Part of going to faraway, perhaps less civilized lands, is the need to prevent contracting a whole bunch of diseases. Where water is cloudy, where insects bite, where food is prepared with the same hands that wipe butts are places where harsh bacteria, viruses and other parasites concentrate and try to kill us all. Fortunately, this age where equally harsh drugs and a bit of mental preparation can be employed to see a traveler thrive in a less-than-health-conscious place. Continue reading
There’s a building in Boulder, and if you are from here or if you live here, you know it because you have no doubt driven past it thousands of times. If you head south on Foothills parkway, just before the Pearl street exit on the right hand side of the road there sits a goofy tan building looking like a grain silo resting on its side, tied up among a tangle of irrigation ditches. It has been there for a long time, since the war, I reckon, and as you drive past at 50mph, you might have looked at the sign on one end of the building saying something about boxing.
Having read this sign hundreds of times on my way through Boulder, this shabby building has always been what I associate with the word, the sport, the pow, of boxing. The building belongs to a business called the Front Range Boxing Academy, and even now a flash and a whisper of *boxing* goes through my head as I zoom past. I thought of how it would be to box, to train, to hit somebody. Somewhere in the back of my head, I always wanted to go. I always wondered, and until very recently it was all just fantasy. Continue reading