I’ve noticed there aren’t many thanks being thrown around Uncle Marcos’ home.  Everybody has their chores, and they’re expected of you, as part of the Concepcion family.  I, on the other hand, am used to saying thank-you a lot– perhaps far too much.  I mumble it like the repetitive mantra of a guilt-ridden bum who is clearly doing nothing to share the family burden.

Today I came back from an 1:20 run: dehydrated, tired, and hungry.  As I walk in the door, Uncle Marcos comes up to me and says “what are you doing in a few minutes”?  Fuck!  I know this is a trick question.  He clearly knows my schedule is as open as a four-lane highway on Christmas morning.  Anything I answer will be used against me, and it will likely involve some family task– some man chore for which I am clearly unsuited for.  I look around nervously, trying to say something exonerating.  The only excuse I can come up with involves RSI, and as soon as the words start coming out of my mouth, Yano says “don’t even try to be funny– what he means Uncle, is that he’ll be right there”.  At a loss for words, I give up, while Yanory giggles, and I suit up in borrowed work clothes that are 5 sizes too small (Yano’s the tall one in the family).

So off we go– all four men, well 3 and a half, to cut a big tree.  By the time I get there 5 minutes late, the tree is felled and partially chopped.  I quickly notice there is a hierarchy of work.  The motorized equipment is clearly for the older men, while the children are raking leaves and picking up branches.  I’m not even allowed to comment– “go with Aaron and help him with the leaves”.  My scrawny uncalloused hands hint of no manual labor in the past 15 years, so it’s a no brainer the uncle.

Aaron says “do you want to rake or pick up?”.  This is definitely a trick question.  If I choose pick up, I’m obviously a wuss.  If I pick rake and am incompetent, I’ll be laughed at.  Trying to be manly (as manly as one can be picking leaves with an 8 year old) I pick rake.  Aaron let me rake for about 2 minutes, and then yanked the rake from my hands.  “You pick.  I’ll rake.  We’ll be done faster”.

After two hours, I’m already moving up the work chain, and am holding something that looks like a girl’s machete– something larger than a chef’s knife, but obviously less than the Samurai sword the uncle wields.

Tree cutting is as boring as it sounds, and is a lot more tedious.  The logs are HEAVY and it doesn’t help that 8 year old kids can carry logs twice as big as you.  I, on the other hand, have to roll them by kicking them ever so slowly.

To make matters worse, our white fat bastard of a master comes by every 10-15 minutes and makes some nonsensical suggestion like “why don’t you put the log over here” or “can’t you cut it lengthwise?”.  He drops by and picks up some random tool and shakes it like he’s actually doing something besides injuring himself.  Every time he gives an order I try to explain how I’m doing this because I want to, that I’m actually on vacation– but I know I’ll only be whipped or something, so I just turn my head down.

This is how most of today went.  Running 8 miles, drinking a coke, eating as much as humanly possible, and going out to the field… to bear the brunt of ridicule from pre-pubescent children while I dreamt of beds, air conditioner, and doughnuts.

After the tree was over and done with, white fast bastard comes back and decides he wants us to cut down another tree.  By then I notice he’s just giving orders to watch us work.  Luckily, the next tree is a small one.  We pile up all the branches, and stand up the logs by another tree.  Right when I’m about to pass out, Marcos says “I just talked to the owner, he’s going to let us keep the logs.  Let’s put them on the pick-up truck and take them to grandma’s, it’ll save her a bundle on cooking gas”.  You gotta be shitting me?  I’ll pay for the fucking gas; just let me lie down like the pansy that I am.  Take me back with the women: let me bake, clean, and take care of 107 year old great-great-uncle Manuel.  Heck, I’ll wipe his butt; I don’t care.

Luckily Yano was waiting for me to buy bus tickets to Costa Rica, so I was allowed to go while the men did other manly chores.  I’m sure they were glad to see me go so they could unleash the full force of their laughter.

Whatever, I think it’s time to cross the border.

p.s. Pictures have been uploaded here.

 

 

 

The good thing of being married to Yano, is that no matter how bad your race goes, the Hernandez-Concepcion family always brings home the bacon.  No matter how bad you suck, she’s always there to make a personal best, get on the podium, or at least bring home $200 just for trying.  Often, all three.

Last Sunday Yano and I ran the half-marathon at the Panama City Marathon.  Yanory, aka “Hitler”, has been training me to improve my pathetic time of 1:49.  If pain is in any way related to performance, I’m bound to run 4 minute miles any day.  Because up to a week ago, every thing south of my belly button was hurting, and I do mean everything.

Before, I publish the results let me explain something about athletes the world over.  With few exceptions, an athlete could’ve always done better, and he/she’ll take any opportunity to explain why he/she didn’t.  Endurance athletes are even worse, because they can seldom blame anybody else, so they have to get even more creative.

The first 24 hours after an event is spent explaining to everyone you know why you didn’t do as well as expected.  Typical excuses include: “I had fried chicken last night”.  “I have this pain in my meta-blastic-tendoniting-ligament-hoobah.”  “My shoe-laces came untied 17 times”.  “I couldn’t sleep my usual 12 hours before an event”.  You get the picture…

At first, you see these excuses, as just that– excuses.  But after years of training, you start seeing an inkling of truth in them all, and you start coming up with what I call “normalized times”.  These are the race times you could’ve had, had everything gone according to plan.

So without further ado, here is my race time for the half-marathon… well first, let’s normalize things a bit.

• We were out sightseeing the night before, came back late, and I could only sleep 5 hours. (1:30– deduct 1 minute 30 seconds from the finishing time)
• Had dinner late, at 9pm (1:30)
• …ham and cheese sandwich (1:00)
• …with Mayo (0:30)
• Had diarrhea 2 days before race (1:00 because of dehydration)
• It was 90F (4:00)
• …with 90% humidity (3:00)
• Shoelaces became untied twice (0:30)
• Yano’s cousins didn’t pour cold water over me at KM 10 as promised (0:30)
• Time spent opening gel during race (0:30)
• …dropped the gel (0:30)
• 4 overpasses at 7% inclination (1:30)
• Water-in-a-bag at oasis’ required much biting (1:00)
• Made a wrong turn (1:00)
• I couldn’t pace myself because KMs or miles were not marked (2:00)
• Water I poured over myself weighed my clothes down (2:00)
• Mosquitoes while I slept (1:00)
• Jetlag (1:00– Panama is one hour behind Puerto Rico)

So… even though I ran a 1:46, my normalized time is more like a 1:22, which is a quite respectable improvement.  Had everything gone according to plan, I would’ve easily beat Yano, who only did a 1:27 and came in third amongst the women.

So yeah, even though I technically ran a 1:22, Yano’s performance was much more appreciated, and she managed to get on the podium, and bag $300 to pay for her airfare.  I, on the other hand, will have to keep my day job.

Damn ham sandwich!

 

 

 

 

Early today we went dentist shopping.  Surprisingly there are over 5 dentists in the small town of Concepcion.  We are not odontological connoisseurs so our picking was reduced to who had the most neon on their signs or who had the best magazines in the waiting room.

Yano suggested that the fanciest of dentists may be the least prepared, compensating for mediocre grades in odontology school.  On the other hand, the crummiest of places may indicate either a devoted dentist, a frugal efficient dentist, or just that– a crummy bad dentist with pliers for tools.  In the end we took cousin Dubi’s suggestion of Rosalia Perez, DDS.  Dubi has all his teeth, and I’ve seen him brush his teeth on occasion, so his advice weighed heavily.

Rosalia Perez has a small hole in the wall shop in Concepcion.  The sign advertising her clinic is a white-washed wall with letters apparently painted by her 6 year old dyslexic son.  The waiting room has 2 chairs and looks like the vestibule of an escort service.

Upon entering, an elegant lady asked us what we wanted.  I just showed my tooth impaired smile, and asked the usual questions “where did you go to odontology school and in what percentile where you amongst your peers”.  Sensing my hesitation she explained the procedure in detail and said… “it will be $20”.  Sold!  Who cares what grades you got!  What’s the worst than can happen in a $20 procedure?  Worse comes to worse, I could have it fixed again when I returned– provided I still had nerve endings.  I agreed and she guided us to a small room with the familiar dentistry equipment– torture chair, plier looking tools, and spit faucet– so far so good. The lady sat me down, put on her gloves and went to work.  It turned out, the person I thought was the secretary was actually the dentist.  Talk about a one man show.

She took out her tools and started drilling– “I’m going to try without anesthesia first.  Tell me if it hurts”.  I gripped the chair in fear.  “You can let go of the chair; it’s not going anywhere”.  I tried to hide a nervous smile.  I let her do her thing for about a minute or two– and then she hit a nerve.  I shriveled and started to convulse slightly.  She shook her head, looked at Yano, and said– “your husband is a coward; I hadn’t even started”.  Shaaaa… Yes, I am a coward.  “Bring out the anesthesia, lady!  There are no points for manliness in a dentist chair.”   Yano started to laugh uncontrollably and managed to spit out a “yes, I know”.

All in all, Dr. Perez was amiable, efficient, knowledgeable, and accommodating to cowards.  She did a bang up job and was done in less than 30 minutes.    While she was at it, I asked how much a bi-yearly cleaning would be: $15.  Sold!  In the end I ended up with a fixed tooth, cleanings for both me and Yano, and a fixed cavity: all for $65.  That’s about what my deductible is back home.

• Cleaning: $15
• Chip tooth fix: $20
• Cavity fix: $15
• Calling your husband a coward while he’s strapped defensely to a dentist chair: priceless.

After 15 years of traveling every continent except Antartica, I have come to the conclusion that the inferiority of healthcare outside of the United States is a myth perpetuated by those wanting to charge $500 for a procedure that can clearly be done for $35 plus the price of a Snickers.  Of course, I am not going to complain when Yano makes $200,000 a year as a nurse anesthesist; not any more than Warren Buffet complained that his tax rate last year was 17% while his secretary’s was 28%.  Obviously, I am going to milk the system for all it’s worth, but I’m just pointing out the financial skewdness of the entire system.

Still, happily whole.  I can smile without Yanory jabbing me in the ribs, and as a bonus, I got a cavity fixed for $15.

p.s. Price of a root canal here: $200.

 

Yano and I frequently talk about retirement.  We dream of idillic beaches, room service, and pi~na coladas.  And rarely are we a day over 40 when we visualize ourselves in the post-work era.  How is that going to happen when 40 is creeping up on us at such an unprecedented pace?  No idea.  But it doesn’t hurt to dream.

Lately I’ve become far more realistic, the 401k being more like a 201k these days.  Now our dreams include a 20 minute drive to the beach (on public transport) with a cooler of Ensure.

I’ve been thinking that when one of us passes away, I can cash in Yano’s life insurance and move to Thailand, where I can at least pay for an assisted living facility with re-runs of Baywatch while I sip my cold Ensure.  Unfortunately, these thoughts have all but come to standstill.

Today we went to Camaron to see some more extended family.  We saw acres and acres of pastures full of cattle and  speckled with small wooden huts.  At each relative stop, we ended up with more and more gifts of fruit, until the local buses felt sorry for us and started giving us free rides to our next stops.  The eye opening thing was to realize that there was not a household without a 90 year old– sometimes two.  A great uncle was out tending cows at 92, and when we returned home we were greeted by the grandma taking care of another uncle.  Grandma’s 90.  The great great great great something rather she’s taking care of is 107.  In 5 months he’ll be 108.  His diet of choice?  Fried plantains, fried corn sticks, and an assortment of other fried things.  Something’s wrong with this picture.

Somehow I doubt I’ll be outliving Yano, as all her dead grandparents were over a century old.  (Oh, except the 95 year old who was mugged for $5).  Now what are my chances of a single Thai retirement when my wife runs twice a day and eats only healthy food with a miniscule dose of daily cookies?  Pretty close to zip.  On the upside, I’m pretty much guaranteed a personal nurse in my later years– a nurse who will probably remarry thrice before dying at 115.

Oh yeah, I broke my tooth today eating sugar cane.  Most centurians I’ve met here have a full set of teeth, but they’ve obviously not fallen down face first on a bike.  Stupid me for trying to peel sugar cane with my teeth.  More details and pictures of this fiasco later.  Needless to say, I’m not allowed to smile while meeting new relatives.

 

Nothing says I love you like “let’s run 10 miles”.  I started running 2 months ago because I was burnt out from cycling 3 hours a day.  Running seemed like the logical choice– less time, and no more eating 5000 calories a day (it gets old after a while, not to mention the food bill).

My first week as a runner was everything I hoped.  Run 4-5 miles.  Done by 7am.  Have the whole day to myself.  Now how did that turn into running twice a day and logging 50-60 miles a week?  Mind you, those are miles at an excrutiatingly slow pace.  7 minute miles are still considered a sprint, but still…

Somehow I thought that running with Yano would add quality time to our marriage.  Instead, it’s turned into a monologue in which she tells me all about her day, while I answer with grunts and nods– all for about 20 minutes, after which, she warms up and is gone– never to be seen again until the end of our run.

We’re in Chiriqui, Panama, staying with one of Yano’s 39 cousins (on her dad’s side alone).  Lush green forests, volcanoes, mountains, and rivers.  Quite spectacular!  We met a runner at the track yesterday, and somehow the chance meeting turned into “let’s meet tomorrow at 6am to run 12k in the jungle”.  Me, being the protective husband that I am, decided to tag along to protect my wife from snakes, bears, and sexual running predators.  Big mistake!  Our running partner was a guy whose best 10k time is 30 minutes.

At approximately 10 seconds into our run, I realized I was going to get dropped in about a minute.  Yano and him were chatting away, warming up at sub 8 minute miles (uphill)– and we still hadn’t even started.  Sensing my pain, Echevarria said “we’ll turn here, you keep going until you see a branch… turn right and you’ll complete a 6 mile loop”.  Somehow I misunderstood “keep going” into “turn right”– after all, my brain doesn’t work when my heart is beating past 170 beats a minute.

Within 5 minutes, Yano and Echevarria were gone, and I started soaking in the scenery– river crossings, cows, indians cooking in an open fire.  However, 45 minutes into my run I realized I hadn’t seen any tree branch left as a sign, and I was slowly digging myself into an anaerobic hole.  I started entertaining thoughts of kidnapping a horse and riding back, but tired as I was, I doubted I could catch a sick pregnant mare, let alone a healthy horse.  A few kilometers down the road I saw a donkey, but alas, it slowly outwalked me.  I looked around, panting in despair, but all that was left were cows– with horns.

There is no shame in walking– indians have been doing it for millenia.  So, I turned around and walked until my heart rate returned to something less than a hummingbird’s.  After a few minutes, the walk turned into an injured trot, and I managed to limp back to the open road and turn around.  By the time I got back, Yano had run, stretched, had a Coke, swapped stories, and asked Echevarria for his phone number so we can do the same thing again tomorrow.  

Isn’t life grand?  Good thing I’m on vacation…

I’m going to crush the injured walking category on Sunday.