Day Two

I woke up full of energy after my three Bikram yoga classes yesterday.  There’s nothing like wearing yourself out to the point of exhaustion to get a good nights sleep.  I walked my Min Pin Rusty before the sun came up, paused to drink in the ocean air, then downed a strong cup of coffee before heading off to morning yoga class.  I think I may have to go back to work as a top salesperson because I’ve talked several people into signing up for the 30 day challenge.  I wasn’t really trying to accomplish this feat but several students advised me this morning that they were there because I had told them to “just put your name on the 30 day challenge list.”

I would’ve loved (maybe too strong a word) to stay at the studio doing yoga all day like I did yesterday, but alas, I’m a famous author and my audience is waiting for my next book.  Then when I’m done writing the book, I’m going to see what swamp property I can sell all those rubes at the yoga studio.

Anyone out there interested?  Your purchase will include a free yoga mat.  And while you’re at it, “just put your name on the 30 day challenge list.”

See you tomorrow!

Day One

So, I did four-and-a-half hours of hot yoga today.

Today was the first day of the Laguna Beach Bikram Yoga 30 day challenge.  Last year I performed this 30 day challenge which is held the beginning of the year to kick off the new year.  It was tough, but worth it.  Not only did my practice improve, but I felt a huge burst of energy, especially at the end of the challenge.

For those of you who don’t know, Bikram Yoga is a ninety minute yoga workout in which the same twenty-six postures are performed in the same order every time, in a room heated to 105 degrees,  I’ve been practicing for about eight years now.  Back then, I dragged my husband Kerry to the classes and when he found out how much it helped his surfing, he decided he was there to stay. I love yoga.  I started practicing when I was a teenager way back before there even was such a thing as yoga studios.  Back then, my life was a series of contradictions--yoga and bong hits, health food and Dairy Queen.  But I loved the way yoga made me feel, that deep relaxation and peace that came without having to meet someone in a dark alley for any kind of substance to get high.

I woke up this morning with great excitement, drank a cup of coffee with Kerry, then set about making my fresh juices which I planned on drinking in between classes.  I plugged in my heavy-duty Omega juicer and juiced all manner of organic vegetables to rehydrate and nourish.  These I put into Thermos’s which I had put into the freezer and toted them off to class.

Class One: 9am with Michelle.  My mind would not stop its chatter.  Am I really going to spend the whole day doing yoga?  What if I feel dizzy or nauseous?  Should I have listened to my daughter Jessica (who is more of a parent than I am) when she told me last night “Mom, that doesn’t sound safe.”  I peered out the window at a perfect seventy-three degree Laguna Beach day.  Maybe I should just go to the beach.

Class Two:  11:30 with Melissa.  I felt a little sick to my stomach because I insisted on drinking most of my homemade V8 juice after the first class.  Maybe this would be a good day for a water fast.  But Melissa entertained us with her usual upbeat personality and stories about her brother Jason who founded the Laguna Beach studio over ten years ago.   Not a class goes by that Melissa doesn’t have a fun story to tell about Jason, the poor guy who was the only brother amongst six sisters.

After the second class, I sat in my car and drank more of my homemade juice and thought about how hungry I was.  The thing about hot yoga is that you can’t eat much before classes unless you want to feel really uncomfortable.  I looked down at my belly where all that Christmas pie and cheesecake had settled.  I wanted to go home and eat.  Haven’t I worked out enough for the day?  I ran a couple of errands and started to feel better.  It was such a gorgeous day that I drove the two blocks to the beach to take a walk before the 4:30 class.  Parking was at a minimum but there was exactly one parking space available which I pulled into.  I looked up and saw that I had parked directly in front of Dominique’s old apartment by Heisler Park.  Dominique was my step-daughter, one of the true loves of my life.  I smiled as I felt her spirit and could hear her laugh.

As I walked through the park, I had to stop several times because I was overwhelmed with how beautiful everything was.  I thought about the people in other parts of the country, some who can’t even leave their houses, so high is the snow piled in front of their doors and driveways.

Photos taken today at Heisler Park courtesy of the lovely Melissa B.

It really was that gorgeous today.  As I walked, I felt light, happy and grateful.

Class Three:  4:30 with Melissa.  I couldn’t believe it, but the third class was the best.  My muscles felt loose and gumby-like.  At the end of class as we lay in Savasana (dead body pose) I felt blissed out.  I’m glad I stuck it out.

See you all tomorrow!

Kerry's Awesome Eight Hour Birthday Surf-A-Thon

My adventurous, athletic husband celebrated his birthday on Friday.  A couple of months ago I asked him how he wanted to celebrate since this was to be a big birthday.  Okay, he turned 65.

"Well," he answered slowly while putting the finishing touches on waxing his surfboard, "We're going to be in Maui in September, so why don't we surf for eight hours?"

"Straight?  No breaks?"

"Yes, eight hours straight with no breaks," he answered.

"I don't know if I can do that," I said while trying to change the subject and steer him towards a birthday celebration that included lots of red wine and chocolate.

"What do you mean?  Of course you can.  Am I talking to the same Jennifer Evans who's a seven time finisher of the Avalon 50 mile trail race?"

Maybe I took too much antacid in the 70s but I don't remember having finished that tough 50 mile trail race seven times.  I'm lucky that I remember my daughters birthdays.

"I did?"

I did!

So it was settled.  I picked up my iPhone and sent a text message to our good friend Glenn who lives in Maui:

Hi!  It's Jen.  La Machina (our nickname for Kerry because he's the machine) wants to surf for eight hours straight at Launiopoko for his birthday.  It's September 27.  You game?

Aloha Jen and La Machina!  Hey, that sounds good.  Launiopoko summer swells.  Count me in.

My main concern--and it's a valid concern in Maui--was the hot Lahaina sun beating down on us for eight hours.  I went to the ABC store, a tourist store in Hawaii that sells trinkets along with what seems to be their main line of merchandise--Hello Kitty paraphernalia--and bought a dorky hat to match Kerry's dorky hat.

September 27th the sun was just getting ready to peek over the horizon like it always does but Kerry couldn't wait.  I felt him rustling around next to me in bed.  His eyes snapped open like a ventriloquist dummies eyes and he leaped out of bed.  We both had strong Kona coffee, grabbed our ice chest which was loaded down with almond butter sandwiches, cheese and pickle sandwiches, salted macadamia nuts, coconut water and energy drinks and headed out the door.

"Slow down!" I said to my birthday boy husband as he sped along the main road leading to the beach early Friday morning.  When my husband is on his way to surf, I have only one thing to say: Everyone out of his way!

We arrived at the beach a few minutes before Glenn barreled into the parking lot and screeched to a halt.  Kerry was busy waxing our surfboards while Glenn ran around the parking lot with a quick Aloha to everyone at the beach.  Glenn is the ambassador at Launiopoko surf beach.  He's usually one of the first ones to arrive at the beach, and sometimes the last to leave.  This particular beach is great for surfing, bringing your family for a picnic, lounging underneath the shade trees and talking story with the locals.  There was no time for talking story.

"Glenn!  Have you got your waterproof watch on?" asked the birthday boy.

Glenn flexed his wrist and pointed to his over sized waterproof watch.  "Fifteen minutes until we hit the water."

"Let's start five minutes early."

I could see how this day was going to turn out: adrenaline charged.

The plan was that we'd start at eight and end at four.  The rules were that Kerry was not permitted to leave the water for any reason during that time.  I would serve as caddy, bringing the boys coconut water and sandwiches every two hours while they paddled to the area where the ocean flows out creating a natural pool, where the children like to play.

The Surf Gods were smiling on us because the weather was perfect with a slight overcast and the ocean was glassy--no wind--which would last the entire day.

We paddled out, me with a slight lump in my throat, wondering how I was going to survive eight hours in the water, Glenn with his usual smile and Kerry, the adrenaline in overdrive.  The boys caught waves right off the bat while we surfed and chatted with all the friendly people who were surfing with us.  We would end up outlasting somewhere around fifteen rotations of surfers in the lineup.

Glenn is one of the most stoked surfers I've ever met.  I am not exaggerating when I tell you that he never stops smiling when he's in the ocean.  His smile gets even bigger when he catches a wave.  "Woo Hoo!" shouted Glenn, as Kerry paddled into and caught a wave.  Glenn's enthusiasm is contagious and before long, I was shouting "Woo Hoo!" along with him not on the first wave, not on the second or third, but on every single one of the probably three hundred waves that the three of us would ride in eight hours.  That's a lot of Woo Hoo's!

Every two hours we would paddle towards the baby pool, the boys waiting in the water while I grabbed our ice chest.

"Grab me a cheese sandwich, a coconut water and one of those protein drinks, my beautiful, stunning, gorgeous, sexy athletic wife, please," said my husband.  (Hey, it's my blog, I can fabricate any words I want when describing myself!)

The three of us set up a buffet fit for a king on top of our surfboards, savored every tasty morsel, waxed up our surfboards and paddled out again for another two hours.  On our six hour mark, my arms and back were feeling pretty trashed.

"I'll never admit to being tired," I said while rubbing my shoulders.

"At least you'll never be the first one to admit to it," said Glenn followed by a "Woo Hoo!" as Kerry caught another wave.

The six hour mark was tough for all three of us.  I sat on my surfboard and tried to come up with some motivational words to tide us over when I remembered a quote from Ken Choubler, the race director of the Leadville 100 mile trail race.  "You're better than you think you are.  You can do so much more than you think you can.  We'll tell you when to start and we'll tell you when to stop.  Meanwhile, just keep moving."

I love a good endurance event.  One of the things I've learned is that the body can be trained to do pretty much anything you want it to do.  It's the mind that gets in our way and starts nagging and complaining about all the things it doesn't want to do.  Bitch, bitch, bitch.  Whine, whine, whine.  If you had a friend that nagged and complained that much would you keep that person around?  No!  So we kept paddling and catching waves,  "Woo Hoo!"  and pretty soon Glenn looked at his watch and said, "One hour left!"

It was at this point that my husband started acting like he only had one hour left to live.  The look of determination on his face which was covered with so much sunscreen that he looked like The Joker was almost menacing.  Everyone out of my way!

During this last hour, Dino Miranda who is a Pro Surfer, World Longboard Champion, Artist and oh yeah, a Professional Stuntman, paddled out to surf with us as he'd been doing periodically during the eight hours.

"He's only got an hour left and I think he wants to surf longer," Glenn told Dino between Woo Hoo's.

"Well, he can always extend it, bra," Dino answered.  "It doesn't have to be eight hours.  It can be nine."

I could see Glenn starting to get a little worried that this was going to be our fate when he asked me, "Is he always like this?"

"Yes, my friend, I hate to break it to you but he's always like this.  His eyes snap open in the morning and he goes like hell until he collapses at the end of the day.  But it beats the alternative."

I've had boyfriends on every end of this spectrum--some who didn't like to work out at all and one who dropped dead at the end of a marathon.  When I heard this sad news my first comment was, "Did he cross the finish line?"

"Five minutes!" yelled Glenn.

Kerry became even fiercer in his determination.  "This is addicting.  I'm feeling kind of crazy like I don't want to stop," he told me while scanning the ocean as another set of waves came through.  We all caught one final wave, then caught one last inside wave together and emerged from the ocean with huge grins on our faces.

We were greeted by the Launiopoko locals with cheers, hugs and lots of Woo Hoo's.

From there we dragged our tired bodies to the Aloha Mixed Plate Grill in Lahaina along with Pro Surfer Dino, his wife Kioko and their darling baby boy who is already learning how to surf.  They start them young here in Maui where the water is warm and the stoke-factor is high.

Much laughter was had over an authentic Hawaiian dinner of white rice, grilled chicken, juicy marinated steak, Asian crispy noodles and their signature dessert, fresh coconut custard.

Dino, who is even more of an adrenaline junkie than the rest of us, confessed that when he saw me leave the ocean periodically to grab our ice chest of supplies, he thought we'd caved in and given up.  "Bra, I was wondering what you were doing by the baby pool.  Then I saw you Three Musketeers paddle out again."

Kerry and I made it back to our condo in Kahana where we enjoyed hot showers, then collapsed at 8:30.

When we woke up the following morning, the first words out of Kerry's mouth were, "Let's go to Slappy Cakes for breakfast."

"Not until we go to hot yoga first."

Glenn, stoked surfer that he is, showed up at Launiopoko bright and early for a surf session.  "You know, this makes me wonder what I should do for my birthday," he told me.  "Kerry set the bar for all those guys on the beach, yah?"

As for Kerry and I, we sweated through ninety minutes of hot yoga that morning, then feasted on pancakes with shredded coconut and macadamia nut butter syrup.  I can't wait to see what my Surfer Boy has planned for next year.

Congratulations to all three of us and especially my Surfer Boy husband.  You inspire me every day.  You're a true testament to the old adage "age is only a number".  In fact, you seem to get younger every day.  I love you and our adventurous life together.

Pancho and Sancho

"Dude, that board is sick!"

Well it used to be, that is before my Surfer Boy husband decided to take it out into the ocean on a death defying big wave day.  He came home from the beach, two pieces of neatly cut foam and fiberglass, one in each hand with a bereft look on his face.

"Are you okay?"  I said while anxiously checking his body for signs of injury or limping.

"Yeah, I'm okay but my board is not."

Leave it to a surfer to be more concerned about the condition of his surfboard.  Enter the Ding Doctor at DingDrX Surfboard Repair in San Clemente California.

Off we went, to San Clemente, home of Randall, one of the original Ding Doctors.

I set my purse down in his work area when suddenly I saw two raccoons dressed in white coats going through the contents.  Out came my lipstick as they unscrewed the top with their deft little hands, trying to figure out how it worked, out came my wallet containing my life savings, out came a pack of chewing gum which they were just unwrapping when I finally stopped them.

Pancho and Sancho

"What the?  Randall, where did these cute little guys come from?"

It turns out that one of Randall's friends had a neighbor who had four baby raccoons born in his attic.  The mother ended up on the wrong end of someones gun.  The babies were left without a mommy.

"It was a natural decision to take them in." said Randall.  The raccoons were infants at the time.

How do you care for baby raccoons?  That's what The Ding Dr. wanted to know.  Local veterinarians weren't much help so it was off to the Internet trying to find the little information there was.

Thus started the long nights, up every couple of hours bottle feeding the little babes.  Hot water bottles had to be kept constantly warm to mimic the mothers body heat.  The nights were sleepless and the days were zombie-like for Randall.  Two of the babies didn't make it, but two did.  Randall proudly named them Pancho and Sancho, poured them a big bowl of Friskies cat food to celebrate, and put them to work in the ding repair shop, entertaining locals and customers alike.

Daddy/Mommy Randall with Pancho and Sancho

Randall, the owner and operator of the original DingDrX surfboard ding repair shop in San Clemente will fix your board so that you can't even tell where it was broken.  I took one of my boards on a surf trip to Costa Rica a year ago when the baggage claim folks decided it would be a good idea to run over the nose of my board with their truck.  Randall fixed it good as new.  He's also a talented artist and will paint whatever design you would like on your surfboard or stand up paddle board.

As for my Surfer Boy husband: "I've been surfing all my life and I've never found anyone who can fix my broken or delaminated boards the way Randall does." If that weren't the case, I'm here to tell you that this would not be a happy household.  And a hush comes over the land.

Kerry, Happily Back to Charging Big Waves

Next time you snap your board in half while shredding Pipeline or the Trestles, or the airline folks decide to play Frisbee with your short board, pay a visit to the Ding Doctor.  Who knows?  You may even get to play with Pancho and Sancho.

Call The Ding Doctor in San Clemente, CA for an appointment today:  (949) 294-4741

Race Report from 1998 - PCT 50 - A Cautionary Tale

The Start of the PCT 50

It's never too late for a good old fashioned race report.  Why do today what you can put off for fourteen years?

Back at the tender age of thirty eight - you do the math - I decided that it would be a wonderful idea to run my first fifty mile trail race.  I had a few road marathons under my belt.  I'd spent some time alone to the tune of five or six hours at a stretch traversing Saddleback Mountain.  I had my Power Bars, a hydration fanny pack, determination, grit and many friends in the Ultrarunning community.

I started asking all these wonderful people - both of them - what would be a good first fifty?  Marty piped up immediately with the name of a race in San Diego.

I'm not going to tell you that the race is called the PCT 50.  I'm not going to tell you that it has a fun reputation of being jinxed.  I'm not going to tell you that I've run that race amidst an active forest fire, that it got cancelled half way through one year for an impassable snow storm when Ben Hian was in first place at the turnaround.  No, I won't tell you any of those things.  Instead, I'll tell you about my experience that fine day in November of 1998.

My best, and only training partner at the time was my buddy, Bartender Bob.   One night, Bob was at the Hare Krishna Temple in Laguna Beach having dinner.  The Temple had a tasty vegetarian feast that was only six bucks - all you can eat.  Plus, the Krishna devotees are really nice folks, they don't try to convert you.  Bob was minding his own business when a likeable young man, who also happens to be a top ten finisher at Western States 100 - the grandaddy of all Ultramarathons - saw Bob's race t-shirt.  It bore the name of some triathlon that Bob had completed.  This nice young man saw the t-shirt, raised his eyebrows and announced "I've got something you might be interested in"  Bob mentally steeled himself for this poor guys' sales presentation for Amway.  But no!  It turned out to be even more of a scam.  Ultrarunning.

Bartender Bob was introduced to the world of long distance running.  He then introduced me to the joy of sweat, hard work, dehydration, laughter and pushing your body to extremes.  And the endorphin high.  That's what gets you hooked.  I decided right then and there, that if there was a way I could get a morphine-like substance into my body without having to meet those dudes in the back alley - I was gonna do it!

The PCT 50 - which stands for Pacific Crest Trail 50 was to be my first 50.  I tried to talk Bob into doing it with me, but it was not to be.  He was suffering from some injury or another at the time.  He did, however,  accompany me to the weekend we had planned in the fine town of Pine Valley.  The motel was a cheap little affair but it featured a nice swimming pool.  There are not many restaurants to pick from.  Directly across the parking lot from our motel was a place called Steph's Donut Hole.  What more does a carbo loading ultrarunner need?

The race start was 6am at the local High School.  It's an out and back course which features a downhill finish.  How wonderful, thought I.  My trail running claim to fame is hill running.  Downhill.  The morning was chilly and I was nervous.  The field of eighty runners huddled together as the race director shouted "Go"!  Talk about fanfare.

My run was going along swimmingly.  Vast amounts of time in Ultra Marathons are spent blissfully alone, unless you have a running partner with you.  I didn't.  I did have a disposable camera with me to capture the scenery.  Forget about church on Sunday.  This is my sanctuary:

At the turnaround, I shed my warm running tights and long sleeved shirt in favor of some cute little peach colored silky running shorts and a tank top.  Halfway there!  On the way back, inexperienced I, started following some pretty pink trail ribbons.  Now let me explain that trail races are marked by colorful ribbons at what is usually very large intervals.  It's always helpful, during the race briefing, to pay attention to the Race Director when they tell you what color the ribbon markings will be.  Did I pay attention?  I think you know the answer to that one.

I had a really good pace going when suddenly I realized that I was not in Kansas anymore.  The pink trail ribbons led me into a remote area that succeeded in resulting in lots of scratches on my sexy bare legs.  I ended up standing on top of a boulder, looking like a sailor on a ship, hand held up to cover the sun from my eyes, surveying where in the heck I was.  Pranksters had put up phony trail markings.  Buyer beware.  It happens more often than you think.

Up until this point, I had been concerned with the normal concerns of a healthy Ultra Runner; what I was eating, how much my electrolyte intake was, how warm or cool my body was staying.  Now I was only concerned with one thing.  Will I ever see my children again?

Now about this time, the next aid station that I was to have run through, was closing down.  The aid station captain glanced worriedly at his clipboard wondering what happened to number 153 - Jennifer Evans.  It was also about this time that Bartender Bob, who was waiting for me at the finish line got the message that number 153 was missing.

Jennifer Evans was worried about other things besides the aid station and whether or not I'd see my children again.  I was judiciously looking at the sun to see how much time I had left before it set.  Being a back-of-the-packer, I was prepared for nightfall with a flashlight, but it was waiting for me in a drop back at the now closed aid station.

As the sun slowly made its way to the horizon, this lost runner slowly made her way to the Miracle of all Miracles: The Sunrise Highway and what meant a chance of civilization!

After crossing the Sunrise Highway, I made my way to the next fortuitous chance of salvation.  The Sunrise Highway General Store and the gentleman who was to be my, ahem - Savior:

Disclaimer: I have no idea who the person in this photo is.  This story is not a work of fiction but any reference made to persons real is purely accidental.

The photo above may not be the real Sunrise Highway General Store, but it's close enough.  It was the kind of a place where you could get yourself a Big Gulp, a pack of Winstons and a Girlie Magazine, if that's what you're partial to.  As you can see, they also accept not only every major credit card, but some I've never heard of.  The total number of credit cards I carried that day equaled exactly zero.

I walked in with my bloodied up legs asking if anyone knew where the High School was as I needed a ride.  A hardy young gentleman wearing a plaid shirt and a torn pair of jeans proclaimed "I know where that is.  When I was in high school, I played football and we used to kick their ass"!

Well allrighty then.  I figured he was as good a man as any to give me a ride back to the Start/Finish.

Folks, if you take no other advice in your life from this tattered Ultra Runner, please heed this word of warning: If you can't tell if a car is a Pinto or a Gremlin....... do not get in it!

The real Pinto/Gremlin was more of a puke colored green.  My host and driver - I never quite got his name, but I'll call him Jethro - proudly escorted me to his sun faded car.

"I was in a fifty mile race and got lost" Said I.

Jethro eyed the race number pinned to the front of my running shorts and said "Where's your bike"?

"No, no, you don't understand.  This is a running race"

When I sat in the passenger seat, my gaze fell on the floorboard of the Pinto/Gremlin.  Or what I could see of it underneath all the trash.  Let's see, discarded Slim Jim wrapper, a few cigarette butts, fast food wrappers - a regular back country buffet!

We sped along the Sunrise Highway with the sky slowly turning multicolored, Jethro telling me that he planned on spending the night out in the desert and doin' him a little quail hunting.

Okay - so that means there's a firearm of some sort in this jalopy.  Lovely.

Suddenly Jethro made a sharp left hand turn onto a back country road and announced "I know a shortcut"!

Up until this point in my life, I'd never been that big on prayer - Catholic school cured me of that one - but I figured now would be as good a time as any to get my affairs in order.

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned.  It's been thirty eight years since my last confession, and these are my sins".

My prayer was abruptly cut short by the screeching of worn tires as Jethro slammed the car to a stop in the middle of BFE.

"What the"?  At this point I was wondering -  First: how bad do I smell after running all day long?  The worst I've ever smelled in my life.  One point for my team.  Second:  How fast could I run?  Faster than Jethro, for sure.

There were two reasons for Jethro's abrupt stop.  One reason was to hop out of the car and pop himself a cool one from his twelve pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon which was in the back storage area of the Pinto/Gremlin.  Said vehicle did not have a trunk, which is good because that way, no dead bodies can be found in the trunk.  The other reason was for what is politely referred to as a pit stop.

Now I may be blond, but I'm not....okay, yes I must have been dumb that day.  I decided to stay in the car and see this thing out.  Heck, I might be able to blog about it one day.  How cool would that be?

"You know, this race is closely followed by the latest in walkie talkies.  I didn't make it to the last check point.  It's just a matter of time before a search party is sent out to look for me" I said, in my best Joe Friday voice.  Jethro seemed unimpressed as he drove on.

Finally, after what was only ten minutes, but seemed like ten hours, we spotted the last aid station.  "There they are"!  I yelled.

Jethro pulled over as I clamored out of the Pinto/Gremlin as fast as I could.  The aid station volunteers were all over me with alcohol swabs and band-aids to fix up my badly scratched legs.  But I wouldn't let them help.  No.  I wanted my war wounds to go with the story.  I had earned them.

I'm happy to report that I went on to cross the finish line at numerous fifty mile races.

I will end with a note of caution to my daughters who are now aged twenty four and twenty five.  If you ever do any of the things that your Mother did and live to tell about it - you are grounded!

Jen's Awesome New Westsuit Review

California has some of the best surf in the world.  It's consistent, glassy, a great place to meet totally cute guys like my Surfer Boy husband, oh and one more thing about California surf - it's freaking freezing!

I seem to have what's referred to as cold hands (and feet), warm heart.  I grew up in Miami and I was cold there.

I am very happy to report that this surfer girl can give you a five star rating on my new Patagonia Wetsuit.  I'm the envy of all the surfers down at our local surf spot and am telling everyone who will listen just how great this wetsuit really is.

I love to surf.  Being that it's March, the water temperature has been hovering around 56 degrees.  My surf sessions have been accompanied by much complaining - again to anyone who will listen - and a hasty exit out of the ocean after about an hour with my tail tucked between my legs.

No more!  You guys have just got to check this new wetsuit out.  My surf sessions are now easily two hours and I could extend it to three hours, no prob, dude.  I'm totally stoked, man.  I think I'll check in on Face Book, take pictures for the blog and maybe even become a Patagonia spokesperson.

As my good friend Charlie says, I look like a model for  The Price Is Right

The wetsuit is made from recycled (Patagonia likes to use the word recycled every chance they get) polyester, chloroprene rubber - I've never met a man who didn't love a woman in rubber - and the real magic: Merino Wool lined.

What is Merino Wool, you might ask?  Only the finest, comfiest, highest quality, known for its superb wicking abilities, wool.  At least it's not Virgin Wool, which as we all know, comes from ugly sheep.

Here's what a Merino Sheep, prized livestock that they are, look like:

Wouldn't you just love to have my coat for the lining of your wetsuit?

As you can tell, I couldn't be more thrilled with this new development in my surfing career.  I'm paddling out with a huge grin on my face, taking off on steep waves with utter confidence that my body's not going to freeze up, practicing my spinners and ballerina moves.  All the other surfers in the lineup are looking at me wondering - "What happened to you" ?  They all want some of the kool-aide I'm drinking.

So, if you live in a cold water environment, or if you have aspirations of taking a surf trip to Alaska, the Patagonia Wetsuit is for you.

Excuse me now, while I slither like a snake into my new wetsuit (no back zipper friends) grab my surf board, booties and my smile for a surf session out in the Pacific Ocean.

See you in the lineup!

Leavin' this page for awhile

On to other things right now, namely, family, friends and my mentor, Dominique.

Check me out at:

helpdominique.blogspot.com