As I ran up and over to Kingston in the dark this morning, my path lit by the tractor beam of my head torch, I spotted some unfamiliar-looking creatures lurking in the gloom, the light reflecting back from their retinas in piercing bluish green. Black, hooded faces; short – no more than a couple of feet high; and scuttling off when approached.

By the sides of the fields, other, smaller creatures dashed for the undergrowth as I neared. Bigger eyes – or at least larger relative to the size of their heads – further round on the side of their heads, and with redder retinas.

Sheep? Rabbits? For my money, and in the dark of my new running regime, I’d have said they were some variety of Ewok. But then again, that might be because of the extreme gloom of the hour and the season and my memory of the email from the people of Rovio.

Down to the Leisure Centre, looping back past the station and up Station Street. Back down for a lap of Malling Fields before climbing up past Pells to the High Street, down again to the station and then home. As I upped and downed, day-dreaming of my next trip up to Black Cap and day-nightmaring about my commitment to @sweder to run the Lewes Down #LD10 10 in 363 days, it occurred to me that I’ve changed.

Before we went to Kefalonia this summer, I’d generally avoided hills like the plague, setting out routes round Lewes that were as flat as possible. It’s true that in the last month or so before Greece I’d started regularly running past the white windmill, up and over to Kingston, but it was the experience of hills for breakfast, lunch and dinner on our Ionian island paradise that really whetted my appetite for hillier terrain.

I wouldn’t claim I prefer going up to going down or going on the flat, but I don’t fear hilly sections on my runs and actively enjoy the feeling of conquering hilly sections of runs and runs that are all hill, like the run up to Black Cap. Whether today I could do the last three miles of #LD10, all up hill after seven miles up and down, I’m not sure. But if I keep up progress of late, I’m certainly going to give it a damned good go. And I’m quite confident I could make the 2h15m cut-off time. Bold talk, but it’s here in pixel and screen.

Having been nose to the grindstone in WFH proposal central from 5.30am, I took the Master to martial arts (Soo Bakh Doh, since you ask) at the Leisure Centre at dusk and headed out for an evening run.

Immediate stitch, but I’m not sure if that was because I was going so fast or the aftermath of an undigested salad at lunchtime. Under 5’30″ per K for the near six km, consistently pacy with lots of folks out running – particularly junior members of the rugby club. I got a particularly gratifying e-mail from Runkeeper detailing my PBs: fastest average speed, fastest average pace, ever, in a week and in a month – 6 PBs all in one run.

Nice to run and loop as it’s getting darker (rather than getting lighter), though there was more than one occasion when I had to do a bit limbo dancing and exaggerated waving to keep oncoming cars in their place.

Lovely run, bounced back aglow into the Ninjadome after just over half an hour. I liked it so much, I think I’ll go for another tomorrow morning. Part of my slackness on the running front this week has been because I’m just nursing the tail end of my sore ankle, but mostly the result of an unwelcome series of gargantuanly early starts. Hence resorting to Vespers.

Urban seems to be my territory of choice in this new, autumnal, early morning darkness. Not only are there street lights. There are probably more even surfaces. Because even with the head torch, there’s always the chance of turning an ankle in a hidden molehill. Not that I’m making mountains …

Down to the Leisure Centre, and then a couple of minutes looking for the bridge over the railway line in Sussex Downs College. But it was too dark to find, so I went past the station and – eek! – up Station Street for the first time EVER. It’ll be Rotten Row next. Down to Pells, round Malling Fields, and home past Tesco, Harveys and Bill’s.

In the dark, part of my navigation is done by nose. The staff fry-ups wafting across the Ouse from the Tesco staff canteen, the mash and tun from Harveys, the halloumi and hummus baguettes from Bill’s.

Colder this morning, too. Overcast, and I could have done with gloves for the first ten minutes. Even thought that long running trousers can’t be long off. Changing with the seasons, accommodating to nature’s ebb and flow.

Nice. Fast – for me – 6K.

Two foxes this morning – staring me out as I ran towards them, their retinas bouncing back clear blue tractor beams, before they languidly sloped off into the brush, their bushy tails dragging behind them.

Looking forward to the first totally dark run. I can tell already that my early morning runs, autumn and winter, will need to be on familiar territory and increasingly urban. Like the very foxes themselves.

Even more awesomedary – the SM ran with me! Our first coupley-doupley-holding-hands-across-the-finish-line race. It was one of those rare reaffirmation moments, those brief blinks of time where you feel so solid in who and where you are. You just fold up all the smells, tastes, thoughts and sounds into a special little hidden pocket in your mind. I can get all cheesy romantic here, but no one really needs/wants that.

He is such a gentleman, he let me cross the finish line first.

While I had no fantasies of crossing the finish line to confetti and a crown, I did have a bit of runner’s ego on my shoulder. After all, my short trek is 5 miles of trails AND I’m a yoga teacher AND Papa Conquistador. I definitely wafted an odor of smugness, which the musty cologne of reality overpowered in less than a mile.

First of all, the website said one hill. ONE. HILL. Apparently, they meant only one hill of death among many hills of doom. The first few miles through the vineyards had constant swelling inclines. Every time I’d finally reach the top, excited to use the momentum of the downhill slope to increase my speed, I’d just see another long, gradual incline on the horizon.

BALLS.

Once we got into the trails, the stomach cramps started. I’m not sure if it was the PowerBar, the bananas or the 5 p.m. start time, but my digestive system was like, “Awww hell no. Sit your ass down.” I’ve never really had such bad side stitches and was starting to get pretty heady about it. I put myself down, blaming the world, PowerBar, that dead skunk or my middle school gym teacher. I began to feel like a wussy sissy whiny failure. Just a few feet ahead, the SM looks back. He’s a water-drowned puddle of sweat, running with his arms tucked high and in, like a T-Rex. He’s grinning like a puckish monkey.

He reminded me of my mantra – If it’s not fun, what’s the point?

The thing is, life isn’t fun just simply because it’s the life of the party. Left to it’s own devices, I think life is often traumatic and anti-social. Kill or be killed is the first law of nature. Life is fun because we make it that way. We make a choice, an active agreement with the universe, to enjoy this big ball of shit no matter what. Our attitude, our perceptions, our ability to look in the face of tragedy and triumph with a laugh- that’s what makes it fun. My mantra isn’t leeway to quit things I don’t enjoy; it’s a reminder to choose to enjoy it all.

When my outlook changed, the race changed. If my side hurt, I would slow down a bit and look out into the surrounding forest. There is something so satisfying about being surrounded by all that green. The world peels away when you let it just be. Replacing steel and concrete with miles and miles of green – it’s like a reset, like you just go back to being something good and simple. If you’re quiet long enough, you can feel the green in your arms and toes. You know belong there, you really do.

Look’s it’s Neil Patrick Harris on the Hill of Death! Go, Doogie, go!

When we passed the concord grapes the pungent sweetness hit me in the nose like a sucker punch. My mouth even watered a bit. Sometimes, nature can be such a sweetheart and, sometimes, like when we climbed the hill of death, nature can be a manically laughing asshole.

That bad boy was 120 feet at a 23 degree incline. People lined the sides, clapping and cheering and, of course, complimenting my sunglasses. (I’ve got style, yo.)  About halfway up we slowed down to a crab walk, hunched over, not looking at the top. I didn’t want to know how much further I had left. We paused for a moment when we breached the summit, high-fiving and catching our breath. That’s when I realized, I don’t have to be superwoman to make this count. I don’t have to run the whole thing at top speed, while rescuing puppies from a burning building to be a trail-running success. I just have to do my best, challenge myself, look into the woods, high-five the best, most awesome SM ever and fucking enjoy this. I’ve got legs, lungs and love. This day, every day, is a damn fine day.

Oh, and wine at the finish line. Essential.

For the record, we finished in about 56 minutes. When we came down the final hill and saw the clock, we were both amazed and inspired. Commiserating next to the port-o-potties later, we agreed that it seemed like an hour and a quarter, maybe even an hour an a half. There were at least half a dozen steady inclines, three steep hills and five miles of rooted, rocky trails. To do that in under an hour, well, minus the puppy rescue, I think that’s pretty superheroy of us.

Down past the Elly and Pells – scene of the infamous “last dip of the season” at 5.30pm this coming Sunday; last few tickets still available. Over Wiley’s Bridge and a lap of Malling Fields, home of the legendary Bridge View FC. Through Aldi and Tesco car parks, rounding Harveys, Bills and onto the Railway Land.

Head torch particularly useful on the Railway Land, alongside the Ouse. Round the back of the Dump – first time there for a while, “eh readers?” he Beanoed – and home.

Always under six minutes per K, and just a shade over 35 minutes for the 6K back to the door.

Hot, energised, ready for a challenging day.

Tomorrow or Sunday, on my longer stretch, it’s up to Black Cap and Landport Bottom. Bring it on!

He and @agentkiss have read all of the Percy Jackson novels together. The film of … The Lightning Thief is already established as one of his favourites.

We’ve just holidayed on Kefalonia.

And this term’s learning journey is the Ancient Greeks.

All enough to bring a smile to the heart of a one-time Classicist (does it ever leave one?), son to a Classicist Kenneth, grandson to another Classicist Kenneth. The Master and I have even written our own version of Odysseus and Polyphemus, which I may well post as a one-off addendum – look, see, you can take the man out of the Classics faculty, but you can’t take the faculty for Classics out of the man.

As I rose before dawn, I heard the wind and rain lashing at the windows. Was this the tail-end of Hurricane Murray, overcoming tropical storm Djorkovic, buffeting Sussex? I pondered long and hard whether to venture out into this autumnal squall.

After Saturday’s 15K run there followed a 10K walk at dusk with family and friends, and an afternoon of cricket on Sunday, the third win on the spin for the Gentlemen of Lewes. So I’d chosen not to run yesterday morning. And when I reflected I couldn’t run tomorrow because I’ll be on the milk train, there was only one answer. For sanity and clarity’s sake, I had to head out, whatever the weather might throw at me.

By the time I did head out, the rain had slowed to a drizzly mist, and was clearly on its way out. The wind was dropping. But the sun wasn’t showing any sign of lightening the dark skies. So it was that I donned my new head torch, acquired last week from the good folk of Robert Dyas – my first trip into a branch of that fine emporium, perhaps Britain’s finest chain of quincailleries. But it certainly won’t be my last visit there.

As I wound my way through overgrown paths, under bushes and under cover of the night, my route ahead was lit by six ultra-bright LEDs, grouped into the single head light in the middle of my head. I was a very modern-day cyclopean. As I emerged from the tunnel of trees and up on the hill leading to the new White Windmill, I fancied myself the Polyphemus of the South Downs.

Like a Cyclops or those new humanoid Daleks

The head torch is going to take some getting used to. The more you run, the hotter you get, the more your forehead glows, the more the torch slips down and bashes you in the nose with every stride. I’ll have to adjust the straps and make it a bit tighter to prevent slippage.

But it does provide a very powerful beam and a very clear route on autumn and winter runs that start before dawn. A very satisfactory new investment.

Only just light enough to spot obstacles, particularly in overgrown tunnels of hedgerow.

Only just light enough on my feet, in the slap-slap-slap of Vivos.

Only just light enough for dozing sheep to see me coming and get out of my way.

I don’t really want to hurt ewe, Mrs Sheep

Where am I going to find a head torch?

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Running on the cyclepath like a psychopath dodging bounding bunnies, I spied the bramble groaning with late-fruiting blackberries. I paused for a wild pre-breakfast, impressed with the deep intensity of flavour of this year’s crop. Longer on the bush, tastier in the mush? This quality clearly hadn’t gone unnoticed by the posse (is three a posse?) of pensioners picking pre-prandially, black nectar smudging their lips like superannuated burlesque performers.

As I emerged from under the A27 by the Southdown club, I spotted a splendid teenage fox, his paws, ears and tail too big for his gawky body. He spotted me. Froze. Looked me in the eye. And then darted for the nettles. Were those pigeon feather peeking out of his chops? I ran down to the Dump, and then looped back up to the Dripping Pan and home through Southover.

Not fast today, but steady. Purgative, head-clearing, and helping me to come up – in real time – with an excellent solution to a work quandary. What more can one ask from 40 minutes, free as a flightless bird.

High, up and over the hills to Kingston, past the White Windmill.

Curate’s egg of a run, of a night, of a day, of a week, of a life.

No one ever said this was going to be easy, a walk in the park.

A trot over the Downs? Well that’s a different leather thing altogether.

I was spontaneous and bought a pair of shoes! Converse, because I can’t get enough of them. I have like more then 5 different pairs of Converse in my locker, some of them extremely worn out and some of them maybe used once or twice. I love Converse. I got this pair with American flag theme, and they look amazing! Got them 30 % off so I payed 550 Swedish kronor for em (82 dollars or 67 eu). Funny thing is that I saw someone else have those shoes in the city last weekend and that was the time I fell in love with them. And now when I saw them, 30 % off and only in my size(!!)… I could not resist

Still, I am not that kind of girl who likes to go shopping clothes or put on make up every morning. I just don’t. All though, shopping clothes has become much more fun now when I can buy clothes that actually fits nicely and I don’t look like a stuffed hippo anymore. But yea, that is(was?) me.

I don’t got much planned for the weekend. Running one day for sure. Hope the weather will be on my side. Not to warm or thunderish.
I really want to get up to 10k but it is really hard… I am extremely worn out after 7,5k and adding another 2,5km to it sounds somewhat impossible at the moment. But I really wanna finish the 10k race. I have not signed up for failure. 8 days left now…

I have also been notified about an LCHF run(!?) in Stockholm, 1 week after Midnattsloppet. It is “only” a 6k and I feel up for the challenge for sure. But we will see whether I get sick of running or not after my 10k goal is completed

Great project, Jim, and I took a couple of snaps on my dawntide – really was dawntide – run up and over the pre-Downs to Kingston this morning.

Isles of Wonder 1

Isles of Wonder 3

My run – clocking 6K at 36 minutes, 5’57″ per km – made me joyful to be alive. The visual feast of the utterly gorgeous Sussex countryside inspired me to quicker cadence, optimal strides. TGIF in these Isles of Wonder, indeed.

]]> http://lifeofarestlessworrier.wordpress.com/2012/08/08/the-wonderful-world-of-gold/ Wed, 08 Aug 2012 05:28:21 +0000 mariskaeca http://lifeofarestlessworrier.wordpress.com/2012/08/08/the-wonderful-world-of-gold/ There are not enough hours in the day! But! for the sake of trying to become regular with posts:

My day job consists of being a jeweler’s assistant. Among other things, I help with paperwork, changing watch batteries, adjusting watchbands and buying gold. So many people come in to sell gold, but really have no idea how it works! They see all of these commercials on TV and hear them on the radio. “Sell your gold and take a vacation!” “Bring in your gold and diamonds! You can buy a new car!” These sales sharks make people think that they will pay thousands for a tiny bit of gold (or worse, silver)! Most people I have ever had come in, do not even own enough gold to pay their bills, much less buy a new car! My favorite, this one guy who worked near me, would always tell people he had a $200k car outside, apparently from his gold buying/selling. Yeah, $200k if it was brand new, in perfect condition and imported from some foreign automaker whose name no one can pronounce. It can’t be twenty+ years old, beat to hell and American made. I always try my best to inform, nicely how the system works, but there are always people who are appalled and insulted by what is often a very generous offer. They often come back after checking everywhere else, trying to pretend they had never been here before. People do not understand that they will extremely rarely get full retail price for their jewelry. What they are getting is the scrap price for the precious metals in the piece. Scrap is the price for just a shapeless lump of that particular karat. Often, when jewelry is purchased like that, it is sold to a refinery (which means, you also have to take out the middleman’s percentage of the gold price) and then melted down into a shapeless lump to be sold as parts for new jewelry. With retail, you are paying for the materials (scrap price), licencing for designs, labor, their rent, shipping, their electricity, the salesperson’s paycheck and health insurance (if any, it’s sometimes pretty shabby in the corporate jewelry world), and for the paper in their printer. If someone is buying your piece with the intent of reselling it, then they are probably still going to give you a lower price because they cannot often get full retail price for a secondhand (or as jewelers like to call it: an estate piece).

The stock market chances constantly, which means the “Price of Gold” changes constantly, as well. So, it is reasonable to say, if you priced out the same gold chain to sell to us, eight months ago, the price now will not necessarily be the same. In theory, it can change many times in a day. Most jewelers pick a safe price for the day and stick to it, just paying attention to whether or not they need to play it safe, or if they can safely raise it higher to seal the deal. Now, the Stock Market Price is the price for one full ounce of 24k (Karat) gold.The lower the karat (20K, 18K, 14K, 10K) the less pure it is. So, we take the percentage of gold in each karat and that will be the portion of the gold price assigned to that particular karat. This means the lower the karat, the lower the dollar amount. That only gives us the price of a full ounce of that percentage though, so we have to break it down into smaller weights so it is more manageable. I mean, let’s face it, very few people (at least in our area) own a full ounce of even 10K gold. This in turn brings that dollar amount even lower per unit. So, if you have 2.3dtw (pennyweights) of 10k gold, you do not have over a thousand dollars worth. Lately, you’d be lucky to break a hundred!

What makes it even worse is that so many jewelers are using lower karats and stamping them higher! For example, I have taken in many pieces that were stamped 14k while they were actually 12k, and stamped 10k, when it barely registered at 6k! I am blessed to have a boss who believes in progress and always striving to be better and do better quality work every day, that he uses both the acid test and a battery operated test. Forget magnets, it’s a 50/50 shot that you are actually buying what you think you are buying. The acid/scratch tests test withing a range of karats, the 10k range, the 14k range, etc. The battery operated one can test for individual karats from 6k to 18k. No test is fool-proof, but this one is pretty good. Because we have the capability, we can offer higher prices to those with pieces that qualify. We don’t have to pay low because we’re really not sure enough to risk paying more. If we pay too much, we can lose money instead of make it. So we can pass that extra knowledge on to the customer with higher prices paid out.

So, my dear customers, and fellow consumers, my public service announcement for the day: Know what you are doing, research it first so you know what you have. Please do not be offended or call us cheap or rip-offs. We are a legitimate business, and the idea of business is to cover expenses and potentially make a profit. Do your homework, shop around. But do it all in one day if you can, because values change constantly, and can give you a false positive or negative impression of a jeweler if the information has changed since you last checked it.

Pre-drinks: We are ready!

The Craft Dash is a race that I have looked forward to ever since I registered in May. It is a perfect race for the swimbikerundrink athlete! It’s less about finishing time and more about being silly and drinking beer. Still don’t get it? Picture this: 300 drunks (some in costume) running down the streets stopping at various breweries and beer shops in North Portland before finishing at Amnesia Brewing during the Mississippi Street Fair.

The cost is amazingly low- $40 gets you a t-shirt, 6 beers and a pint glass. The top 3 men and women finishers get a bag full of other cool prizes. This year my legs were pretty tired. I was feeling pretty guilty of slacking on my marathon training, and with this race I wasn’t going to be able to get my long run in, so I had done two runs on Friday, then this run on Saturday. That way I could call it Ragnar training. And I wasn’t really interested in having a fast time, just finishing the race without falling or projectile vomiting somewhere on the course.

Last year there were only four beers, so we would all have to up our game a bit in the drinking department this time. I wondered if they would lower the portions, but at some of the stops it felt like they upped them! They were generally full 12 oz pours. I think at the 5th stop they were closer to 8 oz.

We started at Hop & Vine with a toast and then we all drank. Me and the crew all finished the drinks in less than a minute and set off for the next stop. Joe, Brent and I stuck together while Andrew took off. At stop #1 Brent finished his beer with alarming speed and we never saw him again. Joe and I stuck together, I guess the weaker of the beer drinkers. Our pace averaged around 10:45, also not great, but with the beer splashing around and tired legs, I’m glad I didn’t push it.

Hooray for finishing the race!

By the time we finished, I was pretty glad to be done. I also didn’t have the panic “am I going to make it through this race” feeling like I did at the second stop. This means that the beer had fully gotten into my system and I was feeling good! I looked around- there were barely any people here. Brent and Andrew, and a few others I knew, and a handful of other people. We had finished early!

Overall, a great race- absolutely no pressure (no timing chips, small) and lots of fun.  These kind of events really are the reason that I love to run!  However, having a hangover by noon (from drinking at 9am) is something I’d like to reserve to once a year though.

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On a typical 5-7K, just-post-dawn run, I see anywhere between 50 and 200, depending on my route and on whether any early-morning dog walkers have been out before me.

Sometimes I think they’re getting used to me and wait until the very last minute before darting into well-concealed holes, or the nettly undergrowth. Then I snap a twig, and 30 bolt for the scrub as if twanged on bungee cords.

Often when they’re skedaddling, particularly across exposed stony and chalky soil, their brown bodies and pulsing white tails are almost impossible to distinguish from the background. So if you told me they evolved their white tails because they evolved in the chalky Sussex countryside, I say “great adaptation – of course they did”.

I took the high road to Windy Miller central this morning, up and over the top past the new white windmill and into Kingston. The pinnacle of that run, with the South Downs Way stretching out all the way across the horizon, is such a brilliant reward for climbing the steep hill above the village. The effort of the climb fades instantly with the endorphin rush of such beautiful countryside. Ah! the power of environmental psychology.

For now, as I work on toughening the soles of my feet, I sense that my weekday runs will be minimalist, and “only” (a portion of) my weekend run will be completely barefoot. I found this morning that I was able to hold my form and meditate through it very much more clearly than when I was totally barefoot on jagged tarmac on Sunday.

A learning journey.

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But ever since I started ball-of-foot not heel planting, hills have felt like a bit of a blessed relief, doubtless because, in contrast to going on the flat or particularly downhill, the calf isn’t stretched quite as much.

I determined to do a Kingston loop this morning – destination rather than strict distance. I looped round Southover and then headed towards Kingston. Down Southover High Street, past the Swan, and with the clear intention of crossing the A27 and taking the lower, much less hilly route to our nearest village. But at the bottom of Juggs Lane, I turned right and up, determined to take on the succubus of Juggs Lane and then the steep, steep hill up to the field twixt Lewes and Kingston so proudly dominated by the new-build white windmill.

The first rise, to the high bridge over the A27, was tolerable. It was the second, step ascent up and onto the pre-downs that had long intimidated me. More so yet when @agentkiss – for whom this is a favourite route – told me of a man in his late 20s barfing at the top of this hill having attempted it just a bit too quickly. He was, she said, a man in his late 20s who was also obviously out of condition, but quand même … She had also assured me it was very short, no more than the slope in the Paddock rising to the Avenue.

I measured it with Runkeeper, as I counted my steps and cadence. 170m for the steepest bit, 370m in total until it flattened out. Less steep than the Paddock, but on my reckoning three times as long on the steepest section of that rise, and more than twice as far again before it levelled out.

Be that as it may, though I inevitably slowed on that part of the ascent, a slowing ironically echoed on the steep descent into Kingston, I made it. Hotter and more beads of sweat on the forehead than normal for ten minutes in to my run, a bit more panty (pantier?), but I made it. The rise in the field to the apex of the hill was a relative walk in the park, and it was a thrill to see that the new windmill suddenly has half its sails up.

I basked in the early morning sun up on the hill, surrounded by the heavenly South Downs. Ever so slightly misty, close to the ground, tranquilly silent, my manor. I was delighted to have conquered these hills, to have added a most wonderful new route to my repertoire, to have further quelled my hillophobia, and to see more options opening up. For as I ran along the crest of the hill, I spied the route up to the South Downs Way from the back of Kingston. Maybe not tomorrow and maybe not this month, but I can’t think it’ll be long before I’m striding along the ridge of the Way towards Telscombe.

Filled with Sussex pride, I feel ready for the challenges that today may throw my way. If I can make molehills out of mountains on the running track, all I can say to the challenges of the working days is: “Bring it on!”