My Way of Living [Search results for Inspiration] 

Blocked, stopped, blank, unfinished, and bare.
That computer screen stands in front of you.
Glaringly white, blank, glowing freshly.
What happens when the blogging inspiration doesn’t strike when it’s wanted?
When the center isn’t found.
When meeting in the middle, means go to the other end of the spectrum of no ideas.

Do not pass go.
I actually like the occasional blog block.
Because it means that there are thoughts.
Building up, germinating, percolating, simmering in the background.
And all it takes is one small click, one moment, one bit of calm.
For them to all tumble out, falling over each other in eagerness to be seen.
Pens can’t keep up, notes fly off the pad.
Thoughts scattered everywhere like beads from a broken necklace.
Have you had?
Notes in every room that you’ve entered?
Inspiration in spurts.
Scratched on paper so fast you can’t read your own writings?
Because when inspiration does strike
It not only simmers, it boils over, sliding down the sides of the pot so fast no cloth can clean up the words, the thoughts, the ideas that clamour for attention.

And the oddest things can create inspiration if you let them.
Of course you have seen.
Sunlight through the leaves, the air so fresh.
Fields soaked, and sodden in morning mist.
Leaves twisted onto trees, dripping liquid night onto day.
Click of the camera, tick of the engine cooling.
But has it inspired you to do something about it?
Cat bouncing, floor echoing.
Clump of dark colored felt, now only faintly resembling a mouse.
Big ears once, string for guts, drawn on a invisible string.
The eagerness he shows to chase, to let reality go.
To believe.
Can that be transformed?
New haircut.
Fig newton cravings.
Garden gazing, planning, thinking of the future.
To bed garden, to bed.
Sleep tight.
Wake to memories that demand to be written.
Photographs tidy in a row, lined up for perusal.

Pick me, pick me.
Orderly lines now, one at a time.
There will be room for all.
When you are chosen go to the head of the line.
Ideas that sounded so good.
You were shattered by their brilliance.
Filtered in the daylight of a day forward, d iscarded, tossed, disdained.
New ones presented like fresh debutantes, a ll feathers, and fluff.
No fluff here, we are made of sterner stuff.
But giddiness will attempt to rule.
Ideas will be borrowed, time is a essence that smells so sweet.
Bitter at the end, when the clock ticks, the minutes pass, the idea lurks behind something bigger.
Patience.
Sit, and it will come to you, just like a cat, it doesn’t like to be approached.
There now do you feel it’s cold nose, pressing up against your leg?
The idea, it’s here, now do something with it.

Yesterdays post, writing about my wicked twin Comparison and how she made me feel since I wasn’t blogging with the big girls, was real and true to my heart, and so were your comments. I loved, LOVED reading what you wrote, it made me feel so much more in tune with the what I wrote when I poured my heart out to you.

Goodbye Comparison

hello Inspiration.

And hey, most of you made the same choice also, and it’s a good choice for those of us that have decided to be happy with what our blogs are. It’s a kind of bloom where you are planted decision. It’s not a flower blooming in a stone path that can never be moved, it’s a “right now this is good for me” kind of decision. There are other gardens to bloom in, and who knows, maybe one day… or not, it’s totally up to us.

The most interesting thing, “ [and wow do I want to use the word neatest, I know, child of the 60’s. ]” was how much Inspiration takes over from her wicked twin Comparison. Do we all have any idea how inspiring being a fellow blogger is? There were amazing bloggers telling me that they compared their blogs to me, seriously? I am inspired by them, they make me work harder, write tighter, think deeper, and create better images for my blog. They inspire me. I can’t think of a better compliment in the blogging world then “you, or your post inspired me.” And they do, and so should you.

I love that we are all in this together, creating something lasting, after all once on the internet [like bad celebrity photos] it’s there forever. And who knows what that post you write tomorrow will inspire in other bloggers. Maybe you are the seed that sparks the creativity in another blogger, or yourself. And if that’s not blogging for real, and truly, then what is? It’s about Inspiration, not comparison, remember that.

So go out there and write from the heart, pour it out if you choose, create something and share it, post about your dreams, they will come true when they are whispered aloud. I know mine did. Inspired…

My life has a perfect technical relationship in it, the computer, camera, and myself. After denying that we needed, or had room for a computer for decades, we succumbed to temptation and bought our first PC only a few years ago. It was love at first sight, or should I say click, it was visual inspiration.
My husband was then seduced by a small but very versatile 2 mega pixel camera. Him, “ think of the photos we can take,” Me, what are we going to do with it, do we really need a digital camera?
Yes, I can hear you laughing right now. Next came the bigger point and shoot, 10 mega pixels, and a huge passion for photography. Digital is instant visual inspiration, fulfilling any need you have to see something beautiful right in front of your screen.
And then after feeling just a teensy bit guilty about bombarding my friends email in box’s with too many photos, I decided to start a blog.
My friends email inbox’s thank you. Without you, there would be so many emails from Jane, photos from Jane, and just one more shot from Jane, that I am sure they were beginning to revolt.
Blogging is visual inspiration for me, I read, I view, I write, and it all helps create something that fulfills a need.
A need to share what I see, how I see it, and why I see it that way. And a need to know how others see the world around us.
You are one of the reasons that I take my camera out whenever possible, to get more shots, more images, more visual inspiration. And my camera thanks you.
I like to share, and I love to be visually inspired. You make it possible. Thank you.

Apparently needle felting

has been around for a long time and is steadily increasing in popularity each day… Where on earth have I been? Not doing enough of this fun and easy craft, that’s for sure. I guess I was focused on other things, like photography and didn’t pay enough attention until I saw a pin on Pinterest one day that made my heart skip a beat, and I had to find out more about it. Don’t you love finding new passions, the excitement, the love, the search for supplies? Only problem is, it’s winter, cold and snowy outside, and the nearest supplies are over a hour’s drive away… which I don’t like.

But I did manage to snag some of those sharp little barbed needles that are so important to needle felting, and some unspun wool that is called roving, near by… I only had a 5 color choices, so I picked pink, and white. Glad I did, it’s such a soft color combo, and a good contrast to the icy blue snow outside.

For now instead of using a piece of upholstery foam, I am using a dishwashing sponge, they are cheap, and plentiful in my house. If you want to know all about Needle felting, and are wondering what on earth I am talking about, here’s a quick tutorial from blogger Mrs. Polly Rogers who is a very interesting blogger, check her out for yourself.

Click on my Pins, and needles Pinterest board link to see what I have been pinning for inspiration. Needle felting is used to make so many interesting things, it’s very versatile. I’ve just started to create some fun items and does it ever feel good to have a needle back in my hands.

I made the heart garland, which is perfect to hang in our window for Valentines day, and Bootsie loves it. And because he likes to jump on my night table and knock things off, I made a eye glass case. A tiny change purse as a gift for a friend who sent me lots of her wool yarn scraps that I am loving.especially the turquoise colors.

It’s such a good feeling to be creative again… it’s a long winter, and we all need inspiration… what kind of crafts do you do? And are you a needle felter, got any tips for a beginner?

Some Bloggers can create a spark in other bloggers just by being themselves they are inspiring a interest that can ramp up your creativity. Their words resonate you wish you had written them yourself. Their photos are the ones that you wish you has taken and it seems that somehow you are almost linked as blogging sisters. Are you a blogging sister? It’s quite possible that you are. Do you have a blogging sister, [brother] one that posts your thoughts, just before you do?

It’s a big family out there in blog land, so it’s not too unusual to think we might run into bloggers who seem to have a similar theme running through their posts, even if it’s unknown to the both of you until it’s published.

You know you’re a blogging sister when communication is like a stream running out of the ground the ideas are flowing back and forth so fast, each sentence sparks another idea, nurture that if you find it, it’s pretty amazing. I’m fortunate to have more then one, do you have any?

There are a limited amount of personalities out there, maybe that’s why we get along great with some people. Does the same apply to blogging, why do you read the blogs you read? Do you feel like you connect with what the blogger is writing, and showing? Heather from Life is a garden and I have been communicating back and forth a lot lately, and that’s where the term blogging sisters comes from, seems we are definitely on the same wavelength. We are even finding inspiration in our emails back and forth, life’s a garden, full of muddy boot dreams, and we are having a blast.

Drop by Heather’s blog, she’s a fellow Canadian, like me, and see what she posted today, we’ve kept quiet about it to each other, and while we will have different perspectives on this, it will be interesting to see them. A blogging sister…

After you have been blogging for while you find that you have built a village of like minded people who read your blog, comment, and interact with you as you do with on theirs.

They are readers who share parts of their lives, just as you share parts of yours while enriching, and adding diversity to your life.
Bringing up blogs on your device is like diving into a good book, answering a phone call from a old friend, or getting a email from someone you haven’t heard from in a while. It’s catching up, it’s keeping track, it’s finding out.
It’s comfort food on a cold night, crunchy salads on a hot day, that first sip of your favourite beverage, it’s also about knowing that you have good friends who have your back.
Blogging is laughter, tears, joy, and sharing some sadness along the way.
It’s opening up, and closing in, building a tight circle, but at the same time stepping back and opening up your arms wide to welcome new readers.
Learning about new people, cherishing old friends, finding inspiration, and sometimes being uninspired for short periods of time until something strikes you as a good topic for a blog post.
It’s about blog breaks, and the dreaded “blogitis,” posting everyday, posting once a whenever, and that sometimes not knowing what to say turns out the best posts.
It’s about sitting at the computer tears running down your face, heart breaking for someone you have never met in person, and most likely never will.
And it’s about the times too numerous to count that laughter that has echoed through the house when those same people make you laugh out loud, and family asks what’s so funny?
It’s the blogging world, it’s complicated, simple, fun, and sometimes feels like work, until the scale tips back to a more balanced level. The balance is a personal one, each of us will find ours.
So this day, now six years after I published my first blog post, my friends raise your glass for all of us.
By this time over 1128 posts, 23144 comments left on my blog, countless blogging comments made on others, it’s just… stats… that’s all they are, numbers.
The real numbers that count are the friendships, the relationships that I am part of, the knowledge that there are people out there who understand and appreciate me, and that I understand and appreciate them.
It’s being a part of something so big it’s changed history, one typed word at a time.
Raise your glass to the new bloggers, shiny and bright, keep it up, don’t despair, you are doing a great job and are on a journey of discovery, it’s going to be one heck of a ride so don’t give it up just yet.
Celebrate the long time bloggers who have helped clear the paths to our villages, pitched in to build our huts, and helped out as we decorate them. They are the friends who cry over our disappointments, and cheer us on when life is good.

Blogs lost, started, found, revamped, renamed, posts good, mediocre, and heartfelt. It’s about building a community, one word at a time, one comment at a time.
It’s about not knowing that naked is the new normal, until everyone starts to say hey… yes that’s me. And you realize that it’s not about clothing optional, but choosing to blog about what you find interesting.
It’s blog posts written late at night, and those that wake you up before dawn, demanding to be written down, before they are forgotten.
It’s putting in the years, marking the “blogaversaries” and realizing just how important it is to raise your glass and celebrate, acknowledge the effort and emotions that we put into our blogs.
Change, diversify, grow, and learn as you go along, be sure to make new friends, and cherish the old.
Because we are bloggers, and this is what we do.

My favourite posts seem to come from somewhere deep inside my heart.
I don’t know why that surprises me so much, but it does.
Those “sit down, what will I write, I can’t think of anything to write about” posts.
Suddenly out of nowhere on a blank screen, a few words meander lazily into view.
Plodding, belligerent, surly teenagers, they won’t turn their heads to look me straight in the eye. Oh go on your way I want to tell them, go off to the other side of the screen, go and text someone, you’re not what I’m looking for.
But being desperate, I’m willing to try and shake some sort of sense out of them, moving, erasing, typing until they start to behave, finding themselves organized into a post. W orked, edited, crossed out, added to… until the finished post has so little to do with what it looked like at it’s birth that it is unrecognizable.

There have been conversations emailed back and forth among us about blogging, why we do it, how we do it, how we feel about it. What inspires us. And not surprisingly I sometimes find snippets of those conversations to be the catalyst for a new post.
Nothing like typing a email with one hand, while the other is taking cryptic notes that no longer make sense a day later. Partial phrases, misspelt words, I find my thoughts to be so fleeting, slipping through fingers, darting into dark cracks of the winter day… that if I don’t write it down immediately it’s gone.
I’m good at writing down only the titles, ignoring the stacks of thoughts that would flesh out the post, hoping to trigger remembrance when I reread the title again. It never works, I should know better, but I don’t.
Mundane tasks are the best for composing posts thoughtlessly folding laundry, while pondering, musing, writing, editing, and then poof it’s gone.
I need a mental save button… I can dream up, and compose a post in my mind, only to find that I can’t remember a word of what I thought to be so elegant a few minutes later. Lasting about as long as a soap bubble drifting in the air.

Inspiration is the key, what makes your heart beat a little faster will more then likely capture someone else's interest also.
Being a visual person, I need to write posts inspired by the images I have taken, each jpeg tells a story, shows a emotion, describes a thought.
When I don’t take the camera out I feel deprived of something to express my creativity.

To compensate the brain creates posts out of comments, emails, brief ideas that are strung on the clothesline of the brain, tweaking, and imagining until the the laundry is dry and put away. Creativity aired out, gone, with only a subtle whiff of lavender in the air.
The belligerent teenaged words all grown up and now turned into a organized blog post.
Blog on.

Being among the last to celebrate the birth of New Year could make us envious of those who have gone before us. Fatigued over watching the hourly countdown parties all day, petulant that ours was still to come, seemingly forever away, but we are not that way.
The glitter that we wade through to get to our own celebration might be tarnished in our eyes if we let it be, but no, we are Canadians. We are British Columbians, and we know how to savour the moment in our hearts, to make it ours, even if everyone else has already left the party.

It’s a fresh new year, a chance to start over, begin anew, envision words that we will hope to shape our lives, and continue our journey forward. Freshness is in the outlook, the heart, and the mind, and where your new year falls has so little to do with that, it’s your view of what’s ahead that matters, not when you celebrate it.
I wish to you all a Happy New Year, the new dawning day still fresh and moist, the hangovers are still thumping in some heads, [not mine]. The dinners soon to be eaten, the decorations to be taken down, and the resolutions to be broken, but that’s the future, and all we have is this very moment.
Lets celebrate that.

May it be that every good thing that you have in mind comes to you, may it be a year full to the brim of love, and happiness, joy, and good fortune.
Blogging, friends, photos and inspiration.
Set your goals, and attempt to attain them, it’s not if you can make it work, but how you do it, and how you deal with comes from doing it that matters.
Happy New Year!

“And what do you do?”
They always ask, with a hidden question in their eye. Like dogs sniffing each other, finding, categorizing, settling into place.
Eager for a treat, a smidge of eyebrow raised with it’s “ohhhh.”
Impress us, they don’t say, but want to. “I’m a blogger” I tell them.

Just a blogger, with socks under the bed, worries in her head.
And a line of comments to be returned in my inbox that snakes longer then any freeway snarl.
[One day I hope, the traffic jam will be untangled.]
I’m a blogger, words unbidden come to my mind, and I try to give them life.
Hang them on a clothesline out in the fresh air, to be shared. With.
Trying to balance, life, love, aging parents, obligations.
Appointments, duties, housework, worries, inspirations, and the ever calling camera.
“I’m just a blogger” I shrug.
As if to knock a misinformed idea off of my shoulder.
Yes, it might be a chip also.

Last years shots, taken at the same time of year, but it looks so much colder then.
A blogger who takes photos, lots of photos, and has a camera in her hand almost all the time, and might just have a wee little crush on Instagram right now.
Yes, just like those people who are on their cell phones, but it’s a DSLR camera.
And I take great photos, I wish I could be so cheeky to say.
Just a blogger!
“A blogger!”
They exclaim, as if I had said I was a early Egyptian explorer in a world that had not yet been found.

“What’s that?
And why?”
“I had no idea people did that,” they say. Not how, and what do you get out of it? Do you like doing it? Is it fun. "But oh… oh?” “Why?”
Because.
And I smile inside, because after all, we know why we blog.
And that’s why. Maybe it’s because this is Canada, and we are a gentle but less worldly people, [just kidding here].
But I seem to be encountered some pretty uninformed people, those who cannot/will not understand, or appreciate the love of blogging that we share, lately.
Those who have “ no interest at all in trying to understand why anyone would do that” because they themselves are not interested in blogging.
Have you had this response too?
I want to tell them.
To each their own, but still,… oh come on.
Learn to accommodate others, let live, and live.
Expand your mind, ah… feels good does it to let some fresh air in does it?
We are, and we do, and for that I am truly grateful.
Besides, blogging has opened up a huge world for me, full of inspiration, creativity, encouragement, and really fun people.
Thank goodness.
No matter where we live. Jane

When my body gives out and my head tells me to quit, my heart compels me to struggle on. At some point, however, my head and my heart get in 'cahoots' with each other. They both demand I stop. That is when my spirit soars and their protestations are of no avail. I am propelled by a force unseen, drawn to a potential I have yet to realize. I shake off the burden of the physical and wake up to experience my dream. At last I am free... .

Some have dubbed it the final frontier. Well, for the moment at least. The fact of the matter is, right now there is no longer road race in the country. The Bataan Death March 160k Ultramarathon is in a league of its own, and dwarfs all comers to the table. Nothing even remotely comes close. Participants are either honored in hushed, reverential tones or maligned as foolhardy and ignorant.Maybe even stupid. Save for a trifling number, after KM 102 pretty much everybody would be entering the twilight zone. The first ever 100-mile race in the country sticks out like Everest on steroids to the hungry masses, the novelty of the great unknown drawing these inquisitive endurance athletes like moths to a flame. The appeal to be part of history ups the risk/reward scale on an unprecedented level, and athletes will be tested as they have never been before. How long should one soldier on, and when should one know when to quit? It is the quintessential paradox of a discipline that is fueled by blood, guts, and an indomitable will to make it to that finish line. It is a paradigm that will be revisited in recurring snippets as the tale unravels.

The few and the proud...

Prologue

"May invite ka na ba pre?" That was the prevailing water cooler topic for ultra running denizens a couple months back. As for me, the answer was a resounding NO. I wasn't too surprised though, and already had already somehow come to terms with it. After my maiden stint last year with BDM 102, I never really did anything that could be remotely considered "ultra" anymore. While my contemporaries had joined practically every "mid-distance" (if one could consider 70k as such. Really now.) ultramarathon race that Sir Jovie Narcise (better known in running circles as the irrepressible Bald Runner or just plain BR for short) had put out there, it was no big secret that I have been dabbling into multisport and cycling for the most part and had pretty much been out of the scene. So it was really no shocker. I would be lying if I said it didn't bug me though. Just to be considered for the race is a big honor already, and after all I did apply for it. Thing was,we had absolutely no idea what the criteria was for selection. Rumors abound that supposedly only 15 hour finishers would be considered. But then as the initial wave of invites came out, people who were right around my finish range were getting golden tickets, which pretty much added to my anxiety. Perhaps it was my inactivity with the PAU (Philippine Association of Ultrarunners) that contributed to it. Maybe it's just not in the cards. Sigh. We all move on... ...

Then one day, as me and Abby were walking around BHS , i get a buzz on my Blackberry. Thank God for instant email. When that header said "Jovenal Narcise", my heart skipped a beat. When I saw the subject line " Letter of Invitation to the BDM 160", I let out a yelp of joy in the middle of the walkway. Okay maybe not, but you get the idea. Abby got hers at pretty much the same time.And why shouldn't she? I'm probably the only guy in the country who has a girlfriend who runs 102 kilometers faster than he does. Happy night.This was what I wanted right? Right? But... .. I haven't had any long-distance training. Nada. Zilch. Farthest I've ran in a year was 21k. Oh my. With one fell swoop, suddenly the ball was in my court now.

Decisions, Decisions

When the announcement first came out, the race was actually meant to be BDM 151, 151 kilometers representing the cumulative total distance including the train ride of the Death March prisoners to Camp O' Donnell in Capas, Tarlac. However, there was a clamor to increase the distance to just over 160 kms to make it the official 100-mile race in the country. When BR acceded, the wheels in my head were suddenly turning. I suddenly have a shot to cross one off the old bucket list. After a prolonged period of soul searching (that took roughly about 30 minutes) I had made my decision. Obviously, you know what that decision came out to be. The die had been cast. No turning back now.

Forming the Crew

Perhaps unbeknownst to many, the support crews that you tag along for these races aren't of the prototypical cheerleader rah rah kind, which is a common misconception. It's not fun and games, it's not a street party. If at all, the support crew may even undergo more stress than the runners themselves. They are awake during practically the same time frame, and undergo constant anxiety on their runners well being. The crew has to be part inspirational leader, part drillmaster, part nutritionist, part nurse and part driver. They are perhaps the most integral supplementary element to the success of the race, and their relative efficiency could provide the final difference in toeing the fine line between life and death when push comes to shove (I'm not kidding).

Last year, I got my buddy AJ, my internet legend uncle Tito Caloy and random/seasonal friend RV (by virtue of six degrees of separation he somehow got ensnared into this) whom I met just on the day itself. They were all somehow under the impression that this would be a fun, all-night drinking session with me somehow running in the background. Of course, given the shock and stress that they were suddenly, unwittingly subjected to, they forever hold a "BDM card" on me, that they can pull as they wish. Warning to BDMers - this is prone to general abuse, so choose your crew wisely. Smirk.

This year, Abby agonized over the decision on whether to run or not. She was one of what seemed like only ten women who had qualified for it, and the chance to make history was tantalizing. On the flipside, while she was in phenomenal shape she scarcely had any run training. Crucial year in setting up her business, and I guess at one point we all just have to draw the line with priorities. With much trepidation, she decided to hold it off for next year and I hope to make it up to her then. With her addition though I finally have the benefit of not just a seasoned runner on the crew, but an veteran ultrarunner who knows what it takes to get to that finish line.

I've been bugging AJ, who worked harder than anyone last year in keeping me alive out there, to once again be part of my crew. After incessant faux rejections ( no way in hell he would turn down the possibility of two BDM cards to pull), he finally "caved in" after my assurances that this would be the "last". Which was what we said last year. Hihi.

Internet legend Tito Caloy (old Takbo.ph joke, just google my old material) wasn't supposed to be part of the crew this year and was an 11th hour callup because we needed the extra hand. He had all but retired from the running scene and promptly returned to his competitive drinking roots. His son, my cousin Mel (but we call him Shtuey, go figure) was ostensibly going to crew me, back had to back out at the last moment due to his slated thesis defense. I told him "yung thesis pwede naman ulitin, eto once in a lifetime lang to!" Bad Kuya GBM.

The final piece of the puzzle was Duart, who along with myself and AJ have formed a decade-long triumvirate dating back from our days as gangly freshmen at DLSU. He was crestfallen at missing my maiden campaign last year, and was determined to make it up this year. My energetic buddy not only signed on in a jiffy, he even provided the Innova which would become our support car.

The only crew that matters... .With everything in good stead, now all we could do was wait for our date with destiny.

The Briefing

The race briefing is an annual tradition wherein everyone makes the pilgrimage to Camp Aguinaldo to hear last minute instructions from BR. It is also the last chance for you to take hang and socialize with your "batchmates" in a somewhat lucid manner, you may be even lucky to snag a helping or two of lechon. The whole thing is pretty and cut and dry, but one slide of BR stood out to everybody that night.

Don't blame the RD!

D-Day

The advantage of having the race start in the morning is that your body clock is not out of whack. You can sleep like a normal human being and you don't have to be a zombie the first leg or so. With the rest of the team following after office hours (too bad it wasn't an official holiday pfft), me and Abby hitched with TPB bud and BDM 102 partner Mark Hernandez along with soon-to-be marathoner/TPB wifey Bea. While waiting for them at our pre-arranged BHS meeting spot, we see an Audi TT roadster park just in front of Rox. Oohhh fancy. Oddly enough, the silhouette inside was waving to us. Was someone trying to pick up Abby in broad daylight? Que Horror. Amusingly, it turned out to be none other than our good friend Rio with his new toy. The afro gave him away. Soon after Mark and Bea would arrive, and we were well on our way. Last year, I wasn't too happy with our place. This year, we decided to check-in at the MC Lodge, highly regarded by practically everyone and much nearer to KM 0. Place was cool, rooms were just slightly smaller but much cleaner and with better appointments. Of course, I pretended not to see the "295, Aircon 3 hours special" sign outside. Groovy.

It's the place to be We had time to burn, so we scoped out the place for landmarks for the crew and made sure all the gadgets were charged up. Thing I love about the place was that there were like 7 sockets in such a small room. FTW. To "relax" me we were able to set up a mini-DBD on my laptop and I was able to sneak in an article in there (hapit). Around 6 pm Saturday, we had many different choices from their five-star chef for our last supper of sorts.

Bon Apetit! Finally, some shuteye. The crew (and I expected nothing less) got lost and arrived close to midnight. After what seemed like a couple of hours we all had to get the ball rolling. The pressure was mounting. More pressure came forth (my blood pressure,that is) when my crew told me they had a P600 peso dinner. BDM card, BDM card. After what seemed like an eternity, we left the lodge and went on the starting line.An almost unmistakable cornucopia of anxiety, excitement, and fear was distinctly palpable within the car's constraints. I had worn my exact finish line outfit from last year as some weird pamahiin. Out with the old and in with the new, and in a few moments we would be seeing history unfold before our very eyes. The calm before the storm The pre-race events usually consist of a bunch of souvenir photos,some scattered well-wishes and a lot of prayers. Now, there's also the annual rendition of the US and Philippine anthems. Last year, BR gave a "soulful" rendition of the Star-Spangled Banner, (much to the enjoyment of the crowd and much to his chagrin after all the ribbing he got after lol) and this year it was US Armyman Gilbert Gray's turn. Pretty straight up, stoic but no doubt amiable fellow. Remember when we all saw Robocop without the mask? This guy is a dead ringer both in looks and demeanor. I was hit by a sudden burst of nostalgia. It seemed just yesterday that I was here, a greenhorn to the entire enterprise. Sigh, how time flies. After the requisite "class picture", the 59 brave souls on that fateful Saturday morning were off at right around 6am. Destiny and glory were waiting, now the onus was on us to do our part.

With the crew at KM 0.

I hope to replicate this pose at the finish line

The Endure Multisport Ultramen Let the madness beginThe race with no equal started off without much aplomb, with runners trotting warily in lieu of blasting off on all cylinders. Surely, these veterans knew better. Some were setting a faster pace, and only time could tell if they could hold it. After all, this was the biggest battle of our lives right here. I opened the race with buddies Mark Hernandez and OJ Giron, a couple of familiar faces that I hoped would make the journey a lot more meaningful. And in hindsight, hoping that once we enter our own Battle of the Bulge, our own private Normandy, we would all be there to keep each others sanity in check. They had a fairly ambitious goal though- finish the race in 24 hours or less. While I felt that was purely wishful thinking for me given my fitness level, the plan was to just hang with them as far as it takes me. I mean, these guys were in phenomenal shape. OJ coaches nearly full-time and Mark has been on a tear on the running circuit as of late. I would have my work cut out for me but I couldn't allow myself to be left behind.We start out conservatively, alternating a brisk jog and walking the entire 4k incline. Many are passing us at will while BR passes by in a van and chats us up. Our man is in a good mood this morning, in stark contrast to last year's drillmaster barking on a megaphone. Ordinarily, a competitive junkie like me (and I'm pretty sure these two have that same genome in them) would go nuts at being passed so... . effortlessly. But this wasn't a 10k. The reality was, we had 153 more kilometers to go. Just the thought of it scares the hell out of me. What did I get myself into again?

Just out for a weekend fun run with friends... .The Lolo Diaries

At one point, we run into a group led by the "grand old warrior" himself, the ageless Victor Ting. If you see your old man lounging around in the sala watching TV or discovering this fascinating thing called "internet" while forwarding you funny emails (just as we did in well, 1999), this guy puts them all to shame. Imagine, his apos must have it good. No way they are losing an eh ang lolo ko mas magaling sa lolo mo argument. Like, "eh ang lolo ko tumakbo mula Bataan hanggang Tarlac" End of conversation. The ageless wonder somehow had it in him to drag his 66-year old legs across a hundred miles side-by-side with runners young enough to be his grandchildren. Mark told me he could never catch the old codger during the test runs no matter how hard he tried. Thing was, he was maintaining such a ridiculously efficient, no-stopping strategy that it was practically impossible to keep up with him. Perhaps in utter embarrassment at being shown up, we finally caught up with him eventually. And here are some snippets of what I got from a living legend.

" Dati may 100k na , diyan sa may Burnham sa Baguio. Bata pa si Jovie, alam niya yun. Tumakbo ako dun! Paikot ikot nga lang kami."

"Mabagal lang tayo. Sanay tayo sa mabilis pero dito mabagal lang tayo malayo layo pa to"

"Nung 1981 sa Manila International Marathon sub-3 yung marathon ko"

"Nag two bottles pa kami ng Red Horse kagabi"

Hmm, maybe that's his secret. Damn, you mean our very own "super lolo" was a sub-3 hour dude the year before I was er, born? I suddenly conjured visions of myself running in 2041, with a young buck chatting me up at the 31st Runrio Trilogy Anniversary Run

Kid : Lolo, sigurado po ba kayo na kaya nyo pa? Tubig po? Malapit na lang, wag po pilitin.
Lolo GBM : Bah. Alam mo ba noong araw eh natakbo ako mula Bataan hanggang Tarlac?Patakbo yun ni Presidente Narcise dati kada taon
Kid : Um, er, ah ganun po ba? Waw. Talaga lang ha. Sige lo, init lang yan. Inom ka na lang ng tubig nagdidiliryo na po kayo.
Lolo GBM : Totoo! Anong akala mo nagbibiro ako? Eto ipapakita ko pa ang silver buckle ko bilang katibayan (lifts up singlet to show buckle)
Kid : Yuck indecent exposure! DOM! PEdo! Security!!!!!!

Talo Lolo mo sa Lolo ko. Kids. Pffft. As I was snapping out of my misguided daydream, I realized that the urge to do the number two was somewhat compelling enough to tell the crew about it. Abby texts back, we found one in 1.5k, that ok? Of course that was okay. I was thinking, the earlier I get this out of the way the better. Last year was an utter nightmare, first try I was shown a hole on the ground, second try I had to run nearly 1k inside a subdivision just to make it to their clubhouse and I nearly fell asleep inside. They even thought I passed out. This year there was no such problem as the crew found a very nice spot right around the 20k mark ... .. inside an Iglesia ni Cristo church. As Abby assured me that my presence there wasn't bordering on anything sacrilegious, I was successfully able to execute probably the fastest and most efficient pit stop ever. Thank you INC, I owe you guys one.

Isolation Therapy

During that break, I had lost Mark and OJ. I kept on looking back, and I asked a Team Ungas van where they were and I was given the impression they were far back. So I was all alone. Felt like I was making good time though, pace at a rock solid 7:30. Much to my consternation, it turns out that they were actually ahead of me. Finally back with my buds, it was supposed to be all smooth sailing from here. It didn't last long though. One pit stop later and the group was once again splintered. What I couldn't understand was why was it that I was the one getting ahead when I'm the weakest runner in our group by a mile. Perhaps, was I doing something wrong? Going too fast? Not even. With no sight of my, I just had to trudge on.

Me, Myself, and the Long Winding Road.

All by myself... . don't wanna be. All by myself... .. anymore.

As the bars of the seminal Celine Dion classic rang through my head, I was thinking, this wasn't how I wanted my story to unfold. It was supposed to be packed with stories of guts, glory, and the will to continue. Of camaraderie and an unspeakable bond with brothers who share the same iron-clad mindset in helping each other succeed through seemingly insurmountable odds. It would have made for great drama, the piece that would finally nail me my first Philippine Blog Award win... .. a tale of hardship, friendship, and sacrifice through... .

Wait, who am I kidding? It's just me, myself, and the road. The sheer drudgery is getting to me. It's pretty much... . mundane and er, unexciting. It's a microcosm of your typical countryside life, and it's a change passing by here during the daytime. Aside from regular contact with my crew and the occasional chit chat with other teams, it's pretty much me and a bunch of nameless faces along the road who keep getting me engaged in this incessant cycle that never gets old :

Bystander : Koya, san kayo galing?
GBM : Mariveles
Bystander : San paponta koya?
GBM : Tarlac
Bystander : !!!!!

Enter Celine Dion chorus here I think in my frustration, I was speeding along faster than I had intended to. As I was approaching the 32k mark I had already passed Frontrunner EIC/Ultra strongman Jonel and the super lolo Vic Ting group. I also saw a focused Pat Alcomendas seemingly struggling, the mere fact of which seemed to blow my mind. He prodded me to go on, was worried if any nagging injuries were manifesting. A quick check on the 310xt, 7:04 pace. Eek. Much faster than what I had intended to hold, and fearful I might gas out later. Relax. Breathe. Malayo pa to.

Manong pacing me to Tarlac. He lasted 30 seconds. Crew check The gang was pretty impeccable at this point. Abby would send me inspirational messages from time to time (hihi) and that never failed to give me a boost. AJ and Duart were on point, although Duart was like a man possessed perhaps in his haste to make up for lost time last year. AJ was mostly chilling. Tito Caloy, was , well, being Tito Caloy. His moral support is invaluable to the endeavor, let's just keep it at that. As I would learn later, Abby was garnering a certain following amongst our provincial folk with her "eye- popping" running outfit which would seem more at home within the comfy asphalt of BHS rather than the concrete jungle of the Bataan countryside. Hey, it's comfy!(rejoinder for fear of future retribution) Warning Signs As I was nearing the marathon mark I was beginning to slow down a little. Ill effects from a fast start? Five hours and a half into the whole thing, my left foot was beginning to feel sore. Also noticeable was that I kept on doing a really weird overpronation move with my left foot, for some reason it would pronate inward and the sole of the shoe would keep on hitting my right ankle. I noticed this mechanical flaw would only come out towards the latter part of anything north of a marathon. And now I'm slowly flagellating my right ankle. Fun.Rule of Thirds Amidst the madness, I decided to divide the race into three parts to keep my head in there - 0 -50, 50 - 102, 102- 160. Within each division I would chomp them up into bite-size and easily digestible 10k portions. That way you don't lose yourself mentally, it's easy to get overwhelmed and deflated when there is too much emphasis on the big picture. I have seen many of my comrades fall by the wayside when this kicks in, and all of us are susceptible at any given moment. As I was doing my mental calculations, the man who had taught me these valuable lessons just caught up with me. It was Jonel! Finally, company! Part-mentor/Frontrunner slave driver, he was coming on strong and as we approached the 50k stretch in Abucay the conversations we had invigorated me. I reminded him that I still owed him breakfast for losing a bet with him on Condura ( I had a lame 4:14, he dropped a 3:47... . after doing a test run. Incredible.) We run into Robocop Gilbert Gray, who must have been bored with our pace and left us soon after. He would eventually finish 10th in a steady, methodical, um, serious performance. We reach the 50k mark around six and a half hours in, BR and Mrs. BR were there to greet us. As we would later on discover, we were both in the top 20 at this point. So far so good. I take the opportunity to stretch out and sit down a little, I actually arrived ahead of my crew. Learning from last year's lessons, I didn't spend too much time here, heck didn't even wait for a costume change. Jonel had an even faster T1 (if you would consider it as such tri-geeks) and was already ahead of me by several minutes. "Just" 110k to go, it should get interesting from here. An Accidental Bromance Back to my lonesome. I don't if growing up alone is a key factor to some deep psychological crap inside of me, but I hate being alone. I hate eating alone, I hate going to the mall alone. Ironically, although I usually train alone I'm not exactly thrilled about it. So sue me, social being here. So once again, it's driving me nuts that I'm by my lonesome. At this point, Jonel was long gone already and was too strong to chase down given I'm going through the motions of a swoon already. So back to the drudgery. My left foot is starting to bother me already and it's starting to get hot already. Many have lost their way on this national highway, and I had no intention of succumbing in my solitude. That's until I notice a semi-familiar face going back and forth with me. Semi-familiar because I knew that dude was Paolo Osmena, a veteran who is no doubt exponentially stronger than me. Someone also said he had the legs of a female supermodel. Of course, I deny all allegations that this came from me. Anyway, for what seemed like a 15k stretch we would settle into this bizarre pattern where I would surge ahead of him after running 1.5k straight, then once I rest with the crew he would come surging back and establish a big lead then the cycle replicates itself. While I felt I was pacing better than him as it seemed he was in some sort of pain, his advantage was he would only stop every 5k. Does that mean I'm a Gingerbread sissy for stopping as often as I did? Probably. Soft-baked mush. But at this point, at the back of my head I was trying to conserve as much as I could, long ways to go. Eventually, this seemingly "cold war" was driving me crazy. I ran up to him ( he was favoring the opposite side of the road) and struck up a conversation. And he turned out to be a very affable albeit tired fellow. His plantar was killing him, but more than anything he was questioning why was he feeling a notch short on probably his most important racing day of the year. He felt he had more than trained for this, so many long runs and hours put in, and yet here he was feeling exhausted less than halfway through. In retrospect, this same malaise may have struck a lot of my fallen comrades. But then again, we'll never really know. Every runner out there has their own unique story, and the entire gamut of emotions that are transmuted into one ethereal body of work make this journey unlike any other.I tried to boost my newfound friend's flagging spirits by telling him that even if we were feeling horrible now, we were still well-entrenched in the top half of the draw. And as much as we felt that we were sucking, those who are still behind us must be sucking too. Of course, that wasn't necessarily true, but I had to say something. He was asking if we walked from that point to the 160 line, would we make it? Perhaps, maybe. But we have to make it to 102 first. Obviously, we wouldn't if we did. But it takes an ultrarunner to know anothers suffering, and at that point you do what you could to help them go forward. On a downward spiral Somewhere nearing KM 70, I was really beginning to feel exhausted. Nearly nine hours in, I was slowly tapering off. Either I left my newfound buddy somewhere or he left me, but I just lost him at a certain point. I was really slowing down and my pace had plummeted to 8:30 cumulative. After what seemed like ages, finally I saw glimpses of different souls. Which was great. And they were passing me left and right. Which wasn't. OJ came out of the woodwork after what seemed like an eternity and was still dropping 7:30 pace effortlessly. I tried latching on but I was already slowly fizzling out. Don Ubaldo was making a rally from behind, he soon passed me as well. And buddy Mark passed me as well, looking fresh as ever. So this is all it would come down to. Just as with all my races, just as with my marathons. A very promising start only to choke at the end. It's a recurring theme, a recurring problem. Maybe ... maybe there's something wrong with what I'm doing. Maybe the problem is... . me. There is no greater dagger to one self-confidence than when one is getting passed left and right by your fresh-looking colleagues. It exacerbates a malignant notion slinking in the shadows. While racing the biggest race of one's career, the last thing you would want to happen is for self-doubt to creep in. Extraordinary circumstances call for an extraordinary effort, and no way are you going to pull that off without a certain modicum of self-belief. But isn't that what ultra running is all about? When both the will and the body have been broken, do you have enough to bring you home to that line?I want to puke. I'm dizzy. Maybe I was just being too brash. Who was I anyway, thinking I could just step in here and do a 100 miler without any serious long run training?These guys have been training for a year now. I didn't belong here. I knew I was in decent shape but I guess that just wasn't enough. I'm in pain, everything is painful. Maybe I should quit now and just suck it up later. Oh great Argow just passed me again. He does that every year around these parts. He's very strong. I wanna puke again. This was a big mistake. Where's Tito Lito Lapid? Maybe I could start to rally here just as I did last year. Finally, the crew is here. Maybe I can show them that I am still strong, get something good energy going. Good thing I have shades on. They can't see a defeated man's eyes.

Put up or Shut up From KM 70 onwards I was a dead man walking already. Abby was getting increasingly agitated and worried. My left foot was bothering me severely and I could barely move without significant pain. The crew was taking turns massaging and spraying, and ice cubes on my face seemed to help. I had to stop every kilometer, and finally we just changed my fancy Adidas socks into less fancy Adidas socks which were much more laspag and looser.

Which at that point I felt was what I needed. I had lost a lot of ground and this was all really getting to me. The competitive nut in me had wanted to do well in this race, showing everybody "it could be done" on a cross-train base. I had a chip on my shoulder if you would call it that. However, at this point that chip could have been easily mistaken for a heavy cross, as I was in heavy suffering.More stops. More pain.

Tirik mode. At that monent, I could never put a premium on the value of having an experienced ultrarunner like Abby on my crew. Her relentless approach last year worked wonders, and left my whiny self eating her dust. While everyone was sort of freaking out at my disheveled state, she was resolute in whispering to me "Tiis lang babe. Not too many breaks. You can do this. Just keep on moving forward, sayang time. I took solace in that and soldiered on. If I couldn't be strong, at least someone was being strong for me. And I could feed off that. And the journey continues... . Of Pain and Detours As my slowly deteriorating carcass was slowly marching through the dusty Pampanga highway, without a doubt I was a broken man both mentally and physically. I had a losers mentality and was already looking for reasons to quit. Km 80 could have been a world away and i wouldn't have known the difference. My pace had plummeted, my strategy out of sorts. What had started out as a promising race was going down the drain on account of a left foot that was swelling ridiculously. Each attempt at running was rewarded with pain, pain, and more pain. Masakit na. Ayaw na. What exacerbated things was that the crew took a left somewhere, ostensibly for a 1k detour. That 1k detour turned out to be 3.5k of hell without a support crew. No drinks,no nothing. Much to my consternation, turns out they could have just gone straight and ignored it, all the rest of the support cars were there. I was down and out. Suddenly, nightfall was approaching. How could I even dream of hitting 160k when I'm running on nonexistent fumes here? As I finally catch the crew after nearly four kilometers of non-existent support, it seemed like the end of the line for me. Battered, exhausted, I sat down somewhere near KM 80 and nearly collapsed while sitting down. Abby was very concerned already. She kept on muttering Just keep moving forward babe, you can do this. I believe in you. AJ and Duart were searching for inspirational quotes from their bag of tricks as well.Somewhere, seeing such a concerted effort from my team ignited a long recessive notion from within. In my frustration, I suddenly came to the realization - why the heck am I acting like such a sissy? I had already done this before! I'm a vet for crying out loud. Let's get this done! My swagger, which had somehow taken an inopportune time to take a VL, came back just in the nick of time. With renewed vigor, my head back on the right frequency, I went back out there with that predator's mindset that had been sorely missing for several hours now. Pain is just a word One slight problem. Energized as I was, the pain was slowly bordering on "enough to make me yelp" proportions. My form must have been god-awful. Anyway, I kept on whining like some lame greenhorn until I sort of just got fed up with myself. This was a war, and if I was going down I'd do so on my shield. In a journey not wanting of inspiration, there are some times that you just had to get the job done yourself. If some other people along the way saw me angrily muttering to myself, here's the inside scoop on what that was going on. Wimpy GBM : Ouch. Aray. Ang sakit na talaga. DNF na tayo koya, uwi na tayo please? BDM Vet Hard Core GBM : Ano ka ba?! Sali sali ka dito tapos aangal angal ka jan? Bwiset! Wimpy : Waaaah but it hurts so baaaad and I'm soooooo tired =,( Hard Core : You joined this stupid, the pain is to be expected. Duh! Do you seriously expect to run this long with no pain? You have got to be kidding me! Suck it up chump! You a tough guy or a wimp? Wimpy : Sungit mo naman... .. Not that I've degenerated into schizoprenia, but I needed to kick it up a notch if I had any intention of getting through this. I entered Km 80 a man possessed, suddenly I was hitting 8:00 pace with ease. The foot was extremely bothersome, but my mind and psyche were clear. Just keep moving forward. Dammit man. Get it together. Fighting for the fallen I had hit upon a fantastic formula that worked wonders for me and allowed both for enough rest and enough traction towards the goal. The support car would be there every 1k, so what I would do was that I would run for 1k, rest or sit down for a bit once I reached the car , walk 300 meters then run the next 700. It worked so well that it seemed that I could sustain for extended periods. Somewhere around the mid-80's I was shocked to see Bea and Dan around the route. But... . Mark was so far ahead of me right? She told me he had fallen behind a little to rest. As I probed what happened, I was told he was just tired, that's all. Ah, the typical swoon. But we all go through it and he would no doubt bounce back from it. I told Bea that I would be waiting up for him, a reprise of last year's end-game partnership seemingly forthcoming. My sudden resurgence suddenly catapulted me back into the thick of things. I ran into Singaporean ultra runner Kelly Lim, who told me she didn't know the way and was lacking in supplies, apparently her support crew was way behind. I instructed the gang to give her whatever she needed. I told her she could hang with me if she wanted, but her pace seemed way too strong for my injured left foot and methodical strategy.She thanked me and went on her way. The curious thing about the entire exchange was when she told me she was measuring her pace in steps. Not sure if that's a culture-specific thing, but I found it to be quite the novel approach. In the dark recesses of the land where tocino and sisig are king, the pain was considerable but I was sticking to my 700-300 run walk strat. Eerie headlamps defined shadowy figures identifiable only by their reflectorized vests, as we traversed a Kapampangan neighborhood that seemed to be comfortable in blithely ignoring us.Still, every time I would see a runner closing in I would ease up and check if it was Mark doing one of his trademark comebacks. Alas, it was another unfamiliar face marauding in the darkness. Where the heck was he? The crew was surprised at what seemed like a strong second wind from me, as I was arriving faster at our stops than what was previously trending. As I approached KM 90 in that tricky poblacion area that drove us nuts last year, turns out they were buying dinner at Jollibee and only AJ was left in the van. Before I could even ask him what our foodies were, he let go of a grim, tersely worded statement that rocked me to the core. Nag DNF na daw si Mark ... .. I couldn't believe it. Nearly 14 hours in, emotions were running high already. I was crestfallen, heartbroken. Like I could feel his pain myself. It was as if the enemy had successfully shot down one of my own. My lips quivered. This was my buddy, we had willed each other to the line last year. AJ even massaged him towards the end (he never let me forget). We were supposed to replicate that success this year. We've been in many wars together carrying the TPB bannerall season long and he was in phenomenal shape. He had trained so hard for this, as well as anyone I knew. I was at a loss for words at how that could have happened, more so that I knew how much he would fight to keep a DNF off his record. I was beside myself, I felt I let a friend down. Maybe if I were there I could have implored him to go on, helped him out bit by bit till he regained his senses and strength. Suddenly, sadness turned to worry. It had to be really serious for him to stop at that point. I implored AJ to give me more details, he didn't know either. Mark dropping out put a quick check on my own mortality. Reports would later come in that more and more friends were falling by the wayside. In my exhausted, sleep-deprived state, the pull of our close-knit fraternity dropping like flies emboldened me to push on. If there were an ultrarunning version of that scene in 300 where the captain goes berserk after his son gets decapitated, this was probably it. I hit 7:30 on my 310xt for a kilometer split at a time when the cumulative average was already around 8:40.

Nooooooooooooooo I had to go on. For Mark, for everyone who had their dreams dashed by fate's cruel, unfeeling turn. It could have been me, could have been anyone. But I'm still around for a reason. This is for them. I have to take it home for them. Now let's get it done.

Let's do it for them. Just Get It To 102 At this point last year, I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Just a wee bit more. I wrote : The pain in my left knee grew in intensity with each pause. My crew was pulling out all the stops to ensure that I made it. The pain was incredible. But to quit this near, after all that you've been through? No way in hell. If you told me that I had to roll down the road just to finish, I would have.
This year, while I was presumably in better shape I was already slowing down significantly as I went past KM90. The adrenalin from my rallying cry around the plethora of DNF's had faded and the exhaustion was creeping in. As I marched on into the night, I was reminded on just how ludicrous the entire enterprise was in running the equivalent of nearly four marathons in 30 straight hours. Last year I barely made it in one piece to the line. This time around not only do I have to clear 102 kilometers, I have to run all the way to another province just to finish, 58 long kilometers away. Seriously. Who in the right mind would do this? I was dwarfed by the magnitude of the task at hand. As I was going through another late swoon, Wency, Chito and a couple of other warriors caught up with me. With differing run/walk patterns, we would alternate bursts of small talk along with taking the lead. I was weakening at this point, and I felt all alone . Mentally, making it to 102 meant the safe haven of a warm meal and the prospect of resting for more than the couple of seconds I had been giving myself for practically the entire journey.I kept on muttering just get it to 102, all will be well after. With pacers allowed 102 onwards, I was counting heavily on Abby, AJ and Duart to get me through in one piece. Before I could get there though, two pairs of shiny eyes suddenly hit my lamp. Dogs. Wild Dogs. Before I could even react, these uncuddly canines were chasing after me like I was a steak on two legs. At this point, this is truly the last thing you need. I just froze and walked calmly as their agitated, bloodthirsty growls resonated along the grim highway.Lucky.

Bad Doggie.As I allowed my blood pressure to settle down a few notches, I just realized that I still remembered quite distinctly each nuance this final stretch had to offer..I remember everything - my shuffling gait, the left to the eskinita, the cheers, the hug from BR. Everything is all still so vivid. Even amidst being embroiled in all this physical suffering, the reassurance of being in somewhat familiar conditions was invaluable. Soon, we would be leaving the comfort of these toiling grounds for a stab at the twilight zone. I check my watch. I actually have a shot at a 102 PR. In what was probably not the smartest move to do at that point , I yearned for a strong entry into KM102 so I "tempo ran" that final kilometer going as low as 7:00. At I approached the famous eskinita Abby, AJ and Duart were there to ensure I didn't get lost. I ran strong into the train station sixteen hours and 30 minutes after I had began to a cacophony of cheers from the remaining crowd, an hour erased from last year's finish. 102 kms done. 58 to go. Last year, this was the scene of our greatest triumph. Now, it is where we begin our greatest battle... .

A sight for sore eyes at KM102

Just like the good ol' days Prelude To The Pain Finally, some semblance of "real" rest! I had worked long and hard for this so I would savor each second of it.I took off my shoes, got to stretch amd lie down for a bit, wolfed down a Burger Machine "double longga burger" for good measure. I heard some of the other warriors took a quick snooze as well. The 310xt got a fresh charge on Endure Multisport buddy/creative whiz Gerard Cinco's (of dimsumandsiomai fame) car charger. He was also kind enough to lend me his Garmin 405 to bridge the gap. Eternal thanks bro!

We put Salonpas on the throbbing upper arch of my bothersome left foot, some on the calves. Otherwise, I was okay. Or so I thought. Coming in at around 16:30ish, I decided to burn 30 minutes to simulate a 17 hour split , which more or less gives me 13 hours to complete that final 58k. I had fulfilled my short-term goal to bridge it to my pacers while keeping my sanity. Now the real challenge begins.

First up was AJ, my de facto crew chief from my BDM 102 campaign and eternal buddy. The plan was for him to cover anywhere from 5-10 kilometers while buying Abby some valuable shut-eye before she came on.. While not exactly a regular running denizen, AJ was a former UAAP Volleyball MVP and could count on his natural athleticism to take over should push come to shove. He was hyped up and raring to go as a strange new world awaited us out there.

BDM Card #2 right here.But before anything else, a couple of hiccups. First, for some incomprehensible reason I couldn't get my laces to stick.Perhaps the tender left foot had something to do with it as I was being OC with the tightness , but it took us at least five minutes to get the whole thing right. Talk about a momentum killer. Second - just get the heck out of the train station. Fast. We had traversed all around it, amidst what seemed like an abandoned rice paddy. A dog came right out and threatened to attack us. We were warned about the dogs, but seriously this was ridiculously way too early in the ball game. Much like the guardian pacer he was, Hasa bravely shooed the rabid dog away with his "shout and make gulat the doggie move". He would later confess that his cajones were being seriously compromised already, but he had to at least "pretend" to be strong in my severely weakened state. Thank God it worked. We finally were able to navigate our way around the labyrinthine area... only to wind up about 100 meters from where we had started. We could even see Sir Rene and Camilla Brooks from where we were. They probably thought we were messing around. Sheesh.

Apparently, it wasn't as simple as we thought.Crash Into Me We had wasted an inordinate amount of time just getting out into the main road, and I was deathly paranoid of getting lost at such a crucial juncture. My absence at that crucial, final test run was now coming back to haunt me. On the way to Macarthur Highway, I had AJ ask practically every manong if they saw runners along the route. Even if the answer was always in the affirmative, the eerie absence of support cars was agitating me. After asking like thrice, Hasa was like Ano, satisfied na? I probably muttered something unintelligible as a reply.

I tried to get on with the 700-300 formula that had worked so well for me, but after a solitary kilometer I felt sick. I was crashing. Hard. Again. Could the strong push leading to 102 drained my last reserves? I was hitting more than 17 hours of the road already. I guess the relative unfamiliarity of the terrain all added to this notion brewing in my head . Once I hit 103k , I was in no man's land. Pessimistic realities were beginning to form in my head. Damn, ang layo pa. Wala na akong ibibigay pa. I implored AJ that all I could do was walk first. All of a sudden, it seemed like I was in a daze. Parang high. To make matters worse, our support van was nowhere in sight. Apparently, Tito Caloy went freestyling on the route and insisted on the "Macarthur Highway" route that he knew... . which was going to Bulacan. Apparently, I wasn't the only one bonking. Try as I could, the legs were not responding. I was doing the tukod move at a higher ratio than at any point in the race. I almost even fell into AJ at one point. We were barely moving. Once again, fears of a late game choke were getting to me.Good thing that this was an all-too-familiar sight for my friend, having seen me buck injury and dehydration during the previous campaign. He still had his mental notebook full of pre-memorized inspirational quotes, but he didn't pull a single one. The one he did drop though, was probably the one that mattered the most. Kung sa akin nga lang pap, kung kaya lang kitang samahan ng 50k gagawin ko. A poignant moment in a journey made possible not by one man's singular effort, but by the collective sacrifices of those who share a single-minded determination to tow him to that finish line. Infused by a sudden stream of positive energy, it was just the thing I needed. Habol ng Habol Big steps lang. I tried running but gave up seeing that my "run" and AJ's walk were roughly around the same pace. So what's the point. Our progress was miserably slow. After close to an hour, me and AJ had only covered four ridiculous kilometers using this tactic and time was slowly ticking away. I was trying to get myself together by convincing myself that this hour long walk would serve as the much needed "rest" to help me once Abby came on. In pretty bad shape though. Ironically, AJ was somehow relieved when Duart offered to take over pacer duties. Apparently his surgically repaired knee was acting up, a heroic effort for a friend in need. Too bad I was too preoccupied battling my inner demons to fully appreciate it at the time

Hasa gutting it out after 5k

Duart raring to step up to the plate Once Duart had donned the official pacer's bib, we were off. He was jacked and amped up, perhaps a little too much for me in my rapidly diminished state. Given the horrid start to this final leg of our journey, we somehow had to make up for lost time. Around 19 hours in, I was fading badly and I sore in too many places than I could describe. My buddy, who was always the smartest guy in our class a decade ago, was hellbent on helping in any way he could. Some useless trivia : He once missed AJ's UAAP championship game, and was so disconsolate about it that he attended every single game the following season. Now that's what you call friendship! I am lucky to have him on my team.

He was listening to my instructions as much as he could while dropping the occasional motivational line, and we were making some semblance of progress. Pap, mental lang yan. Bumibigay na ang katawan pero it's all mental. Not sure if I got it verbatim but that's pretty much what I could remember.We had another mad dog episode, and he was brutally honest in telling me he wasn't exactly too thrilled with them wild doggies. A noble effort from my bud to keep me in there, but it was clearly bothering him. In short, at this point where my brain had pretty much short-circuited, I scarcely had any energy to to help him out against any anxiety as much as I wanted to. I needed to be carried, not the other way around. Another point of concern was when he told me he suddenly became dizzy, no doubt a byproduct of the sudden stress put upon his sleep-starved system. As much as Duart was shrugging it off, a glance on my watch was telling me we weren't trending well.

If only them Tarlac doggies were this cute
At this rate, once Abby came on we might be too far behind already. But Duart still had 5k to go, and he seemed quite enthused with it. As much as I wanted to have my bud finish his full leg, the reality was that I needed Abby in there both for the physical and emotional boost, and I didn't think I could hang on for 5k more.As rhythmically disjointed as our current little sortie was, I was hanging on to the hope that once she came on, everything would fall back into place. I labored heavily with each run, my pain-wracked body slowly being battered into submission. At only 115k in, we were nearly 20 hours out there. 10 hours for 45k? In this state? I pushed the panic button and told good buddy Duart we had to cut short his stint. Always the proud warrior (he's already planning his own BDM 102 stint for next year. AJ is his support crew chief which rocks, problem is AJ doesn't know yet.), he seemed visibly bothered that I had cut his stint short. I scarcely had the energy to explain things, just muttered that it was all about "strategy"whatever that meant amidst his half-serious protestations. Once Abby saw her number called, she shifted to work mode instantaneously and snapped on the bib and my hydrobelt with baon gels. With one of the best ultrarunning pedigrees amongst all the pacers, she's a tremendous boon to my campaign. In the middle of the night, in some unknown highway, we had some serious catching up to do. Both literally and figuratively.

Super Abby to save the day
Longest. Date. Ever. As we ventured into the great unknown, the "reserves" that I was storing during AJ and Duart's combined 10k stint somehow helped. The more I realized that we were running into Angeles City (yes, Angeles City. And yes, I started in Bataan, 20 hours ago.), all the more that the enormity of the entire experience was getting to my head. Each step was heavier, every breath more labored than ever. We started out strong thanks to Abby pushing the pace, but alas I couldn't ride out the heavy fade. My mind was starting to play tricks with me already. If there was such a thing as a "running pseudo lucid dream", I was probably doing it already. It felt like my brain was kicking into " dream mode" - while I was still running. Seemed like a bizarro mix of both a dream and a hallucination at the same time, and the line between fantasy and reality was severely blurred at this point. No idea if I was dreaming or not anymore.

Sabaw I regain a semblance of reality to the faint sobs of my worried girlfriend, who had been rock steady and strong the entire time. Apparently, I was already lying down the concrete pavement at some Angeles City bridge, my submission to mortality compounded by a suddenly biting wind. She was at a loss for words, the complexity of being a pacer tasked to bring you to the line intersecting with that of a petrified loved one. Diliryo. Yes, that's what they call it. I want to quit already. So many people have fought the good fight and called it a day already. Maybe I should do the same. ...

An emotional turning point... . A Walk On The Dark Side Somehow, Abby's resolute pleadings got me back on my feet again. However, as we plodded our way to Tarlac it was becoming harder and harder with no relief in site. The thermostat suddenly dropped out of nowhere and I started to shiver uncontrollably, to the point that my chest began to hurt already. I was forced to wear the only warm thing available - Tito Caloy' frumpy windbreaker. As much as this was the last place where you could be judged for a fashion faux pas, I took it off the moment I got warmer. Smirk. At this point I could only run for about 200 or so meters before stumbling around the dark, dusty abyss en route to Tarlac. It was a painful, arduous process. I would beg for a chance to sit down. Abby was adamant. Sayang time. Kaya pa yan. What a whiner. So many of our fellow warriors had passed us already, some I haven't seen since the start of the race. Gosh, I must have lost so much time already. Two enigmatic, shadowy figures emerge from the woodwork, plodding ninjas who had seemingly lost their way. Turns out it was the veteran ultra duo of George Dolores and Ralph Salvador, battle tested warriors who were likewise succumbing to their demons within. Aabot pa ba tayo? Di na namin gagawin to uli, kalokohan to! Seeing two proud veterans fighting their demons to the very end seemed to embolden me. If they are still in this... . no reason I shouldn't be. You know how they say that in a marathon your second wind kicks in just when you need it the most? I had used mine hours ago. That third and fourth? A distant memory. I'm running on empty here as we were approaching the 130k mark. A quick glance at the trusty 310xt. Not good. Not good at all. At this rate, there would be no way would be finishing within cutoff. I felt my dreams slowly fading, dissipating before my tired, weary eyes. The body had given up, the pain too immense. My spirit a meek spectator to the entire spectacle. Abby was slowly getting exhausted trying to coax something out of me, to no avail. But inside of me, a different storm was brewing. So that's it?This is how it's all going to end Luis? You just plain gave up? You bothered so many people, spent so much money, put yourself through this much pain, only to fail at the end? Think of how the Facebook statuses would come out tomorrow, how people would be sympathetic to your stupid excuses. Keep this crap up, and you will fail. Are you content with the whole "just making it to the start line is a victory" crap? You came here with a specific goal in mind. You want that buckle right? You want the cynics to shut the hell up right?? Are you going to quit on Abby? On Hasa and Duart after everything that they have done for you? On the five people who will read your story on your crappy blog? What a damn lousy story that would be. More than anything, do it for yourself. Do you want to be remembered as a quitter forever?

On life support and needing a miracle Desperate times call for desperate measures. When all else was failing, I swung for the fences with nothing left to lose. How? Simple, really. I pissed myself off. Yes, you read that right. I was trying my darn best to piss myself off. Before my brain decided to shut itself down completely, I had this bright idea that the only way to save my race was for my adrenalin to go into overdrive. It's the fight or flight paradigm at play, and I gave it one final heave. If this failed, there was nothing more I could do but accept that maybe this wasn't really meant for me. It's a sober reality that I would probably deal with for the rest of my life. Everything was hinging on this. I couldn't fail. I REFUSE to fail. Luis : NO!!! I CAN'T LOSE! I PUT TOO FREAKING MUCH INTO THIS!! QUIT?? NOW?? YOU GOT TO BE !@#$ KIDDING ME!! LET'S GO!! Abby : ???!!!!
The result was nothing short of spectacular, For one completely inspired, ethereal stretch, everything just clicked. The adrenalin was overflowing. All the pain disappeared., not a trace. I was running like I just started on one of them BHS races. Abby was shocked out of her wits, but kept pace as much as she could. We were passing the others at will, and it was just an incredible turn of events. At a time when we were covering about 4 kilometers an hour tops at around 15:00 min/km pace, we zoomed to an unfathomable (given the circumstances) 5:50 min/km pace. Even I myself was shocked. In plain and simple terms, we had earned back that extra hour that we had lost earlier with the effort.

And in one fell swoop, we were back in the game.

Cruise Control

We had to slow down eventually and fall back into a run/walk pattern as it was Abby's turn to bonk. The sudden speedwork zapped her, and our support car was nowhere to be found. AJ and Duart were plotting our trends in between naps, and they had missed out on the sudden surge. They were at least 5 kilometers away and couldn't seem to find us in their best Keystone Cops routine. Abby was running out of water and Gato as the sudden anaerobic spurt was getting the best of her. With the national engineering boundary for Tarlac in sight, it was somewhat my turn to keep her in there. Eventually the groggy gang caught up, likewise shocked at the little stunt we pulled off.

The adrenalin had worn off and everything was starting to hurt again, but at least Abby was better. As we soldiered on into the wee hours of the new day, we were comfortably settling into a pattern that we had first used when I paced her for the original Rizal Day 32k. It entailed choosing targets from within the prevailing landscape and run to that with no excuses. Let's run to the green house. Waiting shed. 2nd big telephone pole. From this point forth every second counted, each second running providing us a bigger buffer for what promises to be an explosive endgame.

Twenty Four Oras

Set a target. Run.Walk. Rest. As we were nearing the 24 hour mark entering the Tarlac capitol, I was fighting with everything I had. I could scarcely believe that I was still here - alive, standing, running and with a real shot at taking this home. Good vibes. Even the boys were egging me on. Let's do this pap. Let's take this home.

Hitting the 24 hour mark was a poignant, goosebump inducing- milestone. But it wasn't over. Not just yet.

Daytime Shocker

Shocking, because I was still here. Because Abby was approaching 30k pacing me with nary a sign of fatigue. But the single most shocking, absolutely mind-blowing thing that jolted our senses was seeing a crumpled, hobbling figure on the other side of the road. It was Tatay Jonel. I last saw him just after the 50k mark and had figured he had finished hours before.. He looked deathly pale, and our attempts to ask what was wrong were met with some semi-lucid hand gestures, presumably gesturing us to go ahead. Another dagger straight into our hearts. .If I were Daniel- san, he was Master Miyagi. If this were a war, that was our general right there. And right now our general was telling me to leave him and let him be. Reluctantly, we had to pass him, taking painful solace in the thought that this was his battle to face, his mountain to conquer. Just a bit more, and glory would be his.

Hopefully, it would all be ours.

100% Pure Guts

Digging Deep

The sun was starting to beat down and the pain on my left foot was off the charts. Any form of movement would generate a certain level of pain that seemingly only a shot of morphine could negate. Nevertheless, the excitement was building, and we were trending well as we were entering the 140k mark. I could sense it in Abby's voice. We got this babe!! Just a bit more!

Meanwhile, the crew was on chillax mode. A supremely confident AJ was already looking at breakfast plans while Duart was doing a little premature celebrating

Breakfast, anyone?
Wrong Mistake

I was trying to amp up every step as we were hitting the right turn that was supposed to lead us to the Capas National Shrine. Pain was mortifyingly bad, I've run out of adjectives to describe it. If my Garmin was correct, we just had 13 more kilometers to go to glory. You know how towards the latter part of a marathon, say around 40-41k, you just attempt to block out everything in an attempt at a strong finish? I was trying to pull off the same thing here. In my head, we got this, let's get it over with. As we reached the crossroad, me and Abby ran into Coach Rey Antoque for the final pangtali which serves as your time stamp (they have a knack for just appearing out of nowhere). I asked him how much further, 12k na lang daw. But my strategy was thrown into disarray when veteran ultra dude Ron Sulapas, still very much in the game, told us it was more like 18k out. 18k?? You have got to be kidding me. Coach just said 12k! Abby was getting pissed off because we couldn't seem to get a clear picture of much further we were going. Even AJ and Duart weren't quite sure. Thankfully, Doc Art somehow managed to catch up with us, and he seemed to know the way. Amidst the last-minute chaos, a glanced at my watch. If it were 18k more... .

I need to start running. Now.

Malayong malayo pa Kuya... .

It's getting to be hot. Really hot. Once again, the lack of a test run couldn't have been more evident as we entered the busy, winding streets going to the shrine. For someone who had made it to to this point relying heavily on pace, distance and time projections... . now I didn't have the slightest damn idea where we were going. Or how far we were. Abby was starting to look a little bit wasted, but was tremendously effective as a drillmaster/inspirational leader. The pain, oh God I don't want to think about the pain anymore. I knew that they were all blistered up, but at this point that was the last thing on my mind. Just wanted this over and done with. I tried asking a tricycle dude how far off we were from the shrine, and was met with an incredulous reply that serves as the header of this paragraph. Digging into what seemed to be my 7th wind already, I was spilling my blood and guts onto that pavement already. Malayo pa ba... ..

Panandaliang Ligaya

AJ and Duart were scrambling to get distance projections and to give nearly per kilometer support for us. This was the final stretch. Winning time baby. I had gone through so many up and down cycles that I had lost track already. The term "threshold of pain" has been redefined several times already that I may just end up giving it an altogether different meaning after the whole thing. Quite truly, it takes a different animal to tame this distance. I would whine incessantly, the lack of a clear goal bothering me. AJ kept on trying to explain the projections but nothing was entering my brain. Both me and Abby were at the mercy of the elements, and
right now it wasn't showing that much.

After what seemed like an eternity of pain, the gates of the Capas National Shrine beckoned. Me and Abby were going nuts, the joy was impossible to contain. She kept on telling me that she was proud of me. But wait, there was a catch. To successfully complete the distance, we had to do an extra loop past the monument and back to do a full 100-miler. We were all told of this beforehand. Problem with me was, in my semi-delirious state we thought it was pretty near. I could swear that someone said 5k na lang! Malapit na!

Rule #1 : Don't listen to strangers.

Rule #2 : Never, EVER take "malapit na" at face value.

Rule #3 : " 5k" is relative .

The Final Showdown

Pain. Suffering. Guts. Determination. It's been such an emotional rollercoaster for us and I couldn't stop thanking Abby for willing me to this point. We got news that there have been only been less than twenty finishers, maybe I could even crack the top 20. So all we need to do is cruise, relax, game over. We couldn't have been more mistaken about the entire thing. You know that feeling when you know the race is over and your levels start to normalize? Then all the aches and pains come in? Of course it's normal.

My problem was, it happened to me just a couple of kilometers early.

AJ and Duart were intentionally withholding it at that time, but they knew that the full route was a 4.5 killer uphill and back to cover the missing 9k from the original 151k historic route. Our first inkling was when we saw TPB icon Junrox Roque looking spent, probably the first time I ever saw him him in that state. Argow, OJ, Kelly Lim, I haven't seen them in hours and yet there they were on the homeward journey. Two things. Either they had all slowed down like crazy... . or that final stretch was so far out and difficult that it took them forever to get back. I wasn't about to put my money on the former.

That last 4.5k uphill stretch ranks as probably the greatest physical and mental challenge I have ever faced. After 150 kilometers of running over nearly 27 hours , an extended uphill stretch is the last thing you would ever want to see at that point. Everything was sinking in, my system rejecting everything. I was puking out the gels, and even Gatorade was nauseating. The heat was simply unbearable. I wanted to collapse. Every labored step would elicit a pained yelp from me. If I were to capture a microcosm of the suffering and sacrifice of the actual Death March, I was going through it right there. Abby was compelling me to move forward, but she was in tears as she could see, feel my suffering so near the goal.

My body and mind have both shut down. I have squeezed every last ounce of humanly strength that I could. There is... . nothing more. To the last drop. The uphill climb seems to be endless with no relief in sight. Going up the hill with my eyes closed, I nearly fall over Abby. My battered soul lets a blood curdling yell, a final testament to the flawed limits of human physical endurance. Truly, why did I ever subject myself to this anyway? When will it ever end?

Alas, I refuse to be denied. This is it. This is my moment. When all is gone, the spirit will always remain. I am running on utter fumes and Abby is willing me to that line. Because as one would realize when doing ultramarathons, , this " war" that I've been harping about since the very beginning is not fought on a battlefield with guns or soldiers or generals. It is fought in the inner recesses of your own mind. Drawn out into the outer fringes of your own heart. YOU are your greatest enemy... .. and greatest ally at the same time. It is a dichotomy that has no equal, accessible only to the chosen few who dare tread that fine line.

Suck it up. Pain is temporary. Glory is forever.

Everything is just a blur now, unraveling in my head as some high- definition, stop-motion slideshow. That final agony of running downhill. Running into Cebu ultragal Haide Acuna who was going strong as she entered her own final battle. Entering the monument while running at full speed, tears streaming down our cheeks as the magnitude of an accomplishment that couldn't have been farther from reality was slowly sinking in. The unbridled, once-in-a-lifetime joy of finally crossing a finish line 29 hours and 30 minutes after I had left its counterpart a hundred miles away. Hugs from the man who gave me a chance to show my mettle when very few believed I could do it. Hugs from a crew who didn't have to do it, but did anyway for the sake of a friendship that has stood the test of time. Hugs from the best girlfriend in the universe, who gave so much of herself to the endeavor and whose unshakable, iron-clad belief in my ability when even I myself had lost faith proved to be the winning quotient.

I said it once, I'll say it again - BDM is not for the faint of heart. But for those who dare, it will provide that introspective journey that life in general is largely bereft of . It affects you. It changes your emotional blueprint, and shakes the very foundations of your self-belief at its most visceral level. It's a life's experience's life experience, providing you with tall tales of glory and determination meant to be passed down from this generation to the next.

To those who are wondering if I will ever subject myself to the same, er, unique experience in the future, the answer is a big resounding NO. Never. Never ever.

But then again, wasn't that the exact same thing I said last year?

“Hey Jane, are you up there?” I hear my husbands voice from down in the basement, darn, busted… again. More then likely the sound of the computer chair being dragged over his head on the floor above gave it away. Back to work I go cleaning up the basement with him. Do you sneak in a little blogging throughout the day, when no one is looking?

“Dinner will be a little late, and it might be a bit burnt.” I announce this to Boo our cat, and my husband as they are sitting in their favourite chair watching the evening news. “Blogging again” he asks with smile. The man knows me much too well, and he has heard every reason in the world as to why dinner is: late, burnt, nearly raw, non existent, forgotten, or something quick, and simple.

Blogging is more fun then housework, TV, cooking, or feeding the poor cat. “Hey honey, the cat is starving, can you just… ” He knows that I am in the middle of a post, and don’t want to lose sight of the idea before I get it on the screen.

When inspiration strikes I must go to the computer and translate what’s in my mind, that itchy little voice that speaks to me, even if it is a bad time. So far I have held off blogging in the middle of the night, but that’s only because I would have to get out of bed, and go downstairs, turn on the computer and wait for it to fire up. But then again, I could always keep the laptop by my bed…

Do you sneak in bits and pieces of blogging daily? Do you tiptoe away from others, saying I just have something important to attend to… or are you a all or nothing, this is my only time to blog, don’t you bother me now kind of blogger? Do you steal away to check the comments, read a few other blogs, and maybe leave a comment or two? Of course we are all curious how other people find the time to blog… so share, even if you have to sneak away to do it. Tiptoeing away… Now before I forget, you still have one more day to get your guess in as to who will get snow first, Connie, at Far Side of Fifty, or us. See this link for details. Contest closes at midnight Friday

It’s the new year, and it’s time to dream, to think, to wonder. Inspiration can be found in so many places, books, magazines, blogs. I dream of a gated garden, beautifully aged wood, white washed, and weathered. With soft pink rambling roses gracefully arching as they practice their yoga. The thorns are retracted so they do not scratch the cats as they parade on the top of the fence. The cats pacing makes them look like trapeze artists, as their well fed tummies wobble back and forth when they stop to playfully swat at a bee. The sun dapples the trees feet, the breeze is soft, and warm. The promise of a life lived, loved, and still to come.

There are hills and hollyhocks in my gated garden, the hollyhocks act as if they are the reason for the picket fence to be holding it’s self so upright. But we know it is the green grass, and the wildflowers outside of the garden that lovingly hold up the fence. The veggies may say that they are the reason the garden is so lovely, with it’s raised beds, and beautiful gravel paths.

But it is the gate that will draw your eye. Antique, solid, and with a history of being wired, and repaired, it’s original galvanized metal painted so many times it is still chipping, and textured. The creaking sound it makes as we push it open an integral part of the experience of the garden. A soft welcome to new friends. So far I have only seen them in shops, but one day I will find my gate. And then I will have the gated garden of my dreams.

Why hello there old friends. It's been nearly two weeks since my last entry. I don't think that's ever happened. Ever. My inactivity is but a testament to the volume of work that I have been putting up lately. I've been doled up in the Gingerbread Cave, doing boring, tedious Gingerbread research, even going 38 straight hours without sleep. Yes, it's a sad Gingerbread life. I am so out of the loop. The stress has rendered me a sunken, disheveled shell of my former self.While taking my ITB recovery one step at a time, good ol' GBM is relegated to finding a new hobby to take his mind off things. ANY hobby. I'm desperate. The search begins now... .

The Competitive Drinker

Ranked #4 in Barangay Hulo
In my solace, I considered visiting the hunting grounds of an old, familiar foil - beloved Internet Legend Tito Caloy. Equally renowned for both his longevity in pulling out 27k LSD's as with his propensity to obliterate entire Emperador bottles , he pitched me into entering his "realm", a place where there were no limits, where your mind could take you wherever you wished. As much as that sounded like my running dictum, a bottle of Johnny Walker Black in full view jolted me back into the absurdity of the situation.

Yum?

Uncle Bob's Spartan Regimen

I was introduced by Tito Caloy to the undisputed champion drinker of his barangay, a luminary who goes by the monicker Uncle Bob. The current Philippine record holder in the 10 liter Wines/Spirits category, legend has it he once drank 2 kegs of Red Horse just for fun.Apparently, he would be grounding me into the wonderful world of competitive drinking.

Coach Teteng : How many bottles can you drink in one session?
GBM : I can drink 5 bottles max I think.
CT: Seriously? You drink like a girl.
GBM: Um, I'd like to think I drink more than a girl.
CT:You need more training! You're a disgrace to the family name! Your uncle is a tremendous drinker!
GBM: Ugh, I'd like to think that I don't really drink because I run and I...
CT: Oh whatever just drink this its good for you!
GBM: !!!!

Uncle Bob during warm-up
Uncle Bob told me to do a warm-up "lap" of 3 bottles of San Mig Light before proceeding to our training session. Listen newbie, I will be training you to be the best of the best. I hate mediocrity. Let's start with the secret of every competitive drinker's success - the LSD. LSD?? Yes, the LSD. Stands for Long Slow Drinking. As you aim to increase the tempo and intensity of your drinking sessions, you need to build your base tolerance first. Concentrate on adding more and more bottles per session to develop your BO2Max (Maximium Bottle Overload). Add base bottle mileage by at least 8% every week and you will be on your way to reaching the level of your uncle. Do you know that he has a pace of 2.4 bottles/min at Max LC (liver capacity)? Tremendous drinker. So many tambays here strive to be just like him, such an inspiration.

Either the "warm-up lap" got me drunk or I just really miss running that much , as I could have sworn that Uncle Bob was channeling beloved Takbo.ph mod Coach Pojie right then and there. Saddened at the mere thought of my erstwhile lifeblood, I thanked Uncle Bob for his time, told him it wasn't for me and while absorbing his stinging "you're a disgrace to your family" diatribe (he was on his 3rd Johnny Walker B. by this time), slowly found my way to the door... ... .

Running. How I miss it.

(sigh)

(to be continued)

He had been washing dishes, there was a crash, a tinkle of broken china in the sink, when he appeared in the doorway of the room holding what was left of his favourite coffee mug. The handle separated from the cup, we couldn’t repair it… it was also the last of the set.
This wasn’t a good thing, lately the shelf life on our mugs has been limited to those few we could fit into the cupboard, and the cupboard was starting to look bare.

So we started the mugging, and I knew that it would be a long process. Almost as long as it took to find the perfect easy chair for the living room. Two people with two totally different needs, wants, and styles try to go shopping for coffee mugs… you can stop laughing now.
Of course we don’t see eye to eye, or mug to mug.
I like pretty, nice shaped, and attractive… he likes something that he can put his man hand around without fear of breaking it. And it had better be durable too, because he loads the dishwasher… those babies take a beating.
I live by the quote “have nothing in your house that you do not find beautiful” so I paraphrased it, too bad.
He lives by, it’s a mug, it’s functional, and if it doesn’t leak, then it’s perfect.

Three stores later… we are the new owners of two boring white, functional, and very durable mugs… now only a few more stores to check.
What do you mean no more stores?
This is how women shop.
“These are backup mugs, these are not “the” mugs, they are only to replace the broken ones temporarily in case we can’t find the perfect ones today.”

“How about these? What do you mean you don’t like polka dots, I love polka dots… no they are not too floofy.”
Polka dots remind you of the circus, and clowns… [we both have a very leery, hands off dislike of clowns]
Right, these won’t do, good point.
Now we are the owners of two boring, white, functional, and very durable mugs…
Can’t wait for those babies to break.

Be sure to check this out! Cindy from Rosehaven Cottage has opened her new Etsy store called, Rosehaven Cottage downloads . She has a wonderful collection of vintage images, and stunning textures to choose from, all at very reasonable prices. Rosehaven Cottage is a creative inspiration and digital fine art photography studio founded by Cindy Garber Iverson in 2007. Cindy is a self-described techie geek, photographer, designer, and collector of vintage paper ephemera. Through her work, she has perfected the art of digitally restoring and enhancing images found in antique publications and on vintage paper ephemera. Using the Adobe Creative Suite, a hi-res scanner specifically designed for scanning art, and a Wacom Cintiq digital tablet, Cindy makes images come back to life--even though many of the rescued images are well over 50 years old and weren't originally intended to have survived this long. She transforms what would be lost to the decay of time into usable digital files for designers, photographers, digital artists, crafters, collage artists and scrapbookers to use in creating their own work. Cindy says,"And I hope I'm preserving bits of history in the process. I like think of myself as a preservationist as well as a restorer with a 21st century twist, preserving the past and making it relevant to today's modern technology."

Editor's Note : This is coming in about two weeks late, but what the heck I got busy. Again. Anyway, enjoy the fruits of my forsaken lunch break.

For most newbies to the sport, the annual exodus to Camarines Sur to compete in the only Ironman-branded triathlon competition in the country is much akin to a rite of passage. Get the shirt, get the photo-op, get the fancy sticker on your bike. Bask in the glory of "ayan na si Ironman" (and all the lame Tony Stark jokes) at the office water cooler. Hang out at the neighborhood pool and revel in the " Pare musta Camsur mo?" conversation with the batak dude on the next lane. Hey, make it worth your $250 right?

Seriously though, it's still the biggest multisport event in the country. And with its third incarnation in the bag, it just became bigger with more than 1,000 athletes gathered in the water that morning last August 14th. Why bother to tri? People have different reasons. Some join in for the heck of it. Some are in there to just see if they could stack up, a personal test of will if you may call it that. Some have enough chutzpah to make the race their first triathlon, which ends in either a personal Everest conquered or a painful crash back to reality (or the pavement. And hopefully not the bottom of the lake).
So we have our reasons, that's a given. As for myself, if you've been following my site from the very beginning you should know I'm a gamer when it comes to these things. A recent accounting check showed that I have been spending a ridiculous amount on races, gear, logistics, etc. I don't know about you, but I can't swallow that amount and leisurely trot around races with the pure intent of merely surviving the cutoff. I have to take my training seriously and make this count, lest the motivation for getting a fancy, technologically advanced six-figure bike is relegated for pure japorms purposes alone.

Thing is, what if there's well, nothing to take seriously? As I mentioned in my previous article, the high-wire act that most age-group triathletes take in balancing these significant training hours with the other aspects of "normal" life is probably more of a challenge than the race itself. If you're a regular 9-5 corporate warrior who actually relishes having more than four hours of sleep or possesses some semblance of a social life, this is incredibly tough to execute. Something has to give at one time or another. With the specter of a new job on the horizon just as short-course season was about to end, I opted to focus on the more mundane trappings of each pencil-pushing suit out there. And yet, the fight never really left me. An attempt to squeeze as much juice as I could out of my limited training hours resulted in a rash of nabigla injuries and ego-deflating training sessions as I vainly tried to keep up with my superbly conditioned Quest 825 teammates. With my performance slipping with each race, the goal of competing in the Timex 226 full Ironman distance triathlon this December seemed but a foolhardy afterthought. Stringent qualifying times notwithstanding (at least with my current fitness level), my "secret" endurance sport dream of completing the Bataan Death March 160k Ultramarathon, Ironman Camsur 70.3 and Timex 226 all in one season couldn't have been any farther from reality. Pop that bubble and go back to signing memos you fool.

Wishful thinking never hurt

But then with a stroke of luck and a dash of inspiration, the fates smiled on us once more at the Tri United long course triathlon held in Matabungkay. Even as a crippling back injury rendered me a virtual crash-test dummy during the run leg, the splits were just good enough to have me qualify by the skin of my teeth. Thirty- four freaking seconds to spare before the 4:45 cut-off, considered the tougher of the two qualifying standards given ( the other being a 6:45 for the Camsur 70.3)

A miracle can happen... .

That, in a nutshell, gives you the context of my race in Camsur. With the pressure of qualifying out of the equation, I was in a more relaxed state and was even feeling good about the prospects of a good finish.
But before we even go there, let's try getting therefirst, shall we? Which, as I came to realize, wasn't exactly a walk in the park.The Long,Long Winding Road

Eight hours.440 kms. I don't think I have ever driven that far. For the record, I don't think most of us have either. With Ultramarathoner - turned -design maven Abby keeping me comfy company for the duration of the ride, the endless route seemed liked a prelude to the mental tenacity necessitated for the race. Passing through scenic yet creepy trails such as the famous Bituka ng Manok zigzag road in Quezon kept me on my toes, given the seeming predilection of cars to run into accidents there.

It's tough.

Ironically, it was actually heaping doses of Cobra that kept me going. Hmm, maybe it does make sense for them to sponsor the race. But really, try tasting the stuff. It's probably the next best thing to shabu in keeping you awake. Along the way, we were so hungry (with such few stops in between) that we swore that we ate the best siopao ever at a stall at the Quezon-Camsur boundary. Yum.

This is the place, a long way from Ayala eh? After what seemed like an eternity we finally got to our hotel in Naga City, which would serve as our home for the next couple of days. Roughly 10kms away from CWC, it's a pretty smart, cost-efficient move in lieu of the pricey (and pretty much sold out) rooms at the complex. We got first-hand taste of some terrific local eats - Biggs's Diner for a late casual lunch and Chef's Doy's for a fancy (yet shockingly cheap) dinner.

Yummy casual dining at Jollibee prices

The team with Chef Doy himself
Bike Check In

Once the dust had settled, we had to check in our bikes at what would be the transition site. This is somewhat of an unfamiliar experience to the uninitiated, with the prospect of leaving your bike overnight a slightly perturbing thought. Season partner Bikezilla was kind enough to send their top wrench guy/fun friend Dave along with the team to ensure that our bikes were in tiptop shape before the check in. After negotiating a line that resembled your neighborhood lotto pila when the jackpot balloons to P100 million, I was finally off.

The ol' battle chariot locked and loaded

Let's Shock The World

Amidst the bedlam that was happening in the days that preceded the race, I found myself enraptured within an almost eerie calm that belied the pressure generated by an eventof this magnitude. It's already a given that I'm primed for a marginal finish on this race. But inexplicably enough, I was feeling strangely good about my chances. I really, honestly thought that I would shock the world. Spot-on premonition or shameless wishful thinking? It would be fitting to see how it would all unravel come race day. But then came the signs. Signs that broke an otherwise tranquil calm... ..

Sign #1

I guess it would be fair to mention that I slept for only two hours before driving to Camsur because I ransacked my entire apartment looking for my trishorts. Of all the god darn days that I could lose it. Possible reasons:

1.The dog ate it
2.The dog hid it in his super secret hiding place for future chewing purposes3.The dog ate it.

I blame the dog completely. He must have eaten it. There's no other way. I'm positive.

I didn't do it

Sign #2

After the team did a Thursday photo-op at Lago del Rey with The Batis Project CEO Ricky Ocampo(We're carrying the highly regarded hotel and balneotherapy resort as our title sponsor for the season), my K-Ona's were soaked and got inundated with sand and rocks. Abby took due prudence in drying it out at the aircon hatch of our hotel as there was no other way of going about it. Much to our horror, the following morning the right insole was gone. It could have gone anywhere, but it just vanished into thin air. You're probably thinking "it's just a freaking insole" but good luck on finding any triathlete who would willingly run without it. Luckily, our team captain Deo (the brains behind the old school Tri-Pilipinas board) had an extra K-Ona with the same size as mine, so I pretty much ran the race on a borrowed insole. Lucky break, but dyahe.

Signs. Premonitions. Tri-short eating dogs. Let's get this over with, shall we?

D-Day - Lago Del Rey, about 5 minutes into the swim

Dammit. I got punched. Or whacked by those damn breastrokers. Any other way, I think I'm starting to panic now with my goggles practically off.It's the first time I've ever been hit in a race, tough it had to happen here. Heard lots of stories, at least now I have one of my own. But it's a story I'd rather not tell. Oh great I got hit again. Ugh, while I'm trying to fix it I'm incessantly getting run over. It's like I'm in Omaha Beach at the Battle of Normandy, and I'm one of the first casualties.

Chaos is an understatementI eventually catch a second wind and did good time at the small lake, only to get stopped dead in my tracks after swimming right into someone kicking furiously. You know how cartoon characters see stars when they're punched? Never knew that was a case of art imitating life right there, it really freaking happens. Lucky me didn't get the memo about the water being so murky that you couldn't see your hands doing the strokes. After what seemed like an eternity of playing Takeshi's Castle at the small lake, I'm out of the water in 51, nearly 52 minutes. Missed my time target by two minutes, but still ahead of the "worst case" goals I had made for myself. So far.

Somewhere in Camarines Sur, about 35km into the bike

Go Go Ironman! Go Go Ironman! The playful chants of the Bicolano children reverberate in my ear as I speed past this drenched countryside.Why do I get this weird feeling that their teacher would flunk them if they didn't show up for this?Lol. Everyone was prepping for the heat, praying for cool weather - and we get a deluge instead. Approaching a sharp curve, I need to overtake this lady in front of my lest I be called for drafting. It's nothing special, routine pass. Holy crap my wheels lock, the angle is too slick. As I'm about two seconds from losing control and crashing, a collective gasp could be heard from the crowd... ..


But thankfully, I didn't. The sporting gods finally let me catch a break. I was able to regain control at the last minute, a look of both relief and partial consternation on my face if you could actually see it through the downpour. So I'm liking my chances now. I'm averaging about 31-32 kph, with the intention of pouring it on during the homeward trip. However, after doing their good deed of the day with me, the sporting gods decided to call it quits. At which precise moment I hit a very hard bump on the road, misaligning my saddle several degrees. This forced me to hold an awkward, yoga-like position that put a lot of strain on my balky back. It didn't take long for the pain to come. As much i try not to be a girly man about it, I guess only those who have had lower back injuries and attempted to race on a bike could relate. And so my personal Calvary began.

My pace slowed to a ridiculous crawl. Teammates, friends, strangers were passing my demoralized shell left and right. It was Matabungkay all over again, only this time I had to work with the pain for about 50 more kilometers. I dismounted about 5 or 6 times to stretch, with bystanders chiding me "Koya okay kay lang ba? Gusto mo ng sopdrink?" I forced a smile. With about 20 kilometers to go, I wasn't quite sure if I could even make it to the run portion. Maitawid na lang. Each kilometer took what seemed like an eternity to complete. As I entered T2, the full rack of bikes confirmed the sobering realization that I pretty much threw away my race right there. A fat,juicy, 3:15 split was staring me in the face. With my "pet" discipline up ahead, I guess this is make or break for me. Question is, how much did I have left in the tank?

Playing through the pain

Just before the rice cooker, 10km into the run


I'm doing this. I'm actually doing this. Spurred on by an incredible rush of adrenaline, I was calling on every single ounce of fight left in me to pull this off. I lost 25 minutes on the bike, but I figured if I could gain that back on the run then all would be well with the world. I ran a sub-25 5k , and just cleared a 58 minute 10k. I have a real shot at redemption here, and why not with the wonderful weather relegating the feared rice cooker into mushy lugaw. I was passing people left and right, each tuhog serving as a boon to my broken body and exhausted spirit.
Alas, it just wasn't meant to be. Too much to ask I guess. The back tightened up real bad somewhere around 13k, and it was both a mental and physical struggle from that point. I never stopped fighting though. The final stretch saw me trudge painfully through a 7:00 pace performance, but I still kept on passing people. Cramps caught up with me sometime around 20k, may pahabol pa matatapos na nga lang. As I finally crossed the line, the look on Abby's face was one of both joy and relief. Apparently, she was worried sick wondering what had happened to me. But hey, I made it! My self-inflicted journey of pain and suffering was over in six hours and 37 minutes, and would you look at that I'm still in one piece.

Never say never, it's always possible.


Epilogue

It's pretty obvious that this wasn't my best race, not by a long shot. But I take solace in the fact that I overtook 107 people on the run leg, even with what I consider a substandard run split. There were a lot of positives to be taken from the race, I was happy with how I fought back when it was so easy to quit already. Overall, it was quite the experience. I'd willingly do it again next year and come back strong, wherever it may be.

But this time, we're taking the plane :)

In the best rendition of “my eyes are bigger then any stomach… ”
I went a bought a entire case of peaches.
Actually I sent my beloved to get them.

But the sentiment is still the same. Oh foolish, silly me.
NOT.
Peaches have to rank up there as the one of the best summer fruits to make you rhapsodize over sweet juice dribbling down your chin.
Piquant taste bursts in your mouth.
Is this not summer in a round sphere?
Oh my goodness yes, kind of thing?
So no, not foolish me… not silly at all.
In fact maybe I should have bought two cases.
I’m planning on living on the wild side here folks.
But peaches have one drawback, when they are ready, they are ready… come what ever may be, they need to be seen to.
The fact that we were to help our friend move another trailer full of his household goodies into his new place.
Along with a minor a one day heat wave will not deter the peaches from declaring “we are ready.”
And so they were.
And I was not.
But did they care?
Nope.

They didn’t care that I got home sweaty, and tired in the mid afternoon, that the house was heating up, just as my love for peaches that were perfectly ripe and needed to be processed TODAY was cooling down.
They needed to be dealt with, and deal with them I did.
No languid afternoon nap in the summer heat, with the Boo snoring gently by my feet.

I processed pints of peach jam, jars of peach barbeque sauce, and I even am in the middle of dehydrating peaches, and freezing slices of them for later.
Now who’s in charge here? Take that you pastel pouting perfect peaches.
Well, most of them I guess, there are still about 15 sitting on my counter, sulking, sassy little spheres that they are… but they are destined for greatness tomorrow.
And the root of all this inspiration?
Preserving by the pint, a new book by Marisa McClellan, who in her adult hood while living in a high-rise, so this works for all of us… rediscovered canning. And thank goodness for that.

The best part is that Marisa has broken down the heavy handed vintage recipes into something that any one loving small batches can easily manage. She works with small amounts.no case of peaches required, unless of course you wish to have peach perfection, flowing and over flowing on your counter. Then go for it, and make more then a few recipes like I did.
I’m inspired, and rediscovering the joy of canning through this book.
My childhood memories of canning involved my mom, peeling endless batches of peaches in a hot steamy kitchen which yielded golden gems that glistened on the counter tops until they were secreted away somewhere cool for winter.
Oh so sweet, succulent, but so much work, they were her gift to us in the dark days of the cold season. We loved the cherished jars of sweet treats, and they were doled out carefully… I vowed not to be a slave to summer fruit.
Especially since all of her hard work paid off with the severe allergies to stone fruits that she suffers from now.

Marisa’s blog has recipes that will inspire you to create your very own small batches.
From honey sweetened peach vanilla jam, to cranberry marmalade with apricots, and strawberry lavender caramel… stop drooling over the screen.
Get those canning jars into the dishwasher, grab that fruit, and go to town!
I mean get canning.
Now will it be Brown sugar salted peach jam first, or peach sriracha jam?

Editor's Note (as if there were one, just wanted it to sound cool lol) : This is coming out a tad bit late, ran into a combination of an extended blogging slump and a Bora weekend combined. Pardon the overall crummyness.

Racing in the South is always fun. Not too many people, fat chance you could even nab a podium on a good day. My too- few- and-far-in-between South races have always been pleasant experiences, thus joining RuNew in Alabang was somewhat of a no-brainer.

Not-So-Chump Change

Was looking for a race to test my knee out in a competitive setting, and I didn't really know too much about it except that it was sponsored by Asian Hospital and that it was for some charity. I thought it was a small-time race until I left with a bib, a timing chip, and P600 less in my pocket. A Rio race as it turns out. The timing chip instantly conjured visions of cash flying out of my wallet. Much to my chagrin, there was no singlet given but was instead promised a finisher's shirt. Grumble.

Babay P600.

Of Seguristas and Bratinellas
I came from the Subic International Triathlon with Ultramarathoner Abby the day before, just cheered on some friends while grabbing some multisport inspiration. Was dead tired as we made the trip to the duuurty South. Coming off my unacceptable tardiness at Nat Geo, I wasn't going to take any chances this time.

Got there with an hour to burn more or less. While trolling the premises, saw elites Junrox/Tigerboy and a healthy Alfred/El Kyoshi walking in the shadows. More walking brought this random soundbite from this nosy-looking kid emerging from a Portalet :

Bratty Kid : Ewww yuck so kadiri inside Mommy it smells like a tae!Mom : Anak don't say that!Brattu Kid : But mooom! I need to make poopoo na!Mom : Hay nako just hold it till we get home. I still have a race.Bratty Kid : Waaaaah!Mom : Wag na maarte, ano you want sa portalet or in the grass?B ratty Kid : Mommy the grass smells like a tae also!Mom : !!!!

What a brat.

In The Presence of Family
After being a veritable tourist over at the multisport arena, it was nice hanging out in more familiar surroundings where I actually knew someone. I ran into Takbo.ph power couple Jinoe and Que, a retro-looking Marvin along with Z paired with a rare PatCon sighting. Not too many people though. Distance? Price? Still, it was nice to be back in familiar territory.

Fun before the gun

An Outside Chance
Just before the gun went off, I was looking around. No familiar faces. As always, my competitive juices were flowing. Give or take a couple of elites, and with the stronger runners at 16k, I hastened to strive for a top 10 finish. And as the lead pack went off, I found myself at the tail end. Hey, I have a shot at this. Law of averages. I have to get it one of these days right?

Toe to Toe with Elite Gal

ITB woes exacerbated at the Nat-Geo race have prevented me from executing my master plan of doing "maintenance" 10k training before plunging into an 8-week program for Milo. In short, here I was blatantly out of shape, preparing to race a 10k on sheer guts alone. And as most of us know, oftentimes that just isn't enough.

As I was trailing the lead pack, I did the requisite headhunting to maintain pace. I ran smack into a strong lady runner who had nyort nyorts and that batak 5% body fat look. Hmm. She was impossible to shake off at 4:20 pace. Was thinking, no way she could maintain this. But then again, who said I could maintain it myself? Kapal ko talaga. (I would later learn she would take 3rd for the ladies) Lol. I told myself, I have to want this more than she does. With that pervading thought in mind, I made my move at the 3k mark and made her eat dust. Wohooo!

She ate Gingerbread dust... well, sorta.

On Gassing Amidst Those Southern Rolling Hills

Of course, that short-lived success didn't last long. A continuous uphill stretch and I was a goner a kilometer later, my elite galpal kicking stardust in my face along the way. No wind, no legs. I was gasping like a chubby fugu fish out of water. Fail.

Swim away fugu fish, swim awaaaay. Okay that was weird.

The Duel With MaselMan

Before the race began, I noticed these two buffed-up dudes who looked like Fitness First spinning class instructors with matching singlets to boot. Figured they were, er, best friends. Until they hugged each other good luck. Tightly. Anyway, at one point early on I passed bromance dude #1. During my mid-race fade, bromance dude #2 zoomed by me at what I reckoned to be near-max HR judging by his breathing. He would do a long walk break then go all out again. I surmised that redlining your HR in bursts and spurts would cause you to gas out later on (running strategists please back me up here).

So for about a 2 kilometer stretch, we would go back and forth at it. At least I had some sort of live metronome to salvage whatever remained out of my pace strategy. Nearing Km 7 in posh AAV, I decided to go for it when I sensed he was fading. Score one for the Gingerbread dude.

Bromance City

The Pain and the Agony

The adrenalin was pumping as a persistent foe was vanquished. Slowly hiking the pace back up to a decent (given the course) 4:57 pace, everything was on cruise control primed for an even stronger finish. By my estimate, I was at about 11th to 14th places at this point. Elite gal (who whooped me earlier) was actually within my line of sight. Then a particularly disconcerting sharp pain shot up my left knee. Dang. ITB mode. Ignore. More pain. More ignoring. Finally a stinger had me hopping on one leg in excruciating pain.
Dammit. No way. I worked so hard only to throw it all away. Just 2k to go! I had stretched this all week, even Salonpas rollered it so much to the point that my room already smells like my Lolo's CR. This sucks. Really does. I'll try to run it off. Aaaaaaaaah. Aray. Arouch. Mommmyyy. Oh great bromance dude just passed me. With a smile on his face. Someone kill me now. Maybe I can just roll to the finish line.

ITB Fail. More frustrated than hurt, I gingerly(no pun intended) attempted to jog to the line . I even ran into old buddy Gary who was on the way to finish his 5k. (Ayan nabati na kita bro. Burger ko. Smirk.) Totally dejected, I surrendered the final two splits at 7:40 and 6:41 en route to limping home with a 53:14. I would later see that this effort somehow managed to snag 23rd place in a lean field. Sigh.

Post-Mortem
Overall, the race was a lot harder than I had expected or prepared for, and most of the people who raced it would pretty much agree. The relative humidity was off the charts, people were sweating like a presidential candidate on a live televised debate. Most weren't too thrilled about the finisher's shirt though, saying it was "pambahay " quality (don't shoot the messenger). For a premium priced, chip timed race, I guess they were expecting more, given the absence of a singlet.

On a personal note, it's back to the drawing board. Not only was I out of shape, it's apparent that the ol' ITB is nowhere near 100%. A break is impending. Maybe I'll go to the beach or something.

But I guess what's more important is that I actually made it to the end of this article. Been in a terrible writing slump lately. If you're a basketball fan, I'm pulling off the equivalent of a 4- for- 21 effort. Guess this is a step in the right direction. Law of averages. I have to get it one of these days right?

Writing a blog post takes time, energy, thought, and preparation. You might start with a original idea, or a burst of inspiration. If you are the prepared type, a plan, editorial calendar, post it note, or book of ideas. Some know exactly what they want to post.

There are those of us who are sitting down, and writing as we go. One eye on the clock, the other mentally urging our computer to download photos faster. Whatever works. There can be great blog posts dashed off in 15 minutes. I've written posts in mere minutes, by the seat of my pants, my favorite TV show was coming on…and I wasn't going to miss it. Just don't tell the blogging police. Then there are other posts that seem to take days to show up, get themselves organized, and written, and rewritten, and done over again. One consistent aspect in blogging will always be that good content, and images are going to be be something that your readers will want to engage in. To read, to comment on, to share, to enjoy. While each of us is unique, and has our own style, setting our own personal standards there is nothing wrong with challenging ourselves to do a little better. We all have our favorite bloggers, the ones that speak to our hearts…they have a great sense of who they are. We might like the way they write, love their photography style, or are interested in the subjects they cover. They get their unique voice by constantly improving their writing, and photography. Great content means tweaking, and improving before you hit publish. Blogging is not a matter of how many words to write, or how many photos to include. You can have the shiniest, fanciest theme, tweaked by a designer…but it's a beautifully wrapped present with nothing inside the box if the content is poor quality.

The amount of followers your blog has, tens, hundreds, thousands, whether you post on Word Press, or Blogger, is no where near as important as the content. Good content stays around…it resurfaces, it's pinned, and tweeted, shared on FaceBook. And although it can be challenging sometimes to do it, it's well worth it in the end.

100% Canadian Content
All images and text created and copyrighted by Jane Vandervoort 2015 If you enjoyed this post, please consider clicking on the share buttons below, I would greatly appreciate it.

Funny how things stick in your mind, and perch there like a small chirping bird. At least until you make them fly to another branch to stop the constant noise. Sometimes a idea for a blog post will just hop right into my mind, and it won’t budge until I do something about it.
This was one of those ideas, so to keep it quiet, I wrote it into a blog post title. Unfortunately I didn’t bother to expand it as far as the story line goes…
So now we have “Blogs for Breakfast” a title of a post, and no story.
I was looking at the title, trying to remember why I would write anything like that, and came up blank for a little while. But then I remembered a few weeks ago when it seemed that each and every person I spoke with was the inspiration for another blog post. Love those times, when something triggers creativity, and it just flows like water from a hose. The water spreads to the garden, and flowers bloom, grass grows, and it all just seems never ending.
Until the hose gets turned off, then there is a drought, and everything dies… including all of the original ideas. I don’t like it when that happens. No one does.
But the reason for the blog post title has come back to me. I remember leaving a comment on a blogger’s post one morning. I like to spend some time during my breakfast, looking through blogs, reading them, and leaving comments. So I jokingly called it “blogs for breakfast.” It was a reference to the fact that we are very much into routines, and one of mine is to turn the computer on first thing in the morning. And I doubt that I am alone, it’s fun, and a great way to start your day.
So what’s your favourite blog reading time, after work, before work, during lunch? Anytime?

Ever since I put the mailbag up, I have been pleasantly surprised with the creative input (or absolute crap, it's a love/hate relationship) you guys have been sending in. Haven't really had the time to compile this, but here is more or less what's fit for print :P I also just realized how many people named "Anonymous" hate my work. Haha kidding. Okay maybe just a little bit.

So here goes!

Q: I was hanging out at ULTRA with Sam the Running Ninja when some dude with a camera asks for a picture. I say, sure why not. As I'm about to pose, he promptly hands me the camera, to have his photo taken with Running Ninja dude. I have to admit, my feelings are hurt. What should I do?

- Cris S.

GBM : The solution is simple - stop hanging out with Sam! You don't even have a fighting chance. How many Men's Health appearances have you made? Sam 1, Cris o. Alas, that's the plight we have in the current running scene. Despite winning this year's Milo Nationals, a recent poll I ran showed only 1% would recognize you walking down the street, and that was probably Sam who voted. Heck, even I don't know how you look like, only because by the time I finish a race you're already done eating your post-race breakfast. We need to increase the public profile of elite runners like you, to serve as inspiration to a new generation of runners amidst the current boom. So if you need a comprehensive PR campaign to increase your public profile, you know which Gingerbread person to call... ..

Cris Sabal not likey Running Nin ja dude

Q : Why do you call yourself Gingerbreadman anyway? It sounds so gay.

- Anonymous

GBM : Um, because I like to stimulate those who actually read this, leaving a trail of thought for them to chew on - like gingerbread crumbs. Nice eh? Oh lord how I wish it was that profound. Sadly, I chose the handle because I could mimic the whiny voice of good ol' Gingerbreadman from the Shrek series. Busted, demystified. Hmm.Come to think of it, does sound a little gay... .

He's wearing a thong!

Q : So what IS your Zodiac sign?
- Paula S.

GBM : I'm a Libra, and my balanced, reasonable persona is telling me to never ever again implore people to ask your Zodiac sign. Unless you want to answer the same question over... and over... . and over again :P So this is how Dingdong must have felt when he ditched Karylle for Marian and had to pony up to the press.

We're just friends. We're just friends. We're just friends.

Q: I've been hearing about this Bataan Death March Run. How do we join?Are you running?
- Karlo A.

GBM : Hmm. It may be a wee bit more than a "run" my friend. It's actually officially known as the Bataan Death March 102k Ultramarathon, and obviously it is not for the faint of heart. Slots are not guaranteed, as applicants need to have at least completed a marathon or ultramarathon in the past As of today, there are already 132 registered applicants , and in response to your question yes I am going to temporarily lose my sanity for at least 18 hours on March 6th. If you need more info, go to Bald Runner's dedicated site on the race here.

In honor of these brave souls... and it will not be easy.
Q. Reading through the Takbo.ph forums, it seems you had a bone to pick with the Timex Run. You said it was expensive, etc. I ran it and thought it was the best race I ever ran this year. Sulit. Wala ka bang bilib kay Coach Rio?
- David L.

A. David, it's not that I have a bone to pick with Coach Rio. I have the highest respect for his body of work, his mainstream persona as one of the faces of running, and I have always looked forward to his races even before the Finishline era. Like most people, I had felt that the race was overpriced. I mean, P750 for a 21k? Seriously? With no differentiating factor save for a timing chip and Piolo's presence? (and that isn't exactly a come-on for hot blooded dudes like me) But if you were closely monitoring those conversations, my buddy Bong Z. gave a stellar argument - if you were only running 1 race a month, one would be willing to drop that kind of cash if there was the assurance that it would be executed to world-class standards and there would be so many value added elements to it. In an open market system people are entitled to choose the commodity as long as there is strong value perception involved regardless of premium pricing.

Of course, Coach Rio would later clarify on Run Radio why he had to price it that high, and he essentially reassured the public that he would be pulling out all the stops for this... .. and that's precisely what happened. Word on the street is that from a technical standpoint, it was smooth and well-thought out top to bottom. Sir Amado Castro even went as far as saying the race was " the standard of race events that future races will be compared and critiqued". Boatloads of value added goodies like post- race massages and quick results never hurt either. The most accurate barometer here is that I did not hear a single negative comment from both experienced and newbie runners. Congratulations to Coach Rio, Vince, and the rest of the organizing team, awesome job. With the naysayers (myself included) jaded from the recent spate of horrible races, this comes as a whiff of much-needed fresh air to the community. Only thing I didn't like about this race is the revalation that... . I eat Piolo's dust. *picks up ego from floor* (x_x)

Kudos to these two, they delivered!
Q. I noticed you don't have any Google ads, why not? Sayang naman. May site din kasi ako, may pumapasok din kahit papaano. Try mo din Adbrite bro. Keep up the good work btw.
- Arnel C.
A. Thanks for the kind words Arnel! The reason I don't have Google Ads is because of the site's name. Dahil dun sa "Gingerbread", a portion of the ads they run have a lot to do with baking equipment, ingredients, etc. Ang sagwa, so tinanggal ko na lang! I just think of it that it would help make the site less cluttered.

Q. That pic on your "About Gingerbread Man" page, is that in Pearl Farm? I could have sworn it is.

- Kaye S.
A. Hi Kaye, yes it actually is! Was nice to run there, even for a bit. Davao is a very beautiful place.

Okay everyone, that's all the time we have for this week's mailbag! Join in the fun and send your comments, inputs, and suggestions, reactions at the field on our home page or through this button. Will look forward to it! -