June. It's coming.

Again with the holiday weekends. It's like the gods must love me, and I love them. Though I must admit this one I'm squandering on movies and picnic and lazing around the house.

All the while June in knocking at the door. June, the official busy month of the year. In a span of four weeks I will be invaded by loved ones, each staying long enough so that we won't kill each other.

Hopefully.

My first visit is from my baby brother, now 17 (almost 18) and a high school graduate. It will be his first trip abroad and I look forward to his observations. I'm almost like an anthropologist with observations. There are people who I've taken to places just to watch their reaction. Ever since I was in college and learned all about watching and gauging reactions in theatre it's just overwhelmed me. Taking a cynic to Disney, bringing anyone not from Texas/Louisiana to a crawfish boil, that sort of thing. Fish out of water stuff. I actually do it to myself when I can, because taking on something new - even for a short experience - can be enlightening and liberating.

But, I'm fretting. Or worrying. Or going a bit barking, depending on where you are from. Because even though I am sure my baby bro and my friends will enjoy wherever we take them, I want it to be special. Spectacular. I'm so grateful that somehow I was programmed to want to make sure that everything goes so well. At least I am sure the hair dye industry loves me, considering how I love fretting over just about anything.

So as I laze (and feverishly read books on Paris... and websites on bus fares ... and contimplate castles and manor houses...) I just want to give a big shout to the people who thought up these holiday weekends, who remind me that I do need to work on this lazy thing just a little. Because soon enough I'll be a very busy bee.

The slow poke is speeding up.

I is so proud of self. Today I ran my first British 10K. Let me say this much, the British people are fast runners. Perhaps these runs are still more sport for runners and not how they are in the US - which is for runners, joggers, walkers, and variations thereof.

But despite all, I need to thank the British population, those of actual citizenship and not, for somehow inspiring me to pick up the pace. Because of you I actually beat my best 10K time.

I'm sure this has something to do with the fact that I'm also not risking heat exhaustion, as I was in my previous hometown. I'm also well aware that having my ass kicked by a person in a full gorilla suit, or frog suit, or cricket kit, or etc. is also an incentive to continue to put one foot in front of the other. I used to dread the person (I never knew the sex) who would show up, year after year, at the Halloween Fun Run in a complete pumpkin suit. All you ever saw were the legs. Every year they beat me. Every year. If the pumpkin suit only knew how many full size cavemen I had to overtake to clear my memory of the horrible loss I suffered every year at the hands of him/her, I'm sure they would poop pumpkin seeds.

So, the race. Oxford Town & Gown. Benefiting research for Muscular Dystrophy. A run around the glorious city of Oxford. It was pouring and cold at first, which was very properly English, but since I was racing along I felt more for the poor little race marshalls who had to stand out there and make sure we didn't go wobbling off course. I must admit that this is one of my faults, and probably several others, when I get going on a course I sort of become direction stupid. I would probably run to my impending destruction if someone waved me in that direction or placing a brightly colored arrow. Along the way they had these signs which I am sure read one thing but all I kept reading was 'bollocks.' That's how horribly out of sorts I let myself get. (Seriously, I'm sitting here now trying to think what they actually read and that's all I'm getting.) My only goal is to get to each mile or kilometer marker in one piece, and know what point is halfway so I can have my Gu. I hung at the front for the first 2K and then let myself slip to the back as I hate running in crowds. I hung with some pretty fit pensioners who kept each other going and insisting on faster paces. Near the end they slowed but I sped, joining two girls who kept having to rush past me the moment I passed them. When I rounded the finish I went to high five the announcer but then realized that I had a chance to complete the race at an hour 15 exactly, so I put in the kick and made it across in a time I had causally thrown out as being possible. All in all it was a good race.

The English are bigger on medals than t-shirts, so I own a nice bright orange and blue one now. Now that I know I can run as fast I as I did I figure that I'm probably getting closer and closer to considering running the whole entire time. When I think back to about 5 years ago and starting this whole running mess I never would've placed my thought process at running the whole time... but maybe I should try it.

But first, I think I'll nap on that suggestion.

I hate wind.

I can put up with hurricanes.
I can deal with gray days.
I can cope with drizzle.
But I hate wind.
I hate how it pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
I hate that it makes me feel slow on a bike.
And slow on my feet.
I even hate the pretty kites that have been flown in the wind.
Markers to say, "Hey, guess what? You ain't going nowhere fast today."
With the wind at my back I feel erratic.
With the wind at my side I feel like a drunken cyclist.
With the wind at my front, well, it pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
So, right now, at this moment.
In this place.
With the current mental state that I am exhibiting.
I hate you, wind.
Hate, hate, hate.
Pppppppffffffffffffffffffffffttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt.

All the reason to run.

I'm a slow runner. By most accounts I'm a walk/jogger, more emphasis on the jogger part. It takes me nearly 3 miles before I feel warmed up, and since most races you can sign up for are 5K, that means that for .15 miles I'm really in the zone.

The one thing about moving to England is that I can now, with happiness, sign up for lots of different kinds of races all year long. I don't have to do what I did in the states, which is avoiding running altogether (unless really early or really late) during the summer months. But I do have to fight for spots on runs, which I had never had to think about before.

Today I went through my first 7K, which was at Blenheim, and was A-MAZ-ING. It was actually warm today, which was VERY exciting, except for the fact that I didn't wear a matching running kit, which really only bothered me. It's a partial off-road and hill course that goes all over the property, and for someone like myself who hasn't really been in Blenheim's hiking grounds, they could've put me over a cliff and I would've gladly run straight into oblivion. One thing I have to say is hill courses are tough, though that statement is not a really profound one. I've run Austin TX's half marathon, where mile 12 is uphill, so as I hit the off-road inclines I had to chant to myself, "Austin is worse, Austin is worse." That helped me truck on by the stragglers who were beginning to feel the most 'fun' part of a 'fun' run.

The best part about this run is the scenery, which is truly spectacular. I was just awestruck not only with the nice woods and the little lodges I saw tucked away here and there, but the simple fact that people like Queen Elizabeth I went riding around the area HUNDREDS of years ago. Where I started running 6 years ago they were all keyed up that a marathon had been taking place with regularity for 25 years, and that it's history was that it started with people using a station wagon as a turning spot. I'm sure in the year 2107, when they've reached their 125 year and cars are flying, that station wagon will be revered.

I finished near the back of the pack, which was fine. And I did pass the man in the bananna suit, which suited me well, though the guy in the cricket kit really booked it and I never saw him again. Oddly enough there was this woman I was sorted of paced with, who near the end started to weave the course, but then at the finish she cut me off to 'beat' me. Yes, even us slowpokes have a bit of competitive nature in us.

Next week I run Oxford's Town and Gown 10K, which I hear is going to be a kicker. 4,000 of us tearing through the streets. Perhaps they will shove bicyclists in our way and make it interesting. We'll see. We'll see.

The ritual.

What is it about toast and tea in England?

Why is it that, in the morning, I find this little joy in making dry toast? I never cared much for dry toast in the states. When it's gray, as it likes to be for stretches here, there is something about warm, dry toast, that stokes some sort of inner fire.

Couple it with tea. I go to work and set about a tea ritual, which I do twice a day. First, in the morning, when it's quiet and I have the electric kettle all to myself. I set about picking up in the kitchen and making the developers coffee, and once that is sorted the hot water is ready. I stick the little bag in and put a spoon on top to push it down. Then, I look out at the bike racks and watch the cars and people peddle in. In the afternoon almost witness the opposite. Developers cleaning their coffee cups and seeing the cars and people peddle away. Sort of like some little cycle of life punctuated by hot beverage.

All the while I am taking in some strange English comforts. Things like this I know I won't do once it's time for me to go home, whenever that is decided. Nonetheless, like the grass being so green here and picnicking being a type of leisure sport, I will take it on. I will relish it. And that, as they say, is that.

The Merry Month of May

May is the time for new beginnings. For marveling at the wonders of nature. Drinking in the long days. Planning holidays and picnics. Jumping off bridges at 6AM, watching tortoises race, and then picnic while people willingly hitting each other with sticks.

Yes, May. Within my first four days of it here in England, I have witnessed a lot.

Take, for instance, May Day itself in Oxford. It's highlight: Waking up stupid early and going down to Magdalen College to hear people greet the morning in song from the topmost tower. Now I say wake up, as I am 31 and therefore old. If you are in college you stay up all night at the pubs who bravely allow themselves to be open. Then, at about 5:30 AM you stumble out, screaming incoherently at your friends. Afterwards you sort of stumble, in a chain, towards the bridge where you want to jump from into the river Cherwell. However, there are police there blocking the bridge, as the water levels can be very low and you could do something like break your back. But, as the grand rap group of the 80s proclaimed, &*(^ the police, right? You're invincible, and barely dressed! And mafakulllllrghhhh! (I think that is what the guy said before they simply arrested him.)

People did eventually jump from the bridge, I've been told. But no injuries. Apparently in the past it's been a light policing, but that usually ends up with 40% of the jumpers needing to go to the hospital. In ye olden times the bridge jump was an actual tradition, but the water level has changed. Personally, I'd be all for rushing into the Cherwell, not jumping. Have you seen how far it is from the bridge to the water? That's freaking high!

The second of May this year was dedicated to the Oxford College tradition of racing tortoises. This is an event held by Corpus Christi, who held a fair, and then let us cram into a corner of their courtyard to watch tortoises from other colleges race to the outside lettuce ring. Now all colleges do not have a tortoise, though several do. Those who don't send people dressed as tortoises, who hold their own competition of seeing who can eat a head of lettuce fast enough. This year Christ Church's got dirty, mounting several other competitors and eventually leading to disqualification. Oddly enough, it was Corpus Christi's tortoise, Oldham, who seemed to pull through and win twice. Tortoise enhancement drugs?

I shot most of my pictures through people's legs. Standing next to me was a man, maybe 20, who was in a full summer suit.

"I say!" he said to a man in front of us. A bearded chap with a bit of a bald spot. "I say good sir, how are you?"
"Fantastic," the man with the beard and the bald spot responded back, "Doing a dramatic reading for the kids in the courtyard in an hour."
"Truly splendid," the summer suit man responded, "Tell me, do you Facebook?"
"Surely I do." he replied.
"I shall search for you then."

Only in Oxford would the politest means of Facebook exchange ever take place at a tortoise race between a 20 year old in a summer suit and a dramatic literature reader.

May the Third was given over to jousting. It's bank holiday here (WOOT!) and Blenheim Palace holds jousting during this weekend past the cricket lawns. Blenheim is still a family home, so sometimes I wonder what it would be like to actually be a person who lived there and could call it their home. I could imagine a sulky teenager all angry because it's jousting on the lawn this weekend and he has to stay rather then jet to Paris or something strange.

They are quite smart during the jousting events, inviting children out to do a knight's parade and play shrubs for the falconer's birds to fly over. I think 80% of the attendants were children, which of course makes me wonder to some level how they still managed to be on rather good behavior. We got there for second round, squeezing in a picnic blanket at the front so we could watch, but keeping a row back so kids could sit in front. It was actually quite fun, as the knights really seemed to enjoy their work, and the competition was pretty real for some of the events. I also salute the fights, and with that highly recommend heading out to a jousting weekend should you have the chance.

And May 4th? Well, it's being spent cataloging all this craziness. But there you have it. I hope that we get a rest break of sorts... who knows... may there is ferret racing at Baliol followed by ninjas on the lawn at Windsor... Hooray for May!

Manual

Something I have noticed since moving here: I don't mind the manual labor so much.

I'm not digging ditches, nothing like that, but the things that I thought I could never do without I am doing without. I don't mind washing the dishes. I don't cry over hanging clothes out to dry. I shred my own cheese, I chop my own vegetables. I make my own sandwich fillings, it's crazy like that.

Before I would've been searching in vain for pre-packaged, pre-shredded, pre-anything, and now I'm fine with it taking a bit longer. I notice that even when there are times I miss the mega super duper pooper scooper stores, there is some weird joy in having to search. For example, last week I went to an ironmonger (which is their word for hardware store) that specialized in doors, door hinges, and all things necessary for a door to open and/or close. Down the street was the other ironmonger, that held sets of screws and nails. And it all lives together like that, happy for some reason.

I also yesterday pronouced basil as they do here, which is baz-ill, so I guess I'm transitioning.

Now if you don't mind me, I have to go dig that ditch that I hadn't dug before.