I'm fat, i love candy corns, and I still hate cycling.

Dear Diary,

13. My weight loss continues, unbelievably. I was at 166 before MCM, and I'm at 167 now. That's 8 pounds down from September, and considering that I spent 10 days on the road, eating takeout, is not bad at all.

12. Inexplicably, Tanita fancypants scale says I gained a percentage of bodyfat. Because it is stupid, and hates me. It says I am 33% fat. Yes. Thank you, Tanita, for telling me that one third of my body is pure lard.

Going....

No.

11. HAVING SAID THAT...I started my new training plan last week, and ran EVERY SINGLE MILES IN IT. BOOYAH!!!

10. I'm still trying to work out Ironman training. The last time i did an Ironman I was a teacher. I left work at 3:00--the kids left at 2:25 and they made us stay for another 30 minutes, i don't know why...maybe so we wouldn't embarass them by passing the kids as we sprinted for our cars. It also meant I was free June and July for full training.

9. By the way, I love candy corns, did I mention? I savor them; it’s impossible for me to eat a candy corn all at once. When given a handful of them I nibble off all the tips on all of them, and then the middles, saving the yellow bottom butts for last, because that’s the best-tasting part. DON’TLOOKATMEINTHATTONEOFVOICE you know it’s true.

No, no, no.

...going...

8. I estimate that one serving (19 pieces) takes about 15 minutes of running to burn off. It’s totally worth it, IMHO.

7. FURTHERMORE. It’s also true that they taste better when they belong to someone else. I never buy candy corns; I’m satisfied to dip into the giant bowl they keep this time of year on the executive meeting table. Am *I* an executive? No. But that’s beside the point. Purloined candy corns are always better.

6. Now, being a purist, I do not eat oddly flavored candy corns. I also do not eat things that claim to be candy corn-flavored. I do not burn candy-corn candles.I will, however, tolerate mellow-cream pumpkins. They taste just like the yellow butts on candy corns. I can barely tolerate wrongly-colored ones, but as as they are properly flavored, I can close my eyes.

That's really all i have to say about candy corns.

...gone.

5. For the life of me I cannot figure out how to edit my blogger template on my ipad. If I could, I would change my upcoming races: Honolulu Marathon, The Dual trail marathon in Wichita Falls, Texas; possibly Three Days of Syllamo, Sharkfest 2014, Big Basin run, and Ironman Boulder.

4. Boulder, by the way, is a full Ironman. There seems to be a plethora of races where they say, YOU ARE AN IRONMAN and they're only half irons. This one is a full. I don't know why that should matter to me; but it does. The way I figure is, if the sun isn't sinking or set when I finish, I didn't do a full, the end.

3. My last one was five years ago. And yes, I still hate cycling. Much. I tolerate it in triathlon because I figure that it's the bridge between two things i love: swimming and jogging. The bike is my weakness, and it's not like Boulder is flat, right? God, I hate cycling. I hate feeling like people are trying to kill me. I hate evertime I've wiped out. I hated every time I got a flat and my race was over. I hate my ass hurting and my back and neck and shoulders gettng stiff.

2. DreadPirate and others have said to me, at times, if you did it more often you'd like it more. I challenge them to pick something they truly, truly despise and use that same logic. By that rule:

• If you ate (food you hate) more often, you'd start liking it.
• If you had your tooth filled more often, you'd look forward to it.
• If you practiced stubbing your toe on the metal frame of your bed every night, why, it would hurt less and you'd be smiling, instead of swearing.

But, so, you can't do a triathlon with having a sore ass, right? I've learned a lot from endurance sports, namely, i may not be able to make something easier or more pleasant, but maybe I can make it hurt a little less.

1. So when. I signed up for this last summer i was all, "hell, it's thirteen months away!"

Then it was less than a year away.

Now it's less than nine months away.

Oh, shit...

...

 

 

 

 

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Leaving Birmingham.

Dear Diary,

had decided before going to the Birmingham airport that I would stop and lay flowers on their grave but I realized, as I pulled into the empty lot next to the veteran's cemetary, that I really didn't have a clear idea of where their graves actually were.

I started at the back of one small area, marching through thick sod. Looking for SMITH. I paused a few times, but just for a moment--nope, not the right Smith. Eventually I worked my way to the middle of the small area by the gate, but I was certain that I recalled the gate being ahead of me, to my left. There were more graves now the there were seven years ago, the only time i was here.

 

I turned back, carrying the heavy wreath. Marching the rows. Scanning left, then right. I stopped in front of a grave where the portrait of a young man in uniform, wearing his beret, was etched into granite, and lavished with fresh flowers. I wondered about his story. I moved on, reaching the front of that small section again, still not finding it. I turned back, to try again. It was cold, and the wind was picking up.

 

Now my eyes blurred with tears of self-pity, frustration and shame, so that I couldn't read the markers. What kind of a person was I? How could I not know the exact location? I panicked, envisioning a scenerio; I would never find it; drive to the airport to the rental car company with this huge floral wreath, where it would be thrown in a dumpster. All because I was a horrible, horrible daughter who didn't know exactly where her parents were buried. I was having a panic attack. Where was it? My conscience shouted. What kind of daughter doesn't know where her parents are buried?

 

When I reached the front of the small section, instead of turning back yet again, I crossed over to another small section past the gate, and then, there it was, in front of me. I was still crying, but able to take one deep breath, to let out slowly.

 

Without me sobbing and marching it was quiet, with only the rustling of leaves. The bouquet of silk my sister dutifully replenished every season was tasteful, in Autumn colors. I stood for a moment, and then bent, laying the wreath. I straightened, looked around, then back down. I felt at a loss of what to do, or say, or think...so I plucked a few brown leaves off my mother's marker and stood there some more.

For not the first or even second time I was overwhelmed with a feeling of frustration, of having been cheated. Then, just sadness--for them. They should have been at my neice's wedding yesterday. When the mothers and grandmothers were escorted to their seats my mother should have been there, escorted by my father. This was not how they envisioned the future: My mother dying of a weak heart, and then my father, of a broken one.

 

My mother never met Sweet Baboo. She never saw me finish grad school, or my children graduate, or me run my first marathon. She never saw me get my shit together. She was still worrying about me when she died. She loved to eat, and eschewed any physical activity. She left many paintings unpainted, and scultures undone. She never enjoyed her "golden years," dying at 61.

 

I'd hugged my older sister earlier, admonishing her to get back in the gym. She seemed shorter than she used to, and looked tired. I wondered if she ever had the same thoughts I had, that I didn't want to leave this aching void in my own children. This sometimes feeling of being adrift. I don't want to leave any broken hearts.

 

I run so that the people who love me won't lose me too soon. So that when I die all that will be left is talk of what a great, long life she had...and hopefully nobody will will feel cheated and angry with issues that can never be resolved and things unsaid.

 

I stood a while longer, but there was really nothing more to say, or do. I walked back to the rental, and drove to the airport, and by the time my plane left Birmingham I was dry-eyed and ready to go home, and return to my wonderful, long life.

 

 

...

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