For my friends who teach me the value of life through stubborn dedication.
Thereâs a yogi with a tattoo on his foot that says âPura Vida.â Itâs important to understand this concept. The best way is to provide 3 examples of the Pure Life.
Body Surfing. Cycling. Boxing.
Very few things in life are pure. Very few things in life come without strings. Very few things in life come without consequences. Most things in life come without reward.
When I moved to Costa Mesa, California, at the age of 12, I found the ocean I was looking for. Not the leisure, picnic-esque, sunscreen lathered, bluetooth speaker bumpin, suburban-packed-with-kids life but a life of activity. Around here, Action Sports are king. If youâre at the beach, youâre surfing.
There is plenty to do at the beach and I love to participate in all of it. In fact, last week was my first beach day in a long time where my entire family was present. There was a cooler filled with snacks, my pasty nephews, a frisbee, my mother, brother, sister and, oh, about 20 kin, in total. It was a blast.
But only after I jumped in the water.
After patiently fighting for parking in Newport, we walked to the pier only to find that our family was, oh, 2 miles away. Well, I was not about to move my car again so mother and I hiked, with our bags, basket, umbrella and a metal tray of pancit, a traditional Filipino noodle dish, from pier to pier to join our family.
That morning, I woke up and immediately began some office work for the band. I forgot to eat breakfast thinking an entire French Press of coffee could hold me over. Well, it could but I really needed food to avoid a grumpy grump-fest.
During my fight for parking and the 2 mile walk, I was pissed but it was all due to low blood sugar, you know?
Anyway, as soon as I united with my family, I was in search of the most immediate joy. I desperately needed food.
But I wasnât about to eat, just yet.
The ocean called me. I immediately threw my bag down, took my shirt off, kicked my flip flops into the sand. I jumped into the water where my nephews played splish splash with their cousins. A modest, 3-4 foot day. Mostly walled but there were some tubular tubes if you knew what to do.
After 15 minutes, I took a ride to shore, ate some fruit, grabbed one fin and returned to the water.
A few weeks earlier, I hopped in my roommate Andyâs car with him and Michael to drive down for a âsesh.â In the midst of a rough, emotional, summer, riddled with poor, sleepless nights, I planned a nap on the beach. However, as soon as we found a spot, after a quarter-mile walk along the beach to Moro, Crystal Cove, I saw the wave bouncing along the cliffs and immediately woke up. It called me. It drew me. Within minutes, I was not napping but in the water instead.
These days, I pack a bag with fins, a jacket, phone, camera, wallet, keys, towel and wear a hat, sunglasses and shirt.
This morning, driving down PCH, I saw a Surfer riding his bike with his surfboard under his arm. All he had was his board, bike, shorts and a pasty body slathered on his upper torso, neck and face.
All this guy planned to do was surf. No lollygagging. Wake up, throw on some shorts, wax the board and go.
There is nothing more pure than bodysurfing. Just a man, shorts, fins and a wave. Period.
Consider this: baggage. Less is more. The only thing more pure, with less âstuffâ is perhaps bodysurfing without fins.
Now, letâs consider the wave itself. The ocean must be respected.
Bodysurfing, one lazy afternoon in Newport, I was catching left-handed barrels off of 56th street. Well, the current was strong that day and, before I knew it, I was sucked all the way to River Jetties then out in front of the channel. The lifeguard boat came by twice to check on me. âNo problem!â I told them.
Well, after I realized I was beyond the break and nearly out to sea, I figured a straight swim-to-shore would take 30 minutes. Thatâs right, the current was very strong and I was probably in a rip. I wasnât panicked but didnât want to waste my energy. So I flagged-down the boat and asked for a ride back to 56th. They asked, âAre you a strong swimmer?â I swam in high school and college and, while I wasnât in competition shape, I know the ocean and my body. âYeah. I just got over it.â They were cool. Lifeguards know how to gauge inexperience. They knew I wasnât lying and even let me time a wave and jump off the back of the boat into it.
As I lept into the water, I yelled, âLater!.â In the ocean, the wave picked my feet up, I kicked a bit, and caught one. In all my years, this is one of my finer moments. I shouldnât brag but fuck it.
The ocean can kill you if you donât respect it. Even the most experienced can get fucked.
The ability to plunge your entire body into a churning mass of natural energy, learn the ability to maneuver inside and out of it, is something that no man can experience unless itâs in the ocean.
You canât dive into a volcano. You canât dive into a mountain. You canât fly. You canât dive into someoneâs body like Neo, who leapt into Smithâs body in the Matrix. Â
They call the sensation a âstoke.â Thatâs the only way I can describe it.
My buddy has a great way of describing the stoke of being inside a barrel.
âItâs like being born.â
Do a google image search for âinside a barrel.â What do you think? Does it feel like birth? âI donât remember.â Tucked away, deep in your psyche, you remember.
The only things in life that are more pure require extra baggage. Iâd like to say running and street fights are more pure but running aggravates my knees and back, these days. Also, Iâm not a fighter but I am a martial artist.
Cycling and Boxing are the next, pure, ways of life. Cycling is a distant second and boxing is third.
Cycling requires a good bike in order to ride far distances, efficiently and comfortably.
On a 24 mile ride, last week, I realized, once again, how beautiful cycling is. Youâre on two wheels, perfectly balanced, trying to follow a straight line to get to your destination as quick as possible. There are elements that hinder performance. Wind, sun, pedestrians, cyclists, homeless and energy levels but you learn navigate the elements and boost your performance.
Let me tell you about my ride.
I woke up at 7 with plans to be on the road by 730. I chugged some water, packed my mini-messenger bag with the essentials (spare tube, puncture-kit, tools, ID, Debit Card, house key, phone, water, energy gel) threw shorts, shoes, shirt, helmet and sunglasses on, then hit the road. It was 745 after I pumped up my tires.
I had a few objectives for the ride:
Photograph Angels Stadium
View Homeless encampments
Observe water levels of Santa Ana River and itâs wildlife
Cycling as far and as fast as I do requires a little effort. No worries. I use the bike on my âoff-daysâ from the gym to stay loose and in-shape. The two hour ride fulfilled my physical needs. A âpumpâ was attained after cruising for 15 minutes as a warmup, half-an hour at a high-speed, sprints, then a cruise home. Along the way, I spotted all the brand new housing on the river: tent-based encampments behind warehouses, beneath bridges and along the river.
Since the age of 5, I biked around Orange. When I moved to Costa Mesa, I started biking around the county. Mainly via the Santa Ana River trail. Iâve biked up and down the river since I was a child. I watch it change. I remember the motocross events inside of it, the roaring rapids during El Nino years, the dry drought years, ocean surges, closures, attacks on cyclists and even the time a young man growled at me on a morning ride.
The graffiti changes, daily. My favorite is an etched FUCK WHAT YOU THINK in the side of a wall where a man accumulates bikes and bike parts that he works on.
The wildlife is next to none, except birds and coyotes. The river is more wild upstream or near the Pacific. The people inside the river grew drastically in the last 6 years.
My cycling days reached its first peak in 2011, when I rode a single-speed conversion. I had an original Schwinn Varsity that I worked on until I sold it in 2014. My main mode of transportation via bike took me on regular stadium-rides. From Costa Mesa to Anaheim and beyond, she was my trusty steed.
Under every bridge, there were, maybe, two or three regular street-dwellers. At night, more. Now, every bridge has at least five to ten inhabitants and, in some cases, as many as twenty to thirty if not more. One of the largest encampments is near Anaheim Stadium where Operation Clean Slate, a non-profit that I freelance for, painted a giant Cyclist Mural back when the Costa Mesa based program started. I remember viewing the mural at an early age and was stoked to see it was theirs.
Anyway, rivers are always a source of life. Look at the Euphrates, Nile, Amazon, Mississippi and any body of water that is surrounded by land. Life is drawn there. Life thrives there.
In the Santa Ana Riverâs case, the Spanish first accounted for it as they sailed across itâs main channel, or, where is now known as River Jetties. The place I was picked up by the lifeguard boat that I mentioned earlier.
Of course, indigenous people utilized it. Later, we fortified it, built its concrete walls and created a 100-year-flood-proof river. We are safe.
But are itâs inhabitants?
Back to reality: Pura Vida.
You see, cycling along the Santa Ana River, given its rich history and now itâs occupation by the impoverished should be experienced by all. Itâs a first-hand glimpse into the reality that is a financial, mental, and physical breakdown of our modern society. That is, in 2008, the financial crisis and recession put thousands on the street. The lack of mental-health awareness brings about poverty in the worst possible form: poverty of the mind. Not everyone is born with the will and know-how to survive in a rough and tumble world. It must be learned. But who can teach it and will they listen?
More importantly, will they act?
For these reasons and more, cycling is pure.
âLetâs Get Ready to Rumbleâ
I want to say fighting but fighting sucks. Especially street fights.
For the sake of the argument, I will use Boxing as an example. Street Fights are the most pure form of fighting but, again, I do not condone them. Fighting is a way of life for some of us. We fight with our family, fight with our friends, fight with our lovers, fight with our coworkers and fight with strangers. Thatâs no way to live a prosperous life, unless youâre a professional athlete or Police Officer.
Iâm not saying itâs okay for athletes to fight or that cops should fight but guess what: they do.
Ask a cop, âWhatâs the craziest fight youâve ever been in.â I guarantee theyâll have a story. I also am willing to bet they say it was with a female.
Enough - I hope Iâm not coming off as a weirdo when I say these things. Fighting is real. Believe me.
Boxing  requires years of practice, quality training partners and physical prowess.
I would say Brazilian Jiu Jitsu or MMA is more pure, more exciting, more mentally beneficial and more physically beneficial than boxing but Boxing is in the Olympics and therefore more accessible. And remember, weâre talking about pura vida.
âTwo men enter, one man leaves.â
Fighting goes back to the dawn of man. It goes further back to animals. It goes deeper into biology and the creation of the universe. For the sake of time, letâs look at a single match.
In boxing, there are two ways to fight: Brawl or Box.
When âSugarâ Ray Leonard and Roberto Duran first fought, Ray was mired with anger. He was frustrated and angry at Duranâs pre-fight antics. At one point, during all the trash talk and provocation, Duran even called Leonardâs wife something so crude that Ray snapped.
During the fight, which I see as a closer fight than most with Ray winning a chunk of the middle rounds, from what I recall, Duran provokes Ray into a brawl. Both men enter the ring as boxers but Duran comes out of his corner like an animal. Ray wants to hurt Duran. Ray abandons his swift boxing ability and tries to out-fight Duran.
One problem: the brawl is Duranâs game. Duran beats him, wins the Welterweight Championship, flies home where he is celebrated as a national hero, parties hard until their next fight, five months later, barely trains and quits in the 8th round.
To put it simply, Leonard out-boxed a brawler. Duran stalked Ray. He inched closer and closer, trying to work an inside-game but Ray fought at range, angled, countered and, again, out-boxed Duran with amazing footwork, speed, accuracy and clinical, scientific boxing.
In order to fight a brawler, you must box. In order to systematically break down an opponent who is bigger, stronger or more aggressive, you must be precise. You must use technique.
Technique beats strength, speed and aggression every time.
Boxing, as a sport, is pure. Two men must slug each other anywhere above the waist in order to knock the other down, knock them out, force a stoppage or accumulate points to win a match.
Entire kingdoms rise and fall based on fighting. Borders change. History is written. Men live and die.
All because fighting is in our blood.
The competitive nature of man.
The blood lust to trample life in order to rise to the top.
Boxing is pure. Two men, four fists, one winner.
I can talk about street fighting being more pure, because itâs less baggage or MMA because itâs more realistic but thatâs for another day.
What is your form of pura vida? Yoga? Baseball? Tomato plants? Muscle cars? Sexy time?
Keep it simple. Itâs the only way to find it.
