Closer to hell. But faster.

Dear Diary, 

Today, I did the 15 mile run at the Pajarito Trail festival.

Last year, I did the Pajarito trail run, a 15 mile bit of heaven that I recall thoroughly enjoyed, and blogged about, here: http://athenadiaries.blogspot.com/2009/10/closer-to-god-pajalito-trail-fest-race.html.  The title of that post was "Closer to God".

I also took pictures.  I'm going to re-use those pictures because, well, it's a mountain.  Not much changes.  Plus, I didn't stop to take any.  For reasons that will be explained, in time.


Valles Caldera from 10,000 feet.





The race starts in a ski resort at 9200 feet, and climbs
up to over 10,000 feet in the first couple miles, which is where this picture was taken.





Fantastic aid stations, wonderful volunteers, very well run.

Here's the problem.  I don't recall last year tripping over every fuc#ing root and stepping on every single loose fuc#ing rock.  I think they got a lot of rain, and it washed a lot of loose rock down.

The result, was that I tripped and went face-down, HARD, at mile 0.75.

I played leapfrog with a group of folks, and was very proud to chick one youngish-looking guy, only to watch them all peel off and head toward the 10K finish.  After this, I was alone.  Very, very alone.

The rest of the run was me tripping over everything you could trip on, letting loose with profanities, and then apologizing to the  family and their small children that were, inevitably, around the corner.

Forget about scenery. Forget about pictures. I had to keep eyes down.  The race itself, by the way, had almost no flat spots.  Just steep uphills and downhills, covered with loose rock.  There was no stepping around it.

If you do this race, I recommend training by having close friends place trip wires at hidden and random intervals on your favorite trail.  Then put baseballs and golf balls on a flight of stairs and run up and down. 

This is me last year.  

My finishing time: 4:20.

This is me this year.


My finishing time: 3:53.

This year, for being the last place finisher, they gave me a jar of honey.

I looooove honey.  I intend to boil it, though, or something. It's raw, and I'm not into botulism.

Now, last year, I reported that my last place finisher prize was a pair of gloves. Baboo had them waiting for me when I finished.


I found out today that this was a lie.

Apparently last year, the race people reneged on the last place finisher prize.  Baboo won the gloves in a raffle, and then made up the story about the prize because he thought that I deserved something for how hard I worked.

So I bet you can guess what the real prize is.  It's not a jar of honey.  Do I have to say it?  I bet I don't.

My prize finished a lot faster this year, too.  But I'll let him tell about it.

...

In Which I Are Grateful.

I'm grateful that it is raining outside; it's a nice, steady soaking rain that'll help the plants during the dry winter ahead.

I'll be grateful when it stops.

I'm grateful for keys that don't break off in locks.

I'm grateful for engines that start.

I'm grateful for light switches that, when flipped, bring light into the room.

I'm grateful for second chances.

And third.

And, well, fourth ones.

I'm grateful for my kids, and for the time I got to spend raising them, and the lessons I've learned from that.

I'm grateful that they're all pretty much independently living their own lives now.

I'm grateful for our cats.

Even Lily, the really noisy bossy one.

I'm grateful for my friends who may not always agree with me but continue to be my friends, nonetheless.

I'm grateful that, actually, off the top of my head, I can't think of any enemies.

I'm grateful for all the years that I got to spend knowing my mom and dad. I miss them. I've seen some pretty awful parenting and I'm grateful that I was raised by parents who taught me some pretty darned important stuff, like how to work hard, be smart, have fun, and love well.

I'm grateful for the Baboo family who is my family now.

I'm grateful for my feet.

Even the one with the big, black toenail.

I'm grateful for all the miles I've traveled on my feet.

I'm grateful for hills.

I'm grateful for flat, open spaces.

I'm grateful for my new career.

I'm grateful for my favorite carpool partner, who is the best of all partners in everything, ever.

I'm grateful for coffee.

And lovely, flavored coffee syrups.

I'm grateful for sweet.

I'm grateful for salty.

I'm grateful for all of it.

I'm just, well, grateful.

Happy Thanksgiving!

~~~

July 1st.

Happy Anniversary, Sweet Baboo:

He who is my finder of lost things, and buyer of things sparkly and perfumey, and (and now, buyer of all things that for me that help me go fast ) has put up with me for eight years now.
That's no small feat, believe you me.

Right now, he's listening to "Polonaise" with great enjoyment. When I hear it, I think of BugsBunny. Some of you know what I'm talkin' about. Yeah. You do.

I lose my stuff constantly. He finds what he can, and replaces and insures the rest.

He's very neat, and tidy. I'm, well, not.

He's quiet, calm. I'm noisy. Frantic.

Yet somehow, it works, and it works very well.

Here's last year's anniversary post. Longer. Mushier. Uncut.

...

Iron father's day.

9 years ago on April 2nd, 1999, my front door opened up to my date for the evening. It was my first date with Sweet Baboo.

And guess who answered the door?
Oh, no--not I.
It was three grubby kids, ranging in ages from 7 to 13. And, they were extra grubby that day, I promise.

Sweet Baboo had decided at a young age not to have children. He got a lot of family pressure, but he knew himself; what he wanted from life, and his own limits.

And there he was. On my front porch.

And there I was.

And there they were.

Me.

Him.

Them.

As the saying goes, life is what happens when you make other plans. Sweet Baboo knew about the kids before coming to pick me up. He weighed the options, and decided I was worth getting to know. I will tell you that SB is picky; even Ma Baboo warned me about this. He doesn't like messes, or loud people, or inconsistent behavior. But he figured that, eventually, the kids would grow up and start lives of their own, and then he would have me all to himself.

Less than a month later, he loaded a third-grade class into the back of his very clean station wagon and took them to McDonald's for a birthday party. When we took them all home to their parents in a small, rural town, most could not tell us where they lived. We drove around, hoping they would see familiar landmarks.
It's the blue house. It's by my grandmas. oh, there's a silo, too. And some cows.

In brief, I'll mention that there were no visitations, calls, or communication from Mini-baboo's birth father. He was not involved. Thus, there were no breaks from parenting for Sweet Baboo.
And, one by one, the kids grew up and left, except for the youngest: Mini-baboo.

From the beginning, Mini-baboo, age 8, was resistant to Sweet's attempts to set limits on his behavior. I am, I will admit, too easy on my kids. I had "single mother guilt" .

But Sweet Baboo is a rock. When Mini-baboo wanted Blue hair, I wavered; Sweet Baboo said, "No." When Mini wanted to wear lots and lots of hair gel, until his hair was white with it, Sweet grabbed the Wal clippers and performed his first "fade" haircut perfectly. I forgot when someone was grounded. Sweet Baboo always remembered. Calm, unwavering, Baboo was the rock that Mini-baboo flung himself against in an attempt to break every rule.

Many a time Sweet had to be the heavy--the unpopular one. The one that Mini railed against. Firm. Setting the limits that I was too wishy-washy to set.

Sweet-baboo voluntarily became responsible for school wardrobes, because whenever I did it, Mini would wind up with very baggy pants and shirts that are too big. ('Cus Mini-Baboo, well, he's chill like that.)

I was the one Mini complained to.

Sweet Baboo weathered the storm of the teenage hormone surge, food hoarding, bad hygene and wet socks stuffed into the couch about which Mini would say, wide-eyed, I have no idea how those got there.

I was the one that Sweet Baboo complained to.

Eventually, Mini-baboo asked for his last name to be changed legally to Sweet's. Then, gradually stopped fighting us on other things. It wouldn't have happened without Sweet the Immovable. He stopped fighting over clothes. Started asking for regular hair cuts from Sweet Baboo. He Joined Marine Corps JROTC.
He made friends who, for the most part, had parents that set limits, like we did.

Eventually, his grades came up. He stopped getting into trouble. Not perfect. But reasonable.

It would not have happened without Sweet Baboo.

Next year on Father's day that last, youngest kiddo will have graduated and moved on. Sweet Baboo's wait will be over: he'll finally have me all to himself. He worked hard for it.

Sweet Baboo did, deliberately and thoughtfully, what many men have done without much much thought: He became a Dad, not just simply fathered a child.
He didn't have to. He chose to.

Happy Father's Day, Sweet Baboo I love you.

...

Send Sweet Baboo your best energy.

I talked with Sweet Baboo last night. He drove the bike course, and said that it was pretty hilly. 112 miles of hills. Silverman is apparently supposed to be the toughest Ironman course in the world. He slept well and long on Friday and was hitting the sack early last night when I talked to him. He's planning on having a long day of hard work tomorrow, but he feels really good. He's got no aches or pains, no sniffles, none of the "pre race hypochondria." He's ready.


He's worked for it, too. For the past 2-3 months he's done century rides every weekend, and during October those were extremely hilly, up here at a mile above sea level. He's gotten all his long runs in including lots of hilly runs. He's been at the gym when it opens at least three times a week, getting in his 3000-4000 meter swims.

His legs, especially his upper legs, look like trees. Not saplings. Trees.


It would be an understatement to say that I'm proud of him. When I met him he was an earnest guy with a great smile who flew through college from his freshman year to his final year of doctoral coursework in 6 years.

However, taking 5 and 6 classes a semester while working took its toll - he'd had to neglect his own health. He'd gotten heavy and with that came discouragement and no small amount of self-loathing.


Sweet Baboo has never been anyone to do things "sorta". When he does them, they are done fully and robustly, and involve thorough preparation and planning. I mentioned how hard he worked in college. Before that he was in the Marines for 6 years, and after meeting me, he courted me with the same determination. Once his mind is made up, that's it, there's just the steady, quiet and dogged effort until the goal is reached. When the job gets done, it's done completely, with excellent results.

He also doesn't take compliments very well. When I tell him what a great husband he is, there's an awkward silence, and then he says something like, "well, that's as it should be." Now he has a new compliment he's getting used to; it goes something like this: YOWSA. The other day, I told him, "Hey, nice a$$." I think he blushed.


Living with the Baboo is always an adventure. We didn't just take up camping for a few months, we were completely outfitted from REI and hiked up mountains. We didn't just get a row boat, he carefully researched just the right two-man kayak so that sometime in the not-too-distant future, we could do an adventure race, or something.

That's right. Adventure race. Stay tuned.

--> See that sky behind him? That's an approaching storm. He paddled until the oar broke to get us to shore.

In some ways I suppose we compliment each other, his intensity and drive help offset my laid-back, " hey, 'tsall good! attitude" and vice versa.

It's no surprise that while some guys are losing weight by dieting and running 1-2 times a week, other are doing a bit of weighlifting, that my husband is doing the Silverman, his fourth Iron distance triathlon in 14 months.
I'm proud to know him, and not just because he's an Ironman. He's my best friend. He just also happens to be my husband. Silverman doesn't have live athlete tracking, so I'll go about my day and check the website occasionally to see if anything's been posted. Meanwhile, send good thoughts and well-wishes his way!


I've got nothing to give him for this. I can't wish that I could give him my legs or strength, because he's much stronger than I. All I can do is blow a kiss toward Henderson, Nevada.

Here's a description of the course: http://www.silvermannv.com/race_details/full_course_description.php

Bike profile:

Run profile:

And now, I'm headed out for my long run. We'll see if my tendon is healing or not.

...

In which I run up a mountain and think mushy thoughts.

So last Thursday last me and herself the Pirate, went with members of the Albuquerque roadrunners for a run up the side of a mountain.
Oh, and her beloved took a picture of us to prove that she is real. That's herself, on the left.

Here's the Garmin readout (below) of my run, which began at 8500 feet. Click on it to see the elevations.

I made and broke lots of deals with myself on this run.

Hmmm. Looks steep. I'll just jog it. Umm, okay, I'll jog the flats. Um, okay, I'll hike it. Energetically.

Eventually it just became a hike up, jogging down.
I was out of breath, sweaty, tired, slightly dizzy from the altitude, and loving every moment of it. I gotta do this more often! The views were spactacular.

the Pirate was of course far ahead of me, as was the rest of the pack. Alone, I started thinking, for some reason, about how much my life has changed.

Ten years ago, I was in an unhappy relationship that was about to end abuptly, after which and I would spend a year wallowing in self pity and wine while seeing a counselor.

Ten years ago I had not even met Sweet Baboo. He was a teaching assistant at my college. I'd just started grad school, and would soon begin a graduate assistantship in the faculty development center. I settled comfortably into my nickname, working on computers, writing interactive tutorials, authoring web pages, and teaching technology classes. In a little over a year this psychology graduate assistant, flipping his too-long hair out of his eyes, would be very friendly while I, the angry divorcee, would ignore him.

On the trail, I crossed ski slopes where the wind rushed at me. It was 90 degrees below, but in the sixties on the mountain. Time to go back down now.

A decade ago, if you'd have told me I'd be running 1000 feet up the side of a mountain, I'd have laughed my ass off. Then I'd have taken a puff off my cigarette, and offered to share my "trash nachos" with you, a charming concoction involving as much cheese as it possible over cheap greasy chips and whatever embellishments are availble...Surimi, leftover pork loin, whatever.

Because, in my view at the time, sitting on the couch, smoking cigarettes, and eating junk was much safer than running up the side of a mountain.

I hit the switchback flats and jogged them, and the hit a steeper downhill, stepping gently to avoid turning my ankle on the loose rocks. Hummingbirds shot by me.

Ten years ago when I attended weddings I was admonished to behave. It was well-known some that I was just a bit bitter, and thought marriage was a crock, having had more than one of them fail. This would present as my signature sardonic wit, given enough alcohol and a very solemn occasion. Moreover, I thought most men were perfectly delightful until one married them, and then, poof! Overnight they turned into (ugh) HUSBANDS.

(Even more frightening,
I worried some flaw of mine made them turn bad.)


But then almost nine years ago, I met Sweet Baboo, and all that changed.

← Here's a photo of us when we were dating.

Our first few months would be a muddled long-distance relationship and trying to figure out how to get a handle on a "normal" relationship which a "normal" person.

After nearly two years of dating, we merged: the nervous psychologist and the anxious divorcee and the three young kids.

That was July 1, 2000. Seven years ago.

I was terrified that day. What would happen? Would I work my voodoo magic and turn another perfectly normal man into a jerk?

So far, Sweet Baboo has not turned into a toad. He's still my hero, the terrific man I married. He makes me feel safe and loved and appreciated. It never ends.

The only time I've been scared since that day was right before my first open water swim.

Here's a wedding photo. →

Proving that anything's possible.

I can run up a mountain.

And live happily ever after.

Happiness is in all our grasps. All we have to do is close our eyes, take a deep breath, and jump in the water.

Or run up the trail.

Or whatever.

Happy anniversary, Sweet baboo.

XOXOXOX

Love, your GeekGirl.

...

Tri-ing on mother's day

I lost my mom on November 30th, 1998 and there's not a single solitary day that goes by that I don't miss her.

She was diagnosed in 1990. She'd spent nearly 30 years morbidly obese. She loved to cook, and loved to eat, and her choice of foods was tragic. She absolutely would not exercise. After losing 100 pounds on a liquid diet, her heart had not reduced in size like the rest of her, and that's when it was diagnosed. Her Grandmother, also very overweight, also died of the same disease.

Idiopathtic dilated cardiomyopathy means, "you're heart's enlarged, and we don't know why."

It means, "you need a new heart."

It means, "there's a 75% chance you'll die in the next five years."

Watching your mother die is mile 21 of a marathon that won't end. The overwhelming sadness as her life slips away is unbearable. When she slipped into a coma the day after Thanksgiving, her heart was pumping 11% of its normal capacity. She died the following Monday, aged of 61.

First, her heartrate soared up to around 200 bpm, and then it stopped. Just. Stopped.

My father, her husband of 43 years, was so grief-stricken I had to pick him up twice. He actually fell down from grief; he hadn't really thought she'd actually go and die on him. He hung around for a while, until this past Christmas, and then he just got tired of being alone.

There are those times when I'm extremely resentful that she didn't take care of herself better. That sounds awful, doesn't it? But grief is a very, very selfish emotion.

My mom will never to see her grandchildren graduate from high school. She never got to meet my Sweet Baboo. She never got to see me get my life together, settle down, and become a teacher. She never got to see me become a runner and a triathlete. She was a talented, professional artist, and loved to take pictures from which she would paint.

I'll never see her at a finish line with her Minolta, snapping away, laughing at my folly.

It's in her memory that I have decided to make the Jay Bensen Triathlon in Albuquerque my annual mother's day celebration.

In her memory I will not become morbidly obese, I will not leave my children motherless too young; I will not leave my Sweet Baboo grief-sticken, haunted, and struggling to cope with being alone. In her memory I will run, bike, and swim on the second Sunday of May.

I don't mean this to be a somber as it sounds. Take care of yourselves, if not for you, then for your loved ones, and have a Happy Mother's Day.

...

For Ruth

You asked a question recently that I can't answer, yet.

Why would anyone do an IronMan more than once?

I can't answer that, yet, but I can answer some questions leading up to it, and I can put it out there for those who are training for their next Ironman to answer. I suspect, as a mother myself, you might even be a bit disappointed that I don't just put my foot down with Your Boy, and say, "No More" after what happened in Arizona.
Ruth, I might as well tell Sweet Baboo not to breathe. I have put my foot down before, in matters of conscience and safety. I suppose I could do it now, but you and I both know we'd have a very unhappy Baboo. Plus, it would be kind of hypocritical for me to do that, since, you know, I'm doing these too...

I once asked the question, "Why anyone want to do this more than once?" after I watched Sweet Baboo come across the finish at his first sprint triathlon, red-faced, panting, completely out of breath and largely untrained, I figured that would be the end of it. I feared it. But he was high. Then when I started doing them, I learned why.

Part of it is doing something that most people would never conceive of doing. Part of it is the endorphins. For others, at each finish line some poor judgement or mistake from the past gets hazy, and voices in our head that whisper "fat," or "lazy," or "worthless" or worse, are silenced. Each finish line perhaps, negates some earlier thing that never got finished.

So then you, the triathlete, are hooked. And you're in a community. People are pulling for you. They call out your name, and you feel that they care about you finishing. The thought you had when viewing a sprint distance, "Hey, I think maybe I could do one of those, become the thought you have when you watch people finish an Olympic Distance. "But I'm pretty sure I'd only do it once."

So then, you do your first Olympic. And it's hard. It takes you 2 or 3 hours or more, if you're me, but you finish. Another finish line. Another T-shirt. Another sense of accomplishment that leaves you high. Another invisible athletic disploma. No matter what happens after this, you've done something that nobody can ever take away.

Part of it is a goal. Sometimes exercising can be a bit monotonous, but now, training for an event, well, then there's an end point, right? Something to accomplish. Another piece of craziness that, most people say, "I would NEVER do,"

I've said that before. I've said it while training for difficult sprints. "I'm pretty sure that I'd never want to do an Olympic." and then I decided to train for one. I entered the water terrified, and crossed the finish line alone, last, and exhausted, thinking, "That was too hard. I'd never be interested in doing a half iron" Then, sat in the lake and drank a cold beer. Then I did three Olympics, and each one got just a bit easier. Not faster, mind you, but easier.

Then, my brain whisperied, "if you actually train more, they get easier."

With good training comes eaiser races and good times. It's you and the sun and the bike and your footsteps (and sometimes the snow and the wind and the rain and the bugs) You're alone with your thoughts and your breathing but you're with others. The afterglow is what does it for me. Every finish line is followed by, "Cross that one off. That one's done."

Then, I saw people finishing a half iron, and I thought, "I think I could do that, but I'd only do it once. And I'm pretty sure that I'd never want to do an Ironman" When I finished my first half iron, I cried, and was the medical tent for dehydration, and didn't think I'd want to do another one again.

I did my second one a month later. It was easier. I learned. The endorphins kicked in, afterwards, like they always do, and I was high. I ate two dinners and slept hard, and then I woke up the next day and started thinking, "I could go the distance. I could do an IronMan. But I'd only do it once."

Maybe it's something to prove. For most of us, though, I suspect the race is with ourselves. Sometimes it's against others, sometimes it's against officials pulling us from the course at the cutoff. But it's always with our selves, putting away the little voice that says, "Relax. Sit down. Have some cold tea. Why do this?"

But none of this necessarily answers your question. At this point in time, as I contemplate my first ironman, it's easy for me to say I'd only do it once, just like I did all the others. But even as I've started training, I've already amended that to, "I'll do iron distance races with generous cutoffs, but I'll only do one official IronMan."

But see, I said that before, about sprints, olympics, half-irons, and marathons, and I've already planned on doing more of those. So who knows how far I'll go.

I started writing this by saying that I can't really answer your question, Why Would Anyone Do An Ironman Than Once? I can't, because I haven't done my first Ironman yet. So for you, for your question, I thought I would put it out there to the triathlon community.

So, here it is, triathletes.

This is for Ruth, a worried and puzzled mom who loves Her Boy, Sweet Baboo, and worries for his safety. She knows how brutal the winds were at Arizona, and she knows about him being in the medical tent. If you, in the triathlon blogging community, are currently complemplating or training for your Nth Iron distance race, tell her:

Why Would Anyone Do An Ironman Than Once?

...

What good kitties do after an Ironman.

Sweet Baboo arrived home yesterday; he got up at 8 am the day after the race and drove from Tempe to Albuquerque, tired, but happy to be done, to have done, and be home.

He checked his email.

He got some food.

And then, he slept. For about 10 hours.

...

He's done!

Sweet Baboo just crossed the finish line. I talked to several people still there while he was out on the run course, and they said the wind was brutal, gusting up to 30 mph. I'm sure he'll write about it soon!
Now, where can I get one of those T-shirts, you know the ones, "My husband is an IronMan?"

I'm so proud of him. I know from his time splits that he was hurtin' when he got to the run portion, but he never quit. He never does.

Things I just happen to know today.

1. If you take, oh, say, a MONTH off most running, it will Slow Your Ass Down. (Yeah, I know. DUH. but sometimes I just have to learn things for myself.)

2. The strawberries I bought on Thursday went and got themselves LOST. I know this because I went looking for them after doing my LSR this morning. When I asked mini-Baboo, he said he "FOUND" them. In the refrigerator. Then he asked me if he could use the Internet.

That happens a lot. Things getting lost, and then "found," by mini-Baboo, all right where I last last left them. For Pirate, it will happen twice as often. Bwahahahahah.

3. It takes me much longer to get ready for my long run when Sweet Baboo isn't here to say things like, "do you have your gels? your inhaler? your water? your watch?" etc.

4. Sweet Baboo, as I write this, is well on his way to not only be one of the Greater Sweet Baboos, but one of the Greater Sweet Iron Baboos. He finished his swim in 1:19:57. Bib#1184. Of course, he's already done an iron distance triathlon, but as several people have reminded him, he isn't a 'real' ironman because he hasn't finished a 'real' IronMan.

(WhatEVER)

5. I am now officially insanely jealous of Pirate, because she's in the midst of pimping her training bike with a pink powder finish. I will not and cannot live in such a jealous state, so I'm going to pimp my commuter. I thinking pink with black polka dots, or black with pink polkadots. And a silly plastic basket with flowers for the front. And maybe streamers. And one of those horns you squeeze.

6. The Baboo and I have decided not to move to San Antonio after all, partly because after spending two days threshing 5 acres in March temperatures, Baboo started wondering what it would be like to thresh fifteen acres. In July. When he's sixty.

Instead we're searching Albuquerque for our empty-nest nest. When Mini-baboo, the youngest of the baboos, graduates in 2009, our house will be far too large, and we're pretty desperate to get out of Rio Rancho and move into Albuquerque.

Lost item of the day: the USB network adapter I bought for Mini-baboo's computer. Some small items I should never be allowed to touch.

Or, there should be a way for me to call them, like I do my cell phone when I can't find it.

...

Addendum.

In all fairness I don't think I've ever done a good enough job of revealing why Sweet Baboo gets that nickname instead of some other less sweet and fanciful name.

As well, inferences were made by another, who will not be identified, that Sweet Baboo is spoiled. I would be remiss to allow this to continue to remain in anyone's mind for very long.

Nor would it be fair for me to completely blame forgetfulness on Ironman training, particularly since I would like to announce publicly that the Baboo apparently did NOT forget me but instead was waiting for the weekend, at which point he purchased for me many birthday items of spring clothing that I was sorely wishing to have, having donated all my very old XL spring clothing to Goodwill last fall. (By the way, I'm happy to report that, in most aspects, my ass is now considered, at least by the clothing industry, to be medium-sized) But I digress.




The following is the list of Sweet Baboo's responsibilities, which is to say, these are the things that I miss when he is in his heavy training day fog:

• Launderer and clothes washer
• vacumer
• buyer of all things sparkly
• buyer of most things perfumey
• finder of My Lost Stuff
• Replacer of my Lost Stuff that Cannot Be Found
• bill-payer
• junk-mail shredder
• pizza orderer
• Idea man for fun ideas of what to do now
• check-book balancer
• movie picker (most of the time)
• driver
• travel route planner and hotel reservations maker
• chief bread-winner
• scraper of all windshields icy
• fish feeder
• self-esteem booster
• investigator of future athletic gear purchases
• reminder of Things I Have Forgotten
• difficult jar and bottle opener
• getter of all things High and Out of My Reach
• main disciplinarian
  and of course: eye candy.

In any case, it is precisely because the Baboo handles so much of life's niceties and removes the unpleasantries from my awareness that I do notice when he gets distracted. 99% of the time, I wonder through life in a nice little bubble knowing that there is insurance, triple-A, and a cell phone to protect me. I know the car will start, the lights will come on, the water will run, and the heat or a/c will work.

In my pre-Baboo life these things were taken care of by me and, I must say, not very well, either. I am, shall we say, a bit scattered at times. On more than one occasion the insurance lapsed and I couldn't afford my asthma medicine and the lights didn't come on because I forgot to pay the electric bill or I ran out of heating fuel and had to burn wood. When the electricity was cut off I would tell the kids we having a magic comping adventure...in the house. Anyway, all that is behind me now, thanks to Sweet Baboo. As a result, I have two periods in my life: PSB (pre-sweet baboo) and SSB (since sweet baboo).

And so for him I will cook large pots of food and try to have them ready as soon as is reasonably possible so that he doesn't have to start chewing on his clothes or eat one of the cats, and hug and kiss him no matter how sweaty he is. This summer I start my training, I'll be off work so I'll cook a lot in advance so that there's lots of food around for both of us so that we can both wonder about in a fog. Most of all, though, I'll make sure I can do what I can so that he can continue to hurl himself pell-mell through the world of ultra-endurance whatever, since it makes him happy. A happy sweet Baboo is the best sweet Baboo of all.

...<3