Sunday, September 10, 2006

The Alhambra in Spain. This palace, with its history has inspired many people through time. It was, in part, the reason that I began to study Spanish in college. Here is a video link. More to come on the Alhambra later.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

Make it look easy



School is about to start and with that comes earlier mornings - meaning waking up at 4:50AM or earlier - and a new motivation for organizations. I took a picture of my desk this week as I was
in getting things ready for the coming year, thinking about how long I would be able to keep organized enough to maintain a clean desktop; I have to keep on top of planning, correcting, notes, test updates, etc. Last year I was able to keep it up for only 2 months, but I also jumped in mid-year and was spending a lot of time getting things organized from the wrong side of the pile, just the fact that there was a pile. So with the beginning of the year to get hings organized, I hope to make it through Christams with the first wave of organization, and hope to regroup over the holiday (along with some time spent in Spain) to be able to finish off the year without a pile on my desk. A good example of where I don't want to be at any point in the year can be found in the following photograph...


...and to start the year with that pile, what will it look like as the year progresses, does it diminish? I showed these pictures to a friend of mine and he explained the importance of keeping a mess on your desk to appear busy, as he did while working as an accountant. My approach is more like running, the easier you make it look, the easier it is. So if I am trying to look busy, I am going to manage to make myself even busier, while giving that same appearance. And just looking busy doesn't mean you look effective nor efficient.

I think I am going to stick to my clean desk, and good, hard running.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006








I am really not having luck with any form of combustible fuel related personal transportation lately. Originally, the ‘78 Pinto’s battery died, leaving me with the choice of buying a new battery and forgoing something else that seemed important at the time, or rely solely on the ‘81 Honda CB400E to get me around during the summer months. For some time I did manage to get about exclusively on the motorcycle, even after having used it to crack my collar bone June 9th.

I finally decide to get a battery for the Pinto, have a friend drive me to Checkers auto parts, and make the $60+ purchase. I clean off the connections at the end of the wires, and before staring the car, note that there is a definite lack of coolant in the radiator. I add some distilled water, check the oil and other fluids, and then start her up. After about 2-3 minutes of the car running I notice an airy noise coming from within the still opened hood. The radiator is leaking, but from the seal along the top. No game-winning touchdown for the Pinto, as ol’ María is placed on the disabled list until she can cool off without an outside aid or shutting down every too often.



To the CB400. About midsummer I noticed a trend in oil loss from the Honda, and made it more of a habit to check the oil levels very consistently. Well, this morning I had to add a bit more than is usually necessary for the refill. I drove to school to get a jump on preparations for this coming year’s classes, then to meetings to introduce us to our mentors for the year, and then to some education classes through Metro State in Denver.


On the way home, maybe a mile short of Table Mesa Rd. heading westward on 36, the engine loses power and just dies. I am forced to make an emergency stop on the side of the road and push the Honda to the nearest gas station. I note the oil levels look much lower than those that I had checked that same morning. With a combination of pushing, driving, and cursing complaints (all while thinking about Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance since I just finished it this Spring) I manage to get home in the short commuting time of about 2 hours where it usually takes 40 minutes.

Now I am not sure that either for of transportation will be reliable even for tomorrow, and I cannot figure out RTD’s routes well enough to entrust my school meetings to my bus-managing skills. I only had to take public transportation while in Madrid and most of that was on the straight forward metro.



I may have to ride in tomorrow on the bicycle. It would be fun, but I should log about 70 miles running this week… and the ride back is always straight into the wind… uphill…

Friday, August 18, 2006

The Mushroom Hunt and the Kings English



King Bolete (Boletus Edilus) was the days aim, at least to find as many as possible in a short time so we could cook a bunch of them at “base camp” and enjoy the days harvest. Apparently they are among the best mushrooms that can be found during picking season.

Mike Colpitts, Josh’s dad, met up with us at his restaurant on Tuesday evening for dinner, a bottle of wine, some story telling and a short bit a panning for the next days hike-harvest. Wild mushrooms could be intimidating to those who don’t know which ones will kill you and which you can gluttonously eat. Thankfully to us, Josh’s father had become interested in wild mushrooms some twenty years ago and has studied them since in order to understand what he saw on his hikes through the mountains. After a couple a glasses of wine, an immense steak (the first I have had in months), and a beer or two, the planning was finished and all that lied ahead was a wink or two, a morning run at 10,000 feet, and a breakfast of Josh’s mother’s granola.


(a creek bridge on Peak Trail)












After my morning run, and a shower, Josh got up to join me for breakfast and an unwanted photo session in sued. Because we had set the rendezvous for 11 AM at the Steak and Rib, we headed out for the meeting.

I followed Mike up the tree-covered slopes of Baldy Mountain, named so because of the rock filled slopes that you meet after leaving the tree line. He explained to me the coloring of the Boletus – an amber tint – and the way you have to pick it – simply cutting the stem as near the ground as possible, so that the mushroom can regenerate at its stump.

After about an hour or so of the mushroom hunt and a plentiful harvest, Mike (Mr. Colpitts) signaled to Josh and I to start our way to the base camp to reap the rewards of fresh fungus. There were a total of five of us on the trip, two of them being friends of Mikes. Picking the smallest mushrooms because they are of the best flavor and have no maggots in them, mike cleaned and prepared the mushrooms and placed them on his camping stove. With an amazing roast beef, several cheeses, grapes, fresh bread, and bottles of wine, lunch was worthy of a choice restaurant (not unexpected as he is a co-owner of the Steak and Rib in Breckenridge)


As Josh and I arrived at the lunch spot, Mike and his fellow mushroom aficionados were talking with another man with a bit of a Texas Draw. Dale, from St. Angelo, TX wanted to learn as much as he could about the mushrooms of the area. Seventy three years old, he was excited about everything that was going on. He spent six months in Breck, three for the skiing in the winter and three for the hiking in the summer.

“Dale, could we offer you some wine?”

“Could you offer me some wine…? You could always offer me a glass of wine” said with an excited draw and a jump towards the freshly poured glass.

After we all ate some mushrooms, including Dale, conversation turned to the meeting place for their hike on Friday. They always meet at the Steak and Rib. Dale was a little unsure as to where that was.

“You better know where the Steak and Rib is…Mike?”

Mike reintroduces himself to Dale as one of the owners with a friendly handshake and a smile. At this Dale waits pensive for a moment, and does an joyous jig, “that’s the one with the steak stuffed with that, that crab meat?!?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“That’s one of the best steaks I’ve ever eaten. I had some friends come up and they asked if there was anywhere to get a good steak, and I said, ‘got ya covered.’ ”

Sorry not to have a picture of him, but that definite Texan helped fill the campsite with laughter the entire lunch. Just before he went to leave, there was a cheese that Mike used in the sauce for the mushrooms. He reached for the empty box and tore of one of the side that had the cheeses name saying, “I aint to good at the Kings English, I speak Texan, need some help with remembrin’ its name.” Just makes me smile thinking about his zest for life.
Josh's mother wanted to get a dresser fixed. So while we were there, we were enlisted as the movers for the furniture. We threw the dresser into the back of the car and headed from Breckenridge to Silverthorne to find the Furniture Stripping shop. Jerry gave directions to Josh, without listing a street name... After having passed a warehouse once in search for the furniture stripping sign, we continued on a different street. After about five minutes search, Josh remembered that he mentioned it would be around back. When we found it, this was the facade that verified our arrival.



Jerry, the business owner, wasn't there but had given us instructions pertaining to where we should leave the dresser. Just to the right of the facade was a shed that he left unlocked for us. The furniture that was sitting in the shed was very well finished. Hoping the same can be said for his new project.

Friday, August 11, 2006

In the early years in college, I used to drive to Pittsburgh to hang out with my cousin, go for some mountain bike rides, and of course, drink some beer. You may call him a bad influence, but I beg to differ. He may have facilitated my drinking, but he also facilitated my understanding of enjoying life. Even if he is not having the time of his life, you sure as hell are going to think he is, and it tends to spread infectiously to the people around him. The days of Pittsburgh it was mountain biking through Seven Springs, post ride interviews (as he would call them) with Mr. Yuengling, some fattening subs at a locally famous shop – I forget its name- and always a concert. We saw Phish, Blues Traveler, and Dave Matthew’s Band among others, always managing a tailgating event before each and often a veggie burrito afterward.

When he moved out to Boulder, it wasn’t long until I came out to visit and then another. I was drug along, or managed to tag along, to a few of his trips while there; mountain Biking in Red Rocks, Fruita and Breckenridge, nights out with Tim and some of his friends and always a cold beverage available in the cooler or fridge.



Almost ten months ago I received a call from Josh, a friend from my time in Spain, offering the possibility of a Spanish teaching job in the district where he worked, two months after that I was teaching Spanish and living in my cousin’s spare room. I moved out not to long ago, but we still manage to see each other every now and then, fitting our rendezvous in outings, drinks, and parties. Just this past Wednesday, he invited me to join in as well as anyone who I thought in bringing for a cookout watching the sun drop past the western edge of the eastern Rockies and the full moon come out from its hiding over the flatirons. Here are some pictures from yet another smile inducing event compliments of the event planner by evening/operations manager by day.

Wednesday, August 09, 2006



The Boulder Express, CU Boulder Campus Crew getting ready on a Monday for the morning roll up the foothills.


Ramiro, the Mad Scientist, Eric (Precious) and I meet about two to three times per week to run the Boulder Creek Path up the Canyon usually starting about 6:30AM or 7:00AM. The run is a spoiling climb west up the creek path getting into the Flatirons, and then a steady downhill back into Boulder. Morning runs should all be so horrible.



Eric, a.k.a. Precious, getting the Monday morning motivation...
















Ramiro perfecting the post run standing lounge.

Thursday, July 13, 2006

Lost Lake



A full moon on Tuesday, but because it likes to rise with the creatures of the night I missed it while wedged in a two person tent trying to be fast asleep at 9:00 PM. We hiked for about 3 miles on single-track with my cumbersome load weighing down solely on my left shoulder, keeping the stress from bearing down on my right side, still recovering from the clavicle break and the later surgery. It was doing much better, allowing a decent range of motion but no weight bearing was manageable. It took about an hour and a half, maybe two, to get to the Lost Lake where we would set up camp.

I road the motorcycle, leading Eric most the way up Canyon Rd., past Nederland and Eldora Ski resort to a dirt road which brought us to where Eric could abandon his car and I could my motorcycle. Canyon Rd is called so because it winds following the canyon carved out by Boulder Creek. The road never bends to sharply, but forces you to constantly change speed in and out of the turns.

I couldn’t help but sit back and swivel my head from side to side, just as I had on the way to Terry’s B&B. The ride climaxes just as you round the bend coming into Nederland. Slightly leaning right, you edge around a protruding rock to reveal the Baker Reservoir flicking rays tossed from the sun toward your eyes and resting at the bottom of a mountain view still holding on to the last patches of snow through the summer heat. We passed through the busy mountain town, know for the Frozen Dead Guy Festival they throw every year to celebrate the frozen man kept in a permanent cryogenic freeze waiting for a cure so that he can be brought back to life and saved. After just half a mile on Peak-to-Peak Highway, our directions take us due west, bringing us ever closer to the continental divide.



With the breathtaking views of the journey up the canyon, the arrival and hike couldn’t match it, except for the fact that we were on foot, passing by one flowing creak just to follow another raging to meet and unite with the other. Passing one rain filled creek to another, we find ourselves following a much smaller trickle to Lost Lake. It ripples small waves matching the winds intensity and peace through the acre of water. To the east, north and south there are immediate mountains, though not topping much higher than ten thousand feet. Off to the west, are mountains still adding a chill to summers breath, as it passes over the snowfields holding on to the mountains shade: The two peaks that must pass the twelve thousand foot mark lurking over the valley.

Back where we had set up our tent, with a view of the two peaks limited only by the surrounding conifers, we begin to realize that the warnings of hail we received from some day trekkers may be more than just a warning as lighting lit the faces of the mountains and thunder rumbled its warning echoed thumping against the mounds of rock. With all that warning, the storm never gave more than bright, booming warnings and the spit of the ancient Aztec god, Tlaloc.

Our dinner of trail-mix and granola bars managed to abate our hunger and led to the realization that with the fire ban, it was nearing the time to go to bed while the sun still offered enough light to ease into the tent and sleeping bags for the night. Six came quickly the next morning, as did seven when we actually got up. Before dinner the night before we did a reconnaissance of the mountain to the south and decided that a direct approach the next morning would be best, not wanting to risk losing sunlight. We stopped very near a fallen mining entrance; the logs that used to support its entrance lie in ruins with the rocks and rusted tin. The climb up proved to be challenging, at more than a forty-five degree angle our hands were nearly as useful as our feet. The view from the top was broken by the tress that claimed residence in the altitude, but still allowed for a calming glimpse of the higher peaks.

Instead of sliding dangerously down that face of the mountain in a vertical prone position, we followed the ridge to a trail that lead back safely to our tent. With only the early part of our day behind us, we packed up our bags and let the earth pull us back toward the trailhead we entered so eagerly nearly twenty-four hours before. The early exit was to help me avoid having to manage the motorcycle around wet curves in the usual late afternoon storms.



A picture taken just steps from the zipper front of our tent.

Sunday, July 09, 2006

The Best Locksmith in Boulder

Most people don’t get all that excited about mail after the age of sixteen to eighteen, mostly because that is when you start getting junk mail, more and more junk mail. I have definitely had my share, pre-approval cards, smart shopper coupon books and endless advertisements. There is some excitement if you ordered something online and are anxiously awaiting its arrival or if you know some one has sent you something, but mostly we know that when we open the mailbox, there will not only be the advertisements, but also the bills. Every time I open the mailbox, I am reminded that I have pre-spent much of my income; on the 5 years of university schooling, trips to foreign countries and communication. Do I really pay just to be able to talk to people? And how much did I spend on my phone?

Back to the point, the mailbox could potentially contain some day threatening material. So when I lost the mail key, I didn’t think of it as an important loss. I would just find it in a couple days, call the property management, or pay for a new one at the post office. A few days went by, and I still couldn’t find the key. I had to mail a letter to some one, or maybe even pay a bill. I walked into the post office in downtown Boulder on the corner of 15th and Walnut to mail the letter and to see if they had a key for our mailbox. The woman at the counter said that she wasn’t sure if she had the key because it was out of their delivery area. She came back from the back room without a key, and no new answers as to how I was going to replace the key.

A few more days went by, and I had to go to the post office that delivered to our apartment complex because the second motorcycle helmet that I had ordered was waiting there in a locker. It had been delivered earlier that week and I had to get there before they sent it back. It had only taken about thirty-three days to get the delivery, and I didn’t want it to get sent back to sender, as Thailand is a pretty long way. While there I thought to inquire about the mail key, she went back to get the parcel and check to see if they had the keys for our mailboxes. Apparently, the mailboxes at our complex aren’t owned by the USPS, so they don’t have the keys.

At least an answer that begins to point me elsewhere. I let Justin, my flat-mate, know that I was having no luck with the key and that he needed to send off an email to the owner of our condo to see if she had a copy of the key. The day after, he received her response. She had also lost the key when she was living in the apartment and had to have a locksmith come by and replace the lock.

I had no other choice at this point. I had to pony up so I could have the excitement of unlocking the box to find bills and junk mail. The locksmith I called quoted me a fifty-five dollar charge just for showing up, and wouldn’t give even an estimate as to what it would cost. The second call I made was a sixty-five dollar minimum charge. I was beginning to think that telling the first locksmith that if they wouldn’t quote me a price, they had no chance in pulling it in. To the third locksmith, again a fifty-five dollar minimum, and they were going to give me a call back for a quote. A much better chance, I was willing to wait for a minute to get the quote. After about fifteen minutes of waiting I decided to take a look at the yahoo yellow pages one more time. There was a locksmith not but a few blocks from the house. I thought that while I waited for the others to call, I would try this last one, Alpha Locksmith. He answered the phone himself – the first locksmith to do so – and seemed to be a nice guy on the phone. Already having that in his favor, I asked if he could give me a quote on putting a new lock in the mailbox. He said that his fee for just coming out was twenty-five dollars. I liked the sound of this, already thirty dollars less expensive than the others. He continued explaining, “I don’t usually replace the locks, I usually make new keys for the existing lock.”

I couldn’t pass this up, a master locksmith. I asked how soon I could set up an appointment. We settled on twenty minutes from the end of the call. I gave him my information and he was there in twenty minutes. Well, almost there. He was a bit hard of hearing and misheard my address, called from around the corner and asked again where I was. I asked him to sit tight and explained the clothing I had on. Rounding the corner I heard his voice. We walked easily over to the little shelter for our mailboxes chatting about his hearing and the fact that I don’t even know how to follow the numbering system in our complex. I showed him which mailbox was mine. He opened up his bag, similar to the house-visiting bag doctors used to carry, picked out two tools that he used to pick the lock. He gave me my mail, popped the lock out, and we walked back towards his unmarked, white van. He said he would bring the keys to me as soon as he finished. I offered to stay down by the truck so he wouldn’t have to bring the key to the apartment, but he knew it would take him a few minutes more than I may have been willing to wait. I sat in my apartment playing a bit on the nylon string guitar that my aunt had given me. After about ten minutes, he brought up the key and said in an almost fatherly tone, “Don’t keep these together. Separate them now.” I assured him that I would and placed the keys on the table where I keep my keys and my helmet.

Having finished his work, I needed to pay him, and asked how much it was. He thought for a moment and replied with the surprising thirty-five dollars, less than all the others had stated was their fee to simply show up at the apartment. We talked for a minute about my picking of the guitar and his picking of locks, both arts in their own right. I wrote out the check for the mentioned price, but wanted to give a tip. It ended up being only five dollars, but he was grateful none-the-less. He bid goodbye and I closed the door and called a friend to let him know that the book I had promised had in the mail. After leaving a message for him, I received one myself.

“Yeah hey, this is uh Gary, your favorite locksmith. Um thanks again for the tip and uh here’s a tip for you, your mailman is at your mailbox right now so you might have some more mail. So, uh, again have a good weekend and chat with you later. Bye.”

I later talked to Peter Jullian about the experience. He had a similar experience with a garage door repairman. The guy even helped carry his extraordinarily heavy treadmill up the stairs. Simple artists at their trades and good people too. It helps appreciate their work as well.

Saturday, July 08, 2006

The B&B

I just took off my wet socks and put on some dry clothes. This morning, after a great run up Boulder Creek Path with Ramiro, Precious, Bryce and Dan and blueberry pancake breakfast at the apartment, I rode up to Terry’s place in Estes Park. Not three or four moths ago, he moved from England to Boulder – after having too many coincidences not to come – and began looking for properties with his wife to start an athletics focused bed and breakfast. Now called Active at Altitude, it resides in a beautiful home in mountains in Estes Park (http://www.activeataltitude.com/)

While still recovering from my surgery to help mend my broken clavicle, the ride promised to be a winding climb northward with simple yet inspiring mountain vistas as the rode clung for some time to the creek working its way down the slant as I followed the water toward its source. It was like any other first ride through the mountains on an old cruiser that had never seen mountain streams and snow capped peaks. The winds seemed like gentle curves. If a car came up behind, it was enough just to let him pass so as to prolong the view for even just a moment more, not rushed by the impatience of motorists enclosed in their boxes rushing to get to the views of the mountains, their destination with views ahead, rather than those they passed so anxiously. As I climbed higher with the road, the temperature slowly dropped, never to an uncomfortable chill, but cold enough to remind me that I neared the high peaks in the Rocky Mountain National Park. I arrived to the pull-off, CR 122, with the view of the peaks resting in the “V” on the horizon, created by the walls of the valley that closed in to point towards them, and slowly inched up the dirt road and down the driveway to complete the short trip from Boulder to Estes park.

After a brief tour of the B&B – a wooden retreat the presents itself as humble and has all the all the qualities that would allow boasting – we stepped outside on the top of two balconies. It allowed us to observe the surroundings, to talk a bit about the various animals that frequented his backyard haven, and to slide into a conversation about encounters in life that enabled us to be where we were.

During the mini-tour, I noticed a guitar sitting in the corner of his room, and mentioned something to the effect that it needed to be taken out for a moment while sipping tea. It happened that the silver needles white tea came before lunch and the guitar after, but I managed some attempt at Spanish Guitar on a steel string just before Sandcastles, a song that fits more the mountain B&B atmosphere. Terry then wound his fingers around the neck and wore the tips of his fingers for a moment on the metal strings, easing out some old notes that hadn’t been brought out for some time.

After a short while on the guitar, I remembered that Terry hadn’t ridden a motorcycle for ages. He borrowed my helmet, gloves, and jacket and rode for about ten minutes on the minimally crowded Highway 36 of Estes Park. After he came back down the hill of his dirt driveway and took off his helmet I asked him, “You enjoy it?”

To which he replied that he experienced two sensations while riding; one was the same feeling had the first time he rode a bike, a feeling of terror and fear, explaining the feeling of being exposed and unprotected. The second feeling he described was the feeling of being re-acquainted to an old friend and the images that may accompany.

We walked into the house and debated whether it was a good idea to leave at that moment with the rain coming. I handed him the burnt cd of Viva Flamenco cd, packed up the computer and tea bits, and hurried my way to get on the road. There was definitely going to be a bit of rain on the trip back to Boulder, and I didn’t want to make it more by waiting for the skies to really open up near the B&B before I left. Realizing a ride in the rain, while without a proper license, and with a broken clavicle that was suffered on my last ride around dry, winding roads, was a bit risky, I eased myself down the rain soaked bends and exited the watery roads after about ten or so miles. With enough clothing on to stay warm and convince my body that I was completely dry, I could release the tension carried in my hands and cruise back to Boulder where a good drink and a few friends awaited for dinner and a film.

The drive was worth the stay and the stay was worth the drive.

Monday, June 26, 2006

Encuentros

I was reading a blog from a Brazilian writer last evening when I came across a word that struck accord with a thought or theme I had been developing, "encontros" or encounters. I have been talking for some time with some close friends of mine about the significance of the influence of others in our lives, not solely how a persons mannerisms change because of their influences, but because of the paths our lives take with their direct manipulation.

During the beginning, I was always hoping and thinking that I was in direct control of my life, I wanted to believe it. Reading and studying eastern and western religions, I was gaining insight that I didn’t know would influence my thoughts so much later in life – but they ran through the area of my mind that I couldn’t yet reach, that I couldn’t light enough to flip through the pages.

My original discussions with some friends of mine revolved around a topic that I had previously thrown about with my athletics coach while living in Spain. During the drives to and from Madrid while living in Aranjuez, we spoke often about life, using running as a microcosm. But one place where we continued to stop was in a person’s destiny, or rather created destiny. So these conversations resurfaced while sitting in a little tea shop in Cincinnati.

Sitting and speaking with Ionella, a very beautiful and spiritual Romanian woman, while sipping a subtle white tea, I brought up what I thought was the personal control of ones destiny. My belief was that the positives and negatives in life were a direct result of my decisions and interactions; the more positive situations in which I placed myself, the more positive return I would have upon my life and the opposite, the more negative situations, the more that side will act upon my life. But that is only part of it. Placing yourself in situations just allows the people in those circles to influence your life.

As I was running through City Park in Denver I was retracing the steps that I had taken to get there. I remember so many times people asking me what I wanted to do with my life, what my goals were. I never had any life goals like what it was that I wanted to do with my life. I just wanted to follow the pulse of the wind, el latido del viento. I never worded it in my answers that way, but that is the way I now understand it.

So while running through the park just before flying to Cincinnati to see my parents as well as some friends I began thinking about how it was that I arrived at that moment. A good friend was the first name that came to mind. I met him in Spain while I was living and studying in Alcalá de Henares. We became friends sitting in a café bar smoking hand rolled cigarettes and sipping Grand Marnier. Later it was through him that I was able to procure short-term housing after deciding to stay in Spain after I could no longer live with my host family.

So here I was in Denver after interviewing for a teaching job and having worked for about two months at Legacy H.S. I was working in Cincinnati, OH at a local running specialty store and running. I was having a sort of life crisis: what was I doing in developing myself further working in a running store running? Everything was running. I had never liked being one dimensional, but here I was leading myself in that direction. On a trip to New York City, I quit running. I had to find something else that would allow me to develop another aspect of my life. I had even met with Sid, another friend, to discuss career options and grad school plans. Not too long after these talks, Josh called and asked if I had any interest in moving to Colorado and teaching high school Spanish. It was almost jokingly stated, but there was some sincerity in the offer. He asked the person who had mentioned it to him, and three weeks later I was making phone calls, having interviews, and seeing mountains on the nearing horizon. I quit the Running Spot in early January and was crashing my cousin’s house in Superior, CO in late January to be able to start the second semester teaching at the high school.

On the short spring break, I was going to fly home. I stayed with Josh the evening before my flight and that morning while he was helping a friend move, I went for a run in City Park.

That run I ran through a continuous list of people that had prepaired me for each step I took in life or somehow lead me to the path that I was following, many of whom I will mention in future text. I came to believe that I was not in sole control of my life, but rather responsable for it. I may place myself in good situations in life but it is those people who I meet there that must act upon my life, and those are the people, in addition to those with whom they interact, that are going to become part of my life, thus changing its daily destinations and future encounters.