Time, calls for coffee for us. We spend a lot of time converting miles to kilometers. Says all the employees get 1hr/day benefit of the gym as a work perk; says he got 40 minutes in & needs it as he pats his small rotund. We talk and drink and he calls someone to ask about expediting my room. He’s incredibly kind and it roots me into presence, a little.

GREENPARK – The Greenpark hotel is first facing and sister of Marigold by Greenpark (the elevated, more sumptuous sibling). It is an Indian 4-star’r located in Ameerpet, Greenlands, Begumpet in the northwest part of Hyderabad, Telangana, and was perhaps chosen for its close’ish prox to the original 50k course. Strangely (or logistically necessary), federations were split across Greenpark & Marigold, which seemed a slight because one was better than the other, and one had a week’s long construction project occurring, while the other did not. Also strange was that online the prices were far less expensive than what we’d been charged through IAU’s bill to our federation which then billed each of us. The US team lodged at Greenpark; we got construction in a nice 8-5 window & with it hammering, outages & for some, non-working toilets. I don’t mind a bit of grit, don’t need a ton of comfort, but when competing teams receive different comforts it’s shit. Irritation likely influenced by Team GB’s shacking at Marigold with its rooftop pool & finer dining, their federation’s aid of cooling ice vests & use of bone conduction headphones while racing (and, in the end their win, on several levels). Anyhow, it was lovely in its way, felt safe & secure, had nice dining options within, came with a mini-fridge of Kingfishers, bottled water, baby food pouches & a dry bar stocked with cookies & chips on the daily.

At 10am the room was ready. Took a shower, washed my running clothes within. Unpacked. Took what I hoped would be a minor nap – it was 8hrs. It was 8pm, then; I read until 2am, fell asleep and woke well-rested at 5:20am on Wednesday Nov 1, my mother’s birthday.

Wed NOV 1 – A temple chant or call to prayer haunted the dark morning. 3 miles on the treadmill. I put on what appeared to be Indian TRL. Met US teammates for breakfast at the hotel’s buffet, which offered the following each day: breads, jams & coconut chutney, doughnuts, muffins, banana cake, dry fruit cakes, Danish pastries, croissants, stew fruits, cold & hot milks, butter milk, millets, Ragi Java, sweet lassi, strawberry milkshakes, canned mango juice, fresh watermelon juice, gunpowder (?), ghee, boiled eggs in a silver dish of salt, egg Bhurji, chicken sausages grilled with tomatoes & onions, boiled vegetables, potato wedges, vegetable korma, semiya utta pam, vada, Daliya Upma, Aloo Paratha, Pongal, corn Idly, Sambar, an omelet bar, a silver-kettled coffee bar.

Attempted a walk from the hotel. Greenpark sits on the lip of a busy (but what is not) 4-lane highway (2 each direction, no pedestrian space alongside except for that which is carved forcefully, jaggedly), broken by a thin center median & above, a sky rail. There’s hardly a pause in the traffic of a single lane, let alone the 4 that comprises. It is a skill, a confidence. Found it funny that an old woman trailed my every move across in the fits and quicks. I imagine she thought I’d be hit first. Observed men at sewing machines on the street in front of fabric stores, small box trucks selling singular produce (plump baby tomatoes, small purple onions, fruits). A 7-11. A motorcycle with a long strand of matted braided hair wrapped around the bars. Bank atm (10,000 INR/day max + $2.40 fee). Grocery store – where I purchased a liter of water, a razor & 2 pointed packets of henna.

1:30 pm – A few of us took a car to Sagar Hussain Lake. While running we were stopped to see if perhaps we wanted weed, specifically, pointedly, one of us specifically – Kats standing there with a water bottle in each hand and the potential salesman trying to shake his hand; a concessionary fist bump. Toured the edge, the garden. The sidewalk, where there was one, was tilted with low limbs, peeping the subtle outline of buildings blurred by thick smog. Families scootered past, barefoot, babies between their bodies. Women [only] working a construction site carrying squares of concrete on their heads. (Considered the “Invisible Workforce,” “…women are mostly hired to head-load bricks and cement bags, mix mortar and cement, sift sand or clean.”) They make up half of the 40-million sector.

Dinner later at the hotel – grated beetroot, aloo chana chaat, French bean & egg salad, chicken tikka salad, curd rice, dahl vada, chicken masala, chepala pulusu, anda hara masala, chicken biryani, raita, mirchi ka salan, paneer jalfrezi, kadai, vegetable curry, aloo pepper fry, vankaya batani curry, dal tadka, rasmalai, linzer torte, modatha kuja, Anamika burfi, rose kalakand, delhi ka laddu, hot chocolate brownie & gulab jamin. A midnight biryani was made available.

Thurs 11/2 – Woke with energy at 4:20am. Breakfast offered the same selection as the day previous. At 9:45am the team met to take cars to Sri Kotla Vijay Bhaskara Reddy Botanical Garden (45m-1hr drive for 350-400 INR x 1-way). The garden is in Kothaguda, Kondapur, Hitec City and was created to “conserve and develop the germ plasm and to educate the people.” 274 acres of medicinal plants, timber & fruit trees, ornamentals, aquatics, bamboos, rolling meadows, grasslands, rock formations, large figurines of wild animals, a male-only gym in the shape of a turtle. The sky was a more vacant blue, the heat laid thicker sans immediate smog. Schoolchildren cheered for us. Though stimulating & safe, I did not enjoy this run. Broke out in a heat rash. We meandered the park after: paddleboaters, a massive building in build, a ropes set with a wire across the sky, a bicycle rigged to the wire; a man bicycled backwards and forwards.

Lunch – Corn & chicken soup, hara mutter soup, paneer methi-malai, dhingri palak bake, gobi mutter, zaffrani aloo korma, palak patta pakora, Donda kaya palli fry, tomato pappu, akuri, murgh lababdar, kheema mutter, tawa fish, military chicken biryani, raita, michi ka salan, subz dum biryani, bisibelebath, lemon rice, dahi wada, a selcection of wet veg and dry snacks. Dessert – fruits (pineapple, melons, watermelon), almond financier, motichur laddu, rasmafal, chocolate burfi, khasta goja, dry fruit burfi, lapsi, rasgulla, kesar kalakand, double ka meetha, coconut mascarpone cake, gulab jamun & opera cake.

After – a few of us walked Ameerpet Rd. outside the hotel to a bookstore, to the grocery. I was quite tired, really for the first time, in that deep way. Laid down for a few hours. Up for dinner, for a buffet they set up for the athletes, downstairs at GP – a smaller selection with Chinese noodles, soup, butter chicken, yellow ice cream with toffee, a sponge cake in a cold white broth.

Team Mtg #1 – We were given Credentials, spoke on plans for ice, a freezer chest, sponges, de-fizzed coke, how the aid stations would work, the amt of and location of portos on course, bibs, chips, shoe tags. The Brits had been allowed on the racecourse that day, saying their “Government sent them,” but we would not have approved access until Saturday, the day before the race.

Fri 11/3 – Woke around 2am for a bit, again at 6:20. Went to Kallin’s room where they were streaming football and drinking good coffee. Met the team at 7:30 where we uber’d back to the botanical garden for a 4-mile run. After, a few older Indian men asked us for a picture then entertained us with calisthenics & sun salutations (upon which the lead entertainer said that he does 130 cal-sun-salu’s a day). They had just finished some yoga in the park. Wanted to know how old each of us were. Went around guessing. A pretty even 10-year-under guess per. I was 29. Feigned shock when each woman offered her age – a gentleman.

Brunch at the hotel. Rest. Back alley to the Marigold, to its rooftop pool. Bumped into John the Irishman. Lin, Megan, Irish, Adam & I cooled by the pool. CD’s hung from string, tickling the water to stave birds.

Lunch – Breadstuffs, rasgulla, roasted chilli lime chicken legs with gremolata, grilled fish with lemon butter sauce & capanota, Mexican corn, baked ratatouille, cauliflower mornay, vegetable hakka, penne arrabiata, corn samosa, sweet corn vegetable soup, corn salad, slaw, chickpea salad (lots of corn shit).

An afternoon coffee at the Marigold lounge with most of the team. We asked each other get-to-know-yous, about pets and Kats starts talking about his cat, says,

“He’s got a sprained ankle and diabetes.

…and he’s my best friend.

…His name is Junkyard.”

Dinner (downstairs GP) – Corn, tomato, basil & beet salad, lemon coriander soup, jalapeno cheese poppers, grilled fish in a creamy cheese sauce with olive tapenade, garlic parmesan chicken with mushroom duxelles, Singapore noodles, baked peperonata, roasted ginger sweet potatoes with coconut milk.

Sat 11/4: 6am - Talked with Sloane about race plan. We thought on a good day with good race specs I could hit 6:05s, but with the heat, air quality and course, maybe 6:20-40s. The US team was given approval to preview the course at Hyderabad University (via the LOC). We adopted a Brit for the day, my sweet friend C. Molinaro. Took 3-4 ubers over and were denied entry by the guards at the gate to the University. They feigned unawareness that a race was to be had there the following day. The whole experience was perturbing, a test of patience. A steady line of motorcycles, cars & small buses filled with children, their faces pressed to the glass observing us standing awkwardly at the entrance in a burst of red, white & blue. Vadeboncouer was in touch with the LOC, our team leads, the school, trying to gain us that promised access. Several grew weary & uber’d back to the hotel; it was hard to know which end to take, but pacing, exposed there under the Hyderabad sun for an hour while a cacophony of bats the size of eagles chittered in the trees and curious ragged dogs milled, the day before the race, didn’t seem entirely bright. After an hour the guards let what was left of us in. No evident reasoning, aside from, perhaps, they had asserted their power for an appropriately adopted amount of time.

The few of us left incl. Molinaro ran the course, which constituted a 5k loop that we’d do 10x’s. Did 4-5 strides. Uber’d back to catch the last of breakfast. Prepped bottles.

Lunch: Pimped (?) vegan tomato soup with breadcrumbs, mint cucumber salad, kidney beans, Moroccan lentil meatballs with roasted red pepper sauce, grilled fish with cheese/garlic/olive tapenade, roasted eggplant parmesan, creamy polenta cakes with cheese sauce, roasted butternut squash with curried coconut/mint/peas/ghee, spicy vegetable spring rolls, double ka meetha, cantaloupe, butterscotch ice cream.

Met with Lin to discuss crewing/aid (her being & having been my crew on two previous world teams). Finalized 10 btls in total with every other liquid Maurten & Liquid IV or Nuun Sport, plus gels, ginger candies. Sipped a cup of strong coffee. Watched Andrea on the Athlete Panel. 5:15 pm – we had another Team meeting in the lobby in our podium suits.

OPENING CEREMONIES

Disney Britney held our US sign. We took photos with team India. Walked out to the courtyard at Greenpark, the night dark; a woman blessed us with a dip of red dotted at center forehead, another placed a necklace of heavy pearls around our neck. To the stage against a pixelated US flag. Brief talks by Nadeem & the WMA Lead. A beautiful 10-minute performance by Indian dancers ornamented in traditional dress, their hands & feet dipped & decorated in vivid ink. They danced against a digital backdrop, an acid screen of moving shapes & spirals set to music. It was mesmerizing but thwarted by poor connectivity. The music would cut out & they’d freeze in place, muted, a slight tremor in the holding.

After – the pre-race dinner, pasta-focused, a little lagging in the reload. Slept well enough, not a lot, nor little.

Sun 11/5 – IAU 50K World Championships

2-4 am – Woke; able to fall back asleep until 4. Light stretching/rolling, coffee with sugar, 2 packets of oatmeal, light makeup, long braid. Prepped Maurten bi-carb.

5:15 am - To the lobby where the team congregated. Coffee to-go. A large Bharat Benz bus took US through a black morning & light traffic to Hyderabad U. Ate the bicarb en route about 1.5 hrs before the start.

6:20 am – Arrived. It appeared we were the last to; all the other nations’ tables were set up.

7 am – The race started, surprisingly, on time. The course held a gentle downhill before turning sharply left along a wide speedbump. Quite quickly a small group of women separated themselves, comprising of the Brits & Andrea. A larger second pack (myself within) kept them in sight, but didn’t bridge that immediate gap for a while: two locked paces. Though we’d toured the course the day before, we didn’t see how the turnarounds would look as the course hadn’t been marked at the time. I was aware of the speedbumps, how large & cumbersome they could be and assumed we’d do a 180-turn around the center median, or perhaps worse, a cone, which IAU and other cruel race curators are apt to incorporate. You think you’ve got the worst-case scenarios envisioned & that you’re at least mentally prepped for an assortment of odd, and IAU/local governing body laughs & says, hold my beer. When we got out to the edgemost part of the course, there was a water table on the left, followed 15ft later by a thin sheet of particle board/composite plywood covering a divot, a ditch or wires beneath, directly followed by a cone-to-180 around. If this doesn’t paint a good picture, know that a water station next to particle board = wetslip decomposing & a 180deg cone after a wetslip decomposing particle board = a pretty riotous downshift in gears & momentum and subsequent clogging. I’m being explicit, because, I think this is how I got severely injured. Otherwise, I’d chalk it to a weird quirk that added a cross country feel to an otherwise monotonous course. And, this all, because they only wanted/only could close 1 lane on the course, the other still open to traffic.

This was a fun finding that I don’t think maddened anyone, at least immediately…we would have to experience it 10 times. Here are other fun findings:

-          Though our side of the road was said to be closed to traffic, people in cars, on motorcycles, on foot & stray dogs meandered across the course; you had to be on the alert. This would go on to include ambulances who had to pick up athletes in distress.

-          Though those manning the water stations started out well enough, they ran out of steam & water. At times they wouldn’t let go of the cup. With the increase in heat, they seemed to grow lethargic and would stand on the course on their phones, sleepily checked out (can’t blame them). Then, in a fun culmination, after we’d been racing for a few hours and the heat permeated and the water ran out, they lazed about under the trees. They did, however, set out all the empty cups in lines on the table, so that you’d excitedly reach for one only to find -  

-          The heat registered around mid-high 70s and grew against a sweatered humidity. I’d imagine this was a large reason why half the field dropped, and why some were picked up by ambulance, and why the portos held soup & why poop streamed down some of their legs, and why it was so key that the Brits were afforded Nike cooling vests by their federation. Mid-high 70’s doesn’t sound too bad on paper, but pair it with humidity & smog and therein lies the distress.

I planned for the heat. The other factors, however, I figured, were owed to be done decently. With these things, a person was kept on their toes. It was (in my opinion) such a literal & figurative shitshow that I relaxed into the madness, into the lack of control. I also received a gift of distraction, or, a cherry to the shit, where surviving to the finish would mean more than nitpicking the small nuance in fear that it would affect competitive performance.   

Before halfway (near mile 15), I was going over one of those super speedbumps and in a sudden strike felt my calf lock, ache, give. There wasn’t a telling pop, but it was sudden & severe. I was halfway through a loop, stopped to stretch, massage. Started again. I hadn’t experienced such before. Figured it was a cramp. Slowed a bit. Made it to the US aid station (of which we’d pass once each loop), and asked Lin & Meghan about it. Meghan figured it was a cramp/knot and worked on the spot with rigor. Near vommed from the pain. I hydrated & took in some salt tabs hoping it would go away. Started another loop. Stopped several more times to rub; slowed furthermore, trying to find a pace or a posturing. Wishfully, though idiotically, I took in somewhere like 10 salt tabs. This was not good bodily, later. Just before the calf crap, I was feeling v confident in how I was performing. I had played it smart. My pack was fizzling but I was slowly reeling the lead group in. I felt confident that I could slowly bridge; felt inspired, curious, proud of myself, playful. And then, in a second, it changed (as it does).

Thought a lot about pros/cons the next 2 hours. It seemed wisest to drop so that I could curb the worst & save myself for CIM & the larger goal of an OTQ, but, I bargained: They think it’s a cramp…can’t let the team down…I ran, entirely compromised, babying, dragging, single-leggedly, like a fool.

The positive is that I got to watch the race unfold: the Spaniards’ confident claim, Carla’s feral break of the lead pack and Andrea’s nearly matching – her concentration. Experienced Melissa overtaking, her steadiness, the look of otherware on the face of Disney Britney, the body-clutch and seizing of Alexandra, her 10-pack pulsing; played back-and-forth with Ildi. A looped Championship course affords observation & the opportunity to celebrate people in real time.   

Carla, my love, dom'd with the win, followed by Andrea a little over 30s later. 3rd was Sarah Webster of GBR a minute's more. Bright spots of humid laud. Scoring forthe US was Andrea (2nd), Melissa (11th), and myself (14th). GBR won Team Gold, US - Silver & Croatia - Bronze. The only other scoring team was India for 4th. 

I’m shocked I finished, baffled further I scored & proud of our Team Silver. It doesn’t feel meritous in that way where you’ve gone against the best and your mettle is tangible, rather we got Silver against a field of which near 50% dropped, there ending with 31 total (F) finishers, with 4 total scoring teams, against a backdrop of smog and volunteers laying prostrate under the trees and people with so much GI distress drug testing was basically nonviable…

Individual Women’s Results

Women’s Team Results

ESP swept 1st - 3rd & Team Gold. Silver was India (rad), and GBR was Bronze. Our men were 4th, led by Adam Vadeboncoeur (11th), Bijan Mazaheri (20th) & Mike Katsefaras (22nd). 

Individual Men’s Results

Men’s Team Results

*Race Report by Jacek Bedkowski (IAU Director of Communication) 

It’s a different kind of post-race pain when you run compromised for 16+ miles. Though physically miserable, my attitude was more upbeat than not, likely held in the fragile hug of team camaraderie, of bonding in misery, in relief. All of us save for Andrea, who was held up in drug testing, boarded the bus, waiting for her to be done. A round of beer would have been pleasant here. I looked down to see Smogoleski’s young son’s foot, which had a tracking tag attached. Made me laugh. Near last to leave, we bused the hour+ back to Greenpark. I came to find I looked & felt pregnant. My stomach/guts were so swollen I’m not sure I could see below the bulge. I think this was due to either a) salt tab overkill b) 0-100 biryani consumption.

1pm –  a lunch spread of pastas, Indian noodle dishes, breads.

3pm – Awards ceremony in the GP courtyard (top 3, WMA’s, team awards). We encouraged some of our men to find celebratory beverages, so they risked their lives to cross the street for stock, though once acquired, no lobby or outdoor area would warrant our imbibe. Had coffee & snacks at Conçu, a café and cake boutique adjoining GP.

6:30pm – Afterparty on the rooftop pool deck of the Marigold. Given how difficult it was to acquire & partake and just the overall logistical vibe of the week, I was surprised by the Lit nature of the afterparty. Dimlit & adorned in blue-bulbed blacklight, a bar pouring wine (Fratelli Cab Sauv, Cab Franc Shiraz & Chenin Blanc) and beer (Kingfishers, etc). An elaborate spread of silver-tin buffet foods:

 

Savories

-          Malai Paneer Tikka: mouth-watering app of paneer, fresh cream, cashew paste, cheese cubes & a mélange of spices

-          “Cajun Fried Fish Finger”

-          Curd Papad Pickle Mixed Vegetable Raitha: cool & refreshing curd-based dish

-          Sambar: thick lentil stew made with toor dal aka lentils, mixed vegetables, tamarind & a special spice powder known as sambar masala powder

-          Butter Pepper Rice

-          Vegetables Parmigiana

-          “Baked Vegetable Princess” : In research, perhaps this was a recipe of Chef S Gopu Krishna’s, vegetarian, with creamy bechamel sauce

-          Mutter Paneer: North Indian dish of cottage cheese & peas cooked in spicy curry (‘Matar’ is Hindi for ‘peas,’ and ‘paneer’ for “Indian cheese.’)

-          Veg Hakka Noodles: Indo-Chinese quick stir fry noodles w/ onions, bell peppers, cabbage, etc

-          “Slice Chicken in Chilly Garlic Sauce”

-          Chicken Dum Biryani

-          Lamb Pie: curried shepherd’s pie

-          Grilled Fish with Lemon Butter Sauce

-          Chicken Almond Soup

Sweets

-          Malai Chum Chum: Bengali sweet made with paneer, soaked in syrup & coated with rich, creamy malai

-          blueberry cheese cake

-          Rasgulla: syrupy ball-shaped dumplings of chhena dough

 

We ate, drank, stood in circles, traded merch in a mass clothing exchange (some pieces more coveted than others, namely the really sick Japanese gear). Britney did a fashion show in España-ware. Until too tired to continue, we departed for bed by 9:30pm.

MON 11/6 – Packed. Down to breakfast to meet with remaining teammates & Carla. Talked about strategies communicated pre/during the race. A spouse likened their crewing and the whole of the experience to Harry Potter’s Tri-Wizard tournament. Checked out of GP; they kindly stored our bags so we could tour Golconda Fort. Uber’d with Carla, her parents, Melissa & Irish John to the Fort. Passed a “Free Chai Counter,” a place where you could set your chai down off the highway.

GOLCONDA - can be traced back to the 11^th c and is regarded as a Monument of National Importance. Originally began as a small mud fort, expanded upon to defend the western region, then furthermore into a fortified citadel, further still with each Qutb Shahi sultan. “It remained the capital of the Qutb Shahi dynasty until 1590 when the capital was shifted to Hyderabad…The fort finally fell into ruin in 1687 after an eight-month-long siege led to its fall at the hands of the Mughal emperor…who ended the Qutb Shahi reign and took the last Golconda king, Abul Hassan Tana Shah, captive.” (4) distinct forts are enclosed with a 10km long outer wall, 87 semicircle bastions (some with cannons), 8 gateways 4 drawbridges, royal apartments, halls, temples, mosques, magazines, stables, tombs of the Qutub Shahi kings.

No lines at Golconda save for a throng of haggling tour guides. Entry was 30 for locals and 300 for foreigners. We walked the Fort through, sweating, pigeons and bats cooing and fluttering in the dark alcoves of the inner chambers. Men hung high by rope held by hand swording the green growth between the fort’s stones. Everyone gravitated our way or goggled, which was odd but sort of understandable – all of us there (I’d imagine) to experience ancient history, but distracted by blondes? We (or more specifically the milky-skinned & uber-blonde Melissa) had photoshoots. Irish John stood atop vistas swinging his camera from a string in circles (this didn’t even draw attention away from the blonde). We hiked to the highest point (about 1km) – to the ‘Bala Hisar’ pavilion and the Jagadamba Temple. Saw a most aristocratic long-haired white, flat-faced cat on a leash, there, at the temple.

We drove back to have lunch at GP, at Concu. A cappuccino, a warm, slow-roasted root veg salad (garbanzo beans, spicy honey harissa, sour cream spread, root vegetables & toasted ciabatta). A trio of cakes: Midnight Sonnet (chocolate French biscuit) & 2 selections by Carla. Ate over Darjeeling tea served in a glass pot with 2 petite glass mugs. Said our goodbyes. Irish John’s flight was out early the next morning & he didn’t have any plans until then, so he became my built-in 24hr travel-companion.

From Greenpark John & I took a car over to an Airbnb I had set up for the night. I had wanted to experience an in-home feel in Hyderabad, and the prices were incredibly low. Chose one for its quirk and proximity to Hussain Sagar. It could also host like 14 people, and I thought, perhaps I’d feel monied or that I’d make good friends and invite them to stay in one of my numerous rooms...A large condo flat on the top floor of a tall building with a purple kitchen & a big circle bed in the main. We were welcomed by the host upon entry. Despite all the space, I felt unnerved & a bit unsafe. I was glad the host had seen me arrive with John. We dropped our bags and headed out on foot towards the lake.

To Telangana Martyrs Memorial – built for the 369 students who died during the 1969 “agitation for a separate Telangana state.”

To NTR Gardens – where we left our sock & shoes at the front entrance & walked around N.T. Rama Rao’s Memorial.

Past the Telangana Secretariat. To the foot of the 125ft golden B.R. Ambedkar Statue. To Prasads Multiplex, whose entry process included checking our personal bag, being scanned & body-searched in a curtained room. Within: a movie theatre with popcorn in glass cases & garra rufa (fish pedicures). Walking around Khairatabad, past vendors & sweet shops before landing at the Central Court Hotel off Lakdi Ka Pul Rd. for 650 mL Kingfishers & a bowl of warm peanuts. Men smoked, drinking from a tabled whiskey. Ordered another round. Walked back to the Airbnb, where we’d hang until John left for the airport. Slept fitfully on the circle bed, the air-conditioning unit dripping a puddle on the floor at the foot.

TUE 11/7

Woke in the circle, the hazy skyline from the open window. Quick cold shower, Uber to Taj Krishna to drop bags and meet Kallin & his dad for further explore.

To Charminar: “four minarets,” a monument constructed in 1591. Popular & thickly busy. The Laad Bazaar, the richly ornamented Makkah Masjid. Sweet green cane juice.

To Chowmahalla Palace: of the Nizams of Hyderabad State. Seat of power of the Asaf Jahi dynasty (1720-1948). Converted to museum (the family still owns it). The grand Khilwat (Durbar Hall) with its 19 enormous chandeliers of Belgian crystal. Afzal Mahal, Mahtab Mahal, Tahniyat Mahal & Aftab Mahal are built symmetrically opposite to each other, and are in the Neoclassical style. Each have double heighted verandahs/facades lined with European-style columns (Iconic order and Corinthian columns). The clock tower or Khilafat clock, 3 storeys high, in Mughal style & ticking since 1750. “An expert family of horologists winds the mechanical clock every week.” A collection of vintage cars includes a 1911 yellow Rolls-Royce & a 1937 Buick convertible, used by the Nizam Kings.

To Salar Jun Museum on the southern bank of the river Musi: 50 for Indians, 500 for Foreigners; 39 galleries span 3 buildings. Originally the private collect of the Salar Jung family, it was endowed to the nation after the death of Salar Jung III. Collections range from 2^nd c BC to early 20^th c AD. 46,000 art objects, 8,000 manuscripts, 60,000 printed books. Indian (miniature & modern paintings, bronzes, textiles, ivory, jade, bidri ware, arms & armour, stone scultpures, wood carvings, metal-ware, manuscripts), Middle Eastern/Persian (carpets, manuscripts, ceramics, glass, metal-ware, furniture, lacquer, a range of figurative & narrative Persian carpets depicting stories of “Khusrau” is “among the prized possessions of the museum,” Nepalese, Japanese/Chinese (porcelain, bronze, enamel, lacquer-ware, embroidery, paintings, wood & inlay work) and Western art (oil paintings, glass, ivory, enamel-ware, clocks). Considered to probably host the largest collection of Bidri ware in the world. “The most treasured masterpiece of the museum is the ‘Veiled Rebecca,’ a marble sculpture by G B. Benzoni bought by Salar Jung I when he visited Italy in 1876.” There’s a children’s section with a myriad of objects (train from the early 20^th century, toy armies, etc). In trying to absorb, exhaustion set in.

Uber’d from the Taj to the airport. Flight 1 – HYD to DUBAI. Dinner of lentil & bean chaat w/ savory mix, Hariyali murgh with steamed basmati rice, vegetable kadai (mushroom, cauliflower, paneer, potato in spicy gravy with coriander rice, Kesar chum chum (saffron flavored cottage cheese sweet) & chocolate. Watched Scrapper, winner of the Grand Jury Prize at Sundance. Napped across empty seats.

Marhaba Lounge for 8 hours reading Rupi Kaur’s The Sun & Her Flowers over a red wine, a white. Hummus, grilled tomato, a small bowl of olives, flat whites, a nap. Washed face. Light breakfast. Tech store for a battery pack, India having killed the juicing powers of my phone, or the cords. Explored Dubai airport. Throat growing sore.

The last flight DUBAI > SEA. 14 hours 40 minutes. Purchased extra leg room. A cold plate of houmous, anari & red Leicester with tomato & cucumber, grilled chicken medallion and scrambled eggs with sauteed mushrooms, tomato-pepper sauce and shredded potatoes, crepes with custard, berry compote & fried raisins, cashews, pistachios, fresh fruit, shell pasta salad with sun-dried tomato pesto, olives, peppers, chicken joojeh kabob with tomato sauce & saffron rice, bhindi masala with spiced okra, ghee & curried lentils with garlic. Dessert of apple caramel mousse & vanilla ice cream with biscuit crumble. Finished with the Emirates vegetarian pizza.

After a week of no progress with my calf, I went in for imaging. They made me do (as they do) the dumb ass XR first, then an MRI which showed a Grade II tear of both the soleus & gastroc. Wild the gastroc went too, as friend of the sprinter, and sprinting was the opposite of what I was doing in India. Best case scenario – I’d be out for a few weeks. Worst case scenario – I’d be out for a few months, and my shot at the Trials standard would be over. 

Extraneous Notes: 

At the time of this trip the Indian Rupee (INR) is:

1 INR = 0.012 USD
1 USD = 83.01 INR

*1 INR is subdivided into 100 paise 

Before the '23 IAU 50K World Championships

The IAU 50K World Championships were/was/is a slippery son of a bitch, slithering from its run in '19 in Brasov, Romania, choked by Covid (as all), meandering time & place, briefly flirting with Taiwan, Jordan, South Africa, then, deposited in India in '23, 4 years later. In the spring/summer, with a confidence that can only be a mark of delusion or an enamory of the concept of Team, I confidently (blindly) committed. The team was new by way of IAU Int'l Champ racing, but bountiful in accolades. On paper it looked like we could do something great and I wanted to be a part of that possibility. 

Looming a December deadline - my big, pointed, throbbing goal for the past several years was to run an Olympic Trials Qualifier in the Marathon (sub 2:37), and subsequently, race at the ‘24 Olympic Marathon Trials. I’d been close. The past several marathons where I'd tried to run the time hadn't gone well: a strange few years of weird misfortune. There was Covid of course. There was unknowingly racing Houston with Covid which was disastrous & whether because of doing so, or simply for having it, I experienced a few years of long-haul symptoms.

The last time I tried to run the time had been at Grandma's Marathon in June '23. I'd thrown everything at it. Went sober for months, napped, incorporated sauna, engaged in a breathing protocol to try to get my breathing back to normal, took a few-month mental training course, took vits & supplements consistently, got routine bloodwork. And, instead of feeling streamlined, healthful, capable, I felt lethargic, exhausted, and incapable of adapting or absorbing. It felt like overtraining (though it didn't appear I was), or extremely low iron (though the bloodwork didn't support it), or sickness (wasn't testing positive for the knowns). I navigated this fatigue by cutting everything back & adding a lot of rest. I went to Grandma's and quite quickly (at least quicker than you'd prefer it to in a Marathon) fell into a no-power plod. I hate the no-power-plod. It feels unnamable, unnecessary, like synapses are sleeping; that the force that should generate from the weight of your body making contact with the ground ends in a thud above your ankles. And you circle through Am I fed? Am I hydrated? Where am I in the hormonal cycle? Am I overtrained? Am I sick? Am I mentally weak? I'm so stubborn, and the course is point-to-point that finishing was a non-issue; I ran another 2:40, of which is the platform I fall to despite a good build or a bad. And then I went on to have the worst migraine of my entire life, took a look at Bob Dylan's house, sucked down a malt shake and vom'd the malt shake at the college dorms. Thinking back, it’s just miserable the amount of work, energy, time, sacrifice, lifestyle evolution & financial loss you put in, just to end up plodding & vomming. Though I know it’s also a function of why I keep trying. Though I understand that what you put in isn’t guaranteed a preferred end.

I spent the summer trying to find answers. Heavily debated a fall marathon so it wouldn't be down to so close a wire, but ultimately chose to do the IAU 50K World Championships in India in November, ahead of CIM in December. Now, with hindsight (though circumstantial), this was an error.  

In June/July I saw a doctor for my fatigue (of which I’d endured for close to 6 months). They did an ekg and found I had inverted T waves. I questioned if it was covid related, and the dr. gave a resolute No. I was skeptical of his assuredness. They were freaked out enough to encourage me to stop running until we had more info, but it was my impression that they might not be exactly aware of a “younger” person’s athletically cultivated heart; I didn’t listen. We also decided to move from the antidepressant, Lexapro (which I'd been on for 9 years), to Wellbutrin. From there I'd begin a few-months-long investigation into my heart, which would end with a "we don't know what it is." From my own research, I'd think covid-related/long haul, and/or a symptom of overtraining, although when I'd taken the first ekg, it was during a break from running, and through several more over the summer, it seemed to be improving (by way of size of inversion), as my training ramped up. *I understand overtraining is nuanced. Also, we never had a baseline previous to the fatigue.* With no definitive reason to stop running, I moved forward. I suffered pretty severely in the change to Wellbutrin and ended up weaning myself off all meds in the fall, a month before World Champs. I was curious as to how it might feel to train, travel and race without an SSRI/NDRI; what it would feel like to exist raw, after having not for 9 years.

When I committed to the 50k World Champs, India was 4 months away and I felt empowered by distance in time and with the assumption that I'd prepare and be prepared. 

35 > 36

 35 was a blend of assent, thrill, grief & pother; in its own way, balanced. 

Assent & Thrill

1. Quepos, Costa Rica
2. US 100K team/100K World Champs: Gold
3. Berlin, Prague, Munich
4. Crawboils & dinner parties
5. Annual All Hallow's Brew Crawl & the perilous pipe crossing
6. Surprise: McKinnon's 50th
7. An almost OTQ @ CIM
8. Troncones, Mex
9. London with LB & Mck
10. Celebration of the life of Marianne Helen Olsen
11. Floating Icicle River
12. A sudden Dead & Co groupie
13. In company with Belinda & Diva in San Leandro
14. Witness to my loved ones' children budding
15. A sudden sailboat adventure to Chuckanut Island
16. The Kean Wedding

Grief & Pother

I penned a list, but it bored me. I acknowledge that I'm deep in "it" ; a constant processing. And that I feel a considerable amount of guilt and a considerable amount of let-down. I just hope that there is something to work out from the thick-think, and that I will not, forever be, in the doldrums, ellipticalling. 

Scablands: A Sudden Deadhead

The lot of us are camped in a small community of tie dye and shade tapestries at the Gorge Ampitheatre Campgrounds - a circular labyrinth - between Quincy and George. There's a Pivot in the center for vendors and food trucks. A general store of dystopian character: a concrete warehouse flooded in medical light, a few shelves sparse with old, overpriced gas station snacks, simple toiletries, and a wall of ice for $8/bag that melts money on the return walk, forearms lengthened in the weighted pull. 

The Gorge Ampitheatre (previously Champs de Brionne Music Theatre) is now owned by Live Nation, which operates in this plutocratic monopoly, charging $18 a beer and $39 a cocktail. Just weeks before, the Gorge experienced its first mass shooting, and thereafter safety protocols inflated. It felt frivolous and insensitive to be there so soon after. 

The amphitheatre campground can disorient. It's a planair maze of abnormal topology, of heavy-lidded half beings holding one finger raised, abandoned yard games and green smoke. The intimacy of the braless brushing their teeth at a concrete sink. The tents xerox, until one takes flight, and you stop to watch in awe akin to hot air balloon or eagle, which further befuddles one's bearings. Eventually you find your camp, and, sometimes, thereafter, you'll have developed an enhanced assimilation to the ever-evolving landscape.

Over the years we'd come for "camping." We'd come for Petty. For DMB. And now, we'd come for the Dead.

At the Dead & Co show we anted up on Premier Camping. It held more space, offered free showers, private restrooms, a shuttle bus to and from the venue - accommodations to quell a runner in the scablands of central Washington. Exempt of bitterness from either party - in my having or wanting to run, and in both of our waiting - them on me, me on me - I ran, they slept. The group would sleep in and I'd try to wake early enough to run to not miss: 

        - a morning review of the set list
        - a michelada
        - cachinnations, the merry chortling
        - a thing

Most times that late traipse back to camp, the few hours of sleep, the unfolding of limbs into a morning ready-made tepid, the subsequent run, day drinking, body and mind in damp fatigue, the multi-hour concert and into the late traipse back repeating is only so romantic, and I am no longer young. 

The history of this "humorous homage" George, Washington in the Columbia River Basin region, whereby the Ampitheatre rests, is somewhat playful. In the early 1950's, the need for a town to further develop local agriculture grew manifest. Grant County (after Ulysses S) land wasn't in any sense "tame" until the first decade of the 1900's, when irrigation attempts were made and where the promise of an "agricultural Shangri-La" was sold. Still, development wouldn't really take off until irrigation could service large scale farming with the completion of the Grand Coulee in 1942. There followed the 1950's, where the Bureau of Land Management offered to sell 339 acres to establish a town in the area. There was a sole bid - the bidder a local Pharmacist named Charlie Brown. Charlie Brown decided to name the town after the OG GW. The citizens named their streets after varieties of cherries native to the area, like Bing and Royal Anne and Montmorency. The town was officially incorporated on July 4, 1957, where there was a 1,000-pound cherry pie, and annually since, this prodigious pie returns. 

In the years we'd been coming to the Gorge at George, I'd run the same out-and-back on Rd 1 NW. It might have been that the simplicity helped balance the stimulus, or that it felt safer not to turn. On a favorable day there might be a blue-green rush in the ditches lining the vineyards, orchard tracts and fields of hay (often swathed or bailed at night), the fugitive dust kicked up by a tractor with bale spear, or upon return, the smell of grill-meat or the cherry-bubblegum masking scent in the vacuuming of the porta-potties. Other times, it's just one long dry-mouthed, yellow-muddled memory, the bottoms of your feet baking. One thing was always promised: Monotony.

It was at Dead & Co that someone at camp asked if I'd seen the Ancient Lakes. In all those years I hadn't even been down to the Columbia. Someone in our camp woke early each morning to hike down to the river to soak their legs; I was envious of their ritual, of their self-possession. Ancient Lakes? Has my curiosity gone? The next morning, I'd look for them, try a Left off Rd 1 NW.

From the tent into the soft bakelite of the eastern fielded morning, a cotton-mouthed revive. The heat wasn't bright or pointing but sweatered. From the Amphitheatre Campground - left onto Rd 1, left on Rd U, left on Rd 2, curving right onto Rd U 1, which became Rd U, becoming Rd 2.5. In the tenderness synonymous of a no-wake-zone, farm trucks passed with a respect the city lacks. Sweat tickled in its trailing, the only reprieve the breeze made in movement. 

I accessed the Ancient Lakes from the Evergreen Reservoir in WDFW's Quincy Wildlife Area, where a few warmwater fishermen sought bass, Walleye, Black Crappie or Tiger Musky. The irrigation runoff is not safe to drink even after filter or boil. It was apparent that a runner there was atypical. Tucked into a little carrel of a long-reeded sandbar that hung like a cliff over a deep pool of water I cupped handfuls onto my face and wrists, resisting the urge to jump in. To do so would have felt wild and vulnerable, accessories I wish hadn't tamed in aging. Once cooled, I careened waterways led by intuition and views of the Columbia Basin, the flat-bottomed canyon coulee floor flanked by steep 300-foot basalt cliffs. 

Millions of years ago, lava flows filled what we know as the Columbia Basin. There followed Ice Age floods which carved the spectacular recessional cataracts called Crater, Potholes & Frenchman Coulee; Coulee from the French "couler," meaning "to flow." These deep gulches host dry, braided channels formed by the glacial drainage. What stands so scenic feels artificial with its cataract-lined arms and alcoves clutching basalt ribs.

Around a network of trails that weave around Burke, Quincy, Stan Coffin and H Lakes, the sun reflected off the water and onto the rocks, magnifying the heat. Rabbits, rattlesnakes, coyotes, deer, loons, duck, sparrows, quail - all of these creatures known to inhabit, but, eerily, not a reed moved, nor a footprint or slither track impressed the sandy trail. 

Here and there a vault toilet, that barren concrete and pebble brushed bathroom with a port to the deep bowels; no toilet paper, and the warm wind necessary to carry the stench. 

In turning back towards the Gorge, the faraway vistas of the Kittitas County Wildhorse Wind Farm windmills replaced the canyons, their turbines perched on the high open shrub-steppe ridge tops of Whiskey Dick Mountain. Covered in sweat, fatigued from the heat, but fulfilled in that bowl in the soul that fills with experiencing wild country, with feeling small against the contours of cliffs. 

Back the way I'd come, back down Rd 1 NW, soused, dehydrated, back into the Ampitheatre campground and into camp. He said, Did you find it? 

A Brief London

I don't know a lot about fulfillment, but I do know that I love to leave the country. The city. That is no longer what it was. 

The world seemed more promising elsewhere (a state of mind which, once entered, will never leave you in peace). 

- Ian Buruma, Churchill's Cigar 

:A redolent memory that burned in because, young, I must have thought he was entirely petulant, and it was curious. Why hold the memory of a sullen supposition?
:My father, saying, in 00's - this town has changed.  And here I am, too, thinking it. It's not so simple as change is the only constant; it's jaundiced.

LB drove us to Burien, and then Mr. Williams fresh from Retirement, with gleaming teeth and a budding sense of "you need to see Churchill's war room," took us to the airport. LB & Mck had acquired the superior status of TSA Pre & Global entry, so they strolled in streetwise, whereas I, who had her TSA interview cancelled last minute, waited for 2 hours while a singular agent checked out us long line of cogs. 

We had gone the super saver route, no bags, no seat selection, and so it was with deep gid that each of us acquired an entire row for the International 10-hour flight. But, lest we'd get too excited, please add in an aisle where none of the armrests go up, and the passenger behind in a constant kicking, and someone wringing the life out of a plastic water bottle in a 10-hour anxiety, and shame on you for pre-ordering a vegetarian meal, there's simply not enough of them. I'm a maximalist in somethings, especially when it comes to maximizing the parameters of my international saver fare (i.e. alcoholic drinks) and though I'd been off of it, I had allotted a brief interim for London. So we ordered plastic cups of wine and took our sip & did not enjoy it & with a brief sort of curious farewell let it go. 

People who come to London also bring it with them in their minds. They have a feeling of how the city should be before they meet it...a swollen, imaginary London, larger in the mind than in reality. 

- Ian Jack, Editor of GRANTA 65, Spring 1999

THURSDAY, APRIL 20

The flight was ok, which is a welcome gift in this gouged-for-more-but-given-less-transport-moratorium. And, deposited at Heathrow, trying to parse out the English as it glid down in a puddle from the lips of an impervious station agent. We made our way to Euston Station, the few blocks' walk to the Hilton Euston off Upper Woburn Place, which plops itself a half-block thick across and near the Crypt & St. Pancras. The Crypt was gated, something I stumbled upon, as if it was out of place, so to find it a burial ground from 1822-54, when all the crypts of all the London churches were closed to burials, and it being an air raid shelter in both World Wars, and here I was walking by surprised, wearing crocs, felt ignorant.

The Hilton Euston is a symmetrical terrace of 5 house-bays made of yellow stock brick, stucco, pilaster-jambs, cornice-heads & slated mansard roofs with dormers. The entrance's central bay has four Corinthian columns flanked by bays. We dropped our bags and walked to find something to eat, past Tavistock Square, to Fork Deli Patisserie - for cheddar with pear & ale chutney & cheddar with marmite toasties & flat whites. A greasy readying for a run to/within Regent's Park before dinner in Clapham. Under squint of rain, the sport pitches and thick-thighed cricketers felt a novelty. Regent's Park - after the playboy Prince Regent vis a King George IV. 12,000 lank roses, unbudded, a boating lake, a heronry. A run around the outer ring. 

In the car to Clapham we crossed the Thames for the first time. To Minnow, the sky sere & draining. Minnow is kitsch, fake-floraled in a burst that makes the gray feel otherly, a transportation into false gaiety. It is narrow & cramped, but in a comfortable way, you just have to get in the mood; what they call "romantic, with plenty of cosy corners." Something moves beneath our feet. We catch glimpse of an elderly waddle of some thick caramel colored dog that looks like a sack of uncut sourdough. It walks with the authority of restaurant proprietor. An aperol spritz sounds nice, and it looks nice with its striped straw, but it's perhaps the worst aperol spritz we've ever had. We toil & practice what we'll say if we were to have the balls to request a different drink. It is awful being someone who complains, ungrateful, wasteful, but awful to spend your money on something unexpectedly sad. How do you make a bad aperol? Flat bubbles? Not enough of the red thick? Soapy ice? My, with our American accents, did it seem like we'd never had aperol before? The social drama. And I tell myself I will drink every drop, I will not complain, but it's not just me, it's her too, so he asks if everything is ok, & I say, "I'm sorry, this doesn't taste exactly right, could we order something different? Perhaps just a glass of the Spumante?" And, "Of course!" And that's that. 

The menu is seasonal modern euro. There are: nocellara olives, croquettes, burrata, pickled courgettes, moules mariniere, pan-fried squid, lamb rump, potato dauphinoise. We order bread rolls with herb butter; several rounds as they are the size of fingers. I have the sea bream with soy, chili, spring onion & ginger - something I'd selected mentally, in the US, in my investigations, and, now following the aperol crisis I've somehow set myself up with a halved-thin, skin-thick, bone-filled, minisculy-meated sparidae in a bowlful of brown broth. The flavors mimicked the description, but it was meager, and perhaps I'm an idiot. 

We decided we needed something more. Something to root and enliven us. And as we walked to hunt the place, we stopped at an empty gelato shop called Nardulli's. The Italian behind the counter was pure. I had fig gelato in a cone ("fresh fig fruits from the south of Italy"). LB & Mck had black cherry, cookies ("pure oreo yummy cookies and fresh milk"), stracciatella (fresh milk and chocolate cream). We gorged these en route to No. 32 The Old Town, which was proceeded over by two prodigious suits. They have bottomless drinks and happiness hours. The menu is a book. We found a spot at a large family table by the door and ordered glasses of wine: Lilith Primitivo (smoky, dark, lashings), Bagoas Leda Albarino (crisp, spicy, salty, lick-finish) & Luigi Baudana 'Dragon' Bianco (stylish, top end Piemontese). They had pudding wines, juicy & fulsomes, vedrines and tipples. It was busy & good for observing. 

FRIDAY, APRIL 21

Snuck out for a run to/along the "once mercantile artery" - the Thames, before they woke. 

"This is the first time I have ever been on the river and I'm besotted by its khaki smell which so precisely matches the water's colour. The smell is compounded of freshwater mud as well as of sour tidal flats mixed with oil and bilges. It is both melancholy and bracing...'we call this rolling butter.'" And, "That peculiar symbiosis at town and waterfront often seems to densify the national character even as it lends people a faint air of being in transit." - James Hamilton-Paterson

To the Neoclassical complex Somerset House, along Charing Cross, among Jubilee Gardens with its Sweet Gum & Beech. The Eye. Outside St. Thomas', the Covid-19 Memorial, 1-kilometer long, haunting in vibrant heart - a visual representation of every UK life lost. 

Back at the hotel, another lost art appreciated - the free continental. I had crumpets & croissants with nutella, chocolate filled pastries, a fried egg, black pudding, sausage, runny baked beans, coffee, grapefruit juice. 

We went to the London Marathon expo; LB acquired her bib & finisher's jacket. Took a car across Tower Bridge, the bascule & suspensive curious blue, to South Kensington for brunch at Farm Girl: flat white, farm bowl (turmeric & preserved lemon, hummus, roasted sweet potato, kimchi, broccoli, greens, cous cous, kalamata olives, herbs, pumpkin seeds, pomegranate). Bagged to go for our walk to the Natural History Museum: an Anzac Cookie larger than a head, a lemon cake with rapeseed oil, lemon zest, a chunk of ginger & poppy. 

I'm surprised by my feelings of the Natural History Museum. An attitude/judgment I didn't expect to possess. It wasn't as if I went in with any grand notion save for an interest in seeing the scaffolding of Hope. And yet, 

upon entering the large terracotta Victorian-Romanesque symmetrizing building, which is a joy, I was surprised, I guess, that there wasn't a scanning of the bodies, metal detection, or masks worn; it took me a long time to remember that we weren't in the US. I couldn't help but feel incredulous about the sheer privilege (maybe just positivity) it is to trust a building, to trust people. What a perfect site for chaos, I thought. And perhaps because I felt haunted by the Covid-19 Memorial, that physical-visual representation of loss, it was curious to experience a claustrophobic space of indoor breath, in juxtaposition, in mind. So that's where I began, and then, to the left, to the Dinosaur exhibit. I think one of my fundamental problems is that I don't like crowds. So I wasn't doing myself any favors. 

Dinosaurs - pregnant plesiosaur, sub-adult rex. Much of it felt plastic, enhanced by robotic rex's. I enjoyed the encouragement Mck placed on us having our photos taken against green screen in mimicry of being nearly attacked & the subsequent 30-minute wait to get our photo printed and compiled in a booklet. Honestly, it tipped the scale into that fun gimmick from the cringe gimmick. 

Up the stairs to the Minerals exhibit, which felt more rooting: polished, raw, meteorites, carats, asbestos with muscovite, butterscotch, full of ites and obes. 

It could be that I need more time in there. It felt full of replica. And I've read - "Mostly, you'll encounter the wildest creatures of all: lurching, wailing, scampering children in all their varieties, because everything here, down to the simplified signage and touchable replicas, is pitched to kids." - Jason Cochran. I appreciate its opportunity to teach, that it welcomes classes. 

"...put the Natural History Museum back to the way it was before they started dicking around with it (in particular, they must restore the display case showing insects infesting household products from the 1950s)..." - Bill Bryson, Notes from a Small Island

Note: I thought Bryson's Notes from a Small Island was really lame. And though likely in jest, this sentiment speaks a bit to my feeling that something wasn't exactly right. 

From the Museum, through Knightsbridge, along & through Hyde, observing the sleeping & head-dunkery of tagged swans in the Serpentine. To the corner of Kensington Gardens and on to Notting Hill. I like Notting. With past descriptions of, "It was a place to party, to hang out at late-night speakeasy bars, to buy music and fruit. Afghan coats and dodgy antiques from the Portabello Road and the odd illicit substance from the All Saints Road, when it was lined with bobbies..." That's what it was & likely what it is no longer, but there's still the feeling of was. 

I was sweating over the Clothing Exchange off Pembridge. LB & Mck graciously following as I fingered all fabrics, and I had to say Please Go Enjoy Yourselves Out There in the Notting, as I Am Entirely High and Need to Feel Everything. The splurge I had gone into London committed to make (only to be known when seen), was on an emerald green vintage Rochas. 

:Founded in 1925 by French designer Marcel Rochas (apparently the first designer of 2/3-length coats and skirts with pockets & alongside Schiaparelli, launched padded shoulders in 1931); known primarily for perfume, it wasn't until 1990 that clothing became their focus. French-influenced, "demicouture" (special pieces too costly to mass-produce but which may not meet strict couture rules regarding hand-stitching and numbers of fitting), which evolved from made-to-measure to closure to reopening to new creative directors/ection. 

In this separation they purchased me a Harry Styles coaster.  

We had reservations at The Shed in Notting Hill. Created by the Gladwin Brothers incl. Chef Patron Oliver, Restauranteur Richard, and Gregory, a West-Sussex-based farmer, the restaurant brings the Sussez countryside to West London. Their English wines come from the vineyard Nutboarne. Items of interest: the 'Daily Loosener,' the 'Green Fingered Gardener,' Chateau L'Etampe Saint-Emilion Gran Cru, wild yeast breads, mushroom marmite eclair, egg confit, caraway crispbread, Hampshire chalk stream trout pate cornetto, Exmoor caviar, brick pastry, homemade Sussex chorizo, hung yogurt, broad beans & garden pea hummus, Ticehurst celeriac schnitzel, Hackney burrata, Chichester beetroot puree, cornish scallop, south coast sea bass, devon crab, red wine jus, cheeseboard (blue vinny, soft bath, cornish smuggler, house chutney), chantilly cream blueberry. It was my favorite place. Our server, a copy of Cam Stewart. Ordered a bottle of '14 B Debiac Chateau Cadillac Bordeaux, the mushroom marmite eclair with egg confit & cornichon, garlic & rosemary wild yeast bread with wild garlic butter, chargrilled broccoli tenderstems with creme fraiche & sweet chili jam, the south coast salmon & cod fishcake with truffled cheddar fondue, red chili & spring onion, the Hackney burrata with heritage tomato, wild garlic pesto & broken walnut, rosemary salted crispy potatoes & the cheeseboard. The wine we had left was shoved with a stopper and saran wrapped by Cam-alike. 

With reservations at St. Pancras Champagne Bar by Searcy's - we were excited for the gimmick of a "Press for Champagne" button at Europe's Longest Champagne Bar (98 mtrs), and the Victorian Gothic architecture of St. Pancras International on the Grand Terrace, with its "sumptuous leathers" & velvet booths & oysters & caviar and Emin's "I want my time with you" aglow in pink script - it all seemed exuberant. So big were our pupils in the possibility of it, that we walked right past it. Because, it was near-dead, sleepy, dark, and the long bar in our mind was curtate, and the gold Press For's were greasy in fingerprints & the server advised against a tasting, as it wasn't as profitable as a glass pour, and to hurry & order as they'd be closing soon, though the hours listed included hours more. A semi-uncomfortable not the Vibe. Instead, to GA KINGSX, for a bottle of prosecco Collalto extra dry from Milan. The air felt very sexual in there. They had 50 separate gin listings. ("London went through a period called 'the Gin Craze' between 1720-1751; during its peak, the average consumption of gin was 2 pints/wk for every person, including children.")

SATURDAY, APRIL 22

Saturday held a fat run for me. Initially & thoroughly I'd committed to pacing LB in the marathon (to the point of hand-crafting fake bibs), but after research on arrests made on bandits, and of a fundamental desire not to overstimulate her on her big day, I, sadly, forewent. Instead I was given a 20-mile workout/LR, to be done in Hyde Park. The run from our place to Hyde was salubrious: past the University of London, Goodge, the shops on A5204, Oxford, until - Marble Arch & Cumberland Gate - the state entrance to the cour-d'honneur (as well as a historical site for public executions). I liked how barren, or rather, unpeopled the gate was. All I recall is a child chasing a pigeon. As the hours grew, so did the flux. Large swathes. Between broad stone pathways and dirt lanes, among the exercising of horses on Rotten Row, past limes & maples & sweet chestnuts & beech & bedding plants, past hunting dogs in red sweaters, past, even, Sifan Hissan, whose eyes I met. 

I was toasted but in love with Hyde. Ended at the Hilton just as Mck finished her own workout; the sudden intercourse felt serendipitous. Gorged on free English breakfast. Packed pocketfuls of croissants. Today was reserved for Camden Town. 

Trained to. Deposited into a mouth of movement. Took a fast right into the stacked containers of Philippe Conticini off Buck for iced coffee. I photographed every pastry: Paris-Brest Amande Noisettes, Tarte Saint-Honore & Tarte Citron Sarrasin, Gran Cru Vanille, Eclairs & Flans, Pain au Chocolats, Macarons, Millefeuilles, Calin Gourmands. 

I think I'd like Camden best without the people, hungry people like me, in it. Only the originals. Only the hard-earned. I appreciated that even amidst the mass, I could photograph the textured walls of shopfronts; it helped to look up. And I loved the canals. The culverted, Regent's, a little Venice, Maida Vale, kayak classes, boozy sports chants, weepy trees tickling & obscuring, the graffiti, the buskers, the artists. With no lunch plan & a need for a sit, we lucked out on a table at Mildred's, the host himself surprised he could seat us. And by the window. Right off I ordered a fresh lemon & ginger teapot. 

They had: cardamom porridge with compote, harissa v'egg bap, chilaquiles with cheez, banana biscoff pancakes with cookie crumbs & speculoos caramel, a classic, an almuerzo, a thali brunch. Lamely, or simply, I had the avocado green chilli toast with crispy kale & seeded crumb & sampled from Mck's Classic. 

After brunch we walked around the Primrose Hill district, where trees pulse fat through iron bars & Chalcot Square & well-kept pastels. To the top of Primrose Hill, which feels a mound but reveals a panorama. "'Splendid to be on Primrose Hill/At evening when the world is still' wrote W.H. Auden in a poem in 1922...Sylvia Plath lived in a house nearby, one that was inhabited by W.B. Yeats almost a century earlier...engraved in stone at the edge of the summit are William Blake's famous words: 'I have conversed with the spiritual Sun. I saw him on Primrose Hill.'"

We crossed over the Grand Union Canal and in a brief moment of bliss caught a small gray boat whose entire center was a table spread of prosciutto, dips, crackers, pringle cans, bottles of wine and stems filled, sat round by a family & led by a man in a flat cap and a young sailor, suited. 

Regent's Road is littered with places we would like to return to. I regret encouraging us away from it, instead of stopping to sample something from the outdoor terrace of something the likes of L'Absinthe or Lemonia or Odette's or on the corner which seduces you like a nose, The Queen's, with its "dinky terrace." 

After our long gallivant, it was time for LB to rest, the race being the next morning. Mck and I went for a walk along Euston, past Saint Pancras Renaissance Hotel in an almost fictitious curve & King's Cross & Platform 9 3/4, back across Grand Union Canal, Camley Street Natural Park, past a most haunting Gasholders No 10,11,12 -"An ever-changing facade that appears alive & responsive to passers-by," with folding, perforated screens. We enjoyed the dance classes in Coal Drops Yard, the vision of two women eating from a bowl of olives against a wide window, and of those feasting on seafood grilled on their own bespoke mini-grills at Parillan's terrace on the viaduct level of the former Victorian coal store. Later - pre-race dinner res at Via Emilia in Fitzrovia. Fitzrovia is a playful word. 

All of Via Emilia's menu comes from Emilia-Romagna. A must-eat declared the Gnocco Fritto. We had 3, with a bowl full of green olives, and 2 rounds of Lambrusco served in the traditional ceramic bowl & small vinegary salads & to share - spaghit a l 'ai, oli e pavronzin, taiulen cun furmaj ad pigura cun e pevar, tajadel bulgnaisi col rago, spaghet' cun e sug ed pundor and reginetti aj fonz. It all felt like it was supposed to be transportive, but left us for want. The service was poor, but the lambrusco was lappable, and though I wanted to taste the mortadella, the formaj and end with the chocolate salame, we were quite ready to get out of there. It's slightly uncomfortable to be underwhelmed, edged up against the reflex to be grateful, to own ones privilege, and it being a more bulbous, anticipated moment in one's life - the pre-race meal - you want to walk away from that meal like it's an additional piece to the month-to-years-long study in Running. Too much importance placed, I understand, but can be achieved.

We found a long line of people outside of Amorino, and, considering it a good sign, ordered ourselves rose buds of l'inimitabile, arabica utz & litchi raspberry rose. Took an uber back with a guy who didn't know his lights were off in the dark, took corners at 50mph & careened into opposite traffic to park us across from our hotel, in front of an oncoming bus. The bus driver shook their head and gave us a "W" symbol. We're not sure what this means.

SUNDAY, APRIL 23

London Marathon morning, 7:15 am - we saw LB off on her bus to the start line. We had a few hours before we'd need to take the train out to the halfway point, where we'd see her for the first time. 

I ran to, along and up Primrose Hill, past the London Zoo, pursuing more of Regent's Park. Between the Outer Circle & Grand Union Canal, there was this dirt track, its infield of thick grass, and a forlorn long jump pit: jejuneness, a redolent 90s. The boating lake, baby greylags & ansers. Queen Mary's Gardens. Marylebone Green. It felt a gift, to be able to lope around in that quiet of a big city when the city itself is pulled away because of the marathon. 

At the buffet - sliced white bloomers, brie, peppered mackerel. Mck & I got ready in rain gear, packing portraits of LB, her head on sticks. What started quiet turned to pissing. We navigated with a symbiosis. Deposited at Shadwell in East London on the north bank of the Thames, timely catching the lead wheelchairs. This section (specifically the area around Mile 13ish & it's circling back at 22ish, Butcher Row in Limehouse) was chosen for its ease to get us back to the finish in time (and away from the more popular Tower Bridge area), but we didn't know it constituted Rainbow Row, and were joyful in finding it. Drag Queens in 7" heels & immaculate makeup, a Priest shimmying as he walked by, colorful streamers that brought bright contrast to the leaden sky. We saw the male leads, the throngs thereafter, the female leads across the way, ahead at 22. My eyes grew weary from scanning the crowd of runners looking for LB. The world tilted, and so I leaned into voice & started calling her name, hoping that if I couldn't see her, she'd hear me. And then, all too quickly, she was there, smiling, and saying something indiscernible, and our moment there was over. Everything and everyone was wet. 

Mck & I took the train back towards the finish, to Westminster so we could see Big Ben & Buckingham before walking the last mile of the race. Quick coffees from a coffee cart in the park. I liked the bodies lined on concrete walls in relaxed cheer of the race. 

LB finished in 3:06:44; got to catch a glimpse of her at the finish between the far-off fencing & troves. Made our way to the big "O" to meet her. Grew worried after a while, until she popped through, ambling in a way rare to see her. I feel like the next 30 minutes was a sample of: capacity, connate, consummation, comity. The changing of shoes, the bracing of shoulder, the dry bra, the mental noting. Perhaps, simply, Presence & reverence. She didn't have the race she wanted, or was apt to have, but it was close & the power of her felt voluminous. 

I was growing miserable, so how LB managed I'm not sure. We walked to & through Piccadilly, decorated in celebration of Ramadan (piccadills/piccadillies - term used for various forms of collars). "Piccadilly, the great thoroughfare leading from Haymarket & Regent St. westward to Hyde Park-corner, is the nearest approach to the Parisian boulevard of which London can boast." - Charles Dickens Jr., 1879. Moodily wanting to take it in but soggy-boned & hungry. Coffees & sandwiches at Amelia's on Bedford. A train back to the Hilton Euston to warm & shower. Grabbed tickets for the London Eye. 

I managed to sneak in a bottle of bubbles, despite bag check & body scan, with the intention of us pop & sipping it with view of London on high, but the vibes in the egg weren't right. From up there & to the south - the Crystal Palace, St. Thomas' Hospital, Lambeth Palace, MI6, Vauxhall & Nine Elms, Houses of Parliament, Battersea Power Station, Elizabeth Tower/Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, Westminster Bridge, County Hall. To the west - Windsor Castle, the Natural History Museum, Buckingham Palace, the Royal Parks, Wembley Stadium, Scotland Yard, the Ministry of Defence, House Guards Palance, Whitehall Court, Trafalgar Square, Oxford Street, Charing Cross Station, To the north - the London Zoo, Madame Tussauds, BT Tower, Covent Garden, the British Museum, Hungerford Bridge & Golden Jubilee Bridges, the Savoy Hotel, Somerset House, Waterloo Bridge, Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park, the National Theatre, Royal Festival Hall, St. Paul's Cathedral & Tate Modern. And to the east - Shakespeare's Globe, One Blackfriars, the Walkie Talkie, Tower of London, Tower Bridge, the Shard, Canary Wharf, the Old Vic Theatre, O2 Arena, Royal Greenwich Observatory, Waterloo Station, Strata SE1 & the Imperial War Museum. So, basically, a list of all that anyone could know, But, a view lifted. 

A late reservation at Morso off Abbey in St. John's Wood: Negroni, focaccia charred, coarse salted, with halved green olives, a little gem salad with micro cress, lemon & mustard dressing, antipasti board with prosciutto San Daniele DOP, pancetta arrotolata IGP, aged balsamic vinegar of Modena DOP, pane carasau, parmigiano reggiano DOP, cornichons, Italian mixed olives, Rigatoni Pistachio & Burrata with pistachio & basil pesto, parmigiano, homemade buffalo burrata & toasted pistachio crumb, a bottle of Cool Boy prosecco from Veneto and a Potted Tiramisu to share (their signature; enriched with dark chocolate crumbs & sweet marsala wine). 

*Bookmark for Mamma Santissima (could have been the Negronis, but the place looked like I needed to be in it): it hearkens back to "La Vecchia Napoli," inspired by Sofia Loren. 

Our last ambition - Abbey Road Crosswalk. It was black, wet, and I'd been carrying that bottle of warm bubbles (reserved for the London Eye & not yet enjoyed) in my purse all day. We outdoor-girl-crouch-peed en route, past the Studios, wondered if it was it, decided it was, and I pulsed that cork from the tight crowning across the infamous zebra. Imagine a day where you race the London Marathon, walk Piccadilly, eat a tiramisu en potted plant imitation and end with drinking bubbles from a bottle as you take large steps to stay on the whites where the Beatles walked. 

MONDAY, APRIL 24

We needed more time. I hadn't done all of the literary detours I'd set out to. Not near enough walking about markets, looking into bookstores, or being quiet at a cafe, sketching. We did what we could with 3 full days in London. I forewent a run, and we packed & walked with heave to a cafe for a last cup of coffee before the train back to Heathrow. 

The London in my mind is more developed, tainted now by reality, and I like to think on sweet words surmounting, like cream tea, high tea, Belisha Beacon, serviettes, ice cream cornet, pasty, and hardy words like towcester, slough, milk floats, scotch eggs, streaky bacon, fry ups, meat fruit, tipsy cake, eton mess & slang like all-to-pot, sod off, chuffed, innit?, chunder, damp squib, grockel.