To travel greater distances than can be compelled (28 U.S.C. App. 45)

I love my husband not only because of who he is but also what he strives to be. And of late, his goals have included long-distance running. His ambitions require little of me except a supportive attitude and the ability to not worry too much when he disappears into mountains for hours of training. To be honest, I was relieved when one recent weekend was devoted to his first event: the 50K of the Leona Divide 50/50. At least when he disappeared this time, I knew there would be plenty of people nearby if he got dehydration, a twisted ankle, or a snakebite. 

Because running 31 miles in the mountains isn't challenging enough, we camped the night before. TJ found a RV park less about 500 meters from the race start. He actually relented to bringing our air mattress for some comfort, but by the time we got to the campground, about 10 p.m., we couldn't find the manager, much less an electrical outlet to blow up the mattress. So TJ got about 5 hours of sleep on the hard ground with a lullaby of nearby karaoke before we awoke at 4:30 a.m. At the campsite, he readied all of his fluids (top left), then we headed to the race start, where he prepped the rest of his gear (top right). It just began to get light as the runners took off at 6 a.m. The early start time didn't dissuade TJ (in the bottom picture right behind and between numbers 222 and 328) and about 500 other runners from setting off for the hills.

After TJ was on the trail, I went back to find the campground manager. With no luck, I left cash in her door, then headed for the aid station, where I would be able to help TJ at miles 16 and 24. But really, he didn't need much help. During his first time past, I suggested that he give me the shirt that was tied around his waist, then he got some love from Sage (top) and some water in his bottle (bottom left) before he was off again (bottom right). I forgot to take photos the second time he came through the station, mainly because when the husband of one of the girls I was sitting by came through, he looked, well, wobbly. So when TJ passed by, I was trying to evaluate whether he still felt okay. He did, so he picked up more water and some ice, and sped toward the finish line.

  

And when he crossed, he was even able to put in a healthy kick up the last pitch (top). I had brought TJ a celebratory beer that I was going to keep hidden if he didn't look well, but he seemed fine (bottom left), basically the same as at the beginning of the race (bottom right), just with less clothing, a medal, and daylight. I let him drink his Sam Adams in peace without photographic intervention.

Bottle drained, we went back to the campsite, where TJ freshened up as much as he could without running water and we informed the manager we would be staying another night. Lake Hughes, whose shores came up on the campground (left), and the nearby Rock Inn (right) convinced us there was enough charm in the area that we could put off driving home for another day, even if it meant another night in a tent.

But it also meant that we could indulge ourselves. At the Rock Inn, we ordered buffalo wings and its famous and fitting 50/50 sandwich, half tri-tip and half BBQ pork (left). And this big supper was after a linner (lunch/dinner) of free and generous fajitas that TJ got for finishing the race (right). We stayed for the entertainment, country musician Brant Vogel, at the Rock Inn, but eventually sheer exhaustion for TJ and a food coma for me led to us calling it an early night.

With TJ's success (he hates when I brag on him, but it must be said: This was his first race, and he finished 33nd out of 123 in the 50K), I wasn't surprised when he declared that he wanted to try a 50-miler next. I just didn't realize it would be on the following weekend, on a bicycle. Because I had decided I wanted to do it once while in Tijuana, I knew the Rosarito-Ensenada Bike Ride was coming up on Cinco de Mayo, but I didn't deign to bring it up, knowing that it was a week after TJ's race; I just figured I'd wait for the fall ride. But when one of TJ's co-workers invited him, he was sold. As were many others, apparently: the Leona start had nothing on the Rosarito start, which had 5,000 people lined up on all manners of bicycles: tandems, cruisers, and even low-riding BMX models.

Throughout the race, TJ pointed out many great taco shops where we could stop for a beer. I didn't relent until we had made it up El Tigre, a not very steep but a very long hill, and saw this welcoming spot in the middle of the plateau, where many people were waiting for friends to pass by (left). TJ and I had managed to stay together (most likely because he was tired from the run the weekend before), so we were able to share some cervezas (right)

 

For me, the beer was a good idea to take the edge off coming down El Tigre. The speed of the descent scared the crap out of me, but it was a nice break before the final flat push to downtown Ensenada, where both TJ and I met our meta, most thankfully without any crashes or falls (except the tostada with ceviche that I dumped on TJ's lap a little later).

After parking our bikes, we took part in the "finish-line fiesta," which included lots of alcohol and food for pretty cheap, considering the captive and hungry audience. I had a piña colada and quite a few beers to wash down a couple of tacos (and an undumped tostada) while basking in my achievement -- and the sun (I have the farmer's tan to prove it). Just this side of dehydration and sunstroke, we caught the shuttle back to our car, so we could head home for yet another early Saturday night.

Although one event was in California and the other in Mexico, they both had similar vibes of not taking themselves too seriously. The organizer of the 50/50 gave instructions in an outfit reminiscent of Richard Simmons (left), and runners donned tutus, fishnets, and viking helmets. At the bar where we stopped during the bike ride, Scooby-Doo, a knight, a chicken, and a hula girl were gathered (although you can't see them all in the picture at right). Elsewhere on the course, we saw a banana, the wicked witch, Superman, a pig, a cow, and Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf on a tandem.

Another tradition on the bike race was for riders to throw candy to children who line up along the road to cheer them on. Between coming empty-handed and under-dressed, it almost makes me want to do it all over again. Just maybe not in back-to-back weekends, and remember, this is coming from the girl who didn't -- and will never -- run 50 kilometers.

Take part in an entirely different spring break experience (153 Cong. Rec. E593)

We of the non-childbearing clan typically view holidays as a reason for couple vacations, not family celebrations. But we of the non-childrearing clan sometimes lack the foresight to plan such trips. TJ got a whopping two days off for spring break -- a hard hit after at least a week as teachers -- and still I, the teaching assistant, cut our potential trip time even shorter. When I looked at the schedule for my online class, I didn't calculate that although the last day for students was the Monday before, I would have to grade essays nearly into Good Friday. 

So while TJ went on a ridiculously long run on Thursday that week, I did a marathon rubric-checking and plagiarism-catching session of my own, so we could at least claim a three-day respite. But of course, we hadn't made any reservations for a busy weekend, so we had to get creative -- and desperate. I was so brain-dead from grading that I actually agreed to spend the day as a passenger on TJ's motorcycle, a used Honda Nighthawk 250, which is promoted as a commuting bike, not a cruising one.

I was nervous because as a bicyclist myself, I understand the importance of balance, and as many of you know, I haven't had the best of luck with staying upright lately. I definitely did not want to be the cause of any accident during our first tandem trek. But after a few spins near the storage locker, TJ seemed to think I was up for the challenge, so he sped us out to the Otay Lakes area, where it was trial by fire on all sorts of terrain: busy roads, windy roads, steep roads, and even bumpy roads. Through it all, I trusted TJ completely. Although apparently I shouldn't have, as he didn't tell me until halfway through our trip that he alone hadn't gone any farther than the areas we had practiced in.

But how can you argue with a guy who looks like he's straight out of Grease 2? He's the one on the left who actually looks like a "cool rider," complete with his euro motorcycle jacket. Me, I'm the one on the right who's not pulling off that leather jacket and who prefers sitting on a curb to perching on the back of the bike -- and that's before we took our "shortcut" home on an unpaved, rutted road, as if my butt weren't already numb enough.

Besides, I probably instigated more danger the next day when we fixed a flat on our way to Palomar Mountain. Awhile back, when TJ got a flat on his car, we discovered that none of his jacks was actually big enough to crank the chassis high enough to change a tire. Considering this, our first stop on the way to Palomar was an auto-parts store, but it didn't have a large enough size either. So of course, along an 8-lane highway, we had a blowout (which, by the way, TJ maneuvered through as excellently as he steered the motorcycle).

It was my suggestion that we borrow not one but three small, wooden stakes from along the berm -- sorry, California Department of Transportation! -- so we could boost the jack high enough to get the spare on (the decimated tire came off like butter). The ever-more-safe TJ then decided we would immediately proceed to the nearest tire store to buy a complete new set, as this was the third of five tires to go bad. And still, we made it to Fry Creek Campground well before sundown so I could squeeze in a hike and TJ a run. There was even time for TJ to grill a delicious tri-tip over the campfire for dinner.

Still in training, TJ needed to do a longer run the following day, so we decided to head down the mountain, so he could run up it (yes, I agree that this is even crazier than riding a motorcycle). But first, we stopped by the Palomar Observatory (left), home of the Hale telescope (right), which until the '90s was the largest in the world. Despite its lack of record status now, the Caltech researchers that operate the telescope are still making major discoveries, such as Eris, a dwarf planet that added to the argument that Pluto is not a planet. From the top of the same mountain but without a telescope, we spied our own great discovery: snow-capped mountains in the distance (below).

From the summit, we wound our way down to Oak Grove Campground, a much more enjoyable ride with separate seats and without a helmet. TJ went out for a three-hour trek, and Sage only lasted for about a half-hour climb in the heat before he wanted to turn back. But first, I managed to take a picture of the trail we had come up (left). Sage and I both were completely content to hang out for the remaining two hours at a campsite, him sleeping and me reading, until TJ returned from his run (right).

In the end, this final foray into the wilderness was probably the greatest risk of the weekend, even more so than our initial motorcycle ride and improvised tire jack, because after he took off, I saw signs about a mountain lion sighted in the area, so "hikers should not go out alone," as both of us had just done. Although not born to be wild, we are just destined to walk on the wild side, I guess.

Like a blindfolded child at a piñata party (157 Cong. Rec. H817)

A while back, we had a party. The public purpose of said fete was the fact that we needed to share the homebrews we made at the end of last year, lest we become alcoholics. Privately, it was a way to assuage our guilt for not hosting a fiesta sooner, considering that we are one of the few single couples with a house and that I had requested a larger table under the guise that I needed it for social events. 

But as it turned out, there were many other occasions that it could have commemorated. We could have celebrated the fact that I had just started my new job at the consulate. We could have shown a good time to some friends from A-100 training who were in town as part of a consulate exchange (but, sadly, they got lost on the way to our house, and since I didn't have my cell on me, they couldn't get through to get directions; sorry, D and K!). We actually did mark the birthday of one of the attendees, whose husband brought a piñata as a surprise for her. After breaking two sticks, we finally beheaded the Little Mermaid to get at her delicious innards.

Later, I would come to find out that we also could have mourned the death of my mom. Had I known it was the seventh anniversary of her passing, I probably wouldn't have selected that date for the party. And how could I not have known, you might ask? In fact, I have to look up the obituaries for her and my brother every year, so I remember the dates of their deaths (although never again, as I have now added them to my Google calendar). 

I do tend to have a vague sense of dread as Easter and Thanksgiving approach, as I vividly remember their deaths' effect on these holidays. I clearly recall taking the phone call about my mom as I was on my way to drop off a friend at the airport for spring break; right after I deposited him curbside, I raced to my apartment, packed a few things, and drove through darkness (in a startlingly short amount of time) from Virginia to Ohio. The phone call for my brother came right ahead of finals before winter break my sophomore year in college; not only did I actually take all my exams, but that very night I headed to a kegger.

But since the exact dates of spring and winter breaks move every year, I am often totally unaware of the anniversaries of their deaths until they pass. I only discovered the coincidence about the party when I thought I should probably check in with my dad on the day of my mom's death. By then, my condolences would've been quite belated. A couple weeks earlier, I had told him I was having a party that day; I certainly hope he didn't think it was to revel in her death.

When I discovered my lapse, I immediately blamed a raging headache from our party on karma from my lack of respect for my mom and lack of sympathy for my dad. The night started out great with some unique-tasting mead, an expertly-gassed English pale ale, and my favorite pumpkin ale of all time (even if one bottle lacked bubbles because it didn't ferment enough). It got even better with the help of some homemade tortas, including three meats perfectly seasoned and grilled and four salsas aptly created and blended by TJ (seriously, he could open a store, based on the guards' rave reviews).

The cranial pulsing and pounding began about the time I started watching videos of a baby dancing like Shakira and Bill Cosby doing his Noah routine. By the middle of the piñata-candy poker game, I could barely follow the betting and raising of bubble gum and lollipops. So I had to call it a night even though there were still guests gathered around our (much bigger) table. Surely this social shame was punishment for not even thinking about my mom that night, right?

But the truth is, I channeled her spirit all that day, as I do every day. Without her, I wouldn't even be here, and I don't mean living in this world, I mean in Tijuana. She gave me a love to travel adventurously that makes giving directions to "turn at the second Oxxo" seem like a perfectly normal statement. This is a woman who cycled across Ohio, Florida and New York well into middle age. She also gave me a need to cultivate camaraderie that makes piñata-candy poker seem like a perfectly acceptable Saturday night. This is a woman who attended a going-away party for myself while she herself was undergoing chemo. 

And to think I could barely soldier through a migraine. But I made it through most of that night, as I make it through most of my days, with her implicit inspiration pushing me forward. Now that I have the date duly recorded, I think I'll party on every anniversary of her death. I just wish she could've been at this particular fiesta. She would've loved that piñata.

Exemptions to nonprofit ... skating facilities (26USC4241)

Confession time: At one point in my life I wanted to be a professional roller skater. After an initial outing to the local rink as a Girl Scout and a few lessons afterward, I thought I was destined to be the Dorothy Hamill of the hardwoods; I was even willing to copy her haircut if necessary. This ambition faded as soon as I found out that I could never become good enough to earn a gold medal, especially because the sport wasn't and still isn't part of the Olympics. 

But some dreams die hard, and I still made a few trips to the rink while in high school, when I was well past the average -- and acceptable -- age of the crowd (I remember getting hit on by a very brave pre-teen, but by then, the ability to skate backwards was no longer a reason to accept a couple-skate invitation). I didn't get back on the rink until I felt a desire to inculcate the younger generation, especially after the owners of my hometown skate place decided there wasn't enough interest to reopen after arson burned the place down.

I thought for sure that most roller rinks were flaming out, but then, someone figured out that the way to win popularity for roller skating was to differentiate it as much as possible from ice skating, particularly the goody-two-shoes image of Hamill. The X-Games and American Gladiators gave birth to Rollerjam, and soon, another reason to wear fishnet tights was revived: roller derby.

After I found out that one of my fellow Posties skates for a team in Orlando, the Psycho City Derby Girls, I figured San Diego had to be in on the trend, and sure enough, there are not one but two teams: the Starlettes (flat track) and the Derby Dolls (banked track). Because a friend found the flat-trackers first, my first foray into the sport was a B-team bout between the Rockettes and Prison City Derby Dames.

At first, I was enamored merely by the atmosphere. It was like I was right back at my beloved Coliseum, complete with the grungy bathrooms, claw-crane machine, and psychedelic starry-blue carpet that must be mandatory for roller rinks. About the only differences were that the rink had a track laid out with tape (left) and areas marked "danger zones" a few feet from the track (right).

My interest only increased when the action started. I hadn't done any research of the Women's Flat Track Derby Association rules, but I didn't need to in order to see that these were real athletes. I won't go into great detail here, but the main roles are blockers and jammers. Blockers have to knock into others without losing their balance (left). Jammers have to be able to skate fast on a very tight track without spinning out (right). By far, my favorite team member was Shanghai Surprise, who was obviously a talented jammer, even to my untrained eye.

But even when I respect athletes, that doesn't always mean I want to watch them in person (especially if I can watch them from the comfort of my couch). To really put a sporting event over the top, there has to be a sense of a community. The Rockettes were clearly fan-friendly, handing out noise-makers to children to use during the bout (left) and slapping some skin with all ages during the team introductions beforehand (right).

 

And they weren't just building a fan community but also supporting the local one. At the entrance, there was a booth for a St. Patrick's Day themed bake sale and a few tables for local products, including dog treats -- organic, of course. An overwhelming local favorite belted out the national anthem, and a local dance studio busted a move for a "halftime show" (below).

 

So, I'm not a big fan of fishnets, but just like with the bowl haircut, I would be willing to make sacrifices to become a derby girl. But unfortunately, with my recent spate of hard head hits, I think maybe it's best I stay a spectator for now. After all, I need some time to come up with a good name; Eezzz Nutzzz 805 is already taken.

Opportunity to enjoy and learn about great whales (16USC3703)

After reading my friend Joe Donatelli's column about how he did NOT watch whales, I made sure to keep my expectations low as we headed down to Ensenada for a Saturday of whale watching. Because they are along the gray whale migration route, many Pacific coast charter outfits shell out tours with near-guarantees that you will behold ballenes. The number of Groupons alone makes feel you obligated to take the chance on a tour. And after all, these marine mammals are a lot more fun to follow than the only wild-animal show in northeast Ohio: the buzzard migration route.

Sadly, as Joe's column attests, the oceanic sightings aren't always so stunning. But we started the day with some auspicious signs. The rainy and cloudy weather broke, putting the Baja coast in the 80s for the first time in a few weeks. Then, because of our persuasive organizer, our group was split among two boats, putting only 10 people on each deck. This allowed pretty much all of us to squeeze on the best viewpoint of the boat, the bow; our companions on the other ship took advantage of the same abundance of space.

With a more-than-four-hour tour ahead of us, we packed a picnic, complete with adult beverages. We picked up some Pacifico, which just so happened to match the name of the operation providing our tour, Pacifico Sport Fishing. After sailing for about 45 minutes into deeper seas , I snapped some shots of the "Plan B" we sipped as we tried to spy some water spouting.

Slowly but surely, we started to see movements that indicated something other than kelp. At first, the "logging" motions were a far cry from the typical whale behavior presented in Pacific Life commercials. We never did get to see a whale jump up a waterfall or over the boat Free Willy-style, but we were lucky enough to see one whale "breaching," meaning that it pushed a good portion of its body above the water, somewhat like the Pacific Life logo.

 

But of course, I didn't manage to record that with my camera, and since I can't post photos of it here, it's pretty much like the breach didn't even happen. In fact, it was quite difficult to capture what I could see through the lenses of my eyes through the lens of my camera. By a fluke, I was able to catch a couple whales "fluking," including one zoom shot that was almost in focus.

After a while, we stopped tailing the whales, because we certainly couldn't follow them all the way back to their summer homes in the north, where they were heading after giving birth further south in Bahía Sebastián Vizcaíno. As we headed back to the dock, we came across a pod of dolphins that rewarded us for our lack of resentment over how the whales kept their distance. Quite a few of them swam right along the boat, jumping and diving in front of us as if they were playing a game of chicken.

Back on shore, we topped off the trip with a few tacos, with shrimp and marlin, and a trip to the fish market, where we bought some jumbo shrimp and grouper to grill at home. Although I feel entirely fulfilled by my whale-watching adventure, I wouldn't mind getting even closer to these graceful creatures, so maybe next year we humans will migrate south to Guerrero Negro, to see them up close in their breeding grounds.

Value of steam or other form of heat energy (30USC1004)

After my last encounter with Asian food, I had put off making potstickers, even though they are one of my favorite ethnic appetizers (sorry, but good 'ol American wings, mozzarella sticks, and potato skins are up there, too). As it turned out, the only hard part about making them was tracking down the wrappers. I ended up stopping by an Asian market, with fingers crossed, on my way to the airport because I didn't see any in the grocery stores I usually go to. With some luck, and some help from the friendly cashier, I found some hiding in a freezer.

In other ways, I let myself be less than traditional. For the meat, I used ground pork and shrimp (top left), but when it came to vegetables, I used regular celery instead of Chinese celery, along with the water chestnuts (top right). In terms of spices (below left), our cilantro plant died during my time out of town, so I substituted coriander (dried cilantro). I didn't want to buy raw ginger, because the last time I did, more than 90% of it went wasted, so I put in a teaspoon of Chinese five spice instead; even though my version didn't include ginger, I thought it would add a similar flavor. I also didn't want to waste the yolk leftover from the egg white, so I put that in reserve for later while I whipped up the filling (bottom right).

I mixed the yolk with some water to create a wash for sealing the wrappers (left). The construction of the dumplings was a lot easier because the wrappers weren't nearly as delicate as the spring-roll wrappers. But, still worried about them staying together, I actually held back on the filling at first, leaving me with 30 pockets instead of the 24 outlined in the recipe (right).

Even after sitting for a couple of hours, the dumplings didn't show any signs of coming apart, even when I started frying them in the skillet (top left and right). I had always assumed that potstickers were completely cooked through frying, but actually, the real heat comes from steaming them with broth (below left). As their name suggests, the pockets stick to the pot, but even removing them didn't cause them to split. In fact, the only time they ripped was when I was a little too quick with the tongs as I transferred them to a paper towel to let the grease drain (below right). 

The dipping sauce was quick and indeed spicy, although possibly more so because of the substitutions I made: sriracha for chili-garlic sauce, white wine vinegar for rice vinegar, and Thai sweet chili sauce for hot chili oil (left). In the end, I was happy with the result because it was thicker than most sauces I have eaten with potstickers (right), so you could get more of the flavor when you dipped.

I dug out the chopsticks so we could at least be authentic in the way we ate the appetizers. But I'm already thinking about how to use the leftover wrappers in un-authentic ways. Potato-skin potstickers, anyone?