I miss being blond. and 12 other things.

13.  I've been a non-blonde for nearly a year because my hair grows so fast that it takes some serious coin and time to keep it blond.  Until I get out of grad school and find a job where they not only adore me, but pay me well, too, I stay a brunette.  But for the record: I miss being a blond.

12.  In fact, they don't even have to adore me.  The job, I mean.  They can just like me a lot.  Or just respect me.  I don't care--just give me a living wage.  (And by living wage, I mean the wage of a person whose living includes triathlon, marathon, and ultrarunning racing fees, travel expenses, and gear.)

11. Friday, I did a moderate run on the Bosque for 9 miles, and held an 11:35 pace. I couldn't believe it.  I've never done that run that fast! WHOOSH!  At least, that's how it felt to me.  That used to be my 5K pace.  The next day was the brakes-on triathlon debacle.  Quite a workout I got!

10. Week 1 training: planned: 50.  Actually done: 50.

9.  Week 2 training: Planned, 50.  Actually done, 47.5.  But my knee and calf are pretty pissed at me, so I'm calling it good. Me and Advil, we're planning to elope.

8.  Saturday, I did my LSR on the Bosque, which is as flat as it gets around here.  It's at 5000 feet, but there's a net elevation change of about 44 feet from one end to the other and then back again.  Still, I was surprised to find that I easily kept a sub 12:30 pace for 20 miles.  This is important because...

7.  Baboo has signed us up for the Las Vegas Marathon in December.  They have a "run through" chapel at mile 3, where we can renew your vows.  But. The 3-5 minute ceremony begins a minimum of 45 minutes after the race starts, and the race has a 5:30 cutoff.  I'll have 4 hours and 43 minutes to finish this marathon.  My marathon PR is 5:39.  I did this marathon in 2007 in 5:46:29
So, what to do?  Right now, options being explored are:
a) I try to run 23.2 miles at a 12:00 minute pace, and suck it up, call it a challenge....
or
b) we do a homemade vow renewal when it's convenient for us, not for people keeping a 15 minute pace, and then I try to do a marathon a bit faster than I ever have.  Which is possible, I think.

Hmm.  Decisions, decisions.

6.  Also, the LV marathon is the day after the Death Valley Trail marathon, which Baboo has also signed us up for.  Further complicating my ability to finish a marathon in 4:45 minute (or 5:30, depending on the option chosen) is doing one the day before. Baboo has this crazy idea of us doing 3 marathons in 10 days. 

Are you with me so far?  I'll wait until you finish laughing.

The next day, 2. the Las Vegas marathon on Sunday the 5th.  I've done this one.  The profile looks like this:

(Before you get too worried, look at the elevation on the left.)

Then 6 days later, 3. the Tuscon marathon, which is essentially a long downhill run.  

5.  I told Baboo after my 20 mile run that I still needed to get in a few more miles to round out my week, but they needed to be easy miles, more hiking than running.

For future reference, do not say that to a 100-mile run finisher. 

Baboo took us on a hike that went up 1000 feet in 1.5 miles. I'm not making that up.  The trip back down was on trails covered with pea gravel.

4.  But in the middle of all of it--while wondering if being the highest thing on a mountain top is the smartest thing with a thunderstorm rolling our way--I realized I wasn't out of breath.  It's taken me over a month, but I finally have gotten back some of the fitness that I'd lost over the winter.

3. With respect to the debacle of this past Saturday, it has of course occurred to me that if I got on my bike more than 4 times a year, I would be able to quickly tell when something was wrong with it.
Shhhhhh: Don't let DP know I said that, or she'd think she was right about something.

2. In case you're wondering what prompted my rant on Monday, partly, it was this:

This is the only picture of me that exists for the latest triathlon I did, waiting for the swim to start. Indeed, it's the only photograph that exists of many people that were in that race; the photographers mainly photographed the front third of finishers.  Can you find me?(hint: you can only see half of my face.)

1. Be aware that my training will be a bit interrupted by Baboo's run not this weekend, but next.  And here it is:


...

Now, having said that...

I have a confesson to make: I'm used to be the best, or pretty darn near it, at everything.  As a result, endurance sports have caused me no small of distress.

However, I've come to believe recently, very recently, that I need this distress.  As long as I can recognize it for what it is, and take it in perspective, that is.

As I've said before, if you surround yourself with people who are largely unmotivated, unambitious, then you get to be the one that others look up to, which is a pretty shaky foundation for self-esteem. You shouldn't have to have your ego stroked by always being #1.   

I'd gotten used to being "the smart one".  I always explained things to people who didn't understand them.  When I take classes, and the professor says something, people look at me to see what I think.  Wherever I work, people ask for my opinion or for information or help, whether it be with their statistics homework or advice on the DSM.  "Book learnin'" is easy for me.  I played it safe.  I did a lot of what was easy for me; I didn't just get one master's degree, I got three. I stayed away from things that weren't easy for me, unless it was absolutely necessary.  Doing things that don't come naturally to me, or being around others much more talented or accomplished than I, has often been anxiety-provoking. 

For some reason I cannot put my finger on, I suddenly started doing things that are anxiety provoking.  I married a high-achiever, and then cultivated a cadre of friends and acquaintances who are highly motivated and accomplished.  I went from big fish in a small pond to big fish in a big pond full of other big fishes, and then to being an equal among a group of brave, strong, and ambitious people.  In in competitions, I'm at the back of that pack.  It's been surprisingly difficult to get used to.    

I imagine that a large number of smart, successful people get into endurance sports and have the same experience. Some might not even be able to overcome the threatening results of not being even in the top half - they fade away, find something else to do, and avoid that discomfort. They seek only those competitions where they know they will win, and only the company of those who will stroke their ego.   

When they do poorly, they lay blame.  It's someone else's fault.  The event was poorly planned.  My bike mechanic screwed up.  It was so windy out.  My coach didn't prepare me for this...rather than accepting that this is what is.   I know.  I've done it.     

That's what acceptance is, I guess. Accepting a 'problem' without trying to fix it, just recognizing it for what it is, not taking it personally or attaching emotion to it. I can't be the best at everything, but I pretty good at being me, at trying, and at being brave. 

I'm not the best at this endurance thing.  I won't ever be the best.  I'm aiming for middle-of-the-pack.  Along the way, there's every liklihood of DNFs in my future, because I keep trying to do things that are harder.  Doing things that are hard means I might occasionally fail.  The knowledge of that possibility makes the successes that much sweeter . The uncertainty is frightening, and thrilling. 

So this is my current biggest challenge: accepting that I can't always be the best, and that I may fail, but sometimes things are just what they are, and that it's nobody's fault, not even my own.

...

(I've disabled comments on this post on purpose, because I didn't put it here fishing for assurances of how good or capable or worthy I am. That's my stuff to sort out, on my own, in my head. )

:-)

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.

...