The Green Parakeet

For the second year in a row, during August and September, we have been visited by a Green Parakeet in the neighbourhood.  With the sunrise each morning, there is a piercing call, but only last year did I actually catch a glimpse of the bird in the tree.  Then in the evening, the same call is repeated just at dusk.  It sounds lonely.  From what I have gathered, it seems that Parakeets are an introduced bird which has formed, at times, large colonies in major cities like Stuttgart and Berlin.  Flocks of these small parrots occupy large trees, and if one can wake me up on a Saturday morning at 5:30, I would hate to hear what a nesting colony sounds like the dozing neighbourhoods.  

The bird, remains hidden amongst the green leaves of a tree I was convinced had been over trimmed, indeed, it looked hacked and left like some mangled piece of broccoli forgotten on the side of a child’s dinner plate, but from a 3 metre stump comes the limbs and branches of a tree which now towers over most of the street.  Broad shield shaped leaves larger than two hand-widths across capture the suns rays and cast speckled sunshine onto the gardens below.  Looking for a green bird in a green tree seems next to impossible until some movement or perhaps a silhouette is seen.  This is one of the reasons why I have yet to see the bird this year, and only have heard its call at the bookends of the day.  

So well camouflaged that the bird remains hidden to the various Sparrow Hawks and other birds of prey that seem to raise a ruckus in the birding world.  Even our little Zebra finch which sits in a cage by the window drops down to the floor of the cage and turns his head upward to wait for a passing hawk.  The Green Parakeet seems ever confident of never being seen, and of finding a mate, even this late in the season.  Perhaps one day there will be the beginnings of a fruitful colony of birds, but at this stage, two seasons in a row, this early settler better find a friend, or we might not hear any Green Parakeet song for a while.  

Quiet Day

A rest day. I have not had a full day off for over a month. Actually, I know it is a month and a half, but I am afraid to admit that as I manage my own time and either way it sounds pathetic.

To be on call for the public sounds like I should be wearing a cape of some sort, and there are surely times when it feels exciting. It also leads to burnout, and while I am not at that point (yet) I am aware that I could be very soon. Once a month I have a scheduled in ‘Quiet Day’ where I try not to do anything. I have written in the Q-Day’s in pen in my calendar right next to a regularly scheduled day off so as to get a longer time off. My track record for taking the Q-day has been abysmal, now being 2 years since actually fulfilling my own rule. Yep, pathetic.

It seems that there is always something pressing, or in most cases, I forget about this tradition and open my mouth to promise something to someone and end up not being able to get over my own guilty feelings. I know that even when I appear to be ‘off-duty’ I am never truly that way inside myself as guilt for not working and concern over the never ending To-Do list eats at my core. In the same instance, I am guilt ridden for not being present for family, often being bodily present, but my thoughts are on other issues. Certainly a damned if you do, damned if you don’t, type of situation.

I’m positive I am not alone in this, as many other people tell me how horrible it is in their own lives and I hear the BMW’s of numerous people (bitching, moaning and whining). So today I dertimined to take my first Q-day in ages, and a day off in a month and a half.

There is good reason why people die so soon after retirement, as we are all addicted to our habit of work and getting meaning out of our work. I need to fill my day with another routine which involves me getting away from all the various triggers of my addiction; such as, computers, mobile phones, calendars and the general public. I sit, with a timer, nearby a river and prepare ahead of time for all cases of weather. Today I layered up clothes, put on sunscreen, brought reading glasses, a book, a pen, and a notebook. I make an effort to go to the river and sit on the most remote park bench. A bend in the river, and the tall trees that line the banks provides a secluded view. There are at least two warnings signs and a gate to cross that warns of potentially high-water, and flooding – surely all detriments to the general public coming past.

Sitting by a river is intentional, as I visualize all my thoughts which pop-up drifting down the river. Even when these thoughts linger for too long I pick up a small stick and hurl it into the water, like beating away the creature, and watch until the stick (and the thought) have moved on downstream and out of sight, and out of mind. All this takes a great deal of effort, as thoughts are random, feirce and attractive. All effort is there to not take pen in hand and start jotting down notes that relate to work, or some project. It takes discipline to sit by the river and let things flow past and not pick them up and be carried away. Sitting at the river is important and ritualistic, as it helps set the tone for the day which quickly passes.

After some time I simply read. I’m working my way through about a dozen books at the moment, but one enjoyable, non-work related novel has caught my eye and I begin to plow through it effortlessly like a hot knife through creamy butter. Being taken away in the story is a distraction, and fills my time up. Eventually my alarm sounds and I need to pack up and begin the slow walk home. Walking slowly is important, despite my hunger and wishes to fill my belly with something for lunch. Walking slowly affords a different, appreciative view, of my surroundings just as slow food cookery whets the appetite, slow walking whets the soul. Green buds of leaves are emerging now after some of the trees have blossomed and their delicate petals drift like snow along the path. A Mallard has made efforts to get my attention whilst on the park bench, now lures me along the path as he ferociously paddles through the small rapids.

The sunshine cannot compete with the now brisk winds that russle the dead leaves which valiantly cling to branches from the previous year. The sun has, after a few hours, burned my skin and now the wind scourers my cheeks so that I will surely have a sunburnt and windburned face this evening. I’m not the only one with red cheeks, as a multi-coloured bird flits from branch to branch stopping briefly to wag jet-black tail feathers. It pays to be attentive and meandering on the way home. This is precious time, as it is so limited. Children will return from school and expect attention, food, some discussion.

Feeding my own body, I try to think of routines done in simple retreat houses. Silence, a simple meal, a slow pace. I end up eating handfuls of liquorice bits I find in the cupboard. Oh, the guilt! There are just so many triggers to a hectic life which surrounds me on every side, just like healthy food seems to be so much of a hassle, I make a pact with myself to have ‘just one liquorice’ and next thing I know, I have my hand cupped to my mouth like a horses feedbag. But really, why should I feel guilty? Several years ago I went on a silent retreat at a special centre and discovered that I was tired all the time. Part of the house rules were that no watches could be worn by the participants, neither were there any clocks in the house. Only the sun marked any indication of time passing, and that in itself was a rough estimate by any standard. I attended one session of a meditation, left and returned to my room tired. I slept. When I awoke I remained tired. I don’t think I attended another session for the next three days like all the other visitors which seemed to be bursting with a desire to talk. The silence was like a big sea sponge that sucked all the energy out of me, so that even when I was awake I felt bored with myself and simply exhausted. I stopped being guilty about sleeping at that point. I stopped even worrying that I was napping after sleeping for ten hours. The same was true for today, as I know that was well rested; indeed, I was fit for work, but that is not what I did as I simply became exhausted after eating.

I don’t usually sleep well, having been a historically light sleeper and having fitful sleeping patterns, it was not a surprise to be woken up by the doorbell as children returned from school needing to be fed and watered and encouraged. I could have returned to sleep easily enough once the initial momentum of interaction had faded, but instead I persisted with a pattern of ritual fighting the urge to look at emails, or just to glance at who might have written to me during the few hours away. Instead, I turn on the radio and listen to classical music. Some chanting, prayer, echoing cathedral choir fills the low ceilinged room, but opens my imagination to stone archways and buttressed walls covered in stained glass.

Soon all this will be a moment in the past, as I sit chained to a desk tomorrow with a steady stream of emails to reply to and projects to work on. I will speed through my day with little notice to the birds and the buds. I will probably forget, as usual, to eat. I will jump with electric-like shock as the door interrupts and mouths open to demand food and conversation and care. At the end of the day I will fall into a guilt-ridden fitful sleep of unrest with dreams of To-Do lists that grow skyward, and a dim fill that fills the day with grey instead of colour. Or maybe, because of the Quiet day I will find a small gap in the guilt and the habit will change into something more positive and life-giving.

A Windy Day

Nothing remarkable happens in my life. Only occasionally does something noteworthy take place. My life is remarkably ordinary so this small collection of stories is one which highlights only the infrequent spectacles that I’ve dusted off from memory, and have polished them up a bit with a sense of wonder and amazement.

The weather has been tricky in the last few weeks and is certainly variable depending on which way the wind is blowing. The fields near our house have all gone from brown clumps of sod now to neatly plowed earth ready for planting. In some fields the winter rye grass is already transforming the horizon from a dusty brown to a lush green, but if you turn your head at just the right angle you can still see the rows of brown and green making a geometric pattern across the land. Hot and cold days are primarily dictated with the wind pattern, this, and how sheltered you are by the rows of houses and small apartment blocks.

Yesterday the wind changed direction all in one morning walk out in the fields. The grass was young enough to be simply tussled about like a child with a short haircut and it took a finer view of the clouds and distant still bare trees to see that the wind was up to something. A southern breeze was no match for the sudden strong winds coming from the west and the white clouds began to be heaped up onto the hillside like a down comforter suddenly thrown to the side of a bed in a rush to start the day. With the collision of hills and clouds grey blotches started to form like a drop of dye in pool of disturbed water.

The mood of people which I pass is equally cloudy and mixed. One older couple, despite seeing me for a great distance, walked past me disregarding my friendly greeting like I was an old corn stalk tumbling past them, a small stepping hazard, but ultimately inconsequential. The couple looked more bent over as they for them it was a strong headwind and I can imagine, that as the good folk they probably are, they wish to get home before the rain falls.

Wearing sunglasses, I then had to put the hood of my jacket up over my head, and only whips of grey hair on the sides whipped at my eyes like a gentler version of my winter anorak with its hood ringed with fake animal fur. The weather makes you dress in peculiar ways, hoping to prepare for anything and everything.

Along with a burst of sunshine as the clouds opened up for a shaft of light to beam brightly upon my edge of the fields I saw another dog walker who I hoped to avoid simply because my record for greeting people is so pathetic that I sometimes wonder what the point is in even making efforts to be friendly. The dog was off-leash, and the man looked a little ‘free-range’ himself with an old baseball style cap, a gnarled beard and a white t-shirt that looked like it was from a rock concert. Surely this was the scarecrow to my being the old corncob shell. The man was clearly going to pass by in my direction, having had only two other options of cutting across the fields now that growth was visible it would be bad form to simply slice across a field if you weren’t the farmer. The man beckoned from a ways if he should put his dog on a leash, as I had done so myself to my own dog thinking of the edict of dog walking in Germany. I looked at the man, then looked at his dog and figured, why not let the dogs play au natural. What could go wrong with a mix breed pit-bull type of dog and a strange looking man?

Looks can be deceptive, as both the man and his dog turned out to be very friendly and sociable. Lots of small talk, and then with the slightest of touches the wind direction changed and off they walked, continuing their morning routine. All that was missing was a carpet bag and an umbrella as the somewhat unbelievable scenario played out. One kindly looking couple ignores, one oddly styled ‘couple’ decides to be incredibly friendly. A lot of the styles of encounters in this country seem to be just like the wind, unpredictable, but you need to prepare for everything and everyone.

Two Games: Mental and Physical

Am I the only one who writes in a title at the very end of the composition? Maybe like naming rites I should be waiting 8 days with this piece as a draft and then reveal it to the public with a name.  That might be worthwhile in finding all my spelling mistakes.  This mornings run with the dog was a planned 45 minute medium effort run, but that is just the working title of the project for today.  I leave the house with a reasonable expectation of what I am going to do as far as effort and time goes, but the route is very much up for grabs, along with the overall feeling of the run.  

The weather plays a big roll in how I feel about the run. Even though I run year round I do prefer the warmer, even hot, weather. Last night it poured rain and now in the hills there is a fresh layer of snow. My clothing is such that I’m too cold to begin with and therefore need some extra time before my muscles feel warmed up. Once warmed, it seems too hot with the layers.

I’ve spent a good deal of time this morning thinking about my feet. Rather, trying not to think about my feet. Several blisters continue to need treatment and despite the specialized socks, the ointments and the clear blister bandages, there remains enough discomfort for me to be dragged out of the clouds of ecstasy and back into the reality of painful feet. However, things have improved greatly with the ongoing treatment. There is no longer the heaving and dry retching acted out by my lovely wife every time I remove my shoes and socks after a long run, admittedly revealing a globulous red swirling blood-filled blister. My self-treatment is adds to the drama as safety pins are inserted and geysers of blood rich puss shoot across the bathroom tiles. So, indeed, I have wavered between painful feet and the glorious scenery.

Strangely enough, one of my thoughts as I ran today was all about word count and reading speed. I am curious to see that some of the Blog posts online, especially those tagged ‘Long-read’ come with an exact word count along with an estimated time to finish. Is this like my own extrapolated data from my Polar watch which predicts that it will take me around 3 hours to finish a marathon? The notion that an article will take me a certain time to read makes me want to challenge that with some competitive spirit setting up a timer so that I can say, “Ah ha! I beat it with 5 minutes to spare!”. This, by the way, takes all the fun out of reading and harkens back to a horrid elementary school teacher who based all reading on merit of pages read. Who cares about content or retention, just read as much as you can, and for every 50 pages you will get a large orange sticker to place on the class poster.

The same can happen with running. Just doing the distances does not really give you the complete picture; ultimately, the extrapolations are all just a bunch of variables and a best guess. In one race, I witnessed one competitor visibly slow because he let himself get so upset with a positive comment from one of the bystanders. It went something like this: Bystander cheering on the runners (particularly his girlfriend): “Good job! Keep it up! Relax into the race and enjoy every step!” This friendly note (exceedingly friendly if one considers this took place in Germany) was met with grumpy hostility which grew to outrage as one runner responded, “What do you think we are trying to do?! I have trained for this, so of course I will keep up. Are you stupid? What an idiotic thing to say! Ha! Relax. You think this is relaxing! What and idiot!!” Shouting and saying these things did nothing to deter the bystander, as he had long since been passed, and the effect of it all was that breathing rhythm and pace was radically reduced, not to mention the mental desire to run must have had some crucial effect since the man eventually dropped back in the pack and eventually got the distinction of DNF — Did Not Finish. A shame really. Despite all the training, all the reading, all the data, we can still win or loose with simply thinking about things too much.

What I find happens to me on long runs is the challenge of the physical game, and the more difficult challenge of the mental game come into the forefront of my mind at different times during the race, or the route. Mental and physical requests take tag-team responses to you as you pass milage markers. Usually, the physical starts to complain to the Central Governor. Small aches and pains may get noticed. Breathing is laboured. Muscles are cold and stiff. After 30 minutes that all seems a thing of the past as you just get into the flow and ride on auto-pilot, enjoying the scenery and surroundings. Then around 18 kilometres the mental side works itself up and your mind starts to think, isn’t this hill a little steep? Why am I doing this? Wouldn’t it be nice to just stop now and call for a lift? Why is the wind always a head wind? You get the idea. You do all that you can to convince yourself that running is a crumby idea and if you listen to these complaints, just as the man listening to the bystander and interpreting the comments in a completely derogatory way, you will stop.

Running, at least, running alone and not part of a team is just as much a mental game as it is a physical game. It is also a competition with myself. I have been active in team sports, and while they are enjoyable, it is not my preference. I’m not ultra competitive, but I do have standards for myself which I set and plan to achieve. In this way, the mental game is just as important for me as the running competition itself. There is a continuous jockeying for position of the mental and the physical; just as much as there can be the focus on the blistered feet, or the beautiful snow-capped hills.

Lost in the Woods

Running out of room is something I never thought would happen.  Running on a frequent basis has made my body change in form, as well as, function.  Using a heart rate monitor from POLAR I can evaluate how I run.  The data gives me a deeper understanding to my regular training, and subsequent recovery.  When starting a new running program I discovered my HR (Heart Rate) to be high.  I began running more as I had concerns about my own blood pressure and running has helped lower that amount substantially.  Running on well known routes I realize that I can run faster, longer and harder and in terms of HR it become more difficult to get my HR higher.  The watch provides a fitness test to see what my maximum oxygen levels are at a resting position and I have made it to the “Elite” level, although I do take this with a grain of salt that it might not be the most accurate reading.  It does sound good in ones ears however.  In any case, I find myself looking for other routes and surprising myself that a route that used to take me an hour now has me at the finish line still looking to fill 25 or 30 minutes worth of time up in my exercise routine.  Distances begin to look different when I realize that far off on my horizon, up some mountain valley, is actually only the half-way mark of my normal run.

I am training for a marathon and have introduced new variety into my run routine so that it is anything but ‘routine’.  Having more time, and more space to run I find that I venture to places that are new and exciting, even different countries as I cross borders.  My last long run had me getting a bit lost in the forest, but happy to run through new trails and I eventually found my bearings and ultimately my finish line.  I am sure that this is how ultra-marathoners start – get lost in the woods and keep running for hours.  I now find that my body recovers differently as well.  My first 10 km run was decades ago, but I can remember both the runners high, and the agonizing muscle pain following it a race.  Now it is common to run at least 10 km (usually much more) and continue my week like it was a walk in the park.  It is a bit miraculous how much the body adapts to the stresses and strains of training.  Now I can’t wait for my next run, my next race, and my next adventure.

 

No good café

The thing that is missing most in this town is a decent café.  No scenic street seems suitable.  For a country with such a coffee and cake tradition there is really very few cafés that will serve a proper coffee.  The small bakeries that tend to be chains all producing the same types of breads, having the same sales, all have inadequate places to sit and sip coffee.  The coffee is another experience unto itself.  Every type of coffee style is available, it comes in the correct style of cup or glass, but there is not soul behind it.  The coffee is nearly always lukewarm, not the piping hot stuff that you find elsewhere.  It is all machine made coffee.  Large black boxes sit on shelves in shops and homes alike.  The coffee these machines squeeze out come selected off of a touch screen much like an iPad.  The screen gleams like a Noo tool some mechanic has plugged into a BMW engine block, all the bells and whistles, the rev of the motor, the belching steam.  All that for a tiny tasteless coffee which is so cool that it get’s finished off in one gulp which is fine when the ambiance is so terrible you are happy to get out while you can.

France and Italy have great coffee cultures.  Places that look like a grotto, or a ruin will all serve fantastic coffee.  If you go often enough to these kinds of places the staff talk to you, befriend you and give you deals.  The coffee is hot.  You want to linger here and watch people go past, or observe the strangeness of the clientele.  You can sit all day and nobody will bother you.  No one is there to give you the look that says, ‘you’re now just wasting space.’  There is no WiFi like a west coast Starbucks, and the coffee never tastes like it has been intentionally burnt so as to produce some distinctive taste that they call style and quality.  People stay because they like the coffee not because they seem not to have proper furniture at home and their homework still needs to be worked on.

The barista is also more professional in France and Italy.  A person devoted to making good coffee.  Instead, we can often find our coffee is served with a bigger portion of whining hipster attitude, just like Starbucks and its bitter coffee.  The barista is not a machine with a touch screen in which any incompetent teen can simply ‘ask Alexa’ to make a cappuccino.  The barista is simply there to make good coffee and not to brag about their skills, or complain that someone doesn’t appreciate them enough.  Just make the coffee.  Maybe a barista does not have the same status as a bartender, but certainly there are enough drink styles between the both.  Rather it is the loss of connectedness.  Nobody pours out their feelings to a barista.  The steaming milk, the banging coffee press, the grinding of beans, all combine to make the environment around a barista antisocial.  No there are no stories of loneliness, loathing, nor lust.  Just simple black coffee.  It is the coffee we have a relationship with.  It is the start to our morning and end of our nights.

Too bad there are no good cafés around.

The Debate

It seems only a few weeks ago that I bought a pair of ASICS running shoes.  Could it really be time to get a new pair? I really should have written down the date that I bought my shoes so that I could calculate the usage of them more accurately.  My wife is convinced that they are over 6 months old and says that I need to think about getting another pair before I injure my legs.  This debate arises simply because I noticed a bit of pain in my left leg which tends to be my weaker leg.  Rest and ice and elevation have relieved some of the strain on my leg, but now I am wondering if my shoes need to be replaced.  It seems rather soon.

I usually run about 60 kilometres a week so if my wife is correct (she usually is) and the shoes are six months old by now that means that I have logged approximately 1440 km on my shoes.  Apparently the norm is between 600 and 800 kilometres as the life-span of the running shoe these days, with some give or take due to personal preference.

The little ‘twinges’ of pain grow in my imagination and loom darkly as my half-marathon approaches.  On the whole though, I find the little aches quickly go away during a run, and usually don’t come back.  I put it down to psychology and early morning runs when my body still feels like it should be asleep.

Part of me thinks, “wow, these shoes are pricey, but they are good,” while another side of me says, “should I just hold off and wait for a sale to happen and hope that nothing serious happens to my legs.”  The debate rages on in my head.  Still, I have found the shoe that works well with me at this stage in my life, so at least there isn’t the constant fretting as to looking for multiple models.

A record

I really have very little imagination and so I cannot think of what it would be like to work in a newspaper setting.  To be a journalist of some sort, or even to have a career as a writer.  To simply sit for hours at a time and type sounds at the same moment romantic, and sadistic.  People who are old enough to remember typing on a typewriter might be lulled asleep by the rhythmic sounds of the key strokes.  The word processor has made me a sloppy speller, and a poor typist, much like the digital camera has made photographers lazy.  If I had to go back and correct all the small typos that I have made so far it would be soul crushing work.  The delete button is magnificent.  To realize that my words would remain on paper in the rawest of forms is difficult to remember.  School reports were painstakingly typed with the ‘hunt and peck’ method and my neck would feel sore from the slouching posture devotion to my typewriter knowing that a deadline loomed.

I’ve often wondered where my old typewriter went to after all these years.  I certainly would not have thrown it away, but I guess someone did during a move after I had left home with a small car packed to the brim with what I thought might be necessary.  Somehow I always imagined that ‘my stuff’ would be treasured and enshrined at my parents house.  Not so, at least, not my stuff, but my siblings had some kind of advantage.

My typewriter was a ribbon manual typewriter.  My mother had a huge electronic typewriter that was held in a case as large as a suitcase that would surely be put into the hold as it would surpass the limit for in-flight carry-on luggage compartment space.  My now several years old Mac Book Air is a smilar dimension to the typewriter I had – only 11 inches across – not in anyway thin enough to put into an envelope.

The sound, and the set up of the page are somehow missing.  Simply opening another file on the computer is not the same as trying (usually unsuccessfully) to put a blank sheet of paper straight into the roller to prevent jams and skewed angles of type. I’ve tried some apps that attempt the ‘feel’ of a typewriter, but it is not the same.  Glowing keys don’t make the same sound, nor do they require the same force to hammer away the typeset against a ribbon.

Even the idea of having paper to work on and correct/edit is different.  One professor wrote her books entirely by hand as she said it had to look like crap for a few editions before any serious work could be done in finalizing the draft.  Now, even my error filled page on the screen looks great and hides the blemishes of incorrect grammar.  Let’s publish this! And I often do just that because I hate corrections.  I don’t like to review my material.  It is what it is.  I’m just lazy.  Or tolerant of mistakes.

When I look at the work that some people put into writing it simply astounds me to see so much red pen.  Like blood on a page I wonder how the original meaning of the text would ever survive the editorial scalpel.  Then again, there are beautiful words and a lost art of typing, writing, editing, and now all that is left is the reading.

It burns

Running in 36 degree heat with a good deal of humidity is pretty much nuts.  This is what my body was telling me repeatedly on Sunday evening after I had waited impatiently for the day to cool off a bit before heading out on a long run.  My normally scheduled hour and a half run became just short of an hour.  I had used up on my water and my eyes were stinging with sweat so badly that the occasional person reacted to me like I was a character from a zombie film.

Monday was spent with my daughter as the school break is here and instead of binge watching a Netflix show we had the idea, well she had the idea, to ride our bikes to France.  A leisurely ride toward the Rhine mostly under the tree canopy was a wonderful way to spend a morning.  The return trip through crackling dry corn fields and pavement so hot our tyres sounded different it was just desperation as we struggled to make our way home again.  My knee-caps are still red from the sunburn which I picked up as a momento of our ride together.

It really does burn.

Wanting to compare notes with other friends scattered around the world I looked up what the temperature readings were for a one friend in a city the other side of the globe, only to see grey drifts crossing the screen of my smartphone weather app.  “Strange clouds,” thought I, as I looked at the temperature readings.  The animation on the screen showed blue sky, a few clouds, or blazing sun as I swiped through the various cities with which I have some kind of connections.  Again, strange grey clouds.  SMOKE.  The words rolled across the screen of the phone and I realized that it is the result of forest fires that one city is blanketed in a think haze of smoke.  I guess that trumps my heat and humidity as people with respiratory problems struggle even to breathe with smoke and ash in the air. Maybe the burn on my knee caps is all that I have to complain about, and even if it is, we are still pretty lucky to do so.

I was supposed to compete in a bike race in town but as I circled the starting area wondering if I had got the date mixed up, someone eventually found me and told me that it was all off.  Too hot.  Nobody wants to do a 20 km bike race in this blazing heat.  Too hot!  The look of anger on the mans face when I said that I had already rode 25 km this morning seemed to suggest that he thought I was making light of the situation which he thought was so dangerous.  I’m glad I did get my ride in, and I am happy I could do that with my daughter.

Fitness Test

Every several weeks that go by I perform a fitness test to roughly calculate my VO2Max.  While I don’t think it is all that scientific, it does give some indication of my physical fitness level and I can usually confirm if it is going to go up or down.  What I did not expect is to see it rise so quickly.  I was in medium fitness and as I ran and exercised more the fitness score kept climbing up.  Since moving into a more strenuous level of daily exercise my last fitness test surprised me as I had jumped up to the ‘elite’ level.

The dizzying heights of elite went to my head and as I ran in the morning before the sun made it unbearably hot I really did feel light-headed.  I’ve followed the same routine and now sense that either from the added level of heat, and/or my level of physical activity I have not kept up with feeding my body very well.  I am often surprised how much I can eat; however, the days are so hot that I loose my appetite until late in the evening when things start to cool off.  For the most part people in the area become more Spanish in their day to day routines.  Early to rise, and then a period of crawling away into the shadows for about 4 hours in the middle of the day, only to reemerge in the evening with continued work activities.  Those, like my neighbour, who are required to work during the hottest (38C) parts of the day doing things like applying lacquer to wooden shelves get a bonus income (plus the added bonus of being a Swiss wage) all due to the ‘danger’ of working in the heat.

The heat has a way of changing personalities and normal day to day tasks become more tedious.  Air Conditioning is not very common in Germany as it is very expensive, and there are simple things one can do to limit the heat build up in a house or office (like close the blinds or shutters).  The other day standing in a crowd of people waiting for a bus which became so full that it was hard to tell if it was your sweat dripping down your back, or if it was the sweat falling off of the passenger squished up next to you.  During the route, which has its start and finish in urban areas, the vast majority of the trip is through rural villages where a bus stop stands is placed next to cow fields.  With the heat, tempers were also up as the bus driver consistently missed stops and forgot to open the back doors of the bus.  About every third stop was passed by with yells from passengers alerting the driver that he had, again, messed up.  Cursing was muttered by what would normally have been kindly little old ladies as they found themselves dropped off next to daisy the cow about a kilometre past where they had expected to exit the bus.

With the heat, all our behaviours change, and the dizzy run, although I did make it home, made me realize the need to refuel and rehydrate at a higher level than before.