Entries about running

I've been practicing and studying hard these last 3 weeks. The Thai Massage School of Chang Mai is teaching me how to master using my hands, fingers, heels, elbows, arms, knees and feet to work on the energy, or Sen Sib, lines of the body. It's a full body workout for the masseur and the recipient!

WIth all that daily physical exertion, living life in Chang Mai has been a welcome change of pace. I have enjoyed waking up to an alarm and having a set schedule everyday. I even unpacked my trusty backpack and stored it out of sight under my bed. I'm not forced to wear dirty clothing that has been rolled up into a ball and jammed into the bottom of my bag. I've had the luxury of a cup of coffee and a hot shower every day. I've even snuck the afternoon power nap back into my life. Slowing down has made me a little homesick and anxious (in a good way) to return to NYC. I'm ready to jump back into over scheduled business mode! It's going to be difficult to prep myself mentally to hit the road with my overzealous, I don't need to eat or sleep, run around for 10hrs a day, sidekick, Micah. I'm going to have to put myself through a mini boot camp to get my brain and body back into shape so I can rejoin the whirlpool we call our Bucketbath. I'm also feeling a little anxiety over trekking through India and Nepal now that my big toenail has officially fallen off (remember that trek at Kawah Ijen, Indonesia?). Stay tuned for another Joanie breakdown video. It's an emotional masterpiece waiting to happen.

No sense in worrying over that now. I'm too busy geeking out over my studies at the moment. In addition to learning how to give relaxing 2 hr massages, I'm also learning how to treat chronic ailments, aches and pains such as: constipation, headaches, neck stiffness, menstrual cramps, anxiety and a long list of others. I had no idea Thai Massage had such healing properties. My roommate, and fellow NY'er, is also studying here with a master in Chang Mai. It's been fun to work on one another, exchange information, and swap "guess what I did at school today?" stories. We're also working on a new business venture once we get back to NYC. Sparkes Wellness meets Motivated Nutrition!

I can't wait to get home and share all of this new knowledge and test out my skills on each and every one of you! Chronic constipation anyone? I got this! Book your massage now!

$30/ 30min, $50/1hr, $75/1.5hrs

I'm going to continue to enjoy my clean clothes, hot showers and afternoon naps as Micah sprints his way through Bangladesh over the next two weeks. (He's scheduled to fly out of Myanmar tomorrow.) I'm cheering him on. Perhaps he'll wear himself out and I'll be able to talk him into afternoon naps by the time we reunite!

Here are a few photos from my "vacation".

Sporting my Thai Massage scrubs

Wat in the old city of Chang Mai

Thai Cooking class

Elephant trek

Sparkes Wellness and Motivated Nutrition

Monks, draped in saffron robes, with razor-shaved heads illumined liquid gold by the late afternoon’s honeydew beams, collected evening alms amidst clouds of woody, pungent smoke wafting from the village’s cooking fires.

Here in Mrauk U, a small town in western Myanmar, monks are as woven into the city’s fabric as the 16th century temples scattered amidst its rice fields and thatch-hut villages.

Arriving here requires patience and perseverance; and five days: a 15-hour overnight bus through jolting, roller-coaster mountain roads from Yangon to Thaunggok. An 11-hour high-speed ferry from Thaunggok to Sittwe - a fishing town on the Gulf of Bengal - after waiting 2 days for the ferry’s departure. Then a 5-hour slow ferry up the Kaladan River from Sittwe to Mrauk U, past parched fields of rice and breast-shaped mounds of rice straw capped with gleaming chrome nipples, that required a day’s wait to catch.

After disembarking from the jetty in Mrauk U, sorting out accommodations and a quick walk through the town, I needed a fix. So I threw on my running gear and headed out. Not before penning the path - on a hand drawn map given to tourists – of my planned run.

I ran south, feeling the energy build, my pace uncontrollable in sprinting fits, loping over bumpy, rocky roads. Groups of children in their green and white uniforms shouted “hello” as I raced by.

Villagers stood on the sides of the dirt road, betel-stained lips and teeth, some smoking long, green Burmese cigars, loitering, talking. Most stopped to stare as I passed, smiling: “minglah bah (hello)” and “tata (good bye)”.

I continued straight, looking for my turn but unsure where, so I pulled out the map and asked a villager, “Where is Laymyethna Paya (temple)?” But the map, only in English combined with my jumbled pronunciation, proved useless. The reply: a confused stare.

I cut right at the next intersection and continued, watching the afternoon’s shadows thicken like mascara on a lover’s eyelash.

Young girls smiled and darted their eyes away as I passed. Elderly monks walked by, barefoot and supported by canes, their faces carved with years of hardship yet buoyed by meditation’s peace.

Past stilted, low-slung huts with thatched roofs rustling in the breeze. At times I could see inside, a man or child sitting quietly.

Past the Dukkanthein Paya, an imposing, fortress-like temple built in 1571 and whose labyrinthine interior walls are carved with images of Buddha and farmers, merchants, athletes, from 16th century Mrauk U.

Nearby, young monks, shirtless and ribbed with sweat, lifted logs and sifted sand as they repaired the gravel road leading to their monastery.

Who would of thought: a meditative road crew?

Map in hand, I kept running, having no idea where the road led, but knew where I wanted to be. Like all travel: you’re never truly lost if you have a destination in mind.

Then I arrived at the Sakyamanaung Paya, whose 280-foot spire erupts from its octagonal base into the now, oceanic blue sky. I asked a young woman, standing in the temple’s shadow where was Shwetaung Paya, a golden temple perched high on a hill overlooking Mrauk U.

I followed her directions, unsure if I understood, down a narrow rocky dirt path, a bamboo fence on my right, on my left, a steep hill spilled into jungle. Three young monks played stick ball in the middle of the path and I hopped out of their way to avoid getting smacked. Ahead, the path dead-ended into a sunbaked field skirted by a dusty paved road.

Left or right?

Back to the map, now rumpled from sweat. I went left, past women with faces painted white, balancing mounds of cauliflower on their heads, passing men on bikes wearing lungees (a male skirt), toward the temple, but not the one I needed.

I was going the wrong way.

So I turned around, the waning sun blindingly ahead until I reached a road I’d explored earlier in the day. I wasn’t ready to finish running so continued straight, up crumbling stone steps and through the ruins of a 15th century palace, its floors overgrown with grass and dimpled from incomplete excavations.

Up ahead my guesthouse loomed so I turned left, passing loitering trishaw (bicycle taxi) and motorbike drivers arguing, smoking, spitting. Through a street with clouds of smoke and dust mangling the air, over two arched, rickety bridges made of salvaged 4x8s.

Cutting right at the next intersection, smiles and young children yelling “bye bye,” the only English words they seem to know here. Right through the heart of Mrauk U, its bustling thoroughfare with merchants, jewelers (who also serve as the town banks), mechanics, beer gardens (they love their beer in Myanmar). Past the town market, over a bridge whose span covers a dead, trash-strewn river.

A bit further and I was finished, panting outside my guest house with the sun quickly fading, tired and sweaty, from blazing through Mrauk U’s dusty streets.

Check out the run stats here!

And don't forget to pre-book your authentic Thai massage for April!

$30/ 30min, $50/1hr, $75/1.5hrs

Crumbling buildings, stained with ages of soot and mold, sag under the weight of their colonial past and the present’s dictatorial rule.

The Burmese walk the streets with deathly-pallid faces, painted with a powdered sun block to fend off the scorching sun. Their teeth and lips often stained blood red from chewing betel nut, a mild stimulant.

I arrived in Myanmar’s capital Yangon on Saturday to explore this misunderstood and demonized country, expecting to feel like I’m in the North Korea of SE Asia. But I’ve been pleasantly surprised to find the people warm, inquisitive and friendly. I cannot walk down a street without receiving a “hi” or smile.

At times it feels like life here is freer than in China since the Burmese government has less resources to truly constrict its people. With that said though, the government continues to subjugate the minority populations and enslave people in forced labor camps.

Everything I read said photography taking photos is risky – you can’t photograph government or military buildings (I wish I could have photographed the baby-faced soldier guarding a hotel armed with a bazooka), any infrastructure (train stations, bridges, etc.) and who knows what else.

Huge swaths of the country remain off limits to foreigners and even parts Yangon (Rangoon of old), the reason I was afraid I’d run into trouble during yesterday’s morning jog.

I stepped onto the betel-spit stained street, busses and taxis belching fumes into the morning’s chilly air. No motorbikes ply Yangon’s bumpy roads since a government ban went into effect a few years ago.

I headed south, then onto Strand Road, full of forlorn buildings, which parallels the murky Yangon River and hidden from view by the port’s towering, chalky white perimeter wall.

Past the bustling ferry jetty with vendors hawking fruit, razors, and vegetables. Crowds of loiterers crouched, drinking tea or eating breakfasts of noodles or rice.

Further down, men and women stood in lines, awaiting admission to the port and begin their workday.

I ran until the port ended and low-slung government buildings crouched behind barbed wire fences.

Nearby a line of parked gasoline tankers, some vehicles from the 60s or 70s with chunky front grills, waited outside a fuel depot.

People crooked their necks, scowled, smiled, laughed, pointed as I ran by. But fear curdled my gut: would I end up where I shouldn’t be?

I always carry a passport photocopy when running just in case of injury – but here in Myanmar it was my insurance card Uncle Sam’s got my back should something bad happen.

I kept running along the river, patches of shadows cooled the blazing sun until a man waved his hand in warning to turn around – up ahead was a barbed wire gate with soldiers patrolling.

I backtracked, ran down a dusty street, past a few police posts, ignoring them (and they ignored me) and found the bridge I’d earlier missed.

You’ve seen Boston or Tampa’s iconic suspension bridges, the ones that look like tipped modernist harps. Yangon has it’s own, the Pazundaung Mahabandoola Bridge, except it’s squatter and painted camouflage green. I bolted across, past 2 military garrisons surrounded by sand bags and barbed wire, over the Pazundaung Canal’s churning current into Dawbon, a suburb of Yangon.

Saffron robed monks walked down the street collecting alms and offering blessings.

I continued on the busy road with pickup trucks full of passengers crammed onto their beds and hanging off the back, to the Thaketa Bridge and back into Yangon. As I ran, I hopped around on the sidewalk, as if playing four square, to avoid the cracks and gaping holes.

The streets were dusty, red earth blew through the air. At times I pulled my shirt over my nose to avoid the grit and scrum of Yangon life. Past the police station, a red-bricked colonial-era building with dark windows and surrounded by two barbed and electrified fences.

Past Sule Paya, a 2000 year golden temple in the middle of a clogged traffic circle whose name means “the stupa where a Sacred Hair Relic is enshrined” and that might house one of Buddha’s hairs.

Past streets buzzing with vendors selling watches, tools. sweets. Past men wearing plaid lungees (a male dress), women in colorful hijabs.

Overhead the colonnaded buildings stood stoically, a silent witness to the travails that have befallen this country: war, oppression, dictatorship, poverty.

Maybe after Hillary Clinton’s visit here last month, things will change and life will improve. Maybe the fear I felt exploring the city’s streets, that the Burmese must feel and at times roils in protest (that the government violently suppresses) will ebb, leaving behind a people, a country, a nation ready for a better future.

Check out the map of the run below (and don’t forget to click satellite view).

Click here!

And don't forget to pre-book your authentic Thai massage for April!

$30/ 30min, $50/1hr, $75/1.5hrs

Before stepping out for a run this morning, Joanie said to me (as she usually does): be safe.

Fateful words.

It's been too long since my last run. Delayed by a mixture of icy showers and early morning outings, I haven't had the chance to hit the pavement in almost a week.

But today was a perfect day (or so I thought) - blue skies shimmered overhead and a chill crisped the autumn air. Leaving the hostel, I headed west along the main thoroughfare, clothing and eyeglasses shops already open at 8:30am, passing through a pedestrian way buzzing with people and street-food vendors serving dumplings and stewed noodles.

Along the way I’d been smiling and saying "Ni how" (hello) to people I'd passed. Once in a while I’d receive a hello in response, but usually it's a blank stare or look of bemusement. No matter, I’m just trying to be friendly and blend in as much as a 6'3" skinny American running in central China can.

I feel like a cultural ambassador, a roving mayor passing on good will and friendship with every step.

A little further and I was running down a street in an industrial area. Seconds after passing an elderly woman and her daughter sitting outside their ramshackle home my world tumbled.

Literally.

With a smile still on my face, I didn't see the ping-pong sized stone under my left foot and twisted my ankle with a thwacking pop.

"Crap" (and other expletives) surged through my brain as I caught myself before face planting. I stumbled to a cement ledge to inspect the damage. I couldn't put any weight on my ankle and was miles from the hostel.

Luckily, boy scouts taught me more than how to light a cigarette (BS motto: Be Prepared) and I had the hostel's business card with its location written in Chinese and cash for a cab.

I hobbled for two blocks to the nearest busy street and caught a cab back to the hostel. Once there, I hopped up the stairs (no elevator) and talked to the staff about a seeing a doctor.

I’m lucky that my Dad is a podiatrist (not to mention great father) who agreed to a video consultation (he didn’t actually have a choice as I stuck my foot up to the screen before he could say hello.) He didn't think it was broken but I decided to go to the hospital just in case.

Most likely, no one at the Luoyang People's Hospital spoke any English and one of the hostel staff who wasn’t working at the moment offered to come with to translate.

Lifesaver.

I've visited hospitals throughout the world and in a way hospitals represent a country’s benchmark of the population’s health. This hospital was similar to others I’ve visited: bleak white walls stained with dirt, cigarette burns on the floor and lacking that antiseptic cleanliness that makes us squirm.

Step 1: An $0.85 registration fee to see the doctor, in my case an orthopedist whose office was on the 2nd floor.

The elevator was located next to the stairs and an attendant who we’d spoken to earlier, suggested taking them as it was faster than waiting for the elevator. Maybe he suffered from short-term memory loss or nearsightedness and couldn’t see me hopping around on one leg.

Step 2: We met with the doctor, a plump woman in a yellowing lab coat who asked a few questions, scribbled a note in illegible Chinese and directed us to the x-ray room back on the 1st floor.

Good to know doctors everywhere have terrible handwriting.

Step 3: We went to the x-ray area and waited in the hallway learning prepayment (100 Yuan – around $18 USD) was required. After paying, a shiny steel door emblazoned with a yellow nuclear symbol slid open and a balding man in his 50s beckoned me in.

The Hospital's X-Ray room.

He directed me to a wood gurney and as I sat it slid away and I nearly fell off. Once situated, he placed my foot, focused the x-ray light and stepped into a steel box. The rest of my body was fully exposed to the sterilizing x-rays.

The tech reappeared and adjusted my foot to take a side view. With no warning, he pushed down on my foot ankle so my arch rested against the table and held it there as he adjusted the x-rays focus. Pain screamed through my leg but as soon as it started it was finished and I returned to the hallway to wait for the processed prints.

Up to this point, despite the unpleasantness of the hospital’s atmosphere, I was impressed by the service. Maybe foreigners are treated better or the hospital wanted to show off their (and China’s) high standard of care, but there was almost no waiting. At an American hospital I would have waited hours for the same services.

The hostel employee came with to translate said that children and the elderly receive care at a discounted rate but everyone else pays the regular price - which while still cheap by American standards had gone up (the cost for an x-ray increased nearly 40% since last year).

After a few minutes the x-ray was ready and then we had to wait around 10 minutes to get a reading. As the doctor was asking questions and reading the prints random people sauntered in and out of the examination room to stare.

Getting my X-ray read.

I’m happy to say nothing’s broken, just banged up. The doctor advised a week of rest and prescribed a mild pain killer and an herbal spray that Joanie calls “sore sauce ” (because it smells like soy sauce) that reduces swelling and is used by the dancers in the HT Chen company.

Outside the hotel with the translator (aka super nice girl who works at the hostel).

Me and a nurse.

Joanie thinks this whole episode might be an act of G-d, a message I need to slow down, let her sleep in and give her blisters time to heal.

Whether it's divine intervention or not I’ve learned my lesson: running and smiling are a dangerous combination not to be practiced casually.

Shabbat shalom and rest well, I know I will.

And if you'd like to check out the sat view of this fated run, Click Me