Reprogramming...

Superlative Media Spasmodics: H1N1 and Public Fear

2009-11-03T16:38:00.000-07:00

As one of the relatively few Americans who received the H1N1 vaccine, I feel a little odd about the current media spasm contracting around its “questionable safety”. I received the vaccine because I work in admissions for a medical facility. I see dozens of sick people every day, and being vaccinated makes me feel a little bit better protected. While we don’t get a lot of H1N1 patients in my department, it’s still a medical facility, and it’s still early in the season…so there’s plenty of bad bugs floating around, and more still to come. When I got the vaccine—by a nasal application, as the shot was available in even more limited quantities and for an even more limited population—I was hyper-aware of my physical well-being for about a week to follow. I have full confidence in my immune system, but all of the hype around H1N1 and its “untested” vaccines had me a little worried. The virus in my vaccine was live—the nasal application is a “live attenuated” so it’s a live, but greatly weakened, strain of H1N1—so would I be more susceptible to illness? Could I get H1N1? The questions swirled in my mind for about a week until I forgot I ever got it and went on with my life. I suffered no side effects, at least none that I noticed, and if anything, my activity level increased—I began taking aerial classes at the local circus center again—so my body, somehow, under the combined duress of the H1N1 vaccine and unusual muscle strains, has managed to handle itself pretty well. In about an hour, when I leave work, I’ll be heading to the gym for a trot on the treadmill and a few laps on the weight machines.

I know, I know. What could have happened to me, though? The possibilities, given the time constraints under which the vaccine had to be developed, are endless, really, but only if you really go looking for them. And you’re paranoid. The amount of testing that anything must undergo before it’s deemed safe by the FDA is massive and, some argue, red-taped to the point of being superlative. Why deny the public viable drugs because someone forgot to cross a “t” or dot an “i”? Bureaucracy and pandemics clearly don’t mix well. Go get vaccinated, as soon as you can, especially if you’re pregnant or caring for an infant under six months of age.

Gender: A Pre-Existing Condition?

2009-10-22T10:55:00.002-06:00

I received an email today from change.org rallying supporters to "tell Congress that being a woman is not a pre-existing condition"! While I (fundamentally) agree with the change.org task force most of the time, I'm having second thoughts on this one. While I don't think that being a woman--or a man--should have any effect on insurance companies' claim judgment, which is what, of course, this particular war cry is supposed to ignite fury over, I'm pretty sure there isn't a condition that is more "pre-existing" than gender. I mean, really, this is why men have nipples.

As a clerical admin currently employed by a hospital, I get questioned about the current health care debacle by patients all the time. August 2009 was a particularly interesting month to be a medical office employee. Truth be told, while the system is obviously broken, I'm not sure who can fix it. What I am sure of is that it's going to take cooperation and caring action by a massive number of people to get any sort of progressive ball really rolling on health care. Until we Americans stop employing capitalist-imperialist, i.e. exploitative, ideology and acting as apologists for our oppressors, the current corporate leviathan--the insurance industry and the pharmaceutical lobbying groups--is going to keep winning, and American health will continue to suffer.

Eldorado Springs, Anyone?

2009-10-12T21:41:00.007-06:00

I have found heaven, and it is on Earth. It is called Eldorado Springs, and I am somewhat ashamed of myself for not having known about this awesome, killer, gorgeous part of the world--that is basically IN MY BACKYARD--since I've lived in Boulder for over a decade now.

On the trail, cheesing it up, in pigtails and a Camelbak. Yes, I am a Coloradan!

Eldorado Springs sits about six miles South of Boulder and has a populations of about 27 or so. Or 2700, if you count the rock climbers. As he has been climbing for his while life, and Eldorado Canyon is kind of up there on the grand list of Places Climbers Take Off Time From Life To Check Out, my boyfriend Jeremy was totally game to check it out a couple of weekends ago. He was still recovering from straining the cartilage between his rib cage and his sternum (an injury only a climber would get) so we took a chill weekend...and then decided to go check out one of the holy grails of climbing. Except that we'd be hiking, and not bring along any gear, so as not to tempt ourselves too much.

Eldorado Canyon is at the end of the town; when I say "town" I mean lovely collection of houses all along one street, which eventually becomes the road into Eldorado Canyon State Park. Driving through town, I felt an urgency to move there. I need to live here! I MUST!!! It is such a gorgeous little town, and it was such a beautiful weekend, and...well, reality interfered and I returned to Boulder, convincing myself that I needed to be close to work because I don't have a car and bussing in from Eldo would be a nightmare every day and yada yada yada...

We got to the ranger station, paid the $7 entrance fee (!!!) and crept around myriad mazelike parking areas until we secured a spot. It was a very busy day at the park, both around the hiking areas and trails and, of course, on the walls. When we first got far enough into the canyon to be able to pick out groups of climbers --spider-people, one hiking guide calls us-- it was all I could do to remain in the vehicle. Every crag, every line, everything that looked like it could possibly be a crag or line, every traverse, every possible nook and cranny--climbers looooove our nooks and crannies--was teeming with groups. As we were getting out of the car I heard the familiar sound of hexes clanking against cams and nuts and looked mournfully at Jeremy. He returned the gaze, then tried to smile a little. "We'll bring gear next time," he said, nowhere near enthusiastically enough to lift my spirits.

Jeremy scanning the nearby walls of Eldorado Canyon for climbers:

The Eldorado Canyon trail is part of a trail network that meets up with the Walker Ranch Trail in Boulder as well as other South Boulder trails...which is pretty cool. We were just doing it as on out-and-back, although it was more like a stumble-and bumble, as we spent a good amount of time watching the climbers as we hiked. Jeremy's good at this. Me, not so much. You know the old "walk-and-chew-gum" adage? Yeah, well, I can barely walk, much less do so while looking at anything other than the ground in front of my feet. So I took frequent "watch the climbers" pauses, all the while bemoaning our lack of gear.

The trail itself was quite lovely: moderately steep, not too busy, overlooking gergous valleys and meadows, Rocky Mountain wilderness and probably, plenty of wildlife. I'm always amazed at where some things choose to put down roots...Yes, that is a tree. A tiny tree, but a tree nonetheless, growing out of a boulder. AWESOME!!

I'm also amazed at the ingenuity of the state parks department. There are some interesting "improvements" made to the trail, probably to keep erosion from wearing it away (like layers of felt beneath the top inch or so of dirt near places that would be good rockslide candidates), and a hole in the ground, off-trail, where rangers have erected poles and wrapped them in bright yellow caution tape. What does bright yellow caution tape make YOU want to do?

That's right, it makes you want to check it out. Seriously, they might as well have erected a big neon sign that said, "check out this old mineshaft!". So Jeremy, the brave one, slid down the little makeshift path to the caution-tape laden hole and snappred a few shots. I'm sure it's quite dangerous, and I definitely wouldn't want to get stuck in there, but it make me wonder how many people had to be rescued from it before the area got plastered with plastic yellow "danger-do-not-enter" tape...and how many have done just what we did since. Oh, the vicarious lives we live!

Eventually, we turned around and made our way back to the car. Driving slowly out so that we could keep an eye on the climbing parties all over the walls, we started excitedly discussing gear we'd need, techniques we'd have to use and, of course, how quickly we might return.

RIP William R. Barrowclough August 5, 1940 - October 7, 2007

2009-08-05T13:42:00.000-06:00

It’s somewhat incredible to me that this is the second year my father has missed his own birthday. That he’s still gone, that I can’t call him to say hi, Happy Birthday, Daddy, what are you going to do on your special day? I was doing a crossword puzzle earlier and thought of him solving the daily puzzles in The Charlotte Observer, eyebrows raised, mouth slightly open, lost in thought over some clue, some elusive synonym. I remember Dad helping train me for my first marathon. I remember him driving into Boulder for the first time, exclaiming over the beauty of the mountains, the FlatIrons, this lovely little city. I remember him at my college graduation, bursting with pride, grinning and hugging and kissing me. And I remember him sick: I remember how cancer, its side effects and its aftermath ate alive his effervescent youth, his energy, his radiance, how it stole his appetite and his mobility, how it ate away at his tissues until he could not longer stand or walk, how it took his life away. But I also remember, a few weeks before he died, how excited he was to see me when I flew out to South Carolina to see him for what, I didn’t know then would be, the last time. How we talked for hours on end until he’d fall asleep, midsentence. How I helped take care of him as best I knew how, which admittedly wasn’t very well.

Boy, do I miss you, Dad. I love you.

So, I Fell Off Of A Cliff Today...

2009-07-04T13:53:00.005-06:00

Now THERE'S a blog post starter for you. On the down side, it doesn't get much more exciting than that. For me, this is also the up side.

I was out climbing with Jeremy, celebrating the fact that if I have a kidney infection, it's in serious getting-the-hell-out-of-my-body mode or it's already gone, thanks to rest, rest, more rest and excellent advice and props from my wonderful friends, family, colleagues and boyfriend. After feeling like total shit for the past two and a half weeks I am finally starting to come out of the fug of fever, exhaustion and incoherence that is my body and mind when my immune system is battling something nasty. Anyway...

I was unroped, actually...roped falls don't merit this type of blog post, as when they happen, it's something like, oh fuck, I'm FALLING!, and then my belayer catches me, and then I'm not falling, just a little freaked, for a moment, and then I'm attempting to do whatever I was just attempting to do, but better this time, and without falling. All of this happens in about five seconds, BTW.

So, I was unroped, off trying to find bushes to go do a girly bush-squat, toilet paper in tow, before climbing Jaycene's Dance (climbers: it's a half-pitch 5.8 at Animal World that boasts a ton of fun moves on it, a couple of little ledges, and a crux that's pretty much AT the anchor; it's extremely popular and a lot of fun and if you go, expect to wait unless you go REALLY early in the morning...I've seen parties lines up three deep for this one...non-climbers: it's a long cliff that's barely visible from the road as you're headed up Boulder Canyon (from Boulder to Ned); it's above the rock wall on the right side of the road where you always see groups of climbers, about 9 miles up the canyon or 1 mile past Boulder Falls, called Boulderado), as I'd properly hydrated before belaying Jeremy up to setup the anchor and therefore, had to attend to some business. I'd been scouting around for a spot among a boulder formation that had tons of pine straw scattered about the ground...I hate pine straw, have slid precariously down a few scary gulleys before due to the presence of the stuff and am NOT a fan, and I was busy thanking my wonderful approach shoes for being better on pine straw while trying to teeter off of a cliff to see how far down it was to try to get out of sight to do my business. There was a small evergreen within reach, and I figured I'd graba tiny branch on it then move my hand to its base, all the while battling pine-straw slippage. Well, my hand never reached the base and I slipped, in slow motion, over the edge of the cliff, my hands still scrabbling for something to hang onto, and only catching air again, and again, and again as the tiny branch--which couldn't have supported the weight of a bloated caterpillar, much less a 160-lb human being--snapped off in my hand and I fell, ass-first. Because I couldn't see where I was going, I thought, quite coherently, "I'm going to die." My life didn't flash before my eyes, but I had no idea what was below me as I had been, in fact, scouting that very question when I slipped over the cliff edge, and I knew that a lot of the cliffs tumbled rather sheerly down to the road. I was going to die.

Terrified though I was, I was also indignant and angry (leave it to the human species to be able to produce such emotions). What the fuck was THIS about? I wasn't going to die falling off some cliff while I was just trying to take a leak? If I was going to die climbing, it was going to be much more spectacular than this: my anchor's ledge would unexpectedly cleave off and I would tumble to the bottom of the rock face just as I was about to reach it, or my protection would fail off of some huge wall in Yosemite and I'd tumble to the earth, or my rope would suddenly an immediately fray through, and I'd plunge to my death (this last one, by the way, is virtually impossible...climbing ropes do not fray through, and if there's even a remote possibility that they're going to, climbers do not climb with them anymore. They cut them up and throw them away.). Or something. I mean, what the fuck was this about?

These were possibly the two strongest thoughts as I plunged off the side of the cliff, headed down ass-first into a ledge, covered in about a foot and a half of pine straw, twelve feet below my initial slip. Apparently, I screamed, although I don't remember doing so. When I hit "bottom", my first impulse was to laugh. While I'd been sure of it for a split second, the Universe was not about to place me next into line for a Darwin award. I landed on quite possibly the softest, gentlest place in all of Boulder Canyon's climbing areas--six inches further and I would have hit a rock slab that would have no doubt been considerably less forgiving--and I soon got my feet under me, called out "I'm okay!" to Jeremy's concerned cries (I was close enough to the route that he heard the tree branch snap, me falling (and screaming), and the THUD as I landed. He only got worried when I didn't make any noise, and that's when he began calling my name.

Boy, am I lucky. Boy, was that close, or COULD have been close. Plenty of those cliffs drop straight down onto the road, or much harder surfaces, or would cause a climber to pinwheel through limb-shattering evergreens and small boulders before coming to rest on something. Boy, was I--am I still--scared out of my mind. Not knowing what you're going to hit is absolutely terrifying, even thinking about that moment, the uncertainty, the seconds my mind had to race through all the possibilities that I could reasonably summon, even thinking about those NOW, makes me catch my breath and causes me to blink back tears. To say it was a sobering moment scratches only the tip of the iceberg or, perhaps, the broken branch I still held in my hand as I scrambled to my feet and thanked my Creator, the Universe, whatever fate and luck and need for me to still be among the living is out there. I am so lucky to be alive. That could have ended so much more badly. And I'm really, really thankful that this time, I got off with just a warning.

And some suffering, of course. After the adrenaline wore off the pain in my buttocks and hip started throbbing; while pine straw is forgiving (and deceptive...I'm amused that my reason for falling was also my savior...gotta love the universal irony there, huh?), it was piled on top of boulders, and it wasn't THAT deep. I'm sure that as the bruises start showing, they'll become more painful; as it is, it's hard to walk and the area between my outer knee and right buttock are tender and sore, and bound to get worse. Damn, am I lucky or what?

After that, I did my business, roped up, and did my climb. Incidentally, it was my most solid climb to date. I felt great, and Jeremy said I looked great. I was testing holds and feeling the rock more than I ever have before, getting comfortable standing on teeny-tiny ledges and toeholds and using intermediate moves to advance the climb. The whole climb was very Zen for me, very focused, attentive, concentrated. It had to be. It was either that, or the great big balloon of terror filling my midsection would burst and I'd be stuck on this wretched cliff face bawling my eyes out. I didn't want the day to end that way. So instead, I focused my energy on doing the best climb I could, and it turned out to be the most graceful and solid I've ever felt. Go figure.

We left, then, pretty immediately, pulling our rope and calling it a day. I'm so grateful for the fates being on my side, for my awesome boyfriend's reassurances as I freaked out, then got angry, then started laughing, then freaked again, his ability to maintain calm and prevailing steadiness throughout, the mountain's forgiveness and fury, all at once, and the fact that this time, when it was levelled at me, I escaped a little scathed, a little wiser, a little more introspective, a little more aware, and a lot more grateful. Gratitude--even when induced by short falls off of minor cliffs--is always a blessing. Me partway up Jaycene's Dance summer 2008.

Sensationalist Media

2009-05-11T05:22:00.002-06:00

Just a comment on a couple of interesting stories in my local paper, The Denver Post. A front-page story ranon Friday decrying the H1N1/"swine flu" paranoia that was causing people to Lysol their desks constantly, hand-sanitize themselves to death and exhibit other behaviors that verged on the wholly, terrifically paranoid.

The article continued on page 21A, where its headline: "GERMS: Difference between prudent, paranoid" directed the reader easily to the rest of the story. And then there was the next major piece of news on page 21A: "A swine-flu pandemic could infect 2 billion, WHO says".

Is it just me, or is journalistic hypocrisy reaching yet another high point in a desperate bid to keep selling papers?

Construction, Demolition, and SWAT training grounds

2009-03-25T21:43:00.006-06:00

So, a month or so ago, I left my apartment to see a demolition crew tearing down an old abandoned house that has been sitting on the edge of a weed-choked vacant lot next to my complex for years. I felt a small pang of nostalgia but mostly relief; the place was an eyesore and probably some kind of publica hazard, and at least I would no longer have to give friends directions to my apartment by telling them, "Go past the junkyard and the abandoned house and my driveway is the next one on the right. If you get to the trailer park, you've gone too far." It makes it sound like I live in the ghetto and for what I make in income and pay in rent, I don't really like feeling that way.

I was blown away when the house was not only totally torn down but also hauled away by the time I got home from work that evening. There were also the makings of a crude parking lot for...what? Within the next few days, a pedestrian crosswalk had been erected, the kind with flashing lights to alert traffic to pedestrians crossing the street. While there was a fair amount of foot traffic in my part of town it was hardly downtown Boulder, and the whole thing remained a mystery until construction crews turned up across the street from my complex and, it seemed, turned the parking lots for the Shady Hollow East complex as well as the public works building nearby into rubble. The crude parking lot across the street was laid down so that residents would have somewhere to park their cars until the area looked a little less like this:
(Photo credit: Jeremy Baggs.) This was taken from my complex's lot...as you can see, there's not really anywhere for Shady Hollow residents to park there anymore, and what's been interesting to watch is how they, almost as if in some sort of passive rebellion, refuse to use the crosswalk. They'll be ten feet awat from it but refuse to press the button, activate the flashing lights, and cross in the actual crosswalk. An act of defiance, I suppose, in some form. Anyway...

The trailer park is also being demolished. I don't even want to know why, really, but I was really rather entertained to hear that due to the fact that it was slated for demolition the Boulder Police Department SWAT team, never one to miss an opportunity for any kind of staged-real-life practice, was going to descend upon the fenced-in trailer park for tactical training on Wednesday, March 25. On Monday we residents ofTwoMile Creek Condominiums were greeted by the following notice posted at all of the external entryways:
Presumably, we were warned so as not to be concerned about the myriad explosions and gunfire that would be quite audible, not to mention the dozens of armed cops clearly labeled with SWAT across their backs. I wish I'd called in sick from work, though I'm sure I would have been shooed away from any kind of snooping I would attempt. With my luck, I'd be arrested for disturbing the cops who were disturbing the peace. My indomitable boyfriend, never one to miss a photo op, shot a couple of quick digital pics from his car as he drove by and one of them looked pretty interesting:
(Photo credit: Jeremy Baggs) It's really probably a good thing I wasn't home. I wouldn't have been able to keep my snooping to myself.

I Love Boulder

2009-03-25T20:28:00.012-06:00

Ahh, Boulder. Outside of Colorado, Boulder is known, I think, mostly, as:

a) an enclave of endurance athletes the world over, a kind of near-mythic utopia where Kenyans, Ironmen/Ironwomen, Olympians and various other superjocks come to train as we mere mortals gaze in awe as they fly past us and choke gratefully on their dust

b) the home of the University of Colorado, one of the nation's biggest party schools as rated by Playboy

c) that sleepy little town where that little girl was killed on Christmas, or

d) the setting for Mork & Mindy

There may be other associations of which I'm unaware, but I think this pretty much covers it. Inside of Colorado, it's a different story. Boulder is the liberal holdout, that trippy-hippie pseudo-city where, it was once rumored, California liberals headed when Berkeley got too conservative for them. Conversationally, anyone's perception of you shifts immediately once they realize you're from Boulder. Get a Letter to the Editor published in a Denver newspaper and you're bound to see a response in a day or two blasting whatever it is you wrote about based on the fact that you reside in Boulder.

That said, I love living in Boulder. I'll take my self-indulgent, overly intellectualized, flagrantly liberal, often entitled little city over anywhere else on the planet any day of the week. We get over 320 days of sunshine annually here. We have more grocers selling locally-grown, organically-harvested products than we know what to do with. We have a generally healthy, upper-middle class population and consistently rank as one of the healthiest places to live in the United States. Kids start hiking, cycling and rock climbing when they're still toddlers. The accolades go on...and on...and on.

That said, we are definitely still a liberal haven, as was demonstrated recently by throngs of protesters upset about our country's skyrocketing unemployment and slumbering economy, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, congregated at the convergence of a couple of main streets in the downtown area:
OK, so, you can see protesters anywhere. In fact, it's kind of welcome in a nation that's enjoyed an incredible span of total public apathy. In other countries, when they don't like what their government is doing, the population takes to the streets. They go out and protest en masse. And they achieve, at the very least, a lot more of their government's attention.

But this is Boulder, and protests are SO the norm, that I was at once convulsing with laughter and nodding in agreeement when I saw the anti-protest protesters:
Talking with them briefly while we were stopped at the intersection they were anti-protesting on, they gamely discussed the need to end protesting in Boulder. They were about a block away from the throngs of actually-protesting protesters, and we thought they were a riot. I love this picture in particular:
because he was actually saying to me, "We need to put a stop to all of this useless picketing!"

Ahh, Boulder. How can you not love this town?

I especially love that I snapped those photos (with my phone, hence the lousy quality) the same day as witnessing other Boulderific sights, such as this guy who was really, REALLY bent on going climbing:
Nice crashpad mounted on his back whilst riding the scooter up to, presumably, a nearby bouldering or sport climbing route. I guess in this case it serves a dual purpose, just in case some overcaffeinated multitasking soccer mom fails to notice his presence and rams him with her SUV.

God, I love this town.

Without A Doubt, The Cutest Kitty In The World

2009-03-14T06:35:00.003-06:00

Awwwwwww...............................

Jeff Mason Strikes (Out) Again

2009-03-14T05:42:00.003-06:00

This guy must be one heck of a talker to have attracted the kind of attention he has from sponsors. Doesn't matter; if he continues to address his racers this way, he may have an irate public on his hands. I recently received an email from "Boulder Marathon" (I must be some kind of masochist to remain on the mailing list, or perhaps I just do it to keep receiving His Eminent Moron's narcissistic ramblings masquerading as "race news"...whatever the reason, his flounderings make me chuckle and hey, isn't that what it's all about?) addressed to "Dear (Contact First Name)". In the name of all that is holy in marketing! I hope that by the time Jeff has shot himself in the foot so many times he's got nothing left to stand on, I'm in a position to start up the REAL Boulder Marathon.

Dear Uncle Chuck

2009-03-14T04:59:00.004-06:00

(An email I sent my uncle after receiving a totally untrue chain email from him about how upset liberals were that Tiger Woods didn't make a political speech during his speaking event at the 2009 Inauguration. Woods has been a very vocal supporter of Obama and gushed his support energetically shortly after the election despite the fact that he has historically maintained a staunchly apolitical public stance.)

Uncle Chuck, why do you hate liberals so much? I'm really, genuinely curious about this. I don't understand what's so wrong about raising taxes on the wealthy while giving the lower and middle classes a break, or embryonic stem cell research, or calling for a massive stimulus package to stagnate skyrocketing unemployment levels and revive a terminally ill global economy. President Bush, after all, handed out stimulus checks twice. The first rounds of checks effectively annihilated the balanced budget achieved by the Clinton administration. The second was a desperate bid to demonstrate that conservative economic ideals of the "spend more than you can afford to" Republican party were fiscally viable. This led to the subprime mortgage crisis, which led to the credit crunch, which led to a terrifying global recession. The companies who desperately need federal funding to stay alive are dragging their feet because the government is not going to write them a blank check; the funds are available for those willing to dramatically reformulate their business plan, because the one they've been using thus far isn't working anymore. Similarly, the $500,000 salary cap that President Obama set on CEOs of businesses receiving federal assistance has sparked an outrage among these CEOs as well as reignited the conservative battle cry about the evils of government regulation. Apparently, asking businesses who stay afloat on federal funds to be accountable to the taxpayers who made those funds possible is socialism, and CEOs cannot possibly survive on $500,000 per year.

As for the accusations in this particular chain mail about us scheming liberals, where exactly is the evidence that Tiger's inviters were "stunned"? Oh, wait...there is none. Darn. Can't pin much more than an unfounded angry Conservative accusation on us. See the snopes research on this here: http://www.snopes.com/politics/obama/tigerwoods.asp

As is noted in the (snopes) article, Tiger Woods often takes the opportunity to publicly address the importance of respecting and honoring our troops.

I love you,
Dondi

OMG!

2009-02-10T15:17:00.003-07:00

One of our patients was so enthralled with our ability to work him in for a stat ultrasound (which we do all the time) that he went to Breadworks and bought us a box of cookies. Each was individually wrapped so we knew they'd be safe for consumption (he was careful to indicate this, which I thought was doubly sweet). Awww!

The Death Roll

2009-01-30T05:26:00.003-07:00

So, I heard about this from an acquaintance; apparently there's some group you can join to place bets on who is going to die within the calendar year. Except there's no money involved, and you don't get anything but points in the Death Roll club or whatever it is, and points are acquired through rather strange qualifiers. Like, more points for younger people (the further away they are from 100 years old, the more points you score if you called it), more points for suicides, etc. This all made about as much sense to me as the way my acquaintance analogized the thing: ["It's like fantasy football, but with no teams. Or players. Or games."] Riiiigggghhht...

OK, so it's weird and messed up and kind of um, disgusting/pathetic/nonsensical? But let's put all that aside. What I really want to know is, are there qualifiers that deduct points from your total, if you're participating in this thing? Like, if you pick someone with terminal cancer, or some other life-threatening illness? What about someone whose lifestyle involves higher inherent risks than the average joe, like skydiving or traveling to hostile lands or being related to the Kennedys?

So there's my musing for the day...wow, I should probably get some coffee in me and get going...

Emily Smiles

2008-12-25T11:53:00.003-07:00

A drunk driver nearly destroyed my family's Christmas. My mother and sister, who are incredibly close, haven't seen each other in years. Our extended family and friends joined forces to make it possible for my mom to visit Emily, who moved to Charlotte several years ago to be closer to our (now deceased) father while he battled cancer. When Dad died last October, Emily decided to stay in Charlotte. She'd made friends and our Dad's side of the family lives close by, and a move wasn't financially viable, to say the least. When my mother's best friend offered to use her frequent flyer miles to buy a ticket for Mom to go see Emily, the rest of us figured out how to make it work. A neighbor is taking care of her dogs; her sister sent some money so that they could buy groceries while Mom was there. Emily, working two jobs, can barely make ends meet and my mother's meager government disability stipend barely covers her living expenses. My boyfriend and I arranged to drive Mom to and from the airport. Emily couldn't even take time off while Mom was there; they visited around my sister's considerable work schedule. But we were all so happy that Mom was going to get to see Emily; we all knew it would be the best Christmas gift they could possibly receive.

They had barely arrived at home on Christmas Eve when the drunk driver of a Trans Am hit Emily's car. He smashed into it so hard that he shoved it some 30 feet down the street; the car is so badly totaled that they can't move it anywhere (right now it's blocking a driveway). We can't even scrape together enough money to have the car towed anywhere, and her insurance company picked a fight with her when she called them to report the accident last night. The driver fled the scene but miraculously a neighbor was outside when it happened, saw the whole thing, and got the guy's plate number...then went to Emily's door to let her know her car had just been destroyed. My mom is leaving tonight and instead of spending these last few hours together enjoying each other's company they are calling around frantically for help to get Mom to the airport. Emily has to work a thirteen hour day tomorrow and will have to take buses two hours there and back. She's a 24-year old bright spot of sunshine and good humor in the lives of everyone who knows her; there is not a more compassionate, vivacious, beautiful person in the world than Emily Barrowclough. She has also lived through some horrific incidents in her very young life, from being the victim of an armed home robbery while living in Colorado to the death of our father to losing a dear friend in Charlotte to a heroin overdose just this past year. She's such a good, kind, loving person; I don't know why these terrible things keep happening to her.

I spent my Christmas Day today setting up a donation fund for her so that she can get some help securing transportation. Please consider donating to the Emily Smiles Fund (there is a donation button at the top right on this blog). Thank you.

This...Is Frostnip

2008-12-15T21:12:00.004-07:00

The word "Frostnip" sounds adorable. Like Jack Frost's puppy, or the latest winter cocktail. It's also fun to say (oh, just try it, you know you wanna: frost-nip, frost-nip, frost-nip...okay, okay, that's enough). It is NOT fun, however, to actually deal with.

Frostnip is the first stage of frostbite (ahh, logic in pseudo-scientific terminology). eMedicineHealth.com describes it as such: "When only the surface skin is frozen, the injury is called frostnip. Frostnip begins with itching and pain. The skin then blanches and eventually the area becomes numb. Frostnip generally does not lead to permanent damage because only the top layers of skin are involved. However, frostnip can lead to long-term sensitivity to heat and cold." Doesn't sound like fun, does it? Well, fortunately, I only skimmed the surface of potential frostnip myself today, biking to work in -10 degree weather.

In my defense, I don't have a car, taking the bus system would have taken 30-45 minutes and increased my carbon-footprint guilt, and since I didn't really pay attention to the deep freeze that began yesterday and apparently continues to consume Colorado tonight (at this posting, it's -2.6 degrees outside) I figured I'd get the usual sunny Colorado day-after-a-weekend blizzard weather to deal with on my ride to work: cold, bracing, but not really freezing. Never again will I make such an assumption.

As usual, I prepared my messenger bag and my bicycle, threw on the lovely fleece I usually ride to work in, and headed out to greet the day. The roads were still covered in packed snow, and as I descended the staircase from my third-floor apartment, bike and bag in tow, I was paying much more attention to my footfalls, as a slip would be quite simple to sustain and likely have dire consequences, than I was to the weather. Having safely descended, I jumped on my bike, pulled my hat a little lower, and wobbled carefully into the rightmost set of tire tracks on the road. This is a Boulder thing, and I don't suggest trying it elsewhere. In Boulder, they will grimace, scowl, shake their fists, curse and sometimes roll down windows to scream at you but they will not, if you are on a bicycle and they in a car trying to pass you, actually hit you. At least not on purpose. While I feel a little bad knowing I'm a slow-moving obstacle that the clenched-teeth SUV-driving, Starbucks-latte gulping, Bluetooth-headset wearing driver behind me really wishes he could just mow down, I reconcile such thoughts with, wait a minute, I am making up for that douchebag's carbon Bigfoot print with every jam forward onto my crank. He can kiss my arse. And they get a break in traffic, and they go around. Big deal.

Today, however, I had no such thoughts, because I had no time for such thoughts, because my lungs were not functioning. I was forcibly separated from my bicycle for a few days last week as it underwent a tube change and was a bit terrified, thinking, oh my God, it's only been a few days and my lungs are burning like they're on fire, and my skin is frozen, and my progress is pathetic. Yes, I was in slippery. slidey snow but I usually make better time than this! Then I realized I could hear myself breathing over the music on my Nikepod, and my breathing terrified me even more. Think of a severe case of tuberculosis in the 19th century, something like Doc Holliday on his deathbed. Then put it on several shots of espresso and amphetamines. That's what I sounded like. A caffeinated TB patient. On top of this, my fleece jacket, usually a great top layer because it allows some breathability while keeping me somewhat warm, was performing about as well as a fishing net. I was chilled to my bones and panting rapidly. No good could come from this, and I seriously started worrying about my health.

I eventually made it to work and it wasn't for another hour that I discovered exactly how frigid the air outside was. I think we had a high of 4.3 degrees today. Without any proper gear--though I had some in my bag, at least a Gore Tex jacket to overlay my fleece with, had I known it was that cold--including a balaclava or some similar attire to keep the arctic air from being sucked straight into my lungs, I was literally killing potentially hundreds of alveoli in my lungs with every breath. I was informed of this by my colleague Alice, who has an impressive breadth of knowledge on this subject, as I sat at my desk beside her wheezing tremendously. The shot of albuterol I sent down my airway once I got to work probably didn't help. I found out later that the temperature was around -10 degrees while I was riding. No wonder. My face was bright red thanks to the very earliest stages of frostnip, and my hands and arms didn't fully warm for about half an hour.

When I got home after work--my loving boyfriend picked me up and we left the bike in the rack for the night--I looked in the mirror for the first time and noticed that my cheeks were dotted with red bumps and blotches where blood vessels had frozen and then restarted during and after my frozen ride to work. I didn't take these until a few hours later, and it's gone down considerably, but anyone who knows me knows my cheeks and ears aren't generally this red:

So, lessons here: Even the gentlest nip of frost is unpleasant. Check the weather report before you leave to bike to work...and, well, um, don't bike to work in negative 10 degree weather! But if you must, layer as much as you can. Your body will thank you. Mine is still dodgy, but I'm sure it'll come around eventually.

Denver Half Marathon Race Report

2008-11-13T23:34:00.006-07:00

October 19, 2008

What do you get when you pair 5623 runners with about a hundred port-a-potties?

Really long lines.

That said, it’s about the only major executive-level complaint I have about the Denver Marathon. Then again, when you have a former Boston Marathon race director designing the course, it’s sort of expected that that level of organization is included with your race fee. The fact that there were nowhere near enough port-o-lets at the race’s start/finish to accommodate the runners was kind of a bummer. I don’t expect to find thousands of temporary toilets on the grounds of Civic Center Park, but surely a few more wouldn’t have hurt.

We were pretty much left to fend for ourselves on the course, as well, although since it toured through several parks in greater downtown Denver, there were a few more toilets available around the course…but there were very few. Outside of port-a-johns, you could head into a local business along the route and hope for sympathy.

How did my race report get so toilet-centered? Well, to say my digestion was suffering on race day would be the understatement of the millennium. My stomach was so bad that I couldn’t even imagine starting without going to the bathroom; when the starting gun went off and the lines for the toilet disappeared, I stood my ground and fled into the next open toilet. I’m not used to this. My digestion has been one thing I’ve always had going for me: races, training runs, whatever, my stomach has never been an issue before. That morning, however, my tummy was NOT having it. As a result, I started running about ten minutes late…and departed the start line just ahead of the sweeper truck.

OK, so, that aside…Colorado in autumn is absolutely gorgeous, for the most part. There’s a chance you can get bogged down in snow, but it’s pretty slim, and on October 19, Colorado’s fall spectacular was on display. I ran the Denver Marathon under crystal-clear skies and warming temps as the sun came up to illuminate the gorgeous fall colors: aspen and oak and crab apple and mulberry trees all in the midst of their annual showcase in brilliant golds and oranges and reds and yellows. I feel extraordinarily blessed to call this part of the world home, especially at this time of year.

The entire course is paved, and ran through sections of LoDo and downtown Denver, including Coors Field, the newly redesigned Denver Art Museum, City Park and Cheesman Park, along with scads of beautiful older-Denver neighborhoods. The race started and finished at Civic Center Park, near the state Capitol building. Both races follow the same course; the marathon course splits off and weaves through several other historic areas and a couple of extra parks, then loops back and rejoins the main course about a mile before the finish. Finishers were directed by ever-helpful and friendly race volunteers and personnel into separate chutes for the half- and full-marathon, and the reception at the finish was phenomenal: to already be running a gorgeous course on a beautiful day just feels fantastic; to feel so beloved by the hundreds of cheering fans at the finish, especially those already-finished runners who stick around to cheer for us back-of-the-packers.

The course was well-stocked with Gatorade and water, and surprisingly not quite as well-stocked for nutrition otherwise. Personally, I didn’t mind the single aid station offering Clif Shots—I can’t stand gels and pack my own sustenance—at mile 7, and for a half-marathon, you really can get away with very little if any nutritional complements, but looking at the course map I only saw one other aid station for Clif Shots, at mile 17. Perhaps less nutrition is better, but it seemed kind of lacking to me. Since I didn’t run the full, however, I’m in no place to comment: volunteers often bring their own snacks and generously share them with dogged marathoners, a courtesy I have always appreciated.

Speaking of volunteers…the volunteers for the race were exceptional, as usual, and cheered and enthused and encouraged us all on, even me, barely ahead of the race-walkers. The awesome attitude and charm of race volunteers and spectators never fails to amaze me; I think the sidelines at any road race are possibly the best evidence for the social and supportive nature of humans available. Runners are crazy: we get up at absurd hours and then go exert ourselves for an extended amount of time, so that we can cross that finish line, beat that PR, get that metal trinket handed out at the finish and then mill around with a bunch of fellow crazy, sweaty people afterwards to chow down on bagels, burritos, bananas and beer (alliteration unintentional, but amusing). But what of the people who aren’t running, who show up to support us, to hand us water and Gatorade, to sweep up millions of little paper cups and cheer us on and take our pictures and carry our crap for us? I can really only offer my enormous gratitude and thanks to every spectator and volunteer present, not the least of which goes out to my awesome boyfriend/sherpa/personal photographer/cheerleader/sideline therapist/motivator Jeremy.

The police presence was commendable as well. Having to blockade substantial areas of main streets and neighborhoods can’t be easy, but they not only assisted the runners wholeheartedly, they would smile and nod or cheer us on as well. What a great feeling. I’m sure that closing roads for this race seemed like small potatoes to them after hosting the Democratic National Convention, but I still really appreciate their candor and cheery attitude.

While the course is “relatively flat” there are some hillier sections that made me really thankful for being residentially acclimated to life at 5000 feet. I’d recommend getting here a few days in advance, if possible, so as not to be stymied by the less-than-flat sections, if coming from sea level to run this race. It’s nowhere near as hilly at the Boulder Marathon but still might warrant acclimatization for runners from sea level. It’s much easier to haul up those hills without feeling like you’re breathing through a straw.

Miscellany: McDonald’s was a title sponsor, which simultaneously doesn’t surprise me and makes me cringe. Nothing like America’s greatest championer of obesity promoting an athletic event. There was a huge Team In Training presence, which I always enjoy seeing and am starting to think hard about joining, or at least running a race or two with; I really admire this organization. Finally, there was a woman at mile four holding a McCain/Palin sign. OK, the political situation was driving most of us crazy to begin with, and escaping it through running doesn’t work anymore as myriad lawn signs are posted everywhere. I don’t need anyone else’s political assertions injected into my race as well. Granted, it was more of a run than a race for me, but I still think it was annoying, at best. I was there to run, not evaluate my political conscience…apparently a $102 race fee can’t get you away from the die-hards.

Speaking of what that $102 fee included…the race packets were pretty pathetic: lots of shiny advertisements, a beverage that couldn’t possibly pass muster as a sport drink, and a cotton t-shirt. Because we runners love to wear cotton so much. I really think there oughta be some sort of universal stipulation for giving race participants synthetic race shirts. The finishing medals were really nice though; you kind of felt like an Olympian considering the heft and size of the things.

All in all it was a beautiful race that gives a nice scope of Denver for out-of-state entrants, and a great reminder for us residents of the wealth of awesome running routes we enjoy year-round. If you’re considering a Mile High marathon, I strongly endorse this one.

http://www.denvermarathon.com

Sick...

2008-10-27T20:07:00.002-06:00

In the wake of Senator Obama's visit to Colorado, in high spirits and enjoying the mellifluous peace that we were going to secure a leader for this country whose work as President would be revolutionary, ingenious, historically significant, one huge black mark crashed through my day today.

It started with a Fox News report (how better to know my enemy than to read their news?) on a couple of white supremacists arrested by the FBI for attempting to enact a plot to kill Senator Obama as the "final target" on a list of 88 murders and 14 decapitations of black people. The list includes black schoolchildren. Apparently no one is too young for the psychotic notions of super-racists.

Are you listening to me?!?!?! SCHOOLCHILDREN!!! What is going on here? As much as I hate to say it, Senator Obama is probably more aware of the dangers to his life and the liabilities facing the decision he made to run for President than any other Presidential candidate in history...the only reason being that we are NOT a coclor-blind population. As much as we would like to say we are, we're not. I don't think I'm exaggerating in saying that any non-Caucasian person in this country has a sense of that, grows up with it, understands it. We'd love to be. But we're not. Let's get honest here.

One particularly terrifying, and yet somewhat gratifying, part of the New York Times article I picked up on the would-be killers: "The two men “planned to drive their vehicle as fast as they could toward Obama shooting at him from the windows,” according to an affidavit filed in federal court in Jackson, Tenn., by an agent with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. Mr. Obama has no plans to be in Tennessee, and the affidavit does not make clear whether the men had picked a location for an attack."

Terrifying because: people are actually planning to try to assassinate Obama. I remember remarking on the presence of the Secret Service at the Denver rally, "What's the worst thing that could happen right now?" and all of us nodding and reluctantly acknowledging the horror of that idea.

Gratifying because: the FBI is really ON TOP OF IT. They caught onto these guys before their plan even reached an advanced stage. Also because they're so clearly ignorant morons that they wouldn't have gotten far...drive their vehicle as fast as they could and shoot at Obama through the windows? Um, last I knew, the Secret Service had that plan anticipated, and clearly thought out, and had plenty of contingency plans to deal with such an incident. Obama didn't have plans to campaign in Tennessee, and while future development might show they intended to strike elsewhere, all we know now if that they were planning this attack from home turf.

And then...nauseating, because...how does anyone, anywhere, anytime, justfiy killing children?

Obama/Biden 08. Vote!

Law of the American Jungle

2008-10-26T19:44:00.003-06:00

First, there was the pre-dawn wake-up call, our alarms clattering noisily, rousing us from our comfortable slumber. Our bodies didn't want to respond at all. Being up this early was completely foreign on this day of the week, and they didn't like it one bit. Somehow, we got ourselves to the bus on time.

Then it was the bus ride to Denver, packed in with crowds of people RTD doesn't usually see on this line, during this day of the week. The decision had been sent down from dispatch, our driver informed us, to run more buses that day. We'd secured seats and were still trying to wake up, and I pitied--though not enough to give up my seat, selfish child that I can be--those who had to stand for the entire hourlong ride.

Then there was the wait in the line, which moved every so often, only to reveal more line. Finally we neared the park. There were metal detectors to pass through, Secret Service and Denver Police officers patting people down, coins and phones to remove from pockets, bags to be searched. A woman beside me groaned, remembering her artificial knee. Making our way through the park, we stopped at what was then the edge of the crowd, a good 60-70 yards from the podium. We grumbled about having a lousy view and prepared for our next wait. It would be another hour and a half before the rally even began, and the crowds were packing in.

Standing on my tiptoes, I could only see if a few hundred people tilted their heads just so. And even then, only a glimpse of the podium, the teleprompter, the speaker. Bitter-cold breeze blowing. Feet stamping. Trying to warm up.

By the end of the day, we were sunburned. Fatigued. Cold. Achy. Claustrophobic.

Faced with an imminent need to empty our bladders.

And yet, the Law of the American Jungle still applied: stay calm, and share your bananas. We weren't necessarily calm; it was a political rally, for goodness' sake, "calm" isn't the point. But we were joyful. We were exuberant. We were smiling and joking and laughing. We were befriending those around us, sharing the latest negative-campaigning gossip, heartily congratulating a woman nearby when she said she was a lifelong Republican who not only had converted but was out helping with voter regiatration, getting people to early voting, helping in any way that she could. A woman forgot her camera, so she gave me her email address so that I could send her our pictures. She and her friends shared their trail mix with us when they broke it out. We all laughed over the $150,000 wardrobe scandal, we shored up our reserves and we discussed tactics to get our friends and loved ones who were Republican or undecided to consider our candidate. It was awesomely Democratic; as far as I can tell, the only thing Republicans do when they rally--in, thankfully, waning numbers--is shout crude, vitriolic psycho-babble like "Drill, baby, drill!" Republican gatherings look like the crowd at the AARP claims office: a bunch of old angry white men. Democratic gatherings have a decidedly more American flavor: people of every shape, size, color, age, sexual orientation, you name it, are there. The rally was actually representative of the American population, rather than representative of Old Johnny's Cronies. Moving on...

When our local politicians took the stage, we cheered them on. When they incited the crowd for responses, we hollered readily. My boyfriend, the designated photographer, snapped dozens of photos, mostly of a sea of people, a podium, a figure speaking, and a huge white building as the backdrop. He snapped pictures of the Secret Service snipers on the roof of the county building, and we all murmured acknowledgment that if the absolute worst were to happen, that's what they were there for.

And then he took the stage, and the crowd roared. Gracious, brilliant, and inspiring, we listened as he outlined his promise for change, his heartfelt gratitude for our presence, and yes, a bit of tearing into his opponent. But mostly, his hopes for our great nation. His plan to wean us from foreign oil without bankrupting the seas and poisoning the environment, to free us from the burdensome toils of the broken healthcare system, to get us out of this horrid downward-spiraling economy. To alleviate the middle class of the fear of foreclosures for a few months, until people can get back on their feet and begin paying their mortgages.

His speech was profoundly eloquent, yet humbled; he was spirited, passionate and driven without sinking to the depths the Republicans have in their attacks on him. He took a few shots at McCain but mostly he talked about what he was going to do, not what his opponent was not going to do. His hopes and dreams for our country, not his opponent's, or how wrong they are, or how evil he is. Which for me, would be difficult (which is, among other reasons, why I won't be making a bid for the White House anytime soon).

He encouraged us, and his enthusiasm was infectious. He spoke with such integrity and honesty that I found myself, 3/4 of the way through his speech, swallowing a big lump in my throat, brushing away tears, out of nowhere. And then at the end, he thanked us all. Imagine that: he thanked us.

Nine days. Nine electoral votes. Please, Colorado, my adopted home, don't let me and the other 100,000+ people gathered in support of Barack Obama today down. Don't give in to terror tactics and fears drummed up by the same crazy people who brought us the last eight years of economic horror, war, corporate buyouts, healthcare crises, and abject terrorist activities carried out in the name of this country. It can be better, and he can make it so.

Elect President Barack Obama.

Profoundly Influential: RIP William R. Barrowclough

2008-10-07T06:02:00.004-06:00

My little sister Emily called me at 5:30 this morning. When I picked up she assumed she'd woken me and said something about it being two hours earlier here and apologizing for waking me up, but I'd been up for at least an hour and a half by then and was only planning on writing this blog and doing some online work. We got to talk for about twenty minutes--a rarity between me and Emily, in part because of the distance between us and in part because of the distance between us. She lives 2000 miles away, but she might as well be on the moon. Our lives are as separate as they could possibly be, and while this saddens me at my egotistical, self-indulgent faux core, it makes my heart a little warmer and my soul a little happier knowing that she's well, she's doing okay, her life is good. She amazes me: she has been through just about every terrifying circumstance and situation possible, from watching friends commit suicide as early as junior high to our father's death a year ago today and way above and beyond even that spectrum which, to me, is pretty broad. Some of the events I know of, some I probably don't, and some I only have sketchy details of, either from our worry-stricken mother or much more casual conversations with Emily where she tells me everything she can but mostly tells me she's going to be okay. I believe her, because she's survived everything. She absolutely blows me away. She's my hero and my best friend, in many ways, my confidante and my absolute favorite person to do just about anything with, and at the same time, I often feel like I don't know her at all: don't know the people in the pictures she posts on myspace or facebook, don't know the friends she's made in Charlotte, don't know what her work is like, who she gets along with there, if she likes her boss, if she gets any fulfillment from what she's doing...and she doesn't know most of this stuff about me. So hearing from her, especially this morning, was really good. I got some bad news I was otherwise unaware of, and I got some good news: I got to hear her order her morning coffee (a small skim mocha with an extra shot, from a coffee shop run by Habitat for Humanity near where she works), got to hear her thanking people and the apologetic sorry-I'm-on-the-phone sound in her voice when she was talking to people at the coffee shop and had me on the line (it's the same tone my voice takes on), got to hear her ripping a little into Sarah Palin, which I enjoyed greatly, though shortly, since I dominated the conversation from then on with a recount of a recent karma spree and then she had to go because she was at work, but it was still good to hear from her. I'm pretty sure every day would be a little bit better if I heard from Emily, because every day I do is.

Our father died a year ago today, which was the original subject of this blog post. At this time--especially at this time, with the political and economic mayhem currently taking place in our country and possibly the most important Presidential election in United States history about to unfold--I wish Dad were still alive, but there isn't a day that goes by that I don't. When big things happen: Emily goes through something tough (any of the things I will be broadly and blandly vague about because I know she doesn't want me writing about them on my blog), another member of our very close, very small family struggles with alcohol and drug abuse, I'm unemployed for a month and horribly depressed by it, I have a seizure because of an accidental overdose of a supposedly safe medication, I meet and move in with the love of my life, we learn to live on a dollar-eighty-seven or so a week because we're so badly in the hole and in such poor shape to do anything about it, my major love before now gets married, I turn 27 years old, my sister turns 24, and somewhere in the middle of that we miss a birthday: Dad would have been 68 this year, and the stress of missing him on that day buckles my knees at work and leaves me clutching the counter in front of me, eyes and mouth filling all at once. There's a sense of drowning that accompanies profound grief, and I wonder how many people have experienced that, have written or talked or expressed it aloud, the intense fury of an internal storm so big that for a moment it threatens the life and safety of the whole ship, and just when you begin to pull apart at the seams, it calms. The winds die down, you stop feeling like your guts are trying to escape their worldly anchors and you move on, limping, sometimes, slightly. You can breathe and see again, though sometimes through a glimmer of tears, and you know that you're going to survive, even though it seemed like--only a moment ago--the hole in your life was going to cave in and swallow you forever. The absence of a parent, of a father. Like I'm qualified to write about this. Well, I am absent a father, so I guess that qualifies me. For a year now. It actually happened on a Sunday; it was Sunday, October 7, 2007, and I had been waiting for the phone call all weekend. They'd told me on Thursday or Friday that his systems were shutting down, and that his liver was failing completely. That was when it really hit me: my dad is going to die, it's going to happen soon, and there's nothing I can do about it. I am thousands of miles away from my family while this is happening and so I can't even be there with him. He told me the whole time he was going to beat it, and so, like everything else he ever told me, I couldn't believe it when it wasn't absolutely, undeniably true. When I was a kid, my dad always told me how much he loved me, how beautiful I was. I wasn't much for combing my hair or keeping clothes pretty--I was a tomboy from the start, and Emily too, and he loved that--so I wasn't really much for mirrors, either, and until I was a gape-toothed, stringy-limbed preadolescent, I'd never really looked in one. When I did, I was horrified. I remember thoroughly feeling that I was intensely, terribly ugly, with my gapped teeth and enormous glasses and upturned piglike nose, my chapped lips and my lack of chest, or nubs, or anything that would positively identify me as woman. I was so, so ugly, and infuriated with my father: how dare he lie to me like that! He told me my whole life how I was so beautiful, and I wasn't, not at all, not even a little!!! I wa sso angry about it I never brought it up with him. And I feel like I lost a huge chunk of my innocence that day.

Of course, I grew up...and now, at 27, can feel beautiful, even when I am feeling fat and ugly and wretched and even when other people are telling me how wretched I look or am acting, and I can be quite wretched, and I know this, and I've moved beyond the mirror that haunted me through puberty and stalked me well into teenhood, and I can handle the fact that while I'd like to lose 20 pounds to be in better shape as a runner, I am still in damned good shape as a 5'7", 155-lb. woman. I can see more of what my father really meant when I was growing up and less of what I saw in that terrible mirror, but I still feel the zing of that betrayal, the shock of that realization. It was the same way I felt on October 4, 5, and 6 of last year: numbed, but true, I was coming to terms with the fact that my father was dying. And so when my brother called me to give me the news, when I first heard his cracking voice through the receiver of my phone, saying, "Don?" and me "Yeah?" and he "He's gone." and heard the pitched sob he held back from crying out into the phone to me, maybe because he was holding his baby son, maybe because he didn't want to break down and was trying to hold it together for me, maybe because he was already flush with tears and had seen his world tear apart already as he watched our father take his last breaths, he held it back, and the world came undone anyway. The most important thing my dad ever told me: I'm going to beat this, was no longer true, and while I tried very hard to see the beauty inside of it: he wasn't sick anymore, he wasn't hurting anymore, he wasn't in pain anymore, he was in a better place, he was going to heaven or to meet God or to an afterlife that would be such a great improvement over this one, while I try to see that beauty to this day, I still feel shocked, betrayed, undone, that he left us. He left us, dammit! How dare he! And I stomp my selfish, egotistical foot and think of everything he's missed in my life since: meeting the love of my life, dealing with the shakiest employment year I've ever had, standing up to my cruel and deceitful boss at my former employer and winning, having a seizure, getting fatter than I've ever been, realizing how much Jeremy really loves me, and is willing to put up with, for me, my 27th birthday, my introduction to and love for the world of aerial arts, training for my third marathon, the 2008 election and the possibility of real hope and change, and the very real possibility of the horror of four MORE years of Republican hell, or even, I daresay, eight. Hockey season starting, autumn in Carolina and Colorado, telling him how much I miss him on the phone, talking politics in heated discussions that last for hours and leave both of us with grumbly tummies as our dinners have gone cold but full of mindful inspiration and joy, that we could come together and talk and agree and disagree and love each other so much over something so important. And so unimportant. Next to something like the former love of my life, the only man I loved enough to bring home to South Carolina to meet my entire family, all the siblings and my father, the importance of that, and of letting him go entirely, of finding out that my old love, who had long since had found his true love, was getting married, got married, sent me wedding photos. He missed that! He missed Bob's wedding. How dare he! How dare he!

And then I think of the things he's going to miss: my wedding, my children, if I ever have any, the same for Emily, the rest of the years of my life, and I start to feel very young and upset and confused. And selfish. And I cry and yell and scream even though it doesn't do any good, and even though I know it's never going to do any good. The print publication of my first writing. The actual upcoming election, and his vote, that won't be counted in it. The chance to meet, get to know, affirm the love of my life, admire him, enjoy his company, welcome him into our family. The pictures from Bob's wedding. My third marathon. My workdays at the medical center, and Emily's at her medical center, and hundreds and hundreds of New Jersey Devils games to come. And I break.

I should have taken today off: if I had any kind of option to do so, I would have. I'm a teary disaster, and a teary disaster who needs a shower and fresh clothes and a few minutes to think and maybe read my email and the news before heading off to work for the day, and since I'm running out of time--and for the sake of my loyal readers, who may or may not have doggedly followed me through this one--I'll end this here and go do that. It's 6:55 in the morning in Colorado, and the sun is coming up. Dad died in the middled of the afternoon, so he was still alive a year ago now. I wonder what he was thinking, or feeling, or seeing. I wonder--selfishly--if he knew how much I love him, and how much I would miss him. I wonder if he was sad, or upset, or in pain, and I hope he wasn't, because no matter how great the struggle, how mighty the storm, how ferocious the waters that swirl around us become, the sun keeps coming up, the days keep passing and, amazing though it seems, life goes on, even without him. My dad loved life so much it's hard for me to believe he let go easily. But I hope, kind of, in the end, that he was at peace with it. I'm not; well, sometimes, I am, but most of the time I'm not, and I have the rest of my life to ferociously love and be unwilling to let go of, to fight for and work for and struggle for and make peace with, to enjoy and contemplate and always, always find the beauty in.

After my brother called me and we spoke a little, after talking to my sister awhile, a year ago this afternoon, I went outside with my camera and took pictures of the day. It was a marvelous fall day in Colorado, and a storm was blowing in, the winds mightily whirling the turning leaves and wintering branches of trees about, and I took photos of the storm, of the trees, of the bright shining sun, of everything in the world around me changing, always, into something even more beautiful.

I love you, Daddy. I love you so much.

a rare photo of all of the siblings together: left to right, my stepsister Heather, my half-adopted sister Gerie, my half-brother BJ, me, my little sister Emily, at BJ's house after our father's memorial service last year

PS While I realize it's probably impossible, especially after reading this last rather warped and warbled view of things, to convince anyone of this: I am as equally thrilled at the times I did have with my father, if not more so, as I am about all of the things I miss about him, and will miss sharing with him. More on that later...have to run to work now...

Declaring A Winner

2008-10-02T20:52:00.003-06:00

This evening millions of Americans tuned in to NBC for the official broadcast of the debate between vice Presidential candidates Democratic Senator Joe Biden and Republican Governor Sarah Palin. Within moments after, and likely during the entirety of the debate, the pundits were spitting and snarling, tearing apart the attacks and the defenses, the weapons and the malfeasances. Doing what pundits do: generating a lot of hubbub about a nicely intelligent, rather surprisingly well-presented debate. What pisses me off, of course, is "who won?"

The answer will undoubtedly be Sarah Palin. This doesn't bother me as much as the reason for the answer, though. Sarah Palin won because she didn't suck.

She didn't falter--as badly as she has in the past--and she didn't coin anymore cheesy catch phrases. She didn't present herself as irrational, illogical or even incapable. And this, my friends, was enough to make her "win".

Right. She didn't suck. So she won. Joe Biden presented--as usual--a well-developed, clearly outlined--if sometimes muddled with varied interests and concerns--argument, but he won't be declared the winner, because his opponent, who was expected to, as she has in the past few weeks, make political gaffe after gaffe, continue to do so. And she didn't.

When we declare the winner of a debate by the degree of improvement from lack of intellect and logic to ability to recite facts, names and dates, occasionally drop a crowd-pleasing line for the good ol' boys, and continue to mispronounce "nuclear" in an apparent attempt to change Merriam-Webster's pronunciation of the word to George W. Bush's, over the polished, professional and brilliant oration of a seasoned political genius, we have declared ourselves a population dominated by its most blatant stupidity. No longer interested in effecting change or creating actual reform, we hang onto blunted catch phrases and repetitive commentaries, and we declare ourselves an educated mass. We are satisfied with the collective input of the lowest common denominator, and it will be reflected by the generations to come.

Musings...

2008-09-22T20:24:00.002-06:00

"All we are saying...is give peace a chance..." This was my ringtone for a few weeks until it started to drive me nuts. Further proof that in times rife with Republican-driven tension, even John Lennon can make a person batty. I remind myself that there are people out there battier than myself, and kinder, and also wiser and more honest, like my mother, and my sister, and Anne Lamott. But as each one of these women have been fond of saying--especially when the herd seems like it's all in a big frenzy, and everywhere you look teeth grit and grip in snarl, and dust billows from thunderous hooves, and foam lathers in the corners of curled lips, ready with the next vociferous reproach--these are the times we have to remember, as my mother, and my sister, and Annie, have all reminded me, that that's the great thign about us all being part of the same tribe: we can't all go crazy on the same day. Or something like that. When one of my colleagues, deeply fearful of the coming election, goes door to door throughout the high country registering voters--or getting doors slammed in her face, which I absolutely cannot believe, and for this reason am glad I am not along with her, because I think that if I saw just one snide, angry, nasty person--or at least snide, angry and nasty for that moment; like all of us, they're probably generally sane, and kind, and good--I would probably beat on their door until they opened it, and then punch them in the face, or stomp on their foot, or throw dirt at them, or enact some other violence that would likely get me arrested and do my colleagues work no further good. And this is why she is knocking on doors, and I am writing blog posts.

Meanwhile...the numbers are in...

2008-09-09T18:59:00.006-06:00

While John McCain and Sarah Palin (the bulldog and the beauty queen, respectively or irrespectively...you decide) continue to follow the same party tactic that effectively granted Bush a second term in office--repetition, repetition, repetition--in touting their efforts towards political unity, "bipartisanship" has apparently taken on a new meaning. As in, "we'll say whatever we have to in order to buy your partisanship".

I've been trekking about the web; these numbers are taken from sites for The New York Times, MSNBC, Fox News, CBS, and The Washington Post on demographics at the Democratic National Convention and the Republican National Convention:

Women
A colleague of mine recently asked, "How could any woman possibly vote Republican?" Good question. At the DNC women made up 49% of the attending delegates. RNC statistics boast a paltry 32%. Sixty-eight percent of this party's delegates are men. Oh, but I'm sure they have an understanding of women's issues equal to that of women themselves...after all, they're the ones who keep sending our children to Iraq.

Blacks
Even the black Republicans can't believe the dearth of representation in their party. As quoted in the September 4 Washington Post article "In a More Diverse America, A Mostly White Convention": "It's hard to look around and not get frustrated," said Michael S. Steele, a black Republican and former lieutenant governor of Maryland. "You almost have to think, 'Wait. How did it come to this?' "

I almost wish the numbers didn't back Steele up so well: after a decade of strident efforts to reach out to minorities culminating in an almost-impressive 7% of black delegates at the 2004 RNC, the GOP's minority courting seems to have fallen by the wayside in 2008: only 1.5% of the delegates attending the Republican National Convention were black. That's 36 out of 4500. Wow. Apparently their partisanship was a little pricey for the Republicans this year...or perhaps simply unworthy.

Blacks made up 23.4% of delegates at the Democratic National Convention. 'Nuff said.

Hispanics
I was a little bummed at the representation of the fastest-growing minority group in America at this year's DNC, and I don't think my party did this community justice with a representation that only made up roughly 12% of Democratic delegates. I think we can do better.

We still better-than-doubled the representation of Hispanics at the RNC, however, although more liberal estimates are coming in at about 7%. Most news sources report Hispanic representation at the RNC around 5%.

Asians
Asian representation was prototypically low for both parties, although again statistics of the DNC show a greater-than-double turnout than the RNC: 4.1 - 4.6% representation in Denver, and 1.8 - 2% participation in St. Paul.

Overall, whites made up roughly 60 - 67% of the delegates at the Democratic National Convention. The most conservative estimates of white delegates at the Republican National Convention come in above 90%.

Who represents you?

Sounding Off

2008-09-04T10:48:00.004-06:00

Are the pundits, pollsters and proletariat starting to get on anyone else's nerves these days? We live under an oppressive regime, allow ourselves to be controlled by fear and apathy, willfully give up civil liberties in return for greater bureaucracy and repression, and we're going to endorse another four to eight years?!?!?! Jeremy and I are looking into options to work and live abroad should the McCain-Palin ticket actually succeed. We're done. We've had it. As my dear wonderful grandmother, a lifelong Republican who changed her party for this election, said, "Enough is enough."

And what I really don't get about this whole thing is why we are still buying into the same old tired nonsense that's entirely responsible for skyrocketing healthcare costs, massive pharmaceutical influence in politics, the abrupt failure of the housing market and the plodding recession we are, apparently, doomed to wander through until we have a President we can believe in. When's the last time we had one of those? Oh, right, it was a little over eight years ago, when Clinton presided over the greatest period of economic prosperity in the history of the United States.

Don't give me that Republican malarky about how George H.W. Bush was responsible for creating that economy. Like everything else, the global marketplace turns on a whim these days; people sink money into markets they believe in. When there's nothing to believe in, the market fails. Proof positive: George W. Bush's delinquent economy. Clinton's brilliant balancing of the budget and creation of a federal surplus. Oh my God...and it took less than a year to undo, as Bush said, hey, let's pretend to care for the people and "share" the money with them! WHat did we get? A check for $300. Wow.

And I'm sick of the public terror created around the concept of socialized healthcare. Oh my God, they're almost four-letter words, aren't they? "Socialized healthcare"...I was reading the Rocky today, a really stupid thing to do during an election year as they fly their Republican Red like it's Economic Doomsday Pride week and they're celebrating. One more idiot talking about the terrors of a socilized system where doctors are at the beck and call of the federal government and they won't be allowed to practice where they want and healthcare will be sub-standard and...oh, no, my heart pounds just thinking about what terrors may come from a healthcare system steeped in socialist ideas.

And then I remember, oh, wait, all of the systems in this country that are socialized, and that we are so grateful for. Like the fire department. Police services. Post office. The military. And let's not forget the most recent arm of the federal government, created by the esteemed anti-big-government George W., the Department of Homeland Security. That one I'm not so grateful for, but mostly because the passing of the Patriot Act brought with it a mandate on pseudoephedrine, and I now have to take a rectal exam to get my allergy medication from my pharmacist.

But that aside...another comment in today's Rocky instructed us crazy radicals to ask Europeans what they thought of their healthcare, and its petulant tone led me to believe they'd all agree thta socilized healthcare was the modern-day equivalent of the bubonic plague upon their fair societies. Funny, I don't know a lot of Europeans, but one I do know pretty well, who now lives in the United States, owns his own business, and through the growth of his business provides jobs for Americans, laughs when I've asked him if he'd become a US citizen and looks at me like I've lost my mind. All he has to do is start talking about how much healthcare would cost him in this country, when he simply has to fly back to France and be taken care of for free. Now, given the escalating costs of jet fuel, I'm sure it's not exactly "cheap", but when you consider the astronomical cost of US healthcare, I bet that plane ticket is well worth the expenditure.

And let's get to that, there, too. Last night unknown-before-last-Thursday Alaskan governor Sarah Palin, while waxing rhapsodic about running mate John McCain's war buddies, made yet another attempt to malign that great shining beacon of liberalism and intelligence who happens to be running for President and whose win will ensure MY future stake in this country, dropped as low as to rail on him for supporting a withdrawal from dependency on foreign oil AND offshore drilling. As if there isn't another alternative. As if you have to be FOR one, and AGAINST the other, or the equation fails altogether. Give me a break. This kind of logic is, well, it's entirely faulty. Unsecure. Failing. Oh well let's just say it: she's LYING TO YOU, PEOPLE!!! Leave it to the American public to actually buy into such a farce. How about alternative energy expenditures? Exploration of sources of fuel that don't rely on fossil fuels? Well, there's an idea...but it's not enough to invest the American Dream in, even when you throw in the fact--FACT!!!--that any tapping of offshore reserves won't benefit us for at least a decade, and your precious Wallybucks are still going to be grimly parted with to fill your enormous, gas-guzzling SUV. Aren't you glad you bought that Expedition after all?

Race Report: Boulder Marathon 2007

2008-08-08T23:20:00.000-06:00

Reposting my race report from last year...

I have to admit I'm pretty bummed. Saturday: the Expo? There was an Expo? Aside from a Bear Naked tent, I saw no signs of anything resembling an Expo. While I'm sure Clinica Campesina appreciated all of the work you did for them, for those of us who paid upwards of $98 to participate in this race, we'd rather see some things done for us as well. 5K finisher medals? Really? A 5K is a walk in the park...at the very least, finisher's medals should have been varied based on what race you ran, not all the same. Last year's were nothing to write home about, but at least they were somewhat distinctive, (blue ribbons for the half and gold for the full) and if you're going to sink so much funding into them, why not make something that participants are proud to wear? I don't want to wear a medal after running a marathon and have someone ask me how my 5K went. Maybe it's just me, but it seemed insulting. Oh, and the goody bags that were supposed to be so spectacular had...a couple of promotional fliers for things like Gatorade Endurance and a hat and a tee shirt and a pint glass. Nowhere close to as good as last year's.

Sunday: The course itself was great; the volunteers were wonderful cheerleaders and there was water, Gatorade and Clif Shots aplenty. A little more variety would be nice...but otherwise, the course was great. However, when I got to the finish...

Nobody announced my name at the finish line...at all!!! What a major bummer that was. I mean, I know I'm slow, but come on, man. That's one of the best feelings in the world, and it got totally squashed for me. In fact, the only person--aside from me--who seemed to notice I finished was my friend Jack, who came to pick me up and snapped a few pictures. Amy, you did see and congratulate me, thank you.

And then I find out you're out of finishing medals. So no medal. The 5K finishers got medals but there were none for the last 40 or so marathoners. You guys underordered for a race that reached its capacity a month in advance last year; what on earth were you thinking? Food was scarce, if even available and difficult to find to the point where we just left. After running 26.2 miles, you don't want to have to walk all over to get food. Whatever my "beverage ticket", "meal ticket" and ticket with all my info was for, I still have them, so I hope you don't need them. The music was mediocre at best, and far too loud--and this is coming from someone who regularly brings cotton and expensive earplugs to shows so that the amps don't blast my eardrums into oblivion. Oh, and since nobody seemed to be taking down times, I came in around 5:48:11. I did get my Avery beer and was happy about that, and I did finish. So that was good. But everything else was...well, lacking, to say the least. Even now, when clicking on the "get the most up-to-date race info here!" link on the homepage gets me to...th same email I received from you a week ago.

On top of which, I receive an email from Timberline Timing Systems--the only company I know of to even attempt to collect a $30 fee for NOT turning in your chip after the race, are you KIDDING ME? --today that said times were posted. So I checked by bib number. My numbers weren't there. I checked by name. My numbers weren't there. I was exceedingly careful to run over every mat and get the okay from the volunteers and race officials that my data had been collected. So...? I don't get my splits because these supposedly amazing timers totally suck? Grrrrreeeeeeeaaaaattt...

I have to say, this was pretty disappointing. The GoLite sponsorship was sorely missed; they made great shirts that you can actually wear to run a full marathon in, not cotton ones that you can't. Maybe at least there will be some cool shots whenever brightroom posts them...otherwise, better luck next year, guys. I know you were trying to make a lot of changes and turn it into an awesome, differently-styled race but instead it was a different, poorly-organized race without enough food or drinks or fun stuff at the end. Like a finisher's medal.

Oh my, it's time again for the Boulder Marathon...

2008-08-08T22:51:00.002-06:00

I sincerely hope it's better than last year, but I really think Race Director Jeff Mason is going to trip over his own ego and self-aggrandizement. From his "blast" emails:

"Year 2" of the Boulder Backroads (2000) was one of the most memorable races in my life. The weather was beyond belief. 464 of us finished the marathon, and the conditions were miserable - it snowed the night before. I wasn't planning on racing the event, as I was training for Vegas that next winter and Boston (again) the next spring (never went under 2:30 in Boston, but pulled off 2:41, brutal). I set the alarm clock for 4am. What the heck, this might be the day to run the distance with Steve Krebs, and let the chips fall where they may. As I sat in the warmth of the car waiting for the call to the starting line, I saw that all of the other "hard cores" were there. It was going to be a race. I figured I had a secret weapon, however, as I had 20 years experience in nordic ski racing, so the cold didn't bother me. I took off at the gun and hammered the first 20 miles in the icy, mucky, water. (and some of it was slow going, as we ran on the canal north of the "Res" and, as the second runner out on this part of the course, there was an inch of fresh snow!) What a day that was. The only guy ahead of me was off the Romanian Olympic Team, he was gone from the start. It was all the Colorado "has been's" fighting for bragging rights. The icy water kicking up on my hamstrings made them completely tie up by mile 23, and I had to literally stop and stretch them several times just to be able to keep running. I finished in 2:49 and change. Krebs closed fast in the last few miles and I held him off at the finish. He returned the favor by beating me the next time we raced. We agreed it was one of the best races either of us had ever run.

So, we all have our Backroads stories. When I was running for CU, back in the mid-80's, we used to go out there in cross-country practice and run "repeat miles". 10 separate mile repeats averaging 4:44 pace type thing. Jog back to the start and do it again, over and over. I will never forget having the opportunity to run with some of the best runners in the country. Memories I will never forget. The fastest CU guys would average 4:30 per mile. So yes, you can run fast on the backroads! And remember that the course record out there for the marathon is an astounding 2:23. (Silvio).

My proudest accomplishments in running and nordic skiing happened when I was in high school, as I competed at a national level at the two sports at the same time. I basically competed in races year 'round. In high school, I won 7 City Championship Titles at Denver South High School, (1981-1983). I won the DPS mile championship two years, won three city titles in the 2-mile, and two city titles in cross country - and placing second in another. Ran 9:39 for the 2 mile, placing 2nd in State as a senior. Ran under Jerry Quiller at CU. Varsity athlete in nordic skiing and running. As a high school nordic athlete, I won several age-group Colorado state championships, competed in the Junior Olympics seven times, and was a 4-year letterman for CU skiing, lettered in CU track and cross country running, finished 23rd in the Big 8 in cross country senior year. Our team won Big 8's, districts, and finished 5th at NCAA's.

I'm not the kind of guy who advertises who I am, and what I am all about. If I was, I could have sent this to you a year ago.

Instead he chose to send it to us now. Nice of him.

The most recent "blast" referenced a sponsor incorrectly within the first few lines...Teko Socks of Boulder became Teck Socks.

I tried to work with Jeff on the marathon and for my efforts, which were exhaustive, received belittlement, rudeness and have now been totally cutoff. For sourcing a vendor he seemed excited to work with, as it would have generated massive exposure for the race, who he hasn't spoken to since the agreement I brokered between them, for calling my credibility into question with that. For spending 4 hours walking around in the rain after Boulder's infamously enormous 10k the Bolder Boulder with his "cards" that had no information on them...the race logo on one side and an art print on the other...and handing them to every runner I saw.

Reportedly, the artist who created that print for Jeff hasn't been paid either.

The race course can be brutal: almost no shade for those 26.2, and if the finish is as disappointing as it was last year...well, register for the race and see for yourself...just don't hold your breath to hear your name called at the finish line...

Maybe you're cool with supporting a race with a director who makes up for his lack of experience and brash ego by blaming it on the former race director and founder of the Boulder Backroads Marathon, by pointing fingers and avoiding responsibility, by flagrantly lying and backing out of agreements he makes, but I'm not. I'll be reposting my race report from last year to this blog once I can find it...I deleted it after Jeff implored me to, after I thought he was a better man or at least a better RD than he demonstrably, repeatedly is.

Landing In Insurance

2008-04-16T18:17:00.003-06:00

The words "I work at an insurance brokerage" have leapt out of my mouth enough times now that I am actually beginning to believe them. I suppose that's probably a good idea, since they're paying me, and I spend rather exorbitant amounts of time there.

It's definitely a nice change. To go from dealing with customers to working with customers is truly, genuinely awesome. To answer the phone and know, somewhat blissfully, that it's not going to be someone asking me about shipping rates to Portugal for a Saturday Express package--which I, somewhat proudly, was never really able to answer except to tell them to call 1800GOFEDEX or connect them with my Shipping Specialist--or how much it's going to cost them to print an 18"x24" color graph and mount it on foam-core for some presentation they needed to have it ready for...yesterday. It's a qualitatively different interaction when they're calling to find out if their $2million insurance policy was approved by the carrier, or how much their premium is going to blow up if they decide they're not going to quit smoking (or skydiving or bungee jumping or scuba diving, for that matter...). For one, they're infinitely more concerned about their life insurance than they are about their color copies. Two, they don't look down on me. Three, if they do, they don't usually show it. At least not yet.

Regardless, I have yet to encounter, hear about or discuss anything near the condescension with which customers treat employees at office-printing-and-packing shops. You really would think they'd be nicer: after all, if they're due to present in court tomorrow and their entire case is riding on the mock-up they're counting on you to produce, you'd think a little bit of consideration is in order. After all, it wouldn't take much for a disgruntled, walked-all-over, spent-the-whole-day-trying-to-bite-their-tongue-and-grin-and-bear-it employee at FXK to just delete a project. Or the files associated with said project. "Ooops."

This doesn't happen, of course, at least not in my experience there. Which, I'm grateful to say, is over and done with now. Yay!

Aerial Acrobatics, Anyone?

2008-03-24T00:00:00.003-06:00

It all began so innocently. My first Valentine’s Day with Jeremy, a holiday neither of us are fond of, presented the opportunity to attend a Devotchka concert. My first. (His first? Maybe his first. Maybe not.) Anyway, I was really excited that they were playing in Boulder, though slightly soured on the idea of actually doing anything on Valentine’s Day, that Hallmark Horror steeped in tiny pastel chalky candies (that, incidentally, my sweet tooth craves, and I buy them by the bag, but refuse to have anything further to do with the holiday) and ugly velvet boxes of smudgy chocolates. Oh, the shame…but, then, it was the only opportunity for some time to see Devotchka live, as they embarked on their European tour on March 18.

March 18 ended up being an interesting day for me, and it was tied into the Devotchka show. Incredibly enough, the Universal whimsy that seems to conduct my life is as steeped in irony as February 14 is with tackiness. March 18 found Devotchka on an airplane bound for London…and me sitting prettily upon a knot my instructor taught me to tie about five feet up in the air, a knot of filmy polyester fabric strips, two to be exact, each hanging from a rotating caster high above us on the ceiling at the Boulder Circus Center. Moving cautiously about my self-made swing a few times in the air, warily pressing limbs out against the fabric, trying to see how I could move—and finding out quickly how I could NOT—using the fabric like a fluid trapeze.

The concept of aerial fabric art was introduced to me at the show on Valentine’s Day as, during one song of their set, two lithe women utilized two long strips of blood-red fabric suspended from high above the stage to snake their way up and down above the band on either side of the stage. Lengthy series of twists and turns, locks and knots up and down the fabric would culminate in shocking drops and frozen midair splits. The audience gasped and pointed, watched with bated breath. I looked at Jeremy and said, “I have to learn how to do that.”

Well leave it to Boulder to be the only city this size that would offer the option of learning aerial fabric art from not one, but two aerial arts companies. Both Aircat Aerial Arts and Frequent Flyers offered adult beginner aerial fabric classes. I chose Aircat Aerial Arts and a month later joined two other young women shyly attending our first aerial fabric class at the Boulder Circus Center.

Our instructor and Aircat’s founder and director, Cathy Gauch, is petite, lithe and beautiful to watch. Her instructions were clear and firm, and while it soon became evident that I needed to gain about 500% upper body strength to even be able to climb the fabric (I can’t even pull myself up once! I am such a wimp!), I still loved every minuet of class. My fellow classmates were friendly and encouraging, though I’m easily the worst out of the group. The more advanced students in the class—of about 12, only 3 of us were brand-new—were welcoming and supportive and really, really kind. So despite my own klutziness and severe need to get into better shape, I had a blast in class. I met Jeremy afterwards absolutely glowing, bubbling over with excitement…even though my hands were red and blistering and my whole torso was throbbing with exhaustion from all of the irregular activity. Once back home I climbed into a steaming bath tub with my journal to write about the class…and on the way in, caught my face in the mirror. Quite pink still from the exertions of learning to knot, lock and trying to climb the fabric, edged with little blonde wisps that escaped my ponytail all aroung my hairline, my face was still grinning ecstatically. Exactly the way it was when I caught myself in the mirror sitting on my knot during class.

Ahh, yeah...

2008-01-26T22:57:00.000-07:00

(from January 15, 2008)

So aside from the wind, which was incredibly helpful going out, which meant coming back was beastly, my run tonight was phenomenal. As most first ones are…I’ll probably hate myself for doing this to myself tomorrow, but for tonight, I feel awesome. Settled. Balanced. Unfettered. Calmer, clearer, and more focused. All of these awesome things I’ve been missing out on all winter.

Jack once remarked that sleep was his Prozac; if I had to draw a comparison to an anti-depressant, I’d have to say that running is mine. I haven’t smiled so much, so hard, so steadily, in a long time.

Gotta keep on truckin’…

January 26, 2008

Running in Westminster. The Dry Creek Trail or, as I like to call it, the Hotel Trail. Not too shabby till now, hours later, as my knees remind me what a total WEAKLING I truly am. Sitting here at Jeremy's, it's as though some sort of informal contest a la pain is unraveling as each of us moving from prone to standing positions and moving about the apartment produces pronounced creaks, cracks and groans.

He wins. I don't have any injuries as old as his. :)

Keep on...keeping on (sigh)

I need an LOL kitty for this one...

moar funny pictures

The Boy

2008-01-10T09:37:00.000-07:00

OK so...a bit much wall here but keep scrolling down...
...

...

...ahh here he is! Ladies and gentlemen, my beautiful boyfriend Jeremy. "Lucky" doesn't begin to describe my fortune in love at this point...he is a truly incredible man, a remarkable individual. I am sooo richly blessed...

Night run...

2007-12-12T21:23:00.000-07:00

Run, girl, run.

Glaring white-on-black-on-white. Crystalline drifts meeting filthy slushy sidewalks meeting snow-choked roads and bitter-blackened patches of asphalt. Along the route, the shadows of tree branches intertwine, interlace, gently paling fingers against the bright-white snowpack, made dense by footfall throughout the day. Shoe patterns emerge, boots and sneakers and here and there a worn bike tire tread, signs of life before my shuffling footfalls along this way. The world in its glaring polarity seems flattened, vanquished, as if the snow came down and rooted itself in so deeply it pulled its surroundings down into the earth, and we all became a part of one dimension. I shuffle a bit more hastily, dragging out my breaths in their usual one-two-three-one-two-three waltz-like pattern. Even after so long not running, my breath and pace return with ease, glide in like old friends who’ve strayed far too long. My body checks in. Heart, okay, lungs, unhappy but okay, shoulders need to loosen, body is too tight, needs to untense itself. Needs to remember. Remember the roads that stretched over 26 miles or so, the disheartening end that one long run finally had to come to. The times it did more. The times it did almost as much. The time it will do nowhere near as much, this time, this place, it needs to know, it can relax.

Relax.

Pressure’s off. Nobody’s watching, timing, looking, shouting, waving cheering or even mildly interested in what you’re doing. Anyone else out who even notices you on this godforsaken evening might raise their eyebrows a bit, might be inclined to ponder your mildly questionable sanity, but that’s the most they’ll do. If they even notice. The little runner in black pants and a white jacket, shuffling along the moonscape-like linear dimension of this eerily false winter-world. The goal is simple, driven by a direct and basic need. To run. To run. To run!!!

It simply had to be done, it simply had to be accommodated. After eight p.m. be damned, the body simply had no will left for the runaway mind, already out playing footfalls along the vacant paths, the distant wilderness, the opaque red-grey sky, its charcoal flatness blistered by wraiths of smoke from woodburning fireplaces, thousands of them lit and stoked all over town tonight. The body would not but the mind could. Would. And eventually, had to.

Run, girl, run. Get out there into that flattened skyscape, that planar world you long to be in, melt into, absorb, hold inside. Hold it in. And run.

Why Am I In Hell?

2007-12-12T13:52:00.000-07:00

What on Earth did I do to deserve this? I am in HELL!!! Pure, unadulterated FedEx Shipping Hell!!! Aaaaaaaaaaagggggggghhhhhh!!!

Y O U

2007-11-19T01:13:00.001-07:00

This was me. This isn't me right now. This isn't how I feel. This isn't who I am. I've gone from bold and brave and fearless to terrified, trembling and tearful.

Who am I?

Where am I?

How can I possibly undo this?

Postrace Report

2007-10-01T20:07:00.000-06:00

Given my general dissatisfaction with how the race was run, I'm just going to publish the email I sent to Jeff Mason and Amy Smith, the Race Director and Volunteer Coordinator, respectively. Personally though, I love that course and I had fun running it and it was a really good time. Seeing Jack up there waiting for me at the chute was really sweet. And the volunteers were, as always, SO encouraging, empowering, loving, warm and wonderful. Thank you Boulder Marathon volunteers!!!

I have to admit I'm pretty bummed. Saturday: the Expo? There was an Expo? Aside from a Bear Naked tent, I saw no signs of anything resembling an Expo. While I'm sure Clinica Campesina appreciated all of the work you did for them, for those of us who paid upwards of $98 to participate in this race, we'd rather see some things done for us as well. 5K finisher medals? Really? A 5K is a walk in the park...at the very least, finisher's medals should have been varied based on what race you ran, not all the same. Last year's were nothing to write home about, but at least they were somewhat distinctive, (blue ribbons for the half and gold for the full) and if you're going to sink so much funding into them, why not make something that participants are proud to wear? I don't want to wear a medal after running a marathon and have someone ask me how my 5K went. Maybe it's just me, but it seemed insulting. Oh, and the goody bags that were supposed to be so spectacular had...a couple of promotional fliers for things like Gatorade Endurance and a hat and a tee shirt and a pint glass. Nowhere close to as good as last year's.

Sunday: The course itself was great; the volunteers were wonderful cheerleaders and there was water, Gatorade and Clif Shots aplenty. A little more variety would be nice...but otherwise, the course was great. However, when I got to the finish...

Nobody announced my name at the finish line...at all!!! What a major bummer that was. I mean, I know I'm slow, but come on, man. That's one of the best feelings in the world, and it got totally squashed for me. In fact, the only person--aside from me--who seemed to notice I finished was my friend Jack, who came to pick me up and snapped a few pictures. Amy, you did see and congratulate me, thank you.

And then I find out you're out of finishing medals. So no medal. The 5K finishers got medals but there were none for the last 40 or so marathoners. You guys underordered for a race that reached its capacity a month in advance last year; what on earth were you thinking? Food was scarce, if even available and difficult to find to the point where we just left. After running 26.2 miles, you don't want to have to walk all over to get food. Whatever my "beverage ticket", "meal ticket" and ticket with all my info was for, I still have them, so I hope you don't need them. The music was mediocre at best, and far too loud--and this is coming from someone who regularly brings cotton and expensive earplugs to shows so that the amps don't blast my eardrums into oblivion. Oh, and since nobody seemed to be taking down times, I came in around 5:48:11. I did get my Avery beer and was happy about that, and I did finish. So that was good. But everything else was...well, lacking, to say the least. Even now, when clicking on the "get the most up-to-date race info here!" link on the homepage gets me to...th same email I received from you a week ago.

On top of which, I receive an email from Timberline Timing Systems--the only company I know of to even attempt to collect a $30 fee for NOT turning in your chip after the race, are you KIDDING ME?--today that said times were posted. So I checked by bib number. My numbers weren't there. I checked by name. My numbers weren't there. I was exceedingly careful to run over every mat and get the okay from the volunteers and race officials that my data had been collected. So...? I don't get my splits because these supposedly amazing timers totally suck? Grrrrreeeeeeeaaaaattt...

I have to say, this was pretty disappointing. The GoLite sponsorship was sorely missed; they made great shirts that you can actually wear to run a full marathon in, not cotton ones that you can't. Maybe at least there will be some cool shots whenever brightroom posts them...otherwise, better luck next year, guys. I know you were trying to make a lot of changes and turn it into an awesome, differently-styled race but instead it was a different, poorly-organized race without enough food or drinks or fun stuff at the end. Like a finisher's medal.

Regards,
Dondi

17 Hours and counting...

2007-09-29T13:44:00.001-06:00

The day before…

There are three “R’s” that need to be accounted for: rest, relaxation, rejuvenation. Perhaps a fourth: reflection. And let’s not forget the all-important: regurgitating. I consider myself fortunate that as weird as my eating habits are and stomach can be, I rarely get butterflies so bad I have to take advantage of that fifth “R”.

So I’m nervous, and trying to stay mellow and focused. Doing a load of laundry with my race gear in it. Planning my “utility belt”, as Jack calls it: the shorts I wear with pockets sewn in around the waistband so that I can carry salt tablets, Shot Blox, extra sunscreen, etc. What will go in which pocket to best balance out the weight. Should I attempt to carry my cell phone? What am I going to do with my warm-ups once I get to the course? Will anyone show up to cheer me on, see me off, watch me finish, besides the announcer and the race staff and volunteers? Will I finish?

My feeling on that last question is, if I have to crawl there, I will finish. To say my training has been less than optimal would be quite an understatement. But no complaints. Rather, I’m just glad I’ll get to go do it. I love to run, and I think it’ll be a great race this year. Regardless, I’ll stay strong.

And keep smiling. :)

Thanks for reading…

Dondi

180 Minutes of Purgatory

2007-09-06T23:45:00.000-06:00

I know some yogis and yoginis who would be sorely disappointed in me for saying such things but truthfully, two Bikram's classes back-to-back are pretty freakin painful. Which is why I am sitting here now with every type of ice pack I've got, from Boo Boo Buddies to bags of frozen corn, strapped to various joints. At some point I'll ease my aching body into a shower and then maybe a bath. Until then I figure I've built up my endurance for the day and so should be solidly ready for a long run tomorrow. The idea of which is already making my aching joints cry...

23 more days til the marathon...

I WON A FREAKIN KAYAK!!!

2007-08-04T22:29:00.000-06:00

ON my birthday! For more details email me; here are some pics. I LOVE it & can't wait to hit some whitewater in it.

Concussed...

2007-08-04T22:28:00.000-06:00

So, yeah, basically, concussions suck.

Never having had one before, I am profoundly amazed and have a great new understanding of how important my brain is. Not that the grasp of cranial function as a necessary element to…umm…well…life…is beyond me, but I never really knew, as I think most of us (neurosurgeons, ER technicians, PAs, nurses and the like exempted) probably never really know, just how important that grey matter is until we mess with it. Or rather, have to cope with someone else messing with it, specifically a pro or weekend-warrior (“wannabe”) riding East on the Goose Creek Trail just east of the underpass at 28^th near Valmont, where aforementioned nameless asshole tried to kill me, then yelled at me, then took off, leaving me completely shocked and totally unprepared for what I was about to deal with. (If you are that asshole and reading this somehow jump-starts some feeling of morose sorrow for what you’ve put me thru please, by all means, contact me.)

By the time I got to the park for our team-building activity, it was clear that things were not okay. My vision was blurring, my head was killing me (high impact collision with a bicycle helmet’ll do that), and I was really, really, really nauseous. I could barely make my way around the field and finally one of my supervisors took me to the nearby hospital, where a CT scan revealed no broken bones but the severe swelling of my cro-magnon looking forehead and bridge of my nose, as well as my relative lack of coherence and general dysfunctionalism (beyond the norm, friends and fam; I was in pretty bad shape) revealed I had a moderate concussion. Left with a ton of morphine in my system and no easy way home, I was dialing my friend Bryce to see if he could come and give me a lift when the same supervisor, Dawn, came to pick me up, drove me to get my prescription, drove me to a convenience store, then drove me home, schlepped (with the help of another wonderful colleague) my bike and pack up three flights of stairs to my apartment, and after I thanked them a zillion times, took off. My friend Mike came down from Longmont to spend the night with me despite a 6am catering shift for him the next day. So far the Whole Foods job is working out beautifully; Mike, Dawn and my other colleague who helped me that night (whose name I am not remembering due to my head injury) as well as everyone I’ve seen since have been wonderfully accommodating and have gone way out of their way to make sure I’m healing. What wonderful colleagues to have. Special kudos for Mike for working the catering shift AND then having to go to his PT job; there is a place in heaven for that man, to say the least, for staying up with me (as I was terrified of sleeping for fear of not waking up) and keeping my life interesting throughout the night. It was definitely an interesting night.

Since then I took the next day off of work; tired, miserable and incapable of focusing on anything really without seeing double I spent the whole day sleeping, crying, and taking the pain meds that the ER doc gave me. Friday morning I felt better and tried to go to work; “tried” being the operative word as I worked about half my shift and then was forced to go home by persistent nausea and headache. With no end in sight, I resolved to let my body heal, rest and ice and do whatever I needed to that would help, and try to stay as calm as possible.

It’s Saturday evening now and I am feeling much better, though am glad that I am not working again until Monday evening because I’ll be rock star-quality by the time I get back to slinging groceries, which is exactly what I want to show my new employer. So the moral of the story is: rest. rest. rest. Even when you can feel the calories adding millimeters to centimeters to inches around your waistline because you aren’t working out, rest. You can’t speed recovery of a brain injury, and trying to do so just makes things worse. Keep an eye out on the bike paths and if you see an bum jerk ridnig around Boulder on aerobars only with a blue helmet, white-blue-red-and-black kit, a terrible attitude, and a really nice red roadbike, tackle him and get his info for me, would you? There’s a $1500 hospital bill I’d like to send his way…

Thanks for reading.

-Dondi

His Hero

2007-07-07T18:58:00.000-06:00

It’s been a good day today.

I applied for two jobs that both look good, followed up on my Whole Foods interview—again—and cycled about 30 miles around town doing errands and appointments. Bought some rather healthy food at Safeway to make myself dinner. Returned some materials to the library for a friend. Saw my doctor. Chill day so far…

And then I ran into a neighbor I know from my days at Ideal Market, who told me I was his son’s hero. His son is an adorable little boy, maybe 6 or 7 years old, and apparently they’d seen me out running first near our apartments and then out at the Boulder Reservoir. The little boy was apparently blown away that I had run so far—it is a considerable distance—and told his dad I was his hero.

Now, I haven’t actually run all that way. I’ve done a marathon and definitely have done my share of higher-mileage training for the marathon, but I knew I didn’t run out to the Rez. So I let him know that, and he smiled and winked at me, “It’ll be our little secret. My son thinks so highly of you.” What had actually happened was that they saw me on two different runs the same day…first a run around the neighborhood and then out at the Rez. I wasn’t really planning the second run, but a friend was headed out there to swim and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to run out there. I especially loved that when the little boy saw me the second time he said, “I bet she’s not even out of breath!”

I probably was, but it was a wonderful story anyway.

Reflection

2007-07-02T18:33:00.000-06:00

I started working for Wild Oats on August 22, 2000. If I'd made it to this August 22 it would have been 7 years there.

Instead, I turned in my resignation on Thursday afternoon and was severanced out, with pay, thru the 13th. The way my boss's boss explained it, I had 2 weeks of paid vacation.

The way I see it, they were doing everything possible to fire me. This is not your standard-issue "my-boss-is-an-asshole" rant. This is me. Anyone who knows me knows better than to believe I did a piss-poor job. The ends didn't justify the means anymore. So I resigned and was pretty much booted out. Figures.

The way I see it, I had a few hours to say goodbye to people I'd known for years. A few hastily-scrawled emails to vendors. A lot of hugs, and a few tears. A phone call to a dear friend who came to my office to help me get my stuff home. A couple of bags and boxes. It's amazing how little space 7 years really occupies.

So...onto bigger and better things. If I don't adopt this attitude, I will start crying.

Good bye, everyone...and remember...do one brave thing today...

...then run like hell!!!

~Dondi

Stress Is Curling My Hair

2007-06-15T18:15:00.000-06:00

OK, no, but seriously now...

It IS making me do really crazy things. Like trash a 5-mile run because I was so distracted I wasn't pacing myself effectively and checlked them up to "junk miles". Like try to go to bed earlier, wake up earlier, do more things earlier. Like getting in some strength training here and there. Becoming better friends with one of my neighbors who likes to run at the rez (and even attempting to keep up with him during our first outing together! And I did! But I think he was probably being nice to me...) and even agreeing to a--gulp--7:30 a.m. Sunday morning run. No going out after closing up the shop for me; I'll be heading home from Origins Saturday evening to some kava kava and an early bedtime. For an early run. On a Sunday.

Not that I was a partier (party-er? somehow, partier never looks right to me...) in my previous life or anything. But work has stressed me to the point where I am running for the sheer relief of being consumed by an activity that isn't work. Call it escapism. Call it whatever you want...I call it sick. Pathetic. A bit frightening.

But, also...strengthening. Renewing. Reinforcing. Quieting and, incredibly, slowing. Reassuring and peaceful. And as a result of this insanity, I'm growing, and changing, and realizing I am capable of extraordinary things. Like trying to hear more of my friends' stories. Listening to their laughter. Trying to contribute instead of overtaking. Maybe it's progress, maybe not. But it sure feels good. When I'm at work I feel exhausted, faded, washed-out, done. Tired. Weary. When I run, my heart, my eyes, my smile is open. I'm laughing out loud (much to the dismay, no doubt, of the pros running circuits along the same bike path) and my faith in the world is renewed.

Enough that with registration for the 2007 race filling, I stake my claim by registering for the Boulder Backroads Marathon again. Finishing is still the only real goal. But...could that be New York, gleaming in the distance? Or is it...Boston?

...just sweet...

2007-06-13T17:37:00.000-06:00

Edie seemed a little unsettled when i put her to bed the other night after I tucked her in, so I sat with her and stroked her hair and sang to her until her eyes started to fall heavily closed all on their own. I was singing Jack's adaptation of "The Song of the Wandering Aengus", by William Butler Yeats, and my voice does neither the poem nor the song Jack created from the poem justice, but it seemed to calm this beautiful little girl and begin to put her to sleep...

...sweet...

Bitter...sweet?

2007-06-13T17:33:00.002-06:00

So my director, who I think is on my side, calls me into her office this afternoon for what I think is a routine update meeting, which actually turns into a "you're going to get fired in two weeks if you don't shape up" meeting. And all I can think is, this is SUCH bullshit.

First of all, I've been busting my ass on this project. I have the permanent marker marks all over my hands to prove it. But instead of getting recognized for my productivity, I get, "You had that dentist appointment Monday," and "You were on the phone with a vendor who called you on your cell during your lunch break," and that's just not okay. So, the appointment that was scheduled two months ago I should've rescheduled because my boss--who is out of town--has too much testosterone to admit that this is a personality conflict and I'd be better placed in another department? Wha...?

And so I just nod and grimly smile. What am I supposed to do at this point? Leap, and the net will appear? Or the void will swallow me...at least then I'll get some quietude...

Baby-sitting

2007-06-10T18:07:00.000-06:00

I met Howard and Jen through Jack, and my life has been infinitely more blessed because of them (and him, for that matter, but that’s another blog for another day…) and their unique and beautiful presences. What an honor it is to allow me to care for their children.

Jen and I have the same conversation every time I baby-sit for her children. I think she overpays me, and she explains that she couldn’t possibly pay me enough. Round and round we go. One of these days, she’s going to get genuinely pissed off at me. At least that’s what I worry about.

But how can I tell her what an honor and joy it is to take care of her two lovely lovely little ones, what beautiful children they are, what peace and calm and absolute joy I get from cuddling with Edie, putting her to bed, knowing that she knows me and feels safe with me. How it feels when Gabriel lets a bit of his guard down and curls up with me for storytime, how cool it is that I can talk to him at some level about Star Wars, enough, at least, that when it’s time for bed and the stories have all been read he tears out of his shirt and indiscriminately requests that I scratch his back while he drifts off. How much joy comes out of that moment for me, that he feels safe (enough), loved (enough), protected (enough), secure (enough) to ask me to stay, to love him a little, in whatever way he’ll let me? How can I tell her what an honor it is to be with her children, know that she and her husband can go out and enjoy an evening together, alone, as a couple, as themselves, really get to enjoy each other, knowing—really knowing—that their children are safe and loved and adored and protected, how do I tell this woman who in about the first seven minutes of knowing her had already stitched her family into my heart: Howard, Jen, Edie and Gabriel. Assorted pets (Lucy and Willy, the dogs, Annie, the cat, Gup-gup, the fish, Coco, the guinea pig…am I missing anyone here)...how can I tell her how much I love them all?

Most especially, these two precious little gems. One eleven, one seven. Dark, dark hair and blue blue blue eyes. Sprinkles of freckles on their noses. Children are easy to love; they're also easily detestable, but Gabe at his worst with me is just a notch or two on the wrong side of hyperactive and Edie...you can't help but love Edie. You can't help but love Gabe for that matter; even when he's acting out he's still a good kid (this is, of course, based on my knowing this family for less than a year and no doubt missing a substantial majority of Gabe's less-than-promising moments...but you just know he's a good kid, just occasionally acts rotten to keep me on my toes, it seems). These children are so beautiful and so loving, how could I possibly not love them?

When I carry Edie to bed and get her settled in, she coos and smiles at me, and it’s as if she can see right into me, right through me. Her eyes flutter when I kiss her forehead and tell her good-night, tell her to have sweet dreams, tell her I love her. Because I do. When Gabe pulls the blanket over his head as I try to drop a kiss good-night onto his forehead, then lowers it, his eyes dancing, both teasing and imploring. So I kiss him good night and tell him to have sweet dreams, smiling, tell him I love him.

Because I do. And so they sleep snuggled warm and tired in their beds, and I head down to hang out with the menagerie that will now keep me company, until Howard and Jen come home.

How did I get so freakin BUSY???

2007-06-06T17:47:00.000-06:00

Monday: Double shift (Oats 8:30 to 5:45ish, Origins 6-9:30ish)
Tuesday: Oats til 5:30; Bikram's 6:30 to 8
Wednesday: Double Shift
Thursday: Oats til 5:30ish; running with Rick at the rez
Friday: Double shift
Saturday: Origins 10-4, baby-sitting for Howard and Jen 6:30ish til...
Sunday: long run at rez...and maybe...stillness?

You know it's getting bad when you're wondering when you can possibly fit in meditation...

"Leap and the net will appear..."

2007-06-01T10:46:00.000-06:00

It's a nice idea, as a testament to your faith. A principle by which one tries to live. A notion that in and of itself comprises part of your belief system, or just a phrase you try to keep in mind, to give you a bit of perspective.

When it dictates your life and rules over it like a fascist dictator, on the other hand, it's absolute torture. When it means you don't have any firm ground to stand on, that every component of your life is in limbo all at the same time, that you've leapt and now you're in a state of freefall and can't see the net and can't see the net and can't see the net...well, it becomes increasingly difficult to believe it will appear.

Please, please, please let it appear...

BolderBoulder 2007

2007-05-31T14:13:00.001-06:00

She Warmed Up. She Started. And By God, She Finished.

She also managed to prove that the bigger you are, the harder you fall. As a kid, it would’ve been minor, a skinned knee, a skinned hand, a lot of dramatic sniveling, and then Mommy would kiss it and make it all better.

When you are twenty-five years old, however, and forget that in order to overcome massive obstacles like a crumbling curb, you need to pick up your feet, it’s major. You’ve got that much further to fall! Ooops.

This year’s Bolder Boulder was definitely better than last year in terms of time (I think), quality, feeling in general, etc. Jack came out to cheer me on at the intersection near our apartment complex where the race passes through. I gave him a quick high-five and felt an incredible sense of warmth and love and happiness. That he’d get out of bed at 7:30 in the morning and stand there waiting for me to pass meant the world to me. It so warmed my heart that the permasmile I slap on when I’m running a race, workout, anything, was even bigger than usual. At the advice of one of my favorite triathletes, the 2006 World Long Distance Champion Bella Comerford, I try to remember to “stay tough, and keep smiling”, as she wrote to me in an email before the marathon last year. And so I stayed tough. And kept smiling. Even through the fall.

About a mile or so from where Jack and I had slapped hands (he stood there with his arms crossed over his chest, smirking cutely and shaking his head, then reached his hand out once I extended mine…I later found out he was only semi-conscious; just goes to show how euphoric the runner’s high really is…you can mistake a friend’s expression, which is really brought on by his being in a state of half-awake, half-asleep, for perfectly-placed mischievousness) I was running up 20^th Street when my brain apparently lost touch with my basic running skills and I fell. I tripped on a section of crumbling curb and went straight down, solidly skinning both knees and my left hand. The residents gathered in the yard in front of which I fell immediately started towards me, but I sprang up too quickly, brushing myself off and announcing to them, the other spectators, the volunteers, and about 200 of my fellow BolderBoulderites that I was okay, I was fine, no big deal, just a stupid mistake. Every volunteer after that, it seemed, asked if I needed help. My fellow runners expressed concern here and there. Basically, anyone who’d either seen me fall or saw the results of it. Aside from being profusely embarrassed I was constantly reminded of it. But stopping the race? Hell, no! It was a couple of scratches, minor abrading, no big deal. I finished. Legs stretched out mightily from the top of Folsom thru the chutes at the finish, I suddenly realized that a) I was selling myself WAY short on capacity in terms of what I was able to do, and would therefore have to work on improving my cowardly baby steps to becoming faster and faster, and b) now that I was finished, I could probably use some medical assistance. I walked over to a paramedic I saw and asked for a band-aid. He eyed me warily, then nearly jumped when I showed him my knees and hustled me over to the medical tent. Sidenote: I am so grateful that the only time, thus far, knock on wood, that I’ve had to visit the medical tent was for severely abraded knees and a skinned palm, nothing more serious. A woman came up with her daughter and the girl was suffering severe dehydration; she was pale-grey colored and visibly shaking. They were laying her down to rest and giving her water as the paramedic who worked on me finished iodining and bandaging my knees and hand. At that point, I had glanced at my injuries a few times but was more interested in scanning the crowd for signs of my friends and figured I’d let the medic do his job.

When I got home, however, and undressed to shower, it was an entirely different story. My hand was pretty okay, just a couple of nicks, and my right knee was slightly-to-moderately abraded. My left knee, however, which I’m assuming took the brunt of the fall (I barely remember falling, just one second running along fine smiling and the next second feeling the unmistakable sensation of road-and-crumbled-concrete-and-sand-and-gravel against skin, and then jumping to my feet again and starting to run), has a NASTY goose egg on it and a substantial abrasion. Now I know why so many cyclists shave their legs. The cut is not pretty for sure, but it’s the horrible bruising that I’m really worried about. Oooops…

And I will write more later, as I am exhausted and a little cranky. Mostly just tired, but I need some fluid replenishment myself and I want to see what goodies are in my BolderBoulder bag this year…they’ve been getting progressively worse over the last four years, for sure. Sidenote: why is it that the sunscreen companies can create sunscreen that won’t get in your eyes but will invariably get in your mouth? I’ve Listerine’d twice now and still can’t get that detestable taste from my mouth….eeeewwwwww…

Several days later…

Well, my cardiovascular system may have recovered from the 10K but my knees are just starting to mend. Along with nasty scrapes on each one I’ve got some terrific bruising going on, especially on the left one. I found out my time was one hour, twelve minutes and fifty-four seconds…two days after the run, when they collected data from everyone’s electronic shoe tag and posted it all to the website and got it up and running—no pun intended—as 50,000-plus users tried to access it all at once. When Seagate can’t keep a website up…well, just goes to show what happens when you have a few score-thousand people trying to login to it. I exchanged a few entertaining emails with my friend Gregory who’d also run the race with his fiancé and several of their friends, but alas, as much as we cursed and damned the site it didn’t do us any good. Seagate finally got it going yesterday afternoon and I checked my results last night, laughing audibly when they came up and I realized I only did better than last year by about three minutes. Well, a sprinter I’m not, that’s for sure.

The goodies weren’t so bad although “nutritious” would be a stretch…the most nutritious item in the bag was, as usual, the produce item, which instead of an orange or apple was a tiny bag of baby carrots this year. I dug into those immediately. The rest of the bag’s contents remain in the bag, on the floor or my living room. As big a fan of junk food as I am, the words “Breakfast” and “Cookie” just don’t go together in my vocabulary.

So, onward and upward…I’ll start running again in a few days, when it doesn’t re-open the scabs on my knees every time I bend them. I’ve been thinking I should attend a Bikram class but then I start thinking about the postures, there are definitely a few that would hurt my abraded joints like hell. And te sweat pouring into them probably wouldn’t help either. So I’m restlessly resting, eager to get moving again, semi-twitchy with a virus only athletes—or those of us struggling to be athletes—get when we can’t train for a few days, general restlessness. But man, what a race. While I understand why the frenzy surrounding the BolderBoulder every year send the rest of my fellow Boulderites packing for a long weekend anywhere BUT here…I don’t have a car, so traffic isn’t a concern. I don’t have to fly in, drive up, find a place to stay…just take off about half an hour before my start time to the starting line, slap on a smile, and enjoy my run.

Coca-Cola to Buy Vitaminwater...

2007-05-25T09:42:00.000-06:00

Among the many disturbing headlines I spotted in the NYT digest I receive in my work mail inbox every day, this was the most terrifying. Not the war in Iraq (I've seen so many "we lost xx number of troops today and xx number were severely wounded and are listed in critical condition" that I've become, sadly, rather desensitized to it), not the fact that our "elected" leader made a buffoon of himself yet again when he stated that Queen Elizabeth was here for our country's bicentennial in 1776, not the record numbers of people being slaughtered, publicly or privately, by military coups, angry ethnic wars or religious strife. The most terrifying was the fact that Coke is buying Vitaminwater.

For those of you who don't know, Vitaminwater is exactly what it says it is: water enhanced with vitamins. It comes in many different varieties and flavors, and is a great alternative to, well, Coke, Pepsi, and other carbonated soft drink beverages. For your information, Odwalla is also owned by Coca - Cola, see the following link for more information on that acquisition.
http://www.9news.com/news/article.aspx?storyid=70760

Now, I don't drink Odwalla juices because I prefer Naked. I DO drink Vitaminwater because they provide excellent postworkout refreshment and electrolyte replenishment.

I am also a Coca Cola FIEND. This has tapered off significantly, especially as I've been introduced, through my part-time job at Origins as well as my boyfriend's love for tea, but it's still there. In fact on my desk right now there's a Nalgene of filtered water, a glass of Pom Wonderful's new Lychee White Tea, and a 12-ounce can of Coke. Call me a hypocrite.

The issue I have is with the fact that the manufacturer of a product thst removes rust better than commercial rust remover (the Mythbusters proved this one) is now making all-natural juices and electrolyte replacement beverages (and for the record, I prefer Gatorade to Recharge, though they're both great...I think that's ingrained from when I was in sixth or seventh grade and that was the only option we had for electrolyte replacement). The way I see it, it's only a matter of time because high fructose corn syrup starts sneaking its way into your Mango Tango and Dragon Fruit drinks. I think I'll stick with Naked for now.

My Love Affair With Lilacs

2007-05-23T13:57:00.000-06:00

My boyfriend probably thinks I am crazy, and understandably so. But still...

Every spring since we moved to Colorado in 1995, right around the end of March thru the beginning of May, I waited, captivated by the blooms which, though tiny and furled, would soon open to release the most magical scent, the most beautiful flowers, in colors ranging from pure white to the palest lavender to bright fuchsia and beyond. The blooms would last a month or so, eventually, as all spring flowers do in the arid heat of the Colorado summer, fade, crumple and die. As I sit here writing this today there is a vase full of tiny white lilacs—my favorite; their scent is so sweet. There’s another, larger, vase on the middle of my coffee table. One in the bathroom. Two in my bedroom. I can’t get enough of them. And yes, they droop and die quickly in my vases, no matter how tenderly I try to handle them or how carefully I monitor their fresh water; they very simply need their bushes, the mother plants they were so unkindly snipped from at the giddy greed of my shears.

I don’t remember lilacs in New Jersey, but that’s where Mom remembered them from, and her eyes would grow wide as she told us of these incredible bushes that lie dormant for most of the year and then, for only a short time, burst forth with the most beautifully-scented, heavenly flowers. I was enraptured, and couldn’t wait for the lilacs to start blooming. It was no secret that the relationship between my mother and I was, at best, strained, though while I outwardly maintained my standard-issue adolescent angst, rudeness, brattiness and outright cruelty towards my mother and sister, I inwardly ached for my mother’s approval, my sister’s confidence. The confidence that would grow between Emily and I had to grow from a wary trust, and by the time she began confiding in me I was completely blown away. I was honored and terrified, what do I do now? Oh my God, she actually loves me and respects me and wants my opinion! Oh, shit! But that’s another post, for another day.

My relationship with my mother, on the other hand, was absolutely awful. I cried myself to sleep at night because I couldn’t make her understand where I was coming from, she was totally against me, she always took Emily’s side, she…take your pick of horrible motherly sins, they utterly destroyed me at times. I can’t say for sure because I haven’t asked, but I wonder now, now that I’m an adult—well, more of an adult, anyway—and our relationship has grown into a deeply loving and respectful friendship, if she cried herself to sleep those nights too. Not knowing the answer, I’m still confident it’s probably “yes”.

My mother’s birthday is April 17, prime time for lilac picking. The awesome part about lilac picking is that while many people grow them in their own private lawns and would rather not have them violated by a skinny little teenager with a pair of shears and a heart set on procuring the luscious flowers for her mother’s surprise birthday present, they also grow all over the place, wild. One entire main avenue near our house was nothing but lilac blooms for five or six blocks, and so, on the morning of April 17, I would set my alarm super-early (Mom’s an early riser, so getting anything done before she gets up requires some thoughtful planning in advance) and, by six o’clock in the morning was riding my bicycle along Drake Road in Fort Collins, clipping the beautifully fragrant, silky branches and dropping them into the knapsack I’d brought along for this express purpose. When Mom got up that morning, she was greeted by a sleepy, but smiling, oldest daughter, a gigantic bouquet of lilacs and a Happy Birthday card. She hugged me tight and thanked me and kissed me, and for a moment, everything was okay.

I took advantage of this tactic every year I lived in Fort Collins for Mom’s birthday and then again for Mother’s Day, and she was always delighted, although I’m sure the surprise wore off pretty quickly. And of course they died quickly, drooping and wilting in their vases until they finally had to be discarded, mournfully.

I’m not a typical Boulderite. That is, I ride my bike absolutely everywhere, but it’s because I have no other option, save my feet or the bus (which is absurdly expensive), or maybe a taxi (even more expensive). I eat well because I work for a natural-foods company. I take Bikram yoga classes because I love them…that’s all, pure and simple. But I also love Coca-Cola and junk food and until recently was a smoker and imbibed alcohol on a fairly regular basis (these two habits have been cutoff entirely…smoking for good, drinking for awhile, at least, if not forever). So the conclusion I’m about to draw here digs a bit deep for parallels, so you’ll have to excuse what I see as completely obvious, but will probably come off as sounding like your standard-issue Boulderite fruitcake, yet another resident of the city known as “ten square miles surrounded by reality”. But I don’t really care. It’s my blog, and I get to say whatever I want here, and if you’re reading this, you can form your own opinions. Anyway. At this point in my life I see a unique relationship between the lilacs I would pick for her, and the relationship we struggled through during my teenage years. When removed from its “mother” or the mother plant, the lilac draws its nutrients however it can: a vase filled with water, the ground if it’s been carelessly torn down. But without the mother plant, the thriving organism that gives it life, allows its blooms to unfold and open to the sun, strong, hardy blooms ready to take on the world, or at least, produce magnificent scents and beautiful flowers until they grow dormant again until the next year. This relationship, looking back, was not unlike my relationship with my mother. The further away I got from my mother, the more I wilted, the more I drooped, fell apart, because angry and depressed and enraged and gave up. But the moments that we were connected, the times that I felt our closeness so tangibly it made me cry, were the times I felt the strongest, the most myself, the best about my life and my happiness.

So, call me a crazy Boulderite. I don’t care. My love affair with lilacs will continue for the rest of my life. As will my love for my mother.

BolderBoulder 2007

2007-05-09T16:25:00.000-06:00

Well here it is just 19 days shy of the 29th BolderBoulder, the 10k race that draws thousands of people into Boulder for just one weekend, and then they all leave again. I am starting to wonder given my growing dread of running if I can prep for this race by cycling and yoga alone. Ohyeah, right, it's a 10k RUN. Duh.

I need to get my arse in gear. This is almost embarrassing. The hundred's not going to happen and neither is my humble desire to complete a marathon in each of the months of June, July and August and then do the Boulder Backroads Marathon again in September. I guess we shall see...maybe I'll just run the course in June, July and August in prep for September. That could be cool.

I really need to get on board with training, it's just been wearing on me and I have too much energy and not enough to do with it all. Youth is wasted on the young, I suppose...

2007-03-30T11:55:00.000-06:00

Does a Wannabe Trailrunner S*** In The Woods?

2007-03-29T12:29:00.000-06:00

You bet we do! Holy cow, I've had plenty of runs where "holding it" really meant hauling to the end where I could safely empty the contents of my bowels into the nearest Port-a-Potty but this time...this time...there I was...out at the Boulder Reservoir...the closest ANYTHING civilization-esque being a house at the end of a half-mile long driveway. So it was either...sprint that hafl mile, praying someone was home the whole time, beat on their door, desperately try to convince them (if they were home) that I wasn't a lunatic, just out doing an eighteen-mile run and suddenly had the urgent need to evacuate my bowels, stat, hope that they would believe me AND not mind the lack of delicacy of the subject at hand, and allow me to use their restroom or there was...the ditch. Slightly hidden by a bare-branched tree (no spring leaves to cover up yet), about two feet down, a nice little incline from the road to the lip of the ditch givine me enough room (I hoped, I hoped) for cover. Grateful for the fact that my allergies require that I run with the equivalent of several boxes of Kleenex stuffed into the pockets of my gear, I dropped trou, squatted, and let loose.

Oh, come on now, it wasn't THAT bad. It wasn't like I some great diarrheaic fountain pouring out of me, just your average poop, no big deal. Until I saw the car. The car stopped at the stop sign at the T-intersection where every other car I'd seen while running along this route thus far turned the other way. The car that would, of course, luck of the Irish combined with luck of the ill-fated endurance athlete (I never knew there was such luck until this moment; the luck of the Irish I've been a victim of my entire life), turn this way. In my direction. I had maybe a block or two before they'd see me. I quickly draped my Nike jacket around me to cover as much flesh as possible without shitting all over the damned thing as well, and hung my head as the vehicle lumbered slowly by. I peeked up just in time to see an elderly couple staring at me, aghast. Whoops. Looks like I didn't do a good enough job of covering up.

Afterwards I resumed my run as qucikly as possible. I felt...lighter, less encumbered, for sure but oddly, animalistic. I even kicked a bunch of dirt off of the road to cover my scat and dug a crude hole in which I placed my used toilet paper, then carefully covered it and weighed it down with a rock. I felt suddenly like my cat, a bit, and in some weird way understood now why she felt the need to cover her scat. There were some sort of primal feelings in me that had been dormant my whole life, but suddenly and very strangely were awakened. I looked around me, at the dirt roads, at the multi-million dollar houses and ranches, at the communities bordering the edges of the foothills, and for the first time I realized just how far we've come, us humans, this singular and entirely-too-complex species I belong to. I sort of wondered, as I eased into my regular pace and my breathing regulated itself, had we really evolved or were we moving backwards? When did partial nudity (okay, people, the most theu could have seen were the sides of my behind and thighs) and disposal of waste become this clandestine act? And why did we allow it to become so? I pondered it for awhile and then, suddenly, as Ricky Martin's "She Bangs!" started blasting through my head I realized: Dondi, you're pondering the evolution of shit. A wide grin spread over my face, my head cleared, and I kept on truckin. There was a nasty hill I was about to encounter, and my concentration definitely needed some refocusing. I put my head down, increased my awareness of my heart rate, breathing and foot strike, and plodded on down the road.

I Must Learn To Love My Life

2007-02-23T22:44:00.000-07:00

God, you'd think after knowing "The Secret" and trying to put it into action I'd be more positive. I just deleted the last five posts because they are so bloody negative. So I am going to start over...and practice better...and be more positive. Lookout world, here I come...

xoxo
Dondi

I'm Back!

2007-01-09T15:53:00.000-07:00

When I checked my gmail account this afternoon after spending a grueling hour calling vendors and stores, that was the very first email I saw. I could've shot through the roof, I was so happy, and I tried to contain my very obvious excitement from the vendors being escorted past my cubicle to a conference room by my VP ("nothing to see here, folks, nothing to see here"). "I'm Back!" was penned by my wonderful darling friend Matt, a college buddy who made International Law a much more interesting class, joined me in poking fun at (and becoming friends with) our TA in American Foreign Policy, introduced me to the finer pleasures of the Irish carbomb, spent countless hours with me totally intoxicated and yelling about Reagan at Conor O'Neills, possesses the world's most gorgeous blue eyes and fantastic grin, and completely broke my heart by joining the Army and go to Afghanistan.

Fortunately great friendships, not unlike great loves, last even through heartbreaking decisions made by one party or the other. The last time I saw Matt we went to Conor's and dropped back a few carbombs, then up to Dillon to stay at his brother and sister-in-law's place and ski one of the most fun resorts in Colorado. Being around Matt, and Ryan and Jill too, always imbued me with a sense of total happiness. These are some of the most genuine, kind, loving, warm and intelligent people I've ever known. I took him to the airport to go back to Chicago and then, a few days later, he left for Afghanistan. Fuck, man. That seems like forever ago...and it was only Thanksgivingish 2005...

Here we are at Conor O'Neill's over a year ago...the last time I saw my dear friend...and now he's HOME!!!

Can't wait to see you, babe. I am so happy you're home.

Insomniac

2006-12-28T12:59:00.000-07:00

Melatonin is fucked-up shit, man.

I’m a major insomniac. Even as I write this now my brain is mentally sweating out, minute by minute, how much less sleep I will receive because I am sitting here writing this post instead of sleeping. I have MAJOR sleep issues and I can’t take sleeping medications…as determined by my blackout experiences with them. Anyone who’s ever been blacked-out drunk knows blacking out isn’t like other states of unconsciousness, because you’re still doing stuff. Blacking out just means you’ve intoxicated yourself to the point where your brain has shut off its memory functions in self-defense, its desperate attempt to keep you from poisoning it further than you are. For those of you who swear drinking to excess is okay, it isn’t. Alcohol is poison. End of story. There’s a reason it’s called intoxicated, people. Anyway…sleeping pills have the same effect on me as alcohol, with scarier events happening (I nearly burned down my apartment, drank an entire bottle of wine on my own in one evening, and gave myself a deep gash in the leg…none of which I remember, at all) and no hangover, so I’ve been working with more homeopathic./herbal/natural sleep aids for awhile now trying to figure out something that works for me. I have trouble getting to sleep, see…once I’m there, I’m okay thru the night, but until I get there, I toss and turn and can be up half the night trying to turn my brain off or at least quiet it enough so that it doesn’t keep me awake. Gaia Herbs “Sound Sleep” formula was a good find for me, but it’s expensive (even at 20% off, my discount for being a loyal employee of Wild Oats Markets, Inc. for 6+ years) and not as effective at getting me to sleep as I’d like. Wine works beautifully except for the hangover, potential liver destruction, and issues with substance abuse running deep on both sides of my family. What to do for the chronic insomniac?

Enter Origins, a division of Estee Lauder Cosmetics, International. I originally took this part-time job to earn some extra cash, enjoy a deep discount on products I already loved, and for great writing material (retail is always good for this). I did not expect my first blog on my experiences with Origins to be on a product, however. Anyway, I took this job part-time in October to earn some extra money. It fits well with my day job, both being centered in wellness-based companies, and I really fully appreciate how well they complement each other. When I am discussing a product at Origins and my customer wants to know what it does, I can usually refer to a supplement or experience I’ve gained from working for Oats for so long. When I’m at the office, I will often recommend an Origins product for a skincare concern or offer to bring samples of something that I know will work well for them. The possibilities are endless and my work ethic and sales skills (unbeknownst to moi, I assure you!) have garnered me a comfy position as a well-loved part-timer at Origins. Which is great, because with 45% off, I can actually afford the skincare I love.

Well, we carry a supplement called “Nite-trition” that you take before bedtime to help you sleep and to “help restore skin’s vitality overnight”. A proprietary blend of peppermint, lavender, chamomile, ginseng and melatonin, it seems like more of a sleep aid than a skin restorative (that’s what Night-A-Mins are for, dear) to me, but what do I know? So I got some that a customer returned (post-Christmas, we are now well into return season…ugh) and took it home and took it last night with my glass of red wine (don’t even start; one glass is good for you…anymore than that is NOT) and my Gaia Sound Sleep and went to bed about an hour later. My brain was slowing a bit sooner and more efficiently than normal, and I thought maybe I’d finally found the perfect curative for my insomnia.

So when I woke up hearing my alarms going off in the distance, I was quite confused. Where the hell was I? How did I get there? Why were my alarms so far away? It was like waking up in an episode of the Twilight Zone, seriously. Freaked me out big time.

I finally sorted out that I was on my couch, curled up on one fo the couch pillows, with my couch blanket (fortunately, a warm fleece) tucked around me. I’d taken off the cotton socks I wore to bed and had laid them neatly beside me. I got up, went into my bedroom, and turned the alarms off and the lights on. From there, waking was impossible, I simply could NOT get enough sleep. I finally dragged ass out of bed around 7:15 and got into the shower. Ugh. As best as I can reason, I got up to go to the bathroom and went back to bed on my couch for some bizarre reason that made sense to my herbally-addled brain much better in the middle of the night than it does now.

So, the moral of the story is…don’t mix supplements, they can fuck with you big time. Just because they’re herbal doesn’t mean they’re safe. I am taking the Nite-trition by itself tonight and am already feeling a bit more tired than I normally would without it, so my hope is that this works as well as I think it could. And now I need to get to bed, because my brain is telling me that it’s 11:12pm, I am getting up at 5:30 to run, and that gives me less than 6.5 hours of sleep.

Best wishes for peaceful sleeping and thanks for reading…

In other news...

2006-12-12T09:51:00.000-07:00

It just occurred to me that anyone who reads this blog probably thinks I do absolutely nothing but train all the time. It also occurred to me that this is not only entirely untrue, but that lately I have found that I can barely squeeze my training into the rest of my life, and that some of the rest of my life is getting pretty tight as well!

So, to catch everyone up...let's see...I am working two jobs now, full-time nine-to-fiver at Wild Oats Markets' corporate office and part-time some evenings and weekends at an Origins retail store...corporate peon by day, brilliant saleswoman by night! So that keeps me busy. I am writing regularly and submitting some work to contests very soon. My little sister Em just moved to North Carolina and I miss her like crazy...it's just me & Mom out here in CO now...here's Em with her dog Haze and Em and I after a 5k we ran on her birthday.

I have hesitated to speak in any sort of definitive tone about this for quite some time, but I'm relatively comfortable admitting that I'm involved with a pretty great guy. Jack's my neighbor and we've met a few dozen times on the stairs and in the laundry room of our building over the past three years, but the conversation never really moved past the weather or similarly mundane, hey-there-hows-it-going talk. Until we started chatting a bit more over the summer, one thing led to another, and we've been hanging out together for awhile now. Time flies, as they say. I really like this guy...as evidenced by the super-cheesy grin on my face in these pictures.

Jack's a musician, and his devotion to his craft is evident in his incredible passion and the breadth of his talent in guitar--steel guitar, specifically--and vocals. He really, really, really loves to play music, and I really, really, really enjoy being his groupie, absurd as that sounds. I'm not usually the type to go for the brooding musician...it must be his incredible sense of humor or dashing good looks or...something...

That's really about all that's new...as usual, staying busy busy busy! Thanks for reading!

The Route I Used To Love

2006-12-10T18:19:00.000-07:00

(I need to take a self-defense class.)

(Note to audience: Profanity ensues here…)

When I began running again some 2.5 years ago, I started out by training for the BolderBoulder 10k. The route I ran the most was a 3.5 mile loop starting at my apartment, through the Valmont/Balsam neighborhoods to Broadway, North on Broadway to Iris, Iris East to 28th Street, and South on 28th back to Valmont and, basically, my apartment just off of 28th Street and Valmont Road. It’s a great loop and can be cut into various other distances: 1 mile, 1.5 miles, 2 miles, 3 miles, just about any variation. Whichever way you run it, you end up getting a nice little uphill incline-nothing too crazy, just a gradual uphill—at the beginning, which makes you work harder to start, and a nice little downhill at the end, same deal: nothing drastic, but it gives you a bit of a rest and a chance to make sure you’re keeping your form in check, check your breathing, your pacing, your footfalls, gait, posture, etc. I love this little loop and I run it all the time.

Well, not anymore. I was running east on Iris during my second lap of what was supposed to be a 14-mile training run…so for me, 4 loops. While 14 might have been a bit overambitious, I knew I could do at least ten, so at about 6 or so I was feeling pretty good. Until this drunk sonofabitch motherfucker tried to grab me and scared the shit out of me.

I was running along, minding my own business, listening to whatever was playing on my MP3 player (I think it was Jeff Buckley’s version of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah, pilfered from a CD Jack brought over once…although as much as I can appreciate dark irony, I really hope it WASN’T that, because I don’t want to associate that song with this incident…it’s too beautiful) when I noticed someone cycling by me on my left, the outside or road-side of the sidewalk (this is important later). Except he didn’t cycle by me, he cycled up to me, and started trying to talk to me. This guy was an overweight Mexican man with deeply pockmarked skin & a bushy mustache, wearing a pair of Oakley knockoffs and an absolutely filthy parka, and he was turning to try to talk to me. I pulled one headphone out of my ear to try to hear what he was saying, and when I did, I noticed very quickly a few things:
1) He positively reeked of alcohol. He stank so badly that when the stench did hit me it nearly stopped me in my tracks.
2) His rambling—in Spanish—was completely slurred. I’m pretty sure that even if I were a native Spanish speaker I wouldn’t have understood a word this creature was saying.
3) He was barely able to balance on the bike he was riding—a piece of shit mutilated mountain bike—and was tottering all over the place. At one point during our very brief encounter he swerved and nearly ran right into me…I just reacted quickly enough.
Needless to say, I came very quickly to the conclusion that he was quite drunk. I shook my head at him repeatedly as he continued to ramble in Spanish and then, finally, seeing that this was going nowhere, picked up my pace. Then it got worse.

As I picked up my pace, he stepped his up to keep up with me. When I looked over at him, he was leering at me: he couldn’t have been more obviously leering had his tongue been hanging out of his mouth. LEERING. My friends and pretty much anyone who knows me atall knows this is one of those things I just don’t abide by very well atall. Glancing, winking, looking over, whatever, I don’t care. But fix your eyes on me with that hungry-dog expression and just stare, and buddy, I just want to punch your fucking lights out. Add this to the fact that, sorry to sound ethnicist/racist/whatever here, but it’s always fucking Mexican men who do this, who leer at women, at least in this part of the country. In the deep South the leering Mexicans are joined by leering white-trash redneck assholes, who are the very first reason I will never, ever, ever move to that pigheaded backwater piece of shit part of the world. Visiting my family there is hard enough. Training there was surreal: in addition to the fact that the oxygen saturation gave me much better splits than I get here in Colorado and that I had my own mobile aid station, my dad, schlepping water for me in the car and waiting for me at every mile mark, in that every mullet-wearing, Confederate-flag displaying, reason the word “redneck” was invented would slow their POS 40-year old Ford pickup to whistle or leer at me or both as I ran. I fucking HATE that. Is there something particularly sexy about cross-country running shorts and a singlet? A bright-red face under a mask of sweat and sunscreen? A breast-flattening sports bra? Anyway, back to my story…so then the worst thing happened…

I guess he realized that he wasn’t going to get anywhere with trying to talk to me, maybe he even figured out that I don’t speak Spanish after my repeated head-shaking, so he figured he’d step his pathetic overtures up a notch or two and lunged for me, trying to grab my arm or my wrist or my hand or something on my periphery. As he lunged, the warning bells that were going off in my head already turned to bright red sirens screaming “DO SOMETHING!” So I did. He lunged for me, I stepped out of his way and when he pulled his hand back to right his tottering bulk on the bicycle, I started to realize some things: that I wasn’t going to get out of this easily, this guy could persist and if I didn’t do something about it I was going to put myself in a seriously scary situation (despite the fact that it’s broad daylight on a heavily-trafficked road in the running capital of the world…I wasn’t even paying attention to cars on the road at this point), and—and this is what REALLY terrified me—it occurred to me that he was on the road side, and I was fenced in by him on one side and walls, fences and hedges on the other side. I was trapped. Which I think probably had something to do with what I did next. I turned to face him, still running or at least maintaining my gait and, lunging forward, put my hands out and shoved him away from me as hard as I could. Since he was already off balance, this pretty much did him in, and the last I saw of this fuckwit was him tipping off of his bike, then off of the sidewalk, toppling over and into the road. And then I ran.

I didn’t look back for blocks; I sprinted instead. Now, not only am I NOT a sprinter, but I’m an endurance runner…long and SLOW. Sprinting is NOT my thing and after about three blocks or so I felt like my lungs were going to burst and slowed, slowed, then stopped. My heart rate had skyrocketed and I could feel the blood pounding in my ears and throat when I finally slowed to a walk. Finally, gingerly, I glanced back. Whatever the hell happened to him, I don’t know. He wasn’t there anymore atall, not in the street, not on the sidewalk, nowhere to be found. For one crazy moment I freaked out and thought, ohno, what if he got AHEAD of me and was waiting for me and would be right then when I turned back around and so I spun around to face…nobody. Nothing there either. I began walking and after a few minutes, tried to start running again. I may as well have tried running the Leadville Trail 100 every day for a year. My legs were rubber and my heart rate was still coming down from a very very sudden increase. The trembling I felt internally transferred out into my body and limbs, and soon I was shaking so hard I balled my hands into fists and swung my arms back and forth extra-hard, racewalker-style, to try to keep from knowing how freaked out I really was, how much I was really shaking. I tried to run a few more times, but couldn’t, and finally resigned myself to walking back. My previously-warm leg muscles quickly became cold and achy, and I need to finish this blog fast so I can get into the shower and ease the millions of little mini-cramps I’m feeling in them now, no doubt a direct result of the significant amount of lactic acid built up that unfortunately now has nowhere to go and needs to be worked out of my muscles somehow, and the fact that I went from strong exercise to almost nothing very very quickly, and my muscles got COLD. When your muscles get cold they shrink a bit and harden a lot and if they get cold enough, every fucking step is agony. I didn’t quite get there, but I got close. And then the tears came...shuddering blustery sobs tearing my guts apart and wrenching my face...I can't imagine how terrible...and terrifying... I must have looked...and I didn't realy care. I just wanted to get home.

So, the moral of the story is, I won’t be running that route again anytime soon, if ever. There’s a lovely bike path near my apartment complex, I am just going to run there from now on, and the Rez when I can get out there, and probably take advantage of my dear friend Kristi’s home treadmill and repeated offers that I can use it whenever I want to. I’m really bummed about having to give up my favorite route, and I’m really kind of angry that from now on that incident will be burned into my brain if I even tried to run the route again. Mostly, though, I’m just resigned to finding a new route. Part of me wonders what I did to deserve this, what I put out into the world to manifest this situation, but the “how” of these things must be left to the universe, not to me, so I just need to accept it and move on. Maybe there’s a reasoning I’ll understand behind this someday. Maybe not. In the running capital of the world, however, where there seem to be as many pedestrian paths and trails as there are roads, I’m sure it won’t be too difficult to find another route to make my own.

**Afterthought: It is possible that he was just really that drunk, that he didn't lunge for me but was nearly falling off of his bike and reached for the closest object to keep him from falling? I think it certainly is possible, and while it doesn't make the behavior okay, it does give me a little bit of solace about the whole experience.

Gearing Up For Base...Again

2006-11-24T15:09:00.000-07:00

I am hoping that my major accomplishment for 2007 will be the Leadville Trail 100. That’s right, a 100-mile trail run averaging around 12,500ft, starting out at the highest incorporated town in the United States. I will have to complete 2-3 more marathons and a 50-miler before then, as well as, of course, train my ass off. Gregory and my crowd of tri friends already think I am insane. (That’s okay, in my opinion, they are crazy, I am only doing one type of activity for an absurd distance while they all do three.)

Fortunately this race is not until August so I have lots of time to prepare myself physically and, most importantly, mentally.

I am a bit frustrated right now because my training has been sidelined by a horrible bout of bronchitis. Hacking cough and drippy sinuses and wheezing and fatigue. I finally ran a fever and went to the doctor. Took the weekend off from my 2nd job so I could focus on getting well and now just trying to get all of the crap out of my chest. I am still coughing so much that it seems a bit daft to try to incorporate running into my daily life right now. I am not happy about this. I had one perfect week of training and then it all went to shit when Jack got sick and I started taking care of him. While I’m perfectly aware that this was all entirely my decision and therefore, the illness I sustained was also my choice, I got sick the following week and now, two weeks later, am just beginning to feel normal enough to start running again soon. Hopefully I will be able to complete my long run scheduled for Saturday as a start to get back into it. It will be slow for sure but I really want to jump back in again. I was all set to start building my base on November 1 and did well for that first week. Then, as terrible luck would have it got sidelined the Tuesday following my first week with a sick neighbor/boyfriend who I care for deeply and won’t ignore for the sake of my training or, apparently, my health. My friend and sort-of coach Tom warned me, “You have to be selfish about this stuff.” I know he’s right, but I’m too much a caretaker. I can’t walk away when someone I love is sick. Pathetic though that is. So I pay the consequences.

Right now my training schedule is as follows:

Sunday: short run (3-6 miles)
Monday: REST
Tuesday: short run (3-6)
Wednesday: mid-distance run (6-10)
Thursday: strength training (weights, core, etc.)
Friday: cross-training (swim, bike, Bikram’s)
Saturday: LONG run (10-15)

Tom looked it over & thought it was pretty good. Tom’s exactly the kind of coach I need: a person who will harass me at the office about whether or not I am following my training plan, who will look over my schedule for me and hound me about it, but who won’t be crunching numbers for me or yelling at me every mile during my training runs (unbelievably, some endurance athletes actually have a life), who has done a couple of ultras so has great experience but knows I’m not out to conquer the ultra world so won’t be a jerk. I do appreciate the getting on my case at work…it really does help.

Now the only way to deal with my training frustrations is to go out and do my program…hopefully that will not be more easily said than done!

Happy training…

The Boulder Backroads Marathon

2006-10-06T20:24:00.000-06:00

Just...let...go...

Friendship can be an indomitable force, a totally intangible power not to be messed with. I’ve had few really good friends in my lifetime, and the “breakup” I suffered with a close girlfriend in college scared me off of friendships in general and close friendships in particular. Losing a close friend—especially when you don’t understand why—tears into your heart and soul like the end of a relationship with a significant other, except, somehow, worse. As a result, if you’re like me, friendships are taken lightly and often for granted, with little significance, something to be used when necessary and otherwise put quietly away like canned goods or laundry soap: great when you need ‘em but otherwise left undisturbed.

This probably seems like an odd way to begin a blog post about my most recent accomplishment: my finishing the Boulder Backroads Marathon, but this race has been about friendship in so many ways that to do so otherwise would be a discredit to the importance and friends in a human being’s life. Namely, in mine.

I learned a lot about friendship over the course of training for this event, and over the course of completing it, my friends dominated my thinking, for the better. This happened in myriad ways throughout the race, but are best explained through my relationships with each of these people.

My dear friend Scott, a former collegiate cross-country runner and Nordic skier, was on hand for it all: for the long runs, when he played gear sherpa and hauled my stuff along the way to support me when I needed nutrition beyond what I could carry, is necessarily the first example of friendships that carried me through this race. Scott was on hand throughout the race, at the beginning to take my gear from me when I had to wear warm-ups (it was a cold start) up to the very last minutes before the starting shot, throughout the race taking photos of Kristi and I, and at the end snapping pix, giving hugs and high-fives in congratulations, and after the end, putting together a DVD slideshow of the pictures he snapped of Kristi and I along the way and setting it to the lyrics of Fischerspooner’s “Just Let Go”, one of my favorite bands and favorite songs, to the day after the race when he took me to dinner at an amazing white-tablecloth restaurant in Boulder. Scott has played coach, mentor, shoulder to cry on, photographer, gear sherpa, confidante, therapist and orthopedic specialist to me throughout the course of my training and the race itself. A day or two before the race, knowing full well he intended to ride the course and snap pix along the way, I emailed him telling him that I didn’t want to see him on the course, that he’d be too big a distraction, and that I needed to focus on the race and not on his presence. Aside from the fact that this was an incredibly heartless and selfish email, it was rude at the last moment to change the game plan: Scott was going to be there for the sole purpose of getting photos of Kristi and I along the way. Our weird history came into play with this request or, rather, demand: Scott and I went from attempting to date to attempting to be friends to me virtually shutting him out of my life to finally moving into a precarious friendship, and I wasn’t about to let all of this stuff come up midrace. So I did what I usually did: told him to, basically, go to hell.

Scott rode by me about four or so miles in; I was feeling good and unburdened and when I saw him haul past on his bike, trying to get out of my line of sight as quickly as possible, I called out to him. I told him, in halting speech while jogging, that he was fine doing whatever, that having him there was okay, and that the distraction was no loner an element I was worried about. And truly, it wasn’t. I would see him anyway, so long as he was taking shots of us, and I really didn’t want him scooting back and forth between Kristi and I trying to get pix of both of us and somehow avoid me as well. Somewhere in the midst of an incredibly selfish event, I broke out of my self-centeredness enough to realize how lucky I was to have someone in my life who would go to these lengths to try to make this a great day for me, and to give me something to remember it by. What the fuck was the matter with me, and where did I get off being such a bitch? It made no sense to be rude and bitchy and restrictive, and so I tried my best to let him know everything was okay. He nodded, said I looked great, I looked strong, and told me Kristi was about two miles in before riding off to snap more photos. I kept jogging.

Kristi and I met because I moved over to a cubicle about twenty feet from hers when I assumed my new position at Wild Oats. She was a great, positive, sociable person and we got to chatting about running a few times, culminating in her joining me along a stretch of one of my longer runs. We became fast friends to the point of getting matching tattoos the day before the race after picking up our packets at the race expo. We had a lot in common and we got along well, and she was a boon to my training. Her reports about her runs and asking for my advice was both influential to my motivation and awesome for my ego, which isn’t really fair, but it is true, so I’ll leave it at that. She’s a great person with a huge heart and a tireless spirit, and I love her energy and her attitude. Knowing she was doing the half—fighting her own battles, conquering her own demons, and crossing the finish line triumphantly—was a great motivator for me along my race, and her huge smile and crushing hug at the finish line totally made my day. I’ll never forget seeing her at the finish: my mom and sister were there hugging and kissing me, a bunch of my friends were there, and then she came up to me and said, “Hey, congratulations!” and for a second, I didn’t recognize her. I was truly that out of it. When I came to a moment later I grinned at her and hugged her and she hugged me and it was awesome. It was like having the older sister I never had, the force greater than myself looking at me and smiling and saying, hey, you did it, way to go, this is yours, own it, love it and wear it with pride. It may have been the delirium, but I saw all of that in Krist’s face and felt it in her hug, and it felt so good to have someone there who knew what I had just been through.

My best friend Katie and her fiancé Patrick were there too. Katie (KT) and I became friends because I was her tutor and we spent as much, if not more, time chatting and hanging out as we did doing schoolwork. Now I don’t tutor her as much but we’ve both, in the midst of our mutually-busy lives, made time for each other and have recognized the importance of our friendship. KT is, in many ways, the woman I want to be: she is much better at standing up for herself than I ever have been and she absolutely never backs down from a challenge. Hard-working, driven, motivated and relentlessly loving, she plays as hard as she works when she can and brings to her friendships a ferocity of loyalty that most people never know in their relationships with other people within the span of their lifetimes, much less within three years or so, as long as I’ve known KT. After a two-month long fight threatened to drive us apart permanently, we forged a peace that was sealed, for me, when she came to my birthday party. She and her fiancé were at the finish line, and while I was delirious and adrenaline-rushed and completely exhausted, the magnitude of that moment hit me like a ton of bricks. I knew consciously that she would be there, she’d TOLD me she would be there, but seeing her there, smiling and clapping and hugging me and cheering me on through the chute to the finish line, was indescribably amazing. I haven’t had a girlfriend whose devotion to me has been so strong in the entirety of my life, and I can’t begin to describe how profoundly blessed I felt at that moment.

My friend Mike was there too, an odd friendship also based in potentially dating as well, we’ve become friends through a mutual love and respect for Boulder’s top two sports: cycling and running. He’s the cyclist, I’m the runner. Having Mike there was great, another person cheering and clapping who knew my name and shouted it loud and strong as I crossed the finish line, another person who cared for me enough to take time out of his Sunday afternoon to come see me finish at Backroads.

My mom and sister were, of course, obligatory attendants, living fifty miles away or a decent hour’s drive north of Boulder. Still, seeing them smiling and clapping for me at the finish line gave me the best feeling. I was, again, delirious, exhilarated, exhausted and dehydrated but seeing the two of them there made it a prouder finish. My mother always envisioned me as the runner of the family, so it was awesome to see her so proud of me and so happy for me at the end of this race. Emily is my closest friend and knows me better than almost anyone else in my life, and having her there made me feel so proud and so loved. I am insanely lucky to have such a great family.

I did miss Jack. He’d come to the race but thought he missed me and left about ten minutes before I finished. I was upset and angered but at the same time, rationalized what had happened even while, infuriated, calling him and talking to him about why he wasn’t there. I truly did miss him, though; this is the thing about friendship: nothing can replace it and I think that choosing friends is a thousand times more important as choosing lovers …but while we’re becoming better and better friends, the lovers part is already in place. The truth of it is, nobody’s hug feels like your boyfriend’s or significant other’s or that neighbor’s who you happen to be dating; however you want to put it, nobody’s arms could have felt the same as his at that finish line. For that matter, when I turned up at his door half an hour later, the hug I got did feel pretty great. Having him there would have made the triumph that much sweeter. I did miss him, but my finish wasn’t lacking because of him.

The truest fact of a marathon or anything one has to rely one one’s own self to accomplish is that nothing can detract from its conclusion. You were there. You did the task. You took on the challenge and you completed it, on your own, whether you had nobody to greet you and slap high fives and hug you or whether the whole world showed up to laud your achievement at the end. At the end, you did it. You made it. You have to own it: every step, every aid station, every mile, every ache, every pain, every joint creaking, every hurt. Nothing can detract from that feeling of accomplishment.

A couple of incredible things:

*The volunteers and spectators absolutely made my day along the course. All along the way, every few miles, there was a crowd of people who donated their time and energy to cheering, handing out water and Gatorade, creating general merriment and encouraging runners along the way. I took every opportunity I could to thank them. They absolutely deserve a place in heaven for what they did for me at the marathon.

*Bella was right: “Stay though, and keep smiling”. My favorite Irongirl triathlete and I exchanged a couple of emails a few weeks ago when I was doing the last of my really long runs and she was training in Switzerland (God, the Internet is an amazing thing!). I slapped a smile on my face around mile 2 and the entirety of the race was easier. Thanks, Bella. I hope I get to see you race someday.

*I can’t begin to write down all the stuff that went through my head over the course; it was everything from Bella’s advice to wondering how sunburnt I was getting to what the next aid station would have for snacks (at a marathon the first few aid stations have just water and Gatorade, but they start proliferating their snack offerings after the halfway point and by the end it’s everything from bagel bites and pretzels to Snickers marathon bars and cut-up bananas and apples, as well as the requisite hydration) to how freaking lucky I was to be running this year on this absolutely perfect day (last year it was raining for this event) to cheering on other runners to strange food ideas (Gregory’s 2005 Wildflower run was spent dwelling on dreams of jambalaya; I don’t even remember what I dwelt upon but I know that at a few moments during the race I craved some pretty weird foods suddenly and instantaneously, like a full Thanksgiving dinner and peanut-butter-chocolate-chip cookies) to the usual checklist: how are the legs, how’s the back, how’s my form, how are my footstrikes, what can I do to alleviate this pain in this part of my knee, what do I need to relax more, can I finish can I finish can I finish?, to wondering what my cat was up to to…you name it, it went through my head at one point or another during the marathon. I can honestly say I did not think of the “war on terror” or any other absurd psychotic right-wing ultrapatriotic idiotic notion, although I did think of my friend Matt in Afghanistan and how much I miss him.

*I met a girl named Colleen during the marathon and we ran together for about eight or so miles. She kept me going, really, our pacing was well-matched and I dropped my 12 minutes of running then 2 minutes of walking routine to run with her instead and walk only aid stations. I lost her at a Port-a-potty when she went to the bathroom but passed her just before she reached the turnaround and we slapped five. I posted a quick little post on craigslist’s “missed connections” page, though I doubt she’ll see it, since I missed her after the marathon & we’d become decent buddies & had talked about exchanging email addresses. If I never see her again I still owe her thanks for pushing me out of my little 12:2 running comfort zone because I ran the rest of the race and walked only aid stations and I wouldn’t have done that if it weren’t for her. Thanks Colleen!

*I can’t begin to describe the perfection of the day for this race. It started out co-o-o-l-l-ld but beautiful, the reservoir shrouded in a light layer of mist. As I crossed the starting line in a sea of runners (most much faster than I!) I was hyper-aware of what I was doing and the enormity of the undertaking, so I started out the way I began most of my long runs: by walking. After less than a quarter mile I began to jog and soon fell into a comfortable pace. The serenity of the scene around me got to me a little and I choked up a bit watching the amazing trail of runners stretched out along the roadway in front of me and the crowd of runners behind me…and then I decided to get agitated by the fact that my MP3 player had run out of juice right before the start and I didn’t have batteries, and sulked along the first two miles, getting pissy about people having conversations around me a I tried to wrap my head around one of the songs I had on my MP3 player only to have it fade as another group passed me deep in conversation. I don’t know what the heck it was that pulled me out of my funk, but I finally looked up and around me shortly after the top of the first hill and mentally slapped myself a bit. Dondi, you’re being stupid. Look at this day. Look at what you’re doing. Snap the f*** out of it. And, fortunately, I did. That’s about the time I slapped a smile on my face and kept it there.

*Photographers are a lot more interested in you if you’re a goofball, and too many runners take themselves way too seriously. I called out encouragement to a few hundred runners who passed me and about fifty that I passed on the part of the course that involves a turnaround and kept doing so throughout the end. Some smiled and waved and shouted back, but most kept their grim, determined face set grimly determined and just kept on chugging. Man, what’s the fun in that? Anyway, the photographers loved me; I was grinning and making faces and pumping my arms in the air and flashing peace signs and thumbs-up and hamming it up for all of them and they loved it, I mean really, were cracking up and snapping photos like crazy. I haven’t seen any of the pix from brightroom (the event’s photography sponsor) but I hope they took as many as I think they did, and I hope I get to see them soon. They will be hilarious.

*Inspiration occurs in the oddest places. I passed a group around mile 21 walking and told them they looked great & strong and they yelled back that I was an inspiration to them. That about knocked me over, I felt so good. Then I caught up with a woman who was walking fast but walking, and it was clear that she wanted to be jogging. I started chatting with her, she was in pain and having trouble dealing, and in her forties or so, so really, it amazed the hell out of me that she was there. I mean, if I’m doing a marathon at forty-five, hell, my life is complete, I’ve been doing something right. She was upset, though, that she wouldn’t come in under four hours (I was pacing for 5:30 myself, and came in at 5:42:21, and happily), and after listening to her lament for a minute or two I stopped her, telling her how incredible it was that she was doing this atall and that she needed to stop and consider just how hard she was being on herself and how few people in the world actually do these events and complete them. She was crying a little but pulled it together and thanked me profusely. I left her a few minutes later but told her she needed to find me after the race & I’d give her a big hug. I was on the phone with Jack when she walked up & stupidly I didn’t hug her a bit wrapped up in my own friends and family, but she thanked me again and I congratulated her and told her she’d done an amazing thing & should be proud of herself, and nothing made me happier for that moment than seeing her, with her family around her, at the finish of the Boulder Backroads Marathon. Iw as so happy for her and so inspired by what she’d just accomplished…what we’d just accomplished…all of us.

A marathon is a solidly individual event: whether or not you join a training group, get a coach, join a club, train on your own like me, or whatever, you have to do the time. You have to put in the work and you have to make it happen. You cross the finish line on your own. When my brother and sister-in-law did the Charlotte Marathon they crossed the finish line together, holding hands, as they’d planned. Still, while they were together, BJ had to do his own run, and Kristen had to do hers. As steadfast as they were in their connection, their bond, and their togetherness, they each had to battle their own challenges and take on their own fears and concerns over the course of the race. BJ couldn’t do Kristen’s work, and Kris couldn’t do B’s. You cross the finish line on your own two feet, and after a certain point (for me it was mile 23), you get yourself there through willpower alone.

Adding to that, however, is an element of community that’s intangible, a network of bonds and relationships with people that get you through it all in the long run anyway. I ran the Boulder Backroads Marathon for myself, first and foremost, but it was the intrinsic and complex network of family, friends and acquaintances who got me through the race. I was talking with Scott about this because he has been the most physically influential person to my training, what with being coach/mentor/friend/therapist/sherpa/photographer and all, and I found that I couldn’t tell him that I wouldn’t have been able to do it without him, because I could have. Or could I?

Truth be told, I couldn’t have done it without Scott. I couldn’t have done it without the new shoes he loaned me the money for (no, really, I couldn’t have, my old shoes were the reason I sustained a nasty knee injury three weeks before the race), the indefatigable encouragement, enlightenment, advice from his training days, unyielding enthusiasm, tireless sherpa-ing during my long runs, putting up with my hissy fits and bratting out, and just generally giving me whatever I needed at the time: a hug, a shoulder to cry on, a bottle of sport drink, a packet of Shot Blox, a new pair of socks, a hand up from the side of the road when I over-ate and threw up massive quantities of energy bars, Cytomax and Shot Blox, a ride to and from the course, a steady hand, a smile, a few words of encouragement and a big hug at the start, gloves to keep my hands warm until I moved into starting position, and hands to take my gear bag, warm-ups and jacket so I didn’t have to ditch them along the way like so many other runners did. I also couldn’t have done it without KT and Patrick and their love and support and constant encouragement. I couldn’t have done it without my dad helping me out last season by being my sherpa in his car, hauling gear for me and waiting at every mile to give me whatever I needed: food, water, Gatorade, a hug. I couldn’t have done it without BJ and Kristen and their stories about their marathon, their support and encouragement, their love and their loyalty. I couldn’t have done it without my mom and Emily, without running that 5K with Emily a few weeks ago right after I hurt my knee and when I was really scared of running, doing that 5K with her & her being so strong and so supportive. I couldn’t have done it without my mother, letting me know that it was okay to drop out last year, whose gentle advice and tender support gave me the strength to call Lesley, the race director, from a San Francisco hotel room with tears dripping down my face after I’d injured myself badly just before the race, to let her know that I had to drop out. I probably couldn’t do it without Lesley understanding and appreciating my suffering and letting me carry over my registration to this year. I couldn’t have done it without Mike, who took me out for dinner the night before the race, whose energy and passion for sport both calmed my fears and neuroses and raised my excitement level. I couldn’t have done it without Jack, who gave me plenty of trouble during my training (“Claw, why do you DO this to yourself?” paired with a generous grin and, often, a quick rub for my shoulders, freshly sore from a recent training run) and kept me lighthearted when I was taking myself too seriously, put up with me for the majority of the scary part of training, during the long runs and the short runs and the three-weeks-before-the-race terrifying knee injury, during my freaking-out neuroses about the race, reminded me of the importance I used to place—and began to again—on meditation and writing in my journal, and who stayed with me the night before the race, virtually guaranteeing that between my tossing and turning while I did sleep and waking periods between those fitful bits of rest that he would get an even worse night’s sleep than I did. Not without the myriad spectators and volunteers along the course who admittedly were not there for me, or not just for me, anyway, but who made my race possible by giving me constant boosts with shouts of praise, excitement, encouragement and support. Not without Colleen, whose camaraderie made the miles between about 8 and 16 fly by without even thinking about them, or Marty, the woman I talked to near the end who was so upset with her race, who in letting me lift her spirits, in turn lifted mine. Finally, not without the people who weren’t there at the race but whose support along the way meant the world to me: Tom Grant, our Deli Category Manager at Oats and veteran marathoner, who gave me tons of advice and whose calm voice and steadfast spirit looked me in the eye on the Friday before and told me I could do it, and that he was proud of me; my department’s buyer and my close colleague Robin Hoffman, who not only is responsible for the fact that my bike still runs but whose general trouble-giving about my training, especially in the last few weeks after screwing up my knee fired up the “oh yeah, well screw you, I’m GONNA run that marathon!” spirit in me and who was the second person in my office, after Tom, who I came to show my finisher’s medallion to, my boss Bobby and my director Betsy, who both praised me so effusively I blushed at both occasions, when I saw Bobby early in the day and when Betsy came by my cube later; my cubemate Toni, a constant source of enthusiasm, excitement and praise before and after the race, my friend Gary, an incredible athlete in his own right who will probably never do a marathon due to injuries sustained over his life but who would love to do one and who left me a voicemail that brought tears to my eyes three days before the race and reminded me that I also needed to consider all of the people whose dream it was to run this race but who would never accomplish that dream; as well as all of the rest of my friends at work: my fellow Goats Peter, Betsy, Laurie, Jim, Kelly (ok no longer at Oats but still a Goat and a dear friend!), Jackie Healy, who’s done Backroads and had great advice for me & Kristi a few days before the race, my “never give up” Bolder Boulder buddy Zoya, Todd, Chris D and Chris C in Holistic Health, Ana and Troy, whose little girl I baby-sit, who have become like a second family to me and who have been nothing but wholeheartedly supportive and loving during my training, my cruiser guys Del and Bobalicious, who have lovingly though wholly dubbed me insane but have stood by me, though at a safe distance, I’m sure, Richard, Pat, Denine, Marsha, Erin, Mitchell…this list could go on forever or until e-blogger cuts me off for taking up too much space on the Internet. My most heartfelt and loving thanks go to you all. I truly could not have done it without you.

Last but not least: Gregory Menvielle, whose athleticism and pursuit of triathlon (despite the fact that, if you believe him, has a running form akin to a beached whale being chased by Japanese fishermen) has been an unfailing inspiration to me and whose advice, assistance, encouragement and support have been elementally instrumental in my achievement of this goal over the past year and a half. I cherish and value my friendship with Gregory, and not just because if I ask nicely he brings me wine and soap from France when he goes home. Genuinely, he got me started running again (you can’t date an Ironman triathlete if you have any background in endurance sports and NOT get back into them, as I found) when we started dating and now that we are friends I am incredibly grateful for that. Watch for him to crush the competition, at the very least in the swim, at Ironman Roth in 2007.

“First”…because there’s many more to come. I didn’t mention that at various points along the race up to and including at about mile 25.5 al I could think was, “I can’t wait to recover so I can do this again!”? Well, that’s another blog post altogether.

Happy training…

Motivate!

2006-07-16T14:32:00.000-06:00

I really am quite lucky. At the tender young age of 24, I live in one of the most beautiful places in the world. I am surrounded by natural raw beauty everywhere I go. I am also surrounded by incredibly skilled, talented, hardworking and determined athletes, and I am further blessed to count a few of these people among my friends. There’s nothing like getting advice from a pro: whether or not it ends up benefiting your training or working for you in the end. There’s something about getting advice from somebody who’s not only been where you are, but are so far above and beyond where you are that the issues you’re dealing with aren’t even among their considerations or concerns anymore.

Gregory, for instance, has been training hard to get himself into spectacular shape for his next Ironman triathlon in Roth, Germany in 2007 (God forbid he’d register for a race somewhere in America…where I can actually go see him race!). He’s dropped a ton of weight and despite the demands of running his company, taking on new clients (and keeping the ones he has happy) and having a good amount of his support system in Chicago, California and France, continues to train like a pro. Having recently completed the Horribly Hilly Hundred in Chicago (see http://frogblogging.blogspot.com for more details) he continues to work on his swim-bike-and-run with amazing drive and spirit.

My buyer and close colleague Robin led a team of fellow Oats employees thru one of the crappiest weekend the MS150 has seen in years: cold rain, hail, thunder and lightning storms and the requisite infinite flat tires, wet pavement, mildewy clothing and soggy cycling that comes with the kind of weather they had to battle. In spite of it all the entire Oats team made it thru the entire 150 miles and came back to work in high spirits and with boatloads of great ride stories to share.

My most recent friend Scott is truly a blessing: he has a heart of gold and the most enthusiastic spirit I’ve ever known. Aside from sharing a wealth of common interests outside of sports (Happy Thursday cruiser rides, electronica & dance music, creative expression, teaching, living in Boulder, etc.), we share similar loves for cycling and running. Scott’s a brilliant athlete and a will-be pro cyclist, as in, is working to get his points to turn pro some time in the next year or so.

Scott, as well as other friends of mine who are close to me and know my demanding training schedule, have all voiced concern in regards to my motivation lately. It seems as though my self-deprecating comments and the joking pot shots I take at myself, the athlete are distressing my dear friends, increasing their fears of my attitude towards training and causing undue alarm. So the point of this post, really, is to allay those fears.

When you get to know me well enough you’ll eventually understand that I give myself shit so that I continue to push myself harder. I’ve never been one to respond to sweet talk or spoon-feeding when it comes to motivation or coaching. While I have a great awareness of my body and can fully appreciate the necessity of coddling myself when I am injured or otherwise removed from training (like the past week and a half when I haven’t gotten anything serious done due to the root canal and pain therapy I’ve undergone recently), the rest of the time I pretty much need to be smacked around to get myself really moving. When I was considering taking on the Leadville Trail 100 this August, I asked Gregory to be my support crew because he knew exactly what I would need: to be kicked when I’m down, so to speak. After enough miles on my feet the only thing that keeps me going is anger. I get pissed off at myself, start yelling at myself and ride the adrenaline rush that is triggered by the emotional release. It works well for me.

I am not, however, a generally angry or upset person; my main motivators aren’t fury and rage but much more rational thoughts. I am nowhere near the shape I need to be in to complete the upcoming marathon in September, and while I know this now, I don’t beat myself up much about it. I jokingly do, but realistically I know that I have over two months to prepare and by the time the marathon rolls around I will be in great shape to take on the 26.2 miles. If I stress too much about this I get discouraged, so I don’t. I do have an arsenal of motivators that keep me going, though, and in the interests of assuaging Scott’s fears, along with the concerns of the rest of my friends and family, I’m going to take this opportunity to share them:

1) My main and most important motivator is myself. I feel better when I train. I feel better when I put in the time for myself to run, whether it’s a quick 3.5 mile loop or a weekend distance run of much higher mileage. I feel better when I do my legs lifts in the morning, when I eat to support my training, and when I do my strength training and cross-training workouts. I simply feel better about everything else in my life when I am actively working to be more healthy, active, and fit.
2) I train because I love to run. I really do. After years of rejecting running because of being forced into it as a kid, I run now because I love the feeling of my feet hitting the pavement, my heart rate dancing around its optimum to properly accommodate the activity I am doing, the pace of my steps matching the music on my “Nikepod”, the feeling of sunshine and wind and the air outdoors energizing me.
3) When I run, I usually quite easily slip into “the zone” or “the runner’s high”. For me, it’s more of a zone thing; the runner’s high doesn’t really exist. I say this because I don’t feel high but I truly do feel kind of transported out of the world and onto a different, maybe even a higher, plane of reality, where all of my footfalls, my breathing, my pacing and my movement are coming together to allow me to really enjoy my run. A lot of the time I struggle, but I keep moving because I know that that struggle is going to give way to something greater, to achieve an experience I can’t create and maintain on my own in my day-to-day life otherwise. One moment, you’re really struggling, your breaths are ragged, your pace is all over the charts, your form is floppy and your footfalls are sagging. Then it all comes together, and nothing else matters but the movement of your body and everything in that movement working cohesively to create this amazing experience. It’s otherworldly and unreal.
4) I run because it allows me to experience this beautiful place that I live in. I get a greater appreciation for Boulder and its incredible beauty and idyllic setting when I run. When I run it gives me the opportunity to entirely appreciate this beautiful town, exorbitant rent and all.
5) I run because my family is proud of my running. Unlike some of my less-fortunate friends, my family is supportive of my training, sympathetic to my trials and ecstatic about my achievements. I am grateful for the dogged, relentless and unconditional encouragement of the people I love the most.
6) I run because it keeps me close to people who care about the same things I do. It’s like anything else: the activities you do, the events in which you participate and the lifestyle you live determine the people that surround you. Now that doesn’t mean, by any stretch of the imagination, that I surround myself solely with athletes and endurance runners. My friends are as varied and colorful as the music I listen to; they are an eclectic mix of people from all walks of life. I find that, however, I tend to attract fewer smokers, serious drinkers, partiers, etc. Now, make no mistake, my friends and I know how to party with the best of them. But it’s not really the lifestyle they, for the most part, live. Generally speaking, while my friends range from a conservationist in Kenya working to maintain the population of large predators to a self-made businesswoman in Superior, CO working to achieve her bachelor’s degree in psychology to the food-loving culinary geniuses I work with at Oats, there are a few trends that seem to run deeply within all of us. We all share an enormous respect for and devotion to the environment and generally maintain an approach to our lives which encourages sustainable growth and the development of preservationist mindsets and outlooks. We are, generally speaking, left-leaning and liberally-thinking. We all prioritize healthy, natural living. We also all prioritize fun. My friends and I tend to take a “you only live once” approach to life as much as possible and, while our lives’ restraints don’t generally allow us the kind of extravagance that comes with this mindset, we try to live life to its fullest at all times, as much as possible.
7) I run because it reinforces my three major beliefs in life: 1) everything happens for a reason, 2) never ever ever ever ever ever ever regret, and 3) for all we know, this is our only shot, so we might as well enjoy it as much as possible. Running tends to quietly reinforce these beliefs in myriad applications: I run because I am training for a marathon, but I also run because it supports the more important goals and objectives of my life, to live healthfully, to be happy, to be strong, and to take care of myself. Running “happens” because it fits in perfectly with everything else that is important to me. Running comes with no regrets; how can you possibly look back on a good run and say it shouldn’t have happened? Consequences that occur on bad runs, e.g. nearly getting hit by a car, sustaining an injury, etc., all happen for a reason, and are learning opportunities, so there’s no reason to regret them either. Running is one of the most enjoyable things I do, so it innately becomes a part of living life to its fullest, by being an activity that completely, fully, and perfectly integrates into my life.
8) I run because it is one of my passions. I can’t really explain this much more, except to say that I feel absolutely incredible when running; I am completely and totally and fully happy.
9) I run because it reveals my weaknesses. Physically, of course, running shows me what I need to work on and how I need to accommodate my body’s idiosyncrasies. More importantly, though, running reveals my mental and emotional weaknesses. It shows me what it takes to push me to my limits, to test me, to tear me down, so that I can perform past my limits, pass the tests, and build myself back up.
10) I run because it gives me my “me time”. I never realized how popular I am or what a great circle of friends and social life I have until recently, when I found myself genuinely craving time on my own. Running gives me that time, and nobody and nothing can take it away from me.

Now, motivators for the marathon are a bit different, but they’re all positive too. A quick run-down:

1) I want to run a marathon for myself, so that I can achieve that goal for me. This is first and foremost.
2) I want to run a marathon for the bragging rights. I want to be able to say that I did it, that I accomplished this. I want the finisher medal, the postrace jubilation and the Avery beer pint glass.
3) I want to run a marathon as the basis for the LT100 2007.
4) I want to run a marathon because it’s the next logical step.
5) I want to run a marathon so that I never want to do an Ironman. 
6) I want to run a marathon to prove myself to the naysayers.
7) I want to run a marathon to make my family proud of me.
8) I want to run a marathon so that I can eat loads of carbs in the meantime and work them off in training!
9) I want to run a marathon to be in the best shape of my life.
10) I want to run a marathon so I can say I ran on with Dean Karnazes.
11) I want to run a marathon because it brings me that much closer to my idol, Bella Comerford, and her achievements.
12) I want to run a marathon so that I know what I am capable of achieving. No more “what if” or “if only I could”; instead, “I did” and “I can”.
13) I want to run a marathon for my parents, who can’t, and for my friends who think they can’t. Hey, if I can do it, anyone can!!!

Later on, everybody. Happy training!

On Wet-Road Criteria and Motivational Challenges

2006-07-13T01:00:00.000-06:00

Over the course of the past few weeks my training has intensified. I often show up at work or work "events", happy hours and dinners and farewell parties and such, limping, bruised, or otherwise off-kilter due to some training tragedy or another. Nothing too crazy, just a sore ACL here, a jacked-up ITB there. Aching Achilles (yep, just couldn't resist the urge to alliterate there), tender quads...you know, the stuff that requires icing and a bit of rest but not much more than that. I feel a bit pathetic sometimes especially in Boulder, Land of the Endurance Athletes Extraordinaire. Like I have anything to complain about, or be sore about. The injuries I sustain, in comparison to those the pros take on, are nothing but tiny bumps in the road, little scratches. I get discouraged sometimes, not so much by what's been happening to me but rather by my "pansiness", that is, my inability to deal with these traumas effectively, especially in light of the experiences of some of my friends.

My most recent friend and absolute treasure Scott, cyclist extraordinaire on the brink of turning pro, has a huge heart and a spirit whose enthusiasm, charm and raw beauty is very nearly overwhelming. His talent, drive and spirit are balanced in such equal proportion that greater forces at work in the universe seem to take care of him: at his criterium last Saturday, the July 8 North Boulder Park Crit, the wettest race I've ever personally witnessed during the wettest few days I've ever seen in Boulder (seriously, it NEVER rains like it did in the past week), instant karma prevailed in circumstances that, after understanding how they unfolded, further assured me that this man IS truly as incredible a person as I thought. He must be, for the greater forces of the universe to behave the way that they did...

I've only been to one other criterium, at the CSU oval in Fort Collins. A criterium is a fixed-time lap race where competitors try to complete as many laps as possible within a given time. This particular race was 60 minutes and the conditions were less than ideal, to make the understatement of the year. The streets were absolutely sodden; I spent ten minutes before the race start just trying to position my bike and my gear beneath a tree to keep them from getting TOO waterlogged. I have no rain gear whatsoever and Scott, thinking this thru before I even raised the issue, brought several rain coats, an umbrella and a chair for me to sit in to watch the race. Aside from being a kick-ass athlete and amazing cyclist, the man has a heart of gold, truly. At the race start Scott was five or six back from the front of the pack, and I was stoked. Before the race he told me he wanted to position himself near the front because if he did he would stay there for the race instead of having to chase. In a race where the conditions virtually guaranteed a crash, chasing is a nightmare if not impossible.

Despite the rockin' start, somewhere between the second and fourth lap something went terribly wrong and Scott got pushed to the back of the peleton. I immediately felt for him; I knew that this wasn't his plan and was certainly upsetting and frustrating him. As I tried in vain to take a decent shot of him with my new digital camera (let's put it this way: action sports photography will never be a career option for me unless the object is to be homeless within a month!), Scott pushed on lap after lap, maintaining the distance he'd been pushed back to behind the pack but gaining little ground. The slick roads made for treacherous turns and rendered chasing highly improbable at best.

At one point I began chatting with a couple who were cheering for the race leader, a leggy cyclist in a maroon-black-and-white University of Indiana kit. I learned that he was their son and, in the spirit of damp-spectator camaraderie, clapped for the kid as he rounded our corner a couple of times. I was talking to his father, who had his back to the race and was in midsentence when I, watching the race over rhis shoulder, spotted the kid go around the next corner...and then I heard "Fuck!" and a cycle crash. "Exuse me," I interrupted, after noticing that the kind never emerged from the corner, "but I think your son just bailed." The Dad took off immediately and nearly took out the peleton that was passing by at the moment. I mean, really, even if your boy's hurt, you don't jump out into the middle of a crit unless you really WANT to get run over and/or fuck up the whole race. I stood, waited, watched and cheered, and expressed sympathy when I saw Dad and Junior return, Junior bearing some nice road rash that wan't part of his original ensemble and swearing intermittently.

After the race Scott detailed the reason behind his falling back to the end of the pack. As it turned out, the leader literally shoved Scott out of position and jostled him from his spot to gain entry into the line of cycles Scott was in. Basically, he shoved my boy out of place and bullied him out of his spot. Now, in normal cycling circumstances, this is to be expected. Cyclists routinely attack...using elbows, threats, whatever. Under the conditions, however, cyclists--or should I say, smart cyclists who aren't out to take down the entire peleton--don't attack, at least not using the methods this particular asshole did. Other cyclists in the pack even yelled at the guy for it, while my buddy was pushed wayyy back out of the pack and forced to chase for the duration of the race.

Instant karma got him though...whent he kid went down on one of his last laps. While I never wish anyone any ill will, I have to say that in light of what he did to my friend, I was definitely cackling maniacally in my head and thinking, you totally deserved that, you prick.

Despite it not being his best race, Scott was elated to have me there...and I was elated to be there for him. His next race, a time trial up Boulder Canyon, proved to showcase Scott as the cyclist he is: he finished 15th on one of the most brutally hot days of the year. I didn't go this time, citing fear of heatstroke, though I did try to get a friend's car so I could go watch. I look forward to seeing Scott's races as much as possible in the future. If there's any greater motivator than having a pro cyclist as a close friend and watching him race, I don't know what it could be.

Speaking of motivators...oh, well, I think that might be subject for another post...

Near Miss

2006-06-26T23:12:00.000-06:00

However that phrase originated, it’s purely wrong. Not that it really bugs me personally, but it does make me crack a smile whenever I hear it, thinking of how accepting we are of twists in our language. It made me smile, that is, until I was almost the victim of one myself today.

This reminds me of the Sedaris essay “I Almost Saw This Girl Get Killed”. This is what I can say now, smiling, joking, and incredibly grateful that my brush with death was only a brush. Boulder is so pedestrian-friendly that sometimes we forget, as pedestrians, that cars can and will hit and kill you. There’s absolutely nothing like seeing someone get hit by a car. It’s absolutely horrifying to witness, especially if your lifestyle depends on waling and cycling everywhere, since it’s an instant reminder of just how vulnerable you are. I saw a cyclist get creamed on Valmont once, right near where I live, and it was absolutely awful. The cyclist was heading towards me, there was a truck coming up behind him, and I was on the other side of the street running. I looked up, gave the cyclist a little wave, he gave me a little wave back, and I returned to my usual practice of looking at the ground about 3-4 feet in front of me. I didn’t look up again until I heard brakes squeal. The driver of the truck was on his cell phone and had swerved into the bike lane without knowing it. The cyclist went flying through the air like a rag doll and hit the asphalt hard; I remember seeing his head bounce and being instantly grateful that he had a good, well-fitting helmet on. I was far enough away that by the time I ran by an ambulance was on the way, but it was heart-wrenching. The driver of the truck was out with a passenger and the cyclist on the road, and they weren’t moving him for fear of damaging him further. The driver and passenger looked stricken, completely devoid of emotion, while the cyclist’s face twisted in agony. I said a silent prayer for all of them and then one for me, to never, ever let that happen.

I run the same route a lot, a 3.5 mile loop around my apartment complex. I love it; it’s my route, and it’s easy to turn it into a five mile, 7 mile, 10 mile, 13 or 14 mile, etc., depending on where you cut off the loop and/or how many laps you do. Got home from work today, threw on my running clothes, and headed out. I was trying out a new sport drink and the combination of “performance enhancers” (no, no EPO or anything too exciting; sorry everyone, more like caffeine and taurine and creatine) in the drink were causing my heart rate to soar unexpectedly and quickly, so I decided to pare down my 3.5 to a 2 mile and chill for the rest of the afternoon. I was scheduled for a rest day; I just felt the need to get out and go when I got home. I didn’t really care that my workout would be cut short; my heart rate was definitely the more important issue at hand. I walked a bit, jogged a bit, and took it easy until I got to the corner of Iris and Folsom, which is (for those of you outside of Boulder and.or unfamiliar with my route!) about ¾ of a mile from my apartment on my usual route. I was watching traffic turning left onto Folsom; while I had the right-of-way, I was running East and it was about 6pm, so the sun was setting behind me. I knew drivers would have a hard time seeing me, so I approached the intersection with caution. The first car turning left turned in front of me, completely oblivious to my presence. The next car was a black coupe, maybe a Mazda 323 or the like, and I swear, that driver made eye contact with me. I swear he totally saw me. I swear he was going to let me go first, and I realized, as I was bringing my left hand up to wave “thanks”, that he had no fucking clue that I was there.

You hear weird things like “it seemed like time slowed down” and “I saw my life flash before my eyes” and I didn’t see any of my life flash but it did seem like Hollywood’s greatest slow-scene production crew was in charge of my life for a minute there. Less than a minute. One moment I was running along, perhaps not gracefully but certainly peacefully, and the next I was face-to-face with a half a ton of metal coming straight towards me. My eyes were popping out of my head; I’m pretty sure my Oakleys were the only thing keeping them in. The driver finally (finally!) saw me and I saw his eyes widen and his hand drop the cell phone he was holding to his ear as he wrenched the wheel and slammed on the brakes. I distinctly heard brakes squealing, smelled the hot, horrible pungency of burnt rubber and stopped in my tracks, a total deer in the headlights. I saw the car turning, twisting, coming towards me, and I was bracing and waiting to feel the impact of the side of the bumper and the front driver’s side quarterpanel shattering my kneecaps when, by some miracle, the car stopped. I was so ready for it to hit me that I had braced myself so that when it did stop, my hands came thudding down on the hot hood. Shaken, I backed away quickly, my steps slipping out from under me as my legs turned to rubber. The music playing on my Nikepod (my word for a Nike PSA, stolen from a man who told his son that that’s what the device I was wearing was, when the kid asked if it was an iPod) seemed to come rushing back all at once, and I blacked out for a few seconds.

I blacked out running though, and although I don’t remember getting through the rest of the intersection and onto the opposite sidewalk, I got there somehow. I do remember falling over on the sidewalk, my legs falling under me and then getting up, feeling stupid and weak, dragging my liquidy legs over to a couple of 4x4s surrounding a tree on the sidewalk, sitting there, the music rushing around my head, completely unable to stop shaking or crying. I finally got it together enough to start home again, and as I started to run again, the familiar pace and footfalls brought me straight back to the near miss. I started to cry again, and the rest of the way home went like that…run a bit, cry, walk, run a bit, cry, walk. I was a mess.

I hope this doesn’t continue to haunt me but it sure scared the hell out of me. That’s all for now; I need to go to bed…

The B360 and the Joy of Cross-Training

2006-06-05T01:29:00.000-06:00

Contrary to perhaps popular belief, one doesn't ready herself for a marathon by running all the time. First of all, you increase your chances of injury and second of all, it's about as exciting as watching grass grow, running 6-7 days a week. I try to schedule at least a day of cross-training each week to mix things up a bit and give my body a rest from running, which is a brutally high-impact workout. Today, I decided, after assessing the feelings in my knees and Achilles tendons (which have, oddly, been acting up a bit), would be a good day to go cycling.

Cycling in Boulder. Three little words that fit together rather perfectly. Given the generally mild winters, perfect spring and fall and usually warm-to-hot summer weather, it’s easy to see why the town is Mecca for world-class cyclists and triathletes. Being a commuter whose sole transport is my bicycle, I greatly appreciate this, as well as the fact that, given the town’s general trend towards wholesome, healthy, outdoorsiness, Boulder boasts an incredible network of bike paths, both unpaved and paved, bike lanes in almost every road, and a usually fairly bicycle-friendly vehicular community. People in this town who’ve lived here for more than a few months are quite used to stopping in the middle of the street to allow pedestrians to cross. It’s just what you do.

Sadly, I’ve not been a very good “cyclist” per se. That is, I have been riding my bicycle around this town for years and have stuck mostly to the bike lanes and roadways rather than the paths. I have little idea where these paths are and even less of an idea where they lead to. As I am a person who’s usually—unfortunately—in a hurry to get to where I am going, I don’t generally ride random bikeways to see where they lead to. While I pride myself on my sense of navigation (okay Gregory, I know I’m going to hear about this from you) I know that after a few turns onto connecting paths I’d be hopelessly, utterly lost.

So when I found out about the B360 and B180 bike tours that were to take place today as part of Boulder’s celebration of Bike Month, I figured it’d be a good way to determine where at least some of the trails go. The B360 is a 19-mile (actually, 21-mile, as a newfound friend’s bike computer reported) loop starting and ending at one of the town parks that threads all over Boulder. The B180 is a 14-mile loop that does the same thing. I packed a bag, filled my Camelbak, slathered on sunscreen and took off on my awesome Bianchi cruiser. Upon arriving at the park I registered for the 360 and, shortly thereafter, took off amidst the crowds of families with kids on tandem bikes, attachments, kiddie bikes, cruisers and trailers, and the rest of the cyclists: the real cyclists who are decked out in head-to-toe Pearl Izumi gear, Oakley/Smith/whatever the flavor of the week is sunglasses, helmets and $4000 - $5000 roadbikes; the cruisers (a small contingent of the regular Thursday evening cruiser ride, complete with blaring sound system); and the posers, who were decked out in the same gear as the real cyclists but weren’t in anywhere near as good shape or rode anywhere near as fast as the real cyclists. Wannabes, I guess.

I learned a couple of things on the ride today:

1. Boulder is NOT a cycling democracy. There’s a hierarchy that has been established and carefully guarded here, and you know your place really quickly. At the top are the real cyclists, who don’t care enough about what anyone else is doing; they’re out for their own ride and don’t pay attention to you as long as you stay out of their way. Next are the mountain bikers and cyclist commuters, people who ride daily or often and/or spend significant amounts of their free time seeking out new trails and riding them. Next are the posers, and last are the families. The cruisers round out the bottom but mostly because they are usually inebriated and often, quite loud as well. The posers think they are up with the real cyclists but they haven’t attained the speed, endurance, or shapeliness of calves that the real cyclists have, so they’re just bitter when you pass them. Especially if you’re on a cruiser. I got a lot of dirty looks today, an unexpected and rather surprising occurrence, considering this event was billed as non-competitive and wholesome fun. I wanted to say, hey man, don’t get pissed at me, get your ass out on your bike more often, but by the time I’d have gotten all that out I would be wayyy too far ahead of them for them to hear me.

2. People are just stupid sometimes, and you have to live with that. Despite the fact that this city, for its size, probably boasts a more intelligent, intellectually-based population than other cities, there are a few morons who you just have to put up with. There were the couple on the tandem bike, who after announcing they were passing me and assuming a place in front of me, slowed down considerably, forcing me to pass them only moments later. There was the father of some sizable family, three or four little kids, who decided a good place to stop was the pickup to a path that was only as wide as his bicycle and trailer and therefore, stopped the flow of cycling traffic altogether. There were the students tubing in the creek who thought it best to, instead of lounging on the soft grass under the shady trees along the creek path, stand in the middle of the bike path instead. When my friend Mike clipped a woman who we thought was moving out of the way with his rearview mirror, I was neither surprised nor apologetic (yes, I get apologetic about my friend’s screwups). Rather, I was wondering what on earth they were thinking wandering about the bike path while hundreds of cyclists per hour whizzed by from every direction. And we were going slowly! And, while I greatly appreciate GOBoulder’s organization and support of this event, there was the idiot raffling off prizes who kept putting the tickets that went unclaimed back into the pot, therefore lengthening the raffling process by about fourfold.

3. Life sometimes surprises you nicely, and when you least expect it. I was heading up around 28th Street minding my own business, when a man on another cruiser pulled up beside me. We joked a bit and I eventually pulled off my headphones and stuck them in my bike basket, and we chatted for pretty much the rest of the ride, though he had to slow considerably a few times to allow me to catch up to him. Looking at his legs I immediately discerned why: he sported the cut-muscle calves and perfectly toned thighs of a real cyclist. We spent the rest of the afternoon hanging out & getting to know each other, and eventually exchanged numbers to get together for a ride or hike sometime. I can’t keep up with him to save my life on a serious ride, but it will be fun to have someone around town to ride or head to the hills with for a good hike or the like. Making new friends is never a bad thing.

4. Boulder…is…so…beautiful. Riding around all of these trails and paths I’d never been on, heading up around Wonderland Lake and down in south Boulder by the Mesa Trail that I run on occasionally, discovering all of these cool little paths and places I want to return to, once again rejuvenated my love for this town. It’s expensive, it’s weird, it’s politically absurd and it’s full of crazy people, but man, do I love this place. What a fantastic day. What a beautiful ride. What an amazing part of the world I live in! I am so blessed!

5. Anytime Glacier sponsors an event, I need to go. Because that means I get Glacier at the event. Especially when it’s free!!!

I did have an awesome ride. I passed a lot of people and managed to maintain a good clip for the whole ride. Mike said something about riding at 23 miles an hour but I think he was either joking or we were downhilling at the time. Regardless, when I started, I was concerned, having gone out at a relatively fast pace, roughly equal to my commuting speed (which I believe hovers between 12 and 18 miles per hour) thinking I maybe overdid it at the start and would therefore have some trouble finishing i.e. come in quite slowly or would end up bonking in the middle and be unable to finish the ride at all. But maintaining a pretty good speed I actually did quite well for nineteen miles (or 21...). Since I don't generally do any lengthy rides it was nice to get out and know I am capable of riding 20 miles, within a relatively short timeframe, maintaining a pretty decent pace. I CANNOT become a cyclist, however. Too expensive, too many snobs and too much weird clothing to have to purchase. I remain fiercely devoted to my 22-lb. Bianchi Milano, the celeste-green "Cafe Racer" and (in my opinion) queen of cruisers everywhere.

So that’s all for now; my hamstrings and quads are tired and my bad knee hurts a bit, but overall an excellent bout of exercise, a good ride, a beautiful day, a new friend, and ice cream at the finish. Life doesn’t get much better than this!

The Bolder Boulder 2006

2006-05-31T00:35:00.000-06:00

2006 has brought a bevy of cool new training stuff, as well as its share of challenges thus far. I’ve stumbled upon some by chance (a good marathon training guide at the Salvation Army in Lancaster, South Carolina for 49 cents), some seem to have fallen into my lap (hel-lo, new Mizuno Wave trainers! God, I love those shoes!), and some have hit me hard when I’ve least expected it.

Enter Dondi, six weeks ago. One day I was healthy, happy and running 1.5 to 7 miles daily, doing leg lifts and other knee-strengthening exercises, and rocking the strength training whenever I had the opportunity, and the energy. Out of nowhere, my voice went from its usual resonant timbre (ha ha) to the in-between squeak of an adolescent boy. Except unlike adolescent boys I had no way to regulate it, at all, no matter what, and after a matter of days it had settled into the realm of the whisper. After a week I couldn’t force any tone from my throat. I became the ghost in my office; answering my desk phone was absolute torture. After suffering through my second interview for the promotion I was recently awarded apologizing for every harsh, whisperized pseudo-growl I managed to summon from the depths of my overworked vocal cords and finding that I couldn’t suck enough cough drops or steam my throat enough to resolve the laryngitis, I made an appointment with my doctor. After a week and a half of disturbingly worsening loss of voice, I was also developing a hacking cough and various body aches and pains. I woke in the morning at least twice during that period bathed in sweat from head to toe, feverish and chilled. It was time to go see someone. Usually I’ll get laryngitis and that’s it—I’m unencumbered by other symptoms and capable of laughing at off as some higher power’s way of telling me to shut up and listen more often instead of babbling constantly. This was getting scary.

Little did I know, the trip to the doctor’s office would be even scarier. Dr. Granston, one of my favorite physicians (because he’s kind of a nut like me who’ll spend his lunch breaks running or cycling rather than eating lunch) diagnosed me with, of all things, Chlamydia pneumonia. After summoning the strength to ask him about the etymology of its name and wondering who the hell was the asshole who gave me Chlamydia, I was starting to croak out my question when the good doctor took one look at my shocked expression and quickly digressed, explaining that the name was a reference to the type of bacteria, not an STD. My heart resumed its normal function and I was sent home with a prescription for heavy-duty antibiotics and cough syrup. I couldn’t have been more miserable and relieved at the same time. At least it was treatable.

Treatable though it was, the pneumonia benched me for nearly three weeks during the height of my training plan. A sub-60:00 Bolder Boulder was definitely out for me. This was further exacerbated by an impromptu emergency trip to South Carolina to see my father, during which I didn’t get as much training as I’d have liked to, although good old Dad was prodding me daily about my running and why wasn’t I out there and all that stuff. Thanks to him I managed to train for about half the time I was there. Anyone else’s father whose failing health prompted such a visit would not be shoving them out the door in shorts and running shoes. My dad would push me out, then a few minutes later whiz by me in his car on an “errand”, or possibly just an excuse to cheer his daughter on, yelling at the top of his lungs so I’d for sure hear him over the music being pumped into my brain by my MP3 player. What a pleasure running in South Carolina was.

What a defeatist tactic to return to Boulder. I suppose that since it is home I’d have to return eventually, but when you regularly train at 5000+ feet, sea level training boasts miracles that just don’t happen as easily at home. In SC, I could run forever. Forever. In Boulder it was a good day if I cleared a mile without dropping to a walk, especially after my lungs, plagued now with the foul task of dumping all of the crap the antibiotics were cleaning out of my system, out for good. I’ve spat out more disgusting green globs in the past month than I care to ever deal with again.

Regardless, the Bolder Boulder loomed, though I had a sudden surge of motivation near the end when I found out that my friend Zoya wanted to do the run with me. We ran together once and managed to register for the same wave. Hardly ready as a team, we were still both eager for the race. Since I lived close to the start, she’d come over to my place and we’d scoot out from there. She was going to come over around 7:30 on race day, giving us plenty of time to clear our 8:11 start time. The Bolder Boulder is run in waves with 800 people to a wave. It’s so huge that a good part of the race is often spent dodging other people and weaving around fellow runners and walkers. The number of finishers regularly closes in around 50,000, and Boulder literally swells by a good 10 to 20,000 in population just to accommodate the amount of people who fly in for this one race. It’s huge, it’s a blast, and it’s one of the biggest 10ks in the country. It’s really amazing to take part in.

May 29, 2006—Race Day—7:25 a.m.
I am scurrying around my apartment, haphazardly applying sunscreen, pounding electrolyte drink, water, and Driven, a substance I can only describe as a performance enhancer, because it’s designed to dump a surge of energy into you when you “hit the wall”. Or so they say. I wasn’t planning on any wall-hitting, but I’ve done my share of poorly-planned runs so no taking chances on race day. I am also cramming as much of a Luna bar and a package of Clif Shot Blox down my throat as my stomach will hold without too much protest.

May 29, 2006—Race Day—7:45 a.m.
I am still scurrying about haphazardly applying, eating, and drinking, trying to decide whether or not to wear a t-shirt, and trying to block the image of my friend sacked out in bed out of my head, when she calls. “I’m not asleep,” she says, “but I am stuck in traffic. I’ll be there in about ten minutes…is that okay?” For my race partner—anything. I say I’ll see her soon and try to block the idea of starting late—again—out of my head. Starting late last years left me with an actual finish time of around 65 minutes, but a recorded time of about an hour and a half. This year, with everything that had happened, I was aiming for 75:00 and I’d be happy to hit that goal.

May 29, 2006—Race Day—7:51 a.m.
Zoya walked in full of apology and explanation, which I really wasn’t worried about. I was so happy my running partner made it! Race day traffic is notoriously bad and the downside of living near the start is that you have to navigate around the start to get to my home. I’d already forced her down an alleyway and a few weird little sidestreets to get her there; I wasn’t worried about her being late. Five minutes later we took off on our brisk walk to the start.

May 29, 2006—Race Day—8:07 a.m.
We squeezed into our wave at almost the last possible second, all grins and high hopes. Race security checked us about four times to make sure we were all wearing bibs. The announcer kept us pepped up and excited. Finally, the thirty-second trumpet sounded, and then the gun.

May 29, 2006—Race Day—8:11 a.m. to about 9:26 a.m.
As usual, my body wanted to quit about two minutes in. I held out as long as I could, due at least in part to Zoya’s hilarious commentary on fellow runners, spectators, and bands stationed along the route. There were abandoned coffeepots in some yards, left on tables by spectators who’d gotten up to cheer us on, that we both would glance towards longingly. We stopped for a totally mandatory (for me) bathroom break near mile 4. Then it was uphill, then slightly down, up, then down again, and on the last slightly downward slope, we smelled the viciously tantalizing aroma of bacon sizzling. Gotta love Boulder…someone had setup a bacon aid station. We forgoed stopping there (because I wouldn’t have left) and started to make out way up the last hill. All along the route there were myriad bands, people with their stereos cranked to full and speakers blasting out their front room windows, belly dancers and Elvis impersonators on Folsom, the Blues Brothers within the first half-mile of the start along 30th Street, and everywhere, crowds of people lined up to cheer us on. Race marshals and security would call out bib numbers, encouraging runners along, people would stand outside with sprinklers and hoses, happy to douse the crowds with a blast of cold water, and Boulderites of every age all along the route lined up to cheer for, mostly, total strangers, clapping and yelling until their hands hurt and their voices were hoarse. It was an awesome experience.

The best part for me, though, was running with my friend. Rarely do I meet someone who has the patience to put up with me, a slow starter who only really gets going after the fourth or fifth mile and so is virtually worthless in a 10k. I will get better…especially considering the conditions under which I entered the race…pretty pitiful for a runner who six weeks ago wanted to do sub-60:00, since I was dropping to walk within the first mile and that was only the first of several…or many…walk stops…but Zoya totally kept me going, walked with me when I needed to, kept me laughing and chatting, and forced me to run pretty much the last mile, all the way up the hill to Folsom Stadium. Outside of the stadium we got a nice surprise: our boys showed up to cheer us through the finish. I heard Gary’s “Go, Dondi!” just as Zoya turned her head to her husband calling her name. They were standing together, even…we couldn’t believe it. We forced ourselves thru the finish line or rather, Zoya dragged my slow ass thru the chutes at the end.

The end of the Bolder Boulder is surreal. I don’t care how many 10ks you’ve done; if you’ve yet to run this one, the end is the icing on the cake. You enter the University of Colorado’s football stadium and are immediately engulfed in the crowds of cheering spectators. You run around the inside of the stadium, then thru the chutes at the end for the finish, and all the while you feel like an Olympic contender with the noise of the full stadium and throngs of cheering spectators, race officials, marshals and security. You know it’s a good race when the cops are cheering for random runners as much as they are attending to miscellaneous mischief. I hit my stopwatch just before exiting the chute: we came in at 75:49. Just over my very-modified goal. My first reaction was to grab Zoya and hug her like crazy but, as much as I really like this girl, I’ve only known her for about a month, so I don’t want to scare her away too quickly.  She definitely is the reason I came in anywhere near my goal, and while she could’ve done the race without walking or slowing at all, and probably come in around 60—or much better!—herself, that she was such a good friend to stick with me meant the world to me. We were quickly shuttled thru the Field House to grab our snack bags and beers, and popped the tops on the cans of Michelob Ultra Light Low Carb beer (in a town dominated by amazing microbreweries such as the Mountain Sun and Boulder Beer, this should be a sacrilege of sorts. They should be serving Mountain Sun’s Belgian Dip or something equally decadent at the end.) while using my cell phone to locate our significant others. We’d made it. We were through.

Thinking back over the race, the running seems to be just something you do to move along the course, at least to me. I know plenty of people who are a lot more serious about their time than I am, and that’s great too…I just don’t know if I’ll ever want to set myself at a pace that would take anything away from the experience of the race itself. Getting high-fives from total strangers, seeing my running buddy get doused with sprinklers all along the route (hey, she asked for it!) and delighted at it, running down the street to all kinds of great rock and alternative music, seeing all the other runners, some in crazy costumes, others in high-tech running gear, others with their kids and babies in backpacks, watching the spectators cheering us on, shouting out our bib numbers and cheering for us when we look like we’re going to drop (okay, that may have just been me, but it was wholly appreciated!), and, coming into the stadium, realizing that I really didn’t care about the time or the quality of my running—as long as I wasn’t hurting, I was fine, and that was good enough for me—but that all I was thinking about was the quality of the experience. Running the whole time with my friend by my side, keeping my spirits high and making me laugh, seeing our guys cheering us on at the finish, even drinking absolutely awful beer at the end, totally made the run for me. It made me love where I live, all over again, like it did every year that I’ve watched it since I’ve lived here, and last year when I ran it for the first time. The experience was all that mattered to me.

May 29, 2006—Postrace—9:30ish on…
Well we finally found our guys and got together long enough to take a few quick photos at the end, learned that, much to our surprise, they had no idea they were standing basically right next to each other, a coincidence that we definitely didn’t expect. Eventually, we made our way out of the stadium and went home. I found out that Gregory did the run and was, in fact, meeting up with his friends at the other side of the stadium, so we didn’t see each other then, but I was stoked to hear he came in around 52 minutes, an excellent 10k finish for a guy who does 10ks as warm-ups (before a lengthy bike ride ) or simply, the next phase to transition to (and 10k is too short, more like twice that at minimum). More reasons why I’ll never be a triathlete…but that’s another blog post altogether. The race was great, the finish felt good, the nap afterwards felt even better, and I love being a Boulderite…all over again. My heartfelt thanks to Zoya for pulling me thru it all…I couldn’t have done it without her.

Update/Bella Poseur!!!

2006-04-30T15:14:00.000-06:00

OK today was a nice lil' doubleheader...perfect for a beautiful Sunday in Boulder that got cloudy and stormy and nasty just as I finished. Lucky me. I got a great five-to-six-mile hike in at Flagstaff followed by a very nice six-mile run at the Res. Well, six miles according to the Boulder Backroads race chart, which I hope is right, since it's my big ending race this summer.

Awesome day. Nothing aching, couple of things a little tight, but nothing a decent stretch sesh and some yoga asanas won't fix.

Interesting aside: coming back from the res I saw a female cyclist...on a bright electric-pink bike...and as I rolled down the window to shout something encouraging her way, I looked at heer closely and realized...she wasn't Bella. I don't think so, anyway, unless Bella's grown her hair out and dyed is dark brown. Anyone reading thi blog is familiar with my mild idolization of Bella Comerford, the Triathlete Extraordinair who's a couple of years older than me and is easily spotted by her electric-pink bike whenever she;s out riding. Confused, I went home and checked out Bella's site...and she has a new, black bike instead of the pink one. It'll be harder to spot her around town, and now I'm wondering who the Bella Poseur is...that was not a bike that would be affordable to the common man...or woman...

Anyway, that was my day; I hope it's the catalyst for a training turnaround.

Runner's High

2006-04-10T22:18:00.000-06:00

There is a line in one of my favorite movies of all time, "Fight Club", that I love to apply in training. I don't remember how it starts, but it's in the scene where Brad Pitt and Edward Norton are in the car with a couple of other Project Mayhem junkies, and Pitt says to Norton, "[something, something, something]...and just let go!"

I completely, totally forgot. The euphoria of the moment. The absolution of letting go. That cherished time of total freedom, where the world exists between my footfalls on the pavement and the sweat beading on my brow, and nowhere else. The space between steps is a confession, the steps...forgiveness.

This might seem dramatic to those of you who haven't experienced a runner's high. One moment, you're a panting, heaving, sweating mess. One moment, all you can do is try to keep the ragged breaths coming, the air moving in and out, the legs pumping, seeming to slow with each step, muscles cramping, joints starting to ache and buckle, things hurting in places you didn't know existed. And then...all of a sudden...

Total freedom. Complete annihilation of everything else. A clear mind, paired with a focused decision to finish the course. A right to total abandon. It's an almost spiritual experience, especially considering that I haven't been particularly close to any higher power lately.

Instead, I've been feeling the higher power in my legs, my lungs, my ability to give myself entirely to my training. It sounds absurd, and maybe it is. But what I absolutely KNOW is that my love for running is back. And I have never been happier.

A Shift in Priorities

2006-03-30T19:29:00.000-07:00

The last time I evaluated my race schedule for 2006 I was hellbent on doing the Leadville Trail 100 as my "A" race. Well, things change sometimes, particularly when your body is telling you there isn't a chance in hell you're going to be biomechanically sound enough for an ultramarathon in five months. It's just not going to happen.

So the race plan now is: Fort Collins Marathon on May 7, Imogene Pass Run on September 9, and Boulder Backroads Marathon on September 24. The fact that I was already registered for Backroads--after having to drop out last year--and that it was a scant month after Leadville was definitely a factor in the decision. Imogene is a psychotic trail run up Imogene Pass averaging about 17-18% grade (take that, Alpe d'Huez!). so I think it'll be good prep for Leadville next year.

Next year...next year...

Top Ten Reasons I Love Living Alone

2006-03-14T18:52:00.000-07:00

I was never very good at being alone, until quite recently. I always had a boyfriend or a roommate, sometimes both and sometimes both who are the same thing, but I’ve lived alone for three years now and never been really good at it. Well, scratch that, I let a boyfriend move in, for six months, that was a bad idea. OK anyway, so, I’ve never been good at living alone. Lately though I can’t imagine life with anyone else in it. OK, well, not everyday life, definitely.

So here it is, the big top ten reasons I love living alone:

1) Nobody can complain about my cooking, except for my cat. And she doesn’t.
2) If the place is a mess, it’s my mess. I’ve had an unusual amount of people over to my house recently, which has become cause for some embarrassment, but nothing I’ve been horribly ashamed of (yet).
3) Eating, sleeping, reading, cooking, watching TV, surfing the web, surfing Match, returning emails, writing, relaxing…in a bathrobe, pajamas, or naked. Who’s gonna stop me, huh? (Yes, I keep the shades drawn, much to my neighbors’ relief.)
4) Roo. My little cat, who greets me at the door when I come in with leg rubs and tiny little squeaky meows. Not to mention that my favorite animal to sleep with, spoon with, and hang out with, has been for the last five years, and always will be, my cat.
5) Absolute self-sufficiency. Anything I fuck up, I’m accountable for…but only to myself.
6) My toilet seat remains exactly where it is supposed to…down, with the cover on top of it.
7) This is hard to describe, but the place is entirely mine. Everything here belongs to me, from the painting given to me by one of my college friends to the last stick of furniture to the cheesy “Mocha Latte” relief print I have hung in my kitchen. Everything here speaks something about who I am, even if it’s just stating: “poor former college student still living the impoverished lifestyle”.
8) Singing along with Jimmy Eat World or…anyone I want to…anytime I want to…without worrying about disturbing the peace (I got lucky; my living room backs up to a dead wall).
9) Writing whenever I want, without a guilty complex about the potential for waking my partner.
10) My peanut-butter-and-cheddar-Goldfish habit. I love to get a small plate full of cheddar Goldfish and a tablespoon overloaded with peanut butter and scoop up some peanut butter with one Goldfish and stick it to another and shovel it into my mouth.

My ex hates peanut butter. Go figure.

Two thousand six

2006-02-13T20:48:00.000-07:00

Aha. Time for the real training to begin. Single, writing hard enough that I am seriously scared to even let my doctor look at my wrists for fear she'd send me to some specialist lockup where I would be wearing braces for the rest of my life. I'm restless and running is difficult. I feel sometimes trapped, sometimes isolated, and rarely do I know what to do. My brain feels trapped by my heart, which is finally starting to heal a little. In an episode of Sex and the City Miranda asks, "How long until I start to get back to normal?" I'm starting to think I'll never get back to normal. In fact, I'm starting to question what normal entails and why on earth it's so NORMAL to be hurting and crying and aching and at the same time be so grateful for my friends and family, who've let me cry and wail and scream and be pissed off and then be elated, who have gotten me through this nightmare of a breakup and helped me realize I'm going to be okay. These wonderful people have also, in addition to whatever shreds of self-confidence are still left in my brain, have helped me to emerge raw and pained and slowly, slowly becoming real again. In this really fucked-up world, this must be what passes for normalcy. The dream relationship, the dream house, the dream family with the 2.6 kids and the dog, the white picket fence, they're all just what you make of it. Normalcy doesn't really exist. It's just this idea you have that allows you to get by while you're busy living through a life that's less than everything you want it to be.

Tripping Over A Cosmic Inquiry

2006-01-14T19:56:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, it's better to just admit defeat. Especially when it's the universe who appears victorious over you, vanquishing your merely mortal form with a flick of a cosmic fingernail.

I was feeling really good training about a week ago. After sustaining various ailments and other unpleasant winter-type experiences (nearly frostbitten a couple of times, dodging SUVs when their drivers, pleasantly sedated by the heat of their vehicle's warm interior and the tryptophan from Thanksgiving leftovers caused them not to notice the jogger at the side of the road, albeit my bobbing headlamp and reflective running pants, pissy hip flexors, difficulty getting warmed up...followed by the greater difficulty of TAYING warm), I was havigna good, relatively solid week of getting back on the road. With Leadville 8 months away and counting at least half of January out due to prior commitments, I really needed to, well, get the lead out, to abuse a pun that's becoming too well-known to me lately.

Unfortunately after a decent warm=up walk/jog on Saturday I was justgetting into my planned 10-20, depending on how good I felt, when my lungs started feelign as though I'd either smoked about four packs of cigarettes immediately prior to heading out OR they'd been napalm'ed. They felt awful, burning wretchedly and aching something crazy. My favorite Frog was kind enough to bring back French goods he knew I'd like (especially since two of the three items he delivered were expressly requested) from Paris, but he was also kind enough to bring back bronchitis, I tihnk just to see if my winter-training immune system was up for it. Any victim of a long-distance relationship can attest to this: when your significant other has been gone for the better part of the past two months, you don't let a little think like bronchitis keep you from physically attaching yourself to them as much as possible when they are around, so of course, a week after he got home, once I figured I was either safely immune or contaminated and combating it beautifully, it hit me where it hurt...in my training. After sidelining me from that run and keeping a steady flow of coughing and wheezing the following day, I submitted to being ill, went to my doctor and received an antibiotic and a bottle of high-octance cough syrup. Yea me.

My cosmic joke wasn't over, though, it had really only just begun. The next day, Tuesday, I decided that, instead of wake up the very Sleeping Frog and get him to drive me to work, I would just haul his bike down from its hanging place in the storage closet in his garage and take it instead (yes, she the bronchially disturbed, brilliantly making this decision. The Universe was just shaking its head, marvelling at my stupidity even at my inclination to DO this). So I headed out, got into the storage shed, and after trying in vain several times to get it down, I examined the situation more closely. The bike hung by its front tire, which is, for those of you who've never been on a bike before (er...yeah, remaining politically correct here), the steering mechanism and therefore, the part of the bike that moves most. Consequently no matter how much I tried to pull it down by its frame I wasn't going to be successful; I had to find some way to maintain the wheel's position and get it over the hook. Now, mind you, it's 8am and I'm not a morning person, I've barely brushed my teeth and hair and I'm still wiping sleep from my eyes and looking forward to the bagel I'll be enjoying in a few minutes once I get the bike down and make my way over to the bagel shop near Gregory's place. I steadied the front wheel with my left hand, the frame with my right, and for one perfect moment got the bike up off the hook and started to bring it down from the sky of the storage compartment. Relishing my victory, I began daydreaming again about the bagel...and my moment was gone.

The Universe, I believe, reached out and tipped the wheel personally. I really do. Why else would the bike's wheel have turned? Well anyway, the front wheel went one way, the frame went another, and in the midst of trying to bring the thing down relatively quietly my shoulder twisted awkwardly. Pain bloomed up like blood in the ocean, like the color of the water after a shark-vs-surfer fight. I could taste it, like old pennies, as I brought the bike down and extracted my arm from its forward element. I am praying that the words that escaped my mouth at that moment weren't very loud, because I'm pretty sure my boyfriend will be evicted on grounds of his potty-mouthed significant other swearing in public view before dawn if anyone heard me.

It was all downhill from there. I still had to get to work and I had an adrenaline high from knowing that and injuring myself, so I locked the storage up, hastily got my bagel and rode to work...carrying a 40 to 50 lb backpack and leaning over the bike's handlebars because the seat was too high for me and wouldn't go down any further, so reaching the pedals required serious utilization of my injured shoulder. I didn't really known how bad it was until I got to work and a few hours later kept blinking at my screen because I was seeing stars. My boss insisted on taking me to the hospital, where I was informed that I probably tore my rotator cuff and God knows what else, was given a sling and a small prescription for painkillers and told to rest it as much as possible. Not easy when your primary form of transport is a bike, your job requires typing all day and you're an active poser---I mean, wannabe endurance athlete. Oy.

So the past few days have been interesting. I've become very good at riding my bike one-handed and holding my arm against me so as to minimize movement of the shoulder. My regular doctor gave me a bigger prescription for painkillers and told me that I hadn't torn it, probably, shot a load of cortisone into the joint to help it move a bit better and told me to rest it for at least a week because I'd at best sprained it badly and needed to, at the very least, take it easy. I wanted to tell him I'd trade him his car for my cruiser but this is a guy who's done the Vermont 100 and rides to work every day so he can jog on his lunch hour. This is what I get for trying to do something nice.

Somewhere, faintly, I can hear the universe laughing at me. It's a big ol' belly laugh too.

Boulderized

2005-12-30T10:31:00.000-07:00

There are fairly few days when you can complain about living in Boulder, CO. The weather is almost always fair or just absolutely beautiful, the town itself is quite pretty, and the residents, for the most part, make for excellent eye candy at their worst. Being one of the healthiest places in America definitely has its perks.

It is so beautiful today, I’m sorry Gregory is in Paris (though I’m sure he’s not). A storm is blowing in over the mountains and just barely the edges of the visible foothills are being dusted with snow. Yet the temperature hovers around fifty and the sun is shining, giving the whole effect an absolutely surreal quality. The storm clouds are brown and grey but thin and wisping in slowly from the Western slope, and south of Boulder is where the snow starts. In town, the wind is up but the sun shines brightly, and I saw five cyclists out within a four-block radius of my workplace while out on my lunch break, at least two of whom were pro or pro-quality. I love this town.

Getting Back on the Asphalt

2005-12-20T01:53:00.000-07:00

Yeah, the expression is "getting back on the horse". I don't ride horses. I never have. The very few times I have mounted an animal of the equine persuasion, I have been under the guidance of a trail boss or like authority, and I've been riding an animal which, for all intents and purposes, is dead. Its only real reason for existence if it gets to the stage where people like me are riding it is to plod about wearily in a circle.

Getting back on the asphalt, after two weeks of heavy-duty training followed by three weeks of heavy-duty-fighting-a-nasty-infection-swarming-all-over-your-mouth-nose-and-throat, is rather a cumbersome adventure. Instead of showing you just how far you've come, it shows you just how hard you can fall.

Your lungs give in after twenty paces. Your legs move like rubber appendages fighting very dense water. And when it's below freezing it only gets better! Any heat you're generating is going straight from your lungs to your heart where it spasms, mostly poofs away and then tries to move into your outer limbs, which might as well be the outer limits of the solar system in terms of the efficiency of your body heating them. As your fingers begin to resemble Jupiter, Uranus and Pluto, your face begins to resemble Mars: red, puffy, marred on the surface by breaking blood vessels in the seriously cold December morning in Colorado.

Yet, the wannabe ultrarunner prevailed. Yes, she did ten and a half miles in about three hours, which, when translated to marathoning pace gets you disqualified at about mile twenty, but she prevailed nonetheless, running about 30%, walking/joggin about 70%, and trying to just keep going 100%. It's that last part that counts, right?

Somewhere, a Frog is laughing at me.

King Kong

2005-12-17T19:04:00.000-07:00

From the San Francisco "Chronicle":
In remaking "King Kong," Peter Jackson added 90 minutes to the running time and nothing to the experience. It doesn't matter that his new film can't take the place of the original -- no one should expect that, and that's not the problem. The problem is that, just on its own terms, the film is overlong, repetitive and lacks impact. Even if this were the first gorilla-in-love movie ever made, audiences would come away vaguely dissatisfied, suspecting there was an intriguing idea buried somewhere in here, but it didn't quite come off.

This was about on par with what I felt about this movie. The problems weren't that Jackson used special effects in creating the feel of a 1930s-ish film, the problems were the gross inaccuracies represented by trying to roll together an action movie, a romance story and a period film all at once. Examples:

-I was absolutely blown away that Naomi Watts was able to be flung about the jungle, tossed around by multiple tyrannosaurus', sprint about the jungle and never get any scratches on her hands, face or feet. She didn't have much more than a couple of jungle-dust smudges on her...I bet Britney, Christina, Jessica and the like would KILL for her secret. I mean, c'mon now. Also, that dress has to be made of the sturdiest material on the planet. Most quick-drying too. I wonder if Peter Jackson would tell me what they used to I can make my next pair of weatherproof pants from it.

-The story didn't QUITE get there. I mean, I haven't seen the original, so maybe that's unfair, but the whole love story between Ann and Kong didn't QUITE make it. And she tried really hard, too, and the production crew went nuts trying to make him appear sad, bummed, humiliated, tormented, etc. And they did a tremendous job. It might be just a little far on the the side of ridiculous psychology for me.

-Jack Black's Carl Denham didn't drop the camera on the tripod while being chased by a stampede of brontosaurus'. Nonsense. Poppycock. I don't care who you are or how into your craft you may be, you will always--ALWAYS--save your life before any and everything else. I also thought it was pretty lucky that he wasn't trampled.

-The gunfights were absurd. 'Nuff said.

-Adrien Brody is an amazing actor; he even did well as an "action hero". They could have used him to flesh out the movie a bit more & make it more interesting as well as believable. A bit of dialogue between he and Ann could've done this; it wouldn't take much. A bit more utilizing his skills period would've been nice.

But I must say this as well: for as insane an actor as Jack Black is, for as much as I adore him as the lunatic music geek in High Fidelity and as much as I love his crazy antics in School of Rock, I thought he showcased very, very well in his role as Carl Denham. He managed to skirt the edge of genius, doofus and madness with exceptional skill and charisma. I look forward to seeing him in more roles that get him out of the typecasted goofy-comedy-actor bit more.

The Wish List

2005-12-16T04:57:00.000-07:00

Fa la la la laaaaa...

...la la la la!!

So my Christmas this year is all about family. The ubiquitous flying frog/giant freak (see The Frog Blog for more details) is going back to France for much-needed time with his papa (he got enough time with his mother braving the outback in Australia for a month I'm sure) and some much-needed physician examining of his messed-up shoulder and the pinched nerve in his neck (yes,I have tried to tell him we have physicians here in the States). Anyway, thought I'd post my wish list, will be good for some laughs more than anything:

-A membership to Boulder rec centers. Boy am I sick of paying to swim every time I want to go! Especially when all I want is an indoor hot tub...

-An mp3 player of some sort. It doesn't have to be fancy or have a lot of space (no nanos please), 60-120 songs would be nice but nothing crazier than that; if you DO actually want to get this for me PLEASE don't get me an iPod (a recent adventure to Cherry Creek Mall to get my boyfriend's iMac repaired provided an excellent demonstration as to their flimsiness and if I have to spend anymore time at the Apple store I'll kill myself and take several associates down with me. The bored-teenage-who-will-perpetually-know-more-than-me-about-everything-with-their-gaping-stare look and attitude gets really, REALLY tiresome. Said mp3 player will also need some sort of lasso for an arm or necklace, as I need it primarily to keep me from dying of boredom while running.

-UnderArmour, UnderArmour, UnderArmour, or better yet justa Dick's gift card for UnderArmour. Winter in CO can last thru May; there's no telling when my training will be back into shorts season & one can never, EVER have enough UnderArmour.

-SmartWool socks. One more item you can never have enough of.

-A waterproof, windproof, semi-breathable, light shell for layering over all the UnderArmour.

-Another pair of Mizuno Wave Inspire shoes. Runner's rule: One pair are nice, two pair are better.

-An Amphipod of my own, so when Gregory starts training again we don't have to fight over the water belt.

-French lessons. The Rosetta Stone CD series is fine; I just want to learn so I can speak to Gregory's mom without sounding imbecilic again. AND it'd be cool to be legitimately bilingual.

Ummm...pathetically, that's pretty much it. All I want for Christmas is training gear. GCs to REI, Dick's, The North Face, etc. are always appreciated. Happy training!

Powder!

2005-12-04T16:33:00.000-07:00

There's the running, the riding, the swimming. The three keys areas to train for endurance sports, plus a bit of weight- and strength-training as well. This is why so many distance runners turn to the real dark side of endurance sports and become triathletes...you can't run all the time, so you mix in a bit of swimming and cycling for cross-training days and then you figure, hey, I'm already doing so much of this stuff, why not just combine it all? Next thing you know you're camping in the woods of central California to take part in a bizarre event called Wildflower and/or counting ounces of food you consume as you prepare for your first Ironman. This is why, as far as I'm concerned, "triathlete" is just a four letter word with some extra letters tacked on for good measure.

My cross-training hasn't been any different, aside from the fact that when I swim I resemble some sort of interspecies mix between a manatee and a Britney Spears dance remix...so instead I just do kickboard laps back and forth to minimize the pain and suffering I'm inflicting on everyone else with my thoroughly humiliating breast stroke. But for the most part, swimming and cycling make up the activities on those blissful days when I don't have to run, but still have to train. This weekend, however, presented a whole new experiment in cross-training...an old friend's coming into town before shipping out with his detachment to the other side of the world, and his brother and sister-in-law living in Dillon, CO, with immediate access to four major ski resorts, gave me the opportunity to spend Saturday on the slopes.

Matt and I were in several of the same classes in college. We hung out a lot and became fast friends; we've remained close since our graduation and his departure for the Army. Matt's brother, Ryan and sister-in-law, Jill, moved out here shortly before our graduation and hopped from a loft in LoDo to a house in Evergreen to a fixer-upper in Dillon. Ryan's the town barber in Frisco, scant moments away from Dillon and home to the Breckenridge ski resort, and Jill opened up her dental pratice there as well. These are some of the most incredible people I've ever known...honest, sincere, intelligent, attractive, funny, and above all, down-to-earth. I'd met Ryan and Jill when they first moved to Colorado and when Matt asked if I could come up for the weekend to hang out and ski and hack around with these guys, what could I say but yes, absolutely, I will be there. I mean, who couldn't use a mini-break before the holidays?

Matt is as awesome as he always was even if he is reading the latest Oliver North book, and Ryan and Jill are just as much fun as I remember from a few years back. They and their two dogs, Oscar and Lenny, made me feel completely at home when I arrived following a terrifying drive through a freezing blizzard on I-70 that became much less terrfying once I got Gregory's XTerra into 4-wheel drive. We got dinner, had a couple of glasses of wine and then retired, me and Matt on couches in their living room. I ended up sharing the down blanket I was using with Lenny, which was fine as long as you don't mind a midnight facial moisturizer of drool and sloppy kisses.

Matt and I embarked to Copper Mountain the next day, one of four in the immediate vicinity of Dillon. Arapahoe Basin, Keystone, Copper and Breckenridge were all within minutes of the house and it had been snowing steadily since the previous afternoon, guaranteeing at least six inches of fresh powder on the slopes. Passes and skis in hand, we geared up at the bottom of the mountain and headed up.

Poor Matt, the guy used to be a ski instructor and he was stuck with me, the "advanced novice". I've skied enough to know what I'm doing, but not enough to do it well, quickly, or gracefully. I would gaze with envy at other skiers flying by me, looking as if they were floating over the snow, as I painfully attempted to traverse the slope. After the first few runs, I told Matt I'd meet up with him for lunch so he could go enjoy his day as well. He argued for a few minutes, then gave in, gratefully...for both of us. As much as I enjoyed my friend's company and as much as I missed him, this was his vacation too. I really wanted him to enjoy it.

Without watching for Matt ahead of me and feeling horribly self-conscious about my devastating performance, I actually began to improve. The conditions couldn't have been more ideal with a good six-inch base of fresh powder all over and several feet in soem places. If you're unfamiliar with skiing in Colorado or wonder why the heck people fly all the way out here to do it, you haven't experienced powder. In contrast, skiing anywhere else is miserable due to the heavy, sluchy, often icy snow that forms in most places. Colorado's altitude and desert-dry conditions create the lightest, driest, fluffiest snow in the world, to the point where we classify it into more categories...Steamboat Springs, for example, the hardest-to-get-to resort in Colorado, and also the one you really, really don't ever want to leave once you've been there, boasts its "champagne powder" conditions, which is literally the driest snow you can find. While this may sound a bit batty, you can't judge it until you've tried it...and once you've skied in Colorado you will never want to ski anywhere but powder conditions. We get slushy stuff too, but not usually until late in the season. Winter is really just one massive powder party in the high country, setting the bar for top-notch skiing worldwide. By the end of the day even MY turns were much easier and more quickly handled and I began to feel quite comfortable in skis again, in part due to the conditions, in part due to the skis, and in part due to the fact that I'm not incredibly horrendous and, as this was for me, as much about training as it was about having fun, I put my entire focus on making it a successful day. My knees were infuriated and throbbed with the completely different range-of-motion activities they'd had to accommodate but now, one day later, they feel okay...but my calves are killing me, a spot that never bothers me when I'm running. It was really nice to get away from my usual training and hit the slopes in pursuit of some beneficial cross-training that also reminded me of other muscles that needed to be exercised as well...and of course, to hang out with some of the most amazing people I've ever known. Unfortauntely, skiing is an expensive hobby and one I can't afford, but given that the passes and rental was free (thanks to Ryan and Jill; I owe them a really, really big one) AND I had a fabulous place to stay, this weekend it was the ideal retreat.

Now, home to Roo. Thanks for reading!

Bonk, bonk, bonk...

2005-11-13T23:26:00.000-07:00

I hate that word. Even as a word, completely disassociated with me, I hate that word. I always preferred "crash" or "hit the wall". "Bonking" just sounds too...playful, too innocent. Too easily confused for something pleasant.

"Yeah, man, I totally bonked back there."
"Really? Was it fun?"

I mean, you know, the first speaker turns and looks at the second as if they're an idiot, and the second is looking back at the first like, hey man, you're the moron who used a word that sounds like a second-grade recess game rather than the shutdown of one or more major necessary systems of your body during a workout or race. Bonk. Bleeeecccchhh!

Anyway, so I bonked today. Badly. It was not at all pleasant, though I do plan to remember what it felt like so that maybe I can get a leg up on it next time. Unfortunately, there was nothing significant about it...one minute I was rolling along, smooth as can be, all systems go, the next minute I was falling onto the sidewalk feeling as though my guts had just been wrenched from their rightful place and the world was doing cartwheels over my head. One minute I was contemplating just how far I'd run along the mesa trail and pondering the feeling I would have if I could do it start to finish and get back to Gregory's house, a full 21 miles, the next minute I was trying not to black out and feigning being fine to concerned motorists who'd pulled over to try to assist me. I eventually scrambled to my feet enough to hobble to the East Boulder Recreation Center, where, once the world stopepd spinning I was able to purchase a bagel from a machine there and sit and eat long enough to get back my legs...and my torso...and my head...and finally, nearly an hour later, was able to walk slowly back to Gregory's house where I found him not out in the car frantically looking for me, not checking his voicemail to hear I was in trouble, not trying to call me on my cell phone, but fast asleep. To his credit, I told him I'd be okay and if I really HAD been in that much trouble and had been unable to get home I would've just called repeatedly until one of the phones woke him (or, better yet, opted for a Yellow Cab), but I was too exhausted and too out of it to even give him too much crap...a few glancing blows from my overtly sarcastic tongue and then I was half-asleep cradled in his arms.

More to his credit, he was the dream boyfriend...ladies, if you're going the endurance sports route make sure that if you don't have a man who's doing them himself, you have one who can be sympathetic or at least, quiet while you're dealing with your shit. I wouldn't have wanted to come back to anyone else for sure...Gregory was concerned, curious, questioning and comforting, everything you need after a nasty workout.

The really lousy part was, it wasn't a nasty workout. It was an awesome workout, until the very end when I crashed and burned...but when that happened, it scared the hell out of me. What if that happens at Leadville? What do I do then?

Well I guess I have a good nine months or so to find out...

The Last Time I Did This...

2005-11-06T23:03:00.000-07:00

...was wayy, wayyy back in late July or early August during my preparation for the Boulder Backroads Marathon, which I (sadly) had to skip due to a bum knee. I was in training and did a sixteen-mile run with my dad along as my domestique and then a few weeks later headed out for sixteen at the Res and ended up doing eighteen, not so bad except it pretty much defined where my knee was at...and that was, basically, not in shape to do any sort of endurance race anytime soon. I was so frustrated, especially when I saw Dr. McCarty, my orthopedic doc, and he told me my pronation wasn't so bad and that I just had patellar tendinitis and a bis of ITBS. How could something so little hurt so much? I was wincing walking downstairs, for goodness' sake. I headed into a lengthy and ill-advised bout of self-loathing that more or less culminated in my starting all over again, at least that's how it felt. Gregory gave me some exercises to do, simple leg lifts and things like that, and this weekend, after doing what seemed like a years' worth of leg lifts and short runs (<5mi each time) I set out to attempt something a bit longer.

I was going for twentyish but the wind was SO bad in Boulder I could barely breathe, and since I left late, was planning to meet Gregory at a South Boulder trailhead to finish and, oh yeah, had left the keys to both my place AND his with him, figured I'd probably better cut out a 3.5 mile loop I'd planned and head back to south Boulder, after running clear up to my hosue in north Boulder from, essentially, Gregory's doorstep. I would be down to around sixteen but would rather do a solid sixteen than be hurting on the last six, especially as I'd be running with my Ironman-in-training boyfriend, who with three weeks left before his race has somehow mutated into this superhuman with legs I would kill for and absolutely amazing form. No, really, I would. Anyway, I was stoked to be doing 10:1s by the sixth mile after dealing with straggling lungs for the past few weeks, and even more excited that when my knee hurt, I was able to modify my step to work with it, and most excited of all that it really didn't hurt all that much. Ninety leg lifts four or five times a day for the past few weeks has paid off.

I have also started to pare down my considerable gut with routine ab work and move into a better eating schedule, as well as monitor my water intake because I am the most dehydrated person on the planet. I went for a hike with the Goats today and for some 4.5 miles was really wondering if I could just start running up and down the trail. I just wanted to move. I felt really good, and I haven't felt this in a really long time. I feel more centered, more focused, and more motivated.

Because Gregory is lying in bed behind me right now giving me loads of shit about being really happy for her, I've got to put in massive congrats to Bella Comerford for her third win at IMF. It seems to have been a rough year for her and I'm really stoked that my nonchalant heroine tore it up in Panama City. Way to go Bella!!

Not only did the leg lifts and stretches I'd

The Sore Loser and The Eclipse of Reality

2005-09-11T10:40:00.000-06:00

Almost immediately after I ran the Bolder Boulder; that day, in fact, Gregory gave me a login to Pyrasports, an online training tool and workout log program he'd created some time ago to keep track of his workouts. He got me to the login prompt, then placed his laptop in front of me, indicating that I should create my account. I did so, with the username "soreloser". It was a joke then and still is now, but a good reminder whenever I log in that that's exactly who I SHOULDN'T be...a sore loser. I wasn't at the Bolder Boulder and now, with one week of marathon training to go before I stat tapering, I need to keep that in mind more and more. Especially since today's run caused a major reevaluation of present circumstances, as well as a drastic change of plans.

Today was supposed to be a twenty-miler. I got up at five-thirty, had half of a whole wheat bagel, a large glass of Gatorade, and a small Nalgene full of Driven, my latest and greatest discovery: a pre-workout performance cocktail that does for aspiring runners what Long Island iced teas do for aspiring drunks. Anyway, it's great stuff. I was stoked, I was ready, I headed out around seven to the reservoir. First I had to setup my halfway-point rest stop, where I'd be able to refill my bottles. In addition to the 32 fluid ounces of Accelerade and water I was carrying on a hydration pack strapped on my waist, I left another 20 ounces of Accelerade, 20 ounces of water, and another small Nalgene full of Driven packed in bags of ice at the ten-mile point of my run. I felt pretty good, and as I headed back to the starting point, I forced myself to focus in on the task before me.

Focusing on ANYTHING hasn't been easy over the last few days. My life as it was got rudely interrupted by terrible news of a violent crime committed against my sister several days ago, and things haven't been the same since. She's all right, thank God, just badly shaken up and at the time, totally terrified, and the perpetrators of this heinous offense were caught and will have their day in court where, hopefully, they will be sentenced to decades in prison for what they did. However, the incident brought an eclipse over my life that wouldn't have been there otherwise. Reality as I knew it was suddenly blotted out as effectively as the moon overpowering the sun's rays during those incredible events, and I've been operating in a state of relative shock lately, getting little to no sleep, jumping at any noise in the middle of the night, dealing with awful, lengthy, and brutal crying jags that tear out all of my energy and leave me empty. I got to go see my sister today, thankfully, just seeing her and getting to hug her and love her and be close to her will greatly improve things for me, I feel. But it's had an effect on everything.

Including training. Not sleeping much the last few nights as well as the general upset my digestive system has been going through has taken its toll, and I had to leave the start twice to go home and go to the bathroom. Once my bowels and bladder were, I figured, finally empty, I scurried back to the start. It was almost nine-thirty, and very nearly too late to begin a twenty-miler. At best, it would be very, very hot by the time I finished. I gritted my teeth, pulled on my visor, and set off.

After less than a mile my shins began to throb with the splints I've now begun to associate with the patellar tendinitis and ITB syndrome that's been plaguing my left knee lastely and dumped me out of training for a month. Frantically I sped up, slowed down, stretched, tried to sit for a bit, then start going again. Nothing helped. Finally, nearing a rest area behind Boulder Reservoir, I made my decision. I would have to drop out of the marathon.

"Failure is not an option" is a great mantra, especially in endurance sports, but the difference between smart athletes and stupid athletes is that some of us know that that mantra means that true failure is proven by never starting in the first place or becoming so discouraged that you just quit altogether, and some of us only recognize the goal ahead of us. The smart ones modify their training schedules, go see specialists for recurring problems that impede our training and/or our health and, if and when necessary, modify the goal or drop it altogether. The stupid ones continue doggedly until they injure themselves so badly they're looking at months if not years in rehab and physical therapy, surgery, and possibly the outcome that they'll never be able to do their sport again. I've pushed the envelope of being the smart athlete, in part because I'm just a poser, as Gregory likes to say, and in part because I have modified my training schedule, seen a specialist, slowed down, taken time off, and gone as slowly as possible to accommodate my training. I made it eighteen miles last week. That said, I walked ten and ran eight. My knee was nearly shot by the time I finished, and I was gasping in pain whenever I had to take on the slightest downhill incline.

When I reached my decision today, it was a moment of absolute clarity. It made sense. It is what I have to do, so that I can keep training, so that I can keep running, so that I can go for a marathon later this year and then explore the possibility of Leadville further as I increase my training...the smart way. By adding distance gradually and upping intensity carefully. By not overtraining. By listening to my body. And most of all, especially in light of what happened to my family over the last few days, by remembering that there are about a zillion things in this world more important than the completion of a marathon on September 25 or, for that matter, anytime.

I am going to finish this post, log off, and go to my Pyrasports account, where I will modify my set goal. Then I will go to Backroads' website and change my registration to the half marathon. On the plus side, I will get to run with Gregory. He is 99% certain he is going to do the half, so we'll get to do it together. IF he can keep up with me, that is...

After all of that is said and done I am going home to shower and feed the kitty and then to see my sister. It's amazing how important these things seem...until something else happens to make you realize how incredibly stupid your little run is, in the grand scheme of things. In the past four days, I've been given the opportunity to realize my injury is bad enough that I need to bow out of a run of a distance that could cause permanent injury. I've also been given a second chance to be a better sister, and a reminder of just how great an opportunity that is. I would give anything to be able to go back and erase those minutes, those hours that my sister spent terrified and threatened and fearing for her life, and anything to be able to take away the future trauma that's in store because of this. But I can't do that. So the best I can do, the only thing I can do, is try to be the best sister I possibly can be. That's a lot more important than anything else in the world ever could be, and I know that now.

There's No Crying In Baseball! Er...Running!

2005-08-27T22:37:00.000-06:00

Anyone who's seen the movie "A League of Their Own", with an all-star cast providing an excellent dramatization of the short-lived GPBL--Girls' Professional Baseball League--knows the line well. You can even hear Tom Hanks' angry voice spitting it at one of his players, "There's no crying! There's no crying in baseball!" Then, of course, vindication comes for those of us who watched, aghast, as he berated the woman and then was called on it by the umpire...who eventually threw him out of the game. But movie reviews need to be saved for another post.

My crying episode wasn't as well-documented, historically significant, or beautifully dramatized. It was just me, sitting up on a rock next to Boulder Res, wiping tears away quietly as more slid down my face. I wasn't met by an ultimately triumphant, chaotic vindication but rather by the calm, gentle understanding of my boyfriend who, finishing up his hourlong run at the res, approached me hesitantly. "You don't look happy," he said, and when he saw me crying he just hugged me. Man, what a decent guy, huh?

I registered for Backroads so long ago I don't remember it...well, long ago in running time anyway. Since then I've completed some substantial long hikes and some more substantial long runs. I've basked in the shock of my family and friends who remember me not long ago as the girl who wouldn't do a five-minute grocery run without her trusty pack of Winston S2's. I've endured blisters the size of my fingers running alongside the arches of my foot, training first in the mountains, then in the deep South, which afforded me the exact opposite training conditions, then back to the mountains. I felt truly awful when I found out that my coworker, Mike, who had also been training for Backroads, had to quit after twenty weeks due to a knee injury. After training so long you really empathize with someone who has to throw away that much time and effort due to injury. And I thanked my lucky stars that I didn't have the same issue.

After Gregory got back from France (two days after my triumphant return from the South, during which I ran a substantial sixteener) and life calmed down a little, I fell back into my routine training schedule. I don't adhere to my training guide like it's my Bible; for one, it was written for much more advanced runners and for two, I would surely injure myself if I tried to stick to that schedule. A few days gone here and there isn't the end of the world and besides, I was still readjusting to the altitude. I went out one day intending to do ten miles. I did about seven and came back with shin splints, which worried me, since I usually ran them off during my workout, and a slight dull pain below my kneecap and around the outside of it. It wasn't ITB, but I wasn't sure what it was. I stretched well, iced it, stayed off it for a day or two and then took off for a seven-miler. Going out wasn't bad but coming back, I nearly started hitching, my knee hurt so badly. It didn't seem to be bothered by going uphill or on the flats, but going downhill was sheer misery. I got home, got on the Internet and, a towel-wrapped bag of ice strapped on my knee, started to do research. When I realized that my symptoms pointed towards chondromalacia, or "runner's knee", my blood ran cold. This was the sideliner. ITB you could stretch, shin splints usually meant some serious strnegth-training and extra stretches, and often you could tear your ACL to shreds and not realize it for months. But runner's knee, referring to an inflammation of the tendon and/or ligaments and cartilage holding the knee together on the outside, at the tibia and fibula, was one of those that required lots of rest, lots of ice, lots of pain and often, cortisone shots, knee drainage and surgery. By the time Gregory got home from his bike ride, I was freaking out and still significantly pained. He took one look at where I was hurting, another look at the explanation I'd found on the Internet, and nodded. Having an endurance athlete for your boyfriend is beneficial in many ways, but none so much as in-house sports physician. He tried to tell me they wouldn't be able to do anything, but I was in agony and wasn't dealing well, and made him take me to the ER. Sure enough, the doctor wrapped my knee, gave me a pair of crutches and some weak painkillers, and sent me on my way, telling me to see a sports physician if it didn't get better.

Over the next week I iced it, was gentle on it, didn't take any staircases going down. Didn't run, didn't work out, didn't do much. The following week I took on a 5 mile run with a little stiffness, but no pain, and I was elated. One night over dinner at Mina's, our recent fave Latin restaurant, Iw as babbling about ice skating and talked Greg into going with me. We hit the rec center for about an hour, and it was awesome. I've always skated better than I walk, and I was prancing about the rink as usual, feeling awesome. As we crawled into bed later, Gregory asked me if I'd worn the knee brace he'd bought for me skating. I said no, and he frowned a little. I didn't think much of it until the next morning, when I could barely get down the stairs of his apartment complex. I was miserably unhappy and, at my boyfriend's urging, called my doctor for a referral to a sports MD.

Now, thirty-six or so hours to my appointment with a sports physician at the University of Colorado Sports Medicine Center, I am mildly terrified. Gregory's warning was, "Even though you're probably not going to like what he has to say, I think you need to go see a specialist," and that was enough to make me realize that I'd probably be calling it quits on marathoning this year, at least for Boulder Backroads. I feel like an unjustly condemned prisoner, a little, and at the same time, absurd for even making the comparison. It's like, wow, I worked my ass off to get here, and now that I've come all this way, somebody is going to tell me I have to stop. It felt okay the other day when we went to the res, but I barely got a quarter of a mile in before the pain started up, merciless and vigilant. Gregory, the victim of some dozen or so cortisone shots, knee draining, and left with as little as 15% of the cartilage he really needs in his right knee, has been trying to warn me about my upcoming doctor appointment. I'm not going to like what he's going to have to say, orthopedic doctors generally go straight for surgery with chondromalacia, and in all likelihood I'd be dropping out of the marathon. The knowledge of this information is what brought me to tears the other day. I wasn't hurting that badly, I was just angry and sad. Angry because no matter what else, I had worked this hard to get here, and I probably wasn't going to hit my goal. Sad because that's a pretty pathetic notion to be angry about, my knee problems knocking me out of the marathon, if that's what happens (who knows? maybe the doc can fashion me some orthotics and I'll be good as new).

So instead of being angry and sad, I have decided instead to, at the very least, TRY to be grateful, instead. Grateful for everything in my life that allows me to run, grateful that I have food, shelter, good kicks and clean drinking water, which puts me above a good half of the rest of the world in terms of gifts. Grateful that my training brought me closer to my dad and allowed him the opportunity to participate in something he didn't really have the chance to the first time around, when I was a kid. Grateful that I've quit smoking and am making generally healthier lifestyle choices. Grateful that I'd rediscovered how incredible it is to just feel so good about something that's so easy, so natural, as running. Grateful that I have an amazing group of family and friends behind me no matter what. And yes, of course, grateful for Gregory. Gregory's one of those people who give you the impression that he's very emotionally in tune with himself and those around him, but not overt at all about expressing it. While I can appreciate this, I'm much the opposite most of the time, loud, dramatic, and overemotional. That day at the res, though, wasn't like that. It was a quiet little fury, a miserable anguish that I really didn't want to share with anyone, let alone the world around me. I was all at once terribly upset over my training and my knee, and mortified that I was upset--after all, what right did I have to be angry over something so insignificant. At the time I didn't want to display anything; the tears on my face were bad enough. At the same time I needed an anchor, something to hold me to the world. I watched Greg run towards me, his form has improved a thousandfold since he and his coach did a gait analysis, and he looked really beautiful running. And at the end of it, he was my anchor, holding me and holding me down at the same time, keeping me from screaming or flying into a million pieces, but letting me cry. As soon as we began talking I felt better, and even got him roaring with laughter--I made some crack about talking like a toughass and not being able to cry when you do that, and he lost it in giggles. It was a good reminder...to dwell on the things you can cherish, from a long weekend spent with relatives rarely seen to a tiny moment in your life like feeling on top of the world when you make someone you love laugh, and to let the rest of it go. Life's too short to spend any significant amount of it crying. And besides, there's no crying in baseball...or running.

Training Like The Pros: The Gold Standard

2005-07-27T13:33:00.000-06:00

When you train for a significant event, like a marathon or, I’m assuming, an Ironman or the like, suddenly “train like the pros” is a phrase that seems to pop out everywhere. This is partially because it’s one of the multibillion-dollar fitness industry’s ploys to get you to buy a bunch of crap you don’t need. The reality is, the pros may or may not use that special diet, they may or may not use whatever absurd ab-crunch-wiz-meister-machine they’re responsible for touting as one of their endorsements, and they may or may not train with a particular type of endurance drink, energy gel, or other product…at least not exclusively. One part of their reality you can virtually guarantee is their coaching.

What sets the pros apart from the rest of us “athletes”, aside from muscular structure some of us would literally kill for, kitchens outfitted with scales measuring down to 1/32 of a pound for properly controlling their food intake, and the best of the best of the best—and their choice among those—training equipment under the sun, is their coaching. They’ve got anything from one to several to a small army of individuals goading them, riding along their routes with them when they want them to, leaving them alone when they want them to, cajoling, wheedling, barking orders at the, well, basically, doing whatever it takes to get—and keep—them in peak condition. Think about Lance Armstrong, well, the guy’s an athletic idol and should be worshipped properly, but standing ever so slightly in his shadow is his coach, and Lance would be nowhere without Carmichael. He’d still be riding dirt roads in Plano, Texas and Americans would still never know the great sporting event known as the Tour de France as anything more than, “What? That bike race?” And it’s a symbiotic relationship; nobody’d know Carmichael without Lance either, but at some level or another, behind every great athlete is some great coaching mechanism, whether it’s a nutritionist, a strength trainer, a training strategist or all of the above. If it’s all of the above AND they’re getting up with you to do your eight-mile route at six o’clock in the morning with a car full of sport drink, water and Balance bars, well, then, they’re a coach. Or at least they’re part of a coaching mechanism. Most of these coaches get paid very well to do these kinds of things, in part because even the world’s greatest athletes don’t have friends good enough to do this kind of stuff for them, in part because the athletes can afford it and in part because, well, because they bring along a lot of other helpful information as well…like maximizing use of your heart rate at certain stages of your race, gait analysis, approaches to nutrition, research into injuries, stuff mortal men—or mortal athletes—can’t be bothered with.

As a pseudo-athlete, as I refer to myself with a wry grin, I have neither the financial capacity nor the skill set to require such a person, or set of people, in my life. My boyfriend recently hired some “help” in his Ironman training, a person he won’t refer to as a coach but whose role mimics that kind of support structure, but he’s much more an athlete than I am. If you look at our calves, you see what I mean: his are cut, defined, well-shaped and perfectly toned, and mine are…well, they’re getting there. That’s a good enough measurement for me, and though Gregory laughs, it’s rather telling as well. Gregory functions as my sort of coach; when he’s here he provides good motivation for me to work out (kinda hard to back out of a four-mile run when your boyfriend is taking on a three-hour bike ride followed by two hours of pace running), assistance in analyzing and treating minor injuries, advice on nutrition and training plans and whether or not I’m going to be able to actually do this thing. With him a zillion miles away in France, however, and myself now on vacation at my father’s house, I’ve become so spoiled rotten in the last two days of training alone that I’m not so sure drop bags or even the luxury of using Greg’s condo as a water/Accelerade/snack stop are going to do it for me when I get back to Boulder.

Visiting my father has always meant him having to adjust his work schedule to try to get as much vacation time off as possible as well as, generally, a decent amount of time on my own at his house, kind of left to my own devices. Since his diagnosis with leukemia a year and a half ago, and subsequent battle with/recovery from the cancer, rendered him first on full-time disability and now only able to do work from home, things around here have changed a lot. I haven’t been out to visit since Dad’s diagnosis, and a few things hit me with some degree of shock: the fact that the kitchen has been turned into a half-kitchen, half-pharmacy, the five times a day my dad has to take massive amounts of medication to keep the bone marrow transplant in check as well as the cancer in remission, the catheter implanted in my father’s chest…it all came as a huge shock especially to me, as my only experience of his disease has been through him telling me about what’s been going on, and that has been largely censored. While I appreciate my father’s trying to shelter me from the harsh realities of his battle, it all kind of culminated in a tearful first night for me, crying with my dad over everything that had changed.

In one way, though, at least, his leukemia did benefit me, or at least me the marathoner-in-training. Not to say I wouldn’t give anything, including my legs and/or my ability to run ever again, for my father to be healthy, but in light of present circumstances, my dad’s illness, in restricting his ability to work outside of home, has become a boon to my training. As Dad’s been going a little stir-crazy, the opportunity to go out and help train me has helped fill the time a bit for him.

For me, it’s meant that I am getting the absolute gold standard in training. Every half-mile or so I run, Dad’s waiting for me in his Kia Sportage, hazards flashing in the early morning or dusk twilight. The hazards have become what I look for, what encourages me and pushes me forward, as well as the driver’s side window rolling down and Dad’s head popping out, asking, “What do you need? Do you need water? The stuff?” (“The stuff” being his phrase for a metabolic booster beverage that tastes absolutely awful but enhances my stamina like nothing else.) Sometimes he gets out of the car—with the protective mask he now sports covering his mouth—and holds out water bottles, “the stuff” in one hand, Gatorade in another, my Camelbak filled with icy water hanging from his elbow. Sometimes I run right by, but a lot of the time I take full advantage of the luxury treatment I’m receiving and stop for a dousing of water, or sport drink, or on longer runs, a bite or two of an energy bar.

Training here is probably going to come with its setbacks as well…mostly, these will manifest when I get back to Colorado and have to return to high-altitude, meaning low-oxygen, training in the arid heat of early August. On the up side, I definitely won’t miss the humidity or the oppressive heat it brings, beating down on a runner’s body at all sides. I will miss the soundtrack of the Carolina outdoors, though, as so many crickets, katydids, birds, bugs and other creatures create an amazing racket that just completely fills the ears like prairie dogs’ whistles—my usual Colorado soundtrack—cannot. Most of all, though, I’ll miss my training buddy sitting out there in his car, hazards flashing, encouraging me with water, sport drinks, and most of all, an ear-to-ear grin that tells me how happy he is that I’m here. Nothing quite motivates like that kind of spirit, and that I will certainly miss the most.

Papaki

2005-07-14T19:44:00.000-06:00

This post has been a long time coming. I've kind of been waiting for awhile to write this, ever since I found out my ex-boyfriend, Bob, would be moving to San Francisco at the end of this month. Call it denial or call it...well, denial, there's really no other word for it. This is what happens when the most monumental force outside of your family is suddenly gone.

To be fair, we haven't hung out regularly in over two years, when our relationship ended with a fight every five minutes. At the same time, I could pick up the phone and call him anytime. We had a relatively amicable break-up...well, we had a dozen relatively amicable break-ups and a couple that weren't so friendly, but the final one, the doozy, was pretty friendly, and we've stayed on good terms ever since. As much as we'd been through in the nearly four years we were together, I kind of felt like he'd never be really too far out of my reach. I guess that shows my age well. I'm only twenty-three, and Bob is thirty-four, though he is more like a thousand and one intellectually and twenty-five socially, emotionally and physically. He's absolutely great-looking, he works out like a maniac and has ripped pecs, abs and arms to show for it. He's one of the smartest people I've ever known. He was almost the one, almost Mr. Right, almost the perfect boyfriend. He was sweet and brilliant and funny and romantic and head-over-heels in love with me.

And sometimes he was cynical, cngry over nothing, negative, and would bitch over absolutely anything. His friends used to call him "The Preacher"...need I say more? It's not that he didn't have anything smart to say, or that he hated life...quite the opposite. Bob existed in that paradoxical realm where he loved life but hated the people he had to share it woth. Fellow students, jocks, sorority girls ("sorostitutes", we'd joke), rich kids, basically anyone who wasn't foreign or anti-society. The foreigners and the punks, that's who we wanted to hang out with. People who had culture and people who desperately wanted to. And sometimes succeeded.

I was, of course, as smitten with him as he was with me. He wasn't my first love, but he was my first adult love. He showed me that relationships don't have to end just because a couple breaks up, that you really can be "just friends" even when your past leaves something to be desired. He taught me that the amount of fighting is directly proportional to the amount of making up, times three whenever possible. He was the first--and only!--man I've ever spent an entire weekend in bed with, just curled up under the covers, venturing out only for sustenance and then, rarely. He's the only person outside of my parents to give me a bath. He taught me the meaning of compromise, and he showed me how to be myself...and even though that is what drove me away in the end, I can never thank him enough for it. He taught me never to settle for less than what I expected and to push for more if that's what I really wanted. He introduced me to punk rock, Japanese hardcore and the Beatles. Also reggae, ska, surf, trip-hop and psychedelia, as well as the coolest drum & bass I've ever heard. Through him I was introduced to David Cross, George Carlin and other funny, angry comedians.

I wonder, now, after all this time, what he got out of it? I can go on listing forever the benefits and consequences-both good and bad-of being with Bob for so long. Thanks to Bob I got to go to Europe; we found a kitten there and brought her back with us and now she's my cat. I'll never look at SKataki and not think of him. Or flip thorugh my CD collection, or hear a slam on Fox News or some rude anti-Republican remark, without my brain going instantly to Bob. He is the rare sort of person who stops crowds when he opens his mouth, who thinks before he speaks, stands up for what he believes in and only backs down from fights when he's in imminent danger...and sometimes not then either. He is passionate about his beliefs and convictions and doesn't admit defeat easily. He is one of the smartest, most talented and wisest people I've ever been fortunate enough to know. Even though it pains me to see him go and I know I will miss him, I'm happy for him. Or at least, I'm trying to be. Human beings are selfish by nature and I'm no exception. I want Papaki here where I can call him up to go grab a beer anytime, or go for a hike. Or hang out and listen to records. Or watch movies. Or bitch about the general state of the world these days. Or anything. He'll read this, maybe, at some point, and think yeah, right, when's the last time we did any of that. Time is fleeting and I'm sure that once he's gone, I'll have a better sense of how much I miss him. That's how absence works...you never feel it until they're gone. For real.

Bob leaves in two days to go see his family, then I leave to go see mine, then when I'm off visiting my zillions of sibs and nieces and nephews and my dad and stepmother on the East coast, he leaves for San Fran. We're going to try to get together tomorrow night. I'd like to see him once more before he goes. It's a strange thing to think of how much you put into something, and what it is to you once it's over. I don't believe that anything in life is ever so permanent you can close the book on it and for all I know twenty years from now we'll run across each other and become close again. For now, though, it makes me sad to know he's leaving. And at the same time, I hope that his new home has more to offer than this place. Part of me doesn't want him to leave, but a greater part of me would never stop him.

Just miss him.

Hitting The Wall

2005-07-06T21:48:00.000-06:00

After yesterday's caffeinated psychosis led to a middle-of-the-night run and a brain buzz so solid that at three a.m., feeling as if my brain was boiling, I alternately blogged away and e-mailed my boyfriend as I felt my cranium simmer in its own juices. Today I took it a LITTLE easier: one latte and two Mountain Dews only. And I finished them before two p.m. And I didn't finish the latte at all. Anyway, that plus an hour and a half of sleep last night plus a grueling day at work plus necessary trips to two grocery stores postwork all added up to one very busy, tired Dondi. On top of which, well, I've had cramps that could cripple a rhino all day and upon arriving home and readying myself for the eight-miler before me, I found that they weren't getting any better. Oh well, I decided. I had a little snack because I was starving, waited a little while so I wasn't running on a still-digesting stomach, and headed out.

Off and on for the first two miles I felt a little weird, but okay. I'd definitely eaten too soon before running and my stomach bouncing up and down along with the rest of me wasn't helping the digestive process. The cramps weren't as steady or relentless but when they DID hit it was like a ton of bricks set on fire in my lower abdomen...and then they'd subside in a few minutes. I was walking a lot but at a decent pace, and I still planned on finishing the run.

At two and a half miles, I hit a wall. Suddenly the term "bonking" that serious athletes use to describe what happens when everything either just freezes up or shuts down was completely and entirely defined for me. When I was running as a kid, I never bonked. This is an adults-only affliction. Even if kids do hit the wall it's rare, and they usually don't know it anyway. As a kid you've got the capability to push your body to the max and it's created to compensate for that. The human body has evolved, like everything else, to cope with the stress of age on the physical form. One result is that we shut things down more quickly when we're pushed too hard as adults. The last time I was a serious runner was when I was twelve years old...bonking, hitting the wall, whatever you want to call it didn't exist. Between my awesome recovery rate and the fact that because I'm a total pansy and don't want to risk an asthma attack I don't push myself unnecessarily, I just figured bonking was an experience I'd either gloss over entirely or not have to enjoy for awhile.

Boy, was I wrong. The combination of the heat, exercise, snakc, cramps, fatigue and stress at two-point-five miles all came together and formed one big, scary--though completely invisible to everyone but me--wall. It was nearly literal, in fact I think it probably would've described what was going on inside of me if I looked to the causal onserver as if I literally had run into a wall in the middle of the path, just...BAM!...and she's down and out.

When I hit I was running a reasonable pace, but nothing race-paced style or crazy. Suddenly my stomach turned to a clenched fist around a core of hot lead, accompanied by a mild crunching sound. Yeah, the sound at least was probably all in my head, but that was all it took. My legs froze, my hands froze (in mid-pump, no less) and my stomach...well, my stomach boiled over. I managed to lean over to the side of the path and scramble a step or two away from it before my breakfast, lunch and snack came up all at once. Once I finished there, the bile came up next. Somewhere in the middle of it all my bowels threatened to unleash, and I at once saw a flash-frozen image of me hobbling home with a massive brown sticky spot on the back of my shorts. I at least held that much together.

I think I threw up four times. It got so bad I called Peter to ask if he was nearby and could provide a quick rescue in case I needed one. Friends in this world are hard enough to come by, but friends good enough to rescue a tired, sweat-drenched, fatigued runner reeking of sweat and bile are absolutely worth their weight in gold. And platinum. Combined. Fortunately for the sake of my pride and Peter's stomach, I was able to struggle home on my own.

The worst part, though, was that after the second or third violent purge my stomach decided to force to ensure I wasn't ever going to forget, or eat before running, run tired and fatigued, stressed out and cramped, again, I almost collapsed on the path. I sat down and put my head between my knees to stop the world from spinning. I heard rhythmic footsteps approach behind me, and turned slightly to see three real runners approaching.

I feel the same way around real runners that I do around real cyclists. Awkward, large and clumsy, I try to hide my flabby legs and poorly-shaped, slowly-coming-to-form calf muscles and avoid their glances as much as possible. (With real cyclists, I put my head down and pedal my huge cruiser by as fast as I can, ignoring the looks that could be cast in my direction.) This time, though, I was clearly in trouble, and while these two men and one woman carried the form I craved and the muscle tone I would kill for, they were apparently, aside from demi-gods of running in my mind, kind enough and human enough to stop or at least, for one of the men to jog in place and ask if I was okay. I replied that I was and smiled weakly, then scraped myself up off of the pavement and wandered on, jogging, walking, running, and puking my way home.

Later I recalled what I was thinking of when it all hit: Gregory's blog and the post he wrote on the Wildflower triathlon. He bonked on the ride and described the unpleasantness of it all succinctly, and that's when I realized that, if nothing else, I was well on my way to becoming a real runner. Hitting the wall meant if nothing else that I was hard-core enough to train regardless of really lousy, should've-caused-me-to-think-again circumstances involving the condition my body was in. Now, I don't know whether to thank my wonderful boyfriend or smack him. Fortunately for him, he's a few continents and an ocean away in France with his family and I love him too much to smack him for inspiring a healthy Dondi anew. Hey, you can't date a triathlete and be a generally unhealthy individual. You don't have to compare heart rates and VO2 maxes or even train together (especially when you can't even pace him) or share the same sports, but you do have to keep an interest in being a rather healthy individual (news flash, G: one Milky Way or donut a week doesn't make you unhealthy, hate to break it to you, babe) in general. It's just one of those things that you kind of have to have in common. I'm glad I didn't meet Gregory during my partying years.

The other very important information I remember about that particular post is that it was largely centered around the idea of mind over matter. Which was also true for me. I was completely done, strung out, gone on everything that eventually brought me, quite literally--a few times--(and I digress on further descriptions; you can all breathe a sigh of relief) to my knees, but I continued on. I continued on to purge further at times, much to my chagrin, but also to walk home and not have to rely on a good friend for a ride home in the end. I even ran a bit more. But I got there on my own. Mind over matter...even when the matter is something you'd rather not be forced to deal with.

But most importantly, I was reminded of the power inherent in a good friend. Nothing gets you back on top of your game like knowing that no matter what kind of shit shape you might be in, no matter how lousy you look and feel, whether or not you smell so badly you may make your friendretch, they'll pick you up off of the trail, haul your ass home and if you're in bad enough shape, probably stick around until you drink enough Recharge or Cytomax to at least get some fluids and electrolytes moving through you and are fully conscious again. I'm glad I reached my door by myself, mostly to make sure my good friendship with Peter was preserved through the evils of athletic smellydom but also because it really did prove mind over matter, but I am more grateful that I have a friend or two in mind--and with phone numbers plugged into my cell, which gets tucked into my Camelbak and goes with me when I run--who would come to my rescue when necessary. I have only a few, Shawn, Peter, and Kelly come to mind, but they'd give me the shirt off of their backs or at least a ride home from a terrifyingly halted run, albeit with all the windows in the car down, anytime I needed one. You only need a few, but they light up your whole world and make you smile again even when you're trudging along a bike trail at the side of a state highway, sick as a dog and ready to call it quits altogether. I think the knowledge that you have a rescue makes it easier to get home in the end...knowing that you've got that "safety net" makes it okay to push a little bit harder. So thanks, Peter. I didn't get anywhere near my eight miles but you did make it possible for me to get home by myself tonight...if for no other reason than I would feel incredibly bad for inflicting myself on you at the time. But mostly, knowing I had a safety net made it possible to try to soar again, even with a metaphorical broken wing. Thanks for that. Good friends are hard to come by, and absolutely essential to hang onto.

A Caffeine Binge...and a Dramatic Overhaul

2005-07-06T02:12:00.000-06:00

When I was in high school and perhaps before that, caffeine was my friend. Between working forty-hour weeks at a grocery store in my adopted hometown, pulling a full load of high school courses and taking a class at Colorado State University, caffeine was my best friend, first in the form of NoDoz and later more subliminally, as a latte or a Coca-Cola. Collegiate years found me waiting for the bus at my dorm or later, apartment, with a cottle of Coke in hand or, if I'd pulled an all-nighter, a Starbucks Doubleshot. During my last week of finals of my senior year of college, I worked fifty hours at my job, took all of my finals, and subsisted almost entirely on java and sugar.

What the hell happens to your body between graduation and two years later? Somewhere in there I hit a wall. Caffeine, no longer a boon to my success, turned against me. If I drank coffee later than noon I'd be up all night. Life at an office rather than life sprinting around a small grocery store exacerbated these effects, and recently, I've been terrified to go down to the office cafeteria and use our extraordinarily expensive espresso machine any later than nine a.m. This is probably a good thing. Depending on what report you read, caffeine is either the worst substance known to man and can create greater devastation among the human populus than a nuclear holocaust, or is the harginer of success, fame and fortune. Taking into account my body's chemistry as well as such contrasting evidence, I tend to remain in the "moderation is key" social order and drink espresso when I am really dragging and otherwise swig a Coke or two during the day.

This is, of course, up until now whem at 2:22 in the morning, I find myself composing far-too-chatty e-mails to my boyfriend Gregory who, eight hours away in the midst of his morning in Paris hasn't the slightest clue that his girlfriend has gone off of the insomniac's deep end and, well, writing this blog. Let this be a lesson to the java-holics like myself out there: too much of a good thing IS possible, and can have dire consequences.

Late in the Fourth of July long weekend I learned that my pseudo-superior, our Pricing promotions coordinator, who I effectively work under/assist, was going to be out for the duration of this week with a family emergency. Armed with that knowledge I set out to work yesterday morning at 7:15 a.m., chugging a Starbucks Doubleshot to wake me up sufficiently for the day. Around ten-thirty I got a double-espresso latte at my office cafeteria, and throughout the day I drank two 20-oz. Mountain Dew sodas, which contain the highest consumer caffeine content available in soda form except for Jolt!, which either doesn't exist anymore or can only be found in certain areas (like the convenience-store equivalent to a video0store "back room"). Upon arriving home after nearly twelve hours at work I wrote for a bit, fed the cat, ate some dinner and went to bed. Or so I thought.

The chemicals coursed through me like a solar flare. I couldn't sleep. Tossing and turning, I finally turned to some academic reading, thinking that nothing would make me sleep like the biography of Ataturk, which is terribly fascinating to me but only if I'm in the right frame of mind. Apparently enough chemical stimulants will get you there...after three chapters (of which I believe I've retained nothing) I find myself at my computer, blogging away and writing e-mail to Gregory in France. I even went for a jog about an hour ago to no avail...blood pumping vigorously merely increases the high, and while I am starting to think a serious sedative, like the bottle of Skyy in my freezer, is going to be the only way I sleep, I dare not drink now, having to be awake and alert (or at least appearing to be alert) for my early day at work tomorrow. Today, rather.

While I've no doubt that caffeine has its benefits, both to the extremely overworked and the endurance athlete (both titles I will attain daily this week) overuse can make you miserable. So if there ARE any athletes besides Gregory reading this blog, do yourselves a favor: unless you're falling asleep at your desk, keep the java to a minimum. Say no to the neon-green beverage. And for God's sake, stay away from the Starbucks Doubleshot. You can down one in the two minutes it took me to get to work today (thank you, Gregory, and your lovely vehicle), and the effects are more potent that you want to realize.

And The Insanity Begins...

2005-06-18T20:55:00.000-06:00

What is it about endurance events that attracts certain people? Why is it that some of us are more than happy to count a half hour light walk or jog each day as decent exercise (and it is, according to the latest information released by the US government) and some of us have to race-pace for an hour or more just to start feeling as though we're getting a reasonable level of activity? What is it about distance running that turns most people's stomachs...and some of us into addicts?

I've thought about this for at least the past twenty-four hours or so, shortly after registering online for the Boulder Backroads Marathon, a Nike-sponsored race three months from now. While I'm unconcerned about the training I know it will be substantial, and registering will also kick-start my brain--which has been running-fuzzy since the Bolder Boulder, to say the least--into compliance with the rigorous training routine I know I'll have to follow from here on out. After registering, I was feeling pretty good about myself...even to the point of e-mailing my registration receipt to Gregory with the same subject heading as this post's title. I knew if I spent the money on it, I'd follow through with my training for it. By the time September 25th rolled around, I'd be a lean, mean, marathon-running machine. I was stoked.

So stoked, in fact, I decided it'd be a good idea to share my progress with some of my friends and colleagues. After the third or fourth person gave me a blank look and asked, "Why?" in a tone reserved specifically for dealing with the mentally disabled, I came to a stunning new realization: I really was as crazy as their looks were making me feel. What kind of insanity must one possess to actually plunk down $64.40 of hard-earned dough (hey, when you're living hand-to-mouth, $64.40 is two weeks' worth of groceries) so that they could participate in an event which demands the ability to keep the body physically moving for 26.2 miles? Who would actually pay to work out by running 40-60 miles each week for the next 13 weeks, so that as the finale to all of that training you get to run a substantial portion of that distance all at once, one time? Better yet, what the hell are the marathon committee members thinking by offering a pint glass as well as a finisher's medal to all finishers? That we're actually going to want beer once we're done literally running our bodies into the ground?

David Sedaris, in describing a scene from an event in the rural village in France in which he was, at the time, living, writes 'Here was an event that answered the question "Why?" with a resounding "Why not?"' Sedaris' essay, I Almost Saw This Girl Get Killed in his book Me Talk Pretty One Day, describes the event in question as centered around an arena that held vachettes which are, apparently, kind of the punk-rockers of cattle. An angry vachette--or several angry vachettes--would be released into the arena and the people therein would try various ways of pissing it off further without getting maimed for life. The first component of this event included the vachette being released into a soccer game, and she snorted and charged after players who were apparently entrusted with the fateful task of keeping the game going in the presence of a very angry, emotionally disturbed animal.

Whenever I've thought about marathons in the past, I've always felt that the same kind of ideas apply. "Why do a marathon?" "Hey, why not?!" was always my joking answer, at least inside my head. I couldn't really ever come up with a reason, besides, well, that distance runners are crazy. Even after I got the idea to do Backroads into my head, I still never came up with a real reason. Since registering, however, Gregory posed the worst question anyone could've asked me: So, do you have any goals in mind?

It was the worst because it forced me to rethink my why? why not?! justification. Nobody runs 26.2 miles just because, ever. There has to be a better reason. Better reasons lead to goals. Goals lead to further motivation to accomplish the teask set forth, or at least that's the way my brain has always worked. So since then, I've been thinking about it, and I've come to a few conclusions:

1)My only real goal is to finish. Yeah, I'd love to do sub-3:40 and qualify for Boston, but I'm not too concerned about it. I want to go out and give it my best and have a good time.
2)I need to assess my ability to keep up my nutritional needs on the course. This is more for future reference, as should my marathon be a fun and successful adventure, my next goal will be the Leadville Trail 100. Yes, that's right, a 100 mile footrace. More to come, some other time.
3)The training program for the marathon alone will get me into shape. Coupled with a solid abs routine, I will be buff and beautiful and healthier than I've ever been by the time September 25th rolls around. It's been a long time since I felt that good, and I would like to have it back again.
4)I can continue to hike in order to mix up my training and especially to strengthen my ankles, calves and knees. When your feet are constantly readjusting to rocks, mud, water, soft snow, dirt trails, packed snow, basically being turned in every position possible without injuring the muscles and tissues within them, I consider it excellent prevent-an-injury training. It's also excellent cardio work and I love hiking. The fact that it fits beautifully into my training just makes it all the better.
5)Distance runners are psychotic, and I love being one of them. A few months ago when I quit smoking and went for my first run in a decade, I never thought I'd be saying this. Between then and now I've had a few injuries, retrained my muscles in my legs substantially, lost a little bit of weight, eat better, and have achieved the "runner's high" or "the zone" as I call it, that euphoria that transports your brain into a dimension dominated solely by the rhythm of one foot hitting the ground in front of the other and the inhalations and exhalations paced to that speed, a dimension in which I literally feel I could run forever. It's the best feeling in the world, mostly because it's all yours. Nobody else contributes to it, and nothing can take it away. It's solid bliss, found within a pace and stride matching your present mood and attitude, and once you're there, you never want to leave.

So I guess there's only two real goals there, but it certainly got me thinking. There's a tiny part of me that just wants to be able to say, "I ran a marathon." That tiny part is the seed of my "zone", my favorite place on earth, where all that exists is the ground under my feet, the path ahead of me, the sky over my head and the blood pounding in my ears, whispering, "you can do it, you can do it."