Service with Ismail...

It's a brave new India we live in.

Whether you believe in the doomsday Mayan calendar or not, the rate of change seems to have gotten a lot faster in the last decade.

If you look at any period of rapid progress in history, you'll see that Change, that famous "constant of life", is always a mixed bag.

My fish screensaver entry for today concerns my experience in trying to get a faulty laptop fixed in today's fast changing India.

There was a time when you couldn't get a Mac serviced in India for love or money. Now, thanks to the proliferation of impossibly beautiful 'I" objects from Steve Jobs' farm, (I-pods, I-phones,etc.), each Indian metro has a few dedicated companies that sell and/or service the forbidden fruit.

Last Saturday, I took my I-Book G4 to a south Delhi-based Apple Sales & Service company. (For those still looking at life through Pieces of Crap(s) :-), the G4 is a last generation processor, which has been phased out of service in many places)

I know the G4 is an old machine, but it's been trouble-free for the six years I've had it.

A few days back, the Airport (WiFi receiver) card stopped working. My own troubleshooting couldn't fix it and internet help forums told me that the problem was most likely a loose or dusty Airport Card. So, I decided it would be best for a hardware guy to look at it.

That was last Saturday and the Nice Lady at Reception warned me that they had a minimum service charge of Rs.1500/-. That sounded steep all right, but hey, when you divide it by six years and it doesn't look too bad.

She then volunteered a sweetener; since the solution involved opening up the laptop, customers usually got other stuff done at the same time - put in some extra RAM or Hard Disk Memory. She promised to call me on Monday, when my machine was open, to tell me what extra stuff could be put in, at an extra, parts-only cost.

That was the clincher. "Nice Lady, professional place...and if I want a good service engineer taking my Mac apart, even if its only to dust the parts, I must be ready to pay the price...fair enough, " I said to myself, and left my computer behind with a smile.

Monday, no call. "Ah well, first day of the busy work week," I said to myself. Tuesday, no call. "Was it one of those Tuesday-off places?". Wednesday, still no call. I got worried. I called Nice Lady, expecting an apology and an explanation.

Smiling through complaints is easy...

"Ismail, our only service engineer who can open the old IBook is busy in the field," she said tersely. I was stumped. Why had she not called me to tell me about the delay? At this, she could only repeat her earlier answer. I was getting a little pissed off with Not-So-Nice-Anymore Lady. When would she get the job done? "Thursday." she said. "Pucca".

Thursday, again no call. I called, mercury already rising under my collar. "Ismail's not in office today also (sic)," she said. I'd had enough. "I coming to get my laptop back," I said and cut the line. (can't slam down a cellphone, can you? :-)

I walked in fuming. Positively-No-Good Lady pointed me to a sofa and mumbled into the intercom. Out came a hassled looking chap, carrying my Ibook, booted up. (I later learnt that he was Ismail, the Old-IBook-Engineer of the Prophesy.) "Airport card eej working," he said, tapping rapidly on the keys and stepping aside to show me.

"What?" I was taken by surprise. "When was it fixed?" And why was I not called about the additional RAM and Hard Disk space to be put in?

"Ispair parts not availbal", he said shoving a form in front of me. "Pleej sign here and pay 1655 at counter"

"Did you change any parts to fix the WiFi?" I said. "No. Just dusting." And he wanted Rs.1655/- for just that?!

I protested. The value-for-money fuse in my head had been blown.

I made my displeasure clear. Ismail disappeared into the bowels of the service centre. Out came a Supervisor-type. He heard the whole story again, and repeated the girl's and Ismail's responses in his own baritone at the appropriate places. I was not impressed. I expected an apology at the least and none was on the horizon.

Finally, in what seemed like an attempt to turn the tables and shame me, he said "If you're not happy with our service, no need to pay."

Aha. "Did you have to put in any new parts to fix my WiFi?" I asked, just to be sure of what I was about to do.

"No," he said, curtly.

I smiled, shook his hand firmly and said "That's fair then. No charges. I appreciate it," and walked away with my laptop.

There was a collective gasp behind me as I left their office. An Indian had just violated the Shaming Code.

The correct behaviour would have been to accept defeat in the face of his moral checkmate, apologise for doubting his good intentions (despite the shitty service) and pay up quietly. Instead, I had behaved like a brazen "Forrner".

But I felt fine. I feel fine even now, as I write about it. Completely be-sharam. Shame-less :-)

Now to tie the story back to what I started it with: Like all Change, the one in this story is a mixed bag.

I'm glad that there are Apple Service chaps in Indian metro cities now. This comes at a price, Rs.1500/- minimum, for a professional service. No problems till this point. But the 'professional service' exists only on paper today.

In reality, they want Rs.1500/- (plus service tax?) for dusting my laptop, not doing the other stuff they promised and totally exasperating me over 5 days.

Maybe, I've caught the change in the middle of the transition. One day, I hope, it will go all the way.

For now it's still, "Oye Emptor, zara bachke...! "

Of Santas (& Bantas) in Delhi Decembers...

Is there something about the cold that makes us more human?

In Delhi, over the past ten days, temperatures have been dipping. Winter winds from the Himalayas have been blowing through the streets and the sun has been warming us for barely a couple of hours during the day.

Nothing unusual for this time of year. Delhites don't mind. Of course, they complain, but that's just the perennial human dissatisfaction we all share for the Weather (whatever it may be at that point of time; "too hot", "too cold", "too rainy" - take your pick according to your corner of the universe)

For the most part though, everyone in Delhi loves the fact that they live in an Indian metro city that actually has a winter.

Late mornings spent cozying in Rajais, hot chole-bature, endless cups of hot tea or coffee, window shopping in the warm fashions of the season, the occasional bonfire at a party and of course, Scotch (that golden standard of a good time in saddi Dilli) - people make the most of the winter here.

That's just the general backdrop around this time of the year.

Now for the real reason behind this entry. Here she is:

Circa 2009, winter, in a hand-me-down from one of her proverbial best friends

It's clearly not the best protection against anything - even if it wasn't torn. But the banian (singlet) she's wearing just shows that someone cared enough.

She most likely also has a plastic tub with water somewhere - a discarded home-delivery thingie, with a few biscuits or stale roties alongside. She came right up to me, tail wagging, no fear of humans, so it's likely that she's been spared the cruelty of some of her not-so-best two-legged friends.

Then there's the blackie, with his cushion, which someone was thoughtful enough to move onto a pile of sand, so he could laze on it and catch some vitamin D during the day (...but forgot to move it back to under the common staircase at night - hey! don't blame them so easily...no one's perfect :-)

Blackie, curled up on his cushion

All around south Delhi, I see more such examples of humanity in the winter. While the labradors and alsatians I pass in the Jahanpanah forest on my daily runs are smartly turned out in expensive doggie tartans, their lesser cousins on the street corners too show evidence of friends who care.

Come December and Santas (& Bantas) of Dilli seem to get bitten by the seasonal cheer :-)

I may be going out on a limb here, but I'm not sure we feel as generous towards our best friends in the summer. What say?

That's Fresh!

I began this blog by warning you that a Durian, by any other name, would still be an acquired taste. (see here)

Today, I saw a commercial on national TV that referred to another fruit, reminded me of the Durian reference and forced me to smile.

It's called Lemon Mobiles.

If you don't live in India, or don't watch enough TV, you can catch this masterpiece here

When I was in school, the poor lemon was a much maligned fruit. To be "sold a lemon" meant, in the English language, to be cheated into buying a defective product. (The irony of this definition is doubled when the guy in the ad - the fighter pilot who moonlights as a chauffeur on private corporate jets? - tells his girl that his Lemon Mobile is "bilkul zero defect, tumhari tarah! :-)

Ok, so maybe that's just the British usage. What about the others? I checked. Apparently, much of the US of A too considers the 'defective/substandard' connotation standard, especially with reference to used cars in that country.

Once again, 'Lemon' did not seem the best name for a product. (For crying out loud, even the luckless lemonade guys, whose hands are tied by the very product they have to sell, come up with names like 'LMN')

Then why? I decided to probe further; maybe there were other, more contemporary uses of the term that I was unaware of. There were indeed. Not one, but two.

Both were from pornographic literature; the first, to refer to a lesbian relationship and the second, to let readers of such material know, on the contents page itself, that the story marked 'Lemon' contained explicit descriptions of sex.

Sir, could I interest you in a lemon?

Could either of these be what the owner (malik?) of Lemon Mobiles was thinking about? Somehow, I doubt it.

So, my fishscreen conclusion is that the name is just one of those things that can happen when you work with a foreign language.

On the movie screen of my mind, I see the good man unveiling his idea to his managers with a flourish, "Ik Amrica da world famous Appal, ik sadda Lemon - dono THE best." ...and they say in unison "Hit hai ji, hit hai!"

We're not alone. Japan is replete with some of the best examples of this sort of aspirational faux pas. Check it out here

Et tu...

"Your soul for the chance to mess with others like you for the rest of your life."

That's what I figure the Devil must have offered a friend who recently migrated to the "Other" side.

He is no longer a vendor, waiting at pre-bid meetings to hear the client's wish list. Instead, he's now the Client, asks for the world in return for peanut shells, arrives last at meetings and proceeds to dish out impossible inanities that we all have to pretend we understand and take notes of.

Incidentally, this blog started with a vendor reality check...actually, it features a marketing cow-worker, but trust me, these two creatures are entirely fungible. If you missed it, catch it here.)

Back to this ex-friend. He's making rapid strides towards earning his spurs in his new herd. He's already mastered the art of saying nothing while continuously making sounds with words. "Seamlessly mesh these opposing objectives with each other and I think you have a broad idea of our overall expectations from this project." This, from a chap who used to say usually say things like "Are you nuts? How can we finish ALL THAT in a week?"

He's a Client now, no longer bound by such definite, cruel, Vendor logic.

Brute Force

He's traded it for the kinder, softer, infinitely malleable position of a client. He's able to keep a perfectly straight face and describe something that requires doubling of the budget as "a bit of a stretch, but one that I have no doubt you'll find a way of making happen without any budgetary implications."

I appreciate that the vendor-client relationship is intrinsically adversorial. Both may want a good final product, but they obviously go in opposite directions on price. I also understand that someone's got to do the "other" job too.

It just seems that if you were ever a vendor to start with, your soul is the last sale you have to close before you get a job on the other side.

Cats & Dogs

I’m going to try to keep this short. It’s just an observation I’ve stretched out; a 30ml espresso subject to a hot shower and turned into a 60ml americano.

I spend a reasonable amount of time at coffee shops. My line of work lets me and I love the stuff. I’ve been visiting these merchants of buzz from the turn of the century, when they first began to appear in the large Indian cities.

My café of choice in Delhi is the Café Coffee Day. This chain has at least 4 outlets within 2 kilometers of my home in South Delhi. Of these, I get my daily fix from a particular outlet, whose staff I have trained to get my cappuccino just right (Double-shot, not watery, thick foam on top)

My daily poison

They know that I will send it back if its not to my liking, and more than once at that. Yet, despite the regular training, their best intentions and my large tips (20%, every single time), mishaps happen at least once a week.

But the young boys and girls at CCD (as the kids who visit this café call it) are both accommodating and eager to please, especially if you give them a chance to polish their English with you and are not condescending about it.

So, I get my coffee the way I like it, even if it takes a couple of times. There’s no fuss, just a look of disappointment at not having earned my compliment at round one and a “how’z your coffee this time, sir?” when I taste the second attempt.

I’m not the only one getting away with high service expectations there. Aunties who complain that their Paneer Rolls are not fresh enough get replacements, and Uncles who find the coffee shop mileu unfamiliar (whose caffeine discrimination is binary – 'Hot' or 'Cold' - coffee) are not looked down upon here.

Barista, the other large chain of a similar vintage in Indian metros, is well, a different cup of coffee. I do visit a Barista once in a while for a fix, but when I do, I lower my expectations on service.

The staff (a high proportion of them, good looking, sharp young men and women, from the North Eastern states,) is more aligned to the convent educated English speaker, the Delhi PLU (People-Like-Us) set.

Keeping with the theme, there’s the guitar to strum and Scrabble and Pictionary, but the water is self-service, in small paper cups (much to the chagrin of the occasional Punjabi Uncle who goes “Bete, pehle pani toh pila do”, to the young man delivering the coffee to the table, only to be coldly pointed to the jug on the counter)

You can send back stuff at the Barista too, but are likely to meet with resistance from behind the counter, especially if it’s a cuppa you send back. You’re likely to get a “This is how we always make a cuppuccino sir…” at Round One. If you still insist on doing it your way, they might follow it up with a “What you’re asking for is a latte…is that what you want?” and go on to describe the ingredients, the intention being to embarrass you at the very least.

It’s like the difference between traveling on Singapore Airlines versus British Airways on a long haul flight. Both are nice in their own ways, but where the Asian air hostess will give you little bottles of water any number of times on Sing, the European girls on BA will lay out the short eats and water at the galley and retire to chit-chat with each other. The third time you buzz the BA girl on a 8-hour flight, you realize that the temperature inside the cabin can also drop to minus 42-degrees C, to match the outside.

I thought that Barista may be hiring youngsters with more years of formal English education, but the boys at CCD tell me that the educational qualifications are the same for both chains; you just need to have cleared your 12^th standard school-leaving exams. And yet, each seems to have an additional filter in the hiring process, based on some additional unwritten criteria, that gives them very different personnel.

Now even my stretched Americano’s down to the bottom. One last gulp before we go our ways – if the CCD youngsters were to be seen as a familiar animal, they would be dogs - friendly, eager to please and easy to train.

I’ve tried to train the Baristas once, with the same degree of custom, tipping and discipline as the CCD boys, but it just wouldn’t work. Cats look elegant, but don’t fetch newspapers.

All in all, you're just a-nother...

(With due thanks to Pink Floyd)

The reigning Hindu deity for the month of November in Delhi must be Vishwakarma. Evidence of his influence is literally strewn all over the place.

In the U-turned iron rods and mounds of sand piled on the road (yes, halfway ON the road, not by the side, so you have to drive at least two wheels of your car over this stockpile), in the deep rumble of cement mixers and high pitched whines of marble saws…even in the well deserved post-prandial naps of construction workers in neighbourhood parks – November is clearly the time to build.

Construction, like all other undertakings in Delhi, is to be approached with a single underlying dictum: If you can save a rupee of your own by inconveniencing everyone else, that’s the way to go.

So most good Dilliwallahs think nothing of piling material (including debris from interiors being torn down) on street corners, working the labourers well into the dark (numerator = fixed daily construction wage, denominator = flexible number of hours you can drive the poor sods to work daily…you do the math,) and extending the new hanging balcony ten inches into the neighbours’ plot (remember how you used to taunt your sibling with “I can poke my finger into the air near your face, the air doesn’t belong to you, it belongs to everyone…,” when you were fighting?)

The fact that winter is just setting in means that everyone suddenly becomes Superman in the hearing department; distant sounds are magnified manifold, become immediate. When you’re still snuggled under the rajai and the industrious Nair aunty three houses away begins to grate coconuts in the morning, you’re pretty sure it’s all happening in your kitchen. You wake up salivating for soft idlis and chutney for Sunday breakfast, but tough luck. Your kitchen only has silence and bread to offer.

The other factor to bear in mind is that Dilli is the city of the refugee, where there is no concept of leaving any space between houses. In almost all of Delhi, people build side walls of homes with single-brick thickness, knowing that the owner of the neighbouring plot will stick his house to yours, with his own single-brick wall. So why spend money on a two-brick-thick wall of your own? Like the refugee fiercely guards what he has fought so hard to win, the Dilliwallah extends his boundaries, as far out on all sides as he dares, lest the neighbour encroach into his space.

So, in Delhi, the walls literally have ears…the neighbours’, to be precise. In Vishwakarma season, what this means is that you know exactly how far the neighbours have gotten in having the old plaster scraped off their walls. Judging by the extend of the din, you can tell whether the guys upstairs have gone in for wooden or marble floors. If you count the sloppity-slop of the broad paintbrush, you can even judge which coat their living room is currently on.

If you live in a DDA flat (built by the government owned Delhi Development Authority, for those unfamiliar), you know that this sort of thing will happen pretty much each year. Designed originally for middle (read lower middle) class families with just scooters, these poorly built apartments have gone up substantially in price over time (thereby proving that s**t really floats).

In this microcosm of Indian urbania, prosperity spreads in an inequal, sporadic fashion. This year, it’s the Kumars upstairs who’re extending their kitchen, re-laying their bathroom floors and covering their verandah in a hideous green acrylic sheet with printed orange flowers. Next year, it will be the Sachdevas – putting up an extra gate and iron fence outside their ground floor flat, to keep Mrs.Sachdeva’s plants in the 20-odd square feet of community space they will stake their predatory claim on. The year after that, the Banerjees will dig out their mosaic floors and replace them with marble…and so on.

Each of them contributes to the mongrel ugliness of the DDA apartment block in installments, as and when their pockets and whims turn favourable.

An agent of Vishwakarma hard at work. His mission: to make this DDA Apartment block uglier.

These ad hoc additions are of course, illegal. But each apartment resident is his neighbour’s keeper, the DDA turns a blind eye, the cops pick their prey as it suits them and life goes on.

So what’s my gripe? After all, Delhi is just behaving in character and I’ve known Delhi long enough. Ergo…I should shut up, right?

Well, I have, for many years now.

And that’s precisely the problem. I just thought it was time I had a rant…at least a realist, fishscreen sort or rant.

I can already feel another one coming up…about the city’s fascination with loudspeakers. I promise I’ll give you audio samples on that one – you can’t do justice to the winter Mata Ki Chowkis without it J

How does your city build itself? How do you take it? Do tell.

Park-a-mudiyuma?

Can I park? (Can I see?)

The perimeter of a south delhi park that I occasionally jog in has suddenly become a MCD Authorised Porking (sic) area.

Men in limp fluorescent orange sleeveless jackets, some swaggering rowdy youth, others, wearing the uniform look of migrant labour whose life force has been sucked out by Dementors, now materialise out of nowhere (just after I've parked and turned off the engine), demanding that I park closer to the car on my left.

In orange life jacket, life force sucked out by a Dementor. - a parking attendant in South Delhi

This time, I get the cocky young kind, sure that he will magically fit another car into the bicycle-only space between my car and the tree on the right. The tree gives me a "yeah right!" look, but the Marshall is already in the rear view mirror, miming directions to get my craft into the bay only he can see. I comply grudgingly, wishing I could simply reverse into him. After a minute of maneuvering back to pretty much where I started from, Marshal bangs the rear windshield in satisfaction.

Get out, fuming, and he's already torn an orange parking ticket from his book, the "Rs.10" printed in the largest font on the cheap thin paper, "MCD" coming in a close second; the first tells me what I gotta pay, the second, ostensibly why.

"Since when?" I ask, keeping my voice a studied pitch lower than normal, trying to convey the quiet confidence of a local.

"A long time," he says, "at least 3 months now."

I chuckle to show my disbelief. "I come here everyday. I've never seen you before."

"I'm here everyday," he says, walking away towards the next car slowing down, "except when I'm on leave." "Beat that, smart-ass" say the subtitles.

I stuff the ticket angrily in my pocket and walk away towards the jogging track. This is not over.

When I return after an hour, a different orange jacket is there, leaning on my car. I get in, not rolling down my window, no intention of paying the thug voluntarily. I start the engine, and raise it just a bit more than needed. They're taught to judge body language very quickly, these guys. But this one is younger than the rest, probably a new recruit. He's a little unsure, and nearly falls over, trying to half-block my vehicle with his body, lest I speed away. He quickly sashays up the front to knock on the window. I roll it down.

He thrusts an eager hand in.

"Since when do I have to pay parking here?"

He tries the standard gambit. "Long time now."

"I'm not paying." I shut the engine. "Go get me evidence that you're allowed to collect parking here."

He points to the "Porking" board. "Everyone pays."

"It takes nothing to put up a board," I say. "Get your owner here."

"He doesn't sit here," he says, his anxiety growing.

"That's not my problem," I say. " If I can't see the MCD papers, you get nothing." I start my engine, raising the stakes.

He stiffens, holding the car door with both hands now. I expect him to call for help from the senior thugs any moment now. The climax will soon play out, the winner to be decided by intricate game theory. Net-net, it's about whether I'm likely to create a loud enough nuisance to incite other car owners to join my protest and if I do, how sure the attendants are, of their bona fides to collect the fee.

But the trainee doesn't call for assistance. "Wait," he says hurriedly, breaking into a nervous smile. He reaches into his trouser back pocket and pulls out a brand new rexine wallet, with a flourish.

I'm surprised. This script has taken an unexpected turn. I'm curious. I relax and sit back, just a bit.

He produces a piece of paper, creased and folded many times over, out of the wallet, an unsaid "Ta Da" ringing in the background . He opens it halfway, then just thrusts it to me, his smile widening.

I open it slowly and try to decipher the smudged photocopy. It's a tender advertisement, copied from a newspaper - The Municipal Corporation of Delhi, MCD, invites bids to manage vehicular parking in the area.

The young man is standing to my right, a few inches taller no doubt, having produced documentary evidence of his right to fleece me.

"Ha!" I think. "He most likely can't even read. The senior goons have put him up to it." I turn, my mind racing to point out the various lacunae in his reasoning - an ad is no evidence that his contractor actually won the bid, or even that the auction was ever held. He doesn't see me turn towards him. He's looking over his shoulder. I follow his gaze, and notice his superiors, who are observing his performance from the distance. I'm about to begin my demolition when he turns to face me.

His expression is not what I expect - of a ruffian gloating his victory over someone he thinks he's got cornered. His goon smile is not fully developed yet; it has no malice... just the excited anticipation of a kid who thinks he's won a game, unexpectedly, but fair and square. That too, with his bosses watching.

I hand him back his piece of paper and a ten rupee note. He grins happily. I smile.

The foot soldier has won this battle. I'll be back to fight the war with the porking contractor another day.

p.s: part fact, part fiction, all for a good cause :-)

The Zen of the Run...

Prologue: This entry concerns an experience that I’ve already shared with some friends, though I've added a few new discoveries to it. For others, some context: for most of my life, I could not run distances. A flutter in a heart valve meant that past 200 metres, I would be gasping for breath. In June 2008, I decided to test this limitation, a few hundred metres at a time. I did this gradually, running for distance, rather than speed. My various running toys - my GPS watch, Heart Rate Monitor and IPod Nano, to name a few, helped me greatly along the way. Before I experienced what I describe below, I had already completed two half marathons (21 km races), in November 2008 and January 2009.

In June 2009, I was training at the Jahanpanah Forest in New Delhi, getting in shape to take part in the Great Tibetan Marathon (I was planning to do the 21k) in July. Out on a routine Sunday long run, a strange peace descended over me, unannounced. No sooner had my breath settled into its rhythm, my hands and legs were moving on their own, at a pace so comfortable, it seemed like I could go on forever if I wanted. Everything was in harmony; the rhythm was perfect, the motion complete, the balance sublime...a state of emptiness (or fullness?) just appeared. I could only taste it, with no comprehension. It lasted nearly 5 kilometers, till I broke my run for a drink of water.

The afterglow stayed for a few hundred metres and then, my mind took over. What might have triggered what had just happened? A new playlist on my ipod? A new item of clothing? Last night's meal? What did my Heart Rate Monitor have to reveal? What was my GPS saying about my pace? And so on, went the rapid analysis, till the gossamer glow of the experience was totally shredded by reason.

It took me a while, but eventually, my mind slowed down. Then came a gentle realization. On that very morning, I had hit a wall, with no motivation to run any more. Alarmed that this had happened so close to the race in Leh, I had gone back to what had prompted me to start running in the first place - to discover something new, to experience my body and spirit more fully, by pushing myself beyond my current limits.

Somewhere along the way, especially as I began to get involved with the world of distance runners, I had lost my way and these lofty goals had been replaced by a slew of numbers – lap pace, heart rate zones and negative splits - that I still had to achieve. Each successive goal was exhilarating to reach, but without realizing it, I had slowly succeeded in killing the fun of the run.

With this realization, on that morning, I had decided not to look at any of the many running toys that usually kept pace for me. With no goals to reach, the body had set its own intuitive pace, the mind had decided to relax and the spirit had watched, content to just be.

During my run in Leh, although I did not slip into the same state again, I experienced a more dynamic version of the same fullness, during the last leg (4 kms or so), which I spent literally dancing in parts to the finish.

The Great Tibetan Marathon - a race route of picture postcards strung together

(Picture taken with a crummy 2 megapixel mobile phone camera)

Although this experience was not as "full" as the first one, it was still somehow different from my usual runs. I reflected on it later, trying to figure out the common factor between the Jahanpanah and Leh runs. Once again, it was the absence, during both runs, of any concerns for run timing, heart rate, etc.

I had run from instinct, within my own body, within myself.

I wondered - had other people experienced this harmony? What was their explanation? Was this what they called the "runner's high?" (though I was quite certain that “high" was not be best term to describe what I had felt...) Anyway, I began to look.

One of the things that I found during this search is little gem. It's available as a free pdf download at the link below.

http://www.naturalhealthyellowpages.com/health_ebooks/the_zen_of_running/zenofrunning-672gxrtekj78q2.pdf

It’s a really small book, and the words ring of the truth of experience, doubts and caveats and all. I for one felt the truth of his dance, having discovered it accidentally for myself first.

Some of you may have already read it. If not, you may want to. If it appeals to your spirit, pass it on. And if you feel like it, go for a run. Or do whatever else is your dance.

Epilogue: The zen of the run is not yet predictable…or more importantly, duplicable. The toys still help :-)