On not looking like a teacher (not that there's anything wrong with that).

I don't have any workout stuff to talk about today. I did some swimming this morning at Cochiti with Lisa, and then I went shopping. I went to this little place that Pirate introduced me to last month called Black and White House Market, I think. The problem is, all my clothes look like teacher clothes NOT THAT THERE'S ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT and they're too big.

Lately, I've had a craving to be more girlie. I always said that if I got a job where I wasn't on my feet all day I'd wear cuter shoes and plus, I usually dress a little less casually in the fall. Also, I had an interview of sorts today.

So I have teacher clothes even though I SWORE I'd never dress like a teacher NOT THAT THERE'S ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT but darn it if I didn't anyway...and then I also got smaller, but my clothes didn't, but I kept wearing them, because I figured I could just move in the buttons and it would be fine.

The goal was, you ssee, to make myself as unattractive as possible, not ugly, but you figure teenage boys don't need anything to distract them from learning Algebra; hence, little jackets and long dresses to hide any hint that there was a woman underneath that loooong, coverall dress.

And there's the shoes. Lots of sensible, plain, comfortable, low-heeled shoes to go with my uber-sensible teacher dresses. NOT THAT THERE'S ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT.

So put on my best, prettiest jacket dress this morning oh, my, it's just too big. Pretty, but too big. And it makes me look like a teacher, not like the position I was interviewing for. NOT THAT...WELL--you get the idea.

So I went to this place and bought stuff; and it was fun, buying girlie stuff. Then I went by where Sweet Baboo works and he looked up and said, in his good husband even voice, Hi Sweetie! Oh...You know, I don't think I remember that dress.

Which I think is Baboo code for whathaveyoudoneandhowmuchdidyouspend?

Now I ask you, how many husbands would instantly be able to tell that the wife was wearing soemthing new? Not many, I'd argue.

So, then I went to the interview.

You see, I found out during the past couple of weeks that the rate of clients who don't show up for their therapy appointments at the place where I'm working is around 40%. That means 2 out of every 5 appointments would leave me drumming my fingers on a desk. Well, I knew that I didn't paid if clients didn't show, and I knew that sometimes they didn't show, but I sure didn't know to expect that.

I'm not trying to get rich or anything, but have bills, like anyone does. I'll probably keep seeing people for therapy part-time, but I'm looking for something a little more stable in the meantime.

The interview was for a psychiatric research assistant, for a non-profit foundation that coordinates research grants in medicine for the VA. They promise I'll still have flexibility in my schedule, which is a big deal to me. I feel like the interview went well. I'll know more next week.

Then I went to Dillards to get some mascara, and it's mosty Pirate's fault that I visited women's shoes, where they were having a 75% off sale...there rest is not pretty to tell, because it implicates Pirate and if I say much more Sweet Baboo won't let me play with her any more.

He's camping with his brothers this weekend, but I suppose soon I'll hear something like, Hi sweetie! oh...I don't remember those shoes...

...

In which I are a block of wood.

I found out that there is a semi-early morning yoga class at my gym 2 days a week that I can take before I go to work. I've been wanting to do this because I've read, and been told, that it can really help running to work on flexibility and core strength.

So, today, I want to yoga class. I went to one once earlier this year (hatha, super easy) and another one that was advanced (too advanced) but this was was level I-II so I figured I was safe.

I have always been very, very flexible. When I was younger, I was in gymnastics, and did the vaulthorse and balance beam. I could do a backbend and touch my toes to my head. Even into my early 40s I continued to be flexible, so I figured that this class would be good for maintaining my flexibility.

I knew that I needed to warm up my muscles before I stretch them, so I did my upper body lifting routine, and then ran about a mile at a good pace. Then, I headed up to the yoga studio.

Here's the thing about yoga. First off, it seems that in time that I've been working on weight-training and speedwork, I've apparently turned into a block of wood. The instructor even came over and tried, very gently, to help me down into some of the poses that used to be easy, but I told her, "Trust, me, this is as good as it gets." My hamstrings, especially, and my quads, are very, very tight. No seriously. I couldn't bend as far as I used to, and they are bigger, so they seemed to be in the way when I tried to kneel, or maybe that was my quads, who also refused to stretch.

The other thing about yoga it is a magnet for the passive-aggressive whining type. who complains about about every damned little thing. Most of them are women, and they are an embarassment to my gender.

Everyone in there is senitive to something. It's too cold. It's too hot. or rather, "is anyone but me in here cold?" (No.) and, "are these mats natural or synthetic?" "There's a funny smell coming from the heater; maybe we should turn it off so that we're not exposed to anything toxic." and the ever popular, "what are you drinking? tea? oh, green tea is so good for yo--it has SPLENDA in it? OMG, you should never drink diet drinks. They are so toxic."

And, it seemed that it wasn't enough that a couple people in there were extremely sensitive to all sorts of things, and deal with it, but for some reason, we all needed to know about it, so it was verbalized. Constantly.

Anyway, it was an hour and fifiteen, and I did a lot of good stretching in the hips and legs, and discovered that my left hip is a bit weaker than my right and my right hip is less flexible than my left and my hamstrings don't stretch at ALL.

But they will. I'm going to do this twice a week until I get my flexibility back. Maybe I can wear earplugs or something.

And I found a hair dresser. All in all, a good day.

...

Non-profit work has its downsides.

I have no office.

This wasn't exactly as I expected it. There are a finite number of spaces that are assigned to counselors who have been there longer, but none of them are there full time. The newer counselors then grab their spaces on a first-come, first-served basis. So here's the problem:

For the past three weeks, I get there about 9:30 in the morning, and discern what space(s) I can use for the day, and then claim it.

So I've had this incident happen twice now: I got there early, put my stuff in an office/cubicle thing and then came back with my client 15 minutes later and another counselor, who I will hereforafter refer to as Weasel, was sitting there with a client.

My books and laptop were still on the desk in front of her, and my jacket was on the back of the chair, and she just looked at me, and said, "there's weren't any other spaces available".

Weasel just so you know, gets there around noon because she homeschools in the morning. Well, I don't care; as far as I'm concerned, tough fu**ing luck if you don't get there early enough. (There are several good reasons I call her weasel behind her back. Unfortunately, I just know I'm going to accidentally call her weasel one of these days. I just know it.)

I didn't want to make a fuss in front of a client, so I took my things and sat with my client out in the group room, where people continuosly interrupted us and asked if they could, "just hang out" in the group room. During my private therapy session. Uh, NO, you can't "hang out".

The next hour, there was a group session, so me and my next client were relegated to the outdoor smoking area. Luckly the client was stoked, because s/he smokes, but it was still pretty unacceptable as people were wondering through on the way to their cars.

I went in during a free moment and basically threw a temper tantrum with the director and said that we should make the whole idea of "first come" clear at the next meeting, but Dr. W doesn't like confrontation, because the very same day the handyman who works at the center started measuring unused space to put in walls to make two new offices. I've claimed the corner office.
Seriously. I raised my hand at the next meeting and said, "I call corner office!"

Actually, it's because it's in the corner, away from two loud swinging doors, and more private. It also has a window and a cabinet I can lock. The locking thing is big because there are some supplies that I'm going to bring from home that I can't reliably use at the center, and there is a weekend intern clinic and I don't want--ew--interns touching my stuff and using my supplies.
Yeah, I know. "Have pity, you were an intern once." Oh, whatever.

Being a champion of the poor means that, I guess, I get to become one of them.

Hopefully, my space will be completed soon. Then maybe I'll do some cheap dorm-room chic. I could go curb-shopping for a door and a couple of cheap filing cabinets to make a desk. I'll steal the extra chair out of Mini-baboo's room that functions as a resting place for Clothes That Have No Home and use that, too.

Maybe I'll grab my favorite local fashionista and we'll do a shopping spree at Target and do a whole dorm-room makeover thing. Except not with zebra stripes. I want to sooth my clients, not throw them into a seizure.

The "walls" will be 8-foot tall plywood, and there's a leak in the ceiling in the corner where my office will be, but I don't care. I still want it.

Oh, and I'll have to run an extension cord over to the next room, but I don't care. I still want it.

Yeah, not-for-profit sucks, all right.

But it's all still worth it, which gives you an idea of how much I hated my old job.

...

So, what would you do?

Baboo wanted to know what this was like, from my perspective, so here it is.

Well, the first half was like a big giant party, the weather was awesome - because I wasn't running 50 miles in it. I took pictures, and bought crappy food to eat - which actually had a purpose, because I've discovered that if I pull an all nighter I have to fill up with simple carbs or I bonk and start having asthma problems. it works for me. There were children running around, and the runners were still enthusiastic.

The path was beautiful. The first, and last 15 miles were difficult (more on that later) but the 70 miles in between were on a gorgeous railroad bed turned trail. It was smooth, root-free, and covered with a finely ground pea gravel. pink pea gravel. The scenery was gorgeous. What wasn't to love about this run?

Throughout the day, Baboo ate and drank as he should. He drank bottles of Accelerade, Nuun, and water, drank Slimfast meals-in-a-can. He ate powerbars, and at least one salted nut roll. His stomach got a little funky around mile 50, but then he walked for a while and talked to some of the other ultrarunners about strategies for taking in liquids, and felt better. He was peeing throughout the day as he should be. He never, at any time, had any danger of dehydration, hyponutremia, or low carbs.

Then, the sun got lower in the afternoon sky, and it was past the turnaround. Some runners started throwing up. Leg cramps began. Some runners sat down at aid stations, heads hanging, and then asked to be taken out of the race.
Then, the less stalwart of the crewers and spectators, of which there had been few to begin with, went home to sleep and eat, leaving their runners alone in the dark. As the runners started to lose energy, so did the cheerleaders. The party was over.

It cooled down. A lot.

There was this strange, dichotomous drama:
On the one hand, these people had paid to do this, so they were doing to themselves, right? On the other hand, anyone who has ever struggled to complete a endurance event may, or may not, know why they are doing it. There are forces far beyond the cost of an entry fee that drive them. There is some spoken or unspoken thing driving them forward, and they may or may not be able to verbalize it. it is what it is. So there it is: the runners push forward, struggling, knowing that they can quit at any time, but struggling just the same.

We were late getting to the mile 80 aid station, and just in time to see Baboo walking away from the aid station already, having waited for us by the fire, and then given up.

Seeing him in the glare of the headlights was a startling sight: He was walking, stiff legged and almost trans-like, staring straight ahead into the darkness. He didn't even turn to look as we pulled into the driveway at the aid station. We called out for him to stop, and he was shivering hard. Scott told me later that at some other ultras, they would have pulled him off the course for that alone.

I touched my husband's arm, and his neck. He was cold and wet. We reached into the car to pull out pants, a shirt, and Scott pulled out a knit cap for him to put on his head. He put on a longsleeve shirt, as well, and finally felt better, then he left, heading out into the blackness, him and a headlamp making a very, very small spot of light in a large black void.

Okay. Well, this was no longer a big party. It was a giant worry fest. It stopped being fun, and I started wondering if this was all worth it.

This wasn't fun any more. It was horrifying.

And, it was about 1 am. He'd been running for 19 hours.

The next place that I saw him was at mile 84. He was better but his feet hurt. All this time, he kept forgetting to ask someone to look at his feet: this is a serious lesson I learned, that I must, must, insist on checking everything, regardless of what he says or doesn't say. By this time, Baboo had about 8 blisters on his good foot. The other foot was worse. About 2-3 miles later, Scott and his runner, Don, caught up to us, and Scott helped me take care of some of Baboo's foot issues. At least one of the blisters was so deep it could not be drained.

The last part of the course was a hilly, rolling road with 1-1.5 inch jagged gravel. I drove 3 miles ahead and waited for baboo. On the way to my 3 mile mark, I passed 2 runners. I stopped, turned off the engine, and then waited, getting the second of my 30-minute naps. Each time a runner went past, I woke up. Suddently I realized that about 6 runners had gone by, and no Baboo. I waited for a little while longer, unsure of what to do, and then there he was, dragging his poles behind him, telling me that they were horrible, and to take them. So, I did.

At this point, watching him walk, I wondered if he would even finish. I wondered if, for the first time since I've known him, my baboo would say, "I can't do this. It's too hard." and then climb into the car.

He was jogging a bit on the downhills, and walking the uphills, and it was painful to watch. It was about 3 am, and I was watching my husband struggle. By mile 89, his walk was a stumping, halting walk. Imagine your feet are blocks of wood that do not flex. That's how he walked.

I cried a little, and recorded how I felt.

Eventually, the sun came up. I followed behind Baboo, and he shared his worry with me about making the cutoff. I knew, from previous discussions, that my job was to make sure that he kept going. I knew that, medically, he was okay: He had enough carbs, electrolytes, and hydration to be safe, but his feet hurt so much. I knew how much he wanted this. I also knew that I didn't ever want to see this again: this suffering. It was very hard. During text messages, I assured his parents that I would not allow this again. Nope.

No way.

Now I'm wondering what he's planning. At one time, Baboo gasped to me that this wasn't his event, that he should stick to triathlon maybe, or maybe he was saying that triathlon hadnt' prepared him for this, I couldn't really tell. The gist of it was that I had the distinct impression that he wouldn't want to do this again, and I was satisfied: He'll finish this, it will be a single impressive achievement, and that's the end of that. He doesn't want to worry the people who care about him. The. End.

But what if...What if he wants to do this again?

I'm not sure that I can stand that suffering. On the other hand, if he insists on doing this again, I want to be there, not someone who doesn't have the same investment in his lack of suffering that I do. Is that caring? Or enabling?

On one hand, running 100 miles is just insanity. On the other hand, how can I stand in the way if he decides he wants to do this again?

I mean, what would you do?

...

Watching greatness suffer.

What was this like? Hmmm.

Ultramarathoning, in case you didn't know, is all about you, the runner. You have to get your own satisfaction from the experience, because there's little cheering or fanfare.

It's very low key; with the finish line being a small banner hung from a couple of poles and sometimes, no banner at all, just two cones.

I saw one cowbell on the entire 100-mile course. There's no medical tent with bags of fluid. There are occasionally medically-trained personnel, looking for danger signs, but they are mostly at the finish, I think.

There's much less spandex. Very little horribly expensive equipment. It's all about comfort in ultrarunning.
At the race start, there's no loudspeaker, no cannon. No motivational rock music. Few people seem to know what's going on, even when the start and finish are right next to their houses. At 6 am, or thereabouts, someone usually shouts GO! and, well, you go. Aid stations are usually well-stocked with high-glycemic foods and drink and lots of electrolytes. They are frequently between 5 and 15 miles apart. In this race, they averaged 5 miles apart.

There is usually fantastic scenery, which is good, because there are no cheering crowds. After a while, though, you're just looking at your feet, and the ground, and you miss the scenery.

Yesterday, there were enthusiastic, attentive families until it got dark, and then they pretty much disappeared, leaving their runners alone in the dark when they most needed someone to be there.

"Their" runners.

That's another thing. I was often asked about the progress of, "my runner." As in, "how's your runner doing? He feeling better?"

"My" runner. Then, "my runner," would show up, and first off, I'm not a good cheerleader. I just sort of ineptly call out, how ya doin'? and smile and try to remember things that people have said to me that made me feel good, but I can't quite pull it off.

I'm mostly busy being horrified by the hobbling and wincing and gasping and the puking going on around me. It's heartbreaking, watching people suffering at mile SIXTY and wondering if they have what it takes to rally for ANOTHER FORTY MILES.

Erk.

So then you have to say, something, anything, and what on earth can you say?

"Hey, only 40 more miles to go!"

"Gee, just slightly less than a marathon left - take it home!"

Not. so. much.

No, the only thing I could think of to do was to just chatter about things that had nothing to do with the race, or were tangentially related to the race.

Baboo took good care of his nutrition. He was well hydrated, took in plenty of electrolytes. He drank and ate well, including PowerBars, Accelerade, Nuun, and ready-to-drink meal replacements (in this case, French vanilla SlimFast). Couple of salted nut bars rounded out the experience.

He had a bit of stomach upset around mile 50, but not as bad as the guy I witnessed throwing up at least 4 times. After Baboo came back from the turnaround, I walked with him to the next aid station (pacers were allowed on this course) and got the car and drove to the next aid station, where I walked out to meet him, and he was running again. He ran well until around mile 80, when the blisters started.

Then there was that time when he stumbled back and lost his footing, rolling into a small ditch. It wasn't a hard fall, but how hard does it have to be when you find yourself lying on the ground after running 87 miles? You still have to get up, get back on your feet, and get moving. Every little thing, after 87 miles, is a very BIG THING.

Baboo cracked nary a smile in the last 20 miles, at least until we got to the giant yellow 95-mile sign, meaning he had only 5 miles to go.

But even then, it was a stretch;
he was hobbling 16 to 18 minute miles, on feet that experience ultrarunners told me would have taken them out of the race. He had large blisters on the soles of his feet, and was badly chafed in lots of sensitive areas.


I have never before seen my husband truly suffer, and finish something just by strength of will long after his body said, "time to quit, Baboo."

He voiced complaints that normally only come from me, and so they sounded eerily familiar:

"Why am I still going uphill? It's supposed to be downhill now. When does the downhill start?"


"Everyone is passing me. I'm going to be last."


"I'm not going to make the cutoff."

I'm immensely proud of this man, who I know finished this race out of sheer stubbornness, but I'm not a big fan of doing this again. I cried watching my normally confident husband falter and limp and suffer. I wasn't going to urge him to quit, but I couldn't quite bring myself to encourage him to continue, either; so, instead, I chattered on and on about nothing in particular to keep his mine occupied and off the pain. I asked him what he most wanted when he was done. (Blizzard from DQ, and some granny smith apples).

I could be wrong, but I don't feel like Baboo has the happy feeling of satisfaction that he has when he finishes a triathlon. It's more of a grim feeling of being finally done.



Then there is the residual suffering.

Being off your feet is little relief after something like this. You just hurt, hurt, hurt so much that you can't sleep peacefully, which you so desperately need after 27 hours of being on your feet.

Now, for some reason, Baboo is signed up for the New Mexico marathon in 6 days.

Even if his spirit is willing, his wife isn't. I'm leaving him at home that day (it's this Sunday) with no car keys or front bike tires.

I'm disabling comments for this post. I don't want you to tell me how great he is; tell HIM how great he is. (I already know how great he is.)

...

HE's DONE!

He's done. I took tons of pictures and tiny little short videos, which I'll string together at some point and make a slide show out of. He finished at 9:30, meaning that he ran/hiked/walked 100 miles in 27.5 hours.

There was very little phone service, and I never knew when I would have it. Internet? Fugettaboutit.

Yes, his feet hurt. Yes, I was concerned. It was a long and emotional night for me, and for him, as well.
He (and I) will post more after a couple days. Right now, it's time for sleep/pizza/laying horizontal.

...

way better

just got an update. it's good news!

mr. geek girl just passed mile 65, and he's feeling "great". which is a great sign. He's taking on his nutrition, he feels good. only potential problem is the feets - geek girl says his feet are starting to hurt.

Really? 65 miles in and his feet hurt? That's it?

Anyway. Geekgirl is pulling a Rock Star All-Nighter to pace her man, but I'm about to turn in for the night. I know, what kind of remote crew am I?

and so, we have parting haiku:

over sixteen hours
geek man has been running and
now his feet feel bad


sending positive
healing thoughts towards the feet
not as nice as ice


I'm still amazed that
anyone would choose to run
one hundred miles straight