Very Fast Persons

Dear Diary,

I used to refer to the lightweight (i.e., anyone lighter than me) and fast people as "tiny bird people," a somewhat derogatory term until three things happened: 1) some of them became my friends, 2) some of my friends became them, and 3) Sweet Baboo, who is not tiny, became very fast.

Thus, I now refer to them in my mind as Very Fast Persons. You may know some. They chatter about how they're going to try to get under 3:30 FOR THEIR FREAKING MARATHON TIME but then again, "maybe I'll just relax and turn in a relaxed 3:45 time instead."

I wish my skin was this smooth when I'm standing up.

Occasionally , we'll be talking about someone else, but if it's the day before a marathon and we're all competing, er, participating in the marathon, well, eventually the conversation drifts towards working on maintaining an 8 minute pace for 26 miles and not going out too fast, and I start counting the holes in the ceiling tiles, or cracks in the sidewalk. Or whatever.

And so it was at the Lincoln National Guard marathon in Nebraska. We flew in with friends Bones and Miki, and met up with Chief. Chief, Baboo, and Miki are all in the National Guard and they, along with Bones, are all Very Fast Persons. In contrast I try to remind myself that I am a Very Brave Person, or at least, at times, a Somewhat Interesting Person, given that my all time Marathon PR, two years and twenty pounds ago, is around a 4:45 and yet I keep showing up for these things. I think I garner a fair amount of respect, too, even from Very Fast Persons because, after all, in about 3 to 3-1/2 hours they are done and off their feet and resting, and I'm still at least 2 hours out, on my feet, blazing past the walkers with my 12- or 13- mIle pace.

Now, I am in no way saying that everyone doesn't have their concerns. it's just that the concerns are different in the back of the pack. For me it's chaffing and finding a decent bra, and whether or not my new running skirt makes my thighs look heavy. These are both things that tend to fall off my radar when I am in the lower end of my weight. The comparisons I tend to make of others in my corral are different, too. When I'm feeling svelt, I might mentally compare my muscle tone to another Female and wonder what age group she's in. When I'm zeftig, I console myself with things like, "well, my breasts are bigger than hers, so there." Then I feel better.

Consistently, though, since I am merely a Very Brave Person and, at times, a Somewhat Interesting Person I consume my time with having something cute to run in and having a good mix on my shuffle, and wearing lots of Sportslick

And so it is with spirit in mind that I make no attempt to tell you, dear diary, what I might have done to move faster, so much as what I might have done to move cuter and having fun. I tried three new purchases for this one, first, I wore my new Brooks running skort, which has "Marathon Maniacs Diva" embroidered on it.

--> FYI, ipad has just informed me that there is no such word as "skort." Helpfully, it suggests "snort" as one option.

Second, I wore my new Aqua Flood shuffle (purple) and skull candy earbuds (pink and black) and third, I wore a belt that holds gels (black, with pink trim).

I haven't done a big City marathon in a while and they are both interesting and challenging. This is one of the marathons that has a major corporate sponsor (The Army National Guard) and thus, so far, has managed to avoid being taken over by the Rock and Roll series. The day of the marathon was forecast to be in temps mostly between the forties and mid sixties, at least during my run, and mostly cloudy. The course has very gentle rollers, lots of local support--including locals handing out odd things such as donut holes. This is a sports lovin' town, and those are the best towns to run a city marathon in, especially when it's not football season, because the folks are looking for someone to root for, so, it might as well be you. Since the bib numbers are personalized, they'll shout out your name, too.

The good: mostly flat, some gentle rollers here and there, good weather for heavy runners, a nice finish in Husker Stadium at the 50-yard line. There are lots of porta-potties but you will wait in line. The marathon is well-organized, with friendly guardsmen at aid stations that are about every mile, I think. There are pace groups all the way up to 5:30 finishers, something you don't normally see.

The bad: lots of cement. Not blacktop, cement. You'll get a bit beat-up on the course. Also, the first thirteen miles are pretty crowded, given that the half marathoners start at the same time. Also, the massage people left right as I finished. No massage for you!

My finishing song, or songs, are that one song or song sequence that I find particularly motivating, and so will back up my shuffle and play them over and over, especially in the last 5k. This time it was "Rock Me Tonight by Billy Squire" and "Little Bird" by Annie Lennox.

I used a mostly 1:1 Galloway run-walk, and finished just under 5:30.

And I'm tired. And I smell. So this is the end of my report.

....

 

Posted with Blogsy

Small miracles.

Dear diary,

Sweet Baboo and I got a cleaning woman.

I'm telling you this, diary, not for bragging purposes but to reveal an evolution in growth. I struggled with guilt for years with the idea, finding it compelling and guilty-inducing, all at the same time. In such a case you have a choice: spend your weekends cleaning, or hang up one of these:

My mom never needed a cleaning woman. Then again, my mom stayed home with me until middle school, when she started a part-time job. I never appreciated clean until I was well into adulthood. I realized then that clean = finding stuff you need instead of searching through piles. But it was too late, I had children.

So here I am, a grownup, and there's something to the notion that

My weekends, which I used to use for deep cleaning, are spent running or flying somewhere to run. This is our hobby. We spend our money going places instead of collecting things, so there's that. Baboo and I are both self-made, and make regular, faithful payments to our students loans. Since we both work for non-profits, we have a small house, cheap cars, all so that we can go places and do things.

Now, I prefer clean, but can usually tolerate a bit of clutter and dust for a week or two....After that, the distress starts growing and I'm compelled to clean. And it's not that I don't like to clean, I do. I love our home and get a fair amount of satisfaction cleaning it up. So much so, in fact, that I will put off running to do it. It's a convenient excuse. i should got run right now, but oh, damn, look at that dust...And therein lies a major problem, i neglect running for weeks on end to conquer dust.

We would come back from a marathon weekend to a cluttered house I would feel distressed and anxious because the house was a mess and I didn't have time to clean it. I started balking at our weekends, and it was around my 48th birthday that Baboo suggested getting help.

DreadPirate had also been after me to try this for quite some time. DreadPirate and her mom Roadrash both used the same woman, so I contacted her. She came over and looked at the house. Her first day would be March 29th, and I waited for it like a kid waits for Christmas.

I honestly didn't expect much would get done, that first cleaning. I was prepared for that. I hold myself out as a pretty good cleaner, given enough caffein, but the back of the house was the most neglected part of the house, and I figured that the kitchen wouldn't even be touched.

I came home early that Friday, mainly because I had worked at least 9 hours on every day that week and I was tired. Was it going to be worth it? How far out of the back of the house would she get?

Unexpectedly, she was still there, and lo and behold, had made her way to the front to the kitchen. I didn't expect that, i expected her to still be in the back of the house. But, I guess if you do this for a living, you get efficient. I didn't want to be in her way so i tiptoed to the back of the house..

and,

holy fuck.

It was clean. Cleaner than I could ever get it, that's for sure. She'd even made the bed in the guest room and straightened up in there. Hissy, our gray tabby, was curled up on the guest bed, and opened one eye to me to signal, I approve. Lily, our scaredy cat, was off somewhere being hysterical, Did you KNOW a stranger was coming in here to clean and move things? Why wasn't I consulted about this?!?

I sat down outside with the Chloe the Wunderdog for a bit, who was more than a little anxious. There's a strange PERSON in our HOUSE. Hey MOM, THERE'S A STRANGE PERSON IN OUR HOUSE!

Eventually, she let me know she was leaving, and then Baboo came home. That night and the weekend was spent discovering things that were now clean and/or dust-free, like our very own Easter egg hunt.

She cleaned the trophies, Baboo said wonderingly.

She cleaned the dust out of the cabinet with the components, I breathed.

Hey, the exercise room is clean! (small bedroom with only a treadmill, full-length dressing mirror, and a tv bolted to the wall)

When I went to open my refrigerator, the door handles felt unusually smooth. Oh, that must be what they feel like when they're clean.

She even made the doggie bed.

The hardest part of all this is working my way through the guilt, and forgiving myself for not being a better house cleaner. That feeling was eclipsed rapidly by feeling like I was in my very own hotel. I was inspired anew to get rid of even more junk. I made a carload trip to goodwill that weekend. We stopped wearing our shoes inside the house.

I'm telling this story because if you have the means, do this for yourself, about once every two weeks is all you need. You may have similar neuroses as did I, but trust me, let that shit go.

The morning after Teresa worked her miracle throughout the house, i sat down at the table, dressed for a run. I looked around for something, anything, to provide an excuse to procrastinate.

There was nothing. Dammit.

So, I went for a run.

...

 

Posted with Blogsy

If it were easy, it would be your mother.

Dear Diary,

That was on the best-selling shirt at the expo. They sold out. This was the marathon I did Sunday in Texas.

You know, I just love Texas.

I don't want to live there, because spring is about three weeks long in between windy, dry, horrid winter and hot, humid, horrid summer, but for visiting, it's just fine.

I was born in Dallas at Baylor Medical Center. I moved around some with my parents for a few years, but when I started high school, we stayed put. My first two children were born in Dallas. My first husband is buried there. The second one still lives there, just like the old George Straight song. I left Texas in 1991, heartbroken, but returned nine years later with Sweet Baboo when he was doing his psychology internship at the Dallas VA. Sweet Baboo and I were married in a little church near his mother's house just outside of San Antonio. Sweet Baboo is also generally from Texas and played Texas high school football in Wichita Falls.

When I am in Texas, a twang starts to creep back into my speech and I find myself eyeballing whattachicken sandwiches.

Other reasons why ah luuuv Texas:

First off, everyone is so friendly. They just are. As long as you don't say something bad about George Bush or Jesus the entire state is your new best friend. The passive-aggressiveness is even friendly. Why, she's just as lost as a goose, bless her heart.

Second, in April, there are bluebonnets.

Third, everyone there is crazy about soldiers and gives military members steep discounts. The state is just full of Fort this and Fort that. They're all over. I'm married to one so I get all the benefits of being in the military with none of the aggravation.

Fourth, every athletic event that I've been in, from Lubbock to Houston, from ultra-runs to triathlons, starts with a prayer and ends with a beer. You get brisket or chili at the end and usually some ice cold beer. I don't personally drink the stuff but it just seems like a very nice way to end a day of endurance, dontcha think?

Sweet Baboo and I ran the inaugural Army marathon there last weekend.

We flew into Dallas Love Field the day before, rented a car, drove down to Killeen--which is south of Waco and near Fort Hood. At the expo, Sweet Baboo bought me some new compression leg sleeves and some Newtons, which I got with my/our nice, "I married GI Joe" discount.

I was hoping for a really nice experience after getting caught in wind storms at the El Paso marathon in February and the Corpus Christi Navy marathon in March.

And, holy crap, I got it.

It's a point-to-point, 26.2 miles of gentle rollers, all on blacktop, on a protected course, with a net downhill from Killeen to Temple, Texas. It was beautiful, mostly overcast. The sun out a bit during the last hour or so, and there was some wind in the last ten miles, but nothing to get in a twist about. I finished just under 5:30. I really pushed myself. I was motivated by the promise of a shower before our three hour drive back to Dallas.

During the race there was a woman ahead if me I was determined to finish, my very own White Whale. She was relentless. She never stopped running her slow, steady pace. I gave up trying to lass her until the end, when I passed her at mike 25 ish.

I got a nudge to my self esteem by all the young bucks that took off like rockets at the beginning but that I passed near the end.

There were lots of soldiers. The women I recognized from their tight, neat hair buns and the men from their high and tight haircuts. But like many youngsters, they didn't pace themselves well. At one point the couple I was running near came upon a fellow soldier standing near the side of the road, rubbing his calf. They asked him why he'd stopped running and teased him. He looked at them woefully. "This is some bullshit, right here."

When I finished I crossed the finish line and flooped down into the shade. About 20 minutes later another young soldier stumbled over and flooped down nearby, and started complaining on the phone to somebody. First he complained about the hills.

"I should have trained for the hills," he said.

Elevation Profile -->

Then he complained about "all these old ladies out there, and they were kicking my ass!"

I am pretty happy with my pace. It wasn't blazing, but it was steady. Once I get on too of that whole, "speed" thing, I might be a fair marathoner. If you use the Galloway method I will tell you that i used 4:1 run:walk in the first half, the 3:2 for a while, and then the last five miles, 1:1.

Here's my splits:

What I didn't like, and this is my only complaint: Baboo said that the first shuttle started nearly an hour after he finished, to take him back to the start. He quickly showered and then headed back, which is when he found out that he could park no closer than three miles away from the finish.

As a result, he didn't get to see me finish, and I sat around for an hour, wondering what the hell was going on, and then after beating myself up to my blazing sub six-hour finish, I got a three mile hike to the car.

This is some bullshit, right here.

Boo.

Otherwise, well done. I'd recommend this marathon. Aid stations were well stocked, friendly volunteers, plenty of portajohns, and I believe the cut off was seven hours, possibly longer.

Next up: the Lincoln Marathon in Lincoln, Nebraska.

 

Posted with Blogsy

The older, wiser me.

Dear Diary,

Two things happened this week that made me feel old and wise.

First, I was part of an interview for a PRN social work position at the hospital where I work. That wasn't the part that made me feel old. It was her resume. On it, she wrote that she had graduated from high school in 2004. I read it and re-read it, sitting in the conference room before she showed up.

What the hell--why, that's not even possible, is it? I asked the other social workers. I counted on my fingers.

, it was 9 years ago. So, yes, said one of my fellow employees. I leaned forward to touch my forehead on the table so that I could silently mouth the words to myself: oh, fuck, I am OLD.

While my collegue nit-picked and asked the candidate to clarify every answer to every question during the interview, I smiled kindly at her, wanting to apologize for my collegue who apparently does not remember being that young and new. Shit, I wanted to say. It's discharge planning. It's not rocket science.

The second thing that happened is that I agreed to take on a master's level counseling intern. She starts this summer, and I'll be supervising her. I interviewed her, and she was disconcertingly perky. She hasn't had her young soul crushed by the reality of managed care. And YOUNG. at one time she asked me about how I would be supervising her, and words just came out of my mouth, on auto pilot. The right words, words that put her at ease. We spoke for about an hour. She had lots of questions. I had answers to all of them. When she left, I leaned forward and touched my desk with my forehead again. Fuck, i am old. But WISE. when did I get so smart?

Followed closely by, this is real grownup stuff. I can't believe someone trusts me with someone else's life, career, and future.

I have those thoughts from time to time, like when I'm doing therapy with a kid, suddenly I'll think, if my high school teachers had anything to say about it, there's no way they'd let me be doing this shit.

I'm settling into my age, finally. Approaching 50 was causing me quite some anxiety. I was desperately trying to stave it off. When I turned 48 three weeks ago, I stood in front of a mirror, pulling my facial skin back toward my ears, wondering how much a mini lift would be.

The teeny boppers on my unit, with the history of absconding, batted their eyes at me today, and said, you're so pretty. Are you 32?

Nice try, I said. You're not making any phone calls.

It would be awesome to think that I actually looked 32. But if I can be the wise woman, that's good. I can live with that.

 

Posted with Blogsy

Blow me was just an expression, dammit. Another race report.

Dear Diary,

Sweet Baboo and I ran the inaugural Navy marathon in Corpus Christi on March 24. this is marathon number three for the year, of the dozen or more marathons we'll be doing for 2013. NOWDON'TMOCKMMEFORNOTWRITINGTHISSOON I don't really think anyone reads this anymore any way *snif*. And by the way, when I say 'ran' I mean that Sweet Baboo ran it, while I did my patented shuffle-jog and spent most of that last half swearing and hating south Texas and nervously watching seagulls, hoping they wouldn't shit on my head.

*Whispering* shhh, see, the day before the marathon, we'd had a stressful day. I'm convinced that pilots have conspired on Dallas to fuck up flights in the rest of the county. When we arrived in Dallas, our flight was listed as being over an hour later. Twenty minutes later it left without us. Fuckers. We had to sit separately. Then we arrived in San Antonio, rented a car, and drove to Corpus. Baboo was totally stressed, so he sat down behind the motel...relax...listen to the waves...and...

SPLAT.

a gull shat on my Sweet Baboo. He calmly accepted that this was how this day would end, and returned to our room to shower, where I tried not to laugh but instead to show the appropriate amount of sympathy, as a good wife does.

Anyway.

Sweet Baboo finished just under four hours, which is something I will never, ever, ever personally do. For him, however, it was a personal worst in road marathons for the last year. I spent much of the first half celebrating my awesomeness and the second half whimpering and wondering why I ever do this shit.

This may give you some hint:

 

At marathon start, there were THIRTY mile-an-hour winds rockin' and rollin' and we walked/ran against them for a mile or so. As you might recall diary, I had a bit of wind in the El Paso marathon in February and GodDAMMIT I'm sick of wind. I ran up and over a suspension bridge, which was pretty cool. At that point the wind was at my back and it basically pushed me over the bridge. Awesomeness. Except...something it pushed too hard, and I would stumble.

I ran down the road that winds along the fancy people homes along the coasts, and it was here that I finally accepted that the entirety of Corpus apparently wasn't a superfund site. Miles one through thirteenish were pretty great. I had about a 12 minute pace. I was a running GODDESS.

Obviously, that wasn't going to last.

Eventually, though, all good things come to an end, and I headed down across a causeway for four miles, during which the wind buffeted me from the side, so strong in fact that sometimes when I picked up my leg the wind would push it into the other leg. Yes, that's right. The fucking wind tripped me. Apparently, I'm built like a billboard. Or a sale. People I had passed gleefully the last six miles inched ahead of me.

Then, I turned around. Another long four miles of cross-winds, followed by five miles heading directly into the wind. I sniffled and wept and felt very, very sorry for myself as I watched my per-mile pace on my Garmin tick upward...upward...upward.

But I felt even sorrier for the people still heading out to the turnaround, one time shouting to one woman, aint this some shit? She just shook her head and tried to stay upright. I could run maybe for thirty seconds at a time against the wind before I would just give ip and walk.

Eventually, I trudged across the finish line around 5:42, which I have mixed feelings about. Got a big hug from Sweetness, and a rediculously big medal:

Then I got a wetnap bath, a subway sub, we drove back to San Antonio and flew the hell out of there. As soon as the late planes in Dallas let us. When we got home, we found out that inexplicably we'd left our car running when we parked it. Which is a story for another day.

 

Posted with Blogsy

Drought, my ass, a race report.

Dear Diary,

The second weekend in March Sweet Baboo and I flew to San Antonio to run the Prickly Pear 50k. This consists of three 10-ish or so mile loops in Macalister park.

The first loop, well, kinda sucked. It rained almost the entire time. It was a light rain, but steady. The mud was thick, and the combination of mud and grass made nice, heavy bricks stuck to the bottom of my feet.

I came into the aid station, where volunteers were wearing ponchos and holding umbrellas. hey, where's this draught I keep reading about? Draught, my ass. My clothes were soaked. My glasses were constantly covered with fine droplets. The good news is that the anti-fingerprint and anti-fog coating I paid extra for was well worth it. When I wiped my lenses, they were instantly clear, no smearing. I finished, shed one of my soaked shirts, swapped my giant-ass hat for a regular running hat, and drank my Ensure Clear. My hair was soaked, and I was glad that it was shorter.

The second loop was good. It stopped raining and I actually made better time. The trails were drying up rapidly and running on them was more like a sticky movie theater floor. I pulled ahead of several people doing my whole, run-walk-run thing. Around mile 17 or so, I sat down for a moment to dump the rocks out of my shoe. Then I stood up and startd jogging, and--OW. Ow, ow, fucking ow. A sharp pain stabbed through my foot and I could barely move. Clearly, I had strained something slipping and sliding on the wet mud and rocks.

The next three miles were agony. I hobbled into the end of the second loop and, well, there was Baboo, finished already! Or not. Turns out he was waiting for me so that he could finish with me. He had been waiting, in fact, for over 90 minutes. I sat down to inspect my foot. Nothing. No bruise, no redness, no swelling. When I retied my shoe, it stopped hurting. Turns out that I had tied my shoe too tightly before. Who'd have thought that would be so painful?

Not that the final loop was better. All my toughness from last year's 100k runs was eclipsed by a winter of sloth. I had not put in the time on my feet and kegs, and buddy, they let me know. I got an ache that started in my hips and began working its way down to my lower legs. Ow, ow, ow.

Baboo was unfailingly cheerful. Whereas I whimpered, it's never going to end. It's a diminishing function. He replied, There's more behind us than in front of us!

When I whined, I'm never going to make it, he soothed, you're doing great, sweetie!

After I shuffled ten or twenty yards slightly faster than a walk, I heard, great run, sweetie!!

Obviously, it did end. We did finish. Three minutes under the cutoff, I dragged my whiney ass across the finish line, Sweet Baboo running easily and lightly just behind. He told me he was proud of me. (I live for that) we got a neato glass finisher's medal, and fajitas.

The we we went to see "silver lining playbook." I had my very own bucket of corn, with butter. Awesome.

----------

Next week, the Inaugural Navy Marathon race report.

Posted with Blogsy

The saddest thing, ever. A race report.

Dear diary,

 

 

 

 

 

This is Burn Lake.

Burn Lake is in Las Cruces and it was formed while they were constructing I10 through there--they were excavating dirt for building overpasses and hit the water table, and hole started filling up. No word on what they planned to do with that giant hole--maybe it was slated for a runoff pond for flooding but in any case, the lake formed, and according to Google maps, at one time looked like this (below).

The lake was used as a runoff pond, and had no outlet, and there are lots of farms around here, so around 2006 or maybe before, swimming was banned due to high amounts of e. coli found in the water. They built soccer fields around it, meanwhile, and lots of picnic shelters.

Then within the last year or so, it just dried up, they said, due to the drought. But you have to figure, this means that the water table in Las Cruces has dropped twenty feet of more. Such is the case when you move in a bunch of gringos who insist on having green lawns in the southern Chihuahua desert.

Srsly, the saddest thing ever. No swimming, y'all.

Te El Paso marathon, which I did last weekend, is also just the saddest thing ever.

First, it's E Paso. Sweet Baboo spent this weekend doing health screenings on lots of guardsmen and women who live there, and not one person he met likes El Paso, even ones who were raised there. Even on a Sunday afternoon, the place seemed lacking in human activity in the downtown area. It's flat, it's dusty, and the wind blows constantly--it doesn't have the romantic charm of, say, Santa Fe, 300 miles to the north. It makes Albuquerque look like a lush, tropical paradise.

The marathon itself is okay. It's a point-to-point, and they bus you to the start line. It's well organised in that respect. What makes it sad is that in El Paso, a city of over 600,000 which may, or may not, include the very large Ft. Bliss and bedroom community to the north of Lac Cruces--only about 400 bother to sign up for the full. Anyway, they bus you to the top of the mountain and about sunrise you start running down the mountain. The first five miles are spent running downhill, and hopefully you've trained for this so that your quads aren't blown. Then you make a few turns, and around mile 9 or 10 you start running on this runway looking thing, I think someone told me that it's a highway for tanks. The next ten miles are straight down this thing into a headwind that is picking up speed. I couldn't run against this, I just couldn't. But this is why I do racewalk training, so I started doing that, passing a few along the way. Then you're on post, running through the base, and around mile 19 you turn and leave the base and for me, that's where it got very interesting.

When I left the tree-lined shelter of the base, I ran into a dust storm. It picked up until the wind was roaring past me. I walked with one hand holding my hat, one hand in front of me in a futile effort to block the sand, and occasionally looking up to make sure I was going in a straight line.

Now, there are no course markings. Instead, there are El Paso police posted at every intersection, and they stop traffic and also point the way. They did a terrific job keeping traffic away. The aid stations, after mile 16, were every mile, which was important because I was counting on that since I didn't have a bottle. By mile 20, though, the cups of water and gatorade were in boxes to keep them from being blown away, but still had a fine, thin layer of sand in them. It couldn't be helped.

Around about mile 22 or 23, a van pulled up next to me. It was full of runners, and the driver asked me if I wanted a ride. Then he said something else that I couldn't quite make out over the howling wind, but I just shook my head. I wanted to finish. He gave me a strange look and lingered for a moment, and then drove away. I continued on, blocking the sand and wind and then...

And then...

I was alone.

What the guy had been saying to me was that they were shutting down the course. I didn't hear that part. I stood on a street corner in downtown El Paso, waiting for traffic, and looked around, and there were no police, no aid stations, and of course, no course markings. I continued down the street, blocking the sand from my eyes, following empty sports gel wrappers too stuck to the road to blow away.

Now, around about this time Sweet Baboo, Bones, and Miki (who had finished between 3:30 and 3:39) were in the stands, waiting for me, when two motorcycle officers escorted the "last" runner in...and it wasn't me. My friends and Baboo looked at each other. Where was she? They asked one of the police, who informed them that there were a couple of runners out there who had "refused" to take a ride, "but they're miles away." Baboo asked him what their bib number were. "Bib numbers? I don't know." He got the car and went looking, and as he told me later, was immediately lost.

Eventually, the gel package trail stopped. The streets were deserted save for one shaky-looking couple walking towards me, the man carrying a large stick. "Hey...any chance you guys know where the finish line is for the marathon?" I shouted at him over the wind.

He walked up very close to me. "Oh, wow, man, I think it's over by the bus station, man," he waved his arm towards the central part of downtown, and then held the stick out towards me. "You better carry this, man, there's a dog down there that wants to bite you on the leg." He gestured towards an empty lot where I could see no such animal, but I took the stick, thanked him, and continued on my way.

I ran across a bridge over a highway, and then stood on a corner for a while watching traffic go by. I had misgivings. Then I turn and went up a hill towards a park, hoping to be able to see the convention center from there. I asked a man walking his dog, the tiny dog nearly blown off the sidewalk by the wind. "Oh, my goodness, let's see..." And began turning in circles, scanning the city. Well, shit; I can do that. I left him there and continued up the hill. I found myself standing on a corner waiting for the light, and next to me was a man in dusty clothes, scraggly beard, carrying a ragged backpack.

I asked him. He was surprisingly eloquent, "why, I believe, yes, I believe it is over by the bus station." He waved his hand in a southwesterly direction, back down the hill, so went back down again, crossing over the freeway and heading west.

Eventually I encountered a woman trudging up the hill, wearing her finisher's medal. She looked startled to see me, being as she was the "last" finisher. She pointed, and I ran down the hill and turned left, and ran into Miki. Now I was just pissed, and didn't feel like running any more, but sure happy to see someone I knew. It was well beyond six hours since I'd started, so when I came to the finish line where the tracking was being taken apart, I kicked it over and then went to sat down and asked for my medal. It didn't seem of interest to anyone working that I had finished and was accounted for. But a very nice man with a beard got me a medal, and miki brought me some water and chocolate milk.

Miki got on her cell phone and contacted Baboo and Bones, and they drove over to pick us up. Baboo hugged me tightly. I gazed into his face and said, "get me the fuck out of this town."

In case you're wondering I did get a gracious letter of apology from the RD. It was just a miscommunication and a comedy of errors. He's going to take steps next year to make sure It doesn't happen again. I had to guess my time, so I was added to the list of finishers with a time of 6:10. Not a PR.

Oh, and did I mention I had woken up that morning with a headache AND a cough?

Yeah.

...

 

Posted with Blogsy

So far.

Dear Diary,

Here's what I've learned this year so far: Simplifying your life, easy steps in four weekends.

1. home entertainment

A. Buy an Ooma hub and get it working.

B. Get an apple Tv and get it working, or a streaming net box. (Or a smart tv that does all that)

C. Tell your cable company that you no longer want telephone or cable, just internet, thanks. Shop around for a better price on internet if you have to.

--How this simplifies your life: you will spend less money (100 a month in some cases), and be free of the barrage of commercials that seek to convince you that you are too fat, ugly, sad, or hungry when you really aren't. You'll be more thoughtful in your entertainment, instead of just watching whatever garbage is on. You'll watch more indies and documentaries. If you need noise while you're working, Pandora is available on those streaming boxes, for free.

 

 

2. Simplify your 'friends'.

A. Delete people who you honestly don't like, or who have over 600 "friends" and you haven't communicated with in quite some time.

B. Uncheck "show in news feed" on anyone who fills your newsfeed with posts that waste time or piss you off. They won't know, and they won't be unfriended.

C. Go through your settings on Pinterest, Google+, and Twitter and get rid of all notifications. You won't get an alert or email everytime someone breathes.

--How this improves your life: you will get updates on people you truly care about and have less aggravation from wanting to argue with others. Less clutter in your email inbox. Seriously...if you weren't friends with them in school, are you friends with them now?

 

 

3. simplify your house.

A. Go through your house, room-by-room, and pull out five objects that you totally don't want or need from every room. Ask yourself when was the last time you used it. If it's more than six months, put it in a box, tape the box, and date it. In three months if you haven't gone into that box specifically to get one object, donate the box to goodwill without opening it.

B. offer cherished knick-knacks to those closest to you.

C. Ask yourself if you're really going to read those books again. Probably not. Most information is on the Internet, and books collect dust and powdery mold. So, list them on Half.com and buy some mailing envelopes. As you sell them, enjoy the empty spaces on your shelves.

D. Clear off horizontal surfaces.

--How this simplifies your life: it's easier to clean, and easier to find things, when you don't have to navigate around clutter.

 

 

4. simplify your closet

Go through your closet and make four piles: things that don't fit, things that fit but are out of season, and things that are in season and fit. Remove anything you haven't worn in a year for the fourth pile. Put the no fit and no wear piles in a box, as in step one. Put the rest back in your closet, with out of season clothes in the back. Do NOT get caught up in thr lost money. That money's already gone, so get rid of the closet clutter.

How this simplifies your life: It's easier to get dressed when you only have clothes that your wear and that fit to choose from.

Geeky simplifying reference-->

...

 

Posted with Blogsy

Day 3: like a racehorse.

Dear Diary,

"Let's do this another day," he said. Then he went for a about a six mile run, hilly trail run at a 9:30 pace, and it felt good. We went to the store and bought more celery, which we seem to go through pretty fast, a dn kale, berries, and other stuff. I was looking for a nice herbal tea. It's hard to find herbal teas without mint in them; what's up with that?

So it's the beginning day three. Yesterday, Baboo came home and said he felt good, energy problems, not really hungry, but....but, "i feel deprived." I know what he means. I've been thinking of popcorn al day. Wth truffle oil on it. Mmmmmm.

I feel Good. not great, but good. I met DP and SW Tri Gal at Einsteins yesteday, where the were giving out free bagels. Thanks for that. I had tea, and gave my bagel away. On the way home I pulled into the parking lot of the AA Super Buffet. Nobody would ever know, I said to myself. Then I sighed and drove back out of the parking lot and went home. I watched a whole bunch of documentaries on netflix while I cleaned. I love those little documentaries. I can feel the liberal hippie in me rising when I watch them. I'm all, oo, I'm gonna join a coop! I wanna raise chickens! I'm gonna march in a parade! Then I remember I can barely put together and maintain a training plan, and I get real.

Today, I started peeing. And peeing. And peeing. It's nearly clear, probably because I drink a glass of water between every two glasses of juice. I"m well-hydrated.

Then again, I'm a skeptic. I'm one of the people that don't seem to be affected by the Placebo effect, which of course to new-agers means that I canceled out product/process X by my lack of positivity. I'm one of the most positive people I know, so bite me. Of course, one of the secrets of my positivity is that I dump all my negative thoughts here, so don't be fooled.

So, Baboo and I broke the three day fast tonight. He said he was feeling a bit weak in his ruuning and for us, that’s a deal breaker. He lost about four pounds and I lost three. I got him turned into green tea for fasting days. I told him that for the break-fast I wanted protein, and lots of it. So, we went to the County Line and I had a steak and vegetable skewer. We talked about moving forward.

Baboo and I decided that based on our all reading we would follow a 5:2 fasting program. Fast two days, then eat normally five days, rinse, repeat. There's some research to support this method of intermittant fasting and being reasonable and beneficial. So, we're going to give it a shot. Fasting days will be Monday and Tuesday.

Of course, tomorrow is Monday. So another two days starts.

 

 

Posted with Blogsy

Day 2: saturday.

Dear Diary,

I'm not sure why I thought a weekend was a good place to start a fast. It's a stupid place to start a fast. I'm bored, and when I'm bored, I eat.

Last night was fine. I wasn't hungry. Baboo, however, said he had a "general feeling of suffering". I made him some broth. He declared the broth "awesome". He declined eating, and wanted to go one more day. Then he fell asleep in the chair at 6:30. I imagine that part of his tiredness yesterday comes from the fact that he didn't have any caffeine, and he usually starts the day with, oh, about four cups of java. No, I'm not making that up. He blends it in a 1000 ml beaker I bought for him for that purpose, with 8 ounces of skim milk and protein powder.

I've doing some intermittant fasting for almost two months now, so I guess my body is used to it. Usually, I don't eat on Mondays. I also read that the worse your diet is, the worse the first few days are. I don't know if that's true, but my symptoms have been minimal. Baboo says his are too, but then he woke up with a headache, probably from lack of caffeine.

I tried to develop an eating disorder in high school. One of those stupid things teenage girls do, I guess. Before I under the anguish and frustration of actually having one, I was all, I wish that was my problem. I don't have the willpower for it. Purging is a lot of work. And deliberately tracking everything I eat and such...I am Lazy. Now, Binging, on the other hand, I'm all over it. I can put away food like nobody's business. But food restriction, and the rest, I guess it takes a certain personality type, maybe more type a-ish. I will often forget to eat, but when I think about it, I want to eat. and when I'm really ramping p the training, my car mysteriously steers towards tne nearest super buffet, where I consume mass quantities of chicken and seafood. those are my weakness. As for purging, well, never gonna happen. once it's it's eaten, it's eaten, let that shit go, man. I'm like Jeff Bridges in Tron you're really messing with my zen thing here....as also evidenced by my startling lack of placing in runs. I'm all, whatever.

So anyway. Last night Baboo said, with wide eyes, the broth was awesome. It is awesome. One of the things I read, and I can't remember where, is that some of the really crappy feelings from juicing fasts come from lack of sodium. Plus, it gives your taste buds a break. Juices are sweet. Not sugary, syrupy sweet, but sweetish. This was a surprise to me. Even the cruciferous vegetables are sweet when juiced.

I gave Baboo a large cup of green tea this morning, because he has guard duty, and some tea bags to take along with his kit.

I put a piece of chicken in my mouth and chewed it up and spit it out. I thought it would be satisfying. Nope. Mostly, I'm bored. I don't really feel hnger, which means I need to rexamine my relationship with food, I guess. Or clean my filthy house.

I got me some new Sarah Palin glasses. I personally have always loved how she dressed. Too bad about the room temperature IQ thing.

So....we're off to day 2. I have a 15 mile run/walk....maybe. This should be interesting. I wonder if putting a drop or two of truffle oil in my broth is cheating.

 

 

Posted with Blogsy

Juice fast: day 1

Dear Diary,

Last night, Baboo and I bought about $70 worth of kale, celery, strawberries, carrots, and other produce, and I juiced for about an hour to set us up for today.

8:00 am: Holy shit I'm already hungry. Maybe it's a psychological thing. Maybe. AND I'm cranky. Why do people drive 30 in a 40? Seriously, why? Is it because they're afraid of going downhill too fast? Parking brake stuck on? Some misguided attempt to save on brakes, gas, or help the rest of us slow down? This is, quite literally, a hazard when people in front of you start veering out of the way, and you're not quite sure why, and then all of the sudden you are nearly up the ass of a woman in a Subaru who is doing who knows what the eff. MOVE!!!

Interesting article: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/health-19112549

10 am. Okay, I'm not as hungry as I was before. Maybe that's an early morning thing. That seems to be a weak time for me. I've had a juice, and lots of water with MIA in it.

noon. I just had a cup of broth, my own little personalization in this experiment. I feel a bit of a headache coming on. I'm on track, so far, to what I'm supposed to be doing. So, to keep my mind busy during my lunch break, I calculate the calories in my juice: Strawberry Delight, 240 calories. "Jack's favorite", 270.

3:00, I feel pretty good, actually. Surprising. No more headache.

The big test for me will be TV watching. I like to munch. Maybe I'll munch on broth.

4:00 I'm about to head home. i sent an email to Baboo just now and asked how he was doing. When he gets home we'll decide just how "modified" this fast will be. I'm dreaming of a whole fried chicken. Or a whole rotisserie chicken. Think I"m making that up? I am a former binge-eater, my friend. I have sat in my car in the parking lot at Walmart and eaten a whole rotisserie chicken.

"Modified" fast, by the way, is the misnomer given by big babies like me to a process that is kind of fast-like, but without going full Ghandi.

Posted with Blogsy

Johnny come lately

Dear Diary,

Unlike the rest of the US who already saw the documentary Fat, Sick, and Nearly Dead, Sweet Baboo and I had it in out Netflix queue for over a year before watching it last weekend. Baboo was fascinated.

Hey, should we try this?

"Try this?" This, from a man who has nearly torn cabinets off the wall because of a hunger pang? I was suspicious. I finally asked him, later, why he wanted to try this.

Turns out he wants to 'make weight'. This is a throwback term from days of being an athlete...Baboo is in the Military and, at 6'1" his weight limit is 208 lbs. (I'm now officially to lazy to convert that to kg or stone, but Google will do it nicely if you type in, "hiw many stone is 200 pounds?") He's convinced that they mis-measured measured his height and he's actually 6' and thus, his weight limit is 200. Military members are given periodic fitness assessments, and getting high points on these is part of qualifying for promotion, or for some, continued stay in the military.

But he's solid, and I do mean solid, muscle. If you're overweight, then they 'tape' you, meaning that they measure your abdomen with a tape measure. As long as the abdomin-to-height ratio is acceptable, then you can be overweight. Baboo, however, is a perfectionist (hence myself, his Lovely Wife) and he was firm. I don't wanna be taped.

Also, he wants to drop about ten pounds, or more, to be faster. He wants to qualify for Boston again. I think he feels mildly cheated by the record insanely fucking hot year that was 2012. So now he's shooting for 2014.

Now, here's what's interesting. Himself hates vegetables. Haaaaates them. Did I say hates? He fucking LOATHES them. But, he insists that this is because of their texture, not necessarily their taste. He will eat the following vegetables in their whole form: peas, carrots, green beans, beets, and corn.

Corn is a grain, I pointed out.

He feels that he might be able to stand the juice.

So, last Sunday, while the rest of the US was chowing on wings and beer, we parked directly in front of my favorite cookery store (and I am telling you, shopping during the Stupor Bowl is the BOMB. The streets are empty, the parking lots are empty, and there were more store employees than customers. I wish every weekend was the Stupor Bowl; my general dislike of crowds and well, let's face it people would be mollified while people sat in their wall-e chairs and gazed straight ahead)

Ahem. Anyway.

<-- We got this. I read through many, many reviews of juicers on Amazon before selecting this. They had to search long and hard for this one at the store, being as it was the lowest-priced one there. It's the Breville 850 watt model with variable speed. It takes up an impressive amount of counter-space, and other than a home espresso machine, may quite possibly be the messiest thing I've ever used. But it does a good job juicing. It is a centrifugal type juicer. Putists will insist that it raises the temperature and destroys important enzymes, to which I have found that 1) according to the company it does, indeed, raise the temperature two whole degrees Farenheit, and 2) there are absolutely no studies about enzymes being destroyed. It's a weak hypothesis, at best.

As I gazed upon it sitting on the counter, I realized, I now officially old. -er. All i need now is the large divided pill box full of supplements and oh shit wait, I already have that.

I read. And read. And read. When considering this type of thing, one has to wade through a lot of quasi-scientific new age (I'm not even bothing to capitalize that) bullshit. I also consulted with one of my work collegues, who is a DO and a psychiatrist.

I told Baboo we would start with a three-day fast, and see how it goes, starting Friday morning. This weekend he will have guard duty, which will keep him busy and keep his mind off eating. I am also doing this, because apparently it's difficult to do a juice fast if your partner is in the next room frying chicken, er, I mean sauteeing chicken. Whatever.

Purists will also insist that there should be NO SODIUM and NO CAFFEINE. I posit that this is a good idea for people who have the luxury of fasting while lying in bed all day. But it gave me an idea: Baboo starts off his day wuth about 4 to 6 cuos of coffee. I'd like to break that cycle.

Day 1: Here are the rules, which I emailed to Baboo at work and to his personal email:

8 ounces of juice, (recipes to follow) consumed at 9, 11, 1, and 3.

8 ounces of water at 8, 10, 12, 2, and 4.

8 ounces of broth with plenty of sodium at noon and maybe later in the afternoon if you get hungry.

Evening, to be determined.

Now, devotees of the Juicing Lifestyle insist that the juice be made and consumed within the same time-frame. it oxidizes, they insist.

I don't know where these people work, but I don't want them in my office, which is on a locked psychiatric unit and where coworkers take a dim view of loud machinery spewing bits of vegetable matter hither and yon.

So, I made the juices the night before, and froze them, in 20 ounce containers -->

I didn't freeze the morning juice, which is thus:

--1 cup of strawberries

--3 large carrots

--1 small zuchinni

--4 celery stalks

--1 medium granny smith apple

I have to say, this was pretty damned good. I like this juice. It made two cups, and that was breakfast.

I was warned, in my reading, against eating too much fruit, which has a ton of sugar in it. A little fruit is good, though, because of the high water content and because it makes the juices more palatable.

So, here is mine ands Baboo's juicing fast kit for the day:

The caraf in the middle has the morning strawberry mix in it.

Note the spoon, broth base, and plastic knives--the plastic knives are for chipping away at at the iced juices. They are much better when fresh, and when cold.

It's 6 am on day 1.

Ready?

Here we go...

 

 

 

 

Posted with Blogsy

Here in 2013...I'm the new me.

Dear Diary,

I have a very funky sort of giraff patterened bra from Victoria Secret that I love, and every now and then I get it from the back of my drawer and I ask myself, why, this is an awesome bra; why don,t I ever wear it? Then I put it on, get dressed and go to work. About 9 am, I start to feel the prickly spot in the seam of the bra near the top of my right breast. It rubs, and irritates, and no matter how bright the light i have never been able to see what it is that is that IS STICKING ME THE RIGHT TIT AND HOLY CRAP WHAT THE HELL IS THAT AND WHY CAN'T I SEE IT, IT FEELS LIKE A CACTUS NEEDLE!! Eventually I get a bandaid to cover the irritated spot and then I take o.ff the bra, and then I think, I can't give a dirty bra to goodwill. so I wash it, then I forget that it is EVIL. I fold it neatly, and put it in the back of the drawer. Why, I don't know. Probably because it's pretty, it was expensive, and barely used.

Today, I put it in the Goodwill bag. Finally. Maybe someone else can figure out what is wrong and fix it. I'm not putting myself through that any more. I sold four books so far this month. I am $26 richer and have freed up at much space.

Eight years ago I started this blog. I was about to turn forty, and I weighed 194 lbs. All I wanted was to be able to get to the top of a flight of stairs without swearing. I never planned to do a 62 miles run, much less and Ironman.

Three months ago, I tried a low- carb diet and it was a disaster. Mostly, I just couldn't stick it out past the first two weeks of fatigue and headaches. Still, there was something about it that just made sense. I decided to try it again, but only after lots of reading. I'm not a sheep. so, There are lots of variations, ranging from Atkins to Paleo. I've decided to make decisions, based on what I know I like among healthy foods.

First, i like things that are crispy and breaded. After some checking and experimenting, I've decided that this should just be an occasional treat. I also found that I can substitute nut/parmesan mixtures, and mashed fried pork skins AND YES PORK SKINS DON'T MAKE THAT BANJO NOISE AT ME can be used instead. But there's more to a lifestyle than gimmicks and substitutions.

I have been reading "why we are fat and what to do about it" or something like that. I have to admit it's interesting. Ten years ago when I first heard of low carb diets the medical establishment was very loud in warning people away from them. They pictured them as the bacon and eggs diet. Now, I've noticed, they are less critical. There are some cautionary points, to be sure. But mostly they have grudgingly accepted that this might possibly be something worth noting.

So, Ive been experimenting. Trying to come up with my own way. I've been eating only whole grains, and limited carbs outside of those I can get from vegetables. And I eat lots of vegetables. Butter is nice, but I've been moving my fat intake over to canola and olive oils. I don't pay much attention to it, otherwise. Work lunch is usually a heeyouge salad with a hard-boiled egg, maybe some bacon pieces or cheese, artichoke hearts, olives, tomatoes. My dressing is balsamic vinegar. I eat a lot of fish, usually at lunch. I avoid crap carbs. My carbs mean something. So there's that.

In March, I will be 48. Holy shit, I'm pushing FUCKING FIFTY. Since I started my blog i've gone through menopause, my thyroid has crashed, all my kids have left home, I've changed careers, and moved into what we plan is our last home, ever. I've spent twenty hours on my feet. i've done three 62-mile runs. Nothing scares me any more...I'm the new me.

But I'm rambling. I need new goals. I've proven I can run, swim, bike, etc. now, I've decided, it's not enough to finish. I want to be lighter, and faster. I want to be less attached to my stuff. I will be writing about things that may not have anything to do with either of those.

This is my brain dump. Or brain toilet, as DP might say.

Some short-term goals:

• Get to 145 lbs, or size 8, and stay there. It's easier to run that way. I have to run. It keeps me happy.
• Do one more marathon in five more states

Some longer-term goals:

• Qualify for Boston.
• Do a hundred-miler.
• Do a marathon in all fifty states.
• Maybe do one more Ironman?
• Learn to surf.

Maybe some other stuff. I'm at peace now. i've spent the last eight years burning through all my dark thoughts, working through all my sadness and worries. Now there's jus me, and the future.

 

I wonder what else I can do?

 

...

 

Posted with Blogsy