Message in a Bottle: Sending out an SMS

It’s weird when a guy breaks up with you and you’re not even his girlfriend. “Sorry, Lars. I mean … Lasse… didn’t realize we were in a relationship?” seems such a lame response.

That’s happened to me in Denmark. It’s even weirder when he chooses to do it in a text message. That’s happened to me as well. It’s the weirdest, however, when he writes the break-up SMS missive in a language you don’t speak.

And he knows you don’t speak it. So, he writes something that he knows you’ll need help in translating by a fluent danish/english speaker. Which could come in the form of, say, the blonde gentleman in a gray suit sitting next to you on the train from Høje Taastrup to København. Who politely stammers, “I’m sorry, but it’s not a match,” um…. “I wish you off. Tax! Wait no… I wish you well, sweetie.” Yes, that’s it.

You can do two things in a sticky situation such as that, assuming you’re unable to lunge for the nearest emergency escape hatch. Lick your lips and smile broadly at your seatmate in such a way that shows composure and grace. Always take the high road, and if he asks you if you’re okay, respond, “Oh, yeah! I just hope Lasse gets the help he needs.” An illusive story to deflect all blame works like a charm. Adds to the 'hygge' in the train cabin.

If this ever happens to you, the second step is a bit trickier and calls for creativity. Peer around the cabin for a person who looks like an expatriate, equally as non-danish as you. Avoid anyone wearing hemp bracelets and white sneakers (American), or anyone with a massive maple-leaf stitched to their backpack (Canadian). Preferably find a young woman who hails from Poland, Turkey, Pakistan or Namibia; someone with dark eyes that have seen a lot.

There’s an unwritten rule between foreigners in Denmark that you help each other out when in trouble. We all seem to speak the same language, which is called nøtdanish.

Once spotted, plunk yourself down in the seat across from her and say, “Undskyld! Can you please translate something for me into your native language , [Polish]?”

Then, feverishly jam your thumbs into your mobile phone until you’ve written the following message: “Powitaninia! Porządku. Wy jesteście odurzonymi człowiekiem! i czuję współczucie do waszego *bony* osioł!

In English, it would mean, “Hi! Nimrod! I wish you (and your bony! ass) all the best in love and life! Ta-ta.”

Again, keep it classy. The exclamation points! will convey cheerfulness and civility! Once you’ve fired off the text message, say thank you to your kind savior and return to seat number one.

Proceed to set up a date with the blonde guy. Everything else will sort itself out from there.



(April 14, 2007... Arild, Sweden).

An American Rides in Denmark

One of my beloved weekend rituals in Denmark is a ride up the coast of Sjælland on my 10-speed Dutch bicycle. This not-too-strenuous workout fuses three of my favorite activities: sight-seeing, day dreaming and exercise.

On these bike rides I think about nothing and everything. I’ve solved all the world’s problems a few times over (too bad I didn’t have a pen and paper handy). I think about my charmingly Marxist university, and the irony in them embracing with open arms my heartless republican ways. Sometimes, when a bug flies in my eye, I ponder why it is I’ve never been able to wink. After years of trying, I’m convinced it’s a genetic trait that, sadly, some are born without, much like being able to roll the tongue into a burrito or properly pronounce the Danish dessert rødgrød med fløde.

Sometimes, I consider pressing global events, like the making of the last, littlest superpower on Earth—Denmark— and how it’s a microcosm for a perfect society with values, riches, culture, great pastries, high taxes, skilled workers, human rights and smartly dressed citizens. I call Denmark my pocket country, because it’s just so cute and wonderful, I want to put it in my pocket.

These are the musings that accompany me on the bike.

A couple weeks ago, on the heels of a promising Danish romance fizzling like a can of old Carlsberg, I found myself mashing the pedals along my normal route up the coast. Through the lively streets of Copenhagen, weaving in and out of blond men pushing baby carriages, I headed east 5 km toward the Øresund Sound, then north through the towns of Taarbæk and Humlebæk on a concrete bike path, smooth as glass, that runs parallel to the sea. The Øresund strait is the body of water that separates Denmark and Sweden, the Nordic name for the mingling of the North and Baltic Seas that hosted legendary battles centuries ago between pillaging explorers in funny hats. It was a blustery day, two weeks ago, as I peered out into the foaming sea and imagined Hans Christian Andersen staring into the same space a century and a half earlier. His Little Mermaid lingering beneath the navy-blue water was an image dangling in my mind, safely encased in a bike helmet two sizes too small for me.

Some days — particularly when I’m bothered by some major or minor injustice, or plagued with a hangover — I pedal my bike with an overly excited vigor that would look bizarre to the innocent bystander. I probably resemble a full-grown Napoleon Dynamite, who is still pissed off at the world. Those days are rare, however, as life in Copenhagen gives me precious little to fret about.

But that day, I was upset. And sad. And I didn’t know why—or at least, I thought I didn’t— which upset me further. You know that feeling you get when you haven’t cried in the longest time, and you peer inside yourself and marvel at your strong, vibrant interior—coated in deep colors and textures of wool and steel? And you reach across your shoulder, and give yourself a proverbial pat on the back, for being so impressively strong? You know, sensations like that? In that moment, riding the bike, I made my escape into that tough-girl daydream.

But I didn’t get far. Peering across the Sound at Sweden to the north — a land where deadpan Vikings ferment their emotions into congealed ale — I noticed a tear leak from the corner of my eye, still caked with day-old mascara. I put my head down, embarrassed.

As the rain began to pour, I looked up to the sky and thanked whomever for not letting me cry alone. Denmark is a country where (when sober) everyone is preoccupied with the issue of embarrassment. I’m picking up on that tendency to a degree. But that day, somebody saved me from such a fate, and wasn’t going to let me be the weeping, pink-wearing American Napoleon Dynamite, pedaling toward Sweden, but going nowhere fast.

I cried freely with heaving sobs. The salty mist conspired with the rain to tangle my hair, swinging in a long ponytail down my back. Looking inland, I let go of the handlebars to crane my neck in sight of the one white house I needed to spot. A stately mansion on a hill across from the ocean in Charlottenlund is the U.S. Ambassador’s residence, where the Stars & Stripes fly, adding primary colors to a gray skyline. It is the only spot in Denmark permitted to fly the American flag. It is a fixture of vast mystical proportions for a homesick girl on a rainy day… in a land filled with shy, tall heartbreakers uncertain how to receive her.

I tried and I tried, but I couldn’t find the Ambassador’s home. It wasn’t in front of me, and it wasn’t behind me. With each pull on the pedals, each grating swing of my knobby knees, I bobbed my head forwards and backwards, grasping for some sign of life. I needed something to straighten my spine, to salute the tears out of my body like a squeegee scraping on glass.

The absence of the flag made my emotions unravel further, until my breathless moans were whittled down to a whimper, which became a hiccup of laughter. I pedaled on the edge of my passions, between joy and sorrow, between two nations, until the cry became a giggle, and the giggle became a sore stomach. I deserted my search and gazed at the road in front of me, with side-splitting hysterics navigating a crooked path. An old man in his church suit pedaled in my direction, with a wet dog perched in a basket over his front wheel. I winked at the old man, the only way an American girl who can’t wink can.

I had blinked my last tear. He spun past me, attending to an inner-debate in his mind that lasted an instant and ended with a faint smile over his shoulder, directly at me. Behind him, I spotted my old friend. The American flag soared in the sky, but there was no rain above it. The clouds parted, and a weary sun peeked from behind a canopy of gray that had been in place all winter long.

I call it Denmark’s winter filter that turns bright shades to gray and the moods of an entire population to ash. Soon, in the spring, the filter would fade away, and pale people would emerge from their houses, euphoric.

Seeing all there was to see, I turned for home. On the ride back, I thought about mermaids and Swedish astronauts… and the hard-earned smile from a stranger. I thought about the chipped fortress around my heart… and polished European men and women sipping lattés with their lovers... and all that tricky sunshine.

Sometimes, on rainy days, on bicycles, the world becomes a little clearer. If only you could take that clarity home with you, inside your pocket.

From Paris to Malmö to Girona...

Recently, I've been fortunate enough to take some quick trips to France, Spain... and Sweden. That last country on my list doesn't really count ('no offense' to my Swedish friends), but the country is only a 30 minute train ride from Copenhagen, via the Øresund bridge connecting DK and Sweden.

In early March, I had my first Parisian adventure... and it was j'magnifique. (I don't speak a lick of French, so that is a completely made-up word, never to be uttered in the company of a francophile). I was there under the guise of "work," which means: a comp'ed hotel room, swanky dinners at Michelin star restaurants and lots of high-grade French wine, cognac and cheese.

I highly recommend the following accomodations: Hotel Saint Germaine in Sector 6. St. Germaine is a bastion for all things culturally inspiring, religiously uplifting, and consumer-centric. That means, there are pretty churches, cool museums and great shopping! Literally, the shops rival the finest boutiques on Rodeo Drive, a formative place where I honed my shopping skills in the my late-teen years while at UCLA. I'll leave the museum critiquing to the experts...

I will, however, freely critique the level of friendliness and hospitality I witnessed in Paris, and give the city a 9 out of 10. Too many Americans (erroneously) believe the French are out to get us. We take to heart the criticism leveled at us by their more-vocal politicians over our foreign policy, which they may or may not find slimier than escargot. Regardless, it's unfortunate we take the comments so personally, and assume that when they speak of the war in Iraq, they speak ill of us. Or even worse, that they hate us. The French do not. Visit the country and see for yourself a population of passionate, honest, good-natured, loyal people with joie-de-vivre and a classic radiance that is all their own.

While in Denmark, I've had the privilege of befriending two French expatriates who live in Copenhagen. One of them (employed as a communications director for the UN) has been in Denmark for 4 years; the other one (working on her PhD in computer science) has been in DK nearly 2 years. After many fits and starts trying to learn danish, both have quit completely. Neither of them are capable of speaking or understanding much danish at all. What captivated me was how proud of this fact they are! The gentleman said to me, "Why do I need to learn danish? Everyone here speaks English!" I laughed at the irony. The woman also turned up her nose at the thought of trying a bit harder to speak danish. Apparently not all french people are averse to learning English, but they draw the line at danish. So, if you want to find a citizen of France who speaks perfect English... go to Denmark. (Please note the lower-case "d" in danish is the correct usage, according to the danes).

Upon returning from France, I had the rare opportunity of hosting two close Sacramento friends, Penny and Alene. It was their first visit to Denmark, and they remarked how impressed they were to find such a clean, friendly country. We had a marvelous time together, even managed to squeeze in a trip to Malmö, Sweden. The photo (above) was taken in front of City Hall... (I think? My Swedish is a bit rusty, and I had trouble reading the signs).

Last week, I spent several days in Girona, Spain… as part of a series of interviews with an American pro-cycling team, with a growing European contingent. They put me up at a lovely hotel in the Jewish Quarter (Ciutat de Girona), near the city’s main walking street – the Rambla—that runs parallel to the Onyar River. Girona is a very friendly and gracious city, with architectural style that mixes modern and classical. It is off the beaten path for most pedestrian tourists in Spain, which adds to its charm. The cycling industry (and the fact that Lance lived there for 5 years, along with many prominent Tour de France riders from various teams) has invigorated the city's appeal to tourists looking for a quiet, medieval town away from Barcelona (on the Costa Brava), and close to the border of France.



Its citizens were warm and inviting—laughing whenever I broke into danish while stopping for directions or purchasing specialty chocolates (one of its famous Catalonian products). Girona’s centerpiece is the old quarter—where I stayed—which stretches out beneath ancient walls and watchtowers on a hillside on the east bank of the Onyar. Girona has a rich and glorious Jewish history in the Catalan region— even housing the medieval community of El Call, where the Kabbalah was first written down in España. I found the following excerpt: “For nearly 500 years, it lay buried, literally sealed off, as houses and streets were, in successive layers, built over it. Now in an ambitious restoration project, Gironans are digging down through levels of construction and back through centuries to unearth a part of Jewish and Catalan history that began at the start of the ninth century, ended at the close of the fifteenth, and then slowly faded from public memory until it was completely forgotten.” The expulsion of the Jews in 1492, and the Jewish diaspora that bookended such events—added layers to the city that could only cover up, and build on… its Jewish roots. You can still find centuries-old mezuzahs on the entrances into homes and businesses.

It is possible this recent field trips—and future pilgrimages to Spain—could initiate my own spiritual renaissance, if I choose to revisit those old feelings. (Those that I nurtured long ago… but have neglected in recent times, in favor of long runs & races. I’m speaking of faith, with such inelegance. Apologies!) In this season of Passover, I guess it’s a timely theme.

Knus, fra Denmark. XO.

A Straight American Poem

A merica, why………………………..............

M easure ourselves in crescent smiles,

E fforts in persisted miles, that only.…

R upture those we beguile?...................

I nstead we should gauge like a………...

C racked turnstile, marched by………....

A rmy boots, single file……………...........

Ironman USA Triathlon

Coeur d'Alene, Idaho... June 25, 2006

Background

The fact that I race triathlons takes some getting used to. It ranks up there with flying saucers, a French victory, and Martha Stewart's soul in the category of Things You'd Never Expect to See. I join you in your shock. For nearly five years now, I've fancied myself a poser triathlete. I dabble in the sport. I wear pink running skirts when I train and waterproof mascara during open water swims. Triathlon is my hobby; one that consumes 5, 10…. maybe 15 to 17 (tops) weekly hours of my life in training.

But I do it for fun, and certainly not very fast. After racing in 4 half-ironman triathlons and seeing steady improvement in my training, my splits and my race-day outfits, I decided it was time to step up the challenge.

One year ago, in an altered state of mind — with the scars of a heartache wearing on my thin ego — I registered for Ironman Coeur d'Alene in Idaho, one of five North American full-distance triathlons that leads up to the penultimate race: Ironman Kona in Hawaii.

2.4 mile swim, 112 mile bike, 26.2 mile run. Piece of cake.

My race preparation was fantastic. Though a large investment of my time, money and patience, I began training in earnest 9-months out from the event. I trained alone, I trained with friends, I trained with my father, and I trained with legends. In October, I ran loops around Hamlet's mythic castle in Denmark. In November, I received cycling advice from a man who won the Tour de France. I later met Ronnie Lott ("who are you?" I asked in a red-wine haze), and he flattered me with a compliment about my discipline. By February, I had successfully beaten my ex's skinny new girlfriend in a local half marathon. And by March, my boss Arnold had told me I trained too much: "You need to vork more."

Though fatigued at times, I felt fit and healthy during the weeks leading up to the race. My body grew stronger and unexpectedly thicker in places I never expected muscles to hide. By May, I had gained enough weight to alarm my haphazard doctor who suggested I "start working out."


With the person who taught me everything I know. And my mom.

I arrived to Coeur d'Alene as prepared as I could be. With a small army of supporters — Mom, Dad, two of my three sisters, Christy and Allyson, and our dog Arlo — we descended on Lake Coeur d'Alene Resort in the lush Pacific Northwest. I did a mental checklist of the pre-race rituals that often concern triathletes (carbo-load, stretch, hydrate), and dismissed all those things in favor of my usual pre-race agenda (bikini wax, pedicure, and sports massage by man named "Thor").

Race day arrived on Sunday, June 25th, and my family members surprised me by wearing matching t-shirts emblazoned with a frightening image of my face. "You make us proud!" was written beneath my mug. Their willingness to compromise all sense of fashion and dignity — wearing shirts silk-screened at a mall kiosk — gave me a surge of motivation. They were there entirely for me, wholeheartedly and unfashionably, and I would recruit every fiber in my body to help get me to the finish line for them.


Volunteers body-marking me before the race. Braids are back!

The Swim ~ 3.8 km

When the gun went off, I entered the lake hand-in-hand with my training partners, Penny and Alene. It was a mass start, and 1,500 bodies were flung far and wide throughout the shore as we charged toward a bottleneck turn more than a mile away.

I was scratched, pummeled, tickled, and kicked in the face; it was like another day at work for Naomi Campbell's assistant. I emerged from the icy water in 1 hour, 15 minutes, approximately 15 minutes faster than expected. A 2-inch cut at the base of my neck trickled drops of blood, which was of little concern to me once I spotted my sisters cheering for me against a screen of spectators on the beach. I felt great.


I'm bringing sexy back.

The Bike ~ 180 km

I hopped on my blue, carbon-fiber Orbea and began my ritualistic positive thinking: "This is going to be a great day!" "I'm going to feel terrific on this 112-mile bike ride!" Spinning my legs, I absorbed the gorgeous surroundings and carefully repeated my father's race-day mantra, which he had reminded me minutes before the start. "Slow and steady wins the day." When I started racing a while back, my coach Gina summed up triathlon as an event in which the primarily goal is to delay fatigue. Going too hard in the beginning is a sure-fire way to invite fatigue into the party.

At mile 30, with the mercury slowly rising and my legs rebelling in kind, my thoughts went downward. "This is starting to hurt a little! But it's not so bad!" Just a few thousand athletes passing me! At mile 50, with the temperature hovering at 98 degrees, I unraveled. "Positive thinking, my ass! This was the worst idea I have ever had, since the time I permed my bangs in seventh grade." Who do I think I am?

My thoughts turned to all the people who I had told about the race. I had a Homer Simpson moment. Doi!?!? I worried I'd be telling them all I failed.

My slow-speed come-apart reached a fever pitch at mile 75 as I crested the last steep climb of the day. A few meters in front of me, I spotted several of my training partners: LeAnn, Laura, JoAnne and Diane. All experienced Ironwomen, I often sucked on their wheels during training rides. I was shocked to have caught up with them. They too were struggling, even more than me. LeAnn had heat exhaustion, JoAnne looked slightly delirious, and my friend Diane looked like an angry lady. LeAnn is a chirpy, 35-year-old knockout who suffered a serious stroke a mere 14 months ago. This race was her comeback. She flashed me a determined smile.

"Camryn!!! Join the party! It's 100 degrees out here, but we're going to survive, we're going to have fun, and we're going to get through this bike ride."


Swollen, dehydrated and poker-faced.

My morale came back. We were all hurting, but at least we could suffer together. I learned in that moment that the collective strength of friends can overpower the deepest sense of defeat. The remaining 37 miles our group kept each other in check; careful not to draft, we stayed within each others' eye-line—a force on the road determined not to be broken by the heat and the gusting 30-mph winds. From then on, I decided to take the race in stages. "Just get to the next water station, just get through the bike." In such a long endurance event, it's helpful to set up mini-milestones to break up the monotony of the pain.

At the end of the 112 miles, I entered the Transition Area and spotted the ecstatic Christy, Allyson and my mom, smiling and waving. My dad looked like a determined paparazzo, snapping photos while hovering over the barricade that separated the spectators from the athletes. I felt a bit tired, but I gave them a thumbs up and smile to help ease any tension in case they were worried. It felt like heaven getting off of that damn bike. I remember thinking, as I literally threw my beloved Orbea on the grass, "I never want to ride that thing again." I entered the Women's Transition & Changing Tent with my training friends, where we were greeted by kind volunteers who covered us with cool, wet rags to wipe off the salt caked on our bodies.

I guzzled more Cytomax sports drink, grabbed my Cliff Blocks, and threw on my running shoes and hat. I felt the blood return to my legs. I had officially bounced back from the dreaded bonk I had experienced on the bike!

I felt renewed and ready to tackle the marathon. Receiving the warms cheers of friends and loved ones during an event like Ironman is the most invigorating stimulant an athlete can ever hope to experience.

The Run ~ 42.2 km

I took off jogging. After a mile or so, I realized my legs were shredded, so my jog became a shuffle; the Ironman Shuffle is its clinical term. Faster than a lumbering senior citizen, slower than a charging toddler, the Ironman Shuffle is the dramatic enactment of an athlete dragging her feet, slumping her shoulders and pressing forward in a lateral motion. Anything but walking or stopping.

I formulated my mini-milestones. "Run until the next aid station." Every mile to mile-and-a-half featured one, where I would walk, drink and take in calories while passing through. At mile 13, I changed the rules. I decided once I spotted an aid station I could slow the run into a shuffle or walk, while resuming running after passing through.



To kill time, I started "Ironman dating." I had a relationship with a charming blonde guy who passed me at mile 13. I was struggling, but I didn't let him out of my sight. We leap-frogged back and forth. Despite some awkward moments, he was a confident and tan companion. He broke up with me for good at mile 16 when some floozy in red spandex got between us.

Then, a cute Brazilian boy with muscular calves stole my heart. But we had trouble communicating, and I had to dump him when he slowed down, due to what I assumed to be "issues" in his gut.

At mile 17, I began passing people. Men, women, people older, and people much younger. I ran for several miles with a Canadian woman who sipped soda "pop" and a hot-shot L.A. attorney who lifted my spirits when he bragged that he usually finished Ironman races in 11 hours. We had missed that mark a couple hours back. The three of us became a happy, dysfunctional family, sharing stories, laughs and encouragement. We waited for each other, and pushed each other up the gently rolling hills.

At mile 20, I was ready to be done racing and realized the quickest way to achieve that goal was to increase my pace. I bid farewell to my buddies and took off down the road. At mile 24.5, my legs were throbbing. It was after 10 PM at this point, and I had been racing for more than 15 hours. The stars were bright as I lifted my head up to the cobalt sky for the first time all day. There was an athlete a hundred yards in front of me, and another runner even further behind. I found myself alone on the course, nestled in a stretch of Coeur d'Alene resort homes jutting up to the lake. The stars dotted the sky, effusing a light glow on the dark roads and the runners scattered below.

In that solitary moment, a feeling I'd relate to homesickness washed over me. My thoughts turned to all the people who I loved and missed. The people who couldn't be there to witness the event, and the figures in my life who had passed on. I thought of old childhood friends whose time had expired prematurely: Kenny, Krissy and Kate.

I ran for them. And I felt them running with me. I thought of my Nana, the dearest of my ancestors, who understood her quirky granddaughter like no other soul could. I ran for her. Not one for existential moments, I often avoid the cheesy spins on life in favor of truth and logic.

But in that moment I was too fragile and tired to fight it. I sunk into the pain, and thanked my silent soldiers above for sticking with me throughout the day.

The pain evaporated, and I ran like the wind toward the finish line.

The last half-mile stretch runners course through the finisher's chute. Thousands of spectators lined it, screaming my name and race number against the blare of a rock song that pounded a rhythm for the crowd.

To call it exhilarating would be like calling the universe big. I remained focused, firm and joyful as I crossed the finish line. Gratitude overwhelmed my emotions.

The announcer roared on the loud-speaker — against the cacophony of music — "Camryn Thomas, you are an Ironman." He was only half right. I was the Ironman, but so many people had a hand in my finish. I felt unworthy of the credit I was receiving, from the catchers who greeted me, to the spectators clapping uproariously. My shaking hands covered my face as I fell into the arms of my crying mom.

Looking back, I'm tempted to recite the standard Ironman finishers' refrain: "The race changed me." Or "best experience of my life."

But neither is true for me, and such statements are too dramatic. It didn't change my life. It was just another day; one that began at sunrise and ended with a slice of pizza and a bathtub filled with ice.

But it was a day of excitement, pain, agony, suspense and joy. It was an event that put my faith on trial, and in the process restored my belief in myself, and in something else… much stronger than me.