Pack it up. Time to move on. Nothing to see here...

NEW SITE LOCATION: We’ve redesigned the site and added many more features and posts. From now on, please goto and bookmark http://www.theaccidentalextremist.com. Thanks for reading, and don’t forget to send in your own tales—we’re waiting!

Running is a great way to feel healthy and alive.

            I, a fat man, had been circling Portland, Maine’s Back Cove like a dog prepping its bed for most of the summer of 2007. Now intimately acquainted with every pothole, washout and linden tree on the route, I finally turned 7 miles at 9:20 per, and added longer runs of 10 and 12 miles. I was feeling reasonably prepared for my first-ever long running event until just before the race, when a telephone call informed me that I was to be without my race partner,
who I lovingly refer to as Chubby. Her plantar faciitis had put her on the back foot (pun intended) since the beginning of the summer. She simply didn’t feel ready to tackle the full 13.1 miles of running in Hanover.

“I’ve tried to run a half-marathon before I was ready, once,” she said. “I’m not going to do it again. But you can still come and stay with us, and I’ll pass you gu during the race.” Now alone in my quest, I commenced a final week of training: a solid 9.5-mile jog, a 3-mile Monday, a 5-mile Wednesday and a 7-mile Thursday. It was a beautiful week, with clear skies and temperatures in the mid-70s. My times were on target. I was feeling so good about my preparation that I left work early on Friday and promptly wrecked my motorcyle…

            There’s really nothing like rolling along an entrance ramp to pack a whole afternoon of rugby fun into about 10 seconds. When your soft brain hits your hard skull, you see stars—a minor concussion. 

Instead of an early start to Vermont, I had to wrangle with two of Portland’s finest, hell-bent on telling me that what I said happened couldn’t possibly have happened. They were pissed that they couldn’t write me a ticket, so they compromised by insisting that I either move the bike immediately or let them call a wrecker. Here’s the picture: I’m standing on a median, bleeding from my arms and talking with my insurer on the phone while a motorcycle (!) cop insists that I get my bike out of the median RIGHT NOW or I’ll call a wrecker and then stare you down until you get off the phone and MOVE THAT BIKE OFF THE MEDIAN, YOU CAN’T LEAVE IT HERE. Well no shit, buddy. Give me five minutes to stop bleeding and rent a truck at the U-Haul (a 2-minute walk away) and I’ll move the wreckage anywhere you want it.
Two hours and a U-Haul later, I was on my bloody way to Vermont.            

           Alas, my relations with the Thin Blue Line were just beginning. Driving through Moultonborough, NH, I was pulled over for having a headlight out. “Why is your hand bloody?” 

“I was in a motorcycle accident this afternoon.” 

“Then why isn’t that covered up?” 

“Well, it isn’t bleeding, so I thought I’d let it air out a bit.” 

“Where was the accident?”

“Portland, Maine.”

“Wait right here.”

…Waiting…

…waiting…

“Where did you say the accident was?

“It was in Portland, Maine, at about 2:30 this afternoon.”

“Was an officer called to the scene?”

“Not by me, but yes, there were two. No public or private property, except for my bike, was harmed, and no one but me was involved.”

“Wait here.”

…Waiting… “Alright, well, I can’t hold you here. Get that headlight looked at.”

Oh, you can’t hold me here for, what? Public bleeding? Go figure.

About an hour later, I was pulled over again in Vershire, VT, for the same reason.

I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever make it.

           After spending the night with Chubby and husband, Mick, the day of the race dawned.

Actually, it didn’t dawn so much as ooze over the horizon and cover the world with gooey, sticky humidity. The temperature began to rise. And rise. By the time of the race, humidity was at 75% and the air temperature was 94 degrees. There’s a picture of me before the start of the race, looking like the lovechild of a loofa and a tube of toothpaste.

           No one looked really excited to be out in this heat, but there were about 520 of us there anyway. Chubby and Mick met me at two places along the course with the gu and mercifully cold water (the water supplied by race staff was as warm as sweat, singularly unrefreshing and slow to leave the stomach. Bad news). Worse yet, after a week of race prep in mild Casco Bay breezes, the temperature continued to climb. After meeting me at mile 6, Chubby and Mick headed over to mile 10. Along the way, the outside temperature thermometer in their Jeep, which is mounted under the front bumper, read 100F. 



           I don’t do well with heat: too big, too fair, too northern European. Through mile 7 I was right on time, but by mile 8 I was toast. Even when the humidity was relieved by a violent thunderstorm, I couldn’t recover. The wind blew sand into my mouth. It also blew down several trees along the course. After the rain passed through, the humidity lessened slightly, but it was still hot, a living hell.

           Oh, and the best part? I’d been wearing little round band-aids on my nipples to keep it from happening. But with the weather, my shirt stuck to my chest enough to wear through the small amount of skin not covered by the band-aids. 

Finally, some 2 hours and 43 minutes after I started, I finished, and was finished. I had been shooting for 2:11, but that’ll have to wait until next time. —Jim Gooch works for a non-profit in Portland, Maine. He ran this race for charity.

Sometimes the sea calls, and we answer.

           I never thought I had a death wish, but one experience on my recent travels had me reconsidering. I’d been traveling around South-East Asia by myself on a break from my studies to see the world. One day I decided go cliff jumping and snorkeling in Thailand; I’d seen signs all over advertising guided trips.  On the same signs there were also advertisements for swimming with sharks.  At first I thought it would be quite a day to do all three, but to swim with sharks I would have to get up at 6:00am. That is just not a time of day I wake up to go jump in the water with sharks.  That’s not even a time of day I’m awake to see super models swim in the water…

          I met my Thai guide, Musa, at 10:30 a.m., a much more civilized hour. We headed out of Phi Phi harbor towards the cliffs. Once out there Musa handed me a pair of diving gloves with thick rubber on the palm side, both for the left hand, but I shrugged it off. That’s Thailand. I took them and climbed out of the ocean to the first jump, around 15 feet.  Soon I was up to 35’ and getting scared. On impact it felt like two hoses hooked to my nostrils and turned on full blast.  When I got on land Musa told me to clear it out, so I huffed a huge farmer’s blow, which ended up all over my shorts.

           Now it was time to muster up my courage to willingly jump from 60 feet into shark-infested waters.  The shark diving site was only a half a mile away. Once I got up there I started to doubt myself.  I could see for miles around, the whole town and across to the other bay. Five minutes crawled by.

           Musa yelled up, “I come up to help you get past the fear!”  He did, and then jumped, and it didn’t look that bad, so I told him to wait.  I crept to the edge, peered over, and tried to psyche myself up, but I still couldn’t do it. I kept saying to myself, “It will be OK. Be a man. Jump!”

            Just then a boat drove by and sounded her horn. It was time.  I let go of the ledge.  For two seconds my mind cleared and my body accelerated towards the ocean. I cleared the rocks, and then I hit. I had made it! And I wasn’t hurt! I gave Musa a cheesy high-five, then did my best Tiger Woods fist pump. But there was no way I was going to do it again, so we packed it up to do some snorkeling. 

            When we came back to the boat a short time later we heard a man screaming from the shore. He was yelling at Musa in Thai. Musa said it was a friend so we motored over.  At first I could only see him; I thought it might be some sort of drug deal.  As we got closer I could also see a white girl with the man.  Musa swam over to the two and they talked for a while.  Bizarrely, as I was peeing off the side of the boat, the other Thai guy swam up and asked me if I liked chicken.  “I love chicken,” I replied. I’m still not sure why he asked me that.

           Then I noticed the woman on the beach had something red all over her back.  I didn’t want to believe it was blood.  It looked a little too pink; I tried to figure out what else it could be. Thai guy grabbed a life vest from the boat and swam to shore with it. I realized it could only be blood.

           Musa started bringing her back to the boat using the life vest under her for support. All I could do was put down the stepladder and wait to offer her a hand.  While the two were still in the water I over heard her telling Musa in a tearful voice that she was from Sweden.  I helped lift her on to the boat and offered her water to put on the massive scrapes that were on her back.  She looked to be in her late twenties, beautiful with blond curly hair covering up some of the blood coming out of her head.  She kept crying and shaking—she was in shock. 

“What’s your name?” I asked.

She tried to tell me, but spoke so fast that I could not understand.

“My name is Graham.” I put my hand on her uninjured shoulder.

She seemed to calm down a little. “Marika.”

           I turned to Musa, “Do you have any idea what happened?” he shook his head, and fired up the boat motor.  From what I could tell, she had fallen and scraped herself on the same sharp rocks cliffs that I had guarded myself from before.  The cuts also covered her legs, feet and arms.

She kept saying, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

           I told her, “There is nothing to be sorry about and you’re going to be o.k.” I gave her my towel to cover up. It still didn’t make sense.

Then she blurted out, “I’m so sorry. I’m going to go to prison.”

           The boat sped toward the hospital in town.  The last thing I wanted was for her to avoid town for fear of being arrested—she needed medical attention.  Drugs are the only things the foreigners go to prison for in Thailand, but she didn’t look like the type. I asked her once more, “Do you know what happened?”

“I know what happened,” she said. “I jumped. My life is screwed up. I tried to die. I’m going to be arrested.”

“You’re going to be fine,” I replied. “You’re not going to jail.”  Neither, as far as I knew, was true.

She added, “I didn’t know where my passport is, and I have no money.”

           Not knowing what else to say, I repeated over and over again, “Everything is going to be o.k.. I will help you.” But Marika was distraught. “My friends are angered at me for being so depressed, and the police are looking for me,” she managed.  Then she broke down and cried, “I’m crazy, I heard the helicopter and I jumped.”

           She seemed sure of this part. I had been less than a half a mile way from where she jumped all morning, and never heard any helicopter. When we got to shore Musa picked her up and carried her up the beach.  She pleaded, “Please, will you stay with me?”

I held her hand as we walked her in.  It seemed a little taste of what it must have been like on Dec. 26, 2004 when the tsunami hit.  Now I was bringing a traumatized victim into the Phi Phi Hospital.

The place was primitive; they washed her wounds out with a garden hose around the back of the building.  Then the head doctor turned to me.  “How you know this girl?” he demanded.

She wasn’t telling them anything at first, and I thought I would give her some time to tell her own story. “I just found her on the shore bleeding with her guide, you can ask them,” I said.

The doctor, confused, began to question my presence. “She pushed on rocks. Maybe you push her!” he said, ignoring my denials. After about five minutes of this, she spoke up.

“I jumped. I’m crazy.” The doctor could not believe it at first.

           Soon Ingrid, Marika’s friend, arrived. Ingrid looked at Marika and stood there in disbelief. Then they both started crying and hugged each other.  I will never forget the looks on their faces. As I walked out the front door to take a couple of deep breaths the head doctor patted me on the back and announced self-importantly, “I think she has some psychological problem.” I let his comment float away.

           What could I say? What I had just been doing for fun, Marika had been doing to try and take her own life.  I don’t know any more than that.  It would be interesting to know the details—how high did she jump? Why?—but it’s really not that important I guess.

           This was an intense day in my life. I learned how I handle situations and rediscovered the joy of helping others. I do not feel like a hero. All I did was sit there and promise her things I could not deliver. I would have wanted someone to come back and check on me later in the hospital, but I could not do even that. I still don’t know why. I always wanted to meet a Swedish girl. Next time I hope it will be under different circumstances.

Now I now know that I do not have a death wish. I test death to know that I am alive. 

—Graham Markel, 25, is a sailor and pastry cook. He works with his mother at peggymarkel.com and lives in Boulder, Colorado. Some names were changed in this story. 

Only the finest materials for today's business traveler.

            So Tuesday was a big day for me.  Instead of going into my midtown office, I had to travel down to Tribeca to work at one of my firms off-site centers.  I knew where to go, but it’s that same feeling that you get when you have a job interview—you know where to go, but not exactly.  Anyways, I was wearing a suit because after work I had to meet up with some of my buddies at the University Club and they have a strict dress code.  Mind you this is the same suit I’ve had since high school graduation—almost 7 years ago.

So I get off the subway in Tribeca and bend down to tie my shoe, when I hear a loud….

RRRRRIIIIIIIPPPPPPPP…

            I stand up praying the ripping sound was just my boxers.  I reached behind and could only feel bare skin.  Not a good sign. My suit pants were ripped from below the zipper all the way around to the belt loop on the other side.  It was similar to the scene in Tommy Boy when Chris Farley rips David Spade’s coat.  What made matters worse was the fact I was on my 12-string boxers—I haven’t been able to pick up my laundry from the cleaners for a variety of reasons.  The boxers are ill-fitting and not attractive, which is the precise reason they are my 12-string boxers.  Also, since I’m way down in Tribeca, going home to change isn’t an option.

           Since I’m 20 minutes early for work, I decide to go buy another pair of pants.  However, that area is a weird combination of cheap jewelry stores, Jamba juices and yoga studios—no men’s clothing stores in sight.  After roaming the streets for 15 minutes I finally stumble into a hole-in-the-wall men’s store.  I ask the clerk to find me a pair of pants that matches my suit jacket.  He magically finds a pair, and I try it on.  The “changing room” is just two swinging doors in the wall, similar to a western-style saloon bar door.  The pants fit, and I pay ($20, a steal!). 

           The pants looked fine on first glance, but after checking the tag, they are 65% polyester, 35% rayon.  I’m pretty sure medieval kings draped themselves in 65% polyester, 35% rayon gowns and robes.

           After buying the pants, I immediately head to a tailor in the hope she can sew up the pants by the afternoon.  I find a cleaners a block from the off-site center.  This woman says she will have it ready by 4 pm.  I can only pray she is correct.  

           At the end of the day, I race over to the dry cleaners to pick up the pants.  It ends up only being $7 (steal!).  I dash across the street to a local Dunkin Donuts to change in the public bathroom (always fun to play the game “don’t let any body part touch any part of the bathroom”).  Miraculously the pants fit and she actually did a decent job of sewing them together.  It’s not a long term solution, but it should be good for another couple of wears.

           I walked out of the Dunkin donuts and handed the 65/35 blend pants to a bum on the street, satisfying my good deed for the day.  You can’t exactly return worn pants to a store like that.  I made it to the club in time and no one was the wiser.

I have reached two conclusions:

1.  Stay calm and cool under pressure and everything will work out.

2.  I need a new suit. — J. Cliven

Come fly away to exotic locales!

[Here's an amazing yarn from our first octogenarian contributor, Bob Nielson, age 86...we're not worthy! —Ed.]

Back in 1960 the Toronto Star sent me to South Africa to report black-white violence.  I boarded an American Airlines 6-propeller plane in New York, which crossed the Atlantic and stopped briefly at a few East African cities while heading south.  I had a window seat over the right wing and saw the nearest engine catch fire, shooting flames 30 feet high.  Called the flight attendant who ran to the cabin.  Turned off, that engine glowed like a red-hot coal.  We were over the jungle with no place for an emergency landing…

That was the situation for at least 45 minutes and, remarkably, nobody yelled or screamed although all passengers, like me, must have believed that their next breath could be their last.  (Fuel was stored in the wings).  When we reached the airport at Leopoldville in the Belgian Congo, the number of ambulances and fire engines on the ground wasn’t exactly reassuring.  But the pilot brought the plane down gently—the fire shot up momentarily from the engine—and we all got out safely.

—Robert Nielson, 86. A retired journalist and Nieman Fellow, Nielson spent 33 years with the Toronto Star as parliamentary correspondent, chief editorial writer, editorial page editor, foreign correspondent, investigative reporter and editorial page columnist. He lives in New Brunswick.

Ah, the lapping waters, so tranquil!

What It Feels Like To Row The Atlantic Alone. By Olly Hicks, 24, laborer. 

[Ed.'s note: In September 2006, Hicks became the youngest person to row the Atlantic Ocean solo. He also has the distinction of making the slowest trip, covering the 4,040 miles in 124 days in his boat, Miss Olive.]

Before leaving New York for England, I had the worst butterflies ever–to the point of vomiting. Wondered if I had packed everything. Shoving off was a relief. Took about two days till I was out of sight of land. Then the sea turned into a feisty bitch…

SHIP’S LOGS

Day 25

another day on anchor NE head winds. tried fishing today–no luck so far. also tried to spear a seagull–again no luck.

In the first few weeks, I faced the worst weather seen in the Atlantic for a hundred years. Tropical storms with force-9 gales. It was like being strapped to a bronco nonstop. I capsized twice.

Day 56

terrible conditions–confused seas. spine takes a good pounding, rowing seat beginning to feel like a cheese grater. . . . caught a bird. unfortunately he was skinnier than he looked–still that’ll learn him to sh#t on Miss Olive!

At one point, I realized I was being followed by a sixteen-foot great white. Must have followed me for about an hour. Suddenly he was ramming the boat. I started screaming, telling him tofuck off! Fortunately, he did. If he wanted to turn the boat to matchsticks, he could have.

Day 64

yesterday was v tough–felt very weak & tired. . . . mold is developing in the water bottles, which lends it a certain tang.

I didn’t go properly crazy from the solitude–okay, maybe a little. One day it took me fifteen minutes toput my boots on. Then I realized they were backward. And I had a spade called Stan. Once I picked up a buoy with a phone number and two words painted on the side: POT LUCK. I fantasized that I had won an enormous cash prize, until I got sick of carrying it and chucked the damn thing overboard.

Day 101

more f#@$%ing NW wind . . . very gray rain all day.highlight–saw a piece of blue foam floating past.

The pollution became the most welcome distraction. Imagine all kinds of flotsam: fishing gear, floats, nets, bottles, buoys, an entire tree, a bunch of colorful balloons.

Day 120

at dusk the rudder cable broke (f#$$%$$#@@$^^&*!#)–6 hours faffing about in the dark & heaving sea. . . . not over till the fat lass sings!

Once your hands have toughened up, it becomes as easy as walking. I worked it out once–eighteen strokes per minute at an average of ten hours a day for 124 days. That’s 1,339,200 strokes.

Day 124: The End

The morning came damp and gray. At around 0800 a yacht came out with a hungover bunch of friends onboard–2 of them swam across and climbed onboard. As we rounded the warship and came into view, shouting, cheering, and foghorns aplenty! I lit celebratory flares and got lost in a cloud of smoke and dazzling flames.

I reckon I’ve got another row in me. My next plan is to row around the world.

As told to Christian DeBenedetti. Originally published in Esquire here: http://www.esquire.com/features/ESQ0806WIFL_114_10

Yep, I'm pretty sure it's right down there.

     We don’t usually repost from other blogs, but this interview with New Yorker writer David Grann on his new book, The Lost City of Z,  for The Daily Beast is simply too entertaining to pass up. Hats off to Grann, who fell way off the map searching for clues to the disappearance of Percy Fawcett, the celebrated, ill-fated, Victorian Explorer. We’ll be leafing through the book on the way to getting lost soon. - CDB

So refreshing to be outside in the snow!

            Growing up, my family would go on an annual spring ski vacation. It was the pretty standard variety: each year we would choose a resort and pack into a condo for a week of skiing and kvetching (my brother and I would usually spend most of the time beating the crap out of each other. And there was one time I nearly drowned in a hotel pool. But I digress). When I was 10 years old, we made a trip to Whistler/Blackcomb in March. This trip stands out for many reasons–it was my first time skiing in Canada–but also because my aunt Martha and uncle Robert (we call him Bob) came along…

          As east coast skiers who spend most of our time sliding around the icy slopes of Vermont and New Hampshire, we were unaccustomed to Whistler’s vast treeless terrain. But Bob embraced the wide open spaces. As a time-strapped architect who traveled around the world for work, Bob had few opportunities to practice his ski technique. But that didn’t mean he was cautious. The minute he hit the slopes, he charged. Maybe it’s something about being at high altitude, as Bill Murray puts it in Ground Hog Day.  

           As for altitude, Whistler, as most avid skiers know, has the most vertical of any resort in North America. It’s more than 5,000′ between the base and the summit. In spring, as we learned, the conditions can vary drastically, from 60s in the valley to sub-zero temps at the summit. Figuring out how to dress appropriately presented its challenges (as we would soon learn)…

          On the third morning of our trip, we awoke to a particularly balmy spring day. It was already in the low 40s and they forecasted temperatures to keep rising. My brother and I headed up on the gandola for the morning, intent to make some speed runs on the groomers that had frozen solid overnight. We bombed around until lunch, before we had to meet up with my folks and Martha and Bob. It was one of those bright spring afternoons. Everyone was out on the deck at the mid-mountain lodge soaking up the rays. Our plan was to take a leisurely lunch, and then make a few runs off the top before heading back to the condo. At this point, the temperature had to be pushing 50 degrees, and the snow took on the consistancy of cement. Bob stripped down to just an orange fleece and his black nylon snow ski pants, which I notice are a well-worn pair of Nevica bibs circa 1982 (Gore-Tex was definitely not an option back then). His pants had definitely seen better days.

          Bob was not one for ski fashion. As he waited in the lift line after lunch, he stood out amongst the perma-tanned women in Bogner jackets and Euro guys in neon green one-pieces. We all hopped on the lift and made our way to Whistler peak. The chairlift was one of those old doubles, and it bisected the run allowing people riding the rickety chair to watch the skiers noodling their way down through the late-season slush. Wipeouts elicited raucous cheers from the people on the lift. You could always tell the severity of the faceplant by the decibels of the cheers. 

           I have to say I was a slightly nervous to ski down that run, having visions of being the unfortunate soul who catches an edge and cartwheels spectacularly in front of the hundreds of skiers on the lift. But my brother plunged in first, and I pointed my skis and followed suit. We made it half way down the main face of the bowl and turned around to wait for the others. My mom and dad slowly edged their way down the hill and joined us. From a distance, we saw Bob begin his run. His ski technique resembled some sort of prehistoric bird about to take flight, legs glued together, ass out, arms wide like a teradactyl. What he lacked in style, though, Bob made up in grit. About a third of the way down the piste, he hit a mogul. His knees buckled sending him veering to his right before he pancaked onto the snow. The lift gallery broke out in wild applause. Ooooooh!! Yeeaaaah! It was hard to quite make out what had happened to Bob, but we could see him sliding on his side until he came to rest on top of another large mogul. 

            Bob got up and dusted himself off. Oh good, at least he didn’t hurt himself, we thought. I turned around and my dad began discussing our planned route to the bottom as we waited for Bob to join us. But then, we heard a roar coming from the lift. It was low at first, but then grew louder and louder still. The wall of sound crescendoed into a clamor so intense that it was as if a Boeing 747 was coming down the mountain. What was that noise for? 

           I turned and faced up the hill, and then I saw it. Bob was making his way towards us in skintight red underwear. When he fell, his Nevica pants had shredded into tatters, and now fluttered in the breeze like a Tibetan prayer flag wrapped around his waist. Bob was perhaps the only person who doesn’t wear long underwear under his bibs even in spring conditions. Now that he lost his ski pants, he was left with nothing but cherry red Fruit-of-the-Looms and his rear-entry Nordica ski boots. Wooooo hooooo! Yeeeeeehhhhaaaw! 

           What does one do when confronted with such a turn of events? There is my preferred approach: cower and pretend it’s all a terrible nightmare (if you deny something long enough, did it really happen anways? Who’s to say, right?). But Bob is never one to back down. He embraced his sartorial minimalism, flying down the bowl like the world cup racers who strip down to skin suits for maximum aerodynamic efficiency. “Hey big boy!” shouted a blond girl in a canary yellow one-piece. I shuddered. 

           But Bob soaked up the attention. He was slaloming now. I had never seen him ski with such aplomb, it was like he had transformed into some alpine superhero. Bob made his way down to us. And we all cracked up wildly. He was flushed, but there was determination in his steely eyes. He seemed to be thinking, “Just because I’m sporting red tighties doesn’t mean I’m not gonna enjoy some late season turns.”

           It was a good thing Bob wasn’t upset by his wardrobe malfunction. We still had close to 4,000 feet of vertical to cover to get back to the lodge. Bob hit the cat road and got into a tuck position. It took us probably 20 minutes to ski all the way down. Most people would have had enough at that point and made a beeline for the condo. But this was only our third day, and we still had a weekend of skiing left. Uncle Bob needed to replace his pants. He was in luck, the base lodge had a ski shop, but it was conveniently located at the rear of the main floor, past the bar. I last saw Bob that afternoon strutting his stuff through a bar full of Canadians sauced up on their eighth Molson. He was a brave man.

— Anonymous in New York, No Stranger to the Spectacular Liftline Faceplant Himself.