How slow do you think you are?

Do you reach an empty finish line?  Consistently?  Are they packing up when you cross - always?

Do you look for your friends at the finish...and find that they've all gone home?

Do you find yourself on the course, alone...or chatting with the sweeps...

Have you ever not known where to go because the course markings have worn away?

Do you scroll down to the bottom of the list of finishers, and then start looking upward from there for your name?

Do you look for pictures of yourself...and find none?

Do you move to the very back of the start line, so that nobody trips over you?

Unless you've consistently found yourself here...at the back of the pack...

Don't call me a drama queen. 

Don't tell me you've been where I'm at.

Don't tell me nobody is left behind...because they are. Way behind.

Don't tell me everyone counts, because actions speak louder than words. 

Unless you're back there, with me, right now: Don't tell me anything at all.

I choose to run, for myself, despite your absence, lack of interest, or care.  It's a lonely path. 

And that makes me braver and better than you.

...

Me, Mr. Junk, and the bike. A real live cautionary fairy tale.

Today I did the Socorro Chile Harvest triathlon, and it has become my favorite annual debacle. They gave us a water bottle and nice bag. Pictures to come. 

The seeded swim is nice. It spreads out the course, and you can chat while waiting your turn.  I was going to relax on the swim, but directly in front of me was an extremely hairy man swimming with extremely loose and baggy shorts.  He was also one of those people whose legs just go all over instead of staying in a line while they swim, and so every time I looked forward, I had a nice full view of--well, It. Them. You know.

After two lanes of this, I had to pass him.  HAD TO.  If I tore a rotator something or sprained my shoulder--as gawd is my witness, I was going to pass Mr. Junk.  So, we were swimming about the same speed--me, him, and his junk--but I started kicking my legs harder and dug in to pass him.

The swim then felt okay, but I was getting breathless, and this is my punishment for being in the water exactly 4 times this year: when I got out, I was completely disoriented, running off to the right instead of in a straight line, like I was drunk.  I staggered over to the bike rack, slowly--oh, so slowly--dried my feet, etc., and headed out on the bike. 

You wouldn't think that I could pull this off AGAIN, but you forget who I am, for Behold: 

Once again I did a sprint triathlon. With my brakes on. 

After 10 miles on this course, I'd been passed by nearly everyone, including a 10-year-old girl in thick glasses riding a squeaky old mountain bike somewhat shakily, her knobby knees going out to the side with every upstroke as she peddled crazily away from me, up the hill.  My speedometer wasn't working, so I had no idea of how fast I wasn't going, and I didn't realize what was wrong until the bike course was nearly done.  

Instead, until then, I felt awful.  This is what I get for not getting in the saddle enough.  DP was right.  I tried peddling harder, but it didn't work.   I should never have done that 9 mile run yesterday, I thought.  This is my punishment for not taking this event more seriously. 

Then a friend of mine, Courtney, who I love to death, passed me--she quickly moved ahead and away from me, which normally she does not do in a race.  "What's wrong with you?" she tossed over her shoulder.

I pulled over, lifted up my back wheel, and it wouldn't move.  My brakes weren't just rubbing, they were fully engaged.  I couldn't move the wheel with my hand.  I tried prying the brake pads away from the wheel--they wouldn't budge.  I banged on the wheel with my fist to try to get them to pop loose--wasn't happening.

Finally, I just disconnected them completely, flipping the lever up and pulling them away from the wheel.  Meanwhile, between attempts to get them loose, I'd been shaking my bike and swearing at it.  This is the best thing to do to a mechanical thing with loose parts.  As for the swearing, it wasn't like anyone was going to hear me; everyone else had finished the race, even the nearsighted 10 year-old with the knobby knees.  (Not that there's anything wrong with that.) 

Obviously, while I was shaking the bike and swearing at it, the chain came completely off.  Obviously, that had to be fixed.

Well, and then I could ride a bike, don't you know.  It rolled smoothly.  Hills were easy.  All 2 miles of them, Dammit.

I came into transition steaming mad, and said to everyone that was unfortunately enough to be standing near me as I prepared for the run, I HATE CYCLING, AND EVERYTHING ABOUT IT, and, THERE IS JUST NOT ENOUGH TO SAY ABOUT HOW MUCH I HATE CYCLING.  

And then, 

• I put on my shoes that never get flats.  
• I grabbed my hat that never breaks down.  
• I picked up my water bottle that never needs a tune-up.

Then I sprinted out of transition to the run course, and had a pretty good run.  I don't know what yet.  I'll find out tomorrow.  Sweet Baboo joined me on my run for what was his third lap of the run.  He ran extra laps after he finished the triathlon, in the mid-nineties heat just because and yes, he is that much of a freak.  Some of the people who passed me on the bike, I passed back on the run.  But not all of them, and not enough of them.  I did not meet my goal for this race, obviously.

I'm pretty sure at this point that the people I only see at this triathlon are thinking to themselves, this can't have happened twice.  I bet she really is slow, but embarrassed and made this up.  Nobody is that stupid.  Poor Misty.  Poor dear sweet, silly, slow, Misty.
 
Stupid bike.

Now, time for a reframe.  Reframes are my attempt to get the positive out of any crappy situation.  My reframe is this:

1) I must some pretty strong legs at this point to have pulled this off.  I think I managed about 12 mph with my brakes fully engaged.  That's gotta mean something, right?  I mean, other than I'm a complete idiot for not checking my bike before the race.  But honestly, who thinks that a ride in a car is going to mess up a bike that bad?  They were perfect the night before. 

2) for all the sprint triathlons I've done with my brakes on (3 or 4, I think) I think I might have had a brakes-on triathlon PR.

3)  Now that I've set the bar for my actual PR on this course pretty low, next year it should be pretty easy to best my time.  It will be a dramatic difference; people will gasp in awe, and I will not remind them that, well, after all, I did it without my brakes on this year.  

Okay. I was supposed to run 6 more miles today, and then 20 tomorrow.  As far as I'm concerned, I get credit for 25% of any bike toward my run.  That is my completely unscientific and arbitrary heuristic. So this afternoon, I'll get about 3-4 miles in. 

Next year.
Next year will be the year I show up and do the triathlon without my brakes on.

I'll show 'em.  I'll show 'em all. 

...

Wednesdays with Nan.

Dear Diary,

About 6 years ago as I approached my 40th birthday my face suddenly started getting oilier.  So, I went to the Clinique counter andI laid out some serious cash for product.  Within 6 months, my face suddenly flipped to dry.  I waited, but it stayed dry.  Eventually, I gave out or tossed the "oily" product.  I slowly started amassing my dry skin supplies.
Recently, it suddenly flipped to oily again.  This is just bullshit.

So.  Anyway. 


I was in therapy with Nan and I was telling her about some feelings that I'm having trouble with, the feeling that I wish I had accomplishments that were just mine.

It's hard, to have friends who are so freaking fast.  In the past, I always queen of the trailer park.  It's easy to be queen of the losers.  But when all your friends are highly accomplished people--racing and otherwise--I'm sometimes bogged down in the thought that there's really nothing that I can do that they can't do, but plenty that they can do that I can't.  I know, and I tell myself, that I have plenty to be proud of.  But I don't feel it, I said.  That's the thing about feelings.  They are hard to control. 

Nan took two pieces of paper and drew a bell curve on each of them.

On one of them, she wrote lifetime accomplishments and on the other she wrote running.

She pointed to the one about accomplishments and said, "where do you think you fall on this curve?

Oh, hell.  She had me.  I pointed to the right end.

"And running? where do you feel you are on this curve?"

Well, that depends, I said.  Are we talking about distance, or speed?

"Either," she said.  "Of all people who run, where you think you are on this curve?"

Well, if we're talking speed...all people who run?

"Regardless of if they race.  All people who run."

Well, then I guess, statistically, wellll.......I'm somewhere near the mean, I said, pointing to the middle of the curve.  I have always figured, honestly, that the real reason I'm at the back of the pack is that most people as slow or slower than I am don't bother entering races. 

"And distance?"

Shit. She had me again.  I pointed to the far right side of the curve again.  As slow as I am, I have to acknowledge, few people have crossed the finish lines that I cross.

So later I was thinking I needed a visual reminder to keep me focused on these good things.  Some kind of visual reminder to see each day.  So I made one, and I put on my mirror where I do my makeup every day.   I shared it with a couple people, and I'll put it here, in case anyone else finds it useful:

...

Call me Cranky McBossypants. Thursday 13.

13. Last week, I started my ultra running training in earnest, and may I just say:

I'm HUNGRY.  

That is all.

12.  I really hate the fact that my tummy floats.  I mean, I'm feeling all slim and sleek, and then I take a soaking tub bath - I know, I know, TMI - but there it is, floating, as if to say, you think you're getting slimmer, but you're got a lot of running yet to do, fatty.  It isn't even firm--it moves with the water.  Ew, I know.  If you're not in your 40s yet, behold: here's what you have to look forward to.  I remember the first time I saw my grandma naked by mistake.  I had nightmares for weeks.  Now all I can think about is: that will be me some day.

11.  Thursday I returned from a near 7 mile run.  Not much of a run, but it was after a week in which I ran 6 out of 7 days, for a total of about 44 miles.
I had a full glass of wine.  I love to do this after a long run or long week of running, because it goes straight to my legs.  They get all warm and weak and stuff.

10.  This week at work, I resisted the urge to tell another clinician, you're an idiot.  I know, I know.  *snif* Your baby is growing up.  Not that she didn't totally deserve it, because she is.  An idiot, I mean.
But I resisted, which means I'm getting all mature and shit.

9.  Thursday is official cheat day for me.  By then I've banked a lot of extra activity points in WW. I don't make Saturday cheat day because that's day before weigh day.  I don't use my activity points, for the most part.  when I say binge, I'm talking about the extra 35 points I get each week, my "anytime" points.
Last week I went down to the South Valley in Albuquerque and got 2 donuts.  Cheat day a ritual that I plan carefully in advance.  I haven't decided yet what this week will be. I'm pretty sure that whatever it is, it will be fried.
Yeah baby.  Hey, you fried--whatever you are--come to mama.

8.  Addendum to #13:  I'm TIRED.

7.  I really did think that once a person turned 45, that they would stop worrying about what other people think of them.  I guess it never ends.
Of course, having said that, it occurs to me that I only worry about what people my age and older think about me.  So when you think about it, the number of people about whom I worry as to their opinion about me dwindles every year.  If you're under 45, I have to honestly say I don't care.  So there's that. A very good thing about getting older, which almost offsets floating tummy fat.

6.  I'll be starting back to school soon.  My two classes encompass two of my running days.  That means that on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I HAVE to get up at 5 and run.  Which means on Mondays and Wednesdays, I HATE to get to bed early. 

5.  Addendum to #13 and #9:  I SMELL BAD.

4.  With regard to #6, Sweet Baboo still tolerates me.

3.  Now that I'm out of contact lenses, all my running will be done with my bifocals, because in addition to being a procrastinator, I'm also disorganized, and can't find my prescription sunglasses.  Don't bother telling me this is all my fault.  I already know it.  I already am forming two painful indentations in the sides of my nose.  Sometimes I feel like I'm not a real person, with my pills, hearing aid, glasses, and inhaler.  I'm practically a cyborg.
Meanwhile, I'm married to a man whose thyroid works fine, has no mood disorder, perfect hearing and vision, never needs Albuterol, is wicked fast, strong, runs up 12k mountains with no altitude sickness.  I bet you're wondering why he married me.
It's simple:  I cook.  There are other things, too.  We don't need to talk about them here. 

2.   This is Weight Watcher's conceptualization of  Hunger.  I so want one of these things.  It's adorable.  It's even more adorable than the naughty furry credit rating that wets the carpet on TV.
Look: He has a unibrow!  {{{{{}}}}}}

1. I have awesome friends.  In case you thought you had great friends because they send you cards and call you on the phone - look again: we have friends crewing and pacing for Baboo at Leadville who are willing to eat sparsely, sleep intermittently, run in the middle of the night, eat a lot of dust.  I also have a couple of volunteers to crew for me at Javalena Jundred.  I think you'll agree I'm an extremely lucky woman to have such friends!

..

People who hit kids create people who hit kids.

Today I spent the day down at the Bernalillo County Youth Detention Center and the New Mexico Youth Diagnostic and Detention Center.  In that order.  I'm not really a therapist, by the way.  I'm a diagnostician.  I interview the kids, and sometimes their families, diagnose the kids, write up a summary describing the kid and what I think is wrong and what we should do about it.

So anyway.  The BCYD and the YDDC.

What the difference? I asked my coworker.

One is baby jail, the other is baby prison.


What's the difference between jail and prison?

How is it that you don't know that?

Really?  How is it that I would know that?  I've never been to jail.  I've never personally, outside of an ex spouse or two, known anyone who had been to jail while I knew them, and I didn't study criminal justice.  I know that people who get arrested sometimes have to go to jail, and then eventually they go to court, but outside of "Law and Order" I don't know much else.

Anyway.  There's lot of stainless steel.  The commodes in the cells were completely stainless steel, for instance.  There's also a lot of loud clicking noises, notably the doors, which are everywhere, and all have electric locks.  The sound of bangs, clicks, and buzzes is ever present.  And it's NOISY.


I interviewed four kids.  One of them definitely did not need to be there.  Another one definitely did need to be there.  The other two, well, I have to sit and let that marinade overnight, then I'll decide.

The place did not in any way look like a place for kids.  There was no happy artwork on the walls.  No motivational posters.  No bulletin boards.  No calendars.  The staff all wore radios and were vigilant.  The place was surrounded by 3 layers of razor wire.  The ceilings were high.  The funiture: bolted down.

Overwhelmingly, kids that I've interviewed that have been in those places are often sent there, at least at one point, for hitting or threatening one or both of their parents.  This is usually after years of abuse, verbal or physical.  It must be a real bitch to abuse the little person in your house with impunity and then, poof, one day s/he's big enough to kick YOUR ass.  Oops.  G'head.  Call the cops.  That'll fix everything.

So anyway, the kids.  The end of the day I was kind of spent.  I read their cases, their rap sheets.  How do you get to the age of 16 and have a rap sheet that fills a page?  When I was 16, I was trying to decide whether or not to "do it" with my boyfriend.  I don't even think I'd had my first drink of alcohol.  

One of these girls had had a miscarriage.  Another one already had a kid, that had been taken by the state.  All of them had used heavy drugs, meth, heroin, and huffing gas.

There's no point to what I'm saying here, by the way. I'm just processing my day.

Oh, and there's this:

We have these electronic babies at work.  They are marvels of technology.  They cry at somewhat regular intervals, and the chip buried deep in them records whether they are fed, changed, or held.  It records if their heads are supported properly.  It records if they are fed without being held (read: bottle-propping).

And, it records abuse.  Six girls in the unit where I work got the babies.  One of the girls is pregnant. In order to "pass" when the babies were downloaded into the clinical director's computer, they had to have a 85%.  In other words, they had to meet their baby's needs 85% of the time.

One girl out of six passed.  The pregnant girl.  (Whew.)  Another girl, well, about 4 hours after she got the baby, it stopped recording data.  It wasn't broken.  The last entry in the log was "abuse shutdown."  In other words, she killed her baby.  It started with her not supporting its head properly, and at one point she shook it. Hard.

Would she do that with a real baby?  Do I even want to know that?  No, I don't.  I want to know that she has free access to Deprovera shots, or condoms, or whatever.

But I've got the sinking feeling that I'll always have a job.

I went for a run when I got home.  I felt better.  I had a good childhood, and I have a good life.  Running reminds me of how lucky I am.

...

"What do you think of me now that I've told you that?"

You just told me about some dark thoughts--thoughts that all of us have thought about at one time or another--and you want to know what I think of you now.  You asked me that while ringing your hands.

What do I think of you now?  

• I think middle school sucks.
  
  
• I think kids are cruel.
  
  
• I think everyone has dark thoughts, and thinking doesn't make you bad, acting on them does.
  
  
• I think you're human.
  
  
• I think you're too hard on yourself.
  
  
• I think you are hurt, and lonely.
  
  
• I think you're stuck in a hurt, lonely, hard-on-yourself place.
  

• And I'm hoping we can help you back out.  

...

Brief post.

I'm officially entered into the Javalena Jundred.  Which is way more expensive than just talking about doing it.  This past week, I finished my first 'real' training week; it was a 50 mile week, and now I figure I can think of about 10 different synonyms for how tired I am.

Saturday after our wet, splashy 20 mile hike/walk/run, we stopped at Subway to get sandwiches.  I can't believe how fast I made that foot long disappear, but I had the presence of mind to turn town chips, which is amazing, for me.

So this Subway is about 60 miles from town, and who was sitting there but our family doctor!  It was pretty gratifying to run into our PCP while on our good behavior.  I've sat in his office, and can attest that we're probably the more healthier of the folks that come in there.

So that's it.  That's all I was going to say.  I'm tired, I'm hungry, and about $240 poorer than I was earlier today. I know that's cheaper than an Ironman, but it was still pretty stunning to see it in print.  The JJ100 is 6-15.5 mile loops, and then an 8 mile loop.  I'm a bit agoraphobic, so I liked the loop format.

The initial plans are that Baboo will do a lot of pacing (he's doing this race with me) and DP will boss me around between loops.  I'm pretty grateful for that, because I will probably be out of my mind by the time I've hit the end of the 4th loop, which I'd like to try to hit by 11 pm..

...