Martial arts has moved forward since Bruce Lee dazzled with new fighting styles and choreographed movie fight scenes that are classics.
Now, real fighting happens on cable TV and the ancient ” Friday night at the fights” has been trounced by MMA cage fighting. This remains the most brutal action available and those stepping in the ring seriously have to know that if they are not in the shape of their life the other guy or girl will clean their clock.
This morning in San Pedro Town a lesson is in progress. Fighting still happens here and issues are resolved the old fashioned way.
This maestro explains theory, then shows it. Watching, it is clear he knows what he is talking about, takes his art serious, and gives good knowledge. He doesn’t look in the best shape but I wouldn’t want to mix it with him.
There is talk of physics, motion, momentum, following your punch or kick, spinning and deflecting, picking your spots, defense, body weak points, take downs, not hitting and backing away to give your foe a chance to regroup, using elbows, knees and skull, twisting your knuckles as you strike.
Fighting is an art, but, bottom line, it is avoiding confrontation, and, when you have no other choice, taking your opponent out quickly before he does you damage.
Holly Holm, the preacher’s daughter, just put Albuquerque, New Mexico on the map in her title bout against Ronda Rousey.
This martial arts lesson has my full interest.
It turns out to be a good hike.
There are less than 10 walkers this morning but numbers will grow to over twenty five as tourist season picks up.
One of the most difficult tasks is learning names of the group so I make myself crutches. Dean has a goatee, Dale has a pony tail, Charlie has sand flea bites, Eric smokes a cigar, John has big glasses and likes to tell jokes, Scotty brought his dog and is sometimes called Eric, Dino walks with a limp and has to ride a golf cart, Larry has a blue baseball cap, Rabbit looks like he just came out of Alice in Wonderland. Alan is a quiet guy with a mustache.
This expedition the pace is slow, you drink at your own speed, people talk about who is on the island, who is coming to the island, who left the island. There is discussion about a man who got himself stabbed to death but it was ruled an accident, officially. Unofficially, he slept with the wrong someone. There is talk about how cold it is in Canada, appointments to get wi fi, prices paid to rent on the beach so you get a good breeze and don’t need air conditioning. Sports is covered, politics is quickly dismissed as a fool’s game, and your personal issues remain fair game even if you don’t bring them up.
We leave at eleven in the morning and don’t get back till five in the afternoon. We walk more than two miles, visit four bars, have lunch at one, and all hands are safely accounted for.
I’m going next Wednesday and will wear my official T shirt.
I don’t have to read newspapers to learn news that counts in San Pedro Town.
I’m not a Canadian but this bar sounds crazy and who wants to sit in a bar that isn’t crazy?
As spirits flow, you want to be carried along in a stream of conviviality, experience bursts of laughter, hear jokes you never heard before that are really funny, and only fall down once or twice on the way home with someone,you, at least, get along with.
Crazy Canuck’s Bar was mentioned in Trip Advisor so I make a pilgrimage.
Sitting at the counter for happy hour, several patrons use free wi-fi and have Belikin beer, the national beer of Belize from the Mayan Temple. I like to hear bald faced lies and a bar is the best place to hear tall tales, ghost stories, gossip and real island news.
At Crazy Canuck’s the weekly schedule runs the gamut from crab races, to trivia, to karaoke, to live reggae.
After a half hour at the counter, bar regular Alan shakes my hand and tells me about a weekly Wednesday event that will happen Tuesday this week because elections are Wednesday and the bar is closed on election day.
” We call it the Walkaholic Walk, ” he explains. ” We take a hike down the beach, without stopping. Then, on the way back, we start drinking…… ”
” I’ll go, ” I say, ” What time? ”
” Eleven. ”
Drinking and walking is more healthy than drinking and driving.
There aren’t many rides on this Midway but those that are here give kids a thrill.
Precious children are flung through space, turned upside down, and hold on screaming for dear life.
This circus has an old time Ferris Wheel. There is the Hammer and the Swinger, the Fun Slide, Mad Hatter Tea Cups, a Spinning Wheel, and a Fun House. Families buy ride coupons at small booths and hand them to scruffy men or tall lean teenagers wearing John Deere ball caps. They wait in lines for a ride to finish and then are loaded into seats, baskets, or capsules like bullets into a chamber.
The amusement area at the Punkin Chunkin Festival is a maze of pipes, high voltage electric cables, gears, pulleys, wheels, wire cages and seats, sounds of straining engines, lights, chain link fences to keep people going the correct direction. Machinery is always looking to grab hands in the wrong places.
Parents take pictures of their offspring spinning through the air, rushing down a long slide sitting on burlap bags, spinning in tea cups, or locked inside a metal cage that keeps them from falling when they are upside down twenty feet in the air twisting like a dust devil.
In old days the circus had elephants, animal acts, bearded ladies, carnie games, clowns and dancing girls. The circus has shrunk, almost vanished.
You don’t need a tattooed lady when women in the crowd have tattoos of their own inked in public and private places.
Video games have become our new Ferris Wheel.
In the distance, ATV’s and pickup trucks wait for this year’s contest to begin, looking themselves like small tin cans hung on a fence post for target practice. They scurry around after each shot, mark where pumpkins come back to Earth and send back GPS co-ordinates that help calculate the distance of each shot.
On the firing line there is activity as half a dozen cannons are lined up and crews are checking mechanisms, counting pumpkins, and figuring how to beat competitors. The King and Queen of the Punkin’ Chunkin’ Festival has been crowned. Winners of raffles have been announced. Lunch is winding down and stragglers hurry to grandstands from full parking lots.
There are a few issues, but, by one in the afternoon, pumpkins are being launched, one after another. There is a siren to warn us of a firing, then, a few seconds later, an explosion.
Pumpkins shoot out of the barrels hot. If you are sitting just right, you can track the pumpkin as it leaves the barrel, follow it in its arc till it plummets into the field and splatters into harmless slices of pumpkin pie. No one gets injured, maimed or killed in this war. It is country fun for country folks.
The distances are announced over a simple public address system and the crowd cheers for a good shot.
The winning shot, this year, travels 3185 feet. Competition is fierce and people enjoy the annual event.
Trying to do it better is what keeps this country alive, even if it is chunkin’ punkin’s, spitting sunflower seeds, or tossing cow chips.
Saturday night football has pulled into the station.
Leaves are turning, temps dip into the forties at night, football practice consumes players, and especially coaches.
This Saturdays game matches the Arizona Western Matadors and the New Mexico Military Institute Broncos. Richard’s son, Drew, coaches offense for the Broncos and Richard supports his sons. I rode shotgun down and watch this evening’s game from the bleachers as a visiting nationally ranked team in their division meets Drew’s team, close and personal.
Football is one of America’s popular spectator sports.
All the details are here: bright lights, a grass field with two goalposts and freshly marked yard lines, grandstands, a bright scoreboard, friends and family following action, teams moving onto and off the field of dreams, halftime activities, sounds of hard contact, the execution and non execution of carefully designed plays practiced all week on this same field by the home team.
Football is a team sport with individual stars. It is a combination of planning and chance. The best team doesn’t always win.
These two teams are evenly matched with only a few key plays making the difference. There is an opening game run by the Matadors that puts the Broncos behind early. At the end of the first half the Broncos leave the field with the ball on the Matadors seven yard line.
When the game is over the Broncos lose with the final score 28 to 26. After the game we go down on the field. Cadets, released to return to their barracks, cross the field around us.
Drew’s next week will be a study of this game and a preparation for the next. There will be high fives for some players and thumbs down for others.
For spectators, a football game is over when it is over. For coaches, the games play like film loops in their brain all season, and, sometimes, many seasons.
Drew is disappointed with the outcome, but pleased with his players.
1990 was one of the last years Toyota made these mini-motor homes.
This little baby has a 6 cylinder 3.0 EFI engine, gets sixteen miles per gallon depending on terrain and weather and road conditions. She has air conditioning, a refrigerator that runs on electric or propane, propane heat, a small bathroom and shower, a kitchen sink and counter, microwave, a dining room table and a couch. You sleep in an overhead bed over the truck engine and there is cabinet space for the few things you take with you.
Research shows Gypsies have long been in America and the gypsy soul is a part of our American experience. There is an entire culture of retired middle class couples who move back and forth across the United States living in two hundred thousand dollar diesel pushers staying in National Parks and State campgrounds. There are disabled vets and singles who live in recreational vehicles and park at a different Wal-Mart each evening to stay one step ahead of homelessness.
Living life as a RV snail has advantages because you can drive away from your problems with a turn of an ignition key.
A gypsy soul is hard to get rid of when you were born with it.
The Sandia Peak Tram has been with us fifty years.
According to our tram operator there are 600,000 patrons each year and the only time the tram shuts down is when the wind blows over fifty miles per hour or threatening lightning storms are close.
The tram has been stuck in the middle of its run a few times when electric went out or a fuse blew, but the operator doesn’t say anything about an incident years ago that had people lowered by ropes from the tram car to the desert floor. In the summer, the ride makes mountain views and hiking easily accessible. In the winter, skiers can go directly to Sandia mountain ski lifts without having to drive the back side of the mountain up winding narrow snow packed mountain roads.
The idea for the tram came from a man named Robert Nordstrum, and his friend Ben Abruzzo. Mr. Nordstrum went to Europe and decided to bring a tram to Albuquerque. There were technical challenges but the tram has become a part of our community. Abruzzo started the Albuquerque Balloon Festival that maintains a world reputation and brings thousands to the city each fall.
This afternoon Robert, a friend, looks over the edge of the cliff. We are going to hike the trail that goes from the Tram to the top of Sandia Crest.
From up here, looking out, like ancient man, – my issues don’t look as important as I thought they were.
In all four corners of our state, as well as the middle, we have sovereign Indian nations who have land,an ancient culture, designer golf courses, hotels, and casinos.
The Pueblo of Cochiti is a thirty minute drive from Albuquerque along I- 25 to Santa Fe. Before you get to La Bajada Hill you turn off, skirt Cochiti Lake, and come to a Robert Trent Jones Architects designed golf course nestled in canyons in the heart of their reservation.
On Wednesday, the course isn’t crowded and Richard and I get on without a tee time.
This course requires straight drives, good putting, and a torrid short game. If you stray from fairways you lose your ball in snake country. When you are on the course you are lost in nature. Cell phones don’t work. The internet is inaccessible. Clouds pop up like snowflakes – no two alike.
This course seems made for heaven.
It doesn’t seem frivolous to believe angels play here regular, their bags in the back of carts and their wings tucked close to their bodies so they can maintain the proper swing plane. They play at night under the moon, watched by coyotes, and never use the Lord’s name in vain.
This Memorial Day weekend boatloads of city folk are out and about.
On a usual hike up the Embudo Canyon trail in the Sandia Mountains Alex the architect and I encounter only a few bipeds.
Today, two parking lots are full of cars and dogs scamper across the canyon with noses to the ground. From the second parking lot it is a mile hike up Heartbreak Hill past a city water reservoir to a rock dam built in the thirties by a rancher with thirsty livestock. At the dam there are cottonwoods and rock formations that peer down at you as if you were on trial at a Survivor Series tribal council. There is no council this morning but there are rock climbers testing themselves.
Two rope lines stretch from the trail, up the rock face, over the top of the spires. A man in yellow reveals in conversation that the lines are tied to pitons on top and are for safety. The climbers, young and old, climb the rock face freestyle, but remain tethered to the lines in case of slips or miscalculations. There are two adults and three kids on this outing. It is the first time I have seen climbers here and the cliffs, though appearing formidable, are nothing more than child’s play.
On the hike back down to the parking lot, it is cool, an untypical spring day.
I don’t take up their offer to climb.
When you get a few years under your belt you start to decline stuff you have no business declining.
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